No Greater Love

by Susan Rodgers

  This night, Jessie tried to force her gloomy memories to slink off to some unseen dank corner far, far away. She attempted to bury them deep inside, but they rebelled; they snaked and crawled around, threatening her peace of mind on a night when she just wanted to chill and listen to some tunes. Frustrated, before the boys started to play she took a walk outside with one of the groupies, a purple haired girl named Charlene who was quite happy to share some weed with the girl she was becoming to know as Annie. By the time the girls settled again inside the pub, Jessie was well under the influence of both smoke and drink. She felt her inner Grace Hanadarko - an essential part of punkish Annie Hayden - emerging, and before she knew it she was bumping and grinding on the tiny dance floor with a group of strangers with no clue of their new wild friend’s true identity.

  Most of the music was upbeat and fun. The boys played a mishmash of homegrown tunes written by the bucolic lead singer, as well as some traditional British Isle pub tunes, like The Pogues, The Cranberries and U2. They did not play any of Jessie’s songs, and for that she was grateful – she was always on edge in situations where her music might be a target for cover bands.

  During one break from laughing and giving it up to the universe on the dance floor, Jessie collapsed back into her comfy plum seat with yet another Guinness provided by John Paul. Charlene settled in beside her, and focused on the lead singer.

  “Ya havta admit,” she said with a sharp Scottish twang. She was American, and had hooked up with the boys during the Fringe Festival. The world’s premier arts festival was certainly a calling card for adventurous artists and hippie types from all over the globe. She was one of those colorful people who developed an accent after a few pints, and being around the Scots soaked right through the tiny purple haired girl’s pale skin. Jessie thought she was hilarious.

  Dreamily, Charlene continued in a lovely lilting Scots brogue, “Jacob is a feckin’ fox.”

  Jessie glanced over at the boys, who were playing a ballad so the pub could garner some sales of quality ale and spirits from dancers in need of a break. She had already discerned that the blue-eyed singer’s name was Jacob. And yes she had to agree, he was cute in that musician sort of way – elevated because he had the guts to stand up there at the mic and bare his soul for a roomful of strangers. Jessie well understood that strange dynamic, the mystical attraction for fans.

  She sat back, laughing drunkenly at Charlene, who was making obscene gestures to accent her desire to hang out with Jacob after the boys wrapped, which wouldn’t be for an hour yet.

  “Hey Annie,” Charlene said, tapping Jessie on the wrist. “Did you know his father is some famous singer?”

  Jessie felt her heart drop. Oh shit. She had shared the stage with many internationally acclaimed artists over the years.

  “Oh? Who?” she asked tentatively, her head spinning from the potent toxins she ingested that evening, as well as from the sheer thrill of partying again.

  “Tom Ryan. They’re estranged, though. I don’t think Jacob even knows him, to be honest. His parents separated when he was little.”

  “Huh.” Jessie peered closer at the lead singer. Yep, she could see the resemblance if she looked close enough. She must remember to keep her distance from the blue-eyed boy. Even if he didn’t know his father, well – she did.

  As if the Gods heard her plea and immediately discounted it, Jacob and John Paul decided it was break time. They set their guitars carefully aside and sauntered through a crowd of drunken revelers until they reached the booth where the girls were happily – and, in Jessie’s case, warily - ensconced. A few more groupies joined them so they were well squished in. Jessie immediately found John Paul’s hand comfortably situated on her thigh. In her sloshed state, she wondered at it, sitting there. The fingers looked unfamiliar, the hand long and skinny. She narrowed her eyebrows, trying to bring his scrawny knuckles into focus. Then she thought what the hell, and she placed her hand over his, which pleased him. He felt odd to her, and also strangely good. Besides the babies and toddlers in China, she hadn’t felt human touch for quite some time and, frankly, although her summer in Canada more than a year ago was peppered with unwanted sex from Deuce McCall, she felt her body reacting to this guy’s touch in a much missed and desired manner.

  John Paul slipped his hand further up Jessie’s thigh, under her short denim skirt, and she almost moaned in anticipation. He teased her mercilessly, grinning over at her with a similar want echoed in his coffee eyes. Before she knew it, he was kissing her. She gave in wholly and completely, pushing thoughts of Josh away. John Paul was here, Josh was not. Plain and simple. Josh was moving on. Jessie was moving on. It felt good to be drunk and high and kissed by a friendly American musician in an historic dark Scots pub. Jessie reeled with the intensity of it all, this night where she finally allowed herself to connect with others again.

  Across the table, Jacob watched his guitarist friend get cozy with the wild looking new girl. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He shrugged her off, hoping she wouldn’t break John Paul’s heart – Jacob couldn’t recall his friend gazing so doe-y eyed at a member of the female sex for a while. Yeah, JP regularly slept with girls, but he seemed to kind of like this one. And Jacob didn’t need a musician on tour with him who had a busted up heart. That would just complicate Jacob’s life and his goals entirely.

  The rest of the night passed with the wonder and exuberance of unencumbered youth, although Jessie was now officially thirty-years-old, and felt fifty. When the boys wrapped, the gang all went out for slices of pizza and then back to Jacob’s place, a slightly larger residence than the one Jessie rented. They smoked a little more weed, although by now Jessie was finally starting to raise her hand to say no thanks. She was feeling spinny enough.

  John Paul’s kisses and touch were enticing. Shortly, she followed him to Jacob’s second bedroom and succumbed to his body on hers in the way new lovers hungrily absorb each other. She relished the feel of his soon naked skin on hers; an aching need to feel again consumed her. When he parted her legs, a moan escaped her body, and then his lips and rather experienced tongue undid her completely. She reached back and grasped a pillow, then turned her head to the side and gave in to him. When he pulled on a condom and then slipped himself inside her, she heard a voice cry out that she soon realized was her own, although it sounded disembodied and surreal. The pleasure was intoxicating, the orgasm voluminous and dreamlike.

  Afterwards, with John Paul’s head lying heavily on her chest, his breath coming in short gasps, his body spent, Jessie pulled a sheet up over her face. She was suddenly sobbing, which made no sense to her. The image of Josh had failed to completely banish itself from her consciousness during that whole wondrous night when she let herself live again. Yet, the pleasure she experienced with the dark wavy haired boy who played a guitar that soothed and placated her, was the now, and Josh was the then. But Jessie lived a life of the emotionally troubled; she ran away again and again from those who tried to get close, and so those she left behind had a tendency to cling on, to hang on for dear life and to sink their claws so deeply into her that she carried them around like some fishermen carry their catch – dead weight all up and down her on a string that followed her everywhere.

  John Paul could feel Jessie trembling beneath him and so he pulled himself up her body to her face and tried to turn the girl he knew as Annie towards him, but she wasn’t ready to share this personal pain that snuck up on her, haunted her, like an unwanted spirit. Confused, he laid his head on her shoulder and soon drifted into a deep pleasant slumber.

  After a while Jessie let herself hold him. She listened to John Paul’s even breaths, and remembered a man with chestnut hair she loved and then let herself lose. And then, grateful for this warm, new friend in her arms – a living, breathing human being whom she let touch her in a most intimate way - she finally let herself sleep.

  ***

  Chapter Five

  The low rumble of husky m
ale voices outside Jacob’s guest room, where she spent the night with John Paul, nudged Jessie awake the next morning. Apprehensive, she gathered her skirt and top and got dressed, licking her lips in protest against the all-too familiar furry mouth effect while trying to maintain her balance. She was still feeling the effects of the Guinness and weed combo, only they weren’t quite so appealing in the mid-morning rays of the sun as they were under the starry skies of an Edinburgh night.

  “No man, no way, that chick’s got some serious sorrow. I don’t need that shit.”

  Sitting on the low futon bed, Jessie laughed drily to herself as she yanked on a brown boot. Someone was asking John Paul about her. Her post-orgasmic tears scared the shit out of him. No surprise there. In her experience, most men were not too comfortable with female emotion. Although…images of Josh and Stephen floated by, ghosts on the breeze of a Scottish morn.

  She took a deep breath. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Clutching the second boot to her chest, Jessie hopped over to the doorframe and leaned there, pulling on her boot. The boys had no alternative but to acknowledge her presence. She looked wryly up at John Paul, who noticed the humorous glint in her eye. He grinned and threw up his hands as she stood there smirking, both boots on her feet now, arms crossed.

  “Look, you’re hot, Annie, and I had a great time last night but…” he approached her and, with his forefinger, suddenly hooked the ring she wore around her neck and lifted it. He wanted to be sure there were no questions as to why he didn’t want to pursue things further with her. Instinctively, she grabbed the ring as her face fell. Josh’s ring.

  John Paul softened. “Honey, any girl who wears some guy’s engagement ring around her neck is likely better off on her own for a bit. At least until she deals with her shit. Okay?”

  Somewhat relieved that the burden she carried with her each day was now publicly acknowledged, Jessie held John Paul’s gaze as she pushed the ring back down under her top. She blushed, embarrassed. She could see Jacob hunched over at the counter sleepily spooning cereal into his tired body. He was quietly observant, and she was fairly certain he had noticed the ring. For some reason, she didn’t much care if John Paul was witness to its presence, but Jacob seemed so damned serious and distant that for some reason she felt she ought to protect her soul from him. Something to do with his music and lyrics, she thought. Jessie was a sucker for those who, like herself, communicated through song.

  She chanced a glance over at Jacob, and their eyes met briefly. The reason women were attracted to him was readily apparent. Besides his poignant presence on stage and the touching melodies he willingly shared, he had a boyish look; a momma’s boy demeanor despite a strong body and obvious need for independence. He didn’t smile easily and seemed to rarely speak as well, at least verbally. As with Jessie, his music spoke for him. Jessie found him intriguing, captivating, dangerous. She forced herself to look away first.

  Planning to head back to her flat to recover as well as to do a little of her own songwriting, which she was inspired to do after watching Jacob bare his soul on stage the night before, Jessie found her day thwarted when Charlene popped over and invited the gang to brunch. Comfortable enough with John Paul and his intentions, she felt safe with the small group and so she agreed to go along. At lunch, the topic of an upcoming music festival intrigued her.

  She was pondering the idea of renting a vehicle and learning to drive on the left hand side when John Paul’s voice broke into her reverie.

  “Little Miss Sorrow,” he said and she turned pink, focusing her eyes on the poached egg and fried potatoes on the plate before her. She would come to like that about John Paul and his friends, that they accepted her head on for who she was, including the baggage that accompanied her to Scotland. There were no explanations required, perhaps because all of them were there for similar reasons. Jacob, at least, appeared to be a victim of his own haunting. His music spoke volumes about who he had become as a person.

  John Paul continued, spearing Jessie gently in the bicep with his fork.

  “You,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us. But just be warned that I’m really not interested in starting anything with you, okay?”

  Everyone laughed and jostled John Paul except, she noticed, for Jacob. He appeared rather astounded that his friend verbalized this in front of everyone.

  Charlene broke the tension. “JP, you’re feckin’ crazy. You are not God’s gift to the female race.”

  John Paul groaned and sat back. “Well, it just makes more sense to me to make it clear. That way there are no questions or anticipation. Anyways her heart’s already attached to somebody, so it’s a moot point.”

  At that, purple haired Charlene raised her eyebrows at Jessie but was greeted with a blank stare. The women would have to discuss that later.

  “Seriously, Annie, you should come. It’s being held just outside Stirling. You know, where the William Wallace monument is. The festival is outdoors and we’re tenting, so it’s likely to be cold as it’s getting on in the season.” She prodded John Paul. “You’ll just have to find another good looking bloke to snuggle up with, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t have sex with her, I just said I wasn’t interested in a relationship,” John Paul countered hotly, pouting, which drew another onslaught of complaint from Charlene and the others.

  Peering up at Jacob from the corner of her eye, Jessie was surprised to see the tiniest grin spreading from the corners of his lips. He was enjoying this repartee. She decided to relax and enjoy it too, and so she acquiesced to Charlene.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I’d love to come. Count me in. Should I buy a tent?”

  Charlene squealed. “The more the merrier,” she said happily. “I have a tent. And a car. I’ll drive. But get some beers, okay?”

  And so it was that when Friday morning rolled around Jessie found herself in the back of a small Peugeot rolling through the Scottish countryside on her way to Stirling. By that evening, she was tenting at the Gateway to the Highlands, sitting in front of a crackling fire, listening to Jacob play guitar.

  ***

  The area was a transitional point, for Jessie as well as geographically speaking. The group was tenting on one of the flattest and most agriculturally productive expanses of land in Scotland, which stretched from the west and east of the city. Northwest of historic Stirling were many hills and mountains of the lower highlands. Strategically, the Scottish city was well placed, with the flatter lowlands meeting rugged slopes. For Jessie, the Gateway to the Highlands was simply a good place to hide.

  The last time Jessie attended a three-day concert like this as a fan was years ago, in Charleston, on the boisterous arms of Sandy and Rachel. Lately she’d been a featured performer who for safety reasons spent most of her time in a secure green room tent or building backstage. The Stirling festival was a blast from the past.

  A stone structure with an open landing at its pinnacle that stood as testament to Scottish independence and endurance, the William Wallace monument reigned mightily over the festival, which served as yet another marker of change in Jessie’s turbulent life. On the grounds, which were essentially a farmer’s field, was a large stage with a colorful green and blue striped awning. An adjacent row of yellow port-a-potties perched proudly at stage right. Stage left featured grandstands for VIP and disabled seating. Male and female security staff manned the metal fences enclosing the grounds. Beyond those were other fields where concessions were set up, as well as where participants and audiences could camp for a mere twenty pounds a night. The only rules were that noise be kept to a minimum – the camping areas were patrolled – and campers use the portable toilets supplied. Campers were also expected to clean up their own debris before pulling out on Sunday around five.

  Shortly after the group’s arrival, Jessie had explored the main festival grounds with Charlene, John Paul and Jacob, but they got separated mid-afternoon. She wandered around herself then, stopping at concession
s for Cornish pasties and beer (in its own tent – a well-populated, rousing spot), and to purchase a souvenir T-shirt she immediately pulled over her bobbed red hair and black hoodie. Thrilling to the independence and her incognito persona, she relished the opportunity to wander discreetly through this popular music festival, where crowds of a hundred thousand were expected over the three-day event.

  The experience was a thrill to Jacob and John Paul as well. They had applied to participate in the festival – as a small band, they handled their own bookings – and were over the moon to be accepted to play in a rookie segment for up and coming talent, although Jacob kept his excitement largely to himself. They were scheduled to play the next day at two p.m.

  Now, under the blue-black evening sky in front of a hearty crackling fire, which was settled into a small pit dug into the earth, an eerie orange glow cast strange shadows on Jessie and Jacob’s contented faces as it spewed, sputtered and trembled, catapulting grey ash into the hazy air. Urged on by the cozy campfire, Jacob was dealing with his nerves by working out a new song on his guitar. John Paul and Charlene had yet to return to the site. Earlier in the day other friends set up tents nearby, so JP and Charlene were likely with them, spaced out on weed and liquor. Jessie had meandered her way back from the main field with ease and was perched on an overturned log across from Jacob, her dad’s Gibson in her arms, quietly strumming so as not to bother her hard-working campmate.