Jarrett: Be there in 30.

“Rhett,” Tracie croons when I walk in the gym about fifteen minutes later and approach the counter to swipe my membership card. “How’re you today, handsome?”

Tracie’s hot and a superb lay, but she’s not worth breaking the rules. Flashbacks—some with my dick in my hand, some not—will have to tide us both over. Said memories aren’t hard to conjure up when she leans over the counter like that, double D cleavage that I’ve enjoyed up close and thoroughly begging to pop out for a rematch with my tongue.

“Any better and I’d be somebody else,” I reply, veering my eyes away from the twins of temptation.

I should probably ask the same polite formality of her, bluffing the most basic of manners found in anyone capable of using a fork instead of their fingers to eat, but instead I keep walking straight for the dead lift. It’s always my first choice, working every part of my body at once, thus releasing the most aggression with one exertion. Shockingly, I have more than my usual abundance of it to work off today. The email from the record label pissed me off as usual, but I can’t lie to myself—Reece’s vanishing act is what really has me tied up in irate knots.

The one time I keep it in my fucking pants and I’m snuck out on?

I’m gonna feel this workout tomorrow, careless with my warm-up, or lack thereof, and not fully extending and resting on my reps. I’m really just a frenzied shit-show of needed release.

Oh fuck me. “Dark Horse” blares overhead. Surely they know other songs do, indeed, exist.

“Hey, sunshine,” a jeer comes from my left.

I don’t need to look to give my brother a grunt in response.

“I’d say you need to get some, but we both know that’s not the problem. So what gives, man? Why the hell are you so damn miserable? I mean, more than usual?”

“Not,” I clip on an exhale, no break in my sporadic rhythm.

“Are,” he counters adamantly. “You’re a shit liar, always have been. So either you didn’t tap it last night, you did and regret it, or you’re mad she left before you could leave her first. Which is it?”

“You’re wrong on all counts, not that I’d tell you if you weren’t, and don’t fucking talk about her like that. Thought I’d already given you plenty of warnings about that shit?”

“Which brings me to my next question. Why have you given me plenty of warnings? You’ve jumped my ass about the way I talk to her, about her, way too many times for just meeting her. What is it with this girl?”

I glare at him, silently warning him to drop it now, but he doesn’t take the hint, testing me with a defiant grin. “She’s gone now and you’re the only one still talking about it. Don’t make a big deal about something that isn’t.”

“It isn’t?”

“Fuck no. Jesus Jarrett, you need to go have your testosterone levels checked.”

“Okay.” He backs up, hands out in surrender. “So is this about the band then? ‘Cause I was thinking I might be ready to give it another go.”

“What band?” I set the bar down and grab my towel to wipe my face and neck. “Only two members are left standing, and I really don’t see us pulling off a Sonny and Cher thing, so I’ll ask you again. What band?”

“We could find new members.”

“Then why haven’t we already done that?” I raise a sardonic brow, calling him out. He and I both know damn good and well he wouldn’t even entertain this idea if Vanessa hadn’t cheated on him. The fact my dreams are again his consolation concern and distraction pisses me off more than just a little.

Jarrett ducks his head and shifts in place, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. “What do you want me to say? Yeah, I’m crawling back. And no, I didn’t care about the band when I had her. But at least I took a chance, put my all into what I hoped was the real thing.”

He’s right, and I truly wish like hell it would’ve been. I want nothing but happiness for my brother. I’m proud as hell of his optimism, zest for life, and ability to bounce back as open-minded and hearted as ever.

“It’s alright, really.” I walk over to the bench press, and he follows, ready to spot me and helping load his end with weights. Which he can stop doing anytime. “Jarrett, one-fifty’s good, man. You trying to kill me?”

“Sorry.” He laughs, pulling one of the discs back off. “But seriously, let’s do a few local gigs a week and see what happens. I’m worried about you.”

“Couple problems with that plan.” I lift, my voice strained with exertion. “I already do a couple gigs a week. Nothing happens other than the songs get bought. By the way, I sold ‘Timeless.’ I’ll wire your cut as soon as they pay me. Anyway, doing gigs more often or at different places, it’d just be more half-ass, pass-the-time bullshit, and you know it. I’d rather give it our all”—I lift back down and up—“or just keep doing what I’m doing now. A one-man set has a chance at pulling off urban eccentricity. Two-man duo? Just looks like the band forgot to show up.” I do ten consecutive reps before saying any more. “Done.” I guide the bar to its bracket with his help and sit up. “Any decent musician we’d want to sign on should feel the same way. Go big, go home, or go broke.”

“Let’s do it then. Audition people and hit the road, balls out!”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “I’ll think about it.” I gather my gear, waving over my head on my way out. “Later.”

I don’t move the car, sitting in the parking lot with my forehead resting pathetically against the steering wheel. I thought this Rhett died, the “deep thinker,” the “old soul” who felt things and paid them prose to melody. But in one weekend, Reece awoke hibernating parts of me, didn’t want me, and didn’t even say good-bye. Liz got loved and Jarrett got screwed over. Now he’s talking about the band again, but some of my best songs are already sold. This version of myself I was sure was so well buried is clawing his way up and out of the grave—I need a shovel to ensconce the pansy-ass motherfucker down a little deeper this time.

I’ve got “In the Air Tonight” blaring, but even it can’t drown out his voice.

“Your son is ‘creating’ again, Margaret. Too flowery to be any son of mine. This is your doing, coddling him when he should’ve been taught how to be a man.”

Fuck you, Dad… any day, night, or second I choose, I can have my choice of pussy. Not rank, honky-tonk bottom-shelf-whiskey or stuffy, saving-herself-for-marriage debutante shit either. No, I have my pick of the perfectly manicured and prime, the mistresses of men who could buy any woman they wanted. The grade-A likes of which you’ve never even had a sniff, and it doesn’t cost me a damn thing—not even sweet talking, let alone a five-star dinner and “getaway weekends.”

Yeah, Pops, I’ve got your “man” hanging.

Hell yes, this is more like it—anger with a vengeance. I start the car I love, zero to sixty in under six seconds, three hundred horses powering the good vibrations humming through my body, and drive to the Goldsbury—my buffet.

Less than five determined, predatory steps inside, and it’s game time.

“Wanna play?” A hand snakes around my arm, the fingers and their talons searing their claim into my skin. They belong to none other than what I’m almost positive is “Jenny,” a frequent “guest” of Mr. Rotti, the highest roller of them all. CEO of Rotti Industries, a diversified conglomerate buying up every electronics company possible, the man donates some serious coin to Goldsbury at least once a month. He’s married with children older than Jenny; same song and dance as all the others.

“Sweetie, I just finished working out. Don’t have it in me.” Lie. I could bust out my fly with one stiff breeze.

I haven’t fucked anyone in… I don’t know in how long exactly, but it’s been more than a day—too long. But oddly, and quite disturbingly, now that an offer is right in front of me, I’m not feeling it. That usually happens during, when they say something that’s a total turn-off, or after, when they whine or get clingy and send my regret ratcheting. But never before. And isn’t this exactly what I came here for? Easy, willing ass?

“Thank you though, gorgeous.” I smile, letting her down gently, and pat her hand as I peel it from me. Picking up my pace to the exit, the bitter vengefulness I ambled in with loses steam.

Again, I sit in my car, staring out the windshield but seeing nothing. I have no idea why I just shot that girl down, highly flammable and a fire I’ve refused to hose down far too many times, but shoot her down I did. It’s undeniable—somehow I’ve wandered into a weird headspace I don’t like, a commotion of mystified confusion. Your mind is the trickiest, most deceitful bastard of any nemesis you have. If you don’t stay in control of that relationship every single second, it’ll drift in a direction of its own choosing and turn on you the first chance it gets.

I know when, and why, it happened. All that’s left is figuring out the “how to fix.” And there’s only one way to accomplish that. Enough pussy-footin’ around.

Grabbing the keys, I jump out, slam the door, and jog back inside. She’s in the vicinity I left her, on a quarter machine at the end of the row, sitting pretty.

“Twenty minutes, Sherwood Forest, sixth floor,” I snarl in her ear, guessing Thatch has the Forest unoccupied in case one of us needs it. If not, I’ll take the one he does; theme the least of my concerns.

Her head falls back on my shoulder, eyes closed. “Finally.” She moans, sliding her thighs back and forth as I rush to find Thatcher and grab the key card from him.

Fifty-two minutes later, I feel worse than I did before.

“Why not?” she sulks, hair askew, lips swollen, and the scent of her want still pungent in the room.

“Why not what?” I ask as I hurriedly get dressed.

“Why can’t we do it again? He won’t be looking for me yet.” She folds her arms, eyes squinted with venomous courage as she tries to wheedle an encore from me.

Every. Single. Time. Really, I should probably quit fucking them.

“I never go in twice, I told you that. You said you understood completely. Remember that part?” I recite mechanically. “Can you be cool about this?” I glance over my shoulder one last time. “I had a great time, and I’ll think about it often. Thank you.”

I barely get the door closed before something smashes against it; my guess is the lamp. I thought those things were bolted down?

As the plane taxis at LAX, I turn my phone back on. I have a couple of text messages from Landry; she misses me already—probably because we spent next to no time together—and a request to let her know when I land safely.

One voicemail from my father, droning on about how I’m being irresponsible and asking if I’m done with my selfish escapades yet—delete. I could call him right now and tell him I’m back in L.A., thus lowering his blood pressure, but I don’t.

And lastly, dousing any hope for at least a decent return home, I have four texts from Warrick.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-29