3. Othelia
Chapter three
Othelia
My back and legs ache as my head throbs, the adrenaline rush of last night long over, and all I’m craving is my bed. Instead, I’m curled up in a chair in the international lounge, awaiting the call of our flight number, dreading the next twelve hours trapped in a plane with Lennon’s snoring.
Jericho’s knee bounces, the frayed material of his ripped jeans bouncing in time as he gazes off, lost in his own world. My brows knit together, taking in his worried gaze. I reach over and place my hand on his knee; the gesture snapping him out of the trance.
“You okay?” I ask, even though I know something has been off with him for a while.
“Huh, sorry, yeah, all good. Just tired.” He scrubs his hand down his face, then adjusts his mussed-up hair.
Maybe this break will be good for us all. We jumped on a plane to Europe less than a week after wrapping up recording the first half of our next album, the label insisting being out on the road was the cure to the block that hit us all. It’s been taxing on our minds and bodies, spending months pouring ourselves into the music locked in a studio, to flip into tour mode.
I lean into his shoulder, his tattooed arm wrapping around me in a side hug. The scent of his pine body wash envelopes me. That’s one positive about my boys, something that has made being shut in a tour bus with them for months at a time more bearable. They always smell good, each having their own distinguishing smell.
Jericho always smells of walking through forests. Trace like the sea, salt water, and sunshine. When he isn’t drumming, he’s usually living out of his van, traveling along the coast, surfing. Lennon, thanks to his wife, always smells like whatever fresh batch of soap, lotion, or shampoo she’s just created.
Charlie owns a natural botanical soap company and is always creating new products which Lennon, still smitten after a decade together, uses without question. Her latest mint chocolate shampoo has been making me hungry all week.
“Are you headed back to The Lodge?” I ask Jericho. The Lodge is the 10,000 square feet, fifteen bedroom mansion that was the home of the Thorn family. The only thing lodge-like about it is its location. Situated on Lake Tahoe overlooking the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the house is picturesque, especially in winter when it’s blanketed in a pristine layer of snow, but it often sits empty because of Jericho’s parents’ demanding work schedules.
“Nah.” He adjusts his long legs spread wider, attempting to get comfortable in the plastic airport chairs. “Mom is in the middle of one of her cleanses to prepare for a shoot.”
His mom spent the entirety of Jericho’s life as a working model. Even in her early fifties, Laura Thorn has a type of beauty most could only dream of.
Jericho was a surprise after a few drunken nights with the bassist of Heavy Division, one of the biggest rock bands in America in the 90s. Their whirlwind romance and careers took priority over having a kid, leaving Jer to fend for himself with nannies or living in the back of a tour bus while they took the world by storm.
As much as I love them both, being around during one of Laura’s cleanses means being subject to her unstable mood swings and erratic behavior. “What about your dad? I’m guessing he’s jumped ship until he gets the all-clear?”
“Yeah, he’s off recording a new demo with some Indie band he’s looking at signing.” He takes a long swig of his coffee before continuing. “So I’m sure he’ll be hiding in the studio for the next few weeks.” He shrugs, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes, betraying the fact it still hurts him that their careers have always come first.
“Well, you’re always welcome in Chicago with Sloane and I. Somehow she loves your stupid face as much as I do.”
He chuckles, his body visibly relaxing as he squeezes me tighter. “Thanks, short stack. I’ll be alright. Trace and I are gonna go bug the shit out of Lennon and Charlie for a while, then probably hit up a few parties around LA to see what options are available.” A shit-eating grin splits his face as he winks at me for emphasis.
“And on that note, I’m gonna go call Clay.” I reach over and mess up his hair. He tries to swipe the beanie off my head in retaliation, but I dance out of his reach just in time.
I walk past Lennon and Trace, both of which are passed out over the plastic chairs, faces covered with their hoodies, towards the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the runway of the Charles de Gaulle Airport.
My hand dives into the depths of my jacket pocket to retrieve my phone, dialing Clay’s number. I lean against the window, looking out at the miserable looking gray skies, looking forward to seeing the sunshine of California once again.
I deflate when his voice mail picks up. I hang up, disappointed as I slide the phone back into my pocket and adjust the oversized beanie on my head, attempting to hide as much of my signature white-blond locks as possible.
Chewing on the inside of my lip, unease shifts in my gut. When we first met at a party in LA, I had loved Clay’s dedication to his business. It was refreshing compared to the guys that usually tried to hook up with me. He didn’t get swept away in all the craziness of my life and was the first one to call me out on my shit if I got too in my head.
He always has a wake of making me feel normal when sometimes I feel like I’m just floating through life in a world so disconnected from everyone else.
Though the last few months have been so strained and I miss our closeness. The few nights in Paris didn’t provide the desired respite I had hoped for, as he was too busy with work, his phone glued to his hand.
I look around at the people bustling and moving through the airport. Are they on their way home, or running from something? Do they have someone they love currently in the sky, excited to see them when they arrive? A kaleidoscope of emotions exists in the airport, and I love experiencing them all.
Clay hates that I fly commercial: something else we disagree on. I don’t see the point in owning a plane when there are perfectly fine planes that everyone else uses. I travel a lot and having our own plane would be convenient, but part of being a songwriter is being in touch with the world, and how can I do that at 64,000 feet in a private plane?
A little boy in a Hopeless Mercy t-shirt that’s way too big for him walks past while gripping onto his mother’s hand. Scuffing his feet, he already looks bored with the travel. Looking up, he spots me sitting at the end of the row. His face morphs from bored to suspicious and he tugs on his mom’s hand to get her to stop.
Clay will kill me for this, but I can’t resist saying hi to fans, especially tiny ones. If five minutes out of my day makes someone else’s better, it’s an easy decision. Even if that means getting recognized and chased through the airport by paparazzi.
I slide my sunglasses down my nose and give the boy a wink, confirming his suspicions.
He just about rips his mom’s arm off to get to me, but she wrangles him in time. The boy’s excitement is contagious and I don’t hide my smile, needing this distraction.
The mom puts all her bags down and crouches to the boy to find out what has him freaking out. He cups his hand around his mouth and whispers in her ear, pointing in my direction. She looks down at her son, brows furrowing as she follows the direction of his finger, before landing on me. Her own mouth drops open. I smile and nod, letting her know it’s okay to approach me. She says something to the boy, and he takes off at a sprint before tackling me into the window.
“I’m so sorry!” She rushes over and attempts to pry the boy from my waist. “He was just so excited.”
I laugh. “It’s totally fine. I spotted his t-shirt as you guys walked past me and was waiting for him to notice.”
The boy lets go, realizing what he just did. Eyes dropping to the floor, his little hands ring together as he steps behind his mom for protection.
“Well, hi there. What’s your name?” I ask.
“It’s the same as yours,” a quiet voice answers, the hint of an accent, as he peeks out from behind her leg.
I quirk a brow. “Othelia?”
“No, silly!” He now looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world, stepping out and rolling his eyes. “Your last name… James.” An implied duh lingers in the air.
“Oh, of course, how silly of me.” I grin at the raven-haired boy. “Where are you going?”
He looks over his shoulder, checking in with his mom. When she nods, he turns back to me. “We are flying home to London after seeing my grandma.”
“Was it a fun trip?”
“Not really, she smells like dirty socks and cats—” He stops when his mom glares at him. “Where are you going?”
“I’m flying home too.”
“Where do you live?”
“James, you can’t ask that?” his mom cuts in.
“It’s fine.” I smile at her. “Well, I usually live in LA, but I’ll be staying with my brother in Chicago for a while. He’s about to have a baby.”
His face screws up. “Babies smell terrible.” I can’t help but laugh and he appears to mull over my sudden reaction before a cheeky gap-filled grin puffs his cheeks out. “Can you tell Trace I said hello? He’s my favorite!” he says eagerly. “I love his hair and the way it flies around when he plays. I told my mom I want to play drums just like him.”
“His dad is thrilled,” she deadpans.
James jumps in before I can reply, “I want my hair like his too, but Mom says I’m too young to have so many knots in my hair.”
Snorting with laughter, I glance over at the knotted-haired man, who has now woken and sits glaring at his phone. “Your mom is right. Trace was super old when he got his dreads. They look cool, though. Maybe you could tell him yourself?”
In that moment, he experiences a whirlwind of emotions, from excitement to shock to nausea and back to excitement, playing like a movie across his face
I stand, holding out my hand, which James eagerly slips his tiny one into. Together we walk the few steps over to Trace’s chair.
“Hey Trace, I wanted you to meet my new friend. This is James, and he’s a big fan of yours.”
Trace perks up, the exhaustion of the months of travel draining from his face. He leans over, holding out a fist for James to bump. “My dude, sweet shirt,” he says, sounding more like a Californian surfer than the drummer of a Grammy award-winning metal band.
I step back, allowing them to speak as James tells Trace all about his drumming aspirations and the two begin tapping out beats on the plastic chairs.
This is why I love these guys. They are always so open and full of love, no matter how much fame and money lands in our bank accounts. They remain the same boys I met at seventeen.
If those three hadn’t been there to pick up my shattered heart when my dad died, I wouldn’t be standing here today. I’m a lucky girl to have not one amazing big brother, but four. Even when they drive me absolutely fucking crazy.
“Thank you for this,” James’ mom says, pressing her hand briefly to my forearm. “My mother has been incredibly unwell, and this trip will be the last time he will get to see her. As much as he complains about the smell, I know losing her will be hard for him.”
Her eyes gloss over with unshed tears as she looks over at an enthusiastic James, now showing the boys his moshing skills in the middle of an airport, the guys cheering him on like it’s normal for a tiny boy jumping around to his own music in the middle of a packed airport.
“Thank you for giving us a happy memory of this trip,” she says.
I wrap my arms around her, squeezing tighter when a small sob squeaks out. “You are so very welcome, and I am so sorry for everything you’re going through.” She pulls a tissue out of her pocket and dabs at her eyes. “Losing my dad was so incredibly difficult. I couldn’t imagine dealing with that grief and trying to be strong for your family as well.”
She gives me a fragile smile as the speakers above us crackle with the announcement of the first-class gate opening.
We close the distance between us and the guys. James looks like his cheeks hurt from all the smiling. “Sorry to butt in but that’s us,” I interrupt.
“It was so cool meeting you, Othelia, you’re so much prettier in person.” James’ little cheeks flush crimson and I crouch down, giving him the biggest hug I can muster. He hugs me back with the same amount of force.
Grabbing our bags, we say our goodbyes. As we line up, I glance over my shoulder and give him one last wave.
That is the moment that others notice us. Phones start lifting and pointing in our direction, shouts from people calling out our names. I give them a small wave as I walk up to the gate counter. When I hand my ticket to the lady at the counter, she eyes the growing crowd.
“Let’s get you all settled on board, Miss James.” She hands me back my ticket and walks over to the glass doors that lead to the gangway, opening it for us with a warm smile. I gave her a genuine one back, grateful to avoid the mob of people gathering at the ramp.
“Thank you.” I pass through the doors and release a breath when the snick of the door locking behind us reaches my ears.
Making our way onto the plane, another air hostess who directs us to our seats, along with Lennon, helps to stow my bags before doing the same with his own. Jericho holds his bag out for Lennon too, giving him his best puppy dog eyes, face splitting into a grin as he dodges Lennon’s head slap.
I chuckle as they wrestle and relax back into my seat. Finally, we are heading home. I pull out my phone and look to see if Clay has messaged me back. Nothing. I shoot off another text, letting him know I have boarded, and send one to Sloane too.
The air hostesses guide us through the familiar safety demonstration and it isn’t long before we’re in the sky. I unbuckle from the seat and move to the adjoining bed. It only takes a few minutes for the hum of the engine and Trace’s drum beat before my eyes drift closed.