Christmas with a Rockstar (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3.50)

I’m sure it was supposed to sound elegant. Now, it feels like a dystopia.

We’re all soaked in a matter of seconds after leaving the car, but Rag follows Jesse into the multi-story building frame that’s only lit by his Camaro. I follow them in after a few more seconds, but stop just under the wide umbrella of a large metal beam. It isn’t perfect, but it protects me from the direct rain enough that I can stand and wipe the water from my face with my soaked sweatshirt.

Jesse starts to climb a ladder that doesn’t seem to really go anywhere at all, and before he can get too far up, his cousin grabs his leg at the knee and shakes his head.

“Don’t pull this shit. We’re here to vent.” They have a stare-off that lasts a few long seconds until Jesse picks up a piece of metal rebar and thrusts it across the open space, clanking against the broken foundation ground.

I start to shiver, but I don’t dare mention that I’m cold. A second later, Jesse screams. His voice bellows, broken up by the rush of rain.

“He wants my music. That’s it, man. He wants to steal the only thing I have left!” His teeth grit as he speaks the words, his eyes moving from his cousin to me, and a realization colors his skin that I’m in the dark for most of this. I know more than he realizes; I don’t know enough.

“What do you mean? That doesn’t even make sense. Just…back up, and start at the beginning. He came over and then…what?”

I can tell Rag has had to do this conversation before. I wonder how many times Alton Berringer has been a disappointment.

“Get this…he’s an agent now. Or he has a record label. Or…fuck, I didn’t even really listen when I started to smell the bullshit. He’s just doing what he always does, weaseling his way in by finding what makes me weak. He was like, ‘Merry fucking Christmas, kid. Let me fix everything in your life and sponsor your dream. You know…because I have such a great track record at being good at business.’ He did it to my mom so many times—lied? That’s why I can see it!” He bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head.

My body is starting to convulse now, and Jesse notices. I wince with guilt.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“No, you’re not. Dude, forget it. Just take us home. Get her inside.” Jesse starts to walk back toward the car, and Rag stares at me for a second or two before nodding for me to follow along.

“I’m sorry. He swings his emotions when it comes to Alton. A lot of things, really. But being pissed is better than being depressed, so if he wants to come break shit, I break shit with him.”

Rag’s insight stops when we reach the car, and I get that it’s not meant for Jesse’s ears. I also get that Jesse’s manic.

I curl back into his lap, and his hands slide around my waist again, his palms flat along my stomach and sides. His touch is a little more personal this time, though. He’s trying to keep me warm.

When we pull onto the main road, I feel his head come to a rest against my back, between my shoulder blades, and his breathing—the once rapid rise and fall of his body under and against mine—slows to a long and steady motion.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice. I don’t know if that’s meant for Rag, me, or both of us. I answer regardless.

“It’s okay,” I say, my hands moving to the place where his rest along my body. At the first feel of my touch, he grasps a hold on me, an almost desperate hold that comes with the release of one small breath.

It’s exasperation.

It’s exhaustion.

It’s disappointment—in Alton, and in himself.

The rain has let up, but it’s still a steady mist, tiny drops that sting more than pelt. We stop in front of my house, and Jesse helps me climb free, getting out with me and leaning into the car to talk to Rag.

“I’m good. I’ll walk her up then jog home. Let’s rehearse again tomorrow, yeah? Logan can come then, so it’s better anyway.” He reaches in with a fist, pounding it against Rag’s. I bend forward and wave to my side with an open palm, still holding myself to stay warm.

“You sure you’re good?” Rag asks, glancing to Jesse for a beat. I know what he means—can I handle him like this? I nod. I can handle so much more.

Jesse and I start to walk up the driveway as Rag circles around and leaves our street. I lead him along the side of the house, to the back gate. My parents leave the patio door unlocked so I can get in at night. They started doing that last year when Sam and I started staying out well past midnight.

“I’m okay here,” I say.

Jesse nods, his eyes lifting to mine, heavy with pathetic apologies. The mist and thin rain has become white. Snow flurries. That’s the one thing you get up here near these ugly, bare hillsides. There’s always a chance of snow. Not the real, magical kind you see on greeting cards—the kind that teases you and disappoints when it melts along the ground. Still, I like the way it dusts Jesse’s hair right now.

“Rag tell you what that was all about?” He closes one eye as he asks.

“He told me enough.”

His gaze meets mine again as he nods. His attention quickly goes back to his feet, though. The flurries are practically singing to us against the metal gutter, a melody of faint tings and splashes from leftover rain growing lighter and lighter until it barely feels wet at all outside.