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“Thank you.” I lean forward and lightly kiss her.
She moves off my lap and says, “I’m going to cook some spaghetti. You good with that?”
“Yeah, sounds good. I’ve just gotta return some calls and then I’ll come help you.”
Waving her hands at me, she shakes her head. “No, you relax. I’ve got this.” She leaves me then and I feel like the biggest asshole on Earth. All she wants to do is look out for me and care for me, and all I want to do is crawl into a dark corner and be alone.
I want to forget Claudia is dead.
I want shit to go back to what it was a week ago when my biggest problem was the band.
Fuck, sometimes the problems you used to wish didn’t exist are the ones you would kill to have again.
Standing, I pull my phone out and return Tom’s call. He and the boys have been bombarding me with calls and texts. I feel like we’re in some goddamn female club together where we have to check in with each other every day.
“Hi Jett,” he answers, and I hear sympathy there.
Fucking sympathy can kiss my fucking ass.
Every time I hear it, I’m reminded of what I’ve lost.
“Tom, why the hell have you left three messages for me today? You know I always get back to you eventually. I don’t need three fucking messages to remind me.” I’m a cranky bastard tonight but I’m helpless to stop it.
“I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you.”
Fuck!
I want to punch something but I refrain; punching a hole in Presley’s wall would not go down well with her.
I rub my neck again and grind my teeth. “I don’t want people to worry about me, Tom! Fuck, I’m not the one who died.”
“No, but you’re the one left to cope with that death, Jett, and all I see is you shutting out everyone who cares about you. That’s not the way to cope.”
“I don’t need to fucking talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it!”
He’s silent for a moment. “How about we agree that I’ll call you once a day and you have to answer, but I won’t ask you how you are. We’ll just talk about other shit.”
And there’s that goddamn female group therapy club again. But I know he won’t give in on this so I agree. “Fine. You call, I’ll answer, and we’ll discuss the weather or some shit.”
“Anyone ever told you what a difficult asshole you can be sometimes?”
Usually, that would cause me to laugh, but today there’s no laughter in me. “Only every chance they get. And now I’ve gotta go because I’ve got three more fucking calls to make to the rest of our group therapy members.”
I hang up and then get my calls to Hunter, Van and West out of the way before dinner. And then I head into the kitchen to find Presley. And to see what alcohol she has in there. A drink is exactly what I need to take my mind off everything.
36
Presley
Sweat sticks to my skin, which in turn, sticks to my dress. God, I hate the heat of Queensland some days. We sat in the stifling heat of the church this morning for Claudia’s funeral and then we stood in the heat again at the cemetery, and now we’ve got about fifty people crammed into Jett’s parents’ house. And the house isn’t air-conditioned.
I find a corner of the living room that doesn’t have too many people in it and take a moment to collect myself. As I smooth my hair back, a hand lands on my shoulder and a familiar voice says into my ear – “How’s Jett doing?”
Turning, I look up into Van’s dark eyes. I’m fascinated with his eyes. They’re already dark brown but there’s something that lingers there that reveals his darker side. I’ve never asked Jett about it but looking at him now, I wonder what he’s gone through in life that’s touched his soul in that way.
“He’s not doing well,” I admit.
He nods in quiet agreement before looking around the room. I follow his gaze and see Jett enter the room with a drink in hand. Shit, not again.
