Fighting For Our Forever: The Beaumont Series: Next Generation

by Heidi McLaughlin

  The Prineville County jail is nothing more than three holding cells which consists of two cots each and no urinals. Lovely, I get to raise my hand like an elementary student and ask to use the facilities.

  Mahon puts me in the middle cell, directly across from an open-spaced office. He pulls the door shut as soon as I’m over the threshold. “Lucky for you, I’ll be right over there if you need me.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t even acknowledge him. Sitting down on the cot, I sigh and cover my face with my hands. I can only hope and pray that once all this blows over, Elle doesn’t kick me in the nuts and send me packing.

  4

  Jamie

  By noon on Sunday, Bailey’s has a fairly steady crowd — almost everything else in town is closed, not opening until dinner or people realize that going home to cook after church isn’t always what they want to do. Sundays are the only time minors are allowed in Bailey’s as well, and part of me thinks that the teens beg their parents to come here. I know I used to. The thrill of being in a bar, underage, added an odd bit of excitement to my life. The teen boys seem to enjoy shooting a game of pool or throwing a round of darts while the girls hog the juke box, playing all of their favorite songs and dancing in large groups. It’s days like today that are my favorite, mostly because my daughter will come in later with my parents and seeing her can change my outlook instantly.

  Dhara, who just walked in, looks worse for the wear. She takes one look at me and plops down into a booth, not her usual spot at the bar. She barely looks at me as I approach the table. “Did you sleep at all last night?” She shakes her head.

  “I’m so angry with myself.”

  “It’s just a concert, D. It’s not like you were going backstage to meet the band.”

  “I know, but I can’t help the way I feel. Like something’s missing.”

  “It’s called food. What can I get you?” I set a drink napkin down on the table and wait for her to tell me what she wants. She has the menu memorized and doesn’t need to look it over.

  “Steak and cheese, and a Diet Coke. No onions or mushrooms. Extra mayo.”

  “Chips or fries.”

  “Fries with a side of mayo.”

  “Got it. So, you want an order of mayo with a few sides?” I wink at her, but she doesn’t find my humor funny, returning my gesture with a scowl, which coming from her red blotchy face is a bit comical. Still, I don’t stay and poke the bear. She’s liable to become whiney or throw a fit. I love Dhara, but her emotions are all over the place, and I blame Fletcher for that. If the two of them would just get together, do their thing, and get it out of their system or run off and get married, she wouldn’t be such a scatterbrain when he’s around.

  I tend to a few other customers at the bar before I put Dhara’s order in. When I notice Fletcher come in, I put his usual order in as well. It’s a shot in the dark, but he’s so calm about everything I don’t think he’ll mind. Still, I plan to ask him when I take a Coke over to him. If all else fails, I’ll eat his cheeseburger and feel good about it.

  “Brought you a Coke,” I say, setting the glass down in front of him and doing the same for Dhara. “Also ordered your fave, unless you want something different?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Logan around?”

  I hear my name called from the bar and glance over my shoulder to find our short order cook setting a couple of plates under the heat lamp. Focusing back on Fletcher, I answer him. “No, he had to get back to base. Might be able to come down next weekend though.”

  “Ooh, two weekends in a row. Better watch out, you might get serious,” Dhara jokes.

  “Hardy har har.” I stick my tongue out at her and head back to the bar to pick up my order. By the time I return with Fletcher and Dhara’s food, they’re deep into a conversation about the concert. Not wanting to keep beating a dead horse, I set their plates down and head to my next table.

  Most Sundays I have a hostess or another waitress on staff but with the concert last night, everyone asked for the day off. Being that Bailey’s is part of the community, and good help is sometimes hard to find, those who asked, received. Never mind the fact that we could be busy. The cook, table busser and I just roll with it.

  The dining area is full when a group of out of towners walk in. They look around and are about to leave when I tell them they can sit at the bar. The group of four look tired, haggard, like they had an incredibly rough night. My guess is that they partied a bit too hard last night at the concert and are slowly making their way back home. Placing menus down in front of each of them, I ask, “Coffee?”

  They all barely nod at me, making discernible audible mumbles.

  I give them a few minutes to look over the menu after I pour each of them their coffee. A couple of them add cream, while the other two drink it black. “Do you know what you want?”

  “What’s good?” The lone female of the group asks.

  “Just about everything,” I tell her. I’m biased though. “We pride ourselves on good food and heaping quantities.” There’s nothing worse than walking into a new place, ordering food, and getting a skimpy plate. When I go out to eat, I want food.

  While she’s thinking things over, I look at the guy who is farthest from me. He looks familiar but I can’t remember where I know him from. He orders our plated special of two eggs, hash browns, bacon, and toast. His friend orders hash and eggs. The lady settles on pancakes, and the girl next to her asks for a burger. Odd but not uncommon. The woman slaps him on the arm, and I hear her say, “You’re ridiculous,” before turning away.

  As their order cooks, I cash out people who are ready to leave, refill sodas, coffees, teas and waters and chat for a few minutes. Dhara and Fletcher seem to have given up on the missed concert and are going on about their upcoming week at work. Dhara works at the hospital and Fletcher works for the State as an attorney in Bailey. He’s only a year out of law school and thankfully the worst crimes he has to prosecute are petty misdemeanors. I’d be scared if he had to face a murderer because he’s too nice and gentle for the ugliness that his job could bring him. We all knew he would return home after he graduated from college. Well, I did. Dhara was certain he would leave for someplace like Raleigh or Charlotte, but I knew better. He’s far too in love with her to stay away. He looks at her the same way… well the way someone should look when they’re smitten.

  “Do you need anything else?” I ask them. Dhara’s head is turned, staring toward the bar. I follow her gaze but don’t see anything amiss. “D?”

  “Jamie, do you know they are?” she whispers.

  I look again and slowly shake my head. “Paying customers?”

  “Dhara…” Fletcher’s voice comes as a warning and now I’m officially curious.

  “What’s going on?”

  Dhara stares at Fletcher who shakes his head slowly. I lean down, my hands grip the end of the table and I look back and forth between my friends. “What the hell is going on?” Her shoulders fall and she finally opens her mouth to speak.

  “The people at the bar are the members of Sinful Distraction,” she mumbles quietly. First off, I don’t believe her. She’s sitting in her booth, not making a scene. She’s not fixing her hair, her make-up or doing anything else to prepare for a selfie. Second, no… they wouldn’t come into my bar.

  “D, I know you’re upset about the concert, but you really need to get over it. I’m sure the band is on their way to their next stop, doing some meet and greet, or whatever it is bands do these days. Okay? Just stop.”

  She reaches for my hand, but I pull away. “I have to work.” I leave them at the table and head to the back to calm my breathing. Everything about this weekend has been messed up. I don’t want to be that friend, the one that tells her friends they can’t listen to a certain group or like a certain movie, but right now that’s what I want to say because this group… I put my hand on my forehead and tell myself to stop thinking about my past. What’s done is done. Life happened, I moved on. I wo
rked hard to overcome a troubling time in my life, to make something of myself, and the things Dhara’s saying, well it’s just a rabbit hole of hell waiting for me that I’m not willing to travel down.

  Taking a deep breath, I center myself, and give myself a mental pep talk. Ignore Dhara and her incessant crap about missing the concert and who may or may not be in the bar right now. I push open the wooden door and step back out into my reality, a packed establishment where groups of parents are happily conversing while their children are playing amongst themselves. Life is good.

  The cook calls my name and I go to the window to pick up the plates of food. Easiest delivery of the day so far as I just have to turn around. I set some condiments onto the bar for the group to use and refill their coffee mugs. One asks for a Sprite and another asks for some ice water. Easy peasy.

  And that’s how I expect the rest of their encounter to go, that is until I see Dhara approaching. Everything in me wants to think she’s coming to see to me, to pay her bill, but deep down I know better. She’s a celebrity hound, lives her life for posting pictures of her with famous people. One time, she vacationed in Hollywood and spent her week looking for movie stars. I love her but it’s a bit much.

  “Dhara,” I warn as she gets closer, but her eyes are set on the group at the bar.

  Her hand reaches out and she taps one of the men on his shoulder. He’s definitely cute, seems a bit shy. He turns toward her. “Are you Quinn James?”

  “I am,” he says.

  “And you’re the members of Sinful Distraction, right?” She asks. “Dana, Hendrix and Keane.” Please say no. Please say no, although I shouldn’t care, right?

  They all nod, and my heart hits the floor. He chose not to come here. He chose not to see me. Honestly, it’s for the best. I have things to say to him that his friends might not like to hear. I tune out of their conversation as my mind starts running a mile a minute. Too many thoughts are mixing with the pang my heart is feeling. The fact that he’s not here should be a blessing.

  My eyes are steadily watching the door, and when it swings open, I hold my breath. This is the longest ten to fifteen seconds of my life, waiting to see who’s coming in. I can hear my heart beating in my ears, my palms are sweating, and my eyes are starting to water.

  “Jamie,” Dhara says next to me. “I’m sorry.”

  I shake away the cobwebs and look at my best friend. “Are you?” I ask. “Are you really?”

  “You needed to know—”

  “Know what? That he’s in town and wouldn’t come in?”

  She takes a step back. I know my words sting, but so do her actions. “You could’ve waited until they were leaving to ask them who they were, instead, you just… you don’t get it, Dhara. I didn’t need to know.”

  I leave her standing there and retreat to the back, and into the alley where I bend over and gasp for air. For years, I haven’t thought about the life I had before my daughter came. I haven’t thought about high school and everything that happened. I worked hard to erase the bad girl image I had to become a decent member of the community. And while I know it’s not Dhara’s fault, I’m blaming her. I didn’t need to know who those people were at the bar, and I don’t need to spend the rest of my day wondering why he didn’t come in with them.

  Except, that’s exactly what I’m going to end up doing.

  5

  Ajay

  Being in a band on tour means our sleep pattern is all messed up. It’s not odd for us to sit down at four or five in the morning to eat dinner or go to sleep around noon. Once we’re off tour, we crash hard for days at a time, hoping to ease back into the normality of everyday life. There was a time when I would stay awake for days, practicing on my kit, trying to hone my craft. However, those days went by the wayside when my big break came, and I started to value sleep. Say what you will but going to bed at nine or ten o’clock at night is good for you... trying to stay awake in a jail cell is not.

  I’m exhausted, having been kept awake by the blaring television, the constant chatter of the guard talking on the phone, and the noise from the video game that he’s playing. And just when I’m about to doze off, Eddie starts talking to me. Talking about shit that is of no consequence to me, my life or this trumped charge that has me sitting in a cell. But he yammers on like he knows I’m trying to get some shut eye, going on and on about Bailey, how the town has changed since I left, how he’s married but doesn’t have any kids yet, and how the town historian is trying to pin an unsolved murder on some serial killer from the west coast. “Big happenings in Bailey since you left. You’re not the only famous one to come out of here ya know,” he says, as if the jab he’s taking is supposed to hurt. It doesn’t. I did what I did to survive… there isn’t a single doubt in my mind that if I’d stayed here, I’d be behind bars permanently. I was going nowhere fast. I am thankful, though, that he doesn’t bring up Whiskey. As far as I’m concerned, she’s off limits to everyone. I may give the Sheriff shit about his daughter, but that’s between the two of us and no one else.

  “That pretty little thing that visited, she your wife?”

  I say nothing.

  “She sure seemed to fancy you. Maybe she’s a groupie you’re trying to con into paying your bail.”

  “I can pay for my own bail,” I say quietly, hoping he can’t really hear me over his obnoxious game and the television.

  “I bet you can,” he replies, making me wish I would’ve kept my mouth shut. “You and your big, fancy money. My wife follows your group. She doesn’t say much about you, though. Not too many people talk about you between Prineville and Bailey.”

  Thank God.

  “Although sometimes the boys like to get a bit rowdy when the wives go gaga over one of your music videos and we have to remind them that you’re a nobody, that you still piss standing up.”

  Thankfully he stops talking, giving me a chance to close my eyes. I have no idea what time it is, except that it’s morning so the sun’s coming up, and I’ll finally see the judge today. My internal clock is all messed up. I know I arrived early Sunday morning and have been served three meals but haven’t had a guard change. Good old Eddie here has been on since he slid the door shut on me, which sucks for him.

  “You still piss standing up, right pretty boy? Or are you all ‘sissified’ from living in California?”

  Do I answer or ignore?

  I ignore because nothing good comes from answering men who are determined to be pricks. He’s macho and thinks because he wears a uniform, he can act like this, and I’m going to let him. The sound of something hitting the bars of my cell causes me to lift my head. Eddie’s pacing back and forth in front, dragging his baton along the metal.

  “It seems that you’ve lost your manners since you left Bailey.”

  “Nope, just gained a bunch of sense.” I cross my arms and lay my head on them.

  “Sense about what, pretty boy?”

  “About answering dumb ass questions.”

  “I’m the law, you have to answer me.”

  “Not without my lawyer present.”

  “All right then, wise ass, I’m a fan. If you don’t answer, I’ll have my wife post it all over her Facespace.”

  Facebook, you idiot. “When my manager shows up, you can ask her your questions and if she says so, I’ll answer them.”

  “She? What do women know about music?”

  A lot more than you think. I sigh. “Eddie, it’s like you’ve never left the area. Women are more than capable to manage bands, write and produce music, direct movies, run Fortune 500 companies.”

  “Never heard of that company.”

  “No, I can’t imagine you have.” How can someone be so dense as to the world outside of their small town?

  The door opens and the Sheriff’s voice bellows out my name. “Ballard, your attorney is here. Let’s go.”

  I have never been so thankful in my entire life as I am now to see Sheriff Foster. As much as the man despises me, I’d rath
er be in his presence than Eddie’s. I’m not sure how much more of his stupid I can take.

  Foster doesn’t handcuff me, and for that I’m also thankful. My wrists are still pretty raw and sore. He leads me by my elbow back into the precinct and into the small interview room. There, Elle and some guy I’ve never met are sitting at the table, both staring at me. Foster shoves me in and slams the door.

  “Did you sleep?” Elle asks.

  “I tried, but the guard kept the television blaring. And when he wasn’t watching TV, he was playing some game on his phone with the volume turned as high as it could go and talking to himself all night.”

  The lawyer scribbles something down on his yellow notepad before looking up at me and extending his hand. “Saul Russo, Jr. My father has represented 4225 West for many years and I’m happy to do the same for Sinful Distraction.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Can you tell me about the night in question, as much as you can remember?” I nod and dive head first into my past and that night in particular. If this were another time in my life, I’d probably take the blame for Whiskey, but right now I have too much to lose. Saul continues to ask questions about growing up in Bailey, my relationship with Sheriff Foster, more questions about Whiskey, and about the night I just spent in jail. When he’s finished, Elle hands me a garment bag and tells me that my suit is in there — one that I didn’t know I owned — along with the toiletries I need to clean up.

  When Foster returns, he leads me to the bathroom and tells me not to even think about trying to escape through the window or he’ll make sure my pretty little girlfriend pays. I don’t correct him. It’s better that he thinks Elle’s my girlfriend because then at least he won’t think about Whiskey and me together. It’s best that he thinks I’ve moved on.

  The suit Elle brought for me fits like a glove. Elle is like the Jack of all trades. There isn’t anything she can’t do and if she happens upon an issue out of her control, she has a back pocket full of resources. She was meant to be in show business. After Sinful Distraction first came on the scene, she and Quinn were accused of using their fathers’ connections to garner some attention for us when in fact, Elle had done all the legwork. 4225 West did help but not in the sense the media portrayed. Our music is good, great even. I may be biased but I know how hard we work, how much time Dana and Quinn put into the songs, and their efforts shouldn’t be discounted as favors from Harrison James.