Page 44 of Rock & Roll Nights: The Lila and Rivers Edit
Moments later they were climbing steps toward the front door of the building, though, and when that door swung open, a tall man was standing there glowering down at them.
The boy didn’t like the man any more than he’d liked the building. The man looked angry. Scary. Like he was someone who shouted almost as much as his mother did. Except that this man wasn’t his mother.
This man was a stranger, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers.
He turned his face into his mother’s neck and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at the man any more than he had to. He wrapped his chubby fingers more tightly into his mother’s shirt, wishing they could go away from this dark building with the scary man and hoping this was another friend they wouldn’t have to see again.
But then there were hands grabbing at his back, pulling him away, and he could feel space growing between his chest and his mother. His fingers scrabbled at her shirt, his throat growing tight in the way that meant tears were coming, and when he looked up into her face, trying to understand what was going on, he found that she wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
Her eyes were turned up to the building, and then away from it toward the street again, like she’d already forgotten that she’d been carrying him.
And the scary man—for that was who it had to be—was pulling him away from his mother while she looked away, his fingers digging into the boy’s skin as he yanked at him, and the boy was screaming, trying to understand what was going on.
And his mother was murmuring something to the man without even looking at the boy.
And then she was turning and walking away, the boy struggling in the man’s grasp and shrieking. He didn’t want to be left here. He didn’t like the man. He wanted his mother. She yelled and hit and sometimes burned, but she was the only one he’d known. She was his home. His safety.
But she was getting into the car, and they were driving away without looking back, and he was left with this man, who shook him slightly and then turned into the building.
“Stop screaming, kid,” he muttered. “I don’t know what you did, but she don’t want you no more. You live here, now.” He glanced at the paperwork in his hand and chuckled. “Rivers Shine, eh? Well, with that name, we should be able to find you a home right quick. And if we don’t, we’ll find other uses for you. Mark my words.”
22
RIVERS
Igasped and sat up so quickly that my head started spinning and looked quickly around the room, trying to remember where the hell I was and what I was doing here. I didn’t recognize the room. Or the bed. Or the sheets. There was a window on one wall, and through it I could see the neon lights of a downtown area, but...
Where the fuck was I?
Then it all came crashing back. The tour. The next city, and this time one big enough to have plenty of electric lights in its downtown sector. A bigger hotel where we each had plenty of space, though it was never quite enough. Olivia and Connor. The Leathers, our warmup band.
The crowds. Yet another venue, and hopefully with better sound proofing than the last one had. The late-night shows.
Lila Potter.
I shut my eyes and fell back onto my pillow... only to realize that the pillow and sheets were soaking wet. In fact, now that I was paying attention, so were my pajamas.
So was my hair.
What the fuck had I been doing in my sleep that I was now drenched in sweat? And this was sweat, right? Not beer or whiskey or some other nameless substance?
The question brought a stream of images with it, and within seconds I remembered exactly why I’d been sweating. A building so tall I hadn’t been able to see the top of it. Darkness creeping through the windows, but for the faces I saw there. The feeling that something was very wrong with the place and that I didn’t want to be there. My mother yanking me out of the car and scratching me in the process, her skin smelling like cigarettes and booze, though it would be years before I’d understand that was what it had been. At the time I’d just thought it was the smell of my mother.
The smell of home and what had, up to that point, passed as safety. Familiarity, at least.
Within five years, I’d realized it was the smell of a drunk and an addict. One who’d decided when I was about three years old that I was no longer worth keeping.
The man at the door. His harsh laugh when he’d seen me. The way his cold fingers had sunk right into my arms as he took me from my mother.
The smirk of the man she’d been pretending was my father, whose name I hadn’t even known. The net in a long line of men who didn’t really matter.
The way my mother had turned away from me before the door even closed behind us, her mind moving quickly to something else. Probably, looking back, where she was going to score her next hit of drugs.
The fact that I’d screamed for her all that night and into the next morning and spent much of the next year standing at the windows that looked out onto the street, watching for her to come back and save me. The way my heart had grown colder with every day that she didn’t. And the way I’d realized, finally—and maybe far too late—that I was on my own and had to take care of myself rather than waiting for her to come back for me. The memory of they day when I’d woken up knowing that self-protection was the name of the game. No more emotions. No more expecting someone else to take care of you or make you feel better.
No more wasting your time on love that you never got back.
Because she hadn’t loved me enough to think it was worthwhile to keep me with her. And if your own mother didn’t love you enough for that, then who the hell was going to?
