Something To Dream On (13 page)

Why did I take a call from an unknown number? It may have been the stupidest thing I have ever done. No, scratch that. Acting on it was even more idiotic.

I get being frustrated over not being able to write, but to come to Larry’s place, especially when I am so freaked out over telling Lizetta about my past, was just plain stupid. What could make me put everything on the line like this?

Being around these people also makes me bitchy as hell. That’s one plus to coming here today—I now see what my former band mates do to me. It is no wonder why I lost all of my respectable friends.

I can’t change my number incase Mom needs to reach me, so I’ve purposely given all of the old scum from my past a ring tone that sounds like an air raid siren. I don’t even look before ignoring it. Larry must have gotten wise to that trick. I should have known better than to take a call from an unknown number, but what if it had been Mom or Lizetta needing help? Sometimes I think I look for excuses to return to Hell, though I’m really not sure why. This moment proves it.

Is it because being a junkie is easy? Is it how these people accept me, no matter what I say or do, as long as I am high? Is it that misery loves company?

Seriously, I need to figure this one out. I can’t blow it off to a momentary lapse of reason or drug damage. There has to be something behind it.

I sit in Larry’s living room on a shag carpet that may have once been green and bright orange. It was probably put in when the house was built in the sixties. Now it’s faded and its colors are uglier than poor Bertha’s. I feel lost here. I sit cross-legged and prop my axe onto the ground so it stands between my legs with the neck over my face. I start tapping on the sides of the body in an effort to release tension.

Is wanting to make a little music so wrong? What about missing the rush of being onstage? This is definitely one of those times when being true to myself is not easy. Should I simply accept that I need to either give up my passion or succumb to being an ass?

Larry exchanges his guitar for some Jack and then guzzles. As soon as I came through the door, Larry’s three-day-old stench and greasy ponytail reminded me why I left the band. “Come on, bro. Let's get together and play,” he said. “Just you and me writing killer stuff. What harm is that gonna do?”

Now I am noticing how Larry’s words sounded like those of a pusher to a junkie.

Laura has yet to show her face, but a lethal smell coming from the kitchen tells me she’s here. Among her talents, Laura can bake some pretty amazing cookies.

Larry takes another swig and tries to hand me the bottle. How many times do I have to tell the guy I don't want any? If I give in, I'll soon be drunk off my ass, back in the band, putting powder up my nose, and allowing his sister to yank down my pants. Again, there are things that are more important, so why am I here? Am I that desperate to make music, or is something else calling me?

“Hey,” Larry says. “Do you remember where we left off on that song we were working on?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I move the guitar into a playable position and go into it. Larry’s smile builds. I expect whipping the tune out flawlessly to feel good, but the victory is lacking.

“Yeah,” he says while nodding. “That’s it.”

At the point we last left off, I stop dead, and then try to pick up the pieces by adding on a few notes. It sucks. I go back a few bars and then do a repeat of the riff with a little bit of a dance added on. Still it sucks. I turn to Larry. “You got anything?”

He shrugs, and then does a quarter-ass job of replicating my riff, but he tacks something decent on the end. Why can he do it and I can’t? I refuse to believe that I need drugs to write. There must be another way.

A shadow of a figure approaches from the kitchen. The bright sun behind her makes Laura look like an onyx ghost without a face, yet the boney frame gives away who it is. When she steps into view, she reminds me of a modern day version of a nineteen fifties housewife. I guess you could say she looks like a soccer mom.

She sets a plate of freshly baked, double chocolate, espresso-walnut cookies on the table. Unlike her normal attire, she is tastefully made up. Her long hair falls in waves around her face. Her clothes actually cover all of her female parts, and she smells like baby powder perfume. Our eyes lock, and even though hers are red and somewhat filmy, the skip of my heart tells I have hope for her. My attitude starts to soften, and I feel like the Jensen of recent times again. She smiles, and the light reflects off of her lip gloss, bringing about a fake glimmer to her face. I can’t help but smile back.

This moment reminds me of the first time we met, on the day I came to audition. She walked in and stole my breath. But in taking a closer look and seeing the lines around her eyes that make her look ten years older than she is, I’m reminded that this is far from the same person.

Larry grabs a cookie and starts eating. I’m a little more gentlemanly and say thank you. I stand my guitar back down between my legs and force my eyes off of her and onto the plate. My fingers rap at the sides of the guitar again. Laura makes damn good cookies. I nearly ballooned out eating them. Once you start, you can’t stop, because the munchies set in. I watched her spend hours learning how to soak out almost all of the taste from weed before extracting the THC in butter. Chocolate helps disguise what little taste is left. The walnuts and coffee would do an even better job of covering it and God knows what else.

Pass, just in case.

Larry grabs a second cookie. “You don’t want to miss these, man. You know how my sister can bake.”

Yeah, I know about all the things his sister can do, starting with blowjobs and ending with needles. Now my attitude is getting harsh again.

Larry resumes playing, yet I sense him watching out of the corner of his eye. I haven’t even taken a bite and I’m already paranoid. Laura smiles at me and then swallows hard. My heart hurts over leaving her behind. There is a façade here, and she is hiding behind it. She’s not as okay as she seems. God, how I want to help her.

Her face goes stern, and her eyes flick to the plate, then back at me. The shake of her head is subtle, but it’s definitely there. She’s warning me? Why would she do that? Could it be she actually cares? That while she wants me back she wants me healthy too? Maybe it is a message that if I come back, she will make sure things are different.

No, I’m deceiving myself. I must be.

This is lame. Not only have I put myself in the middle of temptation, I’m holding this guitar like it's a shield so that I won’t grab anything else. If I could get these people to lay off of me, accept that I don’t share this lifestyle anymore, and respect that I have found someone special then—

Then monkeys will fly out my ass.

“Hey, Larry. I’m sorry man, but I’ve got to go.”

“What? You just got here.”

“I’ve got some place to be.”

“Yeah, Laura told me you had a stick up your ass now, but I just thought she was enjoying hearing herself talk.” More Jack gets guzzled down. Memories of what a nasty drunk Larry can be reinforce everything, so I pack it up. “Guess that new girl is why you want nothing to do with us. Afraid we might fill her in on a few details?”

My body tenses at his threat. Crap. If he knows I met someone, he can find out who she is. I’m screwed.

Laura’s head snaps to face me. Her eyes narrow and her features turn hard. By Laura’s reaction, I’m guessing he hasn’t clued her in.

I’m out the door before he finishes his yammering, only to hear him scream his final words that the band is now better off without me. I don’t care if he’s right. I am certainly better off without them. Still, I need to find a way to balance music with everything else in life. I took a huge step back by coming here, and then corrected it by leaving before it’s too late. I’ll let myself think that I’m even. As for that song, I’m done. It’s just an unnecessary tie to my past. If I need drugs to write, I’ll never write again. I’d rather miss writing than miss Lizetta.

Bertha and I speed off as Larry’s words catch up with me. I’ve been putting off telling Lizetta what a horrible person I was, but I’d damn well better fill her in before someone else does. First, I’ve got to get to Paul before she gets home from girl’s night out with Griffin. Since her dad had an addiction, I need to approach this gently.

Jensen bails, and it’s like he’s leaving me all over again, only this time I actually see the door close. He’s seeing someone! How could he do this to me?

Fuckin’ Larry! He knows how to play me. He also knows the way to get to me is to make me jealous, pissed, and irrational. Springing Jensen’s news on me was a failsafe incase his plan backfired. I’m being played, and dammit, it’s working. Some little bitch has my man. I need to fix this—pronto!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Friday, May 19

Etta’s happy bark signals my arrival at Jensen’s. The moment the door opens, her paws are all over me. She gets just enough love not to feel slighted before I get my lips on the man that has my heart palpitating simply because he exists.

Jensen has given me some amazing kisses, but his embrace reminds me of a bear who wants to drag me into his cave and hoard me. Between this and him calling to apologize for his recent distance, I almost feel that all is right again. Still, after the concern I have felt over the last few days, I cannot shake my weird itch of discomfort over his invitation.

Jensen pulls back and smiles down at me. The tender caress of his thumb on my cheek has me melting. But fear creeps in again when his eyes lose their glow, giving me the feeling that soul-felt pain is surfacing. Jensen guides me to the sofa, and when Etta curls at my feet and peers up with a gaze of sadness, her warning of oncoming hurt sends my stomach crashing.
 

“There is something that I need to tell you. I didn't say anything sooner because you mean so much to me that I am afraid of losing you, but please believe that it is all in the past. You should also know that I’ve already talked to Paul about how to approach this.”

My stomach ties into a knot. “Why would you be concerned over losing me? What would Paul have to do with something in your past?” I want to tell him that my feelings go much deeper than I’ve confessed, and it would take a lot to scare me off, but how soon is too soon to open up your heart?

Is that really my concern, or is the nagging feeling that something is wrong keeping my heart on guard?

Wait a minute. He talked to Paul? Paul would be exactly the person to talk to if they were kindred spirits.

My breath hitches. No. That is not what he is going to tell me. Not Jensen.

Jensen closes his eyes like he is trying to halt time. Etta placing her paw on my knee in what looks like an offer of consolation, causes my gut to cramp further. Jensen rattles his head, and then puts his hand to his temple. His building frustration has me on guard for what is one of the worst things anyone could tell me. “I’m not the fitness nut that you think I am; I’m a recovering junkie. Forcing an attitude change toward my health is how I banished my demons.”

My mind fights reality. “No. No, you can’t be. Not another one. I won’t allow you to have been like that.” My fingers press into my closed eyes and squeeze while I hope to smother the wave of disappointment that pulls me under.
Please, Lord, not another scarred life. How could he ever touch something that destroyed my family? Something that turned my dad into a raging monster that made us fear him.

Jensen reaches out to me. “Honey, please—”

I stick my hand out to halt him. I need a moment to process this. Was Jensen like my dad? Did he abuse people? Did he sleep around with every low-life woman in his inner circle? My dad liked to have company when he shot up. Was Jensen like that, or was he a lone wolf? I’ve so many questions that I have no idea where to begin.

Why can’t I have people in my life that have never suffered? It would give me so much hope. It is no wonder why just the idea of something bad has such a heavy effect on me.