This is Not a Fairytale, page 5
Then again, he hadn't claimed to be normal, had he?
"How old are you?" he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"Old enough."
"To what, finally cross the street by yourself?"
Narrowing my eyes, I checked the time and date on my cell. "Actually, as of twenty-three minutes ago I'm eighteen."
"Happy birthday, Harmony Wagers."
"Thank you..." I trailed off, expecting a name.
It didn't come from him.
"Caleb!"
The Delinquents' drummer suddenly stumbled his way between us, flinging an arm around my guitarist. A beer bottle sloshed in his hand. He leaned in close, face to face, and yelled at a decibel that really wasn't necessary now that there was a lull in the music. Kinda like those old people who were losing their hearing but were denying they needed a hearing aid so they went all "Huh?!" and "What'd ya say?!" to everyone like they were the ones with the problem.
It wasn't just a river in Egypt, Grandpa.
"Ember's throwing a tantrum again," Little Drummer Boy slurred. "She's throwing shit and threatening to turn Miguel soprano just 'cause he suggested she calm her fucking tits."
My guitarist - Caleb - glanced quickly my way before focusing on his buddy. "Take her upstairs, Rodney. She'll cool it soon."
Backing up, Rodney sat in my lap.
"Umm." I tapped his shoulder. "Seat's taken."
He sprang up, whirled, and nearly toppled. Suppressing a laugh, I looked briefly at Caleb, who seemed pained but kind of resigned, like this sort of thing happened frequently. Rodney regained his balance and steadied himself against the bar. He gave me a sloppy grin. Beer breath fanned my face.
"You're kinda hot."
I rolled my eyes. "You're kinda drunk."
"My 'check liver' light ain't on yet."
Catching him by the collar, Caleb pulled his bandmate out of my personal bubble. "Come on, Rodney, let's rescue Miguel from the danger zone." A nod to me and he began towing him through the crowd. Ugly ducklings and swans flocked around him once more. Rodney stumbled the whole way backward, oblivious to their adoring crowd as much as Caleb, flapping his hand all the way at me.
I wiggled my fingers back. I really couldn't help but laugh.
Swiveling in my seat, I signaled the bartender, a burly Hell's Angels type wearing leather and chains. His bald head gleamed and his fat, ruddy cheeks shined.
"Lemme get a Massacre."
His squinty eyes perused my person. "Got ID?" he rumbled.
A sigh and I withdrew my ID. It was fake but it was flawlessly fake. Harmony Winslow, twenty-one, of Brooklyn, New York. Pleasure to meet you.
"Satisfied?" I asked, rubbing his nose in my laminated face.
He grunted.
A frosted, bloody glass came sliding my way.
Cherries overwhelmed me with the first gulp. My jaws tingled as the icy slush slid down my throat, the cold spreading through my stomach. I gave a sudden shiver.
You know that feeling when someone was staring at you so intently you felt it? Like a couple lasers beaming you in the back of your gourd? I was getting that feeling now as I sat there shuddering.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Ashleigh back at our booth. She was slumped down, arms folded over her chest, chin dipped low, emerald eyes narrowed and spitting venom at me.
Shit. One of these days I would get through without needing damage control.
Sliding off my stool, I took me, myself and my Massacre over to Ashleigh. As I sat across from her the next band participating in Battle of the Hearts started jamming. We stared at each other amid the wailing of the next whiner crying about his achy, breaky heart.
I took a deep breath. "Ashleigh, I'm sorry about--"
"You're a selfish bitch."
That venomous hiss was so unfamiliar it didn't even register at first. "--not reacting the way you wanted me to. I know you were just- Wait, ex-squeeze me?"
"You. Are. A. Selfish. Bitch." Each word was enunciated into over enunciation, ending with a nasty bite. She leaned forward, hands splayed on the table, her teeth bared. Her face had contorted into this unrecognizable mask of fury. "All I ever did was try to help you, Harmony. And all you care about is yourself. You're heartless!"
Spit actually sprayed my face. It was a testament to the friendship I'd believed we shared that a nasty retort didn't come spewing from my own mouth. I was speechless.
I sat there gaping at her.
"Blake was just your way to prove you can do everything Faith can do, wasn't he?" she snarled. "She got a rich one, you wanted to show Mommy you could bag one, too. Didn't work out for you, did it? I believed you actually liked him but you were using him. Just like you used me."
Flabbergasted, I couldn't stop gaping. She was so far off base she wasn't even part of the game anymore.
"I never--"
"You can never stop competing with her, can you? But the fact of the matter is, to your mom, to your dad, to everyone who matters, Faith is always going to be the better one. The prettiest and smartest. You are nothing."
I considered - very briefly - taking the high road here. But fuck that shit. It was closed for construction and I was taking the detour.
A red haze filtered my vision.
Without giving it conscious thought, my hand snatched a handful of her luxurious locks and slammed her pretty face into the table. She screeched like the banshee she was. Split second later her claws gouged my arms. Pain seared, quick and hot.
This was no slapping bitch fight. Oh, no. It was a no holds barred, bare knuckled brawl, and I owned it. We tumbled to the floor, each fighting for dominance, fists flying and legs scissoring. My face rebounded off the tile and pain flared. I retaliated with a knee to her chin.
Rolling her to her back, I straddled her and nailed her in the mouth. Blood gushed from the sudden split in her lip. Her arms flailed at me but I slapped them aside and slammed my fist into her jaw.
The crowd had cleared a circle around us. A few brave souls tried to intervene. Not a single one succeeded.
I was lost in mindless rage. A part of my brain was shocked that this was Ashleigh I was pummeling and being pummeled by, my best - let's face it - only gal pal, standing back from a distance watching the scene unfold behind barely splayed fingers. The other, bigger part was all about survival.
Then the boys in blue were there and slapping some unfashionable steel bracelets on us.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
Chapter Five
More Dungeons Than Dragons
I sat in my cell humming some Johnny Cash.
Reclining on my bunk, my head pillowed on what consisted of only a thin piece of cardboard, I laced my fingers over my belly, knees raised and swaying to the beat.
I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on.
Stupid holiday weekend. If not for it, I probably would've treated this hellhole as a revolving door, in and back out again. As it was, time was going to keep dragging until Tuesday morning when Judge Judy reclaimed her gavel and slapped me with my debt to society.
Ashleigh and I had carpooled to jail together but I hadn't seen her since they'd whisked us in and began booking us. Something about disturbing the peace or some such shit. Underage drinking didn't help matters. After the photoshoot and the fingerprinting, I'd been given my new accommodations, where I'd be for the next thirty-odd hours. I could only hope Ashleigh was as miserable as I was.
My chest started tightening, my throat constricting.
I forced myself to hum even louder.
But that train keeps a-rollin', on down to San Antone.
I was totally pulling off the Orange is the New Black look. My black paint splatter jeans, Guns N' Roses pullover, boots, leather jacket, wallet and chain, all had been confiscated by Officer Happy Hands. The sound of a latex glove snapping into place reverberated from cinderblock wall to cinderblock wall, off an iron bar, ringing in my ears. I was pretty sure I'd hit third base with one of New York's finest.
She better respect me in the morning.
Distantly I could hear voices, crying, jeering. It might have been wishful thinking but the crying was familiar. It was Ashleigh's hiccupping sobs. We watched a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon once before and I'd been assaulted with her cries until an audio track had been burned forever in my memory. A savage part of me basked in the sound now.
I scrubbed my hands over my face. Instantly I jerked them away with a sharp intake of breath.
Duuuude. My face was throbbing to the beat of my heart. The pain started at a small bump on my left cheekbone, radiating outward in concentric circles until my jaw, eye, my whole damn face was involved. My head ached, my knuckles were cracked, I had bloody gouges in my arms. I'd demanded a rabies shot but apparently they didn't deem my wounds life threatening enough because they'd locked me up and thrown away the key without any medical attention. I could have at least used two or five Extra Strength Excedrin.
Jesus, the fucking floor had done more damage than Ashleigh had. Her claw marks stung and there was a spot or two tender from her bony knuckles but the real assault came from that damn floor.
I tried to keep my brain tuned to Johnny Cash radio but Ashleigh's voice intervened. You can never stop competing with her, can you? But the fact of the matter is, to your mom, to your dad, to everyone who matters, Faith is always going to be the better one. The prettiest and smartest. You are nothing.
Ashleigh had proven tonight she was against me. I'd never have expected it, not from her. We'd been friends. At least, that was what I'd thought.
How could she have believed those things? No matter what she or anyone else assumed, I'd never, not in my whole life, competed with my sister. Was I sometimes envious of the treatment she got versus the treatment I did? Most definitely. You couldn't go through life stumbling through the same experiences your older sibling had five years before you, partying, cutting class, all the while being compared to and found severely lacking, suffering punishments that she'd never had to for committing the same crimes, and not be a little envious.
But compete with her? Hell, no. Faith was always my bestie. When nobody else saw me, she did.
"Shit," I muttered. "Where was I?"
Well I know I had it comin', I know I can't be free.
You're a selfish bitch, Ashleigh interrupted.
I gritted my teeth. "Come on, Johnny."
But those people keep a-movin', and that's what tortures me.
The Man in Black wasn't as effective as I wanted him to be. Ashleigh kept intruding, drowning out Johnny with her snarls.
I tried a different tactic. I didn't have a sketch pad and pencils, but I had a mental canvas, one I'd used and perfected over the years to help me relax enough to sleep. It was better than those fucking Serta sheep. Erecting an easel in my mind, I swiped a brush across the pristinely white surface, my eyes squeezed tightly closed and tugging at the bruised skin of my face. The sudden spike of pain helped me focus. Johnny and Ashleigh both faded into silence.
What my muse coaxed from me wasn't the house back in Jersey.
My guitarist stared back at me.
***
Faith's gasp of horror Tuesday morning was not a confidence booster. It was a clear indication that however badly my face throbbed-burned-ached, it looked a helluva lot worse.
"You should see the other guy," I said.
She pity winced at me.
"It's not that bad," I insisted.
A blonde brow arched.
"Shut up," I muttered.
Able to finally stroll out of jail a free woman, back in my own clothes, I signed my release papers and accepted the brown envelope with all two of my personal effects. Officer Betty was manning the desk. Her hands were a lot warmer today.
I gave her a wink with my good eye. "Call me."
"Get out of here, Wagers," she ordered with a roll of her eyes. I noticed she was fighting and epically failing to hide a grin. "Steer clear of trouble."
"Oh, I want my mugshot in wallet sizes. It's perfect for friends and family."
I left her barking out a startled laugh. Waving over my shoulder, I started following Faith out, and nearly ran into another sad sap clutching release papers.
"Oh, sorry," Ashleigh mumbled.
My body tensed. "Apology so not accepted."
Her face as white as snow, lips red with blood, and heart as black as ebony, her emerald, bloodshot gaze shot to my face. A million and one expressions shuttered past, too quick for me to catch any. She'd attempted to fix her matted hair but the pretty, jeweled clip that'd held the locks back from her face was drooping sadly over her right ear. Her split, bloody lips parted; nothing but air whistled out.
Well, she'd finally gotten the puffy lips she'd always wanted without shelling out for collagen injections. I'd saved her a lot of green.
I didn't wait around for a thank you.
Turning the back on her she'd all too happily stabbed, I caught up with Faith out in the cold, blustery afternoon. The wind buffeted us down the street to where Faith's ride was parked and, shoulder to shoulder with my sister, I snuck a periphery peek at her. Waves tastefully straightened out of her hair, she had it pulled back in a sleek ponytail, a red knit headband keeping her ears toasty. The tip of her nose was Rudolph red from the chill, eyes watery. Her posture was also so stiff it looked like rigor mortis had crept up on her sixty years too early.
She was so pissed. Couldn't say I really blamed her, considering the rude awakening I'd given her Monday morning. I'd only been given the one phone call and there'd been slim pickings on who the lucky one was going to be. Mom would've screened my call. With Dad, there was a fifty-fifty chance that he'd be super disappointed for following in his footsteps or super proud for trying to fill his size thirteens. You just never knew with Dad. Faith had been the lesser of the many evils.
I stuffed my chapped hands in my pockets and glared down at the scuffed toes of my boots.
"Faithie, am I selfish?"
Her head whipped around, baby blues searching my eyes, ping-ponging from the right to the left. "Where did that come from?"
Even though she was out of sight Ashleigh's snarls still managed to whisper insidiously in my mind. I couldn't escape her damn voice.
"Forget it," I muttered.
We finally reached Faith's Laguna blue 2016 Corvette Stingray - mm-hmm, all 460 horsies and zero to sixty in 3.7 seconds - a luxury blast from the past I couldn't help but risk drool freezing on my chin over. It was a definite head turner. A wedding present from the Shaws, Faith had driven it only a handful of times, and turned me down every time I asked to borrow it for a spin around Manhattan. My lack of a license might be one of the reasons. My grand theft auto adventure with Dad's pick-up and subsequent nosedive off a low embankment when I was thirteen was a close second.
The doors were locked. "Come on, Faith," I groaned. "It's cold out here."
She stood on the opposite side of the car, gloved hands braced on the shiny top, staring at me. "Not until you explain what you meant."
"Seriously? You're gonna let us both die from exposure?"
"It's not that cold," she scoffed.
I stared back at her. It was a classic standoff, one of thousands we'd had. Only before it'd never been something as boss as a Corvette Stingray separating us. More like a mobile kitchen island, a Barbie Dream House, little cousin Clarice. I wondered what my odds were if I just vaulted over the car and wrestled the keys out of her gloved fingers. I wasn't ashamed to admit I'd have an Olaf's chance in hell against her. I wasn't the one who'd spent her whole childhood and awkward teen years in Tae Kwon Do. Dad refused to let me sign up because I was too hotheaded. He believed the great power I'd gain wouldn't be used with great responsibility. I wasn't ashamed to admit he was right, either. I still had the scar on my forehead from when Faith was practicing her forms with Dad - Pyeong-won if I remembered correctly - and I decided to try and head butt a board. Dad added to the little birdies circling me by cracking me with his knuckles. Instead of conceding defeat I repeatedly bull rushed his knuckles until my head split and I began leaking.
Story of my life.
I trained my gaze on the bridge of her perfectly straight nose, avoiding that cool blue gaze.
"Talk to me, Harmony," she implored quietly.
I wasn't going to crack. I so totally was not going to crack.
Shit, I was gonna crack.
My mouth opened to spill my guts, but...
Faith sighed. "For someone so smart you can be really stupid at times," she told me. "You're impulsive, reckless, hotheaded, blunt. But selfish? Harm, selfish isn't in your hardwiring."
I expelled a heavy gust.
Not that I was really sweating what Ashleigh had said so much, because I definitely could be self-centered, but hearing someone say she was wrong made me feel suddenly super-duper.
Faith's phone interrupted our moment and blared a standard Samsung ringtone.
Clutched in her gloved hand, Michael Karmody's sexy visage popped up on the screen. Her entire body tensed.
Looked like I wasn't the only one with problems.
***
"Thanks, Prego."
Faith beeped at me before merging back into the hustle and bustle of New York City.
And there I stood, gazing up at Mom's apartment building in what I could only call dread. Seriously, it was like walking up to the gallows. Because no matter how much Mom had selective hearing, sight, everything when it involved me, I was pretty sure my recent stint in the joint would be pushing it. My mugshot wasn't getting framed anytime soon.
As I finally approached, Harry the Doorman gave me a wrinkly but radiant smile. "Miss Wagers," he boomed cheerfully. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
