Hendrix, p.21
Hendrix, page 21
Probably avoiding me.
I walk in and scan for her left and right. One bartender pours a draft beer, but no Stevie.
A hand closes on my shoulder, and I turn. A beefy biker I’ve met before holds his other hand out. “Great game tonight, Hendrix.”
I shake it and smile—in relief as I have no clue if Stevie told anyone how we ended—and pump the handshake. “Thanks, man. Is Stevie working?”
He lifts up slightly out of his stool and looks around. “Yeah… she’s here somewhere. Your first beer’s on me.”
“Thanks,” I say, although I have no clue if I’ll be staying long enough to drink it.
By the time I make it to the far end of the bar, I’ve found her, coming out of the storage room with a bar towel over her shoulder.
She freezes when she sees me, her expression going slack.
“Hey,” I say as I move toward her, my voice gentle because I know she’s wounded. “I was hoping we could talk.”
I give her a smile… one that’s apologetic, and with hope, she might find charming the way she once did.
“Get the fuck out of my bar,” she says in a voice so ice-cold a shiver runs up my spine. “Get out and don’t come back.”
“Stevie,” I implore, but she brushes by me and heads behind the bar, closing the flip top so I can’t follow. I grab onto the edge and call after her. “Come on, Stevie… talk to me.”
I’m ignored as she moves farther away. I follow her along the outside, brushing past customers on their stools.
“Stevie.” I have to raise my voice to be heard above the jukebox. “Asking the same thing you asked of me… five minutes.”
She doesn’t even look at me, instead grabbing an empty from the bar top and putting it in a rack to be washed. She grabs a clean mug, moves to the tap, and pours. I follow her there, nudging in between two guys to get closer to her. “I know what happened, Stevie.”
To her credit, she keeps her eyes on the beer, but I see her spine stiffen.
“I’ll stay here until you talk to me. Follow you up and down the bar all night if I have to. You’ll have to get your bat out to make me leave.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, they’re arctic. She sets the beer down, barely glances at me but addresses the men to either side. “Gary… Chris… I don’t want this customer in my bar. Will you escort him out?”
In a nanosecond, both my arms are in vise grips, and I’m being dragged toward the door. “What the fuck?” I snarl, and because they aren’t expecting it, I manage to rip free.
I bolt for the bar again where Stevie stands, watching impassively. “I get it,” I blurt out. She doesn’t say a word, and the men are back, grabbing my arms again. “Now I know how you felt when I wouldn’t let you talk. It fucking sucks, and all I can say is I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Once again, I’m dragged backward, and my attempts to get free are impossible now. No one attempts to intercede, and more than one of the customers looks like they hope I’ll fight so I’ll get my ass kicked. It kind of makes me proud of them for sticking up for her, even if that means I get tossed out.
I’m pushed through the door not so nicely, and I stumble but manage to right myself. I huff out a breath of frustration and look back to the door, consider making another attempt, and realize I can’t afford to get injured off the ice.
“That went well,” I mutter to myself as I turn for the street. I’ll have to come up with a plan B, which probably involves stalking her at her house.
The door opens, a burst of music from the jukebox—“Spoonman” by Soundgarden—and I’m stunned to see John walking out. I was so focused on Stevie I didn’t even see her dad in there.
I brace myself because I’m sure if there’s one person who will try to kick my ass, it’s him. No doubt in my mind John knows the full story as Stevie would have held nothing back from him.
“You sure fucked things up,” he says.
“Trying to make it right,” I point out. “Will you help me?”
“Nah. Just wanted to come out here and gloat over how you fucked things up.”
I don’t buy that for a second. The man likes me. Or he used to like me, and he wants his daughter happy.
But he won’t affirmatively help, so an idea strikes. “I’m ready for you to do my memorial tattoo.”
“That appointment was yesterday, and I canceled it.”
I’d assumed as much. I obviously didn’t bother to show up. Pulling my wallet out of my back pocket, I wave it at him. “I’m ready now. I’ve got a credit card in here with no limit. You name the price, and I’ll pay it.”
Christ, it’s going to cost me a fortune to buy time with her dad, but I know if anyone can break through to her, it’s him. To get him to do that, I need a lot of time to convince him to help me.
“Any amount?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “Any amount.”
“Ten grand,” he says without hesitation.
I wince. “Ten grand?”
“Yeah… I’m going to buy Stevie’s diary back from that douchebag reporter. That’s the amount he paid to get it from Mandi.”
Well, damn… there’s nothing in this lifetime that John Kisner will ever do that will make me like him more.
“Ten thousand,” I agree on the price, sweeping my arm to his tattoo shop next door. “But I’ll get the diary back for her. I’ll track that son of a bitch down tomorrow morning.”
John grunts and turns toward his shop, digging into his pocket for keys.
Once inside and at his workstation, he points to the chair. “Do you know what you want for the design?”
“No design,” I say, having already thought about it. “Just the names, along my ribs, in cursive.”
He hands me a pad of paper and a pen. “Write them down neatly so I can read them.”
I do as he asks, and he gets everything ready. You think it would be hard to remember the names of forty-two people, but it’s not at all. Every single one was a friend to me, an integral part of an organization that is an extended family.
“Done,” I say as I return the notepad.
He glances down, his brow furrowing. “Why’s Stevie’s name on this list? I thought you said it was for the people who died on the plane.”
“It’s a list to honor the people I’ve lost and grieved for,” I reply.
He merely grunts again, and I don’t know if that was a good answer. “Take your shirt off.”
I do and settle back onto the chair. He reclines it, preps my skin, and readies his tattoo gun. As he snaps on gloves, he says, “I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not writing Stevie’s name with this list of other people, though.”
Elation surges through me. That means he wants me to get her back. “So you’ll help?”
“Sorry, man. Nothing to help. Stevie makes her own decisions.”
“You could at least put in a good word on my behalf,” I mutter.
“Maybe,” he says, and I’ll have to be happy with that. “But for what it’s worth… I think you both made mistakes and they’re both forgivable. You’re going to have a hell of a time getting Stevie to see that.”
“Yeah.” The dejection sits heavy. “I know. She’s lumping me in with her mom. We both abandoned her.”
“You’ve narrowed it down to the real problem,” he says as he turns on the gun. “Now settle in… I’m going to make this hurt more than normal for what you did to her.”
“I’d expect no less,” I reply and grit my teeth. This is going to suck, but it’s my penance.
CHAPTER 26
Stevie
Glancing at my watch as I exit Target, I calculate that I’ve got some time to journal before I need to open the bar. One of my bartenders is sick, so I’m working a double today.
I woke up early this morning with the insatiable need to purge my feelings about Hendrix and my mother, and I couldn’t do it because I don’t have my journal. That douchebag Carmine Betta does.
I ran to Target, the closest store that would have something sufficient, and it took me only a few minutes of browsing the stationery aisle before I settled on a vinyl-covered notebook laden with flowers, which is so not my style. I chose it because it has a strap and locking mechanism that, although could easily be broken open, is symbolic of the private nature of the things I write.
I splurged on a set of new gel-ink pens, and I intend to write over another cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal.
Just before I reach my car, my phone rings.
The name Olivia Parnell flashes, and my heart skips a beat.
“Hello?”
“Stevie?”
“Yes, hi. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Your mom is back. I saw her this morning grabbing the newspaper.”
I suck in a deep breath and then release it slowly. “Thank you so much for letting me know. I appreciate it.”
The little old lady walking her dog last week when I went to confront my mom came through. I went to my mom’s day before yesterday, hoping perhaps she’d returned, but there was no answer. Not sure if it was just coincidence the same woman was walking her dog or if she’s a nosy neighbor who came out to talk to me, but I left her my contact information and asked her to call if my mom reappeared.
My new journal forgotten, I toss the bag in my back seat and buckle up. As I drive to her house, anger bubbles as I think of all the things I need to get off my chest. I’m so angry, I might just start at the beginning when she abandoned me, but on the off chance she doesn’t want to hear any of it, I might need to start at the end.
Stealing my diary and giving my private words away.
I understand that my mom is too self-absorbed to even care about how this has affected me. Not only was my privacy violated, but her actions set into motion the destruction of my relationship with Hendrix.
The only man I’ve ever loved.
Granted, I’m not thinking too kindly of him these days after he was so very callous to me. Hendrix is complicated—not only am I suffering deep anger over the way he tossed me aside, I’m grieving the loss of love.
It was a new love, the words spoken but a few times between us. However, it was the start of something I had faith in. I truly thought he was my forever, and my heart is crushed in a way that doesn’t feel like it can be healed.
I push those thoughts away, bringing my mom to the forefront. If I’m lucky enough, she’ll have a sliver of conscience and will listen to me, because I need to walk away with three things accomplished.
I need her to understand that she hurt me in a way that no true mother would ever do to a child. From that, she should know she’s not my mother anymore. She’s nothing to me.
Next, I want the truth. Was this all a setup or was she really in trouble?
Lastly, I want to know where my journal is and how to get it back.
After that, I’m walking away for good, and she’ll be effectively cut from my life.
My phone rings, and it’s my dad. I answer, tapping the speaker phone as my car is too old for Bluetooth.
“You’re never going to guess where I’m going?” I ask as soon as we’re connected.
“Your mother’s? Because I know damn well you aren’t going to see Hendrix.”
I ignore that. “Her neighbor called. She’s back.”
“Swing by and pick me up,” he says.
“Nope. It’s out of my way.”
“Stevie,” he warns.
“I’m doing this right now. Plus… this is my fight, not yours.”
“Maybe so, but I’m starting to understand your mother has a little bat-shit crazy in her, and I don’t know that asshole she’s with. I’d feel better if I was with you.”
“And I love you for it, but no. I’m five minutes away from her.”
He curses under his breath but then sighs. “Fine. Call me as soon as you leave and given that I know what you’re going to say won’t take long, that means I expect a call in about fifteen minutes. No longer, do you hear?”
I hear him and promise to call. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight, by the time I pull into her driveway, they’re cramped. They ache as I shake them out.
With resolve, I exit my car and lock it as she doesn’t live in the best neighborhood. There’s not an ounce of uncertainty or fear within me. I am supremely confident in my quest, and I have zero mommy issues anymore stemming from her initial abandonment. In fact, that shit is so far in the past it’s irrelevant.
My legs are strong as I climb the porch steps, my spine a rod of steel. I don’t bother with the doorbell but bang on the door with my fist.
It swings open, and my mom stands there sporting a very nice tan. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me, and I can tell by her expression she knew this was inevitable. She almost seems to brace.
“How could you?” I demand.
Three little words. I’d planned on saying so much more, and yet that’s the only thing that comes out.
Instantly, my mom’s eyes fill with tears, and they spill down her cheeks. “Oh, Stevie… I’m so sorry.” She steps across the threshold, opens her arms as if to beckon me into a hug. I scramble backward to avoid the contact and glare at her. Her arms drop, but the tears continue. “It was Randy. He made me do it.”
“Made you do what?” I ask because I want the truth.
“Made me ask you for the money.”
“Were you ever in any trouble?” I demand.
“Yes. That part was real.” She ducks her head and looks chagrined as she wrings her hands. “It’s just… it wasn’t ten thousand dollars. We only owed about three, but they were very serious about getting it.”
“So you were beat up? That was real?”
Her gaze can’t hold mine, and she looks away. “Sort of. They did give Randy a message and roughed him up.”
“And your injuries?” I press, because that’s specifically what induced me to meet with the reporter.
She doesn’t respond but nibbles on her fingernail nervously.
“Mom,” I snap to get her attention.
“Randy did it,” she blurts out.
“To make me think you were in danger,” I say in disgust. I had considered that.
“Not quite,” she says softly, her fingers grazing over her cheekbone, although it’s no longer bruised. “He was mad I couldn’t get the money from you. We got into an argument. He gets angry really easy… I think it’s the steroids he takes, but he slapped me around. Then he told me to use it to coerce you into helping.”
“Jesus, you two are unbelievable,” I say, throwing up my hands. “So… you stole my diary, got the money, paid your debt, and went on a dream vacation to St. Lucia with the remainder, ruining my relationship with Hendrix in the aftermath?”
My mom wails, sobs wracking her body, but I quickly learn it’s not from regret for what she did to me.
“It was awful,” she cries, rubbing her hands over her face. “I caught Randy cheating on me there with some floozy, so I left and came back. My heart is broken—”
There’s no controlling it. My hand launches out, and I slap her face.
I immediately gasp and step backward, curling the offending hand to my chest where I cover it with my other. I’ve never hit another person in my life.
It stops my mom’s tirade, and she covers her red cheek with her palm. Her expression is wary.
I was going to ask her if she knew how much she hurt me, but I won’t. It’s clear she doesn’t care.
“I want my diary back,” I say coldly.
“I don’t have it.” Her tone is standoffish, her tears gone.
“Did you give it to Carmine?” I ask. I have no clue if she read the information to him or just turned it over, but I need to make sure she didn’t throw it away.
“Yes. He has it.”
I nod, knowing I have my work cut out for me. I’ll be paying him a visit tomorrow, but for now, I need to get to work. I don’t feel the need to berate her further. It would be a waste of breath.
“Do you forgive me?” my mother asks.
“No,” I reply and turn on my heel. I move down the porch steps and when I reach the bottom, I look back at her. “Don’t ever contact me again. As of this moment, we are finished. I won’t think about you from this day forward.”
Probably not quite accurate as I can’t control what thoughts pop into my head, but I won’t obsess over her anymore. I sure as hell will never wonder what could’ve been between us.
“Stevie,” she exclaims as I walk to my car. “Please don’t cut me out like this.”
I ignore her and make a hasty getaway. As soon as I’m a few blocks down, I call my dad.
After I recount everything that transpired, he asks, “You okay?”
“In some ways,” I admit. “I’m glad to know the truth. I’m glad she’s out of my life.”
“But she still hurt you,” he says knowingly. “And I guarantee she didn’t apologize.”
A laugh bubbles up and spills out. “No, she didn’t apologize. And weirdly, I’m not sure she really did hurt me all that much. I don’t know that I had high enough expectations of her that she could fail them. I’m more angry than anything, especially since she gave away my journal.”
“You’re more hurt by Hendrix,” he says.
I ignore it. It’s true, but I don’t want to discuss it. “The good news is she confirmed that Carmine Betta has my journal, and I’m going to get it tomorrow.”
“Hmm,” is all my dad says, and I wait for him to offer to get it for me or at the very least want to come with me to provide some muscle.
He does neither. I guess he’s really going to let me handle all this, which is fine. I’m nothing if not self-sufficient.
“Want me to bring lunch over today?” he asks.
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
He hangs up, and I drive straight to my bar. I glance back longingly at the Target bag that holds my new journal and pens. I won’t be able to crack it open until tomorrow, given I’ll be working the late shift too. My feet already hurt just thinking about being on them that long, but that’s the price of being self-employed. You have to do whatever it takes to get the job done.
