Bullet (55 page)

Oh…so we had completely opposite views when it came to school and education.  I started feeling uncomfortable.  When we got to the front of the bookstore, I said, “You don’t have to come in with me if you don’t want to.”

He looked grateful and walked across the way to go into a shoe store.  I’d stood by and watched him sign a girl’s ass, but he couldn’t follow me to look at a book or two?  I wasn’t sure why it pissed me off, but it did.

Still…it wasn’t worth a fight.  Clay was a sweet, gentle soul, even when he played Jet.  It wasn’t worth arguing over.

That’s what I told myself anyway, but looking back now, I think I knew I didn’t love him…or didn’t love him enough to fight.  So when we found the food court and sat down to eat, I tried to find something to talk about…and came up short.  And that’s when I knew our relationship was doomed.

I still wasn’t ready to give up, though.  I think he knew it too but felt the same way.  I think we were both trying to recapture what we’d experienced on tour.

So, a few days later, we had some hot and dirty sex, Jet style, followed an hour later with some sweet Clay-style sex, and he held me close in his arms.  I had wanted to talk to him since the mall.  If he was feeling like I was—that the sex was incredible, but there was no future for us—then I wanted to talk about it.  But I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

I rolled over.  He wasn’t asleep.  I knew because he was humming ever so lightly, something I knew he did when he was working out a new guitar riff in his head.  That was one of the things I really liked about Clay.  He
was
music—he breathed it, lived it, felt it.  I loved music and it was an inextricable part of my life, but it couldn’t compare to the relationship a guy like Clay had with music.  Brad and Ethan were the same way.  I often felt as though the rest of us were hacks compared to the likes of them.  Clay/ Jet…a one-of-a-kind guy, and I was angry with myself for not finding a way to make it work.  But, even though I couldn’t identify it then—
wouldn’t
recognize what was in my mind—I knew he didn’t fully possess my heart, no matter how much I cared for him.  And make no mistake—I cared for him deeply.

I stroked his cheek and he opened his eyes.  Oh, God, those beautiful eyes of his—dark, honest, but mysterious.  Could I say this?  The words wouldn’t come.  They got stuck in my throat
, and I felt like I was choking.  Somewhere in the back of my head, I heard a mournful song, played in minor keys, one I couldn’t place, but it made me want to cry.  I just had to make myself start talking.  My voice was a whisper.  “Where do you see yourself in the next year or two?”

He was sleepy.  I could see that.  “Goddamn.  I better be recording the next biggest album the world’s ever heard by then.”

I smiled.  I hoped he would be.  I took a deep breath.  “Where do you see
us
in the next couple of years?”

He looked quizzical but not upset.  That was all the confirmation I needed.  He looked a little wistful like I felt, but I could tell he thought the end was inevitable too.  Still, he said, “What do you mean?”

God…if all we ever did was make love…we would have been the most compatible couple in the world.  But I was feeling like I needed more, so much more.  In the hustle and bustle and lack of freedom we’d had on tour, I hadn’t noticed all of those other things I’d needed.  Now, though…I felt like I was missing something.  I looked at those cute little snake bites on his lower lip.  “Do you ever feel like…maybe we, uh, weren’t meant for each other?”

I forced myself to look back in his eyes, and there I saw clarity.  He was sleepy, but it was there.  “I care about you, Val.”

I nodded, the side of my head rubbing against the pillow.  “I care about you too, Clay. 
So
much.  But…you know what I mean, don’t you?”

I could see that split second where he considered protesting, as though he was fighting with himself.  He didn’t want to admit it any more than I did.  But—and I think this is
because
we respected the hell out of each other—it was inevitable.  The fact that we cared but didn’t love each other was undeniable.  Could I
grow
to love him?  I probably could have, but if I had forced myself to stay, I would have always wondered what it was I’d given up.  Because I knew, just
knew
, there was something missing.  He was chewing on his cheek, but he nodded, just a little.  His voice was hoarse.  “Yeah, I do.  But why?”

I kept my voice low and soft.  His walls were thin and his roommate was home and quiet for a change.  “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.
  And I don’t exactly know why.  It makes me sad.”

“Yeah, me too.”  He placed his hand on my cheek and kissed me, a slow, sweet kiss, one that was trying to reignite whatever the hell magic we’d once shared.  And it was a great kiss…but it wasn’t enough.

“We’ll always be friends, right?”

His voice was soft again, and I could barely hear him.  “Fuck, yeah.  This time with you…the last few months…Jesus.  Some of the best times of my life.  I don’t ever want to forget you.  I want you to be in my life forever.”

I smiled.  “You too.”  I felt that grin finally move to my eyes and I said, “Just don’t pretend you don’t know me when you finally make it big.”

He kissed me again and said, “Spend the night?  One last time?”

I nodded and felt my body respond to him.  My body would always want to be with him, and I savored the feel of his lips on my collarbone, the way his shoulder tasted, the feel of his cock inside me one last time.  And even though we’d been civil—friendly and compassionate, even—I still felt tears sliding down my cheeks as I drifted off to sleep, his arms holding me close.

* * *

The next morning felt so much better.  I left feeling a weight off my shoulders.  Clay had insisted upon making breakfast—pancakes, sausage, and eggs—and we laughed and joked.  It was like a huge weight was off our shoulders.  He even kidded—well, maybe not so much—that we could hook up now and again whenever we needed a friend with benefits.

I laughed.  “You know, Clay, you’re a lot of things, but you’re not a slut.”

He grinned, sliding two pancakes off the griddle onto my plate.  “It’s
not
being a slut if they’re your friend, right?”

But as we cleaned up the dishes before I left, he said, “Anytime you need me, call.”  He placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look in his eyes.  “That prick Ethan…if he
ever
does shit to you, you come to me.”  I nodded, but I don’t think he believed he had my attention.  “Jet’s a bad boy in more ways than you know.  He’d like to knock Ethan’s teeth out, and the only reason he never did was because of you.”

If he hadn’t been so serious, I would have started laughing at how he was talking about himself in the third person, as though the Jet part of himself were another personality entirely.  I realized then that Clay felt safer being Clay, but Jet really was the part of himself that he needed to be sometimes…when he needed to blow off steam or wanted to do something the rest of society didn’t approve of.  “Thanks, Clay.”  I hugged him.  “And Jet.”  And then I hurried up and got dressed and got out
of there before both of us changed our minds.

Chapter Thirty-three

Present

CHRIS WAS ABOUT
a year and half when Fully Automatic went on tour again.  The first leg was in the U.S., but I knew they had some international dates too.  I would have worried if I hadn’t known the band was in good hands with Brad.

Ethan denied it.  Completely denied it.  And maybe it was because I loved him so much, I wanted to believe him, but I was positive he was using again.  I had no proof, though.  None.  Just suspicions.  And even though I had plenty of historical evidence to support those suspicions, I chose to push them to the back of my mind.  I know I did it because of the baby.  I wanted our marriage to work.  I wanted Ethan to be a good dad.  And I’d seen glimpses of that man.  I knew he was there.  I just had to find a way to entice him to stay.

I knew that was foolish too, though, because I knew Ethan had to decide he had a problem and also decide he was tired of living that way.  Until he did, he’d continue to victimize himself, me, and his son…even if he wasn’t using.

But those thoughts were hidden in the back of my mind where I didn’t want to go.  It didn’t help that I was fully absorbed in being a new mother, both the wonderful and not-so-great parts.  I felt like a bad mom half the time, because it seemed like I was inept when it came to so many things.  Other things, though, like holding my son when he cried, were instinctive.  And, when Ethan wasn’t around, I gave that child my everything.  He was a joy to watch, to love.

One night—or, actually, it was early one Friday morning, sometime after three a.m., my phone rang.  I wasn’t fully awake when I sat up in bed and answered it.

It was Brad.

Oh, no.  This couldn’t be good.  “Sorry to wake you.”

“What’s going on?  What’s wrong?”

I already knew.  Something had happened to Ethan.  No.  God, no.  In the space of those few seconds before Brad answered, my mind conjured up every horrifying scenario I could think of—the tour bus crashed or a crazed fan tried to kill him or the scenario most likely:  “He OD’d on H.”

The air escaped my lungs.  Jesus Christ, Ethan.  I knew he’d been hooked on heroine before, but hadn’t he promised to never take it again?  He’d called it a siren…she beckoned to him, urged him to follow her to his demise, but because he knew his demons, he’d said, he knew he could never ever
ever do it again.  Never.  So why the fuck was I getting this phone call?

I kept my voice calm even though inside I felt like quivering jelly.  “So…how is he.  Is he—?”  I couldn’t even finish my thought.

“They’ve got him stabilized now.  He should pull through, but he’s in a coma right now.”

I swallowed.  I heard Chris starting to fuss in his crib and got out of bed, but I said, “Coma?”
  I took another breath.  “What the hell happened?”  I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and reached into the crib to lift out my son.  “He told me he wasn’t using.”

I heard Brad sigh into the phone.  “
Apparently he was lying.  Like that’s a first.  You know him as well as
I
do, Val.  Ethan’s gonna do what Ethan’s gonna do.”  Yes, I knew that, but I didn’t need to hear it.  “We were partying, and you know Ethan parties harder than anyone else.”

I tried to concentrate.  I couldn’t
even remember how many weeks they’d been on tour.  “Where are you guys right now?”

“Spokane.”

“I’m gonna book a flight.  Not sure when I’ll be there.”  In less than eight hours, Chris and I were in the air heading to Washington, and I was praying harder than I had in years.

Chapter Thirty-four

Past

SUMMER DRIFTED INTO
fall.  Yeah, I missed Clay.  I missed the hot sex, and I missed the sweet playful guy I’d grown so very fond of.  But I felt like I was able to refocus on what I was in Denver for in the first place—the music.  And Clay would have respected that.

Brad managed to find a studio where we could record four or five of our best songs and put together an EP.  Not just the shitty little garage-band type demo we’d been selling at our gigs
but a professional-sounding, high quality CD that would maybe get us noticed.  I thought it would be cool to hear ourselves sounding clean and polished.  Like everything, though, that EP was going to cost us a pretty penny, so we wouldn’t be able to record right away.

Brad had written an insane song.  He played it in the living room of our new apartment one day, having perfected it.  It was tight and hardcore, but what I appreciated most was the solo.  Brad had never
until now invested too much time in solos, but this time, he had so much to say through his guitar, and it was the most mature playing by him I’d ever seen.  He’d been practicing this song for a long time; I could tell by watching him play.  His fingers were flawless and flying so quickly across the fretboard that I could barely see them.  More than that, though…it sounded
different
.  It was hardcore, yeah, but there was something different.  It was more melodic.  I could literally hear more emotion in it.

I just stared.  It was impressive.  Brad had changed so much in past two years since I’d first met him.  Not as a person.  No, Brad was even more solid, more trustworthy, and even harder working than when I’d first met him.  But instead of looking like a kid fresh out of high school, he looked like a rock god.  He had a few more tattoos and his hair was rock star long.  When he worked, he pulled it back into a ponytail and even sometimes at home, but at concerts, he let it flow.  Nothing in his wardrobe looked out of place
on him.  Even the coveralls he had to wear for his day job seemed to fit somehow.

And that was a good thing, because after listening to that solo, I knew it was just a matter of time before we got noticed on a bigger level.
  I was still working on my own performances, because I wanted to sound as hardcore as our band.  There were times, though, that my throat would be sore after a particularly grueling performance.  Yeah, I should have taken that as a clue to get vocal training or at least cut back on what I was doing, but I was young.  I wasn’t thinking.  I just figured after all I was putting my voice through, a little discomfort was natural.  It came with the territory, and I just had to suck it up and drink some warm tea with honey and lemon.