Bonds we Break: A Emotional Rockstar Romance

Scene

ANOTHER LINE AND I would be alright. Music pulses and the lights are so dim I can’t see anything. Bodies are everywhere, even in the bathroom. I look behind me at the long line, knowing they aren’t here to pee.

I check myself in the mirror, pushing hair away from my face. My eyeliner is smeared, but that is the least of my worries.

“What the f**k is taking so long?” a tall skinny girl behind me yells, a little too close to my ear. Her miniskirt barely covers her a*s, and her t**s swell over the push-up b*a visible under her tank top. Her attitude gives me cause to move even slower, so I dig in my purse and grab a tube of lip gloss to apply another layer, purposely ignoring her.

“What’s your problem?” the skinny girl asks, nudging me, pushing my stomach into the edge of the sink.

I turn around and shove her. She falls into the person behind her, causing a domino effect. High pitched voices curse, echoing off the tile of the bathroom walls as I make my exit. Just as I’m about to make it through the doorway, I feel someone yank on my hair so hard I think it’s been ripped from my scalp. My a*s collides with the sticky floor, and before I can find my equilibrium, I’m dragged further into the bathroom. All I see are high heels and combat boots. I try to grab onto calves and ankles, but I’m shaken off or kicked.

My arms flail behind me, trying to grab onto my assailant and pull her grip away from my hair. I dig my nails into flesh and I’m rewarded with a momentary reprieve, enough so that I can at least stand. It takes me too long to get my balance, and I take a shot to the face with what I think are her knuckles. I fall into the crowd that has now gathered, but when I right myself, all I see is red. Every instinct in my body is screaming to fight as I lunge, grabbing at whatever body part I can find, punching my fist at the air until it makes contact.

Again I’m yanked backward, but this time, I hit a solid chest instead of the floor. I am still trying to grab for her even while being picked up and carried out of the bathroom by one of the bouncers. Loud, pulsing music continues to pound as we make our way through the throng of bodies. Some yell, clap, or give me the middle finger as I pass. Outside the club, the bouncer sets me down gentler than I expected and gives me a sympathetic look. He knows who I am. Unfortunately, a lot of people do.

I sink down to the curb, my skirt riding up around my thighs. My tights are shredded, but my boots are still intact. I can’t tell if those are new scuff marks or just the old ones.

I rub the back of my hand under my nose and see smeared blood. I use the edge of my shirt to dab at my nose, but most of it seems dried up now. The bracelets on my wrist make music as they collide with each other while I try to smooth down my hair. I can feel the tangles and knots, imagining what I must look like. Taking a deep, clarifying breath, I place my face into the palms of my hands. My chest feels heavy and I hiccup a broken cry, trying to tamp down my emotions. Each breath comes in spurts as I fight to get control. A camera flash goes off, blinding me.

Fuck.

Furtively, I try to cover my face, but it’s useless. Paparazzi yell to me, asking what happened, and I try to shove them away. Someone grabs my arm, and when I try to shake them off, I realize who it is. I’m willingly pulled from the fray, flashing cameras, and people shouting my name. It’s more exposure I don’t need at the moment. I want to fade back into obscurity, to go back to that time when I served coffee by the beach. I couldn’t even get customers to remember my name, but they sure know it now.

I’m shoved into the back of a town car, glad to be away from the gathering crowd, and slump into the leather seat, finally able to take a breath.

“What the f**k are you doing, Mia?” Bret asks.

Reluctantly, I turn towards him. A flicker of regret passes over me but quickly dissipates when I see the pity in his eyes. That is the last thing I want to see right now. The bouncer probably called him, I realize.

When I don’t answer him, he continues, “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”

“How what is going to be?” I snipe, and I can’t help the venom in my voice.

“You destroying everything you worked for.” He doesn’t pull any punches, just goes right for the jugular.

“I think that’s already happened.” I turn away and stare out the window, watching the lights fade as we turn a corner. I don’t know where we’re headed, and I don’t care.

“It’s not over,” Bret says, and I scoff at his words.

“I signed the paperwork to dissolve the band weeks ago.”

“The band is over, but you are not.” I know he’s trying to talk sense into me, but I don’t want to hear it right now.

When I don’t say anything else, he continues. “You are young, you are talented, and you have options.” I’m not buying into his pep talk. “Getting into fights at a club,” he shakes his head disapprovingly, “is not going to change anything.”

I want to explain that I didn’t start it, but it only sounds juvenile.

I settle further into my seat, resolved to the fact that I have to sit here and listen to Bret try and fix my life. “You know what they’re saying about me,” I scoff. The papers and the fans blame me for the band breaking up. It’s funny how men are revered for how many groupies they’ve slept with, and excuses are made for them when they cheat on their wives, but a woman is labeled a homewrecker and a w***e. I’m sure the stewardess leaked the story to the press. Everything that was said on that plane is out in the public. There are no more secrets.

“The media doesn’t define you.” Bret places a hand on my knee as reassurance. His finger touches my exposed skin through the ripped tights, and the physical contact breaks something open inside of me.

I’m so tired and angry, but it’s the sadness I don’t know what to do with. I start to cry, finishing what I started on that curb before the media descended. Silent tears stream down my cheeks.

I hate Jack. I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. All he does is take, and this time, he took too much from me.

Bret reaches over and brushes the tears from my cheek. “Mia.” His voice breaks down the barriers I’ve erected. I feel like an untethered balloon drifting in the sky aimlessly. Everything I have is gone, the sense of unity, as f****d up as it was. Mogo was my home.

Bret is the only one left.

I place my palm over his hand and it stills on my face. His expression changes to something else I’ve never seen before. I reach across the space between us and crash my mouth to his with urgency because I don’t want him to slip through my fingers too. He doesn’t kiss me back right away, but I press my tongue against his lips until he lets me in. It becomes a chaotic dance of hands, mouths, and teeth mashing together in desperation. I straddle his lap, feeling the hardness of his c**k pressing into me. The drugs still pulse in my veins, hot like jet fuel. I pull on the button of Bret’s jeans, desperate to remove the barrier between us, but he forcefully pushes me off him.

“f**k,” he hisses, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth and adjusting his c**k.

“Stop the car!” I yell and bang on the glass separating us from the driver.

“You don’t have to…”

I push against Bret’s chest, closing my hand into a fist, and hit him. The car comes to a stop. His eyes are somber and full of regret, making me want to slap him. I want to hit him until he quits looking at me like the pitiful person I have become.

Before he can stop me, I fling the door open and jump out. I have no idea where we are and I don’t care. I need to get away from him as fast as I can. The slap of Bret’s shoes hitting the sidewalk echo off the brick wall next to me and I whirl around, putting my hand out to stop him as he almost crashes into me.

“Stay away from me,” I tell him. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor.”

Bret hangs his head, conflict clearly displayed in his posture as he runs his hand over the back of his neck.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he says.

“f**k you!” I yell as I walk away, more embarrassed than angry.

“Mia, this isn’t you. This isn’t who you are!” Bret yells after me.

I turn around and walk backward to put more distance between us.

“You don’t know me. This is exactly who I was always meant to be.” But that’s not true. I can see the defeat in Bret’s eyes and I turn back around, continuing down the sidewalk.

“Do not let anyone define you!” Bret’s voice calls from behind me. “Not Jack or Cash,” he says out of breath, “and especially not me.”

What he says are just words. They don’t have the power to change what happened or what’s going to happen, but I slow my steps, curling my fingers around my shirt as I hug myself against the chilly night. Part of me hopes he comes after me, but another part craves the distance. When I am far enough away and I don’t hear his footsteps behind me, I don’t know if I’m sad or happy.

I turn the corner and begin to recognize my surroundings. The buildings come into focus, and the industrial district of L.A. appears before me. The faint sound of music pulsing in the distance propels me forward.