The Cora Carmack New Adult Boxed Set: Losing It, Keeping Her, Faking It, and Finding It plus bonus material (21 page)

6

Max

W
hen I walked into Trestle, the bar where I worked and the band practiced, I was nearly twenty minutes late. I wish I could say Mace and Spencer were pissed, but I didn’t think they had even noticed. Spencer’s bass was forgotten as he looked through the various kinds of alcohol behind the bar. Mace at least had his drumsticks tucked in his pocket as he played a game on his phone.

“Hey, guys! Sorry I’m late.”

Spencer poured himself a bit of Maker’s Mark, and said, “It’s cool, Max.”

“Good. You know what else is cool?
Not
stealing from the place where we get to practice for free.”

I recapped the bottle of booze and returned it to the shelf. Spencer shrugged, adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, and downed the liquor in one gulp. I grabbed him by his black, skull-print bow tie, and pulled him toward the area where our instruments were set up. I pushed him toward his bass.

I slid a hand underneath Mace’s chin and tilted his head up toward me. He let me, but he just raised the phone higher to keep his eyes on the game.

“Come on babe, I know I’m late, but we only have until noon before Sam kicks us out.”

“Yeah, yeah, just hold on. I can’t stop running. If I look away, I’m going to die.”

Maybe I was still a little angry about how easily he bailed on me earlier or maybe I was just a bitch, but I snatched his phone out of his hand and held it behind me.

“MAX! Come on!” He reached for the phone, but we both heard the sound of the game ending.

“God, Max, sometimes you can be a real bitch.”

For a split second, Cade’s face popped into my head, but I pushed it away.

I said, “Yeah, well, you’re a dick most of the time. Deal with it.”

There was only a little heat in my words. I tucked his phone into his front pant pocket, and used that pocket to pull him toward me. His mouth was set in a thin line like he was angry, but that didn’t stop him from sliding his hands down my back to my ass. I didn’t elbow him this time. I kissed the underside of his jaw, and he stopped clenching his teeth so tightly. He kissed me, nipping my bottom lip a little too hard for it to be comfortable.

Spencer said, “I liked it better when you guys weren’t molesting each other constantly.” Spencer and I had been making music together since I moved to Philly a few years ago. Besides me, he was the only member of Under the Bell Jar that hadn’t changed frequently.

What could I say? I had a thing for drummers.

“Can we get to playing now?” Spencer asked, shooting a glare at Mace.

He couldn’t stand Mace, but didn’t make much of a fuss because he didn’t figure the relationship would last. It would be nice if it did, though. Mace was the best drummer we’d ever had.

I pulled back and went for my guitar.

“Okay, so this is the last chance we’ll get to rehearse all together before the show next week. We need to practice and nail down the order of our set list.”

We started with a cover of “A Better Son/Daughter” by Rilo Kiley. I felt like I lived this song already this morning. The intro started soft and small. My lips brushed the cold metal of the microphone and I felt like I was home. It didn’t matter that we were in a grungy bar with no audience, or that I’d be back here tonight working until all hours of the morning, only to have to get up and pretend for my parents. It didn’t matter that this morning my love life had taken a sharp left at complicated straight into bizarre territory. It didn’t even matter that I’d been carrying this band like a yoke around my neck for years with no money and no break in sight.

When I sang, none of it mattered.

I was not an emotional person. I hadn’t cried since I was thirteen. Not really. I made a promise to myself then when my life had been awash in tears that I wouldn’t be one of those people. The kind of person who would cry uncontrollably when something bad happened, but two days later be walking around like nothing had changed. Crying was for moments of such drastic pain that you had to let it out, had to shed the dead skin on your soul so that you could breathe. I still had my life, so I refused to cry over stupid shit like boyfriends and parents. I was good at turning off the pain. The only time I let it out was when I sang.

When the strings on my guitar vibrated and notes rose from my lungs, I felt the good and the bad, the hope and the devastation. I felt it all.

Sometimes in the morning, I am petrified, and can’t move

Awake but cannot open my eyes.

I sang about the weight of expectation and toxic relationships and lost innocence. I sang about the way depression can curl over your head like a wave, pulling you under so far that you don’t know which way is up and where to go to breathe.

The song unspooled something inside of me and deflated all the pressures of the day.
This
was what my parents didn’t get. They wanted me to give this up, get a job, and a steady paycheck. Mom said she’d never be able to really relax until her baby girl was all taken care of, which to her meant a husband and a job and a bun in the oven. But then it would be me who was never relaxed.

They wanted me to be the perfect daughter Alex was supposed to have been. But I wasn’t Alex. I’d tried to be that for them . . . tried to fill the void she left behind. I spent four years of high school playing the good girl, the popular girl, but it was never real. I always screwed something up, and then they would look at me like I hadn’t just disappointed them, I’d somehow disgraced Alex too by failing to live up to her memory.

Just living with them had been like suffocating, like all the air had been sucked from the house leaving only grief behind.

I got so twisted and wound up and smothered by life.

Music unraveled me.

It kept me sane then, and it keeps me sane now.

After that song we moved on to one by the Smiths, another by Laura Marling, and one by Metric. We covered everything from Radiohead to the Beatles, and then moved on to our original songs. Some were Spencer’s, but most were mine. The songs were all different, but they were all honest. When we finished the first run-through, we took a quick break. I headed to the bathroom because I needed a second.

I always needed a second to get the last of the emotion out, to bring the walls back up. Spencer got it. We’d known each other long enough that he gave me the space, but Mace was still learning. He followed me into the bathroom and pressed me up against the sink, his chest against my back.

His lips found my neck, and he moaned. He rocked his hips into me.

“God, you’re so hot when you sing. Let’s end practice early and go back to your place. Then I can make you sing on your bed, on the table, against the wall.”

All my emotions were still too close to the surface. The weight of him against my back felt crushing, and his hands on my wrists were like shackles. I met my own gaze in the mirror, and my eyes were wide and panicked. More than that, they were vulnerable . . . breakable. They were everything I never wanted to be. I squeezed my eyes shut and something in me snapped. I pushed my elbow into his middle, turned, and shoved him backward. He wasn’t expecting it, and he stumbled back and slammed into one of the stall doors. The noise echoed through the bathroom, and Mace yelled, “What the
fuck
, Max?”

I stood there blinking, my mouth hanging open. I knew I should be sorry, but I wasn’t. I was breathing and in control and that was what mattered. Mace stood and brushed off his pants. His mouth was a thin blade, and his eyes were bullets. “Well?” he yelled, and I battled off a flinch.

I couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t explain why. Damn, if he knew me even half as well as Spence, he would know to stay the hell away. My breath still came strong, like I was catching up. I said, “You can’t come over. My parents are still in town.” I didn’t say that technically they were at a hotel. I just needed space for the night.

“So you fucking push me? What’s your deal today?”

The same deal as every day. Singing just opens me up, and I can’t hide it as well.

“Mace, I’m sorry.” Sorry that I was so fucked-up I couldn’t have a simple conversation. “I just . . . I need a couple minutes to myself. Do you mind?”

He shook his head, bewildered, and said, “Sure, take the whole damn day. I’m out.”

“Mace, I—”

The door to the bathroom slammed, and the sound echoed off the tile walls. I closed my eyes, and worked to close myself off, too. I should have been upset, but mostly I was relieved. I’d call and apologize to him later. We’d be fine.

And I’d tell him the set list for the gig, since it looked like we’d be deciding that without him. I splashed some water on my face and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until the black behind my eyes was as black as it would go.

Then I went back outside.

Spencer had already packed up our things and returned them to the storage closet that Sam let us use. I didn’t have to say anything. Spencer had probably heard it all. Sound carried in this place. It was why I’d begged Sam to let us use it in the mornings before the bar opened. Great acoustics. Good for music, not so good for arguments.

“You okay?” Spencer asked.

I rolled my eyes and said, “What do you think?”

“I think you’re fine.”

“And you’d be right.”

Boys were boys. I had enough other things tying me into knots without worrying every single time Mace blew a gasket.

Spencer said, “Because you’ve got balls of steel.”

I hated when people said that, like it assumed strength and being a male were synonymous. There was strength in being a woman. “Spence, I don’t have balls. Good thing, too, because they’d look terrible in the lingerie I’m wearing.”

Spence adjusted his bow tie and put on a goofy smile. He said, “Lingerie, huh? Poor Mace is going to be sad he stormed out.” He sidled closer and placed his hands on my hips. He wasn’t hitting on me, not with that
Zoolander
-style Blue Steel face. We weren’t like that anymore. Spence might be the only guy I’d ever slept with and managed to maintain a friendship with afterward. As such, we were a little more touchy-feely than most friends.

I slid out of his reach. “He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near it today anyway, and neither will you.”

He crossed a hand over his heart, and looked pained.

“You’re cruel. Vagina-of-steel.”

I laughed so hard I had to steady myself on the table next to me.

“That’s even worse. Let’s just say my private parts are made of the usual private part bits. In fact, let’s just never talk about my bits, okay Spence?”

He smirked. “Fine, but I make no promises when I’m drunk.”

I sighed and started gathering my things. “Deal. You coming in tonight?”

“I think so. I’ve got a new song I’m working on. So I might come in and grab food and work on it, maybe run it by you on your break.”

“Sounds good.”

“You want to hear what I have so far? It’s a work in progress, but it goes ‘Your boyfriend’s a dick, a prick, take your pick. But you should take his drumstick and—’ ”

“—Point proven, Spence.”

He fit a fedora over his head. “I’ll believe that when you do something about it. See you tonight.”

I said, “I’ll save you your usual table,” but he was already out the door and on his way.

I used the spare key Sam gave me to lock up, and put Mace out of my mind. I had just enough time to make some ramen and catch a nap before coming back for work tonight. I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head, and it helped to block some of the wind from my face and ears. I set off walking toward my apartment, quietly singing one of the songs by the Smiths from our set.

There is a better world

Well, there must be . . .

7

Cade

M
ilo’s apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad, complete with two weeks’ worth of takeout scattered all over the counters. He shoved aside an empty box from a Chinese restaurant and said, “You overthink things,
hermano.
So, I’m going to help you out.” Milo opened his freezer and slammed a bottle of tequila on the counter space he’d just “cleaned.”

I was beginning to get a clearer picture of how this night was going to go.

“You’re going to help me stop thinking
completely
?”

He unscrewed the cap and said, “Exactly.”

I picked up the bottle, and the glass was freezing against my fingertips.

“You could have at least gotten decent tequila. What is this? There’s a freaking pony on the bottle.”

He snatched the bottle out of my hand and said, “I’ll buy more expensive tequila when you get over this Bliss girl.”

I never should have mentioned her name to him. He had this tendency to drop her name into casual conversation as a way to numb me to it. So far, it was a bit like becoming numb to shock treatments. It got more bearable, but I wasn’t going to line up and ask for more anytime soon.

He pulled a few shot glasses out of a cabinet, and I said, “So this is therapy, Milo-style?”

“Yep. If you’re not wasted, it’s not working.”

He filled two shot glasses, and slid one over to me. The other he held back for himself. I gestured to his glass and said, “What are you drinking to get over?”

“You’re not getting it,
hermano.
We drink so that we
don’t
have to talk.” I nodded and took my filled shot glass. I started to lift it to my lips, and he stopped me. “These aren’t ordinary shots.”

“Oh, are they magic shots? If I pour one out on the busted concrete outside will a beanstalk grow?”

“Oh, they’re magic, all right,” Milo said. “They’re supposed to make you grow a pair.”

In true Milo-fashion, he laughed at his joke before I could, and did a celebratory dance. I shook my head and said blandly, “You’re hilarious.”

“I know, I know. But seriously, these shots are special.”

I eyed the tequila that I was sure to regret in the morning and said, “Especially bad.”

He picked up his shot and said, “Each one you take is a commitment. If you break that commitment, the gods of alcohol will punish you with a hangover so bad you’ll think Satan himself took a dump on you.”

“And if I don’t take them?”

“You can spend the night being a depressed white boy while I go get laid. Your choice.”

It
was
pretty depressing when you put it that way. I sighed and gestured for him to continue.

“Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to get a girl’s phone number tonight. If you fail, may the alcohol gods curse you with the lowest alcohol tolerance known to man—so low that an anorexic baby could drink you under the table.”

I laughed, but picked up my shot. “I don’t think anorexic babies are a thing.”

“How do you know? I’m sure they don’t like being called chubby and having their fat pinched more than anyone else does.”

I took the shot just to get him to shut up. It tasted like rubber mixed with lighter fluid mixed with death. When my throat no longer felt like the burning inferno of hell itself I said, “Okay. A number. I can do that.”

He smiled and poured the second shot.

I eyed him. “If you say my punishment for this one is herpes, I’m out.”

He handed me the glass, laughing. “Relax, Winston. I’ll leave that between you and your giving tree.”

And now I could never read that book to my kids at the after-school program again.

“You should never have children,” I said.

“What makes you think there aren’t a few little Milos running around out there already?”

“Because Armageddon hasn’t happened yet.”

Milo punched me in the shoulder, spilling half the shot. He topped off the glass and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to do something out of character tonight. Should you fail, you’ll be cursed to a lifetime filled with premature ejaculation.”

“Seriously, man?”

He held up his hands and laughed, “Hey, the alcohol gods giveth and they taketh away.”

I glared at him but took the shot without comment. I’d thought it might taste a little less heinous the second time around, but it was still the most offensive thing to ever assault my taste buds.

Milo finished his own shot with no issue.

“How often do you drink this stuff?” I asked.

“Pretty often. One of my uncles works at the factory in Mexico. He sends me coupons. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“If I ever get used to it . . . shoot me.”

Milo ignored me and said, “
Numero tres!
For this one, amigo, I want you to get pissed off. You’ve been too damn nice about this whole thing. I don’t care if it’s over a spilled drink or just how ugly some dude’s face is—but by taking this shot, you promise to let yourself get angry tonight.”

“What if I get pissed at you?”

He shrugged. “You probably will, but I guarantee it won’t be because I’ve got an ugly face.”

“Right, just that ugly shirt you’re wearing.”

“This shirt is awesome. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I laughed and said, “Okay, I’ll get angry. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

He clinked his shot with mine and said, “And none of that holding-it-in shit.”

I took the shot. This time it didn’t burn at all, which was worrisome. Maybe it had already corroded my esophagus. I watched him fill the final glasses and I said, “Last one.”

“Hmm . . .” Milo paused, thinking. “You’ve not been with anyone since Bliss right?”

I shook my head, and didn’t bother telling him I was never really with her either. He poured the last shot and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to hook up with a girl at this bar.”

“Hook up?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of what qualifies as a hookup. As long as there is some kind of action involved, I’m sure the alcohol gods will be appeased. If you succeed, may you be blessed with extraordinary game and the best sex of your life.”

A reward. That was new.

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “You’ll be cursed to a lifetime of getting hard-ons at the most inappropriate times.”

That sounded more like Milo. I wondered if he’d spent time thinking this all up, or if it was just another day in the depraved state of his mind. I wiped a hand over my face. I had to give him one thing . . . he was good at getting my mind off my troubles. Maybe he was right. I had spent months chasing after the relationship that wasn’t, and then even more time mourning it. Who said I needed to be in a relationship? I’d done my fair share of partying and casual dating during my first three years of college. But when graduation started looming, I had thought I needed to take life more seriously, start building a foundation for my future. Look at all the good that had done me.

I was twenty-two years old. Why the hell was I in such a hurry?

I picked up the glass, my chest still warm from the last shot.

“A hookup it is.” I put the glass to my lips and tipped it back. Damn it . . . the stuff really did grow on you.

Milo cheered and slapped me on the back.

“And now, we party!”

Bliss barely crossed my mind as we made our way to a bar called Trestle. Maybe enough time had finally passed.

More likely it was the tequila.

Milo had brought the bottle with us just in case I sobered up during the journey. By the time we arrived outside Trestle, my liver was probably permanently damaged, but at least my mind was clear.

The bar sat at the crossing of two smaller streets, almost directly under a bridge decorated with graffiti. It was the kind of place that just screamed mugging . . . or hepatitis.

From the outside, the bar looked like an old abandoned brick building. The sign was even missing the
r
in
Trestle
.

The inside was a totally different story. There were old black-and-white movies projected onto the wall. Bright colored lights gave the dim bar a retro feel. Then there were the dancers. I saw Milo’s friend Sasha on the far side of the room. She stood up on a platform behind one end of the bar, dancing several feet above the crowd. Her movements were hypnotic, her long hair bouncing around her as she moved. Between the run-down exterior, the projections, and Sasha’s dancing, the bar felt like some kind of secret, underground venue.

If we had places like this back home in Texas, I’d certainly never been there.

Milo clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, “When I told you to hook up with a girl, I did not mean Sasha,
hermano.
She’s off-limits.”

I laughed and looked away from her. “Is she yours?”

He watched her for a moment, his eyes following her movements. “Nah, man. She’s too good for me. I meant she’s not available to be your rebound girl. She’s been run over by enough guys for this lifetime.”

I eyed him, knowing there was more that he wasn’t saying, but I let him keep his secrets. I certainly had mine.

“Stop looking at me like that, Winston. I’m not going to be your rebound either.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not drunk enough for those kinds of jokes.”

“Well, that’s something we should remedy!”

We moved toward the bar, but a blond girl stepped in my way. She was pretty—light curls, pink cheeks, and a low-cut top. She appeared to have had way too much to drink. She leaned forward to say something, but stumbled into me instead. I caught her around the waist and steadied her. One of her hands went around my bicep, and she giggled.

“I’m so sorry!”

She didn’t let go of my arm even once I’d righted her. She looked up at me through long lashes.

She was attractive for sure, but I kept waiting for something more to hit me. I waited for the electric zing of attraction, the pull in my chest, the pump of blood.

Nothing. Nada.

She asked me the usual questions, and I made small talk, but I could have been talking to a wall for all the impression it made on me. I could make a move on a girl like her. I could forget about serious relationships and just spend the night with a pretty blonde, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t make me feel any better. It certainly wouldn’t fix anything. Plus, talking to this girl felt like work, and tonight I wanted something effortless.

I kept looking toward the bar, wishing I could take another drink. Maybe if I was drunker, I would loosen up and get out of my head.

The girl, Cammie, was saying something about how funny I was. I didn’t even remember what I’d said to her.

I felt an elbow in my back and Milo said, “Here’s your chance to avoid a lifetime of premature ejaculation”

I threw a glare over my shoulder. “Can you not say that in public please?”

“Don’t be ashamed,
hermano.
It happens to lots of guys.”

I shoved him, but we were both laughing.

When I looked back at Cammie, she seemed to know that my attention was waning. She leaned closer and reached a bold hand into the pocket of my jeans, and came back with my cell phone. Her smoky eyes met mine before she entered her number into my phone’s memory. I marked one thing off the night’s checklist without even really trying. I smiled politely at the blonde and said good-bye. I turned to Milo, preparing to brag about how easily I’d gotten her number.

My eyes caught on something else entirely.

One of the colored lights illuminated the pale, bare skin of another dancer’s stomach. She was wearing far less clothing than Sasha. She had on sheer, black tights and a short skirt. Her shirt was lacy and short, revealing a toned stomach inked with black lines. It took me a few moments to piece together the picture that the lines made, but when I did the electricity that had been missing with Cammie started rushing through my veins.

The lines were the roots of a tree.

And the girl was Max.