The Best Laid Plans (12 page)

Malcolm walked into the Dead True Studio right on time. He prided himself on never being late after one too many artistes had kept him waiting, disrespecting everyone’s time. He swore he’d never be That Guy, and so far had met that goal. But he also hated when people showed up way too early and hung around being a pain in the ass. If he said he’d be there at seven, he was there at seven.

Or eight-thirty p.m. as the case was tonight.

“Malcolm!” David, in house producer for Dead True stood to greet him.

“Hey.” Malcolm shook the hand he’d been offered, and nodded at the people around the room. Three women who made up the band, their manager, Eric, and David. “How’d it turn out?”

“Perfect,” Deanna, the lead singer, answered, glancing at the other girls. They smiled and nodded, but Malcolm felt like he’d missed something.

“Have a seat, Malcolm,” Eric gestured at a free chair. Malcolm sat. “The album sounds great. You were amazing, just a flawless job.”

“But?”

Eric vigorously shook his head. “No, no! No buts. The thing is, we’ve been discussing album art. And we had a concept going that requires, how do we say, a man’s man.”

“Hot, sexy, with a killer grin,” Tanya, the drummer, added. “You remember the one track, Killer Grin?” Malcolm nodded. “Well, we want that to be our first single, and we want you to be in the album art as that guy with that smile.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t think of any other words.

“We have a photo shoot set up for next Thursday. Will you do it?” Tanya leaned forward. “Please?”

The other girls joined in with the flattery and the begging. Malcolm blushed deep and viciously, but he nodded. The room erupted in happy shrieks and celebratory jumping up and down. When the band settled, they all listened to the tracks once more. By the time they’d done, Malcolm had to get going to a gig.

It had been a surreal experience, to say the least. He sat at the bar, nursing a beer while the sound guy did his thing. What the hell had just happened?

A man’s man with a killer smile. Him being a model for anything was secretly hilarious. Realistically, he knew that he was good looking, but it still blew his mind to look at how far he’d come. Especially after the attack that had left him less than pretty. The worst beating of his life, not just because of the extent of his injuries.

That betrayal had nearly destroyed him.

Oh, Jayne hadn’t done it, but her mouth, her mistake had set it all in motion. She was the reason the football team paid attention to him. But it wasn’t just the team who paid attention. Other guys wanting to be in tight with the team also noticed and did things to him.

One who had a locker near his kept his eyes out and memorized Malcolm’s combination, then gave it to the team. Malcolm routinely found his things stolen, broken, or pissed on. They told him they’d have planted drugs in it, but he wasn’t worth the cost of an eighth, and besides, then they’d be out a punching bag.

Once, when he ran away from the school, a guy tripped him, giving the team the chance to catch up to him. There were others who’d told them where Malcolm could be found, others who’d distracted the teachers while the team beat the shit out of him.

But the worst was Ian. Malcolm never saw that betrayal coming.

It was the day his friend Ian had invited him over to play some video games. Ian knew about the situation with the football team, but he had hung out with Malcolm a few times before, not caring about fraternizing with the enemy, so to speak. They made a quick, clean getaway in his car, and no one followed them. On the way to Ian’s, they swung into a drive through and picked up some fast food.

By the time they pulled up to Ian’s house, Malcolm laughed along with his friend, feeling relaxed and normal for the first time in ages.

“Will your parents be home?”

“No, Dad’s at some conference and Mom’s not back for a couple hours.”

Malcolm kicked off his shoes and followed Ian down to the game room in the basement.

It took a second for the crowd of people to register.

Six guys from the football team. Waiting.

His stomach tightened and his legs felt weak. Why? Why were they here?

“Thanks, Ian.” Jonathan grinned. “You’re definitely cooler than we thought.”

And it became painfully clear why he’d done it. His friendship with Malcolm had been Ian’s “in” with the cool kids. Even through his fear, the pain of what his friend had done killed him. Ian didn’t look at him as he left, closing the door behind him. Trapping Malcolm in the basement, belly full of terror and French fries, surrounded by kids who treated him like the enemy.

Talking didn’t matter. Pleading didn’t matter.

His pain was all that mattered to them. His nose broke, and with that first blood it became pack mentality. He was weak and they were out to destroy him. Malcolm had heard guys talk about beatings, had heard them say they couldn’t remember them, that the trauma had obliterated it from their minds. He wasn’t so lucky. He remembered every hit before he lost consciousness.

They were smart about it though, inflicting the most pain and the least amount of damage – except for when Jon lost it and broke his nose, and Bobby cracked his ribs. For a few minutes in the beginning they focused more on emotional and psychological pain, trying to get him to cry, or piss himself. He’d done neither.

It took him a while to get home afterwards, but as far as he could tell, the beating itself had lasted about an hour.

At the end, he had a broken nose, a fractured wrist, four broken teeth, bruised ribs, and numerous superficial wounds. The worst wound, the one that he had to go to the hospital for, was the seven-inch long gash on his back, where they held him down and cut him with a hockey skate. They liked using sports equipment to rub in how un-athletic he was. Baseball bat. Skate.

They even took turns throwing baseballs as hard as they could at him. Kicked footballs into his bloody body. But they’d already bloodied their fists on him by that point and were just looking to shake things up a bit.

Because beating the ever-loving shit out of him had eventually gotten boring.

He’d actually passed out when they cut him with the skate. Because the skate had been a little dull, they’d had to press down hard to tear his skin. Their weight had pressed him down so hard that they crushed his already bruised ribs into the floor and his body couldn’t take it, seeking refuge in unconsciousness.

He woke up alone, aching, bleeding, and reeking of urine. They’d pissed on him while he’d been passed out. He let out three strangled sobs before swallowing the bitter tears. It had hurt his ribs too much to cry, so he crawled up the stairs, got his shoes, and hobbled down the street. He hadn’t realized he was bleeding until the blood made his side itch, and his hand came away wet and red.

But he made it to the hospital. Forty-two stitches and a lot of antiseptic later, he was released. Luckily the cut was long, not deep. Nothing had been punctured. His parents had come, they’d been called despite his protestations that he was fine. He’d been a minor, and it was procedure. They didn’t care that he’d have to tell his parents what had happened. That he’d be forced to see the shame in his dad’s eyes that he’d raised such a loser.

His dad was a great man, but he was tough. No one had messed with him when he’d gone to school, and he didn’t understand what had been happening the past few months. He’d actually hinted that beating them up would put an end to it – as if Malcolm had actually been capable of taking them on. As if they’d ever go up against him in a fair fight. Even if they would, he wasn’t a fighter.

His mom freaked when she saw his face. Busted teeth, busted nose, two black eyes, bruises, and lacerations painted a gruesome picture. She thought he’d been in a car accident and had smashed his face into the dashboard. It got really awkward when she learned of the cut on his back.

She had immediately yanked him from school, not that he’d complained. It was a relief so deep he nearly slept the whole first week. His body had been on high alert from stress for so long, that he crashed in a big way. His mom had wanted to sue the school, carry out an inquisition into who had hurt her son, and sue every one of the attackers’ parents. He’d only told her he’d been jumped, not who had done it. Her knowing their identities wouldn’t have helped anything. Anti-bullying laws were unheard of back then, not like today.

She’d had to be happy knowing he was out of the school and safe. It wasn’t enough to erase the attack from his mind. He had nightmares for years. And he didn’t trust easily. But his nose had healed straight, without a tell-tale bump to give away that it had been broken. His teeth had been fixed easily enough, and the veneers were more perfect than his real teeth had been. The injuries healed, and the external scars faded. Even the one on his back.

He finished school by correspondence a year early. His grades had started to slip because of the stress with the team, but he graduated with a three point seven GPA. Not having to ride the bus for two hours a day gave him that much more time to practice guitar. Relaxed at home, and able to express himself through music, he flourished. While his parents were initially wary of him pursuing music as a career, he’d nailed an audition into a prestigious music school, and had begun session work nearly immediately, at the urging of one of his professors.

He’d worked on his music and worked on himself. He’d grown into his gangly limbs, and his looks. Different martial arts gave him the body of an athlete and the strength to feel secure that no one would fuck with him again, and that if they did, they would regret it. Success came to him. Women came to him. His life was great.

And then in walked Jayne bringing it all back in vibrant, awful, Technicolor.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her getting away. He’d felt comically relieved when she phoned. Last night had been too much and not enough, playing his music for her. It was way too intimate, more so than if they’d been naked together. He’d let her into his soul. He didn’t show anyone what he’d shown her last night. Maybe she’d just caught him at a tired and vulnerable moment. Maybe a tiny part of him still thought of her as his Angel. His muse.

But the larger part of him wrapped itself around the shit she had caused him, and nurtured the hurt. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to get one back on her for what she did to him. For the words she’d said to Jonathan before leaving him alone to get his ass kicked. For the words she didn’t say to the football team to correct the mistake and make it all stop. She never apologized. Not once.

Everyone had known about his attack. Word got around quickly at their school. But she never once stepped in and tried to stop it. Maybe she couldn’t have stopped the team, but she could have apologized. Instead, she hadn’t said a word.

Thanks to last night’s phone call, he had her number in his phone. He typed in and sent a message.

‘Jayne. Gig tonight at Fresians. Nine PM. Want to join me?’

He could relax now that she’d called him, but he wouldn’t feel satisfied until she was his, and he had hurt her back. It was vital to his state of mind that she not slip away. He had to get her.

A clean-cut guy walked up to Jayne and grinned. “Wow. That dress is so becoming.”

“Thanks.”

“If you come back to my place, you could be coming too.”

Jayne felt her face arrange itself into something disbelieving and unattractive. “Seriously? Has that ever worked for you? Fuck off.”

“Bitch. You’re a soft seven anyways.”

“Whatever it takes to get yourself through the night, buddy.”

The wannabe Romeo stomped off across the bar. What a creep. Why couldn’t guys just say, ‘Hi. My name is Blank. I’ve noticed you all night, and would really like to buy you a drink and get to know you a little better,’ instead of using cheesy pick-up lines? One of her old guy friends, Andy, had said that the nice guys didn’t approach her because they assumed she already had a boyfriend. Drunken douchebags don’t care, so they’ll always come waltzing up no prob.

Huh. She hadn’t talked to Andy in a couple months. She’d have to shoot him an email and see what he’d been up to. He had given her a lot of insight into the male mind before she found Lisa Tristina’s book. The things he’d revealed were so messed up and annoying, but they made a certain amount of sense. Jayne dressed in business casual most of the time, so she wasn’t in anything fun and carefree to show she was up for a good time. Clothes weren’t necessarily a guarantee that someone was looking to hook up, but men tended to be visual creatures, eschewing blouses for boobs in plain view. Though it hadn’t deterred the more lecherous of the crowd.

Maybe she shouldn’t blow Malcolm off like she planned to. Truthfully, her calling him had been way outside her norm – phoning a man and having him do something to calm her nerves? It reeked of relationship, and she was so not into that.

Strictly sexually, Malcolm was probably the closest thing to perfect she’d find. But he also seemed like a genuinely nice guy, which was a bonus. His music last night had been amazing.
And I would love to hear him play and sing some more
.
I wonder what Malcolm is doing right this moment.