Sweet Ache

I want to tell him that wasn’t his job, his responsibility to fix because he was suffering too, but he continues before I can find the right words.

“I think a part of him thinks my dad favored me, held me to a higher standard by having me be there with him. He doesn’t get the images I have to relive every time I think of my dad. Blood gushing like a fountain, pooling around my feet frozen to the floor. The echo of the gunshot slamming into my goddamn skull, haunting my dreams, and making me jerk to look when I hear a car backfire. The promises I had to make, the only things I have left to make him proud of me.” He scrubs a hand over his face, his five o’clock shadow chafing his hands, and all I want to do is gather him to me, hold him tight, and try to take the memories away for him, but know I can’t.

He’s baring his demons to me and I’m worried what damage has occurred by him dredging up the memories I’m sure he keeps locked tight.

“Music was how I coped. I lost myself in it—the lyrics, the beat—and it allowed me to step outside the situation, allowed me to feel alive again when I was dead for so long. We formed a band sophomore year in high school—Hunter, Vince, Rocket, Giz, and me. It was my salvation, my daily catharsis from the shit fucking up my head. We kept at it and started playing clubs before we were old enough to drink. Had a couple of gigs we played regularly for a while but the lifestyle was bad for Hunter. He slipped back into the shit he delved into in high school. Started needing the drugs more than the music, I guess. Missed gigs, fucked-up chords on stage … The guys started getting pissed, knew he was going to blow our chance.

“Then we had a scout in the crowd one night. He talked to us after and came to a few more of our sets at different clubs. One thing led to another and then another and he wanted to sign us, but he wanted Hunter gone because he was a liability. He was right but fuck, what was I supposed to do? He promised to clean up, drop the drugs, and then he never showed for the performance we had for the record execs because he was so coked up he passed out. They offered us the deal as long as Hunter wasn’t on the ticket.” He falls silent, the strife raw in his tone at having to make a decision between his anchor and his life preserver. “Anyway, the guys told me it was my decision, that they understood if we had to pass the contract up.”

“Wow.” I don’t even realize I’ve spoken until he speaks again.

“Exactly. That’s how good of friends they are to me, willing to give up their dream so that I didn’t have to leave my brother behind. It fucked me up for a while—the guilt still does, I guess, but I chose the band. Told Hunter if he couldn’t get his shit together that it wasn’t fair to everyone else to throw the years of hard work away.”

I draw in a deep breath, trying to wrap my head around the decision he had to make and the added weight it must be on his already burdened shoulders. And I also think he’s fortunate that he has friends like the guys who offered to give up the possibility because he meant so much to them. It also explains the tension between them all to an extent.

“And then of course we hit it big and I could see his resentment eat at him. Watched as he tried to undermine situations between the guys and me but they stood firm from our shared history and always had my back. So he moved on to everything else he could fuck up for me.”

By now my head is spinning at all of this information, so I just nod. His eyes reconnect with mine and give me the courage to comment. “And that’s where I come in?”

“Fuck if I know.” He blows out a breath, his free hand reaching down and grazing over the length of my jaw. “I couldn’t save my dad, but I tried to save Hunt … still am in a sense. I pay him a portion of my cut because guilt eats at me, I guess. Either that or I’m stupid … but I promised my dad I’d take care of him and I’m trying to. Am I enabling his habit that he can kick every so often before he uses again to deal with his shit? Probably. Do I cover for him, when I shouldn’t? Always … but it’s getting old and I’ve started resisting more and more, causing him to become more bitter, going after anything I have to prove he’s better, I guess. Restore that ego of his I damaged. Women, family, friends. Anything I want, he tries to fuck up in his own personal vendetta to get back at me.”

“So then kick his ass and tell him to leave what’s yours alone.” The comment comes out as a reflex, and I immediately regret the inadvertent declaration. I cringe and avert my eyes knowing that’s like the kiss of death to a guy, particularly one like him who’s probably used to changing women like he does his underwear.

The silence kills me so when I look back up, I don’t expect the lopsided grin that spreads lazily on his face and lights up the sadness in his gray eyes, but it’s such a welcome sight. “What’s mine, huh?” He angles his head to the side and stares, lips pursed, eyes reflecting the thoughts flickering through his mind. “You staking a claim, Trixie?”

Is the sky blue? If I worried that his confession was going to push me away from him, I was way off base because now I only want him more. Deciding to demonstrate, I sit up and climb over his lap so that I’m facing him, my legs straddled on either side of his. His brow furrows and lips turn up as his eyes never leave mine, questioning my actions without using words.

When I bend forward and brush my lips to his, my bare breasts skimming over his chest, and then lean back so that I can see some of that discord clear from his eyes. “If hot sex on my washing machine is part of this claim,” I say pressing my mouth to his again, slipping my tongue between his lips to tempt and tease in a seductive dance before pulling back again, “then hell yes, I’m in.”