Razor's Edge (Afflictions) (4 page)

             
Four

Morgan

“We got a bead on a guitar player. Dude’s name is Tryst." I put down my phone and lean back on the couch in my sound room. We’ll take what we can get, and I hope this guy knows his shit. Emily Rhines is going to be here in an hour and we are still short a member
.

The excitement of her news overpowered every negative thought I had about our situation, and I forgot to tell her we kicked
Rictor out. Nerves wage war in my stomach. This can’t be happening, not when we are down in numbers. I can feel my chance slipping away, and I’m reaching with everything I have not to lose my grip.

"Hope the dude can play. Otherwise we’re screwed. When’s he trying out?" Wiley bangs his drums, stops and looks over at me. His knee bobs up and down. He’s nervous as hell.

"Fifteen minutes. I texted him my addy."

“Good shit.” Bryan crosses the room to Lina and looks over her shoulder. “
Whatcha working on, babe?”

They fall into a conversation on music and Wiley joins them. I’m not interested.

Emily Rhines
. Is she like my mom? Is she going to laugh at us? My heart speeds in my chest. No, she’s coming because she’s interested. My mom has no place here. I can hear her laughter with her friends and her screaming at me when we’re alone. My hands twitch remembering the feel of her ruler’s smack when I hit the wrong key on the piano.
Get the memories out of your mind before you fuck shit up for everyone.
Going through lyrics in my head, I try to calm down. It’s not working.

I stand. "Need to smoke."

Lina looks up from the sheet music they’re all staring at. "I think I could use a blunt."

She follows me up the stairs into my garage.

Bryan soon joins us. Can’t blame the guy. If Lina was my woman, I wouldn’t want her around any man alone, even one of my boys. Not after what happened last night.

I spark up the blunt, inhale and hold it, letting the THC get its groove on with my nervous system. As I slowly blow it out, the smoke curls and takes all my anxiety with it. I pass the blunt to Lina. Then I open the passenger side door of my Hummer, and plant my ass on the seat.

She’s parked on the workbench I never use. Inhaling deep, she holds it in then lets it out slowly. "So do you think this guy is any good?" She passes the blunt off to Bryan.

"He better be." Bryan leans against my metal locker that houses my pot supply. He tokes it and hands it to me.

I hit it then pass it to Lina.

"What if this guy Tryst and Emily show up at the same time?" Bryan has a delayed cough and when the blunt comes back to him, he shakes his head.

Toking the blunt, I shrug. "Don’t know. Guess we’ll—"

A big truck pulls up into my driveway. It sounds fucking badass. At least the guy is punctual. That’s a good sign. Now, if his talent is as great as his ability to get shit done, we’re golden.
No, platinum.
I smile, and I hit the garage door opener.

His truck’s got a six-inch lift with
Micky Thompson bogger tires.

"I wonder what he’s got under that hood." Bryan stares at it like a kid trying to hold in the question, “Daddy, can I ride the four-wheeler?” But that’s Bryan. Other than music, he’s a complete gear-head. "I bet it’s a 460 big
block."

I butt the blunt. "Nah, it’s a 351 Windsor." Bryan might know cars, but I know my trucks. "Care to bet on it?"

"If it’s a 460, you have to quit smoking pot for a week." Bryan grins.

That would kill me. It seriously would. Okay, maybe not literally, but my nerves would go into overdrive and I’d have a heart attack. But I know I’m right. "And if it’s a 351, you have to pay for the door you busted last night."

"Deal." Bryan shakes my hand and we both turn our heads when we hear the truck door slam.

Tryst comes around the front of the car and—
holy shit!
It’s the dude from last night—the amateur pot smoker and the sex angel’s friend. What the hell is he doing here? Okay, I know the answer to that. But...he plays the guitar?

His shaved head shines in the sun and as soon as he looks at me, he scowls at my butted blunt. Yeah, not sure how this shit is going to play out. If he goes all DARE on me, this
ain’t gonna work. Period. He hit my shit last night. I’ll pick up my damn guitar. Or Emily can find us a new player.

Bryan lets out a whistle and he circles the truck, staring at it like he’s about to jack Tryst’s ride. “That’s one badass monster. What’s under the hood?”

Tryst pulls a guitar case out of the truck’s bed. “460 big block.”

Fuck!

Bryan’s obnoxious laughter starts a fire in my gut.
Give up pot for a week?
He can’t be serious—we’ve got a gig on Friday.

“Hand it over, dude.” Bryan holds out his hand. “Your stash. I’ll take care of it.”

“You mean smoke it.”

He glares at me. “The pot,
Morg. Now.”

I look to Lina for help. It was just a silly bet.

She shrugs. “You did promise. A bet’s a bet. And you lost.”

Damn. What the hell am I
gonna do?
I’ve always been a man of my word. Not going to stop now. Reluctantly, I fish my stash out of my pocket. My heart beats so fast I swear it’s going to short out. My hand shakes a little as I pass it over to Bryan.

He pats my shoulder. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He has no freaking idea.

#####

Tryst sets up his guitar and I fill him in on what happened to the last member. He doesn’t eye-fuck Lina, so that’s a damned good sign. But his attitude toward my drug use, the mean-mugging he gave me, the “just say no” needs to go. The dude hit my shit last night and hypocrites have no place in my circle of smoke.

The clock on the wall suggests that Emily
Rhines will be here in less than half an hour. Not enough time for us to hear him and make a decision. If there is a God, Emily will get a flat tire or some shit like that.

Picking up the music sheet, I hand it to Tryst. It was the third song we played last night, the one that Emily heard, and the one where
Rictor had a hard time with skipping notes.

He takes it, studies it for a minute, and hands it back to me. "Don’t need that shit. I’ve heard you guys play that song before."

Nerves play basketball in my system. If this guy messes up the song and Emily walks in, she’ll probably walk right back out. If I make him keep the sheet, then it’s gonna look like he has a hard time memorizing the music. Only strumming home the fact that he messed up last night, even though he’s not the one who did. I should go upstairs and lock all my doors. Then she’ll have to knock instead of coming down like I told her to. But I might not hear her, and she’d probably leave.
Whatever.
"Try to keep up."

Heading to the center of the room, with the drums behind me, I give the signal.

Bryan’s bass and Wiley’s drums start off the song, followed by Tryst. His fingers dance across the strings, and every note is A-fucking-plus. The melodic sound of Lina’s keyboard enters the mix and I wait for the right time to belt out my lyrics.

There’s a reason why I chose this song. Most of the songs we do, I wait for the right repeat of the melody from the guitar. I have to be sure this guy can play it right. And there it is.

I scream into the mic and follow it, rapping the lyrics.

Tryst is doing a great job. He nails a complicated bridge, which is important for my transition into the chorus.

As he leads me in, I look over at him to give him some reassurance, but the dude is completely blank faced. No emotion. Just standing there, staring off into space and he’s not smiling. He may have talent and that’s all good, but his machine-like stage presence sucks big, fat, hairy ass.

The lyrics are flying out of my mouth and I try to ignore his “not really there” appearance. We go into the downbeat and he switches it up. It sounds way better than what
Rictor wrote. It helps Lina’s bass fit perfectly with my falsetto-like scream. I can’t tell if he’s improvising because he forgot the right chords or if he’s doing it purposely to impress us.

Looking at my band mates, I see the confusion in their eyes, but we all just go with it, and let him do his thing.

He switches back to what Rictor originally wrote, and leads me perfectly into the conclusion of the song. I give one final scream into the mic, and Wiley ends the song with a few solid beats. The room goes silent.

We’re all staring at the man who’s a hell of lot better than
Rictor. They say that things happen for a reason, and I’m beginning to put more stock in that phrase.

He sighs and looks up. "Sorry I changed it up a bit, but I think it sounds way better if you invert it."

"Oh, I like him." Lina gets a dirty look from Bryan. She laughs. "Not like that. His talent fits with ours. Just sayin’."

"Better than
Rictor." Wiley hits his snare and laughs. "He’s got my vote."

"Yeah, he’s got the talent." Bryan looks at Tryst. "But dude, your stage presence sucks. It’s too robotic. Not sure you’re
gonna generate fans looking the way you do. You need to move around some. Get the audience pumped and keep them there. You need to bob up and down or something."

Tryst gives him a blank stare, like he couldn’t care less about what Bryan said. I’ve seen my ten-year-old niece give my brother Logan this same expression when he’s lecturing her.

Bryan’s jealousy is all over that comment. He’s pissed by Lina’s reaction to Tryst. Which strikes a huge chord with me. If they can’t get along, this shit isn’t gonna work. If this guy is going to cause problems like Rictor did, I don’t want him in the band. I’d rather have a happy band than be signed and have it fall apart in the first few weeks. Maybe I can spin it. Emily did say Rictor was off. I could tell her we kicked him out and are looking for a new one. Hell, she might even know of one. Producers do that type of shit all the time. What the hell was I thinking trying to pass Tryst off for Rictor?

"Thing is...you’re our first audition and we—"

"No sweat." He stands. "I just needed a reason to get out of letting an eight year old tatt me up." He walks over to the wall and unplugs his cord from the amp.

Bryan’s eyebrows shoot upward. "Why would you let an eight year old tattoo you?"

Tryst pauses and looks back at him. "Because he’s my cousin’s kid and she’s my boss. He’s a pretty good artist. I just don’t have the patience to hold his hand while he uses the gun. They’re heavy, so he needs help, and the drawing he wanted to do..." He shakes his head. "Way too girly."

Bryan nods at Tryst. “You got my vote.” Bryan reaches into his pocket. “But I think you’re the one who needs this." He chucks my eighth at Tryst and he catches it midair. "You need to loosen up a lot if you’re serious about joining."

"Um..." He looks down at it and scrunches his nose. "If you ever meet my cuz, I don’t smoke this shit. She really hates drug use."

Maybe the dude’s cool after all. Still pissed about my pot though. What the hell am I going to do without it? Just watching Tryst handle the bag of my green has me itching to spark up.
I’m a man of my word.
The mantra isn’t working. My high from earlier is gone. All my body wants to do is get blitzed.

"Oh." Lina jumps up and down. "I just got a great idea. If Emily does sign us, we all should get our band’s logo tatted on us!
Ya know, to celebrate?"

All of them agree, and what can I do? They outnumber me. I nod my head. "Okay, then we all agree. Tryst is the new guitar player?”

Wiley does a drum roll then hits a cymbal. “He’s in.”

Lina nods. “Hell yeah he is.”

Bryan rolls his eyes and shrugs.

Excellent!
“Let’s go through that last song again. I want to be playing when Emily gets here and I don’t want any fuck ups."

             
Five

Shay

The door slams. Another one of Tryst’s clients just walked out. He was supposed to be back by five and it’s almost eleven. He’s costing me money. This is so unlike him. He never misses his appointments, never takes advantage of the fact that he’s my cousin and he hasn’t been answering his phone. You’d think the guy would at least call me and let me know what’s up. I tried calling him but his phone’s off. Did he get in the band or not? 

Turning away from the clock, I click back into my financial report. My numbers are down.
This day just keeps getting better and better.

"Does it hurt?" Ben asks Heather for the millionth time.

She nods and grits her teeth. Her entire body is tense as she lays on the chair under Bebe’s gun.

Normally Ben’s already in bed, but Nancy, his babysitter, called off, and I was forced to let Ben come to work with me. With my appointments I haven’t had the time to tuck him in. But since Tryst’s client decided she’d reschedule, now I can. "Ben, why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in."

I glance back at the numbers that are laughing at me.
I’m never going to open a shop in a decent neighborhood at this rate.

"But I want to see the
tatt when Aunt Bebe finishes." He comes over to where I’m sitting and yawns. 

"Tell you what. You go upstairs and get ready for bed
and I’ll let you stay up half an hour after your bedtime tomorrow. Deal?"

"Yes!" His eyes go bright then he takes off through the beads that lead into the back of my shop.

"How in the hell do you get him out of bed so early on Sundays? Staying up late always makes me grouchy." Bebe wipes away the blood and ink from Heather’s calf and glances at me.

"More like makes you a bee-
yatch."

She arches a brow at me then goes back to inking Heather's calf. "I
just don’t understand how an eight year old can get so excited about going to the Laundromat."

"That’s easy." I hit print and lean back to wait for the computer to spit out my financial report. "He loves to play the arcade games before it gets busy.” Sundays are always jam-packed there, and Mondays aren’t any better. The earlier I go, the better. I really should see about getting a washer and dryer. Can’t afford it, though—not if I want to reach my goal.

Bebe half-laughs, wipes and sprays Heather’s calf with antibacterial solution, then begins dressing her tatt.

I grab the financial report and head toward the stairs to my loft. "Watch the front. I’ll be down in a half hour."

Climbing the stairs to my loft, the sound of water running filters down the small staircase. Ben’s brushing his teeth. I smile and enter. My loft is huge with big floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything is open, the kitchen and dining room lead into the large living room slash bedroom. Ben’s bed is in the far corner and mine is in the opposite with curtains around it. The only room in here is the bathroom, which Gary put in. It was supposed to be an apology for cheating on me, and a gift since he found out I was pregnant with Ben. I should have run then. 

My kitchen is off to the left and I head there first. The money and the report have to go in the safe. I open up the cabinet under my sink and stuff them in there.

The water cuts off and Ben comes barreling out of the bathroom in his black-and-white skull PJs.

"What story are you going to read to me tonight?" I always have him read the stories. It’s better practice and for a minute there his grades were lacking in that department.

Ben walks over to his bookshelf and pulls out
Where the Wild Things Are.
Good choice and it’s a fast read. I tuck him in and we say his prayers. Then I climb in bed and snuggle him as he reads the story of a wild little boy named Max. I lean down and kiss the top of his black, curly head. Mm…watermelon. I love the smell of his kid shampoo. When he closes the book he looks up at me with innocent blue eyes. I’m a sucker for blue eyes.

"Mom, why doesn’t Dad write to me? He doesn’t love me, does he?"

My heart stops. My eyes burn and start to water. I hold the tears in not wanting Ben to see me cry. He needs to know that I'm strong, even if I'm not. It sounds like an innocent enough question, but how can I answer that without upsetting him?
Lie
. "Your father loves you very much."

"No, he doesn’t." It’s a harsh comment, and the reality of it sucks. "He never writes to me, and if he loved me he wouldn’t have went away."

I hug him to me and kiss his head, only to hide the tears that threaten to come, secretly cursing his father and myself for putting him in this position.
Should’ve never hooked up with that evil bastard.
But then I wouldn’t have Ben, and I can’t imagine my life without him.

"He went away because he loves you so much." Filling his head with these lies hurts, but he’s not old enough to understand. "He has to get things in order so he can give you the best life possible."

"Davon said that his dad knows mine, and that Dad gives him tatts in prison. But only bad people go to prison, Mom. What did he do?"

That’s one question I have no clue how to answer. I
never told Ben where his father is, only that he was away. Now I want to throttle Davon. "How about you read me another story?"

“Why won’t you tell me? I’m eight—I can handle it. Did he kill someone?”

“No.” Only almost killed me. That’s not why he’s in prison, though. I never told the cops who my attacker was—claimed I didn’t remember. If Gary got off from the drug charge, I didn’t want him hiring someone to knock me off for going to the cops and saying he beat me. “He did some things that were a little illegal.” And that’s all I’m saying.

Ben eyes me for a minute like he’s going to ask more.

I shake my head. “That’s all you’re getting out of me, and it’s way past your bedtime.”

He yawns and snuggles further down into me. I grab the tale of
Little Red Riding Hood
off his nightstand and hand it to him. He begins to read me the story. But my mind wanders back to the time when Ben was three weeks old. I was exhausted, and asked Gary if he would feed him for me so I could get some sleep.

If you didn’t want a kid, you
shoulda kept your legs closed.
Gary’s words burned deep, leaving a scar on my soul. My head keeps telling me that it wouldn’t have happened without him, that his harsh comment holds no meaning. That I wasn’t some slut he knocked up.
Dammit.
Silent tears.

When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t bring myself to get an abortion. Gary was pissed. He slept with Paula a few nights later. And I kept believing the lies, him promising he would change. Once he was convicted, I was put under close scrutiny by the courts. I had social workers all over my case and I had to prove I was fit to keep my son.
Never again
. I will never take Gary back and let him destroy our lives as he’s such an expert at doing.

Ben's snoring. Carefully extracting myself, I leave the bed and gently take the book from his loose hold. I brush aside a stray black curl and kiss the top of his head. My little
Duders. His father might not love him, but I can't imagine my life without him. Everything I'm doing now is for him. Moving him to a better neighborhood is at the top of my priority list. I sigh, then head to the bathroom to fix some of the mascara that’s streaked down my face. I need to invest in waterproof.

After touching up my makeup, I head to my front door. Taking a deep breath, I cut the lights. The only glow is the dim light from Ben’s night-light. I step out into the hall and lock up my loft. A wild commotion comes from downstairs. It sounds like we have some business and my somber mood brightens a little. They won’t wake Ben because I soundproofed the floor with padding when he was a baby. Living with Gary and his crazy biker parties, I made that a first priority when I brought Ben home from the hospital.

The commotion grows louder the further I go down the small staircase. Tryst’s gravel voice is the loudest of all. He doesn’t sound angry, and I think this is the first time in a long while I’ve heard his booming laugh.

"Tryst, what the–" I stop dead in my tracks. My heart races and my stomach flips. Piercing ice-blue eyes bore into mine.
Morgan.

Morgan

Shay.
Up close she’s even more gorgeous than I remember. Her plump lips are perfect for her pixie-like face. The sea green of her eyes is indescribably beautiful, pulling me into their depths like a riptide. Damn, this hallway’s too small. I can’t move. I didn’t mean to cut her off, but I really have to take a piss.

Say something, jackass.
Why have I suddenly become shy? I may have stage fright often enough, but in front of the opposite sex I usually can find my voice box and not look like a nitwit. My high wore off an hour before we came here, and because of the damn bet I can’t spark up. I try to remember all the Mary Jane–infused smooth lines I’ve successfully delivered to women in the past, but I’m coming up blank.

My eyes work as if someone else is guiding them. They drift over the outfit she’s wearing that accommodates her tight, well-toned body. The black silk tank that glitters in the light and pronounces her perfect breasts. My eyes wander down to her perfectly shaped hourglass hips. She’s wearing tight black skinny jeans and black high heels that make her legs go on forever. Damn, she’s sexy as hell.

My urge to pee is gone because my dick wants to do something entirely different.

"
Yo." Her sharp voice brings my eyes back up to her face. "That’s right, buddy. When you meet someone, the eyes are a good place to start.
Not
the boobs."

Shit
! My cheeks start to heat.
Ah, fuck, I’m blushing.
She turned me back into that geeky fourteen-year-old boy who used to receive wedgies and swirlies on a daily basis, the computer nerd all the good-looking girls shied away from.

"Bathroom?” I squeak then cough to cover it. "Where is it?"

She leans against the wall, and her eyes study me for a second. "You’re not going to shoot up, are you?"

What?

She shoves off the wall and points her finger in my face. "Because if you
are,
I’ll have you arrested."

Where the hell is all this coming from?
Looking down at myself, I wonder why she thinks I’m some kind of junkie. I’m slightly offended, but at the same time confused by her blunt assumption. "I don’t use hard drugs."

"Good to know." She pats my shoulder.

A slight zap races down my arm and flips my heart.

She gasps. Her beautiful eyes go wide. Too quickly,
she removes her hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are rosy and I can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or if she genuinely likes me.

She points down the short hall to a door. "Next to the stairs. If it’s a number two, we’re out of TP. You’ll just have to hold it, or find somewhere else to let your bomb loose."

As I feel my cheeks heat again. I quickly turn and head down the hall. The urge to look back at her tries to whip my head around, but the knowledge that my mortification is probably a bright neon sign on my face keeps me in check.

I enter the small half bathroom and lean up against the door.
That chick is crazy blunt.
Like she doesn’t care about what people think of her. The only other woman I know who is like that is Lina, and even she isn’t that direct. I don’t know if I’m pissed or turned on. That’s a damn first for me.

My hand goes to my fly as I walk over to relieve myself.

Why does she think I’m a drug addict?
I’m not skinny by any means, and I sure as hell don’t have tracks on my arm. I might listen to Guns N Roses’ “Mr. Brownstone,” but I’ve never danced that dance with the devil. I never will.

Long-dead memories of my dad resurrect in my brain, flashes of the night I found him naked and cold, dead on the toilet with a loose band around his arm and a used needle on the floor. My little brother Logan screaming and me trying to hold him back so I could close the bathroom door. It was too soon to lose him. I was only ten and Logan five.

I remember screaming for my mother, but she was passed out on the couch, the fifth of vodka almost completely empty in her hand. She was no help to me, and calming Logan while trying to call nine-one-one was a very difficult task.

Forcing the memory that bites like acid into my soul out of my head is not easy. Going through lyrics in my mind
does nothing to erase the vision.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"You lose your dick in there, man?"

It’s Bryan. How long have I been in here stuck in the nightmares of my past? "Be out in a sec." My bladder just doesn’t want to quit. I force it to, give my dick a shake and put it away.

"Hurry up, dude. I gotta go."

I quickly wash my hands and run them over my face. Shit. Maybe that’s why she thinks I’m a druggie. My eyes are blood shot and I have dark circles under them like I haven’t slept in years. I stayed up way too late last night and woke up way too early this morning.