Page 5 of Beneath the Burn

It had only been two hours since Jay watched Charlee walk away. Two hours wandering the empty St. Louis streets only served to echo his loneliness. What if it took too long to become the man she deserved? What if she got pregnant or married in that time?

A stab of pain shafted through his heart, and he stumbled on the sidewalk in front of Lewey’s Uptown Bar. When would he be able to see her again?

Fuck. He was going to be on the road for the next couple months. He could call the shop, couldn’t he? He could keep in contact with her under the guise of coordinating more tattoo work.

He pushed through the front door of the bar. Since his escape from the van earlier in the evening, the music had deteriorated into a repetitive din of mechanicalistic effects and distorted vocal synthesizers. He scanned the crowd for his bandmates and found them gyrating in a circle of women on the dance floor in front of the stage.

How could they stomach the noise banging from the speakers? The Burn could produce more rhythm pounding a hammer on a cymbal.

He weaved through the crush of half-naked, sweaty bodies, dodging the sweep of arms and swaying hips. Too many goddamned people. The sudden tightness in his chest spread to his neck and locked his jaw.

No way in hell would he pass through the crowd without a random touch. An elbow, hip, or leg didn’t trigger his memories, but a purposefully placed hand, like that of the girl he was fucking in the back of the van, could bring out a catatonic meltdown.

What a shit idea. He considered turning around and escaping back outside, but he needed a bathroom and the bar was the only business open within walking distance.

A hand brushed his ass. He whirled and glared into the glazed eyes of a staggering brunette.

“Oh mmm, you’re purrrtty.” Hiccup. “S-sexy, too. Wanna fuu…cum?”

He jumped back from her waving hand and bumped into an entwined couple as they ground their groins together, damn near fucking each other to the thump, thump, thump of the bass notes.

A familiar clawing awoke beneath his skin. His shadows were digging out. He ducked his head and quickened his pace toward the restroom sign illuminated on the opposite side of the stage.

“Hey. Weren’t you s-s-singing tonight?” The drunken woman followed him, scampered around him, and looked up out of beady eyes set in a rodent-like face.

“Get away from me.” He sidestepped her and jogged around the dance floor.

The persistent gnawing inside him amplified. Chasing the dragon was one way to soothe it, and the brown powder in his pocket was prepped for smoking.

He raked a hand through his hair. Fuck that. No more drugs.

The bathroom door swung open, releasing the pungency from within. An older man strode out and clipped Jay’s shoulder before he could spin out of the way. His heart raced.

Inside, fluorescent lights cast a bleached glow on the white tiles, the scuffed concrete floor, and the two men at the urinals.

They didn’t look up as Jay sprinted into the private oasis of the only stall, latched the door, and leaned against the wall. After a few calming breaths, he fished the heroin out of his pocket and spun the small folded paper between his fingers and thumb.

The fix wasn’t a daily habit, and he never used needles. He smoked it when his memories became too much to hold in, often before he went on stage or when he anticipated an encounter with a handsey crowd.

He wasn’t an addict. He was a self-medicating nut job.

Deep breath. Another. He was about to find out the truth of his denial. Could his propulsion to be clean and deserving of Charlee bowl over any romance he might’ve had with chemicals? Could he be normal for her?

He dropped his head against the tile wall. Normal. His childhood hadn’t created an affection for normal. He was young when his parents died. Too young to remember their faces, their voices, their love. In fact, he would never know if they actually loved him.

Sometimes, he would imagine what being loved felt like. It might feel robust and exotic like the harmonic minor in the key of A on his Martin Acoustic. Or maybe it shared the beautiful monotonous strength of the glissando slide between short appoggiatura notes. Was it warm and soothing? Powerful and protective?

In his twenty-four years, he had never experienced closeness with another. Had his parents’ death scraped the part of him worth loving right out of the marrow of his soul?

Their death might’ve hollowed him, but the years that followed their plane crash nearly killed him. In a way, that year in his aunt’s custody had.

Enough. He unfolded the paper and held it over the toilet. He couldn’t unlive his childhood, but maybe if he faced it, if he actually looked at the scars it left behind, he could overcome it.

What had Charlee said? Celebrate it, not bury it under bullshit? A smile stole over his face. Now that he wasn’t overwhelmed with anxiety over her touching him, he let himself retrace her beauty.

She’d teased him about touching but had respected his physical space. Every time she’d smiled at him, she’d done so without intention, without wanting anything in return. Christ, she had navigated his freakishness with the patience and experience of an old soul. Perhaps she was the missing element of his soul.

Heat spread through him at the memory of her penetrating blue eyes. She’d looked at him as if she had the power to see through his clothes, his flesh, and his scars. Crazy how she didn’t flinch at what she saw. Rather, she seemed to reflect it. Beneath her grin and her spunk, she carried a burden, a preoccupation, something that guarded her eyes and kept her focused outwardly.

His smile fell. And he’d been such a fucking dick to her. That would change, too.

He tilted the fold of heroin and poured the powder into the stool, his hand shaking. The condoms from his pocket were next. He emptied his half-full pack of cigarettes last.

As he stared at his self-loathing habits floating in the rust-stained bowl, he felt a purging rush through him, lift him. His shoulders sat a little higher, and his jaw loosened. Was it that easy?

Receding footsteps outside the stall were followed by more. The bathroom door swooshed opened, closed, and stillness settled through the room. Finally alone. He kicked the toilet lever, flushed the gear, and exited the stall without a twinge of loss.

On his way to lock the outer door, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Was he ready for the real reason he’d sought out the bathroom? He hadn’t looked at his scars in years. Would an hour’s worth of ink cover the worst of them?

He turned the lock on the restroom door and backed up to the mirror, angling his body to look over his shoulder. His chest tightened and tremors gripped him. What if the sight triggered an episode?

If he didn’t take this opportunity, he wouldn’t get another one living out of a van with three other guys and no mirrors. Could he wait to look until they returned to L.A.?

“Just do it, you fucking pussy.” He yanked his shirt over his head.

He choked. No, he wasn’t seeing it right. He strained his neck. As the black outline took shape, a throb erupted between his ears and spread a burn behind his eyes. He backed up until his ass bumped the sink.

Flames traced the bubbles of his existing burns and danced around simulated scars. The edges of damaged skin, real and not real, were torn and charred and curling away from…

A sob escaped from deep in his chest. Steel.

The sketch was a rough black outline, but the new scars had a three-dimensional effect to match the old ones and were drawn as if to peel away from the illusion of steel plates and rivets beneath. She’d created the epitome of beauty and strength in pain. And yes, it fucking celebrated the freedom in survival. How incredible that she’d accomplished as much as she had in one hour.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, shocked to find wetness there. It was cruel that art could be so exquisite and heart wrenching at the same time.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at the birth of so many possibilities and thinking about the woman who gave that to him. A pounding on the door eventually pulled his gaze away.

As he tugged on his shirt and strode to the door, he knew he didn’t just want to be healed. He wanted to be healed by his own inner strength. Charlee had drawn the steel beneath the burns. And the next time he looked into her beautiful face, he would prove to her she had not misjudged him.