A hand in the air beckons me, and I make my way to the next customer. My steps falter when I spot Jagger and his friends walking through the room. Green fury seeps into my veins as I watch them claim a sofa by the stage. My jaw clamps with a surge of malice.
I haven’t seen him in days. Not that I should have. That afternoon, he helped me get my apartment cleaned—meaning he paid to have it done—and stayed with me while I spoke with the police. Then we came to the club together where he fought, this time a little less bloody, and I waited tables.
It was…friendly.
I haven’t seen him since. I should not have expected to see him. Yet, I keep waiting for us to bump into each other.
Closing my eyes, I spin away, reminding myself it doesn’t matter. He’s not mine, and I am the one who made it abundantly clear that nothing can or will happen between us. He has every right to be here with anyone he chooses.
He doesn’t owe me anything. If I’m honest with myself, I owe him. He’s paid for multiple meals, chauffeured me, and even gave me a place to sleep when I was too shaken to remain in my apartment.
Exhaling the jealousy gnawing at my chest, I go to my next table. Without my permission, my eyes slide his way again, and this time I notice the icy rage dancing in his green eyes and the tension in his shoulder. Why is he so angry?
Envy blisters me again as three girls approach them. Their masks let me know they’re all part of the staff, but the glimmer in their eyes gives away their excitement. They like what they see. Maybe they even know them. Know what they’ll order and the benefits they can reap byservingthem.
A blond approaches Jagger, and for a moment, spite tickles my palms, the urge to snatch her away making them itch. When she touches him, it becomes a malevolent need.
Until I see his eyes flare, his demons rising, dark and fast, filling his jade orbs with anger and panic. One of the other girls, a brunette, snatches her away, shaking her head and whispering something to her. The blond’s eyes dart back to Jagger with apology. He nods, not looking at her.
When the brunette takes her place beside him, the insidious animosity returns like a tidal wave, and I find myself stalking toward them. I’m saved by someone stepping in front of me and grabbing my arm. “Ginger, right?” a dark-eyed siren with curves for days—fyi, my lack of curves definitely makes me stand out in this place—asks me. I nod once. “Lana said for you to take over stage four for the next set.”
“Which is stage four?”
She looks over her shoulder and jerks her head…
Right toward my unwanted desire.
Jagger
Jealousy isn’t foreign to me. I was the baby for my first seven years. My mom doted on me. She was a former teen pop star with multiple hits before she was twenty years old, but she always said when I came along, she decided being a mom was the only career she wanted. Though she continued to write songs, Graham and I became her primary focus.
But I was the only one who could make her smile on the days her chronic depression was the worst. She was the one I inherited my love of music from, and she spent hours teaching me to play the guitar and sing like she did. I spent many hours at her feet, watching her nimble fingers dance across the strings, listening to her hum out the lyrics as she worked, absorbing it all.
Then came Bonnie. I became the middle child of an older brother who could do no wrong and the only girl. Middle child syndrome hit fast after they learned Bonnie was born with a terminal heart condition.
I resented her, and I’m ashamed to admit the thoughts I had were awful. When Bonnie died, for years I believed it was my fault. That my ill wishes prevented her from getting better. But I was a kid. Even if they’re aware of what’s going on, kids don’t fully comprehend. I won’t deny, though, I still feel a lot of guilt and regret, even blaming myself at times for her death.
Even after Bonnie was gone, the jealousy didn’t vanish because my mom’s depression worsened. The depression was multiplied by crippling grief. Our moments with music became less and less as she sank deeper into her heartache and mental turmoil. It became a volatile environment as she became aggressive with everyone.
And I could no longer make her smile because she missed Bonnie more than she loved me.
Then she died too. But unlike Bonnie, she made a choice. And my resentment toward my dead baby sister grew. My mom loved her so much that she chose Bonnie and left me forever to be with her. At least at ten years old, that’s how it felt.
And, of course, there was Graham. Overachieving with a Midas touch, he was perfect, and who my dad wanted and was most proud of. Dad would brag to everyone who would listen about his son and the future of the company. Constantly, he told people about the achievements and awards Graham received. How disciplined he was. His phenomenal drive and ambition. All the while, criticizing everything I did because it was never as good as anything my brother did.
Graham is who he wanted me to be—who he still wants me to be, and why I’ll never be enough.
Enter Casey.
When she came along, she had my older brother’s attention. He spent his weekends home from college with the little girl who came with my dad’s new wife. Planned entire trips around what he thought would make her happy.
It was innocent back then, but she was someone else more important than me. Even when I realized why he was so concerned about her, I was still angry, but I directed that anger and resentment toward Graham. Unfortunately, that discovery also became why I had to keep my distance from her for most of my teenage years.
The point is that jealousy and I are not strangers. She was once my constant companion. The toxic best friend who encourages all the worst parts of you.
I thought I dumped that bitch years ago, yet here I am, barely containing the fury rolling through my veins like lava because she’s not working The 7th Circle tonight. She is in The 1st Circle.
Her presence drowns out the bullshit in my head, numbing all the guilt, the anger…the pain. When she’s near, my focus is on her, and the past doesn’t slip through the crevices and haunt my thoughts. She is like my own personal drug.
