Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) (6 page)

Everything inside of me shook when I realized Jag Steele was standing next to me. I couldn’t help but stare at him out of disbelief, although I somehow managed to keep my jaw from dropping. What in the hell was he doing in a shithole like this? This place wasn’t packed with half-naked girls ready to spread their legs in the bathroom for him.

I obviously had the worst luck in the world, because I couldn’t get rid of him. He was like a fucking plague without even realizing it. This was bad karma, mojo, anything that had a negative connotation, because at that point in my life, I refused to believe in fate.

When Jag caught me gawking at him, he forced a grin. In an effort to avert my eyes from that wickedly sexy fake-ass smile of his, I made eye contact with him. And when I did I saw something I’d never seen in them before. That arrogant, assholish, sex-crazed glaze had faded and underneath it he looked vulnerable—lost, hurt.

He looked human.

Suddenly he seemed real.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I think that was the first time I realized he was a person; not a title, not a tabloid headline, but a person. In a moment of weakness I whispered, “Thanks.”

He didn’t have to stand up for me, and actually, I was still pretty confused about why he’d done it. I had been a complete and utter bitch from the abyss to him and he still fought for me. I couldn’t shake the fact that he fought for me, because that was something no one had done in a long time, and I’m not going to lie, it had gotten under my skin in a good way.

“For what?” he asked, scrawling his signature on his receipt. He sucked in a breath and thumbed over the piercing underneath his full lips. He looked sad, and that tore at me for some reason.

My body relaxed and I could breathe again. “For standing up for me. You didn’t have to do that. I get shit like that all the time.”

Suddenly, it was really hot. Uncomfortably hot. I wiggled out of my jacket in an effort to keep sweat from beading up on my forehead. Jag looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

I swallowed and pretended to clear my throat. “I can handle myself, though.”
Why the hell am I still being mean to this guy?
Releasing an agitated huff, I forced myself to mumble, “But it
was
nice of you.”

A smile twitched over his mouth, and he just kept looking at me.

My heart was pumping blood through me too quickly and slamming itself up against my ribs. He fucking made me nervous, and he kept standing there, staring at me, making me more uneasy by the second. God only knows what was going through his twisted head.

He stood there, twisting the pen in his hand, and I couldn’t help but feel bad for how utterly vicious I had been to him. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to you. I really had no reason. I don’t know you.”

His eyes narrowed and a tiny smile tore at the sides of his mouth.

I needed to make him understand that my apology wasn’t an invitation to get in my pants. “And I don’t really need to anyway.”

He laughed and leaned back against the bar. “Well, at least you’re aware you’re as mean as a fucking viper. Pretty, but fucking vicious.”

My eyes instinctually veered down toward his crotch, stopping and darting back up to his face when he cleared his throat.

Okay. You said thanks. Now turn the fuck around and leave him alone. He’s a rock star, for Christ’s sake. An addict.

Before I knew what I had done, I’d yanked his shades from his hair, said something flirtatious, and found my hand suggestively patting the chair next to me.

Why? Because as much as I hated it, I didn’t want him to leave.

I looked at his pupils and they were blown wide, most likely from a mountain of coke he’d snorted up his nose.
He’s one of those guys. Worse…he’s one of those guys
and
he’s famous. Ten thousand times worse!

The longer I studied him, the more of myself I saw. That lost glaze that coated his eyes wasn’t just from a high; that was from something fucked up in his life. That look reminded me too much of my brother—how lonely and miserable he’d become—and I couldn’t help myself. It had never occurred to me that Jag Steele may be sick, that maybe he was an addict because the only way he could live day to day was to be numb. As ignorant as that sounds, I’d always assumed he did drugs for show.

“Just can’t stay clean, can you?” I whispered.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he snorted. “Didn’t you read the headlines? I went to rehab. I’ve been ‘cured.’”

“Pupils don’t dilate like that unless you’re fucked up.”

My gaze veered down to his tab, he’d had an ungodly amount of liquor, yet he wasn’t slurring, he wasn’t staggering. Coke can sober a person up in a matter of seconds.

Pointing to his receipt, I said, “And I don’t care who you are; you drink
that
much liquor, and you’re not going to have that swagger you’ve got walking outta here.”

His eyes fell to the floor, and he shrugged.
He’s ashamed?

I couldn’t look at him at this point. It was becoming too personal. “It’s okay,” I mumbled. “I know it’s hard. Even when you’ve been clean for years, you can’t help but think about it every day, right?”

Jag said nothing. I feared I’d crossed a line, and grabbed my glass, quickly sucking back the watered down drink. I didn’t want him to think I was judging him. I wasn’t. I just felt like he needed someone to understand him. “We’re all broken,” I sighed.

“Is that what this is for?” His finger skimmed over the tattoo on my back.

What does not kill us makes us stronger
, I recited the words of my tattoo in my head.
I had bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. “No. That’s for my brother, Sean.” I waited a few seconds to force the pain down, then explained, “He OD’d. It’s kinda my tribute to him. That’s what he said all the time. He had the same tattoo with the date he’d gone sober underneath it. He was clean for three years, and all it took was that one time of him slipping back into it—and he was gone.”

It still pained me to talk about it. Sean had been the most important, most influential person in my life. He had truly been the only person to ever fight for me—until Jag. It didn’t matter to me that Jag may have punched that guy because he was amped up on coke, or that maybe he was just in a bad mood, all that mattered is that for whatever reason, for a fleeting moment, to him I was worth fighting for.

Jag ran his hand up the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. Really.” That comment was sincere.

“Thanks. Me too.”

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out, turning away from me. I knew I should go. I knew I should leave, but something kept me there.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and leaned over the bar, his fingers combing throw his unruly hair, his legs shaking uncontrollably.

He was hurting, and I wanted to know why. Something inside me felt the need to know why he was miserable.

“So, why are you broken?” I asked.

His legs stopped bouncing, and he slowly looked up from his bowed head. A subtle smile crept over his face. “Broken? Nah, princess,” he laughed. “I’m a shattered fucking mess.”

He wasn’t that guy I’d assumed he was. Part of me wasn’t even sure he was real anymore. Without realizing what I was doing, I reached out and stroked my fingers along his jaw. “Yep. You’re real.”

“Yeah. That I am.”

“You know, it’s just that I’d always thought you were, you know…
Jag Steele
. Never really stopped to think that there’s actually someone behind the name, behind that hard-ass exterior of yours. Sometimes the entire celebrity thing makes me forget people like you are real. You’re not some fictional character. That’s all. Just wanted to touch you to make sure.”

“Nah. I’m real.”

I felt like he appreciated that I separated him from all that. I don’t know that many people ever did that.

“So, is Jagger Steele
really
your name, or is it just a stage name?”

“What makes you think I would tell you that?” he arched a brow and fell silent.

Just when I was about to tell him there was no reason to be an ass, he chuckled. “Yeah, it’s my name. My dad had an obsession with The Rolling Stones.”

Of course that would be his name. Nothing about him was normal, why would he have ever had a normal name? “I see. Destined from birth, huh? You do know that Jag is slang for a stint with drug use, right?”

“No, never heard that one. That’s interesting, huh? Guess my parents should have thought about that.” His gaze veered down, following his fingertip as it traced along the worn edge of the bar.

“Yeah,” I sighed and adjusted myself on the stool. “I was hoping you were gonna say your name was something like Bob or Darryl.”

“No. Nice names and all, but I need something with a little more…”

“Sex appeal?” I felt myself smile—genuinely smile. It wasn’t often that happened.

“Yeah. Something like that.” He spun his chair around, planting both his hands on his knees as he leaned toward me. “So. Besides despising my music, what are you about? And why the hell are you here? This place is like something that you’d find outside the Bates Motel. Not exactly the place you go to meet people.”

Meet people? Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong!

“I don’t like people,” I groaned.

I stared down at my lap, realizing how dumb that sounded, but it was the truth. I couldn’t like people. I was too bitter, too angry, and too scared that I’d get hurt to like anyone. I didn’t even really like myself, how could I like anyone else?

Shrugging, I said, “My brother came here all the time. He liked that it was always empty. He said he could think in here.”

“I get that.” He nodded. His fingers tapped over his leg, then he blurted, “So, I think it’s pretty obvious why I’m a mess. Losing your brother, that’s what broke you?”

As soon as the words had come out of his mouth his eyes widened. I think he was afraid he’d just gone too personal, and was attempting to think of a way to backpedal out of that question.

I swallowed. Questions like that were where I would wall people off. I didn’t want anyone to pity me, and I didn’t want anyone to make a connection with me, but, for some reason, instead of hopping up and darting out of that bar, I sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah. He pretty much raised me.” I paused. I couldn’t look at him while I purged myself, so I stared at my hands while picking furiously at my torn cuticles. “My mom died in a car wreck when I was five. Layla was just a baby. My dad was driving, and he always blamed himself. All he did was drink, and then he lost his job when I was six. So Sean had to help make sure me and Layla were taken care of when Dad was passed out.”

“Damn,” Jag muttered, stunned. After a few moments of awkward silence he said, “Having a dad that’s a drunk sucks.”

“Yeah. If
only
he’d stayed just a drunk.”

I sat there swallowing down the knots that kept rising in my throat. For some reason he made me feel comfortable. In a matter of fifteen minutes I had told him more than I had told anyone, ever.

It was like all the things I’d kept bottled up inside gushed to the surface, and I couldn’t stop it.

“When I was fourteen, my dad got put in jail for selling meth. He was in and out the entire time I was growing up. He supposedly last got out a few years ago, but I haven’t heard from him.” I paused, fidgeting with my hands, then blurted out, “He used to get me and my brother to help him make it.”

Sweat pricked its way over my forehead and I waited for that judgmental glare that people couldn’t help but give me when they found out my dad had been a meth dealer, but Jag seemed unfazed by it. His face softened, and it almost looked like he was relieved that I was fucked up too.

Jag sighed and tipped his beer back. “My dad was a drunk too. Left when I was ten. Watched him beat the shit out of my mom a few times.” His eyes shot down to the bottle in his hands and he picked at the label, avoiding eye contact, then without warning, he grabbed my hand. His finger stroked along the inside of my palm, slowly, reassuringly.

I was in shock. I’d never heard about this part of his life, not even in the five-hundred interviews I’d skimmed over throughout the years. When he looked back up at me, I saw how hurt he was, that deep down inside he was uncertain. Deep down, we were much the same person. And that floored me. He wasn’t what I’d thought.

I let my guard down, I let myself soften. “Is it wrong that I’m relieved someone like you had a shitty start to life too?”

He squeezed my hand and shook his head. “Nah, not at all.” His gaze grew more sincere, deeper, and way more real than I could comfortably handle at the moment.

“Not at all, princess,” he said softly.

The way he just whispered “princess” when looking at me seemed so sweet, so tender, not at all like the other times he’d uttered it to me. This was different. It was endearing, and I liked it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and boldly laced my fingers in his.

He glanced down at our hands and sort of, kind of smiled. “Sorry for what?”

“That you had a shitty past.”