Page 13 of Strike A Chord

“Aww, is someone’s tummy upset? Here, jackass, take these.” Reagan handed me a glass of water and two pills.

“How quickly I was downgraded from sweetheart to jackass.”

Reagan’s boisterous laughter filled the room, fucker had far too much fun at my expense. “Depends on which side of Josh I’m seeing. Bathroom is across the hall, I set out a new toothbrush for you. Follow the smell of bacon to the kitchen and meet me there.”

I barely got the word out. “Bac…” before I hurled again. With everything I’d eaten for the last month emptied out, I crawled across the hall to the bathroom. I emptied the trash in the toilet, brushed my teeth and finger combed my hair. Jesus, if shit had a face, it mirrored mine because that was how horrible my reflection was.

“Remind me not to drink that much again.” I nearly tripped over my own feet when I stopped in the kitchen and saw Josh wasn’t alone. “Oh, um, sorry.”

“Josh,” Reagan smiled. “This is my mother, Becky.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Nice to meet you.” She shook my hand but had that same sly, knowing smile as her son.

“Tied one over, did ya?” Great, I must’ve been the chosen breakfast topic.

“Oh, um, yes, ma’am.” I side-eyed Reagan who nearly rolled off the chair laughing as hard as he was. “I’ll just call an Uber and get out of your hair.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Have a seat and join us for breakfast then Reagan can take you to get your car.” She rose and pointed to the empty chair between them. Guess I was staying. “You told your mom?” I whispered to Reagan, but she had supersonic mom hearing.

“My boy and I have no secrets. We talk about everything. Now, why don’t you tell us more about yourself. Family? Siblings?”

“No, ma’am, none of that.” Didn’t want to go into the sordid details, she’d only think less of me than she already did. She didn’t need to know I was the bastard son of a whore who overdosed, raised by her pimp who claimed to be my sperm donor. And I used the word raised lightly. The neighbors took pity on me and fed me and washed my clothes until they moved away. That’s when the abuse increased, and I started sneaking out and not coming home until I knew he had passed out for the night. Then came the point I never returned, and no one questioned where I was either. At least not to the best of my knowledge.

The mental trip down enemy lane ended when she set a plate stacked with eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Eat up.”

“Coffee? I’m getting a refill,” Reagan asked as he stood. “We’ve got half and half and sugar.”

“Just black, please.” These people were too nice, how could they be real? Waitstaff in restaurants were the only ones who’d ever served me. Did I tip them, or would that be rude in their own home? Rules. I didn’t know the rules, and their being nice confused the hell out of me.

“Deep breath,” Becky patted my hand. “It’s all gonna be okay.” Why did her words hit me, like I could believe them? An odd calm washed through me at her touch, a sense of rightness. I must’ve really been fucking hungover.

“Thank you.” Reagan sat a fresh cup of coffee in front of me and I inhaled deeply. Nothing smelled better first thing in the morning outside of bacon.

“I’ll leave you boys to it. Josh, just put your plate in the sink when you’re done.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“No more of that ma’am business, call me Becky.” I nodded as she left the room, feeling restless at being left alone with Reagan. Embarrassing, awkward shit was said last night, by me. I’d either have to lie about or fess up to it and given I didn’t want to ruin whatever was building between us, fessing up it would be.

“I’m, um, I’m sorry about last night.”

“You want to tell me what happened to trigger the drinking?” Reagan shot right to the heart of the matter. Not hey, dumbass, you said this or any of that shit. He wanted to start at the core and work his way up.

“Sal invited us to play at Rocktoberfest.”

“I got that much from what the guys said when they came in last night. What I don’t understand is why they all think you’re gonna fuck it up for them.”

“History. And mine speaks for itself.” It screamed and yelled and kicked and beat me into submission. No matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t go away. No one would let it.

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I’m calling bullshit. Don’t let your past dictate the present and drinking away your problems is just that. Go to practice, rock the fucking shows like you did Saturday night. Don’t stick your dick in anything that moves. Show them you are better than past you. Show them your new present.” Wow, Reagan’s words really shook me.

“I, um, I haven’t slept with anyone in months. I’ve kinda had my sights set on this surly bartender I know.” There, I was honest, and it didn’t kill me. Yet.

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