Snared(7)

I opened my mouth to object that maybe we wouldn’t be ready yet, but I snapped it shut. Bex would work us to the bone for the next month to make sure we were.

“You got it, boss,” Natalie joked. “I’m going to my office to work my magic. You guys work your magic in here. Make me proud.” She flipped her hair, and with one last glance at Tanner, she left the room.

Natalie needed to find a man who would treat her like the queen she was and stop wishing for Tanner to throw her a bone.





Beau

I TURNED IN my bed, squinting my eyes at the bright morning light. What the hell was I doing awake so early? The clock read just after nine in the morning, which put me at a whopping four hours of sleep. My dick was hard as a rock under the covers, but I ignored it.

Just like that, visions of Robyn flinging back the sheet and sucking me all those years ago flooded back. I didn’t often let myself think of her, but sometimes the memories came without warning. She’d been the only girl I’d ever slept with, had ever let that close to me, and she’d disappeared off the face of the earth after our one night together.

I sometimes wondered where she was and what had happened to make her leave and never contact me again, but thinking of that just solidified what I already thought of myself—I didn’t have any business getting close to anyone in that way. The one time I let down my guard, and that’s what happened.

Sex with my hand was enough. At least then I couldn’t hurt anyone but myself, and they couldn’t hurt me. The pain in my head was enough to bear.

Rolling over and standing up, I stretched. My arms were sore from drumming so much over the last few weeks. We had practiced for the twentieth night in a row until two in the morning. Bex was a fucking slave driver, but it would be worth it. Our new sets were fucking awesome. When I’d gotten home, I’d been wired, so Nat and I had watched a movie before crashing.

We were leaving in a week to go to Orlando. We’d get there a few days ahead of time to rehearse and get settled. We’d found out Young Angels Children’s Hospital was being built to honor Dr. Knight’s deceased daughter, Lucia, who had died from a brain tumor when she was just four years old. Dr. Knight was a world renowned neurologist who specialized in brain tumors. His daughter, April, was the social worker and the reason for us headlining the fundraiser. We would meet her and her parents at a welcome dinner the night we arrive.

I wondered if him becoming a neurologist had been because of Lucia, or had he already been one? Had he missed his daughter’s tumor and that’s what kept him going, to try never to let that happen again?

I attempted to imagine what it would be like to lose a child, but it was so far outside my realm of understanding I simply couldn’t. The only experience I had with parents was my father killing himself and my mother locking me in a mental institution when I was twelve, dropping Natalie with our neighbor, and leaving forever. We had no idea if she was still alive or not.

Suffice it to say, I hadn’t a clue what it was like to have people dedicated to loving you through anything.

After my dad had died—when I was only five years old—things had gone to shit. When I’d found him, it had changed me. My mind hadn’t been able to wrap around what I’d seen, so I’d just shut down. At first, my mom cared about taking me to see therapists and talking to me, trying to get through to me. But after a few years of my silence and refusal to let her in, she’d given up.

Once I started exhibiting signs of mental illness like my dad, she’d turned to verbally abusing me. She’d lash out when she was tired of dealing with my issues and saying I was going to end up just like my father, a worthless moron who couldn’t do anything. She constantly reminded me he’d killed himself so he wouldn’t have to be around us.

Natalie would wrap herself around me at night and talk to me, talk until I fell asleep having not said a word to her. She’d tell me she loved me, that Mommy was just sad about losing Daddy, how Mommy didn’t mean to be mean to me, and that no matter what, I’d always have my big sister there to protect me. But I’d always thought her logic was fucked up—I was a boy, the man of the house. I should be there for her. Anytime I’d say that to her as a child or teenager, she would roll her eyes at me and tell me to shut up, tell me how she was the big sister and it was her job. Hell, she’d probably say that now.

I remembered my first mental breakdown like it was yesterday. I’d been eight years old and at school when a feeling I still couldn’t explain came over me. It was like my brain had just revolted against me and took over, causing me to pick up and throw chairs, scream, cry, and fight with anyone who came into contact with me. My mom had taken me to the hospital that day. The doctors put me on meds and encouraged her to admit me to an inpatient center. She’d refused to admit me, but took the drugs, saying I just needed to stop acting like a “spoiled fucking brat.” She’d then locked me in my room for the week I was suspended from school, opening the door only to give me the pills that quieted my head and give me food.