RAPTURE: A NOVEL Read online

  The first sounds of music blast through the bar like a merciless tornado. I can hear every mistake the mixing board guy is making, but I don’t think this crowd can tell the difference. They don’t know what a good sound engineer can do in a place this small if they haven’t worked with mine.

  Jake has always been into more aggressive music. He’s breathed Metallica since he was a toddler. If he wants to scream his guts out on stage, it’s his call.

  My eyes drift open when the first song comes to an end and I take in the sight of the raging mass. They seem to enjoy the music. I do too. I like the rawness of the sound.

  Tony moves his head to the beat. "Jake is killing it."

  I agree.

  The thought of posting a short video on my Instagram crosses my mind, but deep down, I know this can lead to a potential disaster. Any other time of the year, sure. But not right now. Not three days into my vacation. This tour cycle has been brutal. The only human interaction I can bear tonight is with Tony and Jake.

  I film a few segments with my phone and send them over to May.

  She texts me back before I finish typing my note explaining that it’s Jake’s band.

  May: What’s this?

  Justice: My nephew’s band.

  May: Are you in Tahoe?

  Justice: Yes. Post this on my Instagram in two hours.

  May: Why are you in Tahoe in the middle of the divorce clusterfuck?

  Justice: Your point?

  May: The press is crucifying you.

  Of course, TMZ got their hands on the divorce papers before my soon-to-be ex-wife was served.

  Justice: Tell me something I don’t know.

  May: This? https://www.tmz.com/2017/1/2017/nikki-deville-says-hubby-justice-cross-has-a-short-fuse/

  I clench my jaw and click on the link I receive from May. Blood starts pounding behind my ears as my eyes sweep over the text. Fucking Nikki. She’s always been a drama queen, but calling me violent is a new low. I swallow hard and shove my phone into the pocket of my jacket. How the hell did the two of us stay married for seven years?

  Lesson learned, Justice. Don’t ever date an actress!

  The music is suddenly too loud and too heavy, and I feel like someone just shoved a hammer at me to crack my head open. I suck in a breath through my teeth and glance at the crowd. The white clouds of fog spilling from the tiny stage mist the floor. The bodies twitching to the drumbeat give the place a dark, horror-movie-asylum feel. I like chaos, but not when it takes over my life completely. Like when Chance died or like right now when my soon-to-be ex-wife’s ongoing domestic abuse allegations are starting to become unnerving.

  "You alright, boss?" Tony yells at me from across the table. His voice drowns in the music blasting through the bar.

  "I’m good." I nod, reaching for my phone in my pocket to text May back. When I pull it out, a dozen messages are flashing at me from the screen.

  May: Justice? I’m preparing a press release. Tell me something.

  Funny thing, but at the beginning of my career, I practiced one simple rule when it came to my personal life. No comment. After I married Nikki, everything changed. Any gossip not contained in a timely manner turned into a fucking abomination.

  For a second, I slip into a world of denial where ignoring the TMZ article seems like the best option, but the lie gets under my skin. I’ve never hit a woman in my life. Not unless she begged me to. If Nikki considers my spanking her in bed those two times we tried to get overly creative a case of domestic abuse, then I’m a fucking ballerina.

  Justice: No comment. Just do your magic.

  May responds with a thumbs-up emoji, which is her way of letting me know she’s pissed because I don’t want to personalize the messages she posts for my fans.

  Fuck it. I don’t owe any explanation to anyone for something I didn’t do.

  I put the phone away and absently stare out at the hazy floor. A smile touches my lips as my eyes take in the sight of the drunk, carefree crowd. They love the band. I can see it written all over their faces, even through the cloud of fog and lights. The frenzy. The desire to hear more. The longing of a release. Hale blood running through Jake’s veins is no coincidence. I’ve been doing this way too long not to know when a set is a success. The ability to read people is a gift, something every performer needs to possess. It’s a vital part of the magic called making music.

  That’s when the streaks of gold enter my line of vision. She’s small and slender, moving through the wall of fog and dancing LEDs, and her hair sparkles in the thick club mist like a star from another galaxy. All I need is a fraction of a second to determine she doesn’t belong here. It’s not even the funny-looking sweater and the lack of heavy makeup. She has this strange, almost desperate look on her face, but not desperate for a one-night stand or anything of that sort. It’s the kind of desperate that says she doesn’t want to be here. And I love the color of her eyes. Amber, like fire.

  "If you want to leave, boss, just let me know!" Tony yells at me, chewing on his onion rings. I shift my gaze and give him a nod. Two seconds later when I look back at the crowd, the woman with the golden hair is gone.

  3 Hazel

  I drive without any sense of direction. My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking. I need a drink.

  Shifting in my seat, I crane my neck and try to read the blurry neon sign over where a group of people are gathered outside an industrial-type building. My fingers tap-dance against the smooth leather of the steering wheel cover. Eight hours on a lonely highway turned me into a neurotic mess, and the thought of driving myself into the nearest tree to end the torture once and for all crossed my mind. However, the rational part of me stopped the sadistic one from doing such a stupid thing. Sometimes it feels like I’m two different people who are fighting each other over my sanity, because some days I know what I’m doing and some I don't. Today is the latter.

  I circle the block, thinking about getting a drink in the bar I just passed. Owen and I partied hard before River came along. I had my first fake ID at seventeen, so being in loud places with hundreds of strangers has never made me uncomfortable. There was simply never a shortage of wine and liquor at home after we buried our baby, and lately, I haven’t had a reason to go anywhere of the sort.

  After the third loop, I pull into the busy lot and park my Prius between two SUVs. My heart thumping inside my chest threatens to demolish my rib cage as I shut off the engine, roll down the window, and take in the sounds of rock music blasting from inside the building.

  Owen and I used to go to lots of concerts before my pregnancy. We went to see Coldplay, Foo Fighters, Linkin Park, My Chemical Romance, and Disturbed. My husband had a soft spot for loud, angry, unconventional music. But all that stopped when River was born and we were suddenly buried under a pile of medical bills and insurance paperwork. There was very little time left for entertainment.

  The moment I step outside, cold air crawls under the sleeves of my sweater. Trying not to pay attention to the catcalling and the stares of the local crowd, I clutch my fingers around the straps of my purse and make a beeline for the entrance. The bouncer’s face gives away no emotion as he studies my driver’s license. My outfit doesn’t seem to bother him nearly as much as it does the guys on the sidewalk who won’t stop the immature whistling. For a second, I think wearing the skinny jeans was a mistake. Or coming here was a mistake.

  "The cover is twenty," the bouncer barks, returning my ID.

  "To get into a bar?" I ask, glancing at the neon sign above his head as if the answer is going to magically appear there. "Is this male striptease night?"

  "Live music."

  Drawing a deep breath, I search my purse for some cash and hand it to him. Unbelievable.

  Inside, the floor is packed, clouds of white smoke consuming the sweaty bodies that are ramming against each other to the wild beat of the song. The place is dark and moody. I slowly make my way to the bar and take one of the only two empty seats left. The music blari
ng from the vicinity of the stage is aggressive and vulgar. Not my first choice if I were looking for a live band to see, but I don’t care. The desire to escape for a while is stronger than my aversion to the offensive lyrics that make no sense.

  The bartender approaches me with a lopsided grin. After requesting a shot of tequila and a food menu, I take a minute to study the anarchy on stage. The singer’s longish dirty blond hair sticks out in all directions as he violently shakes his head like he’s been possessed. He’s young—nineteen, maybe twenty—wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I find his performance, particularly his gut-wrenching screams, somewhat disturbing, but I suppose if the place is this busy, the band must be popular.

  The bartender is back with my drink shortly. Wrapping my fingers around the shot glass, I scan the list of food items on the menu. It’s strange that hunger is the first feeling that has awakened in me after two years of complete numbness.

  As soon as the song comes to an end, I use the opportunity to order a burger and fries, then down my shot and ask for another. By the time my food comes, a familiar lightness has already taken over my body and mind.

  The band is about to wrap up their set when someone very unsteady snatches the stool next to mine. Slamming his massive hand against the counter, the stranger demands a drink. His slanting body invades my personal space as his elbow starts making its way in the direction of my plate.

  Moving my food aside, I finish the rest of my drink and send a few fries into my mouth to soften the burning in my throat caused by the tequila. I like being numb. Because that’s when I don’t remember. Although the emptiness always consumes me the next morning, hitting even harder than the night before. But I’m too tired to fight. Too tired to think. Too tired to live—right now, I just want to forget.

  My peripheral vision catches the crew disassembling the mount of amplifiers on stage. The singer jumps into the crowd and makes a few rounds, shaking hands and taking photos before he disappears in one of the booths that’s conveniently tucked in a dark corner on the opposite side of the room.

  The asshole next to me slides his stool closer to mine. "Sooo, whazza guy gotta do around here to get the attention of a pretty lady like yourshelf?"

  I play dumb. "Excuse me?"

  He doesn’t beat around the bush. "You wanna go back to my place and have some fuun?"

  "No, thank you." I return to my food.

  He thrusts his knees into my thigh and slurs, "Youuu look like you c-could usha good time, suuugar. Come on...I can show you a good time."

  Anger simmers beneath my skin. I silently move my chair and ignore his remark.

  He doesn't get that I want to drink my alcohol and eat my food alone. "Whassit gonna do, sugar?" His hand goes for my thigh.

  "Get off of me!" I raise my voice and push him away. My first night of what’s supposed to be a trip to rediscover myself is being ruined by some asshole. Just my luck.

  "Come on, sugar." He moves closer, trapping me against the counter with his body, his rancid breath in my face.

  "I said, get off of me!" I shove both hands at his enormous chest. "I don't need company."

  "You deaf, bud?" The new voice drifting in from the dark has a hard edge and a hint of raw power. Then a male silhouette that’s lingering among the bar crowd slowly swims into focus. He’s tall and lean, but the hood of his sweatshirt that’s thrown over his head hides his face. "Didn't you hear the lady? She doesn't want company."

  As if on cue, a bulky guy in a Dodgers jersey appears and retrieves the asshole from his spot. The ease with which he does so startles me, and the bar-goers cheer him on. Two seconds later, the idiot who almost drunk-drooled into my food is ancient history.

  The mysterious stranger in the hoodie moves closer and gestures at the empty stool. "Hey." His voice softens. "I hope you don't mind. I promise to behave."

  "Sure." I nod, drinking him in. He looks handsome and sober. Not that his looks, or his toxicology report, matter.

  My pulse starts to race when he leans in and whispers into my ear, "Do you mind if I buy you a drink?"

  "I thought you said you were going to behave?"

  "Consider it a peace offering." His eyes meet mine. They’re silvery gray, big and bottomless.

  I don't know if it's the alcohol or him, but my stomach does a few unexpected flips. Something I haven't felt in over two years.

  "Okay." I nod again, examining his slightly-out-of-focus—one may even say stunning—face. He’s a little older. Looks to be in his thirties, but the good side of them, the youthful and more sensual side. A few silky strands of black hair sticking out from under his hoodie curl chaotically over the collar of his leather jacket.

  The big guy in the Dodgers jersey materializes behind us and rests his hand on the stranger’s shoulder. There’s an inaudible exchange of stares and cryptic gestures between the two, then Dodgers guy gives the mystery man a pat on the back and disappears into the crowd.

  "What are you drinking?" Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome inquires, keeping his distance, just as he promised.

  "Tequila."

  "Wow, you’re not kidding around." A quiet chuckle leaves his mouth.

  "Nope." I take a deep breath and break our eye contact.

  "What's your name?"

  I tilt my head and stare at the man. The hoodie he’s hiding under is distracting, but the longer I study his features, the more I’m convinced I know his face. The brooding eyes, the elegant curve of the lips, the sculptured cheekbones, the thin fringe of stubble on his chin. Even the letters tattooed on the fingers of his left hand.

  "Is this some sort of interrogation?" I ask carefully after a few failed attempts to read the word this man chose to imprint on his body forever.

  He shoves the hand into the pocket of his jacket and says, "No. I thought it'd be easier to communicate if I call you by your name instead of babe."

  Yeah. Definitely not that. I cringe at the silly nickname. "Hazel."

  "Hazel?" The corners of his lips perk up. "I like that."

  "Your turn."

  "Daniel."

  "Nice to meet you, Daniel." I feel somewhat disappointed. He doesn't look like a Daniel. The obvious bad boy thing this man has going on—the leather jacket, the boots, the hand tat—would probably work better with some cool, exotic, never-before-heard name.

  "You don't like my name?" The blue lights dancing in the gray pools of his eyes as he narrows them at me make me giddy. I haven't sat this close to another man in years. And right now, the two tequilas I had and the mess in my head are causing me to feel weird things.

  "I just expected something a little more...provocative," I say, sipping on what’s left of my second drink.

  "Provocative?" He leans closer. "How provocative?" I like the way he smells. His breath is minty and I catch a hint of clean ocean breeze and spice. His voice is suggestive, but not over the top.

  I roll my eyes, maybe a bit too dramatically. But I have an excuse—I can blame the theatrics of everything I do and say right now on alcohol.

  Daniel orders another tequila for me and a beer for himself.

  "Are you in hiding or something?" I dip my French fry in the container of ketchup.

  "Why would you think that?" He places his elbow on the counter and props his chin with his hand. The sleeves of his jacket slide down a little, revealing some more ink designs, but I still can't read the letters on his fingers. It’s almost as if he doesn't want me to. Fine, that can be the challenge of the night.

  "Because of...all this." I wave my hand in front of his face. "But you forgot the sunglasses."

  "I'm at a bar." He smiles again. "I’m trying to blend in."

  "Well, it's not raining here."

  He shakes his head and laughs inaudibly.

  The bartender returns with our drinks.

  "You either don’t want to be recognized or found." I let him in on my theory.

  "Maybe I just have a bad haircut," he counters.

  A man
this gorgeous can’t have a bad haircut. Even with his head shaved, he’d probably still look like a god.

  Yes, Hazel, you’re officially drunk.

  "Figures." I sigh, reaching for my tequila.

  We silently clink our drinks. He takes a slow sip from his bottle while I down the shot in one go. The buzz in my head intensifies.

  "So are you going to tell me who you're hiding from?" I ask, chewing on my tasteless fries.

  "My ex."

  "If she’s your ex, then why the hiding?"

  "You know, she’s one of those who doesn’t get that it's over when it’s over."

  "Ahhh...I see." His beautiful face is starting to turn into a blob. What a pity. I liked looking at him. "You want my burger?" I slide my plate in his direction.

  "I’m good."

  "Suit yourself." I shrug.

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "What are you doing here on a Friday night alone?"

  "Drinking."

  "I can see that." He brings his stool closer to mine. "Do you want to tell me why?"

  "What if I don't?"

  "I mean, I'm not going to force it out of you." He takes another sip of his beer. "But isn't that the point of doing this?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Going to a bar, getting drunk, talking to a complete stranger about your issues, and then never seeing each other again? Kinda like going to a shrink but for free."

  "You do that a lot?"

  "Actually, no. I just go to a regular shrink, but I wanted to try this since the regular shrink doesn’t do any good." He smirks again. Damn him. I don't know if it's the alcohol or if it’s me, but I want to keep talking.

  "Sooo..." I drawl. "You have a regular shrink?"

  "Is that a problem?" He cocks a brow.

  "Not...not really." I blink a few times to bring his face back into focus. "The way things in this country are going, everyone will have to have a mandatory shrink soon."