Page 183 of Broken Lines

June barks a cold laugh.

“Then what the fuck are you even doing back? Because if that’s the Jackson Havoc we all get now?”

I glance back to see her lift a shoulder.

“Fuck that. Go back to your fucking island and go drink yourself into oblivion.”

“Yeah?” I snap. “Well, maybe I will.”

She sneers.

“Or maybe you stop hiding behind this devil-may-care bullshit, admit that the reason you’re so mad at Melody at all is because you’re in love with her, and then godo somethingabout it.”

My pulse ticks in my ears, a humming sound vibrating out through my chest as my eyes stab into the rising dawn. And faintly, like they’re coming from a passing car, the lines seep like ink into my soul.

When I’m lost on the rocks and I’m sinking

When the boats goin’ down, all I’m thinkin’,

Is the melody you sang to me to sleep…

Is the one pulling me down to the deep.”

Fuck.

40

Melody

Some prisons don’t involvebars. But that doesn’t make the person trapped inside of them any less a prisoner.

Trust me on that.

I lay still in the bed, looking blankly up at the ceiling. Fatigue clouds my head with a dull throb, even though I’ve just woken up from a nap. But naps are a Band-Aid, not a fix for the fact that I don’t really sleep much these days.

It’s hard to sleep in prison. Even one with invisible bars.

I swallow, taking a slow breath as I try to convince myself to sit up. Or go back to bed. Or…anything. But everything is sort of numb these days.

Everything is a little cold, and empty.

Welcome to the House of Rock, aka, my prison.

It’s fair to say Judy’s never been a very good mother. In fact, she was pretty terrible at it. But “bad” was before she got a real taste of money and power.

Now, she’s a nightmare.

She’s not just Judy the shitty mom anymore. She’s “a brand”, and the way it’s all come together is almost disturbingly elegant. Almost as disturbing as the way she’s started styling herself as a sort of “rock ’n roll Kris Jenner”—even copying the short haircut and mannerisms. Which the producers of the showlove, of course.

My eyes close as I sink into the bed.

First came the article—the one based off my horrible recording. But I didn’t write it.

Becca did.

It took me a little while, but I eventually found the deleted messages on my phone, where she’d emailed herself my audio recordings, notes, and photos from the island while I was talking with Chuck in his office that day I got back from Maine.

But Becca didn’t do it alone. She had help with some of the details of what became her “big story”.

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