Page 3 of Embracing the Beat
I push out the unwelcome sensations tunneling my senses and take a deep breath. My guitar case hangs heavy in my hand, and I nearly laugh at the absurdity of being attacked while still managing to hold on to the case.
Bingo!
“Maybe we should take this inside,” I offer. “Privacy.”
“Now you’re talking. Where’s your key?”
“My pocket. But I can’t reach it.”
He shifts away a little, and I tug the key from my pocket. He doesn’t give me enough room to turn around, so I fumble until the key slides into the slot and the beep tells me the door is unlocked. Gripping the door handle, I yank at the same time I position the neck of my guitar case between Brad’s legs.
With one step back, I bring it up as hard as I can. Brad falls backward, clutching himself and groaning.
“You fucking bitch.” The hatred on his face is the last thing I see before I slam the door, latching the chain as quickly as I can with shaky fingers.
The door vibrates as Brad pounds on it. I sink down against it, drawing my knees up to my chest. One breast is still hanging out of my shirt. I tug the material of my top back into place and wrap my arms around my knees and focus on slow, deep breaths.
“Think you’re hot shit, do you? We’ll see about that.” His voice fades, but I don’t move, terrified he’s coming back. Or worse. He’s still there. Waiting.
I sit in front of the door until my legs start to tingle, then stand stiffly and peek out the moldy curtains. The car is still there. No sign of Brad.
But what about tomorrow?
I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending this will be my path to success. Stepping into the bathroom, I lock myself inside before twisting the water as hot as it will go. While the room fills with steam, I stare at myself in the mirror.
The girl I was eighteen months ago—happy, excited, and optimistic about the future spun for her with lies and pretty words—is gone. My reflection shows someone who’s been worn down by each obstacle the last year has thrown.
“Maybe I should just admit I failed,” I whisper.
Each piece of clothing I strip off gets kicked into a pile behind the toilet before I step under the hot spray. The complimentary bar of soap is little, but it does the job. The air conditioning in the room freezes me as I step out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the frigid air clearing the fog of the last hour. Hell, of the last three months of this tour.
I pull my pajamas on quickly and glance at my phone.
BRAD: See you tomorrow.
Tears blur my vision, and I drop the phone, pacing the small room and nearly tripping over my guitar case lying forgotten by the door. With a sigh, I lean over and pick it up, placing it on top of the dresser and unlocking the latches.
It looks the same as it did when I started this journey. But I’m different. No longer the naïve girl who thinks she’ll be an overnight superstar. I’m not sure who I am now. Except tired. I rub my fingers along the strings and up the soft lining of the case. They snag on the hidden pocket Mom was so excited to show me. She told me to keep something safe there if I needed to.
There’s a hard ridge under the pocket, and I study it curiously for a moment before I dig my fingers into the small space.
It’s a credit card with a sticky note on it.
For Emergencies Onlyin Mom’s handwriting.
I’m eighty-one miles from home and scared to find out what comes next with Brad. Does this count as an emergency?
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Working through the best way to do this, I pull up Uber on my phone, plug in the credit card information, and order the least expensive ride I can. Finding the Atlantic City bus station on my own after midnight seems scary as hell. And this is cheaper than a cab. My ride is accepted, and I sigh in relief when I see the driver who has accepted my ride is a woman about my age.
I trade my pajamas for jeans and a hoodie and toss the remainder of my meager belongings into my duffel bag. Housekeeping can throw away the clothes piled behind the toilet tomorrow. Once the guitar is secure in its case again, I watch the little car on the app get closer and closer. Finally, I check the peephole to make sure that Brad is nowhere in sight, then slowly open the door and scan both directions. No Brad.
I sprint to the car and don’t take a full breath until I’m in the back seat.
“Michaela?” the driver asks.
“Yes. Thank you so much,” I say as she pulls onto the main road.
