Текст книги "Before & After"

I’m worried about what I’m wearing.

Which, all things considered, is the stupidest thing in the world to worry about. But it’s ten and Rike will be here soon, and I want to look cute.

I’m in a wheelchair, and can’t remember who the hell I am and I’m rocking a cast on my leg and arm, and I’m more concerned about what an idiot boy who wants in my pants will think than where I fucking come from.

“It’s official, Collins. You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter, brushing a lock out of my eyes.

I’ve put on makeup and my hair, though a bit scraggly, looks cute in its choppy piece around my face. For the first time in weeks, I feel vaguely human instead of like some desert island inhabitant.

It probably won’t last long. I grab my notebook and the phone, and shove them into my purse, and a knock on the door has my heart jumping into my throat. I blink and it comes again. This time it’s the kick I need to push myself forward and swing the door open for Rike.

He’s got two cups of coffee, and his grin is lazy as it tracks over me. “Why did the chicken cross the basketball court?”

I tilt my head, a smile rising, “Why?”

“He heard the ref calling fowl.”

I laugh, a surprised burst of noise, and he grins at me. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the nerves in my belly dip.

“You ready?” I ask, and his smirk deepens as he nods.

“Take these,” he says, handing me the coffees and scooting around me. I catch the smell of him—crisp and soapy, with a hint of lead and smoke.

“Do you smoke?” I blurt as he pushes me out of the room.

He laughs softly, but doesn’t answer my question until we’re at the elevator and he can look at me. “No. I used to. But now it’s mostly just the smell of it in my clothes from gigs.”

I frown. “Gigs?”

He hesitates. “I’ll show you, in the truck.”

Curiosity mingles with nerves, and I nod, ducking and sniffing the coffee. It smell amazing and I make a tiny noise, almost a whimper.

“It’s for you, Peyton. Although. Next time I hear that noise, I’d like to be balls deep inside you.” I flush and Rike laughs. “God, that’s new.”

The little admission overrides my embarrassment, and my gaze snaps to his. “Is it?”

His gaze brightens, and he leans down as the door opens. Murmurs, “The first time I made you come, it was against my fingers on stage at Barrie’s.”

I bite my lip, trying very hard to stay still as that mental image works over me. “I find that highly unlikely,” I say finally and he laughs at the unsteady note in my voice. Bastard.

“Sweetheart, you were always a dirty girl with an exhibitionist streak. It’s one of the things I loved about you.”

I flinch at that word. And he catches it. It seems like he catches everything.

Tommy is at the check-in counter, and he grins when he sees Rike pushing me through. “He gonna bring you home, Pey?”

I nod, and he waves amicably as we exit the hotel. There’s a giant, hulking red truck, all shiny lines and clean leather interior, and Rike pushes me up to it. Eyes the truck and me. “I’m going to lift you in. Is that ok?”

When I'm settled and he's got my wheelchair in the back, he climbs in and reclaims his coffee. I'm quiet while he drives, watching him and taking in the truck.

It's clean, almost obsessively so. There is a notebook in the back, with two drum sticks and an open guitar case. I swivel to look at him, lifting my eyebrows.

He grins. "We play. Scott more than me—his record label hooked him up with a band, so he doesn't really need me the way he used to. But I still practice with him and do the occasional gig, especially for charity events. And I write all his songs, so I work closely with the band. It's how we met."

"I fell for a tattooed wannabe rock star?" I demand, disbelief thick in my tone. He laughs, a burst of surprise. Grins at me, and I shake my head. “You do realize that this is unlikely—I’m not that type of girl.”

“I used to think that. It’s why it took me three months to talk to you. Because I was pretty sure you weren’t the type to fall for a tattooed boy with a shit past and a guitar. But you were always full of surprises. I think this one surprised you as much as it did me. Because that’s exactly what you did. Fall for a bad boy with ink and a song.”

I stare at him, and I shake my head. “No.” His face tightens and I let out my breath. “I think you were always more than that. You’re a songwriter. You’re an artist. And the tattooed guitar might have caught my eye for a moment, but it would be who you are, not the pretty face you wear, that kept my interest.”

He glances at me, and there’s something new in his gaze. Wild hope that makes my chest tighten in a way that is almost painful. “That might be the most you thing you’ve said since you woke up, Fish.”

That nickname again. I open my mouth to ask about it, but we’re pulling up to the hospital, and he pulls us to a stop, sliding out of the truck almost before it fully stops. I see the grin on his lips when he does.

Slippery fucker likes his games.

***

Dr. Nedleman is fidgeting across from me. It’s the first time we’ve met in the neurologist’ office, and I come in on crutches, leg in a big black boot. It feels lighter than my cast, freeing, and still ungainly. I’ve knocked it on the wall three times already.

Rike sets my purse down next to me, and his blue eyes dart from the doctor to me and back again. Finally settle on me. “I’m gonna give you some time with Nedleman. Do you want to meet in Lindsay’s room when you’re done?”

I nod and flash a grateful, if tired, smile. He leans in, brushing a kiss over my hair, and then he’s slipping out of the room. I focus on Dr. Nedleman and not the feel of Rike’s lips and scratch of his beard.

“Are you having any breakthroughs, Peyton?” she asks hopefully.

“No. I know most of my past, up until I was about twenty. A few years are kinda hit or miss—some stuff I remember, and some I don’t. And then it’s all gone. The past three years. I don’t remember. I know who my parents are and that I have siblings, but I’m not close to any of them. I know I’ve struggled with an eating disorder.”

She shifts in her chair. “Yes. How are you doing with that?”

I shrug. “I haven’t relapsed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you’ve reconnected with Rike.”

I nod. “Not sure what that means. It would help if I knew who I was. And I’ve researched. Retrograde usually means that it’s temporary. Memory should’ve come back by now. So why am I still a blank slate?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know. It’s just as baffling to me as it is to you.” She spreads some documents across her desk. “I’ve studied your MRIs and the x-rays. There was no lasting damage done to your brain. No bruising or bleeds, no permanent loss.”

“Except the memory,” I say flatly.

She nods. “But what you need to remember is that the brain is a marvelous machine. And while yours is a bit faulty at the moment, there is nothing to say that this is permanent. The memories could be triggered by something as simple as smell or touch or a song. The more you’re out there in the world, with the people who care about you, experiencing things and living, the more you’ll remember. It might take years for it all to come back or it could come back tomorrow all at once. We can’t say.”

“And you can’t help, right? I’m just stuck with this.” She looks a little crestfallen, her smile wilting and her eyes dimming a little—almost like a puppy that’s been scolded—and I wave a hand. “Don’t look depressed, Doc. I’m not bitter. I’m just getting used to the new normal.”

She nods, and gives me an uncertain smile. “This isn’t forever, Peyton. And you are making progress. Being with Rike again—that will help.”

I push to my feet, finding an unsteady balance on my crutches. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me. If I ever come across someone with memory loss, I’ll be sure to point her in your direction.”

She laughs, and I leave the little office. I get around the corner, and lean against the wall. Concentrate, for just a few minutes, on nothing but breathing.

There isn’t a magic cure. This is it. My new normal. I let out a shuddering breath and shove down all of the fear. Push off the wall, and crutch my way toward the room on the third floor where Lindsay is.

I don’t get to dwell on how terrifying my normal is. Not when hers is so much worse.

The room is covered in flowers, and a trim blonde woman who looks like she could be Lindsay’s older sister bustles by the door with another vase full of white roses, chattering a mile a minute. She sees me and her face goes as pale as the flowers she’s carrying.

“Jim,” she gasps, and a man lurches from the couch, snagging the flowers from her as she sweeps me into her arms, crying and laughing as she holds my head to her chest.

I don’t know who the hell this woman is. I don’t know why I matter to her. But I do know that being here, being held by her while she sobs and smiles at me like I’m the moon in the sky—it feels right. The same way Rike holding me feels right. But where I fight that feeling with him, with her I don’t. I relax, my entire body wilting into hers as my arm comes around her and I cling to her. To the right that she represents.

“Ma. Let the poor girl breath. She doesn’t remember me, and she’s probably wondering why the hell she’s being molested by a southern diva.”

The woman laughs and steps back, dabbing at her eyes. She fixes a bright, watery smile on me and says, “I’m—“

“Jillian,” I say and the whole room stills. I glance around and meet Rike’s eyes, shocked and almost hurt where he’s sitting in a chair near the window. Scott is leaning against it, and his hand lands on Rike’s shoulder, holding him there as I swing my eyes back to Jillian and then to Lindsay. “Not Jillian?” I say lamely.

“You remember me?”

It clicks with a suddenness that makes me sway on my crutches, and Rike is moving, catching me before Scott can stop him. “Everyone give her a minute to breathe,” he snaps, crouching in front of me. I’m perched on the edge of Lindsay’s bed and his hands are tight on my knees as he kneels there. “What do you remember, baby?”

I can’t look around. I can feel them watching me, the hopeful, hungry stares, and I don’t want to admit the truth. I send Lindsay a pleading look.

“Rike, get out,” Lindsay says abruptly. “Everyone. Out. I need a minute with my girl.”

“Linds, not now,” Rike growls.

“Yes, now. I let you play this your way and you fucked it all up. Now get out and let me talk to her.” Rike doesn’t move and she huffs. “Scotty.”

It pulls the other guy off the window ledge, and toward the man kneeling at my feet. “Come on, man. Let her have this. It can’t hurt, and you can get all your answers as soon as she’s done. Come on. Jim. Jilly. Let’s go.” With a little effort and some cursing from Rike, he herds them out of the room, and it’s just us.

She’s quiet for a long minute. We both are.

“It figures you’d remember Ma. You’ve always adored her.”

“I don’t,” I whisper. “I don’t even know how I knew her name was Jillian. She just feels right—the way I feel around you. And it slipped out.” I twist to look at her. “He’s going to expect me to remember everything now, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she says. “But he’ll take what he gets. We all will. He wants you back, Pey. That’s all any of us want.”

I shift up on the bed, and land on her ankle. “Sorry,” I say, lurching off, and she shrugs. Her face stays blank, except for the flare of sadness that slips over her for just a moment.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“Bad.”

“I’ve been a shitty friend, haven’t I? I’m so sorry, Lindsay.”

“Don’t. It’s my fault we’re even here. I can’t listen to you apologize on top of that. It is what it is—the hand we’ve got. We’ll play it out, just like we always have.”

I nod, and she tugs on my arm until I’m close enough that she can hug me, and I hold her. Neither of us mentions the tears that are spilled. Neither of us lets go, for a long time.

“Lindsay?”

“Hmm?”

“What were we doing that night?”

She releases me slowly. Meets my eyes, hers wide and cornflower blue. Assessing. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear?”

“No. But I’ve been hiding in my little hotel room. It’s comfortable and I don’t really want to venture past it. It’s safe, not knowing who the hell I am and how I ended up with Rike and you and Scott But. It’ not really living, is it?”

She watches me for a moment. Then, “We were at my bachelorette party. A few girls I work with organized it; they were in the wedding. And you were trashed, because you were doing my shots. I wanted to be sober for the wedding.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

She hesitates. And then she tells me everything.

Chapter 13 : Before

I don't answer her phone calls. I'm too angry, and there's the simple truth. I want more than just a fun time. I think that's the worst part. That if she were any other girl, I wouldn't give a fuck. It wouldn't matter if Scott liked her or if I could share the important bits of my life with her. I wouldn't give a fuck that she was keeping so much from me. It would be almost a relief.

But because it's Peyton, and because she's been different from the very first time she stumbled into Barrie’s, I care. I can't quit caring. And it's driving me batshit crazy.

So I ignore my phone and Scott ignores my moping and we both ignore the pointed stares Lindsay gives my phone when it rings. She's spending more time at our apartment. It makes me vaguely nervous. She's overlap in a relationship that I have very little control over.

There is a strange and unpleasant irony in the fact that I'm worried about Lindsay spilling secrets to a girl I'm angry at for keeping secrets.

I spend a week locked in my own head, pouring it all out into words I put to music. Because I've always been really fucking good at making music.

"Are you going to let me play these?" Scott asks on Monday night when I play through the riff on yet another 'you-broke-my-heart’ anthem.

I shrug and he scrubs a hand through his hair. But he doesn't argue, just retreats with his guitar and listens while I strum on mine, making notes before I lose myself in a six-pack.

The tattoo shop is always quiet on Tuesday, which is why we prefer to head there then. A few guys are talking to Arsenal about a piece that they brought in, and I eye them warily. If I know anything about Arsenal, he'll flag me down in a few minutes.

Scott slides along the counter, careful not to touch it. Rabbit is a good dude, but he hates to have the display case coated in fingerprints.

"She's waiting," he grunts at us, and I nod briskly at him before following Scott towards the back stall.

"Rike. Can I get a minute?"

I slow and glance at Scott who nods subtly before I beak off to flank the tattoo artist. He holds up the sketch and I skim, trying to keep my face blank.

It's such a douchebag tat. A reaper with a scythe and a fucking crow. I glance at the guys. "Who is it for?"

"Me. I drew it up." The dark-haired dude is clean cut, and he flushes, rocking back on his heels nervously. Like he knows it's not good. "It's just an idea."

I stare at the drawing for a minute longer. "What does it mean?"

Twenty minutes later, I retreat as the guys make an appointment and Arsenal gives me a quick, muttered, “Thank you. I duck into the back stall where Scott is already laid out, his head pillowed on his arms while Staci goes to work.

"Did Arsenal need some artistic input?" she asks, and despite the fact that she's bent over my best friend's back, I can hear the gin in her tone.

"Yeah. Dude wants a reaper." She snorts and I nod. "I'm tweaking it. It'll be more Charon and the river Styx than reaper and birds, but he'll love it."

"Make sure Arsenal gives you a cut. That's original artwork so you know he'll charge for that shit."

I nod, but I don't plan on following through. I love the shop, and I love the art that goes into it. But I'm not so talented that I think I should be paid for my shit drawings. If some douchebag wants it tattooed on his back, that's his business, not mine.

"You good, bro?" I ask, and Scott grunts, a strained noise. I glance at what Staci is bent over and make a low noise of sympathy.

It hurts like a bitch to have your spine tattooed. I sit down in the corner of the booth, slumped on the ground, and listen to the rhythmic start and stop of the tattoo machine, the smell of ink and antiseptic filling my senses as all the stress of the week, of the fight with Peyton, slips away.

I fucking love this place. It's probably the only place I can get close to feeling what I do onstage, when there is only the high of the music and the energy of the crowd as they chant along to my songs.

“You know, you’re a good artist," Staci says, her voice quiet as she works. "You'd do good here."

I blink out of my thoughts and stare at her. She's watching me with careful, bright eyes and I laugh, a startled noise. "You aren't serious."

"Why not? It'd be nice to work with a real artist, instead of someone who just copies the shit he finds online. You do good with the clients. And you’re both here enough. Why the fuck not?"

I stare at her for a long moment, and then laugh. Shake my head.

"I think it's a good idea."

Her voice snaps my head up and Scott lifts his lazily, earning a swat from Staci while she barks, "Stay still for fuck’s sake."

I barely hear it. Peyton is standing in front of me, looking faintly sick to her stomach as she clutches her bag like a shield and stares at me with wide, wide eyes.

She's so fucking gorgeous it hurts, and seeing her, something in my gut settles, a shard that was out of place sliding where it belongs with a sick snick that makes my stomach churn and my head spin.

It feels right.

I told her I wanted to know now if this was just a distraction, wanted to know before it was too late to get out without getting hurt.

But staring at her, I know the truth. It's too late already. Maybe it's always been too late where she's concerned.

This girl will break me into a thousand pieces, and I won't even care. I'll shatter with a smile and thank her for the chance to care about her, even from a distance.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, pushing to my feet. She's standing close enough that when I rise, I'm almost pressed against her, and for a moment, all I can smell is sunshine and sugar and her. I sway close to her without meaning to.

“We need to talk,” she says softly. I glance back at Scott. The session has just started and he’ll be under Staci’s machine for the next two hours, while she traces ink up and down his spine in intricate clockwork.

“Go,” he says gritting his teeth when the needle bumps over his spine and I nod once. Grab her hand and pull her out of the stall and onto the sunlit sidewalk outside Dragon’s Head Tattoo. I let her go almost immediately and she shifts, nerves playing over her features.

“Talk,” I say and she lets out the breath she’s been holding. I can hear the frustration in her huff, but I ignore it. I can’t let myself care about that right now.

Even knowing I’m being an ass, I can’t let myself care.

“You want to sit down or something?”

I shrug, and slip my shades on. It’s a dick move, hiding behind the mirrored lenses. I do it anyway. "What are you doing here, Peyton?"

"I'm the daughter of a southern Baptist small town politician," she says, abruptly. "Daddy started out a doctor–had a real nice family practice. But it wasn't enough, and when I was in middle school, he went into politics. It became everything our family was. He was mayor and then our representative in the state legislature, and it just–it never ended. Every election was a new step and it didn't ever stop."

I stare at her, and she shrugs. "Everyone expected me to be a good little southern belle. Perfect Daddy's girl at the political dinners and events and rallies. And I was. I was really good at it. I played my perfect part really well."

There's something in her tone that has me nervous and I shift, reaching for her. She jerks back, out of my reach. "Just. Let me say this," she almost begs, and I nod.

"I hated it. I was good at it, and I did what they expected, but I hated it. I got involved in drugs. Nothing too serious, just shit that I knew would piss off my parents, if they were to find out. Binge drinking and random hookups." She laughs as my stomach churns. "Sometimes I think it's a miracle I made it through high school. I was the epitome of self-destructive. But the part that really fucked me and my parents up was the eating disorder." She takes a deep breath and digs into her bag, pulling out a beat up journal that she extends to me silently. "You want the truth. Want to know what I'm keeping to myself. It's in there."

I'm shaking my head and stepping away from her even while she's still speaking. Because I might want the truth, but I sure as fuck don't want it that way, because she thinks she has to give it to me. "I want it when you’re ready to share," I growl.

"I'm never going to be ready to share this, Jokes. That's the thing. I hate who I was. It's why I left and came here. Why I don't talk about my past and where I came from, why I rarely go home, and have almost nothing to do with my family. Because I don't want to be that girl anymore and the only way I know how to be someone else is to BE someone else. I don't keep you on the outside because I want you there. I keep you on the outside because I'm still trying to figure out who the hell I am."

"You're Peyton," I snap, fiercely, stepping into her and pulling her against my body with a hand on her waist. "You’re mine and you’re fucking perfect. I don't give a fuck what your past was."

She smiles sadly. "You do.  You might not want to care, but you do. You can't help it. It pissed me off to no end that you almost fucked Lindsay. It was a fucked move.  I get it. I get why you were upset."

I stare at her and she lifts a hand, the tips of her fingers brushing over the stubble on my jaw, higher to push into my hair, and I lean into her, my forehead resting against hers. "It doesn't matter."

"Look at it. Read it. Then tell me that." She kisses me, a brief press of her lips and the hint of summer sweet sugar before she pulls back.