Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4) by Lisa Swallow
Dedication
For all the Blue Phoenix groupies.
Thanks for making 2014 a year to remember!
Prologue
Fifteen Years Ago
Jem
The front door slams. Twelve-sixteen a.m. He’s late. When he’s late, everything is worse.
The shouting starts and the TV volume rises, too, but this never drowns the argument. The neighbours in our row of terraced houses must hear but nobody ever speaks. No one gets involved.
The shouting is okay. I can deal with that. The quiet afterwards is what turns my stomach and leaves me torn between creeping downstairs to see her, and hiding in my bedroom.
I’m a coward. She’s my mum. I should be there to help.
I tried once, last month, and Alan belted me for interfering. The next morning, Mum screamed at me, blamed me for making things worse. I made things worse. Mum worried because the bruises were on the side of my face; she can hide her bruises under her clothes. I’ve seen them; she doesn’t think I have. Questions were asked at school but Alan was careful to make sure those and the bruises in the following weeks weren’t visible, so I could hide them. Mum said they’d take me away if somebody knew, and I don’t want to lose her completely.
Tonight, I grab my headphones and turn up the sound, drowning the fear and anger with the sound of Metallica. I lie back and stare at the ceiling, allowing the guitar and screaming vocals to take over, to numb myself, and stop the need to run downstairs and help. I’ll get the crap kicked out of me if I do. Instead, I close my eyes and watch the red and black colours of the music dancing through my mind, obliterating thoughts.
One day I won’t be a kid. One day I can look after her. If I can look after my mum, she wouldn’t leave me alone. She’d need me instead of the men who come into our life, who tear our world apart and leave again. I’ll be a teenager in two years, almost a man. I can do their job. If I’m not enough, and Mum doesn’t want me, I’ll be big enough to take care of myself when she leaves me again.
Now I’m older, when she goes away, I can already look after myself. I’m not scared any more like I was a few years ago, when I’d sleep with a cricket bat by my bed in case somebody came into the house. Now I’m bigger, I’m not such a baby about these things; it’s just my life. Mum always comes back, even if she doesn’t tell me when she’s going away or why. Sometimes she’s gone for a couple of days. That’s okay. If the time stretches into weeks, I worry in case she’s hurt or lost.
I never tell anybody.
The thoughts edge through the music:
If I was older and I could look after Mum, she’d be safer.
I wouldn’t be alone, if I was a good enough son for her.
What is it I do wrong that makes her go away?
What if one day my mum goes away and never comes back?
Chapter One
Jem
Every cliché, rock, love song crashes into my head as if they were all written for this girl. Long legs in black, skinny jeans, tattoos emerging from the tight tank top stretching across her tits and crimson hair spilling across her shoulders. She leans against the bar, one elbow propped behind her. This girl stepped from my fantasies and landed in the new version of reality I live in these days.
When she turns her head, it’s as if she takes a sawn-off shotgun, holds it to my temples, and pulls the f-ucking trigger. My head explodes because in her eyes I can see she exists in the same place I do: a lost place at the edge of the world.
Did time stand still? The world fade away? Souls meet across the stars? I should give this to Dylan for one of his pathetic love songs. That shit doesn’t happen.
The chick looks away, snapping me back to the real world. Another club, another band. Not the best place for a recovering addict to hang out, but Blue Phoenix manager, Steve reckons I make a good scout for a new support act. Blue Phoenix don't tour again until next year and I worry he’s trying to replace us. Steve claims he’s looking for a decent support he can whip into shape ready for the tour. Hedging his bets, more like.
The world waits for Jem Jones to fall back into his drug addicted self, poised to hold me up as a f*cked up loser again. If I’m in public, I’m less likely to slip than if I’m hidden at home amongst the spectre of my old life. This time I make it count.
The kids in the club are young; some are too young to be here. Sure, eighteen is a great age in this country because it’s legal to drink in clubs but what a mess. Why come and watch a band if you’re too drunk to stand up? At least I could hold my drink by the time I hit the legal age, but I started early and had plenty of practice.
I’m half-hidden in the shadows at the edge of the bar waiting for Ruby Riot. Everything’s set up on stage but no band. I check my phone - eight p.m. They’re late. If they don’t appear soon, I’m going. I don’t have time for a band who can’t get their shit together. This was a last minute anyway; normally I research before I waste my time, but I needed to get out of the house and away from my thoughts. I rocked up at the nearest pub with a band playing tonight, and here I am.
The white glow from the lights above the bar illuminates the girl, highlighting the scarlet red of her hair. Do I speak to her? Why am I hesitating? Since when is Jem Jones f-ucking nervous of talking to a chick? She must know who I am or she wouldn’t have her eyes glued to me again. Problem is, if I step out of the shadows, the kids around will spot me. As I debate this like a nervous teen, she drains her beer and places the empty bottle on the bar.