Learning to Forgive (The Learning Series) Page 2

  Poetry and music pieces float around its shattered form. I branded myself with my own loneliness in each script that’s embedded in my skin. I want people to see it, so they know I’m damaged goods and to back the fuck off. My favorite of all is “Breathing unwantedly in a world that’s not worthy of my existence”.

  Why haven’t I given up? I have no goddamn clue because I’ve thought about ending it all… Finding Benji again, in whatever heaven I’ve heard about all my life. But I was a coward and still am. Plus when I started making a thousand dollars in one night, I became addicted to money. I’ve saved a sizeable portion and blown the rest on materialistic things, clothes, and hair being the main things. It makes me feel normal and not poor or lonely.

  After packing my bags for our early getaway, I take a long, deep swig of my dear friend Jack and fall into a dreamless sleep for once. When I wake the next morning, everything changes because I have another knife in my back and no money.

  “From Mouse to Bitch. Is that really a bad thing?”

  ~Blaire

  As I step off the bus in Alabama, memories of the day Benji and I arrived here try to surface to the forefront of my brain. We spent our last dime on the bus tickets to Mobile with only an old guitar and some talent in our possession. He swore this place would be more promising than the last, and I trusted him. We set up on the streets of downtown and played all day for enough money to sleep in a motel, but on most nights, the streets were our beds. It’s pretty messed up how I felt safer living on the streets than in the house I grew up in. But I never felt like I was home until Janet found us.

  She walked by while we performed Open Arms by Journey and gave us a gig with real jobs at her and her husband’s bar, Jay Jay’s. I remember feeling some excitement for the first time in my whole life while huddling behind Benji. He was always the one to guard me.

  For years, I feared what people would see when they looked at me. One day I decided to have some control of my life and colored my blonde hair red. I felt hidden, improved… even braver. Now that girl that stepped off that bus all those years ago is long gone… dead. Just like my brother. Just like my soul.

  I block out my inner rambling and try to concentrate on what I’m going to say to Janet. I ditched my phone long ago as well as anything or anyone to remind me of what I lost, and I ran. With any luck, she still has my stuff that was left when I took off. Maybe my job is still open. Since Mandy left me high and dry, I gotta start from scratch. Again.

  Most of all, I hope that that bitch Trudy isn’t working there anymore. She deceived my brother and dated some rich guy. Benji was so broken. Maybe she quit, dropped out of school, and married that Jax guy. Or maybe she lost her job and the guy. That would be even better, even though she deserves far worse for what she did to Benji.

  As I make my way down the street, I notice the stares I receive from everyone I pass. It’s not from the guitar slung over my shoulder or my bright red hair. I’m sure it’s from my fuck me boots and ass kissing shorts I’m wearing. That bitch Mandy took off with all my shit and only left me a few of the slut outfits we purchased for some jobs. And let's not forget that I’m braless in a white tank top. She didn’t even leave me a bra to hold up my tits, just a mere hundred dollars and a few pieces of clothes to cover my ass. I don’t know where that bitch went, but when I see her again, I’m going to go ballistic. Every time I think of her, I become more livid. Not to forget that today, I’ve had a shitty bus ride, and I’m starving. So yeah! I’m bitchy.

  “Hey, baby. Want to party with me and some friends?” Some drunk guy stumbles by my side as I make my way down the crowded sidewalk. It’s Saturday night, and the college kids are on the prowl. But this loser needs to work on his hunting skills because I am not his next target.

  “Fuck off.” I continue while passing onlookers and familiar buildings. When his arm slings around my shoulder, a familiar fear creeps in, and my heart kicks up its pace. But I remember I’m not there anymore. I’m not her anymore. “Don’t fucking touch me, you prick.” I throw his arm off.

  “Oh, come on, baby.”

  Before I can set this annoying little shit straight and tell him I’m not his or anyone’s baby, I reach Jay Jay’s parking lot and stop dead in my tracks. My eyes spot a piece of my past that I wasn’t expecting. Parked a hundred feet in front of me is Foxy, Benji’s pride and joy for the last year before he died. He saved for so long just so he could buy that ugly bike. Well, it used to be ugly. He spent all his tip money and spare time just to make it run and look good. He swore he’d get me on it one day, but I was scared to death of getting in a wreck. I told him over and over again how he’d die one day from being his usual risk-taking self on it. How wrong was I?

  Stepping closer, I see the tag still on the back, displaying its stupid name. He loved this fucking piece of junk since the day he laid eyes on it. He made it into something and always believed in the underdog. I guess because that’s what we were growing up. Plus, he hated sharing the Camry and stated I was messing with his game. So he brought home Foxy from some junkyard. But what I’m looking at isn’t the same bike I left behind.

  Instead of being dull black with chrome pipes, it’s polished with silver and red flames on the gas tank. I rub my finger along the cold metal and let what I see sink in. Something I left in Janet’s possession for safe keeping… Something that was too heavy to take with me, unlike his guitar, but means just as much or even more… Something that’s one of the last pieces of my brother I have left. Something drove here tonight by someone who’s not Benji. What the hell! I don’t know why the fuck it’s here or who the fuck drove it, but they are going to pay.

  When I turn around, I realize more people are watching me–some smiling like idiots, some sneering like bitches. I hike my guitar higher on my shoulder and walk over to the line, shoving past the people waiting to get in the door. I hear a lot of “Heys” and “Fuck yous” behind me. Don’t care. I have tunnel vision and want some fucking answers.

  The closer I get to the front, the louder the yelling coming from inside becomes. When I reach the door, another fucking hand on my shoulder stops me. “What?” I yell and turn.

  Carlos, one of the bouncers I used to work with, scrutinizes me with his freaky dark eyes. Yeah, it’s nice to see a familiar face, but there’s someone else I need to see, and someone else who has something of mine that I want back.

  “Blaire?” He looks as if he’s been hit with a two by four, judging from the surprise that’s on his round face. I know I look different from a year ago, and I know I’m dressed like a street walker, but if he licks his lips one more damn time I’m going to bust them with my fist.

  “Is Janet inside?” I don’t wait for an answer. I shove my guitar in his arms, and then make my way past his large frame and into the crowded bar. My nails dig into my palm to keep from freaking out over all the close bodies pressing against me. I also try to ignore the ever-present memories, but being here-the place that held my brother’s happiest memories- they feel stronger and like it was just yesterday, we were on that stage. I let his face and last words enter, but direct it all into anger. Let my sadness fester and build into something that’s slowly killing me. Hatred.

  I head in the direction of Janet’s office that sits down the hall that is beside the stage but the place is like a fucking mad house and I can’t get a few feet in the door without people getting in my fucking way. Breathe… Just breathe, Blaire. 1…2…3… I continue to count like I always do when I feel overwhelmed and do my best to avoid having another panic attack. Too many people mixed with too many emotions are not good for me without some form of alcohol in my system. I can’t relax and feel more and more agitated and closed in with every second that passes. I’m almost ready to run but continue instead.

  Finally, I reach the crowded bar and yell for Chris, who is running his ass off. He comes over, but before he can reach me, I look over and see Janet walking my way. She still looks the same, worn out from working many hours a
t the bar, and worrying about money. She’s had it hard for the past few years, and I’m sure me disappearing didn’t help. Her hair color is a dull brown now instead of the bleached blonde it was last year. She also has some graying at the temples.

  The only word to describe the moment we lay eyes on each other is bittersweet. I’ve missed her, but I’m so pissed and confused. She smiles and comes over to give me a hug, but my arms remain at my sides. I don’t want her affection. Not now. It brings back too many memories of what I used to have.

  So I keep my walls up and skip the pleasantries. “What the fuck, Janet? Why the hell is Benji’s bike outside?” I yell over the loud music, and she’s immediately taken by surprise at my new tone. I’m not the same girl that she consoled all those months ago nor am I the quiet Mouse she used to call me. I’m a loud bitch with a voice who wants to be heard.

  Her smile vanishes, and I’m glad. I don’t want to be reminded of her friendship or kindness. I just want Benji’s shit back and to earn some money to get my ass out of here. To disappear.

  “Nice to see you, too,” she says sarcastically.

  “Dammit, Janet. I’m serious. Do you still have my stuff?”

  She studies me for a second with tired eyes. I can only imagine what’s going through her head. I look like a fucking streetwalker. “I still have some of it. But you vanished. I’m not gonna hold onto someone else’s shit so it can rot. So I sold most of it.” She starts to cough, and a part of me wants to pat her back, so I place my hands on my hips instead.

  “What? It wasn’t yours to sell. That was Benji’s and mine.” My voice is full of anger as it raises and starts to grab people’s attention. “I left it with you, thinking it’d be safe.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What the hell was I supposed to do Blaire? You vanished. I called a million times, and you never picked up. Not one damn time. Then your phone was disconnected, and for all I knew you were dead in a goddamn ditch somewhere. So lose the fucking attitude or get the hell out of my bar.” Glints of moisture enter her eyes, but she wipes it away. She’s always been hard to everyone but me. Until now.

  “I’ll get out after I get what’s mine back.” Making my way to the stage, my mind is in a blood fog. Ready to take back all that’s been stolen from me. My soul feels as though my brother has been ripped from me all over again, but this is something I can get back. Even though it’s just a material thing, it was his, and if I need to take it back with force, I will.

  I stomp my ass-kicking stiletto boots up on the stage, ready for war. After I snatch the mike out of someone’s hands, I flip everyone in the crowd the bird and address these fuckers hoping for some answers. “Tell me one fucking thing and I’ll leave. Who the fuck is riding the black ‘88 Harley FXRS parked in the staff parking?” I’m lucky to remember the model of the bike because Benji talked about it so much. Especially whenever I called it ‘just a bike’. He had to correct me.

  As I wait for an answer, heat blankets my naked flesh on my right side, but my eyes stay focused on everyone in the crowd. Then I hear the culprit’s answer. “Me.” Chills surface everywhere on my body from the rich yet menacing tone. It encases me in its warmth and my mind loses focus.

  When I see the voice’s owner in all his fucked up glory, my anger morphs into something I’ve never felt before. Something that sets my belly to quivering. Tall doesn’t express his height, and toned doesn’t define his frame. He’s like a walking, talking, tattooed, sex god with a dark faux hawk that’s spiked up just right and some facial hair on his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His full lips twitch up in one corner, and heat starts to rise in my cheeks, so my eyes leave his face.

  Seeing the red Les Paul in his arms only adds to his rock star appeal and snags my attention. I want to say he’s a poser, but he looks like the real fucking McCoy. I already hate him just for the fact that he has my brother’s bike. But add in how my heartbeat skips when his eyes land on me, and I fucking despise the air he breathes.

  Without warning, my body walks closer to him, until I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead. To stop my gawking, I allow my inner rage to show through my hazel eyes. I hope that hell’s fire shows around my irises and scares the shit out of him. However, from the way his pupils start to dilate, I’m having a different effect on him than what I’ve planned. So before my female body can get the best of me for the first time in my life and make a stupid move to lick his labret piercing, I act without thinking. I allow my fist to connect with the fucker’s chin. With my hand throbbing, I jump off stage and disappear into the crowd.

  “My fucked up Reality is your

  Worst Nightmare.”

  ~Lyric

  Lyric

  After our last set, I snatch a beer while continuing to search for the girl with the mean right hook. I don’t see her, but I want to know what the fuck her deal is. When she’d disappeared earlier, I’d gone outside and checked on my bike to make sure the crazy bitch didn’t touch it. No bombs were attached, and no key marks were visible, so I returned to the stage to finish the show. I would have left and chased her ass, but I promised Ryan’s friend Mason that I’d play tonight to celebrate his wedding.

  However, I regret my decision as soon as my fingers pass over the strings on my guitar. I have a love/hate relationship with my music. It helps me feel like just a normal guy in a band, but the feelings it stirs in me can bring me to my knees. My self-hatred always surfaces as I sing, but tonight, it seems on overdrive. It must be all the fucking love from the newlyweds.

  My inner demon boils over, and my rage builds as each word passes my lips. I’m a prisoner by my own hand and my rage is my guard. It reminds me that happy endings are a fucked up fairytale told by people who are blind to what hides in the dark. Maliciousness can be dressed in suits as well as orange jumpers. People will do evil shit to survive, and I’m one of them. All I have to do is think of her, and of how I fucked up that night, to know the truth.

  Looking around, I eye the young drunk crowd that is always nearby these days. College kids are annoying as hell. The drinking doesn’t bother me, but acting like a fucking idiot does. I’m not perfect by any means, but I don’t stick my dick in everything that walks either. The girls do anything to get attention from either someone they want to hook up with or someone they want to make jealous. Stupid bitches. But the pretty boy cocksuckers are no better, walking around in clothes with premade rips and hundred dollar shirts. They don’t know what it’s like to go hungry or to be barefooted in wintertime I’m sure. Most probably still suck on their mother’s tit.

  When I was told this place had an opening for entertainment, I knew I’d be playing around a younger crowd. I also knew I’d hate it, but I didn’t think I’d detest it this fucking much. Happy isn’t my thing. At The Hole, I was constantly around the rougher, older crowd: fighters, bikers, prostitutes, and thieves. It’s where I could be found most nights, hanging out or handling business matters. The owner, Joe, thinks I’m hanging around here to keep attention off his place. In reality, I’m stuck here, babysitting. Playing with the boys is just a perk.

  I’m fortunate enough that I only have to be here a few nights a week and most of these kids have finally learned to leave me the fuck alone. If I had my way, I’d sing, fight, and avoid this place like the plague. But duty calls, and right now, I have a serious problem, which has nothing to do with Jay’s crowd.

  “Jimbo?” I yell to my bassist who's also one of my runners. Lately, rumors of his constant dipping have reached my ears, and from the edginess and constant touching of his skin, I’d say the rumors are accurate. I have one rule in this band. Keep clean. I don’t use, and I don’t want my members using either. This band means more to me than all the dope money I’ve made in this business.

  He scratches his red beard when he stands in front of me. “Yeah, boss?”

  Tonight isn’t my night to do pleasantries. I lean down and give him a grimace. “You gypping my clients?”

  I watch his glassy eyes wide
n before he swallows down his guilt. “Nah, man.”

  Lies are written in all of his movements. “What’s the one fucking rule, Jim? The one thing I ask of you and Ryan?” I don’t let him answer before my fist cracks against his nose. Ryan watches the encounter and just shakes his head.

  “Ryan. Get Carlos, will ya? Tell him to drag this piece of shit out and not to let him back in.” I look at Jim on the floor clutching his bloody nose. “You’re through with Lyrical Obsessions and me.” I watch Carlos drag Jim’s ass out and hope I never see him again.

  “What the fuck are we gonna do now?” Ryan asks from beside me watching the same thing. He’s my drummer and probably the closest thing to a friend I have. He’s a pain in my ass, but seems loyal, so I keep him around.

  “The fuck if I know.” And I don’t. Now I need another goddamn bassist.

  We head to our usual table and I sit in my vacant seat while glancing around. As they talk of the earlier commotion with Red, I just nurse my beer and observe. David and Ryan are both playboys and always seem to be trying to get in between a different bitch’s legs every night we’re here. Tonight is no different, and they’re sitting with their traditional whiny bimbos. The short blonde chick and her new husband Mason are making gooey eyes at one another across from me. Sailor mouthed Cory is with her country boy date. Then I see the real reason I’m sitting here dealing with this shit. Trudy sitting in her boyfriend Jax’s lap.

  I’ve been told that my nemesis wanted her as payback for a kilo of prime powder that he lost when her ex’s house was raided a year ago. The ex is now in jail, but when he gets out, I’m sure he’ll be dead. That is unless Trudy is taken as retribution. I don’t plan for that shit to happen on my watch.