Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (2 page)

The band members grab chairs and a long discussion
about what their other two songs should be commences. I’d choose something with
the grittier vocals that the singer excels at and hardcore drums since Riley is
their best musician. Maybe something like “Violet” by Hole. Yet, I don’t say
anything, just listen and take small sips of my second fruity concoction. And
feeling strangely mellow, I don’t bat an eyelash at the offer of a third shot.

Not really part of the conversation, I glance around
the bar at the drinking patrons, people playing pool, and the empty stage.
Maybe I come to these things to get a taste of what I’m missing. And perhaps
the booze is allowing me to be more honest with myself. I push the last quarter
of the drink away.

When the discussion ends, Riley jumps off Romeo’s
lap and heads toward the stage. One by one, we all follow and begin dismantling
the stage. In my foggy state, I’m not much help. I only take two microphone
stands to Romeo’s van waiting out back.

Once the van
is full, I
realize—seeing
as how everyone is leaving—that there is no way that I
can drive in my current state.

“Um, Romeo?” I ask as he shuts the back doors of the
van. “Could I get a ride?”

His expression is stunned. “You drank too much?”

I nod vigorously and hold up three fingers. “Three
shots and almost two full drinks.”

He grins. “How you feeling?”

“A little dizzy,” I say and let out a laugh.

He laughs too. “Well, that’s a first. Of course you
can ride with us. I can bring you to your car in the morning” he says, and
tosses the keys over my head. “But Gabe’s driving.”

I turn to Gabe as he catches the keys. “Weren’t you
drinking too?”

His expression is flat. “Just two shots.”

Romeo shakes his head. “Gabe’s like you, not much of
a drinker, unless we’re on tour,” he adds under his breath, then tugs me to the
side of the van and opens the door.
 

“April!” Riley happily yells and scoots over next to
her bass player.

As we head toward the direction of Riley’s house,
the conversation stays on the topic of the performance. Giddy with excitement,
Riley bounces in the middle of the seat. I try to keep the interior of the van
from spinning. I don’t feel sick, just very disorientated.

At her house, Riley hugs me quick, then bounces out
of the van. Romeo and the bass player leave too, which means, I’m alone with
Gabe. Feeling lightheaded, I lay across the back seat, while Romeo explains
that I live in Sam’s—
their
bass
player—apartment complex across from the university.

The van is silent as Gabe drives across town and
into the township where the local university is located.

I’m almost asleep, when Gabe asks, “What’s your
number?”

I push up. My number? Is he going to call me? About
what I don’t know, but whatever. “Nine eight nine four—”

“Your
apartment
number.” His tone is flat and dry.

“Oh, sixty two,” I say while my body over sways with
the movement of the van. Whoa. Grabbing onto the back of his seat, I try to
figure out where we are. I point to the right, about to tell him to turn, but
he figures it out without my directions.

He pulls in front of my building and I start
scooting across the seat. Before I can open the side door, he’s somehow
outside, opening it for me.

“Thanks.” I step out and trip right into him.

Gabe catches me by the arms.

“Sorry,” I mumble on his chest, breathing in the
clean laundry soap scent of his shirt.

Without responding, he sets me upright. The
strengthening of his perpetual frown deepens the cut of his cheekbones.

I wobble into a stance. “Okay, um, thanks for the
ride.” I take a step, sway, and draw in a gulp of much needed fresh air. The
night is lusciously warm for September in Michigan.

He grabs me by the arm, right above my elbow. “Let
me help you.”

“No, s-okay,” I say, trying to wrench my arm from
his grip while swaying.

“You’re on the second floor. I’ll just walk you to
your door.”

“S-okay,” I repeat and try to take another swaying
step and almost fall against him again. “Ugh, I’m like on a boat!” I giggle at
that, recalling the famous SNL video. I used to watch that show religiously,
not only for the comedy, but also for the plethora of up and coming musicians.
Sadly, I’m not into funny
or
music
anymore.
 

A sigh escapes him. “Come on.”

With a strong grip on my arm, he slowly helps me up
the stairs. I mumble and laugh about being on a boat. Though I can sense his
normal dislike, I find the boat thing too funny to care. I never laugh like
this anymore. Never let go. It’s kind of refreshing.

Okay, it’s very refreshing.

When we get to the second floor, I wrench my arm
from his grip, then lift my arms and sway. “I’m on a mother bleeping boat!”

I’m laughing and falling toward the wall as Gabe
mumbles something about preppy girls not being able to hold their liquor, which
takes me from giggly to angry.

“Hey!” I whip around, my finger pointing in his
direction. I over whip and fall on him. We crash into the wall and slide down.
He ends up sitting against the wall. I end up straddling his long body while
weaving.
 

I’m about to tell him off—preppy girl!—but I’m
suddenly caught by the light above us illuminating his lower jaw and lips. I’m
not sure if it’s because he’s always scowling or that I rarely look his way
since his dislike is almost tangible or the fact that I don’t really check out
guys, but I’m suddenly noticing his lips. Big time.

They’re lush and full, the upper one just as full as
the lower one.
Very sexy.
 

I reach out and trace that upper lip with my index
finger. “You have nice lips,” I say in a surprised tone. His skin feels nice
under my finger. Like hot, soft silk.

The silence in the walkway is suddenly filled with a
harsh breath from him. I’m about to trace his lower lip when he grabs my wrist
and hauls me up.

“Where’s your apartment?” he growls.

I point two apartments down. “Over there.”

He practically yanks me to my door.

“
Sorr
-e-e-e-e-e, I didn’t
mean anything. You just—”

“Key?” he demands.

I dig my key ring out of my pocket. “Look—”

He snatches the keys from me. “Which one?”

Swaying again, I point at the correct key. “Listen,
your lips just caught me unawares—”

He unlocks the door, whips it open, and hands me the
keys. “Try not to hurt yourself.”

Then he’s gone.

I roll my eyes and stumble into my dark apartment.

I’m on a dark boat…alone.

Chapter 2

~April~

I’m learning how to
become more detached while in group therapy.
Role reversal
that is what I tell myself. That’s the mind ticket
out of this insanity. That is why I’m sitting in this circle of people. One
day, I’ll be the facilitator in a similar situation, helping people too. Now,
I’m learning what it’s like to be on the other side of things, gaining precious
knowledge.

Jeff, our fearless leader slash counselor, drones on
about goals, his voice a monotone whine into the uncomfortable silence. He
likes to open with a long and dry commentary. No one ever listens. When I’m the
leader, I plan to keep the commentaries to a minimum.

As in none.

I take a deep breath through my nose. Okay, I’m here
every Tuesday afternoon because I have issues. Tons of them. Most people do.
I’m just far, far better than most at hiding them. The root of my issues, the
real reason, the burden I live with every day, will never come out.
Not in this group.
Not in the future.
Just not ever.

Misha, the tattooed and pierced self-proclaimed
slut, stares at me from across the circle. Her spiked pink hair flutters as she
grasps the edges of her metal chair as if the tight grip holds her back from
attacking me. Her stare is intimidating. It speaks a wealth of silent words.
The strongest is dislike. Each week she stares with a hate that pinches her face.
Most times, since I’m fairly sure she hates every other female on the planet, I
feel sorry for her. But sometimes, if I’m in a rotten mood like today, I can’t
find the will to care, although I
want
to care.

As usual, I avoid confrontation and appropriately
keep my face devoid of any emotion, cross my khaki clad legs, and glance away
to stare at the fake, dusty flowers on the shelf by the window before returning
my attention to our counselor.

I’ve grown into this, a calculated personality that
fluctuates between emotionless, friendly, understanding, and sometimes
compliant. A premeditated chameleon of sorts. The instances of genuine reaction
are becoming far too rare, even for me.
 

When a knock sounds at the door, Jeff holds up a
finger and closes the binder on his lap. His green corduroys are a loud swish
in the silence as he moves across the room. He opens the door a crack and
commences on conversing with whoever is on the other side. Misha gives me the
devil glare, causing the diamond in her eyebrow to practically point at me.
Chad, the blond guy to her right, stares at her chest, which, as usual, is on
display. Jason, the guy next to me, picks at a fray in the knee of his jeans. I
hold in a sigh.

This is such a waste of time.

Jeff opens the door all the way and I’m shocked—one
of the few emotions I haven’t been able to control— like grasping the edges of
my chair and blinking in confusion at the person who walks in.

No. No. No. This cannot be happening. I’m thrown
back in time.
Five days ago.
Once again waking with a
pounding headache and a mortification that had me blushing in my own bed.

Tall and lean, Gabe strolls across the room, his
freshly shaven face is hard lines devoid of emotion, his black boots stomp on
the office carpet, and his russet, sun-streaked hair brushes his jaw.

Oh, crap. The embarrassing memory of my drunk
ditziness
along with touching his lips has me mortified all
over again. I’m trying to control the hot flush of my cheeks as the rest of my
group mates stare wide eyed and slack mouthed at Gabe while Jeff makes room for
another chair.

Once Jeff gets the chair situated, he puts a hand on
the newcomer’s shoulder. “I’d like everyone to meet the newest member of our
group, Gabe.”

Misha purrs a hello. Chad gives Gabe the stink eye.
Jason waves without looking up. And I sit frozen, still stunned. I agreed to
this group because it was discreet being almost thirty minutes from campus and
in another township. I blink at Gabe. Was is the key word.

He barely looks at any of us as he deposits his
whipcord lean body in the chair between Jeff and
Misha
.

Calm. Internal hum. Calm. Internal hum. Calm.

I. Will. Not. Freak. Out.

“We were discussing the importance of goals, Gabe,”
Jeff says, sitting and opening his binder.

Deep breath.

Sadly, we weren’t discussing anything. Jeff had
simply been droning.
 
More important than
Jeff‘s illusions though,
is the
sudden burst of the real world into what was my own private dimension of hell.

Jeff smiles warmly at Gabe. “We’ll get back to goals
at the end of the session. I don’t want to pressure you, however if you’d like
to start by sharing something about yourself, the floor is yours first.”

Cocking his head on an angle, Gabe regards Jeff
through strands of sun-streaked hair. It’s not a hateful stare like
Misha’s
at
me,
more of a
You’re an idiot
stare. Then he glances
around at the rest of us. He doesn’t even pause on me. And I’m suddenly very
aware of his dislike.

Great. Another person in this group who detests me.

“All right,” he says, crossing his arms over his
plain, white T-shirt and glaring at Jeff. “I’ll keep it simple. The first time
my old man gave me a full ass whipping was fourteen years ago when I was age
eight. By age eleven, the beatings became more frequent fueled from his alcohol
rage. At age fifteen, I started fighting back. Now when I get angry, I fight.
Knowing the reason doesn’t change anything. I’m like a lit fuse, and yeah, I’m
here because the court ordered it. Probation but no jail time. Yet.” His
crossed arms grow tense, daring any of us to comment.

The sound of Jason picking at his frayed jeans fills
the silence.

Oh, well, wow, Gabe just won the crappy life award.
Seriously, my heart squeezes at the thought of him being abused, especially at
the age of eight. As Misha nearly pants over bad boy Gabe and Chad sizes him
up, I faintly recall Romeo coming late to the Community Center, where we both
volunteer for their suicide hotline, last winter because he had to bail Gabe
out of jail first thing in the morning.

Jeff is clearly stunned from Gabe’s sharing because
for once he’s quiet. He sits, clutching his binder while opening and closing
his mouth like a fish.

“Dude, that story sucks,” Chad says, breaking the
silence. “Your dad sounds like a dick.” Obviously, Chad sized Gabe up and
decided not to make an enemy.

Though he glances at Chad, Gabe doesn’t comment.

Chad turns to me. “Isn’t that something?” He nods
toward Gabe. “It’s his first day, and I know more shit about him than I do
about you after a month.”

Though distressed by Gabe’s induction into our
group, I look calmly at Chad, instead of flinching, keeping emotion devoid from
my expression. Jason doesn’t say much either, but Chad is trying to impress
Misha by being a jerk to me. “I’m sorry you fee—”

“Chad,” Jeff says, finally gaining his wits. “We’ve
talked about respect extensively, so let me repeat, April may share when she’s
ready.”

Chad lets out a harrumph. “Then why is she here?”

“Yeah,” Misha says, ganging up on me. “What is
her
purpose?”

Her tone insinuates there is no purpose to me.
Lovely.

Though usually robotic, Jeff can’t stop a soft sigh.
“Not only do we need to respect our fellow group members, we need to care about
them too.”

“Like she gives a shit about me,” Chad sneers.

I shake my head. Chad is an immature jerk, but I
hope he gets his life straightened out and grows up.

 
“Of course,
she cares about you, Chad. Isn’t that right, April?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I say in an innocent and soft
tone.

“See?” Jeff says, making me wonder for the umpteenth
time where he got his license.

Chad lets out another harrumph.

Jeff ignores him and turns his attention to our
newest member. “Gabe, I’d like to thank you for being upfront and honest with
us. And I hope that through some shared wisdom, maybe a few revelations, some
goal setting, and working to understand each other, we can help you understand
and control your anger.”

Help? With Jeff as the leader, this group is nothing
more than one long session of complaining, either by Chad or Misha. Jason and I
are about as cooperative as the chairs, and I’m getting the sense that Gabe has
said his piece and will stay at the point of
peace out
.

Jeff opens his binder and looks at me. “
Would
you like to share anything,
April?”

Instead of answering, I shake my head and glance at Jason’s
fingers picking at what has become a hole in the knee of his jeans.

“Jason,” Jeff asks. “Would you like to share
something?”

Anything?
I
imagine Jeff saying in a whine.

Pick. Pick. Pick. Jason shakes his head too as we
both stare at the hole slowly growing in his jeans.

Jeff asks Misha to share, and she’s soon relating
one of her customary
sexcapdes
with a stranger. She
is pouring it on thick today. Most likely for our newest member.
 

I take a peek at our newest member. Arms crossed,
muscles bunched, and large boots crossed out in front of him, he seems to be
bored, appearing to not listen as
Misha
describes
performing oral sex in a bar bathroom. Chad is transfixed. Jeff tries not to
appear shocked as usual. Jason picks. And I wonder if I can keep doing this,
especially with Gabe here now.

Less
than three more months
, I tell myself.

Next it’s Chad’s turn. He goes on and on about his
stepfather who is ruining his life with chores and the demand of getting a job.
I’m pretty sure Chad is here via his mother who had created the self-indulgent
monster and doesn’t know what to do with him anymore. So
this
group is stuck with him.

Obviously bored with the never ending complaining,
Gabe glances around every now and then, but his view never stops on me, which
is relieving. I’m still attempting to get over the shock of seeing him across
our little circle.

After twenty minutes of Chad whining about his evil
step dad, Jeff goes back to droning, mostly about goals. However, as soon as he
says, “Your first goal will be the simplest. Next week I want you all to think
of something new to share. Whatever you want. A great memory, a favorite family
member, a time when you felt down…anything. You have a whole week to think of
something, therefore be prepared next week,” he says, his regard shifting over
Jason and me.

Oh, how manipulative, a new way to force Jason and I
to share. I’m already planning on something mundane.

“Well, gang,”—Jeff’s reference to us as a gang is so
nerve grating it even causes
me
irritation—“we’ll meet next week same time and same place,” he says with a
goofy smirk as if he’s being funny.

I grab my purse and escape out into the hall, then
past the receptionist’s desk.

Jason, as usual, is right behind me.

As I step into a warm autumn afternoon, my hand on
the logo,
New Hope Center
, in the
middle of the glass, I turn and ask, “Need a ride?”

After seeing him walking away the first time, I ask
Jason if he wants a ride following every session.

“No thanks,” he quietly says like always and turns
toward the sidewalk.

“All right, see you next time.” I sigh and head into
the parking lot of the medical facility, which is mostly doctor and dentist’s
offices. Apparently everyone, except me, and Gabe, live in the area.

I had done a ton of research before I agreed to join
this
group. Partial insurance
coverage and discreet were my top priorities when it was recommended to me.
Mainly, I didn’t want anyone to know I was in a therapy group
.
People tend to think I’m perfect. Not
that I am perfect—quite the opposite—but it’s a persona I’ve learned to
cultivate. It keeps me on the straight and narrow, or more specifically, aiming
toward fake perfection keeps from losing it, as in becoming depressed to the
point of won’t-get-out-of-bed.

As I near my car and click unlock, I wonder how Gabe
ended up here. Since we’re all close in age? Wanted discreet? The partial
insurance? Probably not. His joining was court ordered and I’m sure he didn’t
have a choice. Not that I had much of one.

Opening my door, I recall my vow five days ago to
stay away from Luminescent Juliet. Just my luck that the person I wanted to
stay away from is in my therapy group. I go to shut my door, except someone
outside, specifically the grip on the door handle, stops me.

I glance up and meet a pair of hard, mahogany
colored eyes partially hidden by wisps of hair. Gabe looks anything but
indifferent now.
 

I let the handle go and he stumbles back a bit. “Can
I help you?” I ask innocently, though my heart is beating wildly in my chest.
He scared the crap out of me.