Epilogue
Jett
I’m sitting in an interview on an inconspicuous Thursday afternoon in LA when the radio personalities doing the questioning start asking me about the day I met my wife.
I’m sure this seems like a normal line of questioning to bring up to just about any married, practically half-divorced already celebrity, but nothing about me is normal, especially not when it comes to my feelings for my beloved.
I honestly can’t describe what it was like meeting her without getting completely lost in my stupid, sensitive as fuck feels.
I remember every detail of her clear as day, not to mention every insane feeling she brought up inside me.
I tell them about the party where we met, about the way I dropped down onto my knees on top of a gothically set table, knocking over a vase, scattering black roses, and spilling rose water everywhere.
The sudden, desperate instinct to grovel and worship at her feet was, in her mind, just having to do with my lifelong love of my now father-in-law, Max, but that was just part of it.
I do tell them about the way my insides set on fire just from kissing her on the cheek, and the way she made me morph back to my truest self the second I met her and every second I was with her from that moment forward.
Couldn’t put on bravado or game, never could with her, because it was like she was under my skin the second I touched her.
That somehow, she already knew me better than I knew myself, and there was never a point to faking a thing.
“I was bloody insecure, and I thought she was rejecting me when she said she didn't date.
I was scared to tell her after that, I didn't think she'd want me around. I thought I was being respectful not telling her how I felt. But now I see, I wasted so much time being afraid. Matilda was made for me, all the people we were with in those wasted eight years were simply a joke, a time filler, an unfortunate circumstance.”
I am so out of it after the interview, I start wandering to the wrong car, and my new driver has to yank me back to his.
Bryson was getting too famous to drive my arse around, but I still miss having him by my side.
Thankfully he's glued to Kel’s side now, and they live two minutes from us, that's my consolation prize. I drop, disoriented, into the backseat and beg him to drive me to the most secluded pub in town, where I can be completely unbothered with a pint and my thoughts. Something about that night has me triggered, hate that bloody word, and I need to stop and figure this shit out. Tomorrow is a big day, and a lot of my mates would likely think me a complete melt if they knew why, but it’s fucking huge for me, and I want it to be equally huge for my wife.
I don’t want to feel scattered and out of control like this.
I release a relieved sigh when I see the pub is dark and ancient and sparsely occupied, only with blokes too old to know who I am anyway.
I sit in the corner in a black, wooden booth and fuck, if the bartender doesn’t spot the cig behind my ear and bring me an ashtray.
Seriously. I must look like I need some pity, enough to break LA codes ’n shit, so I make sure to order a pitcher and give him a few hundred more than I need to.
I light it up with my Zippo lighter, which my wife gave me for my birthday: Leo Twins Forever etched on one side, Married ’till We’re Buried etched on the other.
I take one puff, and it’s like the bar around me fades away, and I’m right back in that moment that altered my life forever.
* * *
That first night I met Maddy, I distracted myself with everyone else at that party, like they were all equally as interesting as her.
Just like I kissed every person at that gathering on the mouth, but kissed Mads, the only one I really wanted to, on the cheek.
Damn, I wanted to kiss her everywhere, but I didn't know how to handle the feelings I had for her because they came on so fast, and were so much more than just lust.
Distracting myself didn't work for long and soon found myself wandering the mansion looking for her.
When I found them on the dance floor, Mickie was giving me sexy eyes and Maddy wasn't but I held out hope. I took Mads’ hand and twirled her around like she was mine, telling myself that someday, she would be.
Felt like a knife across my heart when she said she didn't date and my brain was all she's lying, you're not her type, she'd never want you!
But the more I drank, the more that hope bubbled back that I could still make her mine, someday.
I stumbled into my LA flat somewhere between Hollywood and Beverly Hills at nearly one in the morning that night.
Well, let's go ahead and say … tonight. Because that’s where my brain is fucking stuck and I can’t get past it!
I can’t figure out the rest of my day or remember what my wife is even doing right now, filming a commercial, I think? I’m that in my own head.
Tonight, like every fucking night, nineteen-year-old me is too keyed up to sleep.
Normally, I would put on music and play my guitar until at least three, or chug down a fifth and text people to come fuck me until one or two or more showed up at my doorstep to distract me from my thoughts with their holes waiting desperately to be filled.
But I don’t pick up the guitar or the phone.
I strip off my stupid costume and throw myself on my sofa, wearing only my pants.
The remote is in my hand, and Elite’s Academy is on my telly in seconds.
The sweet, innocent rock ’n roll princess I met tonight is playing the hottest, most manipulative little slut I have ever seen. Black eye makeup, cherry red lipstick, black mini skirt, and a cropped red corset top. Fucking pigtails. Fuck, if only the girls in my school had dressed like that.
Keane begs to be involved in watching this show, and I start to panic.
I wonder what Max would think if I pushed the envelope with his Baby.
He would never forgive me, let alone accept me into his musical circle.
He’s your role model, your reason for being a musician.
What the fuck is wrong with you?! My brain attacks me like it’s been known to do.
Growing up as Maxwell’s biggest fan, I remember a rumour going around that Max could read people’s thoughts and possibly the future.
All I’d wanted for my whole life was to meet him, and now a spike of anxiety soars through me at the slight possibility we would soon meet, shake hands, and all he would be able to see are my impure thoughts of Matilda.
I force them to be as pure as I can, as long as I can.
I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and nearly drink half of it until the guilt subsides, and I can focus on the goddess on my screen once again.
Those pure thoughts disappear when the fresh whiskey hits my system and I see her again, now dressed in her tiny cheerleader’s uniform.
I use the heel of my hand to push my dick down but it's just no use, so I release it from my boxer briefs.
As soon as I begin to stroke myself, ridiculously hard just from looking at her on a screen, I close my eyes and let the back of my head fall back.
I immediately picture wrapping those black pigtails around my hands as she kneels before me.
My dream girl sticks out her tongue like she wants to be used, like she's mine, and I picture her taking all of me until I'm a panting mess. Just from the thought.
My brain works at warp speed imagining the sounds she'd make while gagging and moaning around my cock.
I spread precum down my shaft thinking that her hands would be tied behind her while she took me all, down there on her knees.
As if I'm the one in control. As if I wasn't the one on my knees groveling at her feet hours ago.
She blinks her big eyes at me and I groan, shaking as I imagine my cum splashing across her perfectly highlighted cheeks and tinted lashes and pouty lips.
I nearly blackout at the strength of my orgasm just from the thought of her.
Returning to reality, I open my eyes in time to see Miss Cherry in a rather compromising position.
I sit up and tuck my dick away as she throws this character Tyler, a not-so-innocent football player, American football, ugh, down on his back.
She straddles his hips as his hands magnetise to her arse, squeezing so hard it ruffles the fabric of her skirt.
His lips attack hers while their moans fill my ears.
My blood rushes scalding hot under my skin.
It makes me itch, it makes my hands ball up into angry fists, it makes me crazy.
I throw the remote across the room, and it nearly dents the wall.
I have zero claim on Matilda, and even if I did, they’re just acting!
So why … why am I losing my ever-loving shit? !
My fingers grope for my phone, and after the fastest Google search, suddenly I’m on a call with my manager, Cam.
“Jett, mate! What’s up? You all right?”
My exhale accidentally has a growl in it. “Hey man, I’m- I’m all right.”
“You’re definitely not, Jett, now just tell me, man. I can help, whatever it is, you know I’m here to solve problems.”
“It’s…” Bullshit is about to spill from my lips, and I fucking hate liars!
God, I hate myself right now! But it’s projectile word vomit, the kind you can’t stop.
I light a cigarette and start chain-smoking to calm the insane nerves I have over the lie I’m about to tell, about someone I have zero actual ownership over.
“This actor bloke, Rye Meadows, you know him?”
Now Cam’s the one growling. “You fucking kidding? That asshole rear-ended me on Wilshire last night! I’m about ready to head over there and—ugh! Arhhhh!”