Beats (6 page)

“Forget it. I won’t sell my soul to you, Rax.”
No matter how I feel about
him
.

“You’re so fucking noble, Jinx. It makes me want to ruin you even more.” He tosses out a dramatic sigh, walks away, then pauses. “The offer stands. Indefinitely. Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it. The answer is no.”

He shrugs and ambles in the direction of the bus.

The answer is
not
no. If the wetness in my underwear is any indication, the answer is definitely maybe.

Step Three:
Ignore the Whore

February 17 – Houston, Texas

Taking Letty’s advice for part three of her twelve-step program, “Ignore the Whore,” I avoid my bandmates as much as possible for the next few days while we’re off. Toombs maintains a steady stream of apathy while I’m around (maybe he got wind of Letty’s advice too). Rax lays off the come-ons, but he still has eyes for me—even more so than before. I catch him staring almost every time I glance his way.

As far as I know, neither he nor Toombs has brought any groupies back to the bus since our little chat in the woods. This doesn’t bode well. When Rax was pining for Lola the stripper, he went through a couple of weeks of apparent depression. He didn’t talk to anyone and isolated himself on the bus. No girls, not even much socializing with Toombs. Lots of liquor, though.

I’m seeing a similar pattern here. It bugs me.

Especially since I keep dreaming about him and Toombs. Doing me. Together.

Part of me wishes I could turn off these vivid dreams—or at least edit out Rax from the very erotic, naughty play-by-play—but the sick and twisted part wants to see them come to life. Rax included.

What the hell is wrong with me? I have no idea what’s going on in my head, but it’s torture.

I can’t stop thinking about Rax’s offer.

I wander to the back of the bus where everyone’s sitting around, and I avoid Rax’s gaze.

“So, Houston tonight,” Jillian says. “Beaumont tomorrow. Then we hit Louisiana: Lake Charles, Lafayette, Baton Rouge, and we end the tour in New Orleans.”

“Yeah, baby.” Letty high-fives Shades.

“You gonna be ready to record in a couple weeks?” Jillian pointedly lifts her brow at me.

“Hell yes.” Rax downs the remainder of his beer. “Toombs and I have been working on a new riff for ‘Bring It Back.’”

“I look forward to hearing it,” Jillian replies. “Jinx, you want me to see if I can get you into tonight’s venue a little early so you can work on some songs?”

I swallow and shake my head. I’ve still got nothing. “I’m good.”

“You sure? You’ve barely practiced anything new, and what little I’ve heard has been mediocre at best.”

All heads shift in unison, and five questioning stares crash-land into me. The impact is painful. Wow, way to call me out in front of everyone, Jillian. “I’ll be ready when we hit New Orleans.”

God, I am in so much trouble.

Jillian huffs. “Okay.” She doesn’t buy my bullshit for a minute. She stands and pulls out a cigarette from her fancy case. “I’m going for a smoke.”

The tension is palpable as Jillian exits the bus. None of them believe in me.

I rub my eyes and get to my feet.

“Where you going?” Letty asks.

“For a walk. Alone.” I grab my sticks on my way out the door and tap out a harsh rhythm on my thighs to keep from exploding.

I have no clue what to do. I’ve been racking my brain for days, searching for abandoned beats that want nothing to do with me. Not only do I feel shunned by Toombs, but my own creativity—my spark, my
me
—has packed up and left for happier trails elsewhere. It’s nothing but tumbleweeds and cactuses in my head.

In a word, I’m fucked.

If I’m going to bail on these guys, I need to do it soon so they can plan the new album without me. It wouldn’t be fair to drop an “I’m outta here” bomb on Toombs at the last minute. He’s the one who’ll have to replace me if I go. The rest of them will only have minor adjustments to make.

Aside from my work-related stress and sexual frustration, Mikey’s been occupying an entire city block of my mind’s real estate. Mom and Dad have always struggled with how to deal with him. If my parents have to nix the piano lessons, he’ll be content to retreat into his own headspace and disappear from reality. I may be the only one who’ll be able to reach him. He and I
get
each other.

Which means I really need to be at home. I don’t have any extra cash to contribute to Mikey’s lessons, but I’m certain I can find a job in Athens. I have a friend who manages a music shop downtown. He can totally get me in there. It won’t pay much, but it’ll be about the same as I’m making on tour when you figure in all the travel expenses.

But the thought of leaving Letty and—God forbid, Toombs—makes me choke up. I pause my paces and look down at my hands. Frustration with myself and my situation brings the sticks down hard on my thighs. I beat out an anger-fueled drum rage.

“Don’t hurt yourself. You need those legs in good shape for the gig tonight.”

A shockwave of tremors terrorizes me. Lifting my head, I stop my violent strokes. I can’t face Toombs. I’d run away, but it’s not like there’s anywhere I can disappear to. My fingers tighten around the sticks as the throb in my thighs wanes.

Slow footsteps behind me suggest he’s coming my way. I can’t imagine he’s interested in a face-to-face any more than I am, tainted by this dark cloud of shame hanging over my head.

He stops a few feet away. Frozen for a solid thirty seconds, I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t. His stare bears down on me, those metallic eyes unnerving. A simple glance knocks my defenses out of whack and leaves me a stuttering mess of garbled words.

As hot as Rax is, he’s got
nothing
on Toombs. I want to
know
Toombs. I want to absorb him. I want to become a
part
of him. Rax? I’ve come to the sad but honest conclusion that I’m only interested in what he can do for me sexually. Beyond that, I couldn’t care less about him.

“Rax wants to fuck you.”

My jaw drops, and a whimper darts through the opening. I snap my mouth shut to calm the ensuing trembling. Gaze latched on to Toombs’s rough, tattooed hands at his sides, I mumble, “Yeah.” Because I’m an idiot and can’t think of a single thing to say at the moment.

“You’re not interested.” His body hasn’t moved an inch.

I shake my head. “No.”
Not in him.

“Then, you’re not interested in me, either.”

I look up and regret it. His quicksilver eyes target mine, pointing, accusing, yet detached like Mikey’s.

“We come together. It’s all or nothing with us.” Toombs’s harsh expression softens by a hair.

A million questions flood my mind, but I only ask one. My audacity shocks me. “I know what Rax wants. But what does
Toombs
want?”

The moment stretches into an eternity of silence balanced on the seesaw of our precarious stares.

“I do what Rax tells me to do.”

“Because you can’t think for yourself.”

He angles closer. His pupils flare black. “Because I belong to him.”

The words knife me to the core. So Toombs is Rax’s
slave
? “Then you’re right. I’m not interested in you, either.” I turn away.

Toombs grabs my arm and spears me with an accusing glare. “You planning to leave the band, Jinx? I noticed you’ve done fuck-all on the drums since we started writing songs. Did a little writer’s block get on you? I’m sure someone on the bus can help you rub that shit out.”

Anger courses through my veins and seizes control of my voice. I shove his hand off. “Fuck you, Toombs.”

His face splits into an eerie grin. “There’s my girl. There’s the spunk I was looking for.” Malevolent laughter hurts my ears, bruising my ego, fanning the inferno of self-loathing.

Once again, I’m small and helpless and brutalized. I despise this fear and self-doubt I’ve dealt with so long. Being the only girl in a large family of loud Italian boys isn’t exactly conducive to getting a lot of attention. The drums have always been the victims of my frustration at not being heard. My release. My escape. My source of accomplishment. Now Toombs is shitting on the one thing I’m good at.

Pain sears the outsides of my legs. I glance down. My drumsticks have a mind of their own. I can’t stop them from beating. Tears threaten to push past the barricades of my lids.

And then, Toombs’s laughter cuts off, his breath halts abruptly, and his big hands cover mine, stilling them. I search his face for an explanation that doesn’t come. Sudden softness dims the harshness of his expression into something resembling concern.

For me?

Why does he care?

“I said don’t hurt yourself. If you want to hurt someone, hit
me
.”

Why? So you can get off on it?
This guy is all kinds of screwed up. I clench my teeth. “I won’t give you the pleasure.”

His eyes narrow as he glances at the hard nipples poking through my bra and flimsy T-shirt. “You know, they say sex is good for relieving frustration. I’ll bet a good fucking would inject some fuel into an empty tank of creativity. Should you be in need of that sort of thing.” The words are full of bravado, but his tone is too gentle to match them.

“Yeah? Well, maybe I’ll take Rax up on his offer then. Just him and me.”

Toombs’s upper lip twitches as if zapped by an electrical shock.

I shouldn’t have said that. I try to cover my gaffe. “It’s not like
you’re
interested. You just play along with whatever Rax says. You’re nothing but a toy to him.”

He works his jaw, and his cheek muscles tighten.

Shit. I shouldn’t have said that, either. The truth may have hit a little too close to home.

Toombs lifts my hand by the wrist and stares at the drumstick in it. “If you want help, ask for it.” His voice is soft, genuine. He lets go and walks back to the bus.

I’m left standing alone, watching after him, wondering what the hell just happened between us. What does he want from me? Was this whole scene supposed to be his way of saying he’s interested? Or
not
interested? Or…
what?

One thing is certain. I don’t want Toombs’s help. For anything.

Our little tête-à-tête solves my problem. I’m done with Killer Buzz Float. Home is safe. The road is full of potholes. I need to be with people who care about and support me. I need to be with Mikey.

I take out my phone and open the video chat app. It’s Monday—not my normal day to call—but I need a familiar face. My brother answers. We go through our usual line of questions and answers. School’s fine. No new friends. Still working on the same piece. I start to tell him I’m coming home, but he speaks first.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Gianna.”

This is new. “Yeah? Thinking how?”

“You’re a rock star.”

I lower my head and stare at the bus across the street. Toombs climbs aboard. He doesn’t look back. “Yeah, well, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I want to be a musician.”

“You
are
a musician, silly.”

“Not like you.”

“You don’t want to be this kind of musician, Mikey. Trust me.”

“I do. I want to perform onstage. In front of crowds. And have fans. And make people happy. You make a lot of people happy. I saw your Facebook page.”

My socially challenged brother has spent most of his life
avoiding
people. To hear these words…from him…

My nose tingles with the threat of tears. I have to look away to keep from losing my shit. The emotion overwhelms me. Stabs me through the soul. I had no idea Mikey fully understood what I did, let alone looked up to me for it.

“I want to be like you.”

Now I do look at him. His face boasts conviction, determination, and bravery I’ve never seen before. He means what he says. Somehow I’ve inspired him to venture out of his comfort zone and do something for himself that involves great risk. By putting himself out there, he could very well be eaten alive. But his resolve is clear.

I’m such a fraud. If I cut Killer Buzz Float loose, I’ll be nothing more than a quitter. I might not have much of a shot at success, but I’m
guaranteed
to lose if I bow out.

I want Mikey to be happy. I want him to rise up and embrace all the possibilities waiting for him. He’s so talented. He deserves his moment in the sun way more than I do.

“If you want to be like me, keep practicing. Maybe when I get done touring and recording this album, we can see about finding a home for your music.”

He stares, blank faced. “Okay.”

“Any chance I can hear a snippet of the new Beethoven song?” I know he’ll say no, but I have to ask.

“Okay.”

What?
He’s
full
of surprises today. I choke a little on my own spit as he walks me down the hall to the tiny piano room. He sets the phone on the music rack above the keys and dives right in as if he’s tackling a ham sandwich rather than playing the most amazing music that’s ever blessed my ears. My heart melts and slides down the inside of my chest straight into the gooey center of my stomach.

Mikey’s song is absolutely gripping. It takes hold of my senses and twists, pulls, transforms my view of what music is. He creates a swell of concentrated emotion, evocative, tear producing. No, make that
sob
producing. Yep. My shoulders quake, and my gut wrenches.

He stops midsong. “You’re crying, Gianna.” His flat expression would come off as cold to anyone who didn’t know him.

Sniffling, desperate to regain my lost balance, I rub an arm through the tears, smearing them into my skin. I forge a smile. “It’s because the music is so perfect. Because
you’re
so perfect.”

“It’s not perfect. I missed three notes.” His expression remains as deadpan as ever.

A laugh bursts free. “You could’ve fooled me. Sounded like a professional recording from where I’m sitting.” I swipe a finger across his face on the screen. Damn, my brother is amazing. I ache for him—his pain, his distance, his inability to relate to others. But his “disability” is also what makes him more human—more
real
—than most “normal” people I know. I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.