Dirty Stepbrother - A Firefighter Romance (The Maxwell Family)

by Alycia Taylor

  I tried to let the music guide me. I played to the audience, bouncing from one side to the other as I sang. The girls were yelling for me and everyone was clapping along. I felt good—finally. It was all I needed. I was playing to my audience and rocking out and I felt great! I’d just needed to get that nervous energy that was bottled up inside of me out. When the song was over, I went back to center stage and waited for the judges to have their moment in the spotlight.

  Diva went first, “I loved your energy, baby. That was great….but the vocals tonight, sweetie, not so good.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I gave her a look. She thought she could say whatever she wanted, and as long as she added in a baby or two, that made it okay. She didn’t know when to quit either. She went on to say, “I’m being nice, baby. I can tell that what I’m saying upsets you, but I don’t want you to get eliminated, so I hope you’re taking this all to heart.”

  I was going to tell her what I thought, but before I could open my mouth, the country star had his say. “She’s right, Tristan. The energy was great and when it was just you and the music, I wanted to get up and dance. But your vocals were way off. You sounded like you couldn’t get your breath….”

  “Got it!” I said, dismissing him and looking at the last judge: the asshole that got his rocks off by making people feel like shit.

  “I hope you’re not expecting anything different from me, Tristan. Your dancing and playing to the audience was fine, but that didn’t disguise the fact that your voice sounded like crap. You didn’t get enough sleep, or….I don’t know what it is. I do know that a better attitude would also do you wonders.” I didn’t need this cunt telling me what I needed. That was where I lost it.

  “You all act like you know so fucking much!” I knew this wasn’t good, but I couldn’t stop myself. “You,” I said, pointing at Diva, “you were washed up back in the nineties. You think some Botox and a boob job will make you famous again? You’re wrong. And you,” I said to the country boy, “you’re a fucking nasal-ass country singer. What the fuck do you know about my kind of music? Don’t they have some hillbilly show that you can be the judge of?”

  I was about to start in on the last son of a bitch when the host came over and said, “Tristan, you need to stop. We’ve gone to commercial but they saw most of that live before we did. You need to get it together.”

  “Fuck you! You don’t want to know what I think of you. Fuck all of you!” I threw down the mike and stormed off the stage.

  Everyone’s faces looked like they were in shock. Just because they went around being all fucking politically correct and kissing ass, didn’t mean that I had to. I passed Elly in the other room and she said, “Tristan, what are you doing? You’re going to blow this! I know you don’t want that.” Fuck her too!

  “Whatever!” I said as I brushed past her.

  I threw my guitar against the wall in the hallway. That was a fucking stupid move, but my thoughts weren’t exactly rational at the moment. I stormed out of the building, climbed on my bike, and drove down to Sunset Ave. I found my guy, right where I knew he would be and spent twenty-five of my last hundred dollars on a gram of coke and some weed.

  I took it and headed back to my place. When I got inside the door, I was past noticing how clean it still was. My hands were shaking as I found the mirror and my blade and tapped out the beautiful white powder. I sat down and started chopping it. Just one line was all I would need and then a couple of hits off the bong—that I threw away…fuck! I could find something to roll it in. If not, an aluminum can would do. I couldn’t feel like that all the time—and fuck Elly and everyone else if they didn’t get it. I couldn’t even think straight. I’d just had a shit fit in front of nine million people. How the hell was I supposed to live like that? Everyone had their vices, right? This was mine. I was an adult, and if that is how I wanted to relax, it was my own fucking business.

  I got the coke cut down and then I made a line. I had to go dig through the kitchen drawers to find a straw, and when I finally did, I cut it in half. When I sat back down at the table, my phone buzzed. Shit! I looked at it; it was a text from Elly.

  “Please don’t do anything you’ll regret. I’m here for you if you need me.”

  Such a fucking Pollyanna! She thought she has a clue what I was going through. She had no idea. I heard her talking to her mother on the phone. Her mom sounded like fucking Carol Brady. Anyone raised like that couldn’t possibly understand. She probably smoked a joint or two and panicked and then checked herself into rehab. I would have bet she was never really addicted to anything in her life.

  Shit! I slammed my hand down on the table and the line I’d just painstakingly created was suddenly all over the place. I hated that shit. I couldn’t keep doing it…letting shit control me. I was not that fucking weak. I was not the kind of pussy who couldn’t live or think or be creative without a crutch. It wasn’t about Elly and what she wanted, or that fucking show and what those people wanted; it was about me and what I needed. I picked up the mirror and the vial and the baggie of weed and took them into the bathroom. I flushed it all and threw the mirror into the trashcan.

  I looked at myself in the mirror then. My eyes were sunken and my face was really thin. I hadn’t been able to eat; I always felt sick to my stomach. I was a fucking mess. Shit! I slammed my hand into the mirror on the wall.

  “Ow! Fuck!” I yelled that out as my knuckles made contact, but afterwards, it actually made me feel better to focus on how bad that hurt as the blood oozed out of it and ran down my wrist. I just stood there and let it bleed and throb for a while. Finally, after making a bloody mess of the bathroom, I went into my room and got a bandana out of the drawer. I wrapped my hand up to stop the bleeding and wondered what the hell to do. I could go buy some bleach…

  Chapter Four

  Elly

  I got to work a couple of hours before the results show started. I had to set up, but also, I had to admit that I was hoping Tristan was planning to come in early to talk to me. I may have been an idiot for thinking it, but I really thought he would call and apologize to me for telling me to shut-up. Especially in front of people, and especially after I was willing to still be there for him. I knew he was hurting, but that was crossing a line. I hope he paid attention to my text and he didn’t do anything stupid. I knew his bad attitude was because of being sober for a couple of days. I was sure he felt like hell, but it not my fault. If he was going to make it and kick the drugs, he was going to have to start taking some personal responsibility. He seemed to be really good at putting that on everyone else.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how the show was going to go. He made such a scene and spewed profanity at the judges. Then the final act where he threw his guitar against the wall was just beautiful. I saw Clint come out of his office down the hall just as he did that. He didn’t look happy. I wondered, if he made it through by some miracle, would the producers let him stay? When no one was looking, I’d taken his guitar and put it away. I’d take it to him later.

  I wanted him to win the contest. He really was the most talented contestant and he deserved it…but, he needs help. I feel sick inside every time I let myself think about how bad he looked the night before. If he got voted off, I was sure that he’d throw in the towel and just go back to using. I was pretty sure that the contest was the one thing that he had to look forward to. I would have liked to believe it was me as well, but I that might have given me too much credit. The bottom line was if he kept using, he was going to end up losing everything eventually, maybe even his life. I couldn’t stand that thought.

  I tried to act natural while Molly, Keith, and I worked on setting things up. All the talk was about Tristan’s scene last night and I got a couple of glances from Molly that looked…sympathetic, maybe? She was discreet though, and I did my best to avoid having to discuss it. I could tell that she was dying to ask me about it, but to her credit, she didn’t. The rest of the staff didn’t know about Tristan and me, yet
I felt like I kept getting cornered by someone who wanted to talk about it. I did my best to act neutral. Once everything was ready to go, and the contestants started showing up, I got nervous all over again wondering what kind of mood Tristan would be in.

  When he finally got there, he took a seat in the far back while he waited for the contestants to get called on stage. He didn’t make eye-contact with anyone and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He had to feel bad, or be embarrassed about how he acted…he was just so stubborn that he wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. He had a bandage around his right hand and I wondered who or what he had punched. He was going downhill fast and all I could do was sit back and watch. I was praying that he still planned on going into rehab…I was afraid he wouldn’t make it otherwise.

  I wanted to go talk to him so badly and make sure that he was okay…but people would wonder what I was doing. With Tristan being everyone’s focus, they’d be asking a lot of questions that I didn’t want to have to answer.

  “Hey! What happened to his hand?” It was Molly. She had obviously noticed the bandages too.

  “I have no idea. I haven’t talked to him since before the show yesterday. At least not since I tried to make sure he was okay and he not very nicely told me to stay out of it.”

  “He was definitely having a bad night,” Molly said.

  “Definitely,” I agreed. The show was getting ready to start and as the contestants went to take their places, Molly and I watched. The four contestants that were left were supposed to sing together. I wondered if Tristan even knew about it. I doubted that he showed up for rehearsal. I watched closely as they sang and it was obvious that Tristan was only holding the mic and moving his lips. He had absolutely no expression on his face at all. If I could tell that he wasn’t really singing, everyone else could, too. He was really blowing it. It was like watching a sinking ship and not even having a life raft to toss out.

  When that song finished, they got down to the results. The host did it a little differently tonight since there were only four of them.

  “Ethan and Rosa….” he said, and then he paused as he normally does for drama’s sake before saying, “You’re both safe. Ethan, you came in second in the votes last night and Rosa, you came in third. That means that Tristan or Michaela got the most votes and the one that remains got the least and will be going home tonight. We’ll find out who that is…after the break.”

  My nerves were on edge, and I could only imagine how Tristan must have been feeling. He’d completely melted down on live television. He didn’t look nervous….but he didn’t really look anything. He was flatter than I’d ever seen him. I wondered if that was lack of drugs, or if he’d found something to numb the pain. When the lights came back up, the MC rehashed what had already happened and then he said, “Tristan….”

  I knew that was it. My belly was full of butterflies. I was so convinced that this was it for Tristan, I barely heard the MC say, “You’re safe!” There was a rumble through the audience and the judges all had looks of shock on their faces. Everyone had thought the same thing I did: that he was through. I seriously couldn’t believe it…after all that. I guessed Americans were addicted to drama. They must have developed a new found respect for him or something because he told the judges off. All I could do was shake my head.

  Tristan looked the most shocked of all. I think he’d already prepared himself for the worst. He still didn’t look happy, though; that broke my heart most of all.

  After Michaela sang her final song, the host said, “This year we’re trying something new. I’m excited about this and I think the contestants and the audiences at home will too. Next week, the three finalists will be doing a duet. The kicker is this…they can sing with anyone they chose to sing with. It can be their mother, their best friend, their music teacher, or the homeless guy that sits outside the theater. It’s up to them. I can’t wait to see how this turns out. That’s all for tonight, America! Thanks for watching!”

  Chapter Five

  Tristan

  I woke up the day after the results show and had to remind myself that I didn’t get kicked off. It was…ridiculous. That’s the only word I could think of. I’d cussed out the judges, all big name people, in front of a live audience. There was no way I should have made it through that cut, yet I did.

  I was trying to work up some excitement about still being on the show, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t have it in me to care. My mind was racing with a hundred jumbled thoughts. I couldn’t slow it down long enough to organize them. I felt like it was unraveling. I kept getting bits and pieces of thoughts that would come and go; I was all over the place. I hated it. It was fucking miserable.

  I finally got out of bed and into the shower. I stood there underneath the hot spray wishing that I could just wash away all the anxiety. I was trying to calm my mind down enough to come up with an idea about what to do for the next week. I was still on the show. That meant there was still a chance I could win…no matter how slim. I suddenly remembered what the MC had said about the week’s music…a fucking duet. I didn’t know a single person that would agree to do that with me. The guys in my band were pretty much the only people on earth that still spoke to me. None of them were too happy with me at that moment. Since I started on the show, we hadn’t had any gigs, and that had made it hard on them, too. Even if they forgave me for that, none of them could carry a tune to save their lives. They were decent musicians, but if I was going to redeem myself on the show, I needed a fucking awesome vocalist.

  Everyone from my former life had abandoned me. I didn’t know any singers that would be willing to be seen with me. As I was drying off, I thought about the day I’d gone over to Elly’s apartment and how she’d said she had to go to chorus. I’d asked her that day if she was good and she’d said she was “okay.” I knew she wasn’t as cocky as me when it came to extolling her own virtues. I had actually waited until she was around the corner and then I’d followed her. I’d stood at the door and listened to her sing and I was blown away. “Okay” was definitely an understatement. A plan started to formulate in my addled brain.

  I got dressed and after drinking two of the water bottles in my refrigerator, I went out and got on the bike. I needed to see Elly later and persuade her to do this with me. She was my only hope of staying on the show. First, I drove towards the studio to see the band about the music I was going to need for my duet. After that, I’d go see Elly.

  I realized as I was driving along thinking about it, that her first response was going to be that the producers weren’t going to like it. She was always so worried about us being caught and her losing her job. I personally didn’t give a fuck if they liked it or not, and it’s not like she couldn’t get another job if she had to. I really thought that if I won the contest, the press would have a field day if they took it from me because of Elly. They had, after all, said we could sing with whoever we wanted to. They didn’t say it couldn’t be someone working there, right?

  I parked the bike and made my way down towards the music room. I thought about calling Elly, or at least sending her a text that I was coming when I finished. I decided against that. I needed to do it face to face. It would be easier for her to say no on the phone. I was sure she was pissed at me for not talking to her since the day I yelled at her. Maybe she had a right to be. Right then, my mind wasn’t working well enough to worry about it. Somehow, I needed to convince her to do it with me. I had no other choice.

  Before I made it to the band room, one of the producers stopped me in the hall. I think it was the one named Tony who tried to act as if he had the skills to solve all the problems in the universe. He was just a little rich punk whose daddy got him a job in the industry because he had no other talents.

  “Hey, Tristan, when you’re finished in there, Clint and I would like to talk with you. Can you come on over to our offices before you leave?”

  Fuck! What the hell could they want? “Yeah, okay,” I told him. I’d rather pull out my
own fucking teeth with a pair of pliers, but I doubted I had that choice. I went on in and talked to the band about my duet and one of the guys asked me who was singing with me. I thought about Elly again, but I didn’t want to look like an idiot if I said she was and then she refused.

  “A friend of mine,” was all I said. That was kind of funny. It had been a long time since I’d had any real friends. I wondered if that was what Elly and I were.

  I dragged my feet in the band room until one of the other contestants, Ethan, stuck his head in the door and said, “Oh, I’m sorry Tristan. I thought you were done.” Fucker didn’t think I was done; he was just trying to rush me.

  “I’m done,” I said, brushing past him on the way out. He gave me a wide berth. They all acted like they were afraid of me or something, bunch of damned pussies. Feeling like one myself, I finally made my way down the hall to the producer’s office. I was stalling because I knew it was going to be about the meltdown. I didn’t know what I was going to tell them. There was nothing that would really explain it, except for the truth. I knocked on Clint’s door and found him and Tony waiting inside for me.

  “Hello, Tristan,” Clint said, standing up and shaking my hand, “You know Tony?”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding at the other fool.

  “Have a seat,” Clint told me. I would have rather stood, but I was trying hard today not to be an asshole. I was pretty sure I was already on shaky ground. I sat down and he said,

  “We have to talk about what happened on the show the other night.” He paused there, expecting me to say something, I think. I didn’t, I just waited him out. I wondered if they were disappointed America hadn’t voted me off. It would have saved them from having to confront me. He finally said, “We can’t present the image to America that we’ll tolerate that kind of behavior. You were rude and crude and the judges who have been so supportive of you didn’t deserve to be talked to that way. Most of what you said had to be bleeped out because of the profanity laced into it. It was bad, Tristan, real bad. Beyond that, I’ve gotten other complaints as well. You don’t show up for group rehearsals, you lip sync the songs with your peers….I have to tell you that if that happens again, any of it….you’ll be let go from the show.”