A Song for Julia (40 page)

It was infuriating. And short of chasing her down, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My resolve to give her space and time was waning. What I’d hoped was that a couple of weeks would be enough time for her to rethink things. But I kept coming back to the words my father said.
If you love her, you may have to let her go.

That was damn hard when I saw her all the time because of the band. On top of that, she and my mom had been talking. They’d even gone out to lunch—something I never would have realized until Mom accidentally spilled the beans one Saturday at dinner. Why the hell was Julia hanging out with my mother? It made no sense, except in one context. In some ways, Julia had become a bridge between my mom and Sean. I didn’t even begin to understand the dynamic behind that.

She was flying out to San Francisco in the morning and would be back before we started recording in January. Maybe that was a good thing. I needed some freaking space, because the tension of seeing her constantly and not being able to talk to her was driving me nuts.

Julia reappeared in the doorway. “Time!” she called, pointing toward the stage door. I looked at her, but she carefully avoided my eyes. I got up and headed out on the stage, off-balance and pissed off.

As we walked on the stage, an announcer called out our introduction and the crowd screamed. Julia had planted rumors in the local Indie press that our single would be out this week, and our small fan base had picked it up right away. I recognized a lot of people in the crowd, including guys I used to hang out with in the Pit, but there were a lot more. This was our biggest crowd yet, easily four hundred people jammed into the club.

We were in position. The lights weren’t up yet, and I could see Julia, standing next to the bar near the exit. Arms across her chest, watching. Then the lights came up, making it impossible to see her. The crowd started screaming, Pathin hit the drums, and we started.

Say it again (Julia)

The opening chords of the song Crank wrote for me rang out, and the crowd went nuts, screaming, as the spotlights found Serena and Crank. I swallowed, keeping my arms across my chest. For now, my job was done, and for the next two hours, I could watch.

Every time I heard this song, it sent chills down my spine. And I’d heard it a lot lately, because White Dog Records had pushed it out to every radio station in the country. I’d been pitching it to blogs and local newspapers, and working with Boris’s press people to get it everywhere we could. Release was in the morning, and the buzz was building. This song—this very personal song—shook me to the core. And everyone I talked to in the industry was saying the same thing: it was going to be a hit. 

For the thousandth time, I thought I should go to him. Right after the show. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him.

Because I’d finally admitted it to myself. I love him. With all my heart, I love Crank Wilson.

But I’ve been so afraid. 

A drunken frat boy approached me, half spilling his beer. Before he could get to me, George got in the way and none too gently blocked him. George was the bouncer and very protective. I appreciated having him around. Some of the clubs we’d been in had been a struggle to keep the drunks off. Did I give off some kind of signal that attracted assholes? I don’t know, but I’d learned to make friends with the bouncers at every club the band played. Because I went to all the shows now.

This one was already shaping up to be a good one. I’d sold nearly three thousand dollars worth of t-shirts and handed out flyers about the new single. We were getting the word out.

My guard was down when I looked at Crank. Because he caught me looking, just as he launched into the chorus. Singing those words, “Julia, where did you go?”

I couldn’t break the eye contact, and I felt my eyes water. Damn it, why did he have to affect me this way? Why couldn’t we just be friends? He sang the chorus, staring straight at me, and for this moment, ignoring the rest of the audience. I bit my lip and muttered a curse because I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Angrily, I wiped it away and hoped he couldn’t see clearly from up there.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Oh, for God’s sake.
It was Barrett. I’d made it very clear to him that nothing was going to happen between us. But he’d called me again last night, asking me to meet him tonight. Irritated, I answered the phone, walking toward the front door of the club. “Hello?” I shouted.

“Julia? It’s Barrett.”

“Hey, Barrett, what’s up?”

“I thought you were working tonight. It sounds like you’re in a club.”

I shook my head. “Barrett, I manage a rock band. They’re playing at the Cave tonight, so I’m here. What do you want?”

“Just wondering if you’d changed your mind.”

I sighed, but I could be nice about it. “That’s sweet, Barrett, but no. I’m not really up for dating right now.”

“You’re at The Cave? In Somerville?”

“Barrett, I’m working.”

“I just want to swing by.”

What the hell?
“I won’t have time to see you, I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” he replied. “I want to check out this band.”

I grimaced. He wanted to check out the band? Whatever.

“I’ve gotta go, Barrett.”

“Wait …”

I closed the phone and put it back in my pocket. By the time I got back inside, the first song was over, and Crank was singing “Fuck the War”— better choice. They’d reworked the song as part of the preparation for the album. It was a lot better … loud, driving guitar, screaming lyrics. They’d turned it into a duet, and Serena’s clear, tragic voice made the song into something wholly new. I’d discussed releasing that one as a single with Boris, but he wanted to wait until recording the album was complete before making a decision. I could live with that. It was a lot easier to think about the band and business, than it was to think about what was or wasn’t happening between me and Crank.

I spotted Craig Owens, the owner of the club, standing near the stage door on the left side of the bar. I worked my way down that wall. He was a big guy, six foot five, with a heavy beard, who had a past as a biker. 

“Hey, Craig,” I said.

“They’re rocking it tonight, Julia. Fans are happy.”

I grinned. “I wanted to talk to you about a couple dates late in the spring, before we go on tour.”

“Hell, yeah! I’ve got a couple weekends open in May. That work for you?”

I nodded. “I’ll email you.”

“Sounds good. Band happy? Drinks and everything good?”

“Yeah, we’re good to go,” I said. 

We were friendly now, but two weeks ago it had been a different story. I’d dropped in one evening to re-negotiate the band’s fee for playing here. They were getting paid a hundred dollars a night plus drinks, when the band was bringing in easily three or four hundred people every time they played here. Our talk had resulted in the fee getting bumped way up, plus adding merchandise sales. The band would probably walk away with three thousand dollars after expenses tonight. That was more like it. Once Craig realized it was inevitable, he gave in and went along.

Another song. It was almost time for the break. This one was another duet, and Serena and Crank blasted away with the guitars, singing into the same microphone, the energy level high. A couple of drunks tried to climb on the stage, and George the bouncer moved in their direction and quickly and easily persuaded them it wasn’t a good idea.

“Julia!”

I turned to my right. It was Barrett Randall. Irritating, but I suppose I’d live through it. But right behind him … Harry Easton. The muscles in my shoulders and the back of my neck suddenly tensed. 

Barrett led the way. “Hello, Julia. I know you said you’re working tonight. But Harry was in town and really wanted to see you. He insisted.”

My eyes went to Harry, and I said, “I thought I made it clear I don’t want to see you. Anywhere. Ever.”

Barrett backed off, hands in the air. “I’ll leave you two to … talk it out.” He smirked. “I’m going to watch the band.” He pointed at Harry. “Find me when you’re finished.”

Harry approached, slowly. He looked out of place here, in a black turtleneck and blazer, with perfectly shined shoes, gold cufflinks and overly coifed hair. How did I ever think I was in love with this guy? Of course, I was fourteen years old. He was charming, popular, good looking.

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to talk with you, Julia. I’m in Boston only to see you.”

“It was a wasted trip,” I replied and started to turn away.

He reached out to touch my arm, and I backed away a little, and hated myself for giving even an inch. In the back of my mind, I heard a loud and off-key chord that either Serena or Crank had gotten completely wrong. I winced, even as I kept my eyes riveted on Harry.

“Come on, Julia. That was all a long time ago. I don’t understand why you’re so upset, and I surely couldn’t believe the things you said. In front of my father. In front of the
President
. We were children back then.”

At his word, my stomach clenched up. “Technically, I was the child, Harry. You were eighteen.”

“We were kids.”

Seeing Harry now, it brought back everything. 

What I remember: Harry grabbing my arm, hard enough to leave bruises because I’d spoken with Clint Lawson in the cafeteria.

Harry telling me he wouldn’t love me anymore if I wouldn’t go down on him.

Losing my virginity backstage in the theater, my face and chest jammed up against the wall, his hot breath in my ear, shame and grief flooding through me as he pawed at me like an animal.

I remember Harry insisting I have another drink, another, and another, until I couldn’t see or think straight, until I couldn’t walk, then his naked body on top of me in the dark as I fought to hold in the liquor and not spew it all over the floor.

I remember blood. Blood running down between my legs as I fought not to sob that night in the theater. He’d said, “There, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?” and I whispered, “No,” while struggling not to cry and he said, “Tell me you enjoyed it, I know you did,” and I gave him a false smile even as I thought I was dying inside. I remember being shamed, because I didn’t say no, because I didn’t tell him I wasn’t ready, because I thought it was my fault that I didn’t enjoy it.

I remember the shame and horror when my best friend in the world emailed a photo of me, drunk, nude, to the outgoing junior class, telling a story of drinking and drugs and sex and abortion that was all lies. 

I remembered the blood running out of my veins, slowly spreading out in the water of a bathtub. It formed little patterns, each heavy drop spreading out as it hit the water. I remembered the sharp, exquisite pain of the blade as I sliced into my arm, promising relief, promising that I’d finally not have to feel the pain inside me.

“Stay away from me, Harry. Or I swear to God, I’ll—”

He reached out and grabbed my arm, hard. Just like he did when I was fourteen. He squeezed. “You’ll what? You’ll report me? I saw the stories about you, Julia. You’re nothing but a little slut. No one would ever believe you.”

Rage flooded through me, and I screamed, “Don’t you ever call me that! Get your hands off of me!”

The music abruptly stopped, and the crowd started yelling. I tried to pull my arm away, and he wouldn’t let go, so I swung with my other hand, hitting him in the throat. He let go at that, grabbing for his throat.

Then Crank was standing in front of me, his back to me, facing Harry. 

“Keep your fucking hands off her, asshole,” Crank said. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Get back up on the stage, Crank!” and there was laughter. 

“Stay out of it,” Harry responded. “This isn’t your business.”

Crank moved suddenly, throwing a fist, then another, and Harry fell back. Someone yelled, and Crank threw another punch, catching Harry in the eye. Then Harry was up against the wall, and Crank hit him again, and Harry doubled over. The crowd went insane, some yelling, some laughing and pointing. 

George appeared out of nowhere and pulled Crank off. Crank struggled, shouting, “I’ll kill that motherfucker!”

Crank is a big guy. But George outweighed him by a hundred pounds, easily, and pushed him back from Harry as easily as a father pushing a twelve-year-old. I threw my arms around Crank. “Stop. Please.”

He froze. “Who is this guy?”

“Just wait,” I said. Then I stepped forward. “Harry, get out of here. If I ever see you again … ever … my next call will be the police and then the media. You’re right. Maybe no one will believe me. But I guarantee it’s enough to ruin your career and reputation. I can do that much. I can ruin your life just as much as you did mine. And I will if I ever see you again.”

Harry looked at me then spit a mouthful of blood on the floor.

“Get out,” I said.

George put his big, meaty hands on Harry’s arms. “You heard the lady. Get the hell out of this bar, now! Don’t ever come back.” He grabbed Harry by the back of his jacket and pushed him toward the door. A glass flew through the air, thrown by an overenthusiastic fan, and bounced off Harry’s back. Then the crowd was chanting, “Get the fuck OUT!”

I saw Barrett shake himself loose from the crowd. He gave me a smile, almost a smirk, then turned and followed George and Harry to the door. Asshole.

I turned and threw my arms around Crank, desperate for that feeling of warmth and care and home that he gave me. He put his arms around me, and I said, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

His voice was a low, spine tingling growl. “The fuck I didn’t. Nobody touches you.” Then he pulled me tighter, and it didn’t feel overwhelming or out of control. It felt safe.

Serena and Mark stood there in shock.

Serena, looking concerned, said, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just an old bit of my past. It won’t happen again.”

As I said the words, I realized it was true. I was fine. I was better than fine. For the first time I could remember, I felt free. Free of my past. Free of Harry, and the harm he’d done me when I was just a kid. Free of the horror that was high school. I looked up at Crank and found myself wishing I hadn’t hurt him so much, that I hadn’t pushed him away when he told me he loved me.