Ким Карр - Mended

We’re huddled together for our drink and a prayer. But no one is praying tonight. I regard them all steadily as I sit in a chair and lean over. My head throbs, my nose hurts—the painkillers Leif gave me are wearing off. I’m starting to feel more than a little bit agitated and annoyed. The show begins in minutes and she’s not here yet. What the hell is going on? Did I imagine what we had? Why would she marry him? The questions are on constant repeat in my mind and I feel like I’m going to puke again.

The feeling gets even worse when I hear Damon’s voice taunt me. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Fuck you,” I say, not bothering to raise my head.

They walk in together, with the ninja right beside her, but I already felt her nearness. My body has come alive and her presence gives me the strength I need. I flick my eyes toward her. She looks just as sad as earlier. I need to talk to her—alone. But it’s too late—the music sounds and the band is announced, so she makes her way onstage with the guys. Thank fuck Damon disappears, but he forgot the ninja and the guy stays front and center at the curtain.

Since backstage is as empty as I feel, I watch for a bit and then suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. I’ll be back before the show ends. The outside air is hot, muggy, almost suffocating, and I try to block out everything as I make my way back to my small cubby on the bus. The walk feels like miles and when I look up toward the sky I see thousands of stars there to light my way, but the darkness is everywhere. The bus doors are open and John is asleep in his seat. I finally make it to my bed and throw myself down, then call my brother. I want to check on Dahlia, but when he asks me what’s wrong, I tell him. He tries to persuade me to keep my cool and not do anything stupid, but at the same time I’m sure he knows he’s talking to the wind. I want to kill that son of a bitch, I want to scream at Ivy and ask, “What the fuck are you thinking?” I want answers. And I’m going to get them.

An hour or so later I’m back in the empty area backstage and she’s announcing her last song. “How about ‘Sorry’ by Buckcherry?” she asks the crowd. They go crazy, like they always do whenever she sings a cover.

Vamping chords, then a wailing bass introduce the song. “I’m sorry I’m bad,” she croons into the mic with her eyes closed. Her voice goes even lower and she sounds raspy, beautiful, inspiring, as she continues with “I’m sorry about all the things he said to you.”

And there it is—he. She said he, not I, like the song is written. What the fuck is going on? She turns slowly, fixing her gaze on me. She swings the mic gently and she sings the song to me.

With each verse, her voice grows stronger and louder and the ache in it more pronounced. Her passion and the love heard within the lyrics of the song infect everyone in the audience, but no one more than me. I want to wrap my arms around her and feel her body against mine, tell her we can fix whatever it is he did. Because I know it’s something he did. This time I will take care of her—I will not set her free. She needs to know this. I have to tell her. And now I know I’ll do whatever I have to to get her back—I’m not going to let her go this time.

When the song ends, the crowd explodes. Whistles, cheers, and yells fill the air as she walks offstage toward me. Before she reaches me, Ninja steps between us. Her demeanor changes as she approaches. “Johnny, Damon said not to let him within five feet of me. But he didn’t say we couldn’t talk. I need to discuss our upcoming shows. I’m sure Damon would never jeopardize the performance.”

I’m actually impressed at the way she turns the charm on and works him. Shit, did she do that to me? No. Now I’m only second-guessing myself. My mind is so fucked right now.

Ninja nods at her. Is he hot for her? I’m going to kill him right after I kill Damon Wolf. He steps back and I stay where I am. I consider grabbing her and making a run for it, but what good would that do. She’s married to the bastard.

In a low whisper she says, “Leave this alone, Xander. Leave us alone. I wanted to marry him. He makes me happy.”

Fury courses through me. My pulse races and my blood pounds.

“Why are you doing this?” I practically spit out the words, angry, repulsed.

“I’m not doing anything. Just move on. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.”

“Bravo. Bravo,” the bastard’s voice calls from behind me.

I turn around. I want to rip him into a thousand pieces and let him spend his days putting himself back together.

“Since we’re all here now, you’ll save me the time of having to call you tomorrow. Look, Ivy doesn’t need you to manage her—that’s my job,” he says, and his words rock my body with a jealousy I’ve never felt before.

Once I can focus again, I look straight at him and say, “I manage the band and she’s in the band, dickface.”

Ivy moves to stand next to him and he tries to grab her hand. If that happens, I know I’ll lose all control. Thank fuck she pulls her hand away. But she’s still standing beside him.

“Listen. Let’s make this simple. I see it like this. Your whole band is Ivy. Keep your name for now, since there’s less than six weeks left on the tour. But you need to disappear. I’ll give you until after Bristow to arrange it. We don’t need you around causing trouble and chaos. This is our honeymoon after all,” he says, this time wrapping his arm around her waist.

I rip my gaze from him in time to see the tears escaping her eyes, but I can’t feel anything right now but hatred. I fight the urge to tell them both to fuck off. I glare at her as she frees her body of any contact with him. I don’t want to leave, but I have to. I can’t take it. I can’t take his grimy hands on her. I can’t even think about his hands on her. I inch a step toward him, ready to tear his wagging tongue right out of his mouth, but the ninja is up my ass within a nanosecond. Like I didn’t see that coming. I shrug my shoulders and push past them both. I’ve had enough of this. Turning around, I walk toward the door. When I reach it, I punch it hard, wishing it were his face. The pain pulses through me and it feels like such a relief.

Ivy

My ravaged eyes stare back at me in the bathroom mirror of the ridiculously glamorous tour bus. With a built-in coffeemaker, plush sofas, an enormously large shower, and even a vanity in the bathroom—it really is over the top. Damon insists we remain here and not in a hotel even though we’re not traveling for a couple of days. I’m sure he’s afraid I won’t keep my end of the bargain if I spend too much time with the band, too much time with Xander. But what I don’t think he really gets is that it’s my overwhelming love for Xander that pushed me to make this decision—my primal instinct to protect him from getting hurt, not my need for money.

Holding the can of spray near my hair, I suddenly feel faint. The memory of his piercing dark eyes fades in and out and I know I should sit down and put my head between my knees. But I don’t want to appear weak. I take a deep breath, spray my hair, and let the breath go. I wish I were stronger than I am—to stand up to Damon, but I can’t. Instead I close my eyes, hating myself. Hating myself for knowing him, for marrying him, for hurting the only man who understands me . . . who loves me for me.

Grinning, maybe gloating, Damon watches me put my red lipstick on. “Let’s go,” he says, snapping his fingers. “You’re going to be late and I flew her all the way here just to interview you so we could put some hype behind these performances. Next week you’ll meet with Mara and I’ll make sure it’s a double blast—Sound Music and Sound Entertainment together will really garner some attention.”

I open my eyes and finish putting my makeup on, ignoring how his gaze rolls down my body. First down the front through my reflection in the mirror and then down my backside. He insisted I wear what he picked out—a push-up bra, a low-cut white cowl neck blouse that just skims the top of my breasts, tight skinny jeans, red high-heeled sandals, and a huge matching flower in my hair. He wants to take publicity photos later, but I can’t help but feel like he’s getting off on playing dress-up and it revolts me. It reminds me of how my mother insisted on dressing me whenever I went on auditions. I like to wear sexy outfits, but only because I want to, not because someone else wants me to.

“Please don’t stare.” My voice pulses with hatred.

“Angel, I’ve always enjoyed the way you look. That will never change. You’re a beauty. But I’d like it if you’d watch the way you speak to me. I’ve treated you with respect and I’d like the same. In fact, I think I’ve been very understanding. I’ve let you have your own room and although I am your husband, I haven’t insisted that I share your bed, not even on our wedding night. I’m hoping our business transaction helps us find our way back to each other, but if it doesn’t in six months, you’ll be free of me.”

I’m saved from having to reply when his phone rings. “I’ll take this in the lounge. You have five minutes. And, Angel, you look exquisite.” He smiles before leaving, closing the bathroom door behind him.

I close my eyes again. He was never like this when we were together, was he? God, if he was, how did I never see it? And what must Xander think? He threw me yesterday. I thought I knew what to expect from him when he found out I’d married Damon. He’s an all-or-nothing, black-or-white kind of guy. I thought he’d walk away hating me, but he didn’t. Instead he searched me, for answers, for love, maybe even for hope. I didn’t expect that and he just broke my heart all over again—this time in a different way. He asked questions I hadn’t anticipated and the words stumbled out of my mouth, but not the right ones, not the ones that mattered—not the truth. That I couldn’t tell him. He has to leave me alone and I have to be the one to push him away. I can be strong for him—this I know without a doubt. He did it for me twelve years ago—I can do it for him now.