COMING
FRIDAY
7
PM PST.
N.N. BRITT
AUTHOR
OF:
They
say first love doesn’t last. Alana’s ends on the night her boyfriend Dakota
dies in a deadly shooting at a Portland club.
In
an attempt to look for ways to deal with her grief, Alana reaches out to
Dakota’s older brother Mikah, who’s struggling with moving on himself.
Both
damaged beyond repair, neither Alana or Mikah know how to cope with their loss.
What’s worse, they have zero ideas how to handle the unexpected feelings they
start developing for each other.
My teeth are chattering by the time I walk
behind the building. Running outside without my coat in the middle of February
isn’t one of my best ideas, but the truth is, I’m so numb, I can barely feel
anything.
Mikah’s sitting on the edge of a massive
concrete flower bed. It must have looked cozy and colorful during the summer,
but right now, the soil is desiccated and covered with a blanket of dirty snow.
The gloomy, ominous clouds hang low above our
heads, threatening yet another blizzard. This winter has been one of the
longest and darkest I’ve ever seen, and I catch myself thinking that I
desperately want it to end. Even if it would wipe out all the good memories. I
just want to stop feeling broken.
Mikah’s turned with his back to me, cigarette
smoke floating around him like a halo.
The snow crunches under the weight of my suede
shoes as I try to step quietly over to the flower bed, my hands clutched in
front of me, my heart rate kicking up. There are thousands of words in my head,
but none of them seem to be appropriate.
“Are you just gonna stand there?” Mikah rasps
out after a while without looking at me. He brushes the traces of tears from
his cheeks, tosses the last of his cigarette on the ground, and draws another
from the pack that’s sitting right next to him on the cement block.
“Can I have one?” I ask, blurting out the
first thing that comes to mind.
“Since when do you smoke?” He chuckles,
shifting to face me. His green eyes, still glistening from the tears, search
mine.
“Since now.” I shrug, shuffling my feet. My
toes are completely frozen and my body has reached a point where moving only
makes it more painful, but if someone decides to shoot at us, at least there’s
plenty of room to run. There are no walls and no missing exit signs.
Mikah rises to his feet and closes the space
between us in three strides. “Here.” He takes off his suit jacket, puts it over
my shoulders, and hands me his cigarette. When his gaze catches mine, we stand
motionless for a few moments, staring at each other, each of us probably
wondering if the things we’re feeling are any different. A strange type of
connection exists when two people are grieving over the death of the same
person. It’s frightening and nerve-racking, yet it’s like we have this
invisible bond and understand each other without the need to speak.
I’ve never smoked in my life and I have no
idea how to hold a cigarette and look natural, so I grab it across the middle
with my thumb and my index finger, wondering which end goes into my mouth.
Although I just saw Mikah smoking, my brain has completely lost it.
“The other way,” he says, stepping back to get
another one for himself.
“Okay,” I mumble under my breath. I stick it
between my lips but immediately remove it when the unpleasant taste of tobacco
on my tongue causes my stomach to churn. My injured palm stings with the
movement, but I try not to think about the pain.
“You dated a dude who was in a fucking rock
band and he didn’t teach you how to smoke, church girl?” Mikah rolls his eyes
and flicks his lighter in front of my face.
Bringing the cigarette toward my mouth again,
I pause. “He doesn’t…” I trip over my words. “Didn’t smoke.” My heart feels
heavy and swollen. All the little things about Dakota start to crowd my
mind—the food he liked, the TV shows he watched, the bands he grew up listening
to. It’s terrifying to realize how much a person can integrate himself into
your life in such a short period of time.
“Right.” Mikah nods, averting his gaze. “It
was a joke. You were supposed to laugh.”
“Oh… Sorry.”
Laugh? He wants me to laugh at Dakota’s
funeral?
The air between us shifts again and we’re back
to being distant and awkward.
I stare at the cigarette in my fingers while
Mikah lights his. He inhales sharply, waits a few seconds, and then blows the
smoke out through his mouth and nose, most of it hanging around me like a toxic
veil.
“Isn’t smoking bad for your voice?” I ask,
studying his features. There’s a tiny dimple on his left cheek and his eyes are
big and wide, slightly slanted, like Dakota’s. They normally have a hint of
playfulness in them, but not today. Today they’re miserable, with dark blue
circles beneath them. It’s as heartbreaking as it is fascinating to see so much
of Dakota in Mikah, and it makes something inside me twinge and burn.
“Kinda.” He gives me a one-shoulder shrug.
“Not like I’m doing a lot of vocals, anyway. It’s just backup. No one cares
what I sound like.”
“I do,” I say breathlessly, for lack of a
better response. There are other questions lingering on the tip of my
tongue—not ones to ask today or tomorrow, but they’re there.
Does this mean the band is over now that
there’s no singer?
Mikah brings his lighter toward me, so I place
the cigarette between my lips again and he curls his hands around the end,
lighting it carefully. “Just breathe in,” he instructs. “And try not to burn
yourself, all right?”
“All right.” I gingerly hold it between my
index and middle fingers since that seems to be the least painful position, and
then I inhale. The thick smoke coats the inside of my mouth. It tastes bitter
and clogs my throat.
“Take it into your lungs,” Mikah says,
slipping the lighter into the pocket of his slacks.
I start hacking and my chest feels like
someone forced a bucket of ash into it. I have to pluck the cigarette out of my
mouth before it drops to the ground.
Mikah shakes his head, amusement flickering in
his eyes.
“How the hell do you get addicted to this?” I
force through the cough.
“You get used to it.” He snickers. His face
lights up for a brief moment and the corners of his lips curl, which makes me
feel somewhat content because, in a way, I just made him smile.
We stand motionless, facing each other, with
our noses and cheeks red from the cold. He smokes slowly and elegantly while
I’m choking and wheezing until a new set of voices drift toward us from around
the corner. I don’t bother hiding the cigarette, because it seems silly. After
surviving a bullet rain, I reserve the right to have whatever bad habit my
heart desires, and no one’s going to stop me from trying things.
Not even my father.
“Hey, you two,” Luke mutters, maneuvering his
wheelchair around the piles of snow. Blaze follows him like a shadow, his face
blank.
It’s strange to see them wearing suits instead
of their usual denim and leather, especially Luke. Right now, I’m missing his
ill-fitting pants.
“You mind if we join the party?” His eyes
shift between Mikah and me as if he needs our permission.
“Nah, man.” Mikah tosses what’s left of his
cigarette on the ground. “Knock yourself out.”
“Is Jess inside?” I ask, dropping my cigarette
as well. We haven’t spoken since The Crystal Room, which is weird because we
usually talk every day.
“Yep.” Luke draws a brand new bottle of Jack
Daniels from the folds of his coat.
We form a small, quiet circle and stand like
that for a few minutes, staring at the dirty snow beneath our feet.
“Fuck, man.” Luke runs his palm over his face.
“Fucking DK, man. I’m going to miss him.” His voice cracks and I can hear him
fighting a sob.
Mikah nods, drawing another cigarette from his
pack. His gaze darts to me, but I wave it off because my mouth still tastes
like an ashtray.
“Let me have one too?” Luke requests.
They smoke in silence while Blaze works on
opening the bottle of Jack. He tosses the cap aside and says, “To DK. May he
rest in peace.”
“Yeah, man. Rest in peace,” Luke adds with his
cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Blaze drinks straight from the bottle and
offers it to Mikah next.
The dark clouds drifting above our heads have
grown bigger and heavier, and the sky now looks angry. A gust of cold air
circles around me like a twister and bites the cuts on my cheek.
My gaze follows the bottle of Jack and lingers
on Mikah’s lips wrapped around the rim. He tips it up and takes a few swigs,
his Adam’s apple rolling up and down under his olive skin.
“You okay, Alana?” Luke calls to me, eyeing
the bandages on my hands.
“Yeah,” I breathe out.
Truth is, I don’t know what I am right now.
Half of me is numb and half of me is hurting while my brain tries to get used
to the idea of Dakota being dead. It feels almost as if the last three months
of my life were borrowed from some epic romance novel, and then the writer
decided to go all Shakespeare on me and took my boyfriend away.
“You need anything, you let me know, right?”
Luke motions to the space between us.
“Okay. Thanks,” I tell him.
Mikah tears the bottle away from his lips and
wipes the liquor dripping from the corner of his mouth with the back of his
hand. His eyes seek mine and he offers me the Jack.
I’m too cold to move.
“It won’t kill ya.” Blaze sniffs, giving me
the side-eye. His tone is low and bitter. Something tells me he’d rather not
have me around right now.
I grab the bottle with both hands and bring it
to my mouth; my gaze is trained on Mikah because out of everyone present, he
seems to be the least intimidating. The liquor burns my throat and I seriously
think about eating some snow, but the idea stays in my head. Instead, I drink
some more and then give the bottle to Luke.
“Atta girl.” Blaze chuckles. “I knew you had
it in you, Cupcake Queen.”
A small part of me wonders whether this has
been my nickname for a while or he just came up with it, but most of me is
frozen from the cold and wants to crawl into my bed and never leave it.
“Aren’t you on antibiotics?” Mikah asks Luke.
“Fuck the antibiotics.”
There’s a long pause. The Jack makes another
trip around our circle, and by the time it reaches me, there’s almost nothing
left. I end up drinking the last of it.
“Finished?” Blaze checks the bottle.
“Yeah.” I clamp my lips together.
“Make a wish then, Cupcake Queen.”
“Okay.” I nod, my head starting to feel really
fuzzy. “I think I’m drunk.”
“You’re all right. Let’s go,” Mikah says.
“You’re going to freeze to death.”
I give the empty bottle to Blaze and follow
Dakota’s brother back inside. It’s only when we reach the lobby that I realize
I forgot about my wish.
She
is a grieving mother. He is a spoiled rock idol. The only thing they have in
common is a flashy tabloid headline. Or so they think.
Running
away from her tragedies and the demise of her marriage, Hazel Alexander retreats
to a friend’s Lake Tahoe cabin with big plans to drown her memories in bottles
of wine. Being dragged into someone else’s messy, high-profile divorce is not
what she needs.
Especially
if that someone else is Justice Cross, the frontman of the popular rock band
The Deviant.
Born into a family of rock royalty, Justice lives his life fast and easy. When he comes across Hazel while at a local bar, his gallant attempt to get her home safely takes a complicated turn.
A PR nightmare forcing Justice and Hazel to spend time together triggers unexpected and intense feelings between the two.
With
the constant attention of fans, haters, and press, now it’s up to Hazel and
Justice whether they want to fight for their relationship or end it once and
for all.
Justice
Fame can
be a two-faced bitch. More often so lately than back when I was in my twenties.
Running
my palm over my scruffy cheek, I drink in the crowd packing The Black Lagoon. I
don’t hate shaving per se, but I do hate the fact that I have to do it
religiously day after day when I’m on tour.
Ditching
the ritual for a few weeks feels good. Makes me feel…more human.
"Back
to the studio in January?" Tony, one of the bouncers working for Marvin,
grins at me from his spot across the table, then shoves a handful of onion
rings in his mouth.
Marvin,
the owner of the joint, went all out when I told him I was going to stop by to
see my nephew, Jake’s, band. He called in extra security and loaded our table
with every item on his menu. Not that it’s that big of a menu. The Black Lagoon
is no Spago. Either way, I don’t have much of an appetite. I’m still on
European time.
"You
know what they say. No rest for the wicked." I nod, watching Jake talk to
his bandmates. Reminds me of my own first show here. Back when I somewhat
worshipped my famous jerk of an uncle, Elijah, when his opinion about my music
mattered to me, when my best friend, Chance, was still clean and sober. When we
were merely a couple of local guys full of dreams, ready to kick ass, ready to
rock ’n' roll. We had no clue our first EP would blow up the Billboard charts a
few years later. We just wanted to play music. Dirty, loud, and unapologetic
music.
"You
need a break, man," Tony says, shaking his head.
Tonight
he’s undercover, sporting a blue Dodgers jersey, jeans, and a pair of sneakers.
TMZ
rarely stalks me all the way to Tahoe, but since a leaked copy of my divorce
papers is the hottest Twitter trend at the moment, having extra security by my
side can never hurt.
At the
start of my career when I changed my last name, my publicist hired a few
computer wizzes to clean up my presence on the net. The things money can buy.
Elijah isn’t listed as my uncle anywhere. Not on my Wikipedia page, not in any
of the fan clubs or socials. Press isn’t allowed to ask about my relation to
the infamous Hale. Fuck that asshole and fuck The Gates of Hale legacy. I made
it okay on my own.
"It’s
time to write another album, brother," I say, watching the crowd.
It’s not
that I disagree with Tony—after over a decade of nonstop touring, I could
definitely use some rest. But the short breaks we’ve taken in between have
always been deliberate, always coinciding with our longing to be back in the studio.
It’s become as routine as brushing our teeth. The question is whether we need
another album right now. We’ve got six of them. All platinum.
Ready to
turn my thoughts elsewhere, I take a sip of my beer that I’ve been nursing for
almost ten minutes. Alcohol doesn’t have the same hold on me that it does on my
soon-to-be ex-wife. Nikki has been to rehab more times than she’s done the red
carpet. I consumed my fair share of booze and drugs in my twenties, but a sense
of self-preservation kicked in after my first and only overdose. A wake-up call
like never before. After that, the desire to keep getting fucked up dulled down
on its own. I can still have a drink or two and be able to stop if needed,
which makes me think that maybe I was never into that shit in the first place.
Everyone in the band was doing it because it was cool because that’s what a
bunch of dudes with tons of cash coming in do when they’re on tour.
Play a
show. Get fucked up. Bone some chicks. Pass out. Wake up. Repeat. Week after
week. Year after year.
Until
someone slips.
Chance
was the one who slipped.
Tony’s
voice pulls me out of my reverie. "You’ve been on the road for two years
now."
"I’ll
rest when I die," I mutter, relaxing on my bench.
The
booths weren’t here eighteen years ago. Marvin’s remodeled since then. The
Black Lagoon isn’t simply a dive bar now, it’s a dive bar with class where rich
assholes like me can hide out in so-called VIP sections. I laugh internally at
Marvin’s idea of VIP. It’s just a fucking booth. And despite my pleas to not
bring attention to my spot, he still put two extra bouncers nearby…in case
anyone wants an autograph.
Pulling
the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I close my eyes and inhale the sharp
smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat—the smell of live music. People
are fools for thinking being in a rock band is glamorous. It’s anything but.
The only glamorous thing about The Deviant is the posters. We’re bad
motherfuckers in full gear, with our war paint and our stage costumes. Women all
around the globe, and I suspect men too, want to lick us from head to toe. Sex
appeal sells. And we’re going to keep selling it for as long as we can.
The first
sounds of music blast through the bar like a merciless tornado. I can hear
every mistake the mixing board guy is making, but I don’t think this crowd can
tell the difference. They don’t know what a good sound engineer can do in a
place this small if they haven’t worked with mine.
Jake has
always been into more aggressive music. He’s breathed Metallica since he was a
toddler. If he wants to scream his guts out on stage, it’s his call.
My eyes
drift open when the first song comes to an end and I take in the sight of the
raging mass. They seem to enjoy the music. I do too. I like the rawness of the
sound.
Tony
moves his head to the beat. "Jake is killing it."
I agree.
The
thought of posting a short video on my Instagram crosses my mind, but deep
down, I know this can lead to a potential disaster. Any other time of the year,
sure. But not right now. Not three days into my vacation. This tour cycle has
been brutal. The only human interaction I can bear tonight is with Tony and
Jake.
I film a
few segments with my phone and send them over to May.
She texts
me back before I finish typing my note explaining that it’s Jake’s band.
May: What’s
this?
Justice: My
nephew’s band.
May: Are you
in Tahoe?
Justice: Yes.
Post this on my Instagram in two hours.
May: Why are
you in Tahoe in the middle of the divorce clusterfuck?
Justice: Your
point?
May: The press
is crucifying you.
Of
course, TMZ got their hands on the divorce papers before my soon-to-be ex-wife
was served.
Justice: Tell
me something I don’t know.
May: This?
https://www.tmz.com/2017/1/2017/nikki-deville-says-hubby-justice-cross-has-a-short-fuse/
I clench
my jaw and click on the link I receive from May. Blood starts pounding behind
my ears as my eyes sweep over the text. Fucking Nikki. She’s always been a
drama queen, but calling me violent is a new low. I swallow hard and shove my
phone into the pocket of my jacket. How the hell did the two of us stay married
for seven years?
Lesson
learned, Justice. Don’t ever date an actress!
Rapture is also available on audio [Whispersynced]
N.N. Britt is a Los Angeles-based music
journalist and photographer. Her photos have graced t-shirts, billboards, and
CD covers. She pens realistic, thought-provoking novels about today's world of
art and music and the flawed people who live in it. When she's not writing or
drinking coffee, she's probably reading or attending a heavy metal show.
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