Page 5 of Edge

Other tattoos didn’tsignify much, and most were the result of drunken or weed-driveneuphoria. Like the time he’d thought it cool to get a picture of abanana with little arms and legs on his right hip to celebrate theband’s debut gig at the Annual Banana Festival in Hampshire twoyears ago.

He ruffled his hair,trying to get some semblance of neatness before he and Roger hadyet another “heart-to-heart.” He managed to control his waywardstrands with a quick squirt of gel and sighed since his hair wouldforever have a mind of its own. Thick, black, and slightly curling,it did what it wanted, and Jory was jealous of itsfreedom.

In the bedroom, he donneda soft pair of jogging bottoms and a loose, short-sleevet-shirt.

The teddy onhis bed stared at him. “Hey, Reggie, how was your day?”

The bear didn’t answer,but still, Jory felt as if he was listening. They’d been together along time. Reggie was the only familiar face he wanted to come hometo.

He stood on his bedroombalcony to have a cigarette. It tasted like heaven. He wasn’t a bigsmoker, but he loved the occasional one. When he finished, he wentinside and slumped down into one of the huge armchairs. Roger’sfurniture. Jory would’ve preferred bean bags. He stared moodily atthe silent giant TV screen mounted on the wall.

He didn’t have to waitlong for Roger to sit in the other chair, a glass of whisky in hishand, and raised an eyebrow.

“So where wereyou last night?”

Jory snorted. “Out. Ikeep telling you, you don’t need to know where I am.”

Roger shook his head.“It’s courtesy when someone worries about you to let them know youaren’t in a ditch somewhere or in somebody’s basement chained tometal table. Can’t you at least do that for me?” He stretched outhis long legs covered in a pair of well-worn jeans and crossed hisbooted ankles.

Jory ignoredhim and contemplated his bare feet. I needto paint my toenails again. Blue maybe. Hannah can do them for melater tonight.

Roger made a sound ofdisgust. “God, you are such a moody bastard. I threw away my lifefor you. The least you can do is not be an ungratefulsod.”

Don’t bite,don’t bite, he chanted in hishead.

“I wasappointed your guardian all those years ago for a reason, youknow,” Roger continued with a growl. Angrily, he pulled at thecollar of his open shirt with random strange movements. His handswere trembling. “It wasn’t something I expected to have to do, butyour father gave me no fucking choice, did he? He gave me a duty Irespect, as one soldier to another.”

Jory couldn’thelp himself. “Leave him out of this,” he ground out. “I’ve heardthis all before, and nothing’s going to change. I’m twenty-four,you arsehole. You’re not my guardian any longer.”You ran our home like a military camp, and Ihated every minute. I’m pretty sure my folks didn’t expect that,you tosser.

Roger’s face creased intoa slight smile. “And yet here you still are,” he purred and stoodup to come over and ruffle Jory’s hair.

Jory slapped his handaway in temper. “Fuck off. You know why I’m here. It isn’t out ofchoice.”

Roger sighed. “Again withthe…” His voice tapered off and a look of confusion crossed hisface. “What do you call it…protestations.” His face cleared. “Itake care of you, don’t I? Used your money to buy this luxuryplace,” he waved around, “put food in your belly, make sure youdon’t get taken advantage of by your manager and all the otherindustry leeches who want their pound of Edge flesh.”

Jory stared athim in anger. “I didn’t want this fucking place. I mean, surprise,surprise, I start making money and you appear like some vulture toblackmail me into staying here—all because of the fucking journalsyou’ve secreted away somewhere. Private property you stole fromme—twice.” His skin prickled with anger. “I guess the first timeyou stole my property, when I was moving out to uni, was only tocause me grief. The second time—when you fucking had someonebreak into myapartment—are the ones you thought would give you serious blackmailleverage. You really lucked out with those, didn’t you? Your littlepot of gold, you twisted fucking leprechaun.”

Jory’s chest heaved, hisheart belting out a tune like a fierce rock anthem. He had atemper, but Roger turned him into the Hulk.

I want tosmash.

Roger tut-tutted. “Edge,my lad, calm down. You don’t want to wreck your beautiful singingvoice by getting a sore throat. You have a session tonight,remember?”

Jory couldn’t speak, hismouth dry with anger. This wasn’t the first time they’d had thisargument, and Roger hadn’t denied arranging thebreak-in.

Jory stormed out andheaded for his music room, slamming the door behind him. He lockedit out of a petty need to exert control in his life.

He wasn’t oneof those rock stars who loved breaking his guitar at the end of aconcert as a weird crowd-pleasing gesture, but if Roger had comeinto the room right now, Jory would’ve thought nothing of takinghis second most precious guitar, a vintage ‘67 Stratocaster in aged seafoam green over athree-color sunburst, and beating the manto a pulp with it.

He picked up his baby,his deep blue Gibson ES, and strummed a few chords. The song he waswriting, “Moth to a Flame,” was being a bitch and he needed tofocus on the lyrics. He opened his new journal, the one he keptlocked in his hidden wall safe with a double numbered code only heknew—because, damnit, he wasn’t stopping doing something he lovedbecause of that dickhead—and ran through the song, humming thelyrics as he did.

I’ve beenwondering what it is, heating my skin

A feeling Idwell on, my mortal sin

It happens tome, baby, every time you’re near

I reallycan’t explain it, but the feeling is clear