Rising

  Rising

  A Blue Phoenix Book

  Copyright © 2014 Lisa Swallow

  Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  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 fucking 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 fucked 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 fucking 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.

  Fuck it.

  “You want another?” I ask, approaching the girl.

  “No. Thanks.”

  I wait for the parted lip, moment of realisation at who I am but it doesn’t come. Instead, she scans the room, ignoring me. Do I have to fucking introduce myself?

  She smells of flowers, roses maybe, which is odd because she doesn’t look like a flowery girl. In her boots and with those legs, she’s almost to my eye height and her face is close enough to see the ‘back off me’ purse of her lips. Now I’m closer, I’m struck she could be younger than she looks under all the make-up and my neck prickles as an image of Liv trips into my head.

  “What’s the band like?” I ask.

  She turns her black-painted eyes toward me. “Yeah, they’re okay. Do you know much about Ruby Riot?”

  “No, I heard good things so came to check them out.”

  “Why ask? You’ll see them soon, make your own mind up.”

  “I want to know people’s opinions.”

  Does she really not recognise me? There isn’t a glimmer of anything apart from a disinterested girl being hit on by some guy in a bar.

  A new track filters from the speakers and through the room. I smirk when I hear Blue Phoenix; this should prompt her memory. I watch and wait but her expression remains detached, no flicker of recognition. For fuck’s sake.

  “Hmm. Okay, I gotta go.” The girl pulls herself away from the bar.

  “Leaving? The band are due onstage soon.”

  She fixes me with a curious look. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

  This I’m not used to.
I almost utter the cliché ‘don’t you know who I am’ but she’ll laugh at me. Nah, she must have a boyfriend. That’s who she’s looking for. Damn shame.

  “I hope you like the band, Jem Jones,” she says and stalks away.

  Okay. That was unexpected. I stretch out my neck and consider my next move. Drunk Jem would’ve ignored the rejection by picking up some chick who’d love to get her hands on me. Sober Jem can’t be bothered. I shuffle back into the shadows before someone spots me, but the crowd is jammed tight and not looking at anyone but each other.

  When I was younger and went to clubs, we smoked. Now it’s banned. At most places in my Blue Phoenix life, this makes no difference. I do it anyway, but here it’s a no go. Shaking my head, I disappear out of the bar to indulge the one vice I’ve not weaned myself off yet. So? I can’t stop every drug in the space of three months.

  I head to the back of the club, staying to the shadows and edging around the sweaty crowd. Security knows who I am; they were pre-warned in case I attracted attention. No hassle from anyone so far and the niggling feeling I’m a ‘has-been’ edges around. I’m paranoid - I don’t go from top of the world to nothing. The location I’m in is the reason I look like just another grungy dude in the corner. Suits me.

  I duck out through the room filled with empty crates and fresh kegs, then out of the propped open fire door. The warmth of the summer evening surprises me but you can never tell with English summers. It’s pissing it down one minute, bright, sunny days the next. I pull the pack of cigs from my pocket and light one, gratefully inhaling the nicotine. Good thing I can’t do this by the bar; reckon I’d have ordered a beer by now. Filling my lungs with the harsh smoke, I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool bricks. The nicotine buzzes into my system. Yeah, I’ll give up. Eventually.

  A scuffling sound and a woman’s voice alerts me. The alleyway is narrow, brick walls overhanging the space between. The sound carries from around the corner.

  “I fucking saw you, you stupid bitch!” The man’s voice alerts me. I have zero tolerance of this shit thrown at women. Peeling myself from the wall, I approach the corner.

  A woman’s voice, low and placating, travels toward me; I quietly step out of where I am.

  And see red.

  Literally, because against the wall, partially illuminated by the car park streetlight, is a girl with red hair. What makes me see red in the other sense - of wanting to rip the fucker’s head off - is a man with his hands around the girl’s throat, pressing her into the wall. The worst part is she’s not fighting back.

  The man slams the girl’s head against the bricks and trips a primal anger in my brain. Striding toward him, I yank him by the back of his jacket, and he loosens his grip in surprise. The guy draws himself to his full height, but he’s still a few inches shorter than me. He has close-cropped hair, and the muscles barely covered by his t-shirt suggest he works out. A lot.

  “What the fuck?” he growls.

  “Was gonna ask you the same thing,” I say in a low voice.

  “I’m fine; it’s okay.” The girl’s panicked voice confuses me, as if my interference is unwarranted.

  I stare back at the girl from the bar, but she rubs her head, keeps her gaze to the floor, and doesn’t meet mine. “A guy has his hands around your throat and you say it’s fine?”

  “None of your fucking business, mate.” The man curls his hand around the girl’s arm and she winces.

  Assault charge. Do not get an assault charge. I close my eyes and fight the urge to smash my fist into his face. My history with chicks isn’t the best, but I sure as hell never beat a woman.

  “Please leave us alone,” says the girl quietly.

  I open my eyes and meet hers, the lost soul behind them pleading with me not to make things worse.

  “Hands off her and I’ll go,” I growl at the guy.

  He snorts and pulls his hand away so she stumbles, and then he raises them in a gesture of surrender. The red-haired girl steps back and disappears through the nearby fire exit before I can ask if she’s okay.

  The dickhead and me stand off against each other for a moment. He’s drunk, his eyes not focused on me properly. Man, he’d be so easy to fight. I open and close my fist, fighting down the Jem who’d solve things without words. Then I turn away, taking a drag from my cigarette. If the dickhead hits me first, I’ll have an excuse.

  Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he doesn’t. When I resume the position against the wall to finish my smoke, I glance over and he’s gone.

  Not my problem.

  ****

  I leave the empty alley and return to the busy club, the contrast in sound pushing away thoughts about my weird encounter. The lighting in the space between the bathrooms and the door is brighter and girls queue outside. At least one of them recognises me. I hear my name whispered. Beneath the heavy make-up and long, black hair, she’s young. Too young for me. Wow, I’m maturing. I laugh to myself, no, just getting too old for fucking girls in darkened corners. Not my style these days. Any more than a glance toward a chick, and I’m asking for attention so I adopt my ‘don’t fucking talk to me’ stance and stalk back to the bar.

  I order a Coke, again questioning my wisdom in surrounding myself with one of the drugs that fucked my life up. Why? Because in these bars I’m at the beginning, before I became Jem Jones, lead guitarist of the stratospheric Blue Phoenix. Where else can I immerse myself in the raw music that reminds me of the early days before I got lost?

  Suddenly, the band launches into their set, no introduction, just a jarring guitar pitching into a frenzied song.

  Powerful. Arresting.

  I turn from the bar toward the stage, encouraged I might be hearing something decent after weeks listening to wannabes who need to rehearse a lot more before they play in public. Bodies fill the sticky, wooden floor between me and the band; strobe lights pick out the band members.

  Front of stage, mic in hand is the red-haired girl.

  What the hell? Her voice cuts into the sound, an energy and depth to compliment the overpowering music. She has the crowd transfixed. I’m transfixed and that never happens. She’s fucking amazing. Beautiful. Intoxicating.

  How can someone with the strength and presence holding the crowd by the balls, be weakened by the dickhead who was holding her throat outside?

  The rest of the band members are guys and I smirk with recognition as I watch the lead guitarist. He’s good, not as good as me, but makes up for it in his presence. He shakes his blond hair from his face and picks out a girl in the crowd before turning on the kind of smile I used myself. Tag, you’re it. Yeah, there’s a fair few chicks fixated on this wiry, muscular guy with the looks to match his swagger.

  The drummer is half-hidden but pretty damn good too, and the bassist is lost at the opposite end of the stage, intently focused on his performance. You get that, some people have no idea how to perform to a crowd. Blue Phoenix bass player, Liam, isn’t big into performing but he gets to hide behind his long hair; this guy’s short spiky black hair hides nothing, including the piercings covering his face.

  The more I stay, and the more I hear, I know Ruby Riot is beyond special. The acoustics in the place are shit, some of their gear is crap, but with decent equipment and sound engineers, this band would rock the fucking world. The world needs to hear Ruby Riot and at that moment, I decide to make it my job to see that they do.

  I close my eyes to see what colour their music is – I see music as colour, always have and I was pretty damn happy when I discovered I share this condition with Jimi Hendrix. I suspect the drugs are responsible for the synaesthesia becoming stronger over time, more damage to my brain, but in this case, I’m happy about it. This song is purple; red and blue melded into a vibrancy to match her voice.

  I don’t let the girl see me. I don’t need to; she knows I’m here. Other nights, when bands knew Jem Jones was scouting them, it reflected in their performance. I scared them into mistakes and if that’s goin
g to happen, they’re not ready to step outside their pubs and club circuits. This chick, no. If anything, I suspect she’s performing better.

  I guess I’ll have to find her afterwards.

  Toward the end of the set, I disappear outside for another nicotine fix and when I get back, Ruby Riot has left the stage. I head to the Green Room, hoping to hell Mr Muscles isn’t the band spokesperson. The flaking blue painted door is ajar so I walk in.

  “I said I’m sorry,” says the red-haired girl as she turns. “Oh. You.”

  Her face glows from the performance and she drags her hair above her head, twisting the damp tendrils into a ponytail. The movement is impossibly sexy, her flushed face and wide-eyes adding to the almost innocent attraction. Her plain black tank top is soaked at the front, perspiration slicking her skin. This chick is hot. I blink. And too young.

  “You never told me it was your band,” I say.

  “Thought you might leave if I did.” She reaches for a bottle of water behind her and when she wraps her painted red lips around it, I immediately picture them around my dick. Yeah, I guess some things will never change.

  “Why would I leave?”

  “Can’t see Jem Jones scouting out a band with a girl as lead singer.”

  “Why not?”

  She wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Dunno. Just never seen Blue Phoenix with a female support band.”

  “You’re not all chicks.”

  She pulls a sour face. “That’s okay then, only one of the band members is the weaker sex.”

  “You’re twisting my words.”

  “What do you want, Jem Jones?”

  “You.”

  Her eyebrows rise along with her tone. “And you think I’ll fuck you because you’re the famous Jem Jones? We’re good. I don’t need to sleep with anyone to get Ruby Riot on the map. We’ll get there.”

  I laugh at her, at her presumption and the hovering meaning behind. She thinks either I’m a complete asshole or she’s considering me in a fuckable light. Funny. Closing the door, I lean against it and cross my legs at the ankles.