Page 43 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

He hands me his phone, and I stare at the photo on the screen. Four guys crowd the picture, arms slung around each other, vying to be closest to the camera. I instantly recognize them though the photo is kind of blurry. They’re younger here too than they were in the posters that still hang on my walls at my mother’s house. Jase Hunt actually looks happy. His lopsided grin is accentuated by his shaggy, unkempt hair. He’s not gaunt and his blue eyes sparkle much brighter than they do in the later photos of the band. And he’s wearing a familiar pair of tight, ripped jeans. They’re standing out front of Nox’s dad’s studio, though it’s much different from what it is now.

“You were Jase Hunt?” I hand his phone back to him. It’s almost unfathomable that I could be sitting in a truck with a rock legend. A boy I’d had fantasies about in my teenage years, grown into a man who refuses to let me go. I study his face in a way I haven’t before. Morphing the image of a boy who was becoming a man into the man beside me. Chiselled masculinity replaced the fineness of his gaunt features. His gangly thinness gone in favor of muscle. The difference between who he was and the man he is, is vast. “Why didn’t you use your real name?”

“We didn’t want the hand up. Wanted our music to speak for us because it was good and not because of who my father was. It was something we all agreed to very early on. Thought it would be better that way. Turned out we were right.”

“What happened? Why did you stop?”

“Uh.” He grimaces as he scratches his jaw, eyes glazing over like he’s getting sucked into a place far away from me. It stretches over his features, hardening them, making him appear older, more worn. “I let myself get carried away.”

I cover his hand with my own and squeeze it. My chest crushes tight as I wait. There was a lot of speculation in the dark days after Midnight Echo disbanded. Conjecture. I caught some of it. Drugs. Violence. A suicide attempt. An image of Jase Hunt falling from the stage flashes through my mind. His guitar slung loosely around his almost emaciated body. Eyes closed, hair fluttering around his face. It was televised, a short clip of one of their final concerts. Showmanship? Or did he black out? Was he on the verge of a break down? Or was it a regular stage dive gone wrong?

Do I want the truth? “You don’t need to tell me. If it’s too hard. Too personal.”

“No. I want to tell you. I need to. You’re my wife and I...”

I don’t correct him. Can’t. Not now.

“I want to be open with you.”

“Okay.” I say, and I mean it. He can talk to me and this won’t go any further. Whatever this pain is he can let go with me. If that’s what he needs. Because despite my best efforts I already care about him. Too much. More than the physical makeup of our attraction should dictate.

“I developed an addiction problem. You have to understand, we were catapulted into the public awareness. Fame, money came so easily. Women threw themselves at us.” He glances at me and there is pure agony drawn on his features. It’s like he’s recalling a nightmare.

“You were like gods. You especially. Your voice.”

“Yeah.” He exhales heavily. “But we weren’t. We were just four guys trying to make it in the music industry. Trying to create music we loved and not let down our fans. Even with my dad being who he was we were kept away from the stage. We knew what that lifestyle could be like, but we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. Not really. And the pressure was so great.”

“I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you.”

“Hard. Really fucking hard. Started taking drugs to take the edge off a little. Nothing too crazy. The guys were doing it too. We were just having fun. I wish...” He snorts, and it’s not a nice sound, filled with self-loathing as he smacks the side of his fist into the steering wheel, causing it to shudder.

“You weren’t the first,” I say, unsure whether to fill the void.

“Maybe not. But it got worse. I was taking uppers to get on stage. Downers to bring me off the high. Alcohol and sleeping pills. A little something for the after parties. Something to put me in the mood. Spent all the money I made and then some. And then the music dried up. I couldn’t write anymore. Could barely play. The boys tried to keep it together, but...” He shakes his head, his hair flapping around his face. “By that point I was so far into it. The music abandoning me... it felt like death. Once they realized how deep in the shit I was... I was killing myself. I wanted to.” His voice breaks. It’s so bleak. So lost, like he must have been at the time. Not like the man I’m beginning to know. “And I was this close to probably taking someone with me...”

He takes a breath and goes back to staring out the window. I wait for him to speak again, simply gripping onto his hand as though I can bring him back from the dark places in his head.

“They found me. Code and Jasper. I don’t remember.” The grooves in his forehead deepen and his shoulders tense up as though he’s straining to find the details. He crumples in on himself, exhaustion etched onto his features. “But it was bad. Shook them up real bad. Enough that they told my family everything. Woke up to my dad hovering over me in the hospital. Next stop was rehab. Took me a long time to get right after that. They called it quits, and I had to agree. Wasn’t anything else to do.”

Didn’t he ever want to go back to it? And now he doesn’t even pick up an instrument, but he teaches. Is that because he misses it despite how much he tries to convince himself he doesn’t? “Do you—”

“No,” he says. “Never. Sometimes I drink. Nothing much. A few beers. But I got clean. Put that life behind me. I won’t go back. I can’t go back. I’m not that guy anymore. I’m not him. Not Jase Hunt. I avoid dangerous situations, triggers. I have a support network.”

“Your family?”

“All of them keeping an eye on their screw up of an older brother? Yeah, they sure are.”

“And now me too.” At least for the moment. I undo my seat belt. “If what I’ve done has made it harder for you...”

He reaches across and pulls me into his lap. The steering wheel is hard in the small of my back. His big hands are gentle in their grip on my hips. “You think I can’t handle you? Don’t want to deal with what you’re throwing my way? Don’t want to know what has you all in a lather? Because I can, and I will, and I want to. If you’ll let me.”

He has such a pull on me. This must have been what it was like from the very first moment we met, and not because I was under the influence. I catch a glimpse of a memory, something new, and he’s looking at me the same way. Holding onto my hips the same way. And he’s telling me that there’s still a thirty percent chance for us, and that’s more than enough for him to know what he wants. And...

I wanted it too. Wanted him. Wanted to stop hiding behind numbers and curses and believe that this instant connection I felt deep in my soul could be real. If I ran with it. If I let it consume me. If I let him consume me.

I drop my gaze to his chest, my hair falling forward over my face. Letting my guard down makes me vulnerable and I’m not sure I’m strong enough. Already things are changing. I’m not the girl with stars in her eyes and hope in her heart, but I look at him and I want to believe in things that aren’t factually real.

His fingers slide into my hair, stroking it back from my face and fastening at my nape. Tugging until I can’t help being trapped in his stare. “You wanna let me, Angel?”

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