Convincing Constance (The Blow Hole Boys) (2 page)

I tried to lift my
arms, but they were heavy. The muscle in the side of my neck pulled as I tried to lift my head. Nothing. Everything was weighty and it was then I realized that technically I couldn’t feel anything. I wasn’t in control of my body at all. I lay there and stared at the ceiling while I silently screamed.

Unfamiliar smells reached my nose and a foggy haze swept over me. Something was wrong. I was only fifteen, but I knew something was definitely wrong.

Again, I tried to move and again, nothing happened. The bed shifted and then a familiar face hovered above me. Uncle Jack. I’d called him that all my life even though he wasn’t my uncle. He wasn’t anything to me.

“It’s okay, baby. You know Uncle Jack would never let anything bad happen to you.”

I opened my mouth to say something—to tell him that everything was wrong—but only a pathetic whimper sounded. A hot tear rushed down the side of my face and he caught it with his roughened thumb.

“Shhh, just let your muscles relax and go with it
.” He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Being a teenager means experimenting with drugs. This is one you’re going to love.”

His lips grazed my earlobe and I felt like puking all over him.

In my mind, I was saying no—I was screaming it so loud it almost drowned out the muffled music coming from downstairs, but the only sound that filled my room was his heavy breaths and an occasional appreciative noise.

“You’re such a pretty girl, Constance. You make Uncle Jack very happy.”

Cool air brushed my stomach as he began to undress me. I wanted to panic. I should’ve been panicking, but I couldn’t. All I could do was lie there while he touched me in ways I’d never been touched and whispered in my ears. The stench of cigarettes and vodka filled my mouth when he pressed his cracked lips to mine.

“Come on, sweet girl, open up for Uncle Jack,” he said against my mouth when I refused to open.

He pressed his bare body against mine, reminding me that I knew nothing about the male body or how it was possible for a part of them to be so hard.

I was having a terrible nightmare. I was going to wake up any minute and be alone in my room. My parents’ party would be going on downstairs, but I’d be alone. I said that to myself over and over again in my mind, but my mind shut down when his intrusion became abrupt. The spot between my legs burned and stretched. Fire filled me and I sucked in a deep breath from the pain.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

Another heated tear slipped down my cheek and I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to see his face anymore.

“No, no. Keep your eyes open, sweetie,” he said as he pinched my cheeks into his fingers.

He turned my head to the side, and a camera stared me in the face. His hot tongue bathed my cheek before he sucked my earlobe into his mouth.

“That’s right, baby. Look into the camera and say cheese,” he rasped.

I closed my eyes again and shut out the world. I silently prayed that my dad would come to my room and save me. Or that my mom would, for the first time ever, help me, but nothing happened. Instead, I lay there while he slowly ripped my body in half and recorded the entire thing.

Addiction is a whore. She
pulls you in with her sexiness and fearsome pheromones and then leaves you with a nasty set of blue balls that ache and beg for more. I’ve watched too many people fall to her seductive ways, including my parents, and I was determined to never let the lusty bitch get her claws in me.

There were times when I wanted to indulge in the things that cleared my mind of all the crap that was spinning around me, but every time I even considered falling prey to the moment, I’d remember my childhood. I’d remember the night I was drugged and had no control over my body. I’d remember his smell and the helplessness I felt.

Then I’d think about my father and all the memories I had of him and his nose candy, or I’d think of my mom and the bags that hung beneath her eyes every morning when she woke up with a hangover, or her medicine cabinet full of prescriptions she didn’t need.

Needless to say, when Shay passed me a tiny mirror with three white lines down it and a rolled
-up dollar bill, I passed.

“Oh
, come on, Constance. One line won’t kill you,” Shay said before she leaned down and sucked a line up her nose.

Her choppy blue hair hung in her blue eyes as she leaned down, covering them and her thin-rimmed glasses completely. My eyes caught on her chipped fingernails and I couldn’t help but think they fit her perfectly.

“Yeah, I think I’m good,” I said as I stood and walked away.

I’d only been living with KC and Shay for a week, but already I was getting annoyed with the drugs that circulated around them. It was like no one knew how to live without something swimming in their veins other than blood.

Stepping outside into the dry California heat, I pulled out my beat-up prepaid cell and checked my voicemails. The first one I came to was my mom screaming in my ear. Apparently, I’d left some of my “shit” at “home” and needed to pick it up before it was sold. I dreaded going back there and dealing with my mom’s drama, but I didn’t have a lot, and I wanted to keep everything that was mine.

The drive across to the better side of town was too quick. I debated stopping, and even turning around, but it had to be done. I needed to get my things and be done with that house—with the memories that ate me alive every day.

When I got there, the house was dark. There were imprints on the floor where old furniture used to be and squares on the walls where the paint looked fresh from being covered by expensive art pieces my parents collected.

It was all being sold, all of it, and the sad part was I wasn’t depressed to see it all go.

I stepped into my mom’s favorite room. She was perched on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her. With lazy bloodshot eyes she stared at the TV. She had at least a bottle of liquor and a few pills swimming around her gut already and it was only two in the afternoon.

Growing up, I longed for a mother
-daughter relationship, but she always hated me. Dad used to say it was because I stole her good looks and curvy figure. And as sick as it sounded, there were times when I sensed her jealousy of my youth. Where she had wrinkles, I had smooth skin, and where her stomach had grown throughout the years, mine was flat. What she didn’t realize was her liquor and pills had more to do with her failing looks than I did.

“Take that fucking thing out your nose
,” she slurred when I approached the couch. “It looks like a silver booger hanging out of your nostril. Get some class, Constance.”

She hadn’t seen my newest piercing since I’d moved out, but I knew when I was getting it done that she’d put her two cents in about it. She usually did. My mom never lacked for cruel words, and since I’d grown up around her bullshit, I was immune to it.

“Yeah, thanks,” I mumbled.

“Your Uncle Jack’s moving in
,” she blurted out, stopping me in my tracks.

I’d known for a while that my mom was fucking Jack. It was repulsive. It was beyond repulsive. Just thinking about that night and him… I couldn’t even respond. I’d moved out when she confirmed her affair, which was apparently the best thing I could’ve done because hell would freeze over before I slept under the same roof as that sick, perverted piece of shit.

“He’s not my uncle, and I can’t believe you’re letting him stay here,” I growled.

I swore I’d never let my mom get me all pissed off again, but every time anyone referred to that bastard as my uncle it made my stomach sick.

“Here we go again,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t want to hear any of your shit, Constance. I need the help with the bills. I’ve already lost everything in the house. I refuse to lose the house, too. Are you staying?” Her cigarette stuck to her bottom lip and bounced with her words.

The long line of ash hung to the tip waiting to fall onto the bare hardwood floor beneath her feet. The black shirt she wore hung from one shoulder
, revealing aging skin and a sagging tattoo. She stared me down with over-lined eyes as she waited for my response. My mother hadn’t aged gracefully. In fact, she clung to her youth with greedy hands. It was embarrassing.

When I didn’t respond
, she walked across the room with her arms crossed in aggravation. Her thinning eighties hair bounced with her steps.

“Are you staying?”
she asked again, putting emphasis on each word.

I’d heard her the first time, but I hoped if I didn’t respond
, her idiotic idea would just go away. It didn’t look like I’d be that lucky.

“I just came for my s
hit and then I’m out of here.” I casually ignored her words since I knew that pissed her off more than responding.

“You’re a bitch. Do you know that? You’re nothing but a piece of shit just like your father. As a matter of fact, why don’t you go to hell with him?”

I continued to ignore her. She knew my dad was my weak spot, and all my life she never hesitated to hit me there. My father was the only person in my world who ever gave a flying fuck about me—at least until he left us when I was sixteen. He was the one that bought my first guitar and sat idly by while the guys in his band taught me how to play.

I left the room while she continued to talk about my dad like he wasn’t six f
eet under. Drug overdose… such a cliché way for a rocker to die. Being the daughter of the legendary lead singer of Black Daze, Clarke McClaire, everyone thought I was the golden child. They had no idea what went on behind closed doors.

My father couldn’t keep the white rabbit out of his nose, and my mom had no idea how to function without her “special cocktails” that supposedly helped her sleep. Needless to say, my childhood wasn’t the thing dreams were made of.

I made it to the front door with a duffle bag and a few lose items and she followed behind me.

“Where do you think you’re going?”
she called out.

“I’m out of here. I’m spreading my wings
,” I said as I pulled open my car door.

“You’ll be back. You need talent to go anywhere in this world
, and you play for shit.”

With my middle finger in the air, I climbed into my beat-up Chevy Malibu and took off
, leaving a trail of smoke behind me. Most girls in my position were left tons of money when their rock star daddy died. Not me, I was left with nothing but debt, with the debt collectors walking around my house taking anything of worth to prove it.

It wasn’t the worst thing I’d been through. At least I had my piece of shit car, the clothes on my back, and my guitar. That was all I needed.

The heat baked the side of my face as I made my way toward the middle of Los Angeles, back to the three-bedroom apartment I shared with KC and Shay. My fingers tapped the chords of the newest Chevelle song on my steering wheel.

Music was a part of me, had been since I was a baby. It was the only thing that hadn’t failed me—the only thing that didn’t hurt me. I could depend on music to be there when I needed to feel better. It dipped into my soul and awakened the free girl inside me.

I turned up the music to drown out the interstate noises and drama in my head. When I pulled back up to the apartment, there was already a party in full swing. I didn’t want to go in, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“It’s about time your ass got here
,” KC shouted over the music when I walked into the apartment.

Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun and she sat with her legs crossed on the dirty shag carpet as she pinched a blunt between two fingers.

“Sorry. My mom pulled some shit.” The leather couch was cold against the back of my thighs when I sat down. “So what’s the plan for the night? Is the party staying here or is everyone going to Icehouse?”

I silently praye
d the party would go to Icehouse, a little shithole deep in the city where KC and Shay liked to party. I went a few times, since every now and again they’d have some decent bands playing.

“Icehouse,
biatch! You coming?” Shay asked as she fell on top of me.

I’d known them for a good bit of my life. I’d gone to private school with them in sixth grade and we kind of stuck together since. I wouldn’t say best friends, since I never let myself get close to anyone, but decent friends. Enough so that they gave me a place to crash as long as I promised a third of
the rent.

“Who’s playing tonight?” I asked.

A night out with good music didn’t sound awful, but I wasn’t about to sit through one of the shitty underground bands with the same sound and high hopes of a record deal.

“I don’t know, some new band. You should come. It’ll be good for you
,” KC said as she bent and pulled on her knee-high boots.

An hour later, I was at the bar
, watching the girls take shots as we waited for the band to start. I sipped my water and stared at the purple-and-white Fender sitting in its stand on stage. It was beautiful. Not as beautiful as mine, but still nice.

Once the band came out, I relaxed into my stool and nodded my head to the music. They were new to
the scene and didn’t sound half bad. I doubted they’d ever get signed by any real label—but still a good sound. The lead singer, a guy named Leo, carried the weight of the band and had real potential, but I’d seen that before with better bands that never made it far.

Two hours later, the band was finishing up their final song. The room seemed smaller since the crowd had grown, and the scent of sweaty bodies, drugs, and spilt liquor swarmed around me. I was finishing up my last few sips of my third water when the lead singer started talking to the crowd.

“Someone informed me that Clarke McClaire’s daughter is hiding in the crowd somewhere out there,” he said as he used his hand as a visor and searched the crowd. “That someone also told me she could play circles around Rick,” he said as he grasped the shoulder of his lead guitarist. “It sure would be an honor to play with a legend’s daughter. Why don’t you come up here, girl?”

I could have kicked Shay in the mouth with my steel toes since I was sure it was her that went blabbing about who my father was. The man had been dead for three years. Didn’t anyone understand the meaning of rest in peace? But when it came to Shay
, anything that got her close to the band, she was doing, and since everyone in the music world knew who my dad was, she had a golden ticket to backstage, always.

I could have easily ducked out of the bar and went home, and I was on the verge of doing just that when KC and Shay grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stage. I didn’t fight them since I didn’t want to look like a scared little bitch, but they’d know how pissed I was when we got back to the apartment.

“There she is. Come on up. Damn, I’m digging the pink hair,” the lead singer said into the mic.

The crowd cheered for me as I stepped onto the stage. I took the purple
-and-white Fender when it was handed to me and hooked it around my neck. At least one good thing came out of this night. At least I got my hands on the beauty I’d been admiring earlier.

“How about we play a Black Daze song in honor of your dad?” Leo asked.

I nodded my answer, even though I had no desire whatsoever to play my dad’s music.