Dropping my cigarette in the grass, I press my heel into it and tear back the ripped fence, calm already seeping into my veins. The air’s different here. Can’t explain it, but it’s clearer, or lighter, some fucking scientific reason, I’m sure. Whatever it is, no matter what kind of mood I’m in, this place can Zen me out.
And Lord knows I need some serious fucking Zen right now.
Making my way to the deep pool on the other side of complex, Dad’s skeevy-ass words echo in my head. I wish to God I could forget them. I could have gone my whole life never knowing that my mom is a good lay. Bile rises in my throat and I choke it down, grimacing.
And don’t get me fucking started on Mom’s comment about “making a fuss.” Did I drop acid and forget, because I’m seriously tripping. I love my mother, but she makes me fucking crazy.
Even after an hour at Mom’s place, I’m still seeing red. I’m damn lucky my car knows the way here, because I remember fuck all of the drive over.
Tight grip on my guitar case, I climb down the rusty ladder, and into the empty pool, thankful for my dank piece-of-shit safe haven. It’s a fucking mess, but it’s quiet and dark. And it’s all mine. This whole night has been nothing but the loudest fucking mic feedback ringing in my ears. Too many voices in my head. It feels nice to escape life.
Foregoing the last two rungs, I let go and drop, my boots hitting the ground with a loud clomp. I readjust my grip on Lizzy’s case and stalk toward my spot under the diving board. The itch in my fingers gets stronger by the second, craving a workout on the six-string.
I plant my ass on the ground, directly beneath the diving board, and snap the latches on the case. Folding back the top, Lizzy gleams, nestled into the black, velvet lining. “Come to papa,” I croon, lifting her out of the confines at the same time my phone vibrates against my ass cheek.
Settling Lizzy on my lap, I lean to one side and pull my phone out of my back pocket. I glance at the message. Harper: Freaking out here. Worried.
“I’m freaking out too, Red.” I don’t know what to do. I want to be the guy that gives Harper everything she wants. The boyfriend she deserves. Hell, I even bought into the fairy-tale bullshit, thinking I could pull it off. But, I know enough that the princess doesn’t end up with the trailer park trash. Prince fucking Charming I am not.
I stuff my phone back into my pocket and tune up Lizzy.
Plucking out some chords, I wait for the sound waves to ricochet off the side of the pool. This place has great acoustics. Even at my shittiest, I can rival Clapton or Slash. When there’s no one around to hear, I can be whoever the hell I want.
My slow, steady strum, grows into something rich and heavy. A monster waking up. Standing. Stretching. I feed it more of myself, giving it strength. Sweat runs down the side of my face. Motherfucking bastard.
I thrash the strings. Slap my hand against the wooden body. Pummel Lizzy with all I’ve got.
Black eyes. Bloody noses. Gashes. Snapping bones.
Blow after blow.
The monster strains at its leash, and I keep going, my fingers biting into the strings. Taking hit after hit. Adrenaline courses through my veins until I finally release the harness, and set the monster free. Hunched over, rocking out, I scream.
For Mom. The little boy trapped inside, cowering in the corner. For Penny who sits on the letter “X.”
And For Harper, because I know she isn’t safe with me.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck!” I roar. Anger claws and scrapes at my throat until I’m spent.
Beaten.
Broken.
I drop my hands to my sides, sucking in air, chest heaving. Lizzy collapses on my lap. The grandfather clock from my childhood flashes in my brain, and I zero in its face. It’s not 4:27. I didn’t win this fight.
My phone vibrates again.
I’m scared to look. Six damn years since fear rattled its chains in my chest, reminding me of how weak I am…who I am—“You’re my son, boy.”
The message is from Harper, I feel it in my marrow. I can’t face her. I won’t put her in danger. What if I snap, lose my shit, and it’s not Lizzy in my hands next time, but her?
What if it’s Mom? What if he came back? Round two. The voice inside my head weighs in—the voice of reason. Priorities, Thor. Suck it up. She needs you.
Shifting to the side, I push my hand into my back pocket and take out my phone. I hold my breath, and bite down on my lower lip, drawing strength from the sting, preparing for what I’m going to see on the screen. No matter what it is, it’s going to hurt like hell when I read it.
With the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, I push the home screen button.
Mom: Thanks, baby. How’d I get lucky enough to have a son like you?
She’s safe. I let go of the air in my lungs, my chest burning.
I reach for the pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket, draw one out, and shove it between my lips. Striking the lighter, the yellow and blue flame dances in the light breeze, a pinprick of light surrounded by a whole lot of darkness.
Bringing the lighter to the end of my cigarette, a cloud rises, filling my nostrils. The paper and tobacco crackle, dying in the fire. I pull in a long drag, feeling the smoke land heavy in my lungs. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back on the cold concrete, and pretend to enjoy my smoke and the illusion of serenity it provides. I know it’s just the nicotine fucking with me. But for now, it’s enough…at least until Harper texts again.
I have to end things. I can’t put her in the crosshairs. The damn fairy tale was nice while it lasted, but it’s time to live in fucking reality again. She’s too good for me.
* * *
“That her again?” Griffin asks, pulling a beer out of the fridge.
I nod, trading my phone for my guitar, plugging into the amp. “Grab me one, will you?” Adjusting the volume, I strum a chord.
“Here.” Griffin shoves the Budweiser in front of my face.
Yanking it out of his grasp, I raise an eyebrow and pull the tab. “Switching things up?” I take a long swig. It’s not the microbrew Griffin usually has on hand, but it’ll do.
“All there is, man.” Griffin takes a drink and sets the can on a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines. “Dad’s garage. He stocks the fridge how he wants.” Grabbing his bass, Griffin throws a punch into my shoulder. “What the fuck did she do to piss you off?”
I dampen my strings and glare at him. “Nothing. She did nothing. Just had a moment of weakness. I slipped up. I should have never chased her down. It’s what happens when I let a pretty face seduce me. Lessoned learned.” I’m sick of talking. There’s nothing to be done. Harper’s safer with me out of the picture. Thanks to my dad’s timely reappearance, I’ve got my head on straight again. Fairy. Tale. Fucking. Over.
I take another long drink and set my can down so I can pick out a rhythm on the strings. “We gonna play, or what?” I shout over my guitar. I like getting in touch with my feelings as much as the next guy, but I don’t have all night for a Dr. Phil session with my roommate. I want to practice and stop in at Ma’s place before I head home
Griffin adds his bass to my guitar, and just like old times, we rock out. Countless hours in his parents’ garage, or mine—when Dad wasn’t home, of course—we’d hone our craft and learn to play off each other. Jam sessions are the fucking bomb.
After our drummer, Adam, broke his wrist, Griffin and I haven’t had any time to squeeze in an extra practice. All our free time has been caught up in finding a temporary replacement for Adam. But this, pounding out a month’s worth of stress, it’s exactly what Griffin and I need before heading into the lair of the corporate music machine next week. A return to our roots. Just Griff and me. How it all started.
“Sweet riff,” he shouts, pointing at me. “Keep it going, I want to try something.”
Like I did at the pool last night, my fingers rip over the strings. I keep my muscles tense, my biceps strain, burning as I give my guitar a workout. The tune seethes with anger, driving and hard, yet, buried beneath the hatred and discordant tones, a rhythm emerges…the ghost of a melody.
Griffin hears it too, adding a groovy bass rhythm. We play off one another for what seems like eternity, our song shifting and changing, following an unknown path.
It’s cathartic, my temper mellowing with each note. And as I complete the cadence, slow my strum, and dampen the strings, all my anger and anxiety are spent, for the moment.
Griff stops playing and tweaks a knob on his amp. “We were in the zone. That rocked. Think we could do it again?” He glances in my direction.
“He’s back,” I blurt out. Griff should know. In case something happens to Mom, or I get pulled away from the studio. I’ve got to be upfront with him. “I was with Harper yesterday when Mom called. The douche bag was pounding on her door, trying to bust his way inside. No sign of him for nine months and now he’s back like a fucking plague.”
“Shit.” Griff lifts the shoulder strap of his bass over his head and sets it on the couch. “Your mom all right?”
I nod, picking up my beer. “Peace of mind is rattled. I got there before anything happened. Made him get lost.” Taking a long drink, I’d love nothing more than to get piss-ass drunk and forget the last two weeks ever happened. Mom and I both got lazy and complacent as fuck.
“That why you’re ghosting her?” Griff asks. “Also explains why you just pounded the shit out of that song, which was awesome, by the way.”
“Harper and I haven’t been together that long, man. Two weeks and some change. It’s better this way. If we’re not together, I can’t fuck things up. Like you said, I pounded the shit out of that last song. What will stop my temper from pounding the hell out of her?” Leaning back in my chair, I prop my feet up on the little table beside the couch. I know Griff’s dad wouldn’t care, not with the countless rings covering the surface, each marking the spot a cold one kept him company during a football game.
“Bullshit. You know as well as I do, you’re nothing like your old man.” He drains his beer, squeezing the can into a twisted heap of aluminum. Chucking the empty in the direction of the recycling bin by the door, he bricks it, and the can goes skittering in the opposite direction. I’m glad he plays the bass better than he sinks shots from less than five feet away. Griff is to organized sports what the Pope is to the dating scene.
“You don’t know that. There was a time when that d-bag didn’t beat the shit out of his family. Mom loved him. Sad thing is, I think she still does. After the hell he’s put the both of us through, she still fucking loves that prick.” I shake my head, trying to wrap my head around the enormity of that statement. How? How could she still love him? Beating her was one thing, but how can she still love him after he beat the shit out of me, too? I love my mom, and I will always be around to protect her, but where the fuck was she when I was little and needed protection?
“I can see it in her eyes when I mention getting a gun, or bring up a restraining order. God forbid, an actual fucking divorce. She’d rather live in fear, than get him out of her life for good, and it’s because she’s still loves him.” I crunch my empty beer can and fling it toward the bin. Two points to the guitar player.
“There’s nothing rational about love, man. It’s not an on-off switch.”
I hit him with a pissy scowl. Somehow, I think we stopped talking about my mother and moved onto his complicated love life. He’s been in love with his best friend, Jillian, for years. Everyone who knows the two of them can see the attraction, yet, they ignore it and spend their days in denial. And let’s not talk about the weird-ass relationship he’s got going with another chick. You’re the master at the on-off switch, brother.
Griffin runs his hand through his hair and stands, walking over to the fridge. He pulls out another beer, pops the top, and drinks deeply. Hauling it away from his mouth, he stabs me with a heavy look. “You have to call her.”
I raise a questioning brow. “My mom? Why?”
He cocks his head and glares. “Your girl. What’s her name?”
“Harper. And why should I call her? The point is to stay away, so I don’t end up using her as a punching bag.”
“Do you like this chick?” he asks, plopping on the couch with his beer.
Walking around the other side, I flop onto the other cushion, propping my feet up, one on top of the other. Staring at my filthy work boots. I nod. “Yeah. But I haven’t figured out why she wants me. She’s out of my league.”
“That’s when you know it’s something. When you figure out you’ll never be good enough for her, but she doesn’t see it that way. Give it a shot, dude. See where it goes. Trust me, you’ll only regret it if you don’t.”
Regret. It’s already digging its claws into my gut. I haven’t talked to Harper since I ran out on her.
“Shit.” I wipe my hands over my face. “Fucking relationships, man. Makes me crazy. Why I’ve avoided them all these years.”
“She’s worth it?” Griffin asks, turning to look at me. “Worth all this frustration? All the crazy?”
I don’t even hesitate. “So fucking worth it.”
“Then you have your answer. You and Harper are not your parents. You guys do you. Don’t let someone else’s relationship bullshit dictate yours.”
Maybe I can make this work. I want to. I’ll just have to keep my family shit under wraps. The less Harper knows about me, or where I come from, the better. The safer she’ll be.
And Griffin’s right about knowing what I have with Harper is something different…special. With every woman I’ve been with, never once have I thought of them above myself. It was always, “What can she do for me? How can she get me off?”
With Harper, it’s the complete opposite, and I’m left hoping and praying I’ll get the chance to show her exactly what I can do for her.