Path of Destruction

By Cara Dee

Rock Star Romance | Ex-Con | Second Chances | Family | Standalone
Their need for each other lights up as brightly as the bridges they burn. His possessiveness becomes her security blanket. It’s not love. It’s addiction. Path of Destruction is a story of grit, angst, and crawling together toward that second chance.

The first time Adeline Ivey danced into my existence, high on ecstasy instead of life, was at the party before the kickoff of our seventh tour. I spotted her out on the lawn, a gorgeous girl spinning around in circles with her arms wide and a big smile directed at the Los Angeles night sky. We shared an insane summer together on the road, surrounded by sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll—a combination that could only end in disaster.

Ten years later, I’m nothing but a number in the system of the Michigan Department of Corrections. The world has forgotten me, Lincoln Hayes, rock god and guitarist. Except for her. She hasn’t forgotten, and as the date of my parole hearing approaches, she tries to make an encore appearance in my life.

This story takes place in Cara Dee’s Camassia Cove Universe, a fictional town where all books stand on their own, unless otherwise stated, and the reader can jump in wherever they want.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cara Dee
• Release date: Mar 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370746187

Cara Dee

I'm often awkwardly silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story—while a huge draw and constantly present—is secondary for me, because there's so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex. There's a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly.Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance—passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions—and to let them evolve. Additionally, I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.Wait...this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.I'm a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, and geeking. There's time for hockey and cupcakes, too. But mostly, I just love to write.

Book preview

PART 1

ONE

Lincoln Hayes

2007

She was damned beautiful, still. Maybe even more so now than before. She'd cut her hair, though. It used to be long. I liked wrapping it around my fist while I fucked her.

Now it was short and messy—darker, too. Darker than mine. She tucked it behind her ear as she spoke. She was nervous and wouldn’t keep eye contact for long. Was my staring making her uncomfortable?

Good.

I folded my arms over my chest, my knee bouncing. I sat like some slouch, and she was as stiff as a stick. Still talking. Her lips moved. Every now and then, she'd lick them, and I tilted my head. In a past life, I'd pushed my cock between those lips. She was so fucking small and slight. She'd filled out over the years, matured, and become curvy. But the slightness of her hadn't faded.

Answer her.

I snapped back to the moment. Huh?

She shifted in her seat and sat a bit straighter. I'm asking for permission. I know I don’t need it, but—

No, you really don’t, I replied flatly.

Annoyance flashed in her eyes. It was cute. I'm trying to be civil, Lincoln. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t drowning in debt. This is a great opportunity, but since it involves you…

I shrugged and scratched my brow. You said it'd be anonymous.

Why she wanted to write our train wreck of a story was beyond me. I assumed it was Morgan who'd pulled strings for her to get a book deal—if they were still in touch. Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit.

You give a shit.

No names, she confirmed. No details that would give anyone up, nothing that led up to… She gave the room a glance and winced.

I stared at her. You can say prison, Ade.

She nodded and looked down at the table. I'm— She stopped, flustered. Christ, she whispered. I've had an apology at the tip of my tongue for years, but I'm angry, too.

I didn’t want her fucking concern, and she could take her anger and shove it.

I didn’t wanna stay, so make me the first inmate I knew to cut a visit short. I rose from the chair and said, Publish your damn book. I don’t care.

Wait. She stood up too, and a CO looked over at us. Every time I wanted to visit, you denied it. You never answered any of my letters until this last one. Why now?

She made it sound like she'd tried to visit me tons of times. Maybe three or four in nine years. A dozen letters, mostly in the beginning of my bid.

You said you needed money. I shrugged. If this'll help…

She pursed her lips, not my favorite trait of hers. That sounds almost like you have a heart.

I lifted a brow. So she was trying to be funny. Very hilarious. I'd told her once I didn’t have a heart, yet she'd ripped it out just fine.

It was time to get out of here. Memories of our past were all I had left, and I'd done a good job with suppressing the most painful parts. It was easier to be empty in here. Nothing else worked.

Good luck with the book. I turned toward the guard, and he opened the door for me.

Back in the safety of the corridor, I blew out a breath. Nine fucking years. Jesus. I thought I'd prepared myself, but seeing her again…

I regretted responding to her letter.

Drowning in debt.

The fuck did I care for?

Keep walking, inmate.

I would, but a sudden burst of rage got the best of me, and I sent a fist flying straight into the wall. Motherfucker! I shouted. Why the fuck did she come here?

Hey! The CO shoved me into the wall and glared while I nursed my hand. That’s one for insolence.

Oh, for chrissakes, I growled.

A few weeks later, I was heading out to the courtyard with a letter in my hand. On the way, a CO nodded at me, so I passed him and muttered a thanks. My lucky day. A pack of smokes. I pocketed them quickly.

You get ten minutes, Hayes.

I inclined my head and found my usual spot, a picnic table only one CO checked.

I sat down next to Nunez and Kid. I lit up a smoke and inhaled deeply, squinting. The sun was coming down hard for November. Sweet mother of nicotine. Some days were warm, some were frigid. Michigan was one moody broad. No middle ground.

God, I'm bored, Kid sighed.

Boredom beats the alternative, Nunez noted.

Kid side-eyed him. Which is?

He could be living in constant fear in a maximum security prison, for one.

I stared at the letter and fingered the edge that'd been torn up. Why did she write again? It was a thick letter. More than one page. It was dated a week ago, so they must've had fun screening it in the mailroom.

You got a letter? Kid asked.

No, you dumb shit. I got a TV. I took a drag from my smoke and left it between my lips as I pulled out the pages. Five of them. Wordy little bitch. She should leave me alone.

Yo!

I didn’t look up. A basketball rolled by my feet, and Kid went for it to toss it back to the guys playing hoops.

From your lawyer? Nunez wondered. You've served your minimum soon, haven't you?

Not for another year, I muttered. I avoided that topic. Too many took parole for granted when they'd served the minimum of their sentences, and I knew what crushed hope looked like. When you were doing ten to fifteen, being denied parole wasn’t some pocket change of time. It could be years of suffocation, of having no identity, no meaning, no worth.

I eyed the top of the letter from Ade.

Hi, Lincoln. I have until December 12th to get this to…

I stopped reading and tucked it into my pocket. She needed to go away. Disappear. The memories of the anxiety and the nightmares were too vivid—nothing I could afford anymore. It'd been a big goddamn mistake to see her.

Taking another puff from the smoke, I shoved at Kid's shoulder. Didn’t I fucking tell you to work out more? What would happen to his scrawny ass when I wasn’t here to protect it?

He scowled. He had kid eyes. Blue and bright with youth. He hadn't been broken yet. I work out every day, dammit.

Nunez snorted.

I shook my head and stole his beanie, leaving the kid's hair a black, shaggy mess, and he got cunty. What? I flinched toward him. You gonna take it from me? Huh?

Yeah, sit down, boy. He slumped his shoulders and pushed back his hair. Fine, asshole. Gimme my beanie. My nana knitted it.

Nunez laughed.

Jesus. I threw it in the nearest puddle. Lift iron so that doesn’t happen again, we clear? Don't beg to be raped.

Kid shot me a scowl and then went to retrieve his sodden beanie.

I lasted two days. Lights would be out soon, so I slid the letter under my pillow to read it in a bit.

You all right? I asked.

Kid nodded. He touched his banged-up cheek and flinched, and I batted away his hand. Was he fucking dumb? What good would it do to touch it?

Should I report it? He sat down on his bed and flicked a glance out our cell. Mack's got too many friends.

You answered your own question. I climbed up to my bunk and lay down to stare at the concrete ceiling. One arm under my head, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed. The letter burned under the pillow. You know where snitches end up… Half a joke.

He sighed heavily and poked my foot. I've made it a year without much fuss.

Yeah. That luck could end fast. It happened to most of us. Harassment was a certainty, and he couldn’t be a pussy about it. Then it'd never get better.

Shit, this place was a cakewalk in comparison. I spent my first three years in a maximum security facility before being transferred here on good behavior. At that other place, I learned some lessons the hard way. I wised up, bulked up, and buried a lot of who I used to be. Even here, though, while being a joint with medium security, shit went down often enough. Kid had to toughen the fuck up unless he wanted to be taken for a ride.

Do you think he'll try to rape me? Kid asked.

No. If Mack wanted to tear up his ass, he would've done it already. It was intimidation tactics. If he had an end goal, it was to milk the kid of funds. It's what you get for mentioning you come from money.

"You come from money."

I sure as shit don’t, I replied gruffly.

You're famous.

I used to be. You can stop talking now.

There were forty-three little cracks in the ceiling over my bed. I'd traced them all with a pen. I didn’t have any pens at the moment, so I couldn’t write. The COs got their rocks off during contraband searches, and whether you were allowed to have a certain item or not, they could take it for shits and giggles. I missed having a pen. I missed writing.

Missing things would get me nowhere.

I released a long breath and waited, counting the seconds until the nightly routine was over. Click, click. Two inmates accounted for in this cell. The telltale whirr and snick as the locks to each cell were secured. The countdown until lights were out. Toilets flushing. Toothpaste being spat out.

The fluorescent lamps flickered in the ceiling and went out, followed by a low buzz that eventually faded, too.

Lemme borrow your flashlight, I said quietly, extending my arm.

He fumbled a bit before finding my hand in the dark. Can I come up?

No. Fuck, I was raising one weak-ass little punk. I never should've bothered with him in the first place. Rolling onto my stomach, I dug out the letter and yanked the blanket over my head. That was a one-time thing because you were freaking out. Get some sleep.

I don’t feel good, he whispered.

Ask your nana to knit you a new beanie.

She's dead, asshole.

Oh. I winced. Just go to sleep, okay?

He shut up, thank Christ, and I was left alone to read Ade's letter.

Hi, Lincoln. I have until December 12th to get this to the editor.

Please read it? If you have any objections, I'll fix them before I send it off. I haven't changed the names yet, but I will. I'm incredibly uncomfortable about this. Sorry to bother you.

I flipped a page and frowned. It was the first chapter of her book. A book about us.

I shouldn’t read it.

Goddammit.

I didn’t only regret letting her visit me. I regretted ever meeting her. Why did she get on that bus? Why was she on that fucking lawn?

I knew too well how she sucked me in and why. After six years on the road with one of the biggest rock bands in the world, I'd become nasty. Everyone looked up to me—to us—and I never saw the reason. We could do whatever the hell we wanted. It was accepted. It was okay. But it wasn’t, so I lost respect for humanity. I wanted to ruin everyone.

1998

Destruction! Destruction! Destruction!

I poured a thin line of coke on the back of my hand and snorted the powder. The stage was dark again after the opening act had wrapped up. Crew ran around. I coughed and swallowed, wiped my nose and rolled my shoulders. My roadie set up my other two guitars behind a wall of amps. Rehearsals and studio time were taking a break. New tour, our seventh one. It was gonna be a busy summer.

Destruction! Destruction! Destruction!

The Forum in LA was alive tonight. Fans were creaming themselves because they'd made it to the first show of Path of Destruction's Beaten Path Tour.

Mikey got behind the drums, his kid brother having taken care of soundcheck. We were getting lazy. Everything was handed to us. Tony followed, zipping up his leathers after a pre-show blow job. A roadie handed him his guitar. Then Sam joined, and we were ready.

Destruction! Destruction! Destruction!

I drained my beer and threw it somewhere behind the amps.

The second I hit the first chord, the arena erupted in cheers, screams, and stomping feet. I repeated the six-note lick a few times, teasing the audience. The buzz coursed through me and mingled with the coke; these days, it was the only way I knew I was alive. It put a grin on my face, and my heart pumped blood through my system, offering a moment where I was fucking ecstatic. A moment where these shitheads weren't so shitty, after all. Maybe I even loved them for seeing me as a god who could do no wrong.

The sound of my guitar poured out over the arena, and some fifteen seconds into the opening solo, the spotlights lit up the stage. Mikey slammed his foot down on the bass drum and pounded the snare and the floor tom, the heavy impact traveling through the stage floor. Brow furrowed in concentration, I built up speed with the next few licks, shredding some of them. The roar of the crowd was deafening by the time Tony grabbed the mic to say it was fucking awesome to start our tour in LA.

Fucking awesome. I wouldn’t agree until later that night, when I met Adeline Ivey.

TWO

Adeline Ivey

1998

Pushing past gaggles of Valley girls, musicians, and their entourages, I found the lawn mostly empty of rich partygoers. The terrace was full, as were the pool and the hot tub. Everyone was having an awesome time. So was I.

A smile graced my lips, and I held out my arms and tilted my face up. I danced and danced and danced, and then spun around until laughter broke free, until the bright colors were back.

This is how life is supposed to be.

The massive garden was bathed in joy, and I lost my balance while trying to strip off my denim overall shorts. One strap got free before I landed in the soft grass.

My fingers played on invisible piano keys in front of me, the night sky as the only background. Black and blue against purple and orange. The lights of LA painted a spectacle in the smog.

Keep the nightmares away from me, Mr. Smog.

I giggled at myself.

Hey. Tiny dancer.

I turned my head, a piece of grass tickling my ear, and I smiled. That’s a good song.

Hands down the pockets of his black, faded jeans, he stared at me with amusement in his eyes, looking like some rock star. I admired the ink covering his arms. He had some on his neck too, where it met dark, short, unkempt hair. Hottie.

I stopped playing piano in the heavens. Hi.

He did this little twist with his lips, like he wanted to smirk but decided against it. Hey.

Have you heard the legend of why there aren't any stars in LA? I asked.

He sat down next to me and lit a cigarette. Nope. Let's hear it.

I closed my eyes and grinned. The legend goes, for every star that’s born in the movie and music industry, a star in the sky dies. At some point, there were too many stars in Hollywood, so now the sky is mourning. There are no real stars left.

He chuckled, a low and warm sound. You made that shit up.

As if! I beamed back at him, and the patio lights hit me right there. It turned him into a silhouette. Okay, I did. Was it believable?

Not for someone who's sober. He blew out a couple smoke rings.

I messed them up with a finger. Why are you sober?

I just got here. My buddies were talking about you, so I figured I'd do you a solid and advise you to stay away.

That’s nice of you. Are they assholes?

He laughed under his breath and shrugged. Mikey has a thing for semiconscious girls.

Hmm. Asshole, then.

The man looked familiar, though I could be mixing him up with someone else. I left parties to find the next one these days. Too many faces. It was better that way. No one to remember.

Are you famous? I wondered.

He lifted a shoulder. I play guitar in Destruction.

In other words, he was huge. The party was a sendoff for Path of Destruction, a good-luck and a slap on the ass for a good tour. If I wasn't mistaken, they'd just had their first concert before this party.

I nodded and turned toward the sky again. Good for you, fortunate son.

Get the reference.

I'm not going off to war.

Thank you.

Neither was the fortunate son. I smiled. The rock star gave me a bit of hope this lovely evening. Good music was getting lost in the sea of post-grunge and bubblegum pop.

Touché. He was amused again. Fan of Creedence?

Fan of anything that isn't played here, basically. The colors were fading, indicating my buzz was about to say goodbye. That made me sad. It meant I had to face reality, and I couldn’t do that. One might think a party for rock stars would play better music.

I needed my escapes. A constant string of them.

I threw the rock star a glance and bit my lip. He probably had all the access…

Can I come with you? I asked casually. On tour, I mean. When are you leaving, again?

I had nothing to my name except a backpack I kept at a friend's place. I could leave in an hour.

The surprised look on his face was priceless. This could be fun. For me—maybe not for him, and if he wasn’t tempted, I'd have to crank it up a notch. Because the more I thought about it, the more I itched for this to happen. Who knew, perhaps getting away from LA would fix me.

Men like it when you don't want it.

I mean, I wouldn’t sleep with you, I tossed out flippantly.

Lying through my teeth.

That crashed and burned. He didn’t see a challenge. Don't worry, I don’t fuck twelve-year-olds.

Ouch. Except, it didn’t hurt at all. I'm eighteen, numbnuts. I sat up in the grass, my hair spilling down my front. What about you, Gramps?

What's this, Twenty Questions? he drawled. I'm twenty-nine, and do you know what's expected of chicks who—scratch that. Do you even know what to do with a cock?

I suck it like a lollipop. I showed my palms, a lazy grin on my face. Sorry, no virtue to protect.

He merely laughed, and I bit my lip and scrunched my nose.

So…? Was he gonna let me tag along? A girl had to know.

What's your name? he asked.

Adeline.

He nodded and stood up. The bus will be at the Beverly Wilshire. In the unlikelihood that you don't change your mind, be there at seven AM and ask for Lincoln. Your name will be on the list.

He started walking away while I did a little shimmy in the grass. Fuck yes, I was going on tour. More importantly, I was leaving the West Coast! That made me giggle, but I stopped when I had another question.

Who's Lincoln? I called after him.

He flicked his cigarette into the pool. The guy whose cock you'll suck like a lollipop.

2007

Jesse! I shouted up the stairs.

I couldn’t have misplaced it, could I? No. I was sure I'd put it on my desk in my room.

What's up? He trailed down the creaking steps, dressed for his shift at the restaurant.

The folder with the chapters I printed? I studied him for signs that he could be withholding something from me. He'd been pissy when I told him I didn’t want him to read what I'd written about my past. Have you seen it?

He furrowed his brow, then shrugged and passed me on his way to the kitchen. No clue. Why? You gonna print out the rest?

Hmm.

I shook my head and followed him. I'm gonna throw them out. I already deleted the file on the computer.

He spun on me, incredulous. Are you serious?

"Yes, I'm serious. My scowl hopefully told him I was in no mood to argue about it. Now, I can't find the crap I printed, so are you sure you haven't seen them?"

I was a damn fool. A damn idiot. Before seeing Lincoln last month, I'd prepared a letter and the first few chapters for him to read. Thankfully, I'd changed my mind at the last minute because, holy hell, I couldn’t imagine anything worse at this point than if he read that drivel.

Seeing him face-to-face for the first time in nine years had caused me to do a one-eighty about the whole idea of publishing.

It'd been a silly idea, anyway. An ad in the paper: Write Your Fortune, Send Us Your Manuscript.

You're being fucking stubborn, Jesse told me. People write memoirs all the time, and you worked on that thing for a whole year.

A year was nothing.

I couldn’t. My mind was set after a month of thinking, rethinking, and going back and forth so much it made my head spin. It messed with me, having a fresh memory of Lincoln.

He was real again.

Lincoln was real.

In the last decade, he'd become more and more a ghost. A twinge that tugged at me every now and then, or visited me when I slept. Now there was the crystal-clear image of his face and hardened features, his body in that navy blue, scrub-like prison uniform, and fuck-off attitude.

He despised me.

Swallowing that pain for now, I grabbed a bottle of water as Jesse slumped down at the table, worry creasing his forehead. I knew where his mind was at, but we'd find another income—somehow.

Where's Abel? he asked quietly.

Not home from school yet. I walked over to him and rubbed his neck gently. He was stressed out, and I hated it. The boy was only nineteen. His biggest concerns should be girls and college. Instead, it was always about bills and getting more hours. You look more and more like your father every day. You know that?

He smiled faintly and closed his eyes. I miss him.

Me, too. I refused to get emotional. In front of Jesse and his little brother, I had to remain strong. Do you ever miss your mother?

Don’t be stupid. He hung his head, making it clear my job for the next few minutes was to keep massaging his neck. I see you every day.

I let out a choked little laugh, loving him more than I could put into words.

We'll fix this, Jesse. I kissed the top of his head. I promise.

THREE

Lincoln Hayes

2007

Ileaned my shoulder against the wall and crossed my ankles, waiting impatiently for the dispatcher to put my pop through the line. Mack walked down the hall toward the phone booths, and I clenched my jaw in restraint. Between him and me, there was no contest. I could make him back off from Kid—no issue—but I didn’t swagger with a fucking crew and think I owned the joint. Without buddies to back me up, I wasn’t gonna look for trouble.

Pop came through with his standard, Yellow. You all right, son?

Yeah, hey. I trapped the phone between my cheek and shoulder and cracked my knuckles. I need you to get in touch with someone for me. You remember Adeline?

Of course.

I nodded to myself and retrieved the letter from my pocket. Her address was written on the back of the envelope, and I gave Pop the information. She belonged in Baltimore, yet her address put her in Detroit.

I want you to give her money, I told him. I don't know what's going on with her, but she's in some financial jam, and she got the stupid idea to publish a book on how she met the band.

Over my dead body was my new response.

That…doesn’t seem like her. Pop sounded confused, and I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t gonna dig, though. She's not the type of person to exploit your past.

How would he know? He hadn't seen her in almost ten years. Not that it mattered.

She was gonna do it under a pseudonym and change our names or whatever. I waved it off. Give her what she needs and tell her to burn that fucking book.

Hmm. Did you read something she wrote? he asked.

Boy, fucking did I. Ade's voice was as soft as it was warm, and it shone through the pages. She brought back memories I didn’t want anymore. They didn’t fit. If I could smash them all out of my skull, I would. When she mentioned tinkering on a nonexistent piano in the letter—chapter, whatever—I almost cracked. And the story of how there were no stars in LA…? I remembered her silly grin.

A bit. I coughed into my fist and jerked my chin in acknowledgment to the fucker who waited to use the phone. I don't want any part of it.

Why?

Because I couldn’t allow Ade to shock me to life in a place like this. It would only bring me misery. The anxiety and grief would return. I would start to care. I wouldn’t be closed off. After that, I'd be done for. There were visions of motherfuckers taking advantage, and—shit. No. The answer was simply no.

Just… Can you handle it for me?

He knew I wasn’t gonna budge. Yeah, sure. If I can't find her number, I'll drive over on my way to see you.

I'd forgotten he was coming soon. Definitely a pleasant reminder. I decided right then and there I wasn’t gonna ask for details. As long as Ade was handled, I was cool.

You know what I think is weird? Kid asked.

I thought it was weird that he always had to talk. I also thought it was weird how goddamn slow the line to the canteen moved. Only three inmates ahead of me now. Rogers would probably stock up on hydrated onion and ramen. Fucker. If there was no chicken flavor by the time it was my turn, I'd blow my shit.

Nunez would buy stamps, chili powder, honey packets, and tea.

Hey. Kid nudged me and adjusted his beanie. How come the prices in the canteen go up, but our pay numbers stay the same? He looked adorably stupid and confused. Cocked head, thinking hard. "Two days of work will give me a can of Pepsi, Lincoln. That’s robbery."

My mouth twitched, and I shook my head at him. Tell your parents to add more money to your account.

He looked down. They cut me off.

You poor thing, I responded dryly. If he let that slip to Mack, maybe the bastard would ease up on the occasional beatings. Turning my back on Kid, I waited while Nunez ordered his shit. He was gonna write to his children, as he did every week. Judging by the Cheetos and noodles he bought, he was gonna cook some spread, too.

Then it was my turn, and I eyed the shelves before quickly scanning the price list. Robbery was right. I gave my digits and scratched my jaw. I needed to shave soon.

One of those sad excuses you call pens. I was limited to one, which sucked. I lived among thieves, and pens disappeared. Even when they were bendy and couldn’t be turned into shanks. Uh, two packs of ramen—chicken if you've got it. Bag of Fritos, two stamps, a pack of Marlboros—

Funny.

I know, right? I grinned, checking the list some more. Give me two hot sauces, too. I threw a glance over my shoulder and then added, And a can of Pepsi.

I snorted when I heard the total but moved right the fuck along with my items, and I tossed Kid his damn soda.

His whole face lit up.

I regretted buying the Pepsi. I should be toughening him up, not giving him stuff for free.

Why wasn’t she in Baltimore? She had family there. Her cousin, if I remembered correctly. There was no one for her in Michigan.

I drew my pen along the cracks in the concrete wall. Lights went out a while ago. Kid was sleeping fitfully, having another nightmare. I tossed and turned, eventually returning to my side so I could scribble on the wall. Stop thinking, I wrote. Stop thinking.

I thought of road signs; yeah, only one p in stop.

If I closed my eyes, all I saw were Ade and the memories her first chapter dusted off. If I strained my ears, I could hear George in the next cell humming a low, bluesy tune. It was a kick in my songwriter brain. I hadn't written lyrics in years, and I didn’t want to. I gave up journaling 'cause it made me think. Stop fucking thinking.

George's humming broke through my wall, growing somber and fainter. Could I catch a damn break for once? I released a sigh and wrote what came to mind.

I met a kid thief on the lawn, that one night

No fright, sharp tongue, and she…and you

Spoke of songs long, long before your time

Eyes of Emerald Isle, soul of Joplin, and she…and you

My first mistake was to think she was unspoiled and clueless. She'd called herself a stupid teen and inexperienced in the chapter, which was bullshit. Only a person who'd seen more bad than good would throw caution to the wind and say fuck it like she did. She was reckless back then because she had nothing to lose. She wasn’t inexperienced. She'd just gotten a rough fucking start. So she danced into my life, high on ecstasy and not life, and she screwed me over.

Were a tiny dancer with sticky fingers, who

Stole something…stole something of mine

Fuck. I shifted onto my back and threw an arm over my face. If I hadn't met her…where would I be today? Rehab, maybe. Waiting impatiently for the next royalty check? I couldn’t picture myself married. No kids. Perhaps I'd be a has-been who spoke of the glory days in interviews and specials on TV. I loved music too much to leave it behind, yet…I kinda did that the day I was arrested.

Fuck her.

If I hadn't met her, I wouldn’t be in here.

Bitterness and anger seeped into me, and I kicked off the blanket before I jumped down to the floor. A dozen reps of push-ups would hopefully exhaust me…

Kid's convenient offer flashed through my thoughts, but I wouldn’t be able to go easy on him. I got it, I got it. I was the prick who accepted blow jobs as a payment so he'd feel more secure that I'd protect him, though even I had limits. Only violence coursed through me, so I took it out on the concrete floor instead.

Who pissed you off? Nunez asked.

I slapped the stack of letters onto the picnic table and sat down. I could kill that fucking cunt. The CO who made a fortune smuggling smokes to me snorted and turned away from the table. My fingers shook as I lit up a smoke and took a calming drag. Holy fuck, someone give me strength. The cold made me bunch up my shoulders. If Kid were around, I would've stolen his beanie again.

Four goddamn letters. She'd sent another four letters, thick ones. If they were more chapters, I didn’t know what I'd do. My rage was misplaced; I knew that. They were dated, so I could see she'd sent them around the same time as the first, and they'd probably gotten stuck in the mailroom, but Jesus H, my blood was boiling.

I'm not going to pretend I know what you're talking about. Nunez rubbed his hands together to warm 'em up. I've been meaning to ask you something.

What? I muttered.

Lowell's getting out next month.

I didn’t know who that was, so I just stared at him.

He plays the guitar at church services?

Oh.

What about it? I flicked away some ashes and eyed the CO. He tapped his watch pointedly.

We need a new guitar player, Nunez said, and I was already shaking my head. I didn’t play anymore. Oh, come on, man! You pussy. Don't say you've forgotten how to play.

I wouldn’t put it past me. I hadn't picked up an instrument in a decade. Forget it. Not interested—all right, all right—Jesus. The CO wasn’t having it anymore. I took a final puff and stubbed out the cigarette, then frowned when he walked closer and held out his hand.

Your smokes, he said. They're doing a random search this week. I'll keep them for now. Your lighter, too.

Good to know. I handed them over.

Well, now it's not gonna be random anymore, Nunez replied with a frown. Thanks for ruining the surprise.

I chuckled, and the CO walked off with an eye-roll.

Nunez slid his gaze my way again. "I'm serious, ese. You gotta live, even in here. You're not on death row."

Shut up. Was it so fucking hard to keep a lid on talk of yesterday and tomorrow? I wanted my days to blend together and be jack shit. If I