I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 22 BEN

Chapter 22

B EN

I should’ve seen this coming. I told her to call him if need be, so I should have been ready for this conversation, or any conversation with Sean.

But I’m not. I mostly want to smash his face in, so I clench my fists, considering the fallout if I let myself loose on him.

First, there’d be the physical consequences. I have a couple of inches on Sean and longer arms, but he outweighs me by a good sixty pounds. Some of that’s beer and shitty food, but it doesn’t always matter when it’s pinning you down. Plus, Sean’s psycho in a way I’m not. As evidenced by the mere fact that I’m weighing the pros and cons of fighting him, and he’s likely contemplating whether the trailer has a bathtub he can fill with hydrofluoric acid and my dead body, Breaking Bad –style.

Second, fighting Sean the way I want to would be the end of Midnight Destruction. We’ve fought before, both with venomous words and pounding fists, but it’s different now, and there would be no coming back from it. No music, no tours, no shows. I’d be okay with some of that—like no shows—but Sean wouldn’t be.

And ultimately, that’s why I drop myself into the chair opposite him.

Sean needs Midnight Destruction in a way that’s greater than my need. That’s why I fight my demons every night, put on the stupid mask and body-paint camouflage, and do the one thing that terrifies me the most: getting onstage and singing.

For him. Because the band keeps him steady.

Besides, there’s a small part of me—way down deep below the anger, hurt, and betrayal—that’s glad to see him. I might be furious as hell with him, but I still miss him.

It doesn’t make any sense, I know that, but that’s how families are sometimes. Or at least, my family, and Sean’s my brother, regardless of bloodlines.

“Good choice,” he says, arching his left brow like he knows exactly what I want to do to him.

Years ago, he had Seek tattooed over his right eye and Destroy over his left, and he uses the words as a sort of Magic 8 Ball insight to his thoughts. When he told me to get the fuck out of town and get my shit straight, I’d waited for his left brow to rise, thinking he was telling me that we were done in a roundabout way. I should’ve known better. Sean doesn’t do subtle. He’s as direct as a missile, with zero regard to the blast radius. But when he’d lifted his right brow, telling me to “seek” something, it’d felt like approval, like permission to take the time I need to fix my brain.

“Might change my mind later, but it feels wrong to fight you when my dick’s still hard from Hope. I don’t love you like that, asshole.”

He squints at me, reading between the lines of what I said. “Don’t love you like that either, fucker.”

Yeah, I love him. He loves me. We’re fucked in the head, but we’re brothers.

Brothers who’ve had their every dream come true, only to find out that the gold bars are spray-painted bricks and the fame comes with contract addendums you didn’t read that control every breath you take.

“Hope, huh?” Sean guffaws. “You’re supposed to be out here getting your head straight, so of course you find the closest pussy and let yourself get sidetracked.”

“She’s not pussy. She’s—” I freeze, not sure if I should tell him the truth.

Sean leans forward, his boots hitting the floor and his elbows resting on his knees. Pinning me with a black look that has nothing to do with the contacts he wears onstage but rather his current mood, he demands, “She’s what ?”

I swallow hard and don’t back down, meeting his eyes with steel of my own. “Everything.”

Sean blinks, and at first, it feels like I won the staring contest, but then he laughs loud and hard. I didn’t win anything. He’s laughing at me. “Bullshit. She’s a distraction that’ll run its course, which I can understand. She’s hot as fuck. But you’re gonna have to sit with the AMM stuff and make your peace eventually.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I growl, ignoring the music stuff that put us at odds in the first place.

“Or what?” he snaps, the laughter gone in an instant.

Back to fighting. It’s where we always end up, and I don’t know why. We never used to argue like this. Back when we had nothing but each other, we never fought unless it was at each other’s sides. I sigh, not wanting to fight any more.

“What happened to us, man?” I wonder aloud. The simple question is harder to ask than it should be.

“Just living the life,” he retorts snidely, throwing his hands wide as he relaxes back into the couch. “I mean, didn’t you dream of traveling to small towns, staying in shitty trailers with penis fungi all around while some local girl looks at you like you’re worth something?” He lifts his left brow, letting me know he’s coming for blood. Mine. “Right, no. We dreamed of getting the hell out of the ’hood, making music, making money, not having to worry about where we were gonna sleep or when we were gonna eat. Remember that, Benjamin? Or is that all distant history that you’re too good to own up to now?”

I do remember. I remember it vividly. And it’s why we work so hard. I never want to go back to that life. Neither does Sean.

“I’m not too good for anything,” I reply, my voice rising with anger and passion with each tortured syllable. “Hell, I’m poisonous to most things. You, especially. I know I’m ruining everything, and I’m sorry! But I can’t live like this, not for them!”

It’s a deep, heavy confession that’s been slowly growing in my gut for a while, but I haven’t had the courage to give it air. Until Hope.

AMM Records signed Sean and me when we were hungry—literally and figuratively, couch surfing from one shitty place to another and angry at the world for beating us over the head with the short end of the stick we were dealt. They used all that against us, and we were too stupid and too desperate to see it.

No, that’s not true.

We knew it was a sweet deal for them, but we were in no position to negotiate. We wanted the moon, they offered a paper-plate cutout of it, and like idiots, we signed our lives away in trade.

And now that we could actually have the moon, they want us to still be happy with that paper plate while they reap the rewards, controlling everything and taking every penny. Pennies we’ve earned with our own blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice.

Sean doesn’t care. To him, a million is better than nothing, and it’s a million we never imagined we’d have. But it pisses me off that while we’re splitting a tiny portion of profits three ways, AMM is raking it in. On our hard work. We do the lyrics, the music, the shows, the tours, the marketing, the merch design ... all of it. Mostly because we want that creative control. But the end result is, they get everything for nothing.

And I let it go. For so long, I did. Sean and I both felt unbelievably grateful for being plucked out of hell and thrust onto a black altar draped in dark satin with pyrotechnics going off behind us. It felt like a dream come true, which is why it was the stage setup for our first big tour.

And it was a dream ... until AMM wanted to change my lyrics into something more mass-marketable. Until they wanted to rewrite Sean’s music, adding basic guitar riffs anyone can play while taking out the dramatic and complex drum solos Sean is exceptional at. Until they started stirring the pot clockwise and counterclockwise to see what would create drama they could monopolize on, creating an army of fans that rally for me, Sean, or Trent but never all of us. AMM is corrupting us, and I won’t stand for it, even if Sean doesn’t see the problem.

And that’s why I’m ruining us.

“What do you want to do, then?” Sean barks. “We signed away our fucking souls. There’s no take-backsies.”

“What if there is, though?” I try for the millionth time. “We don’t need AMM. We could hire a lawyer—a good one this time—and get out of the contract. Do it on our own, or find another label that’s not bleeding us dry and forcing us to turn on each other.”

“Whatever.” Sean waves a hand, dismissing the idea outright.

“We could do it. We could even fight back against AMM if you want to stay with them,” I concede, though the offer is bitter on my tongue. “Together, we can do anything.”

I truly believe that.

That might be the crux of the issue. Somewhere along the way, I started to feel worth something. Having people listen to my music and sing along, seeing what they write online about it, and watching as they show up to concerts has slowly led to me feeling like I’m not completely worthless. As much as I hate people and as nervous as they make me when I’m onstage, their acceptance of Midnight Destruction gave me a confidence I’d never had before.

For some reason, Sean hasn’t grown the same way. He’s still happily settling for trash scraps like they’re champagne and caviar.

Not that I want that fancy shit. But a little trust from AMM, some freedom to grow musically, and a fair cut seems reasonable.

“You’ve seen what I’ve been writing,” I add, trying a new tactic. “You know it’s good, because you’ve been sending back tunes in record time. It’s the best we’ve ever written.”

Sean grunts, agreeing with me but not giving in because he wants to see where I’m going with this. I’m not even sure I know where I’m going.

I want to convince him to fight with me against AMM, but there’s something more pressing. Something I should’ve already done.

“It’s her. It’s Hope. She’s the inspiration. I’m going to tell her.”

He knows instantly what I’m talking about and surges up from the couch, pointing a thick, tattooed finger at me. “No. The. Fuck. You’re not. She’s the inspiration? Fine. Use that, write songs or the whole damn album for all I care. But you don’t get to risk everything for all of us because of some pussy.”

His breath is jagged, like he can feel our record deal slipping out of his hands right this moment.

But it won’t come to that.

“You can trust her. I do.”

“You just met her!” he roars.

I stand up, too, but the coffee table isn’t the only thing separating us. There are metaphorical miles between us.

“I know, but she’s special, Sean,” I tell him evenly, quietly, trying to get past his fear and anger to reach my brother inside. He’s not one of those rough-exterior-ooey-gooey-interior types. His insides are just as prickly, venomous, and acerbic as his outside. He’s only got one teeny-tiny weak spot ... me, and even that’s the size and softness of a ball bearing. “She left her fiancé and is discovering how amazing she is, and I’m watching her come to life right before my eyes. I’ve told her about you and about growing up, and she’s—” Words are my livelihood, but I can’t find a single one that encompasses what Hope means to me.

Or at least not one I’m going to say to Sean before I say it to Hope.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he cuts me off, sneering, “Broken. She’s fucking broken after some shitty relationship, and you’re riding in to save the day like always, aren’t you?” He shakes his head, scoffing bitterly, “When are you gonna learn, man? You’d think after trying to fix your mom so many damn times, you would’ve, but nope, here we go again—”

Consequences be damned.

I grunt with effort as I throw a punch, aiming right for Sean’s jaw. But he’s too good and knew exactly what buttons he was pushing, so he’s ready for it. He blocks my haymaker with one arm and shoves my shoulder with the other, the hard push setting me back a step.

“Don’t, man. Just don’t,” he orders. “Fuck!”

He grits his teeth, glaring at me while I consider going at him again, and he sighs. “I’m not saying you can never tell her. But if shit blows up, Trent will move on. He’ll be fine. Hell, I can play drums without all the theatrics. But you? You’ll be done. You’ll be a hermit, hiding out and never singing another day in your life, and you fucking know it. I’m trying to protect you.”

I can see the truth in his eyes. Or at least that he believes he’s protecting me.

Honestly, I can see his point.

Trent is our lead guitar player. He’s been in several bands before and probably has a short list of bands he could join at any given time. He’d move on from Midnight Destruction within the hour. He’s with us, but we’re not his family. He actually has one of those—a wife and two kids, who visit him on the road.

Sean is a beast on the drums, and he’d play naked in the middle of Times Square without missing a beat. I’m the problem in our band of not-so-merry men. The costumes, masks, and disguises are all for me.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re a great marketing ploy, too, but they were born out of necessity because of my stage fright. I can’t be me onstage. I’ve tried. And even though it was a stupid, meaningless high school talent show, I cracked under the pressure and have no desire to try again.

They do have the added bonus of letting Trent, Sean, and me live relatively normal lives, though. Trent goes to his kids’ soccer games when he’s home and nobody gives a shit. He’s just the tatted-up dad who’s sporting longer hair than most. Sean can sit at a bar and drink a whiskey alone, and nobody tries to maul him or ask for autographs. I can disappear to a sleepy little town in the middle of nowhere and be a tourist who meets a local girl and falls in love.

I collapse to the chair, staring unseeingly. “Fuck!”

I force myself to fight my stage fright demons so Sean can have the steadiness of the band and not be another statistic from our neighborhood. He wouldn’t end up on a street corner like we were destined to, not with the money he has. But he could end up in a bottle, blowing through his savings as he escapes the banality of life. And he’s fighting me to make sure I can keep the thing I’m meant to do—sing. It’s what I was made for. It’s the only thing I’m good at.

We’re doing what we’re doing for each other. It just sucks that it hurts at the same time. But life’s never been painless for us. Maybe it has to be this way.

Especially because he’s right. I can’t tell her. Not yet. One day, but not yet. The risk is too great, and her wounds are too fresh.

Sean knows I’ve realized it too. “Sorry, man. Not to mention, AMM would haul you in for breaking our contract.”

Because of course keeping our true identities secret is in the contract too. Ironically, we actually added that ourselves, wanting to keep nosy workers at AMM from spilling industry secrets about us. Technically, I’m supposed to ask permission from AMM before telling anyone, and Hope would have to be my wife and sign an NDA contract before they’d even consider approval.

“Fuck AMM,” I spit out.

“Yeah, that’s the consensus,” Sean agrees, sitting down too. “This thing really that serious?”

I nod. But something he said is sticking in my throat. “She’s not like Mom.”

Sean presses his lips together like he’s trying to hold back something he wants to say. That’s not like him. He doesn’t filter anything, so I can only imagine how harsh it is if he’s swallowing it down. Finally, he concedes. “If you say so.” He pauses, but like he can’t help himself, he adds, “I picked you up once after a woman tore your heart to shreds. I’d do it again. But don’t make me.”

There’s only one woman who’s ever done that to me: Mom. She blamed me for her boyfriend going to prison and us having to move out of the neighborhood, and her betrayal cut me deep, leaving a gaping wound that I barely patched over with Sean’s help. It was ugly for a while, and he’s the only one who knows the full breadth of how gutted I was, because he literally propped me up and kept me going.

Hope is nothing like her. She’s fresh out of a shitty relationship, but she’s nothing like Mom.