Jersey Six(31)

“Maybe.”

“Maybe’s not an answer. I told you about G. I shared something personal with you. Don’t you feel like you should share something personal with me?”

“I think I should get changed before Max brings back fans with backstage passes for photos. And unless you’re wanting to watch me change my clothes, you should go sell some tee shirts and shit like that.”

On a slow exhale, she turned and shuffled to the door, but instead of opening it, she pivoted back around and leaned against it.

Ian pulled a shirt from its hanger on a rolling clothes rack and stilled, glancing over at Jersey.

She tucked her thumbs into the tight, front pockets of her jeans.

“What?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed into slits.

“I want to watch.”

He studied her in silence, unmoving from his spot twenty feet away from the door.

“At Marley’s … I slept in the back room on this old mat. A room much smaller than this one, much dirtier and smellier. There was a toilet that everyone used, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who flushed it. A rusted sink with only cold water. Even the water had this odor to it, but after a while, I got used to the smell. Chris noticed it when he arrived and started staying with me.”

Jersey’s gaze slid to the floor between them. “I dressed in that room, stripped down and washed my naked body with the cold, smelly water and really potent hand soap that left bad rashes on my skin if I didn’t get it washed off good.” She lowered her voice and slowed her words. “Men would come and go from the back room. Sometimes they just needed to take a piss, but sometimes, they stood there and watched me. I let them because they let me stay there, even after Marley died. And some of them brought me food and stole things for me … things I needed to survive. So … I let them watch. If they didn’t try to touch me … I let them watch.”

A deafening silence shrouded the room, leaving the meaning of her words suspended in the stagnant air—whatever the meaning was supposed to be. Even Jersey felt conflicted over her intentions when she volunteered such a personal part of her life. She waited for Ian to say something, but he didn’t speak or even move one tiny inch. He just stood there with a blank expression holding his face hostage.

“I want to know what they felt. Did it bring them joy to watch me? Did they feel guilty? Did they forget me in the next blink, or did the image of me run through their minds when I wasn’t taking off my clothes? I don’t know why men in my life have needed this … but I want to understand it.”

More silence.

Ian glanced away, staring at the shirt in his hand, eyebrows drawn tightly. He draped the clean shirt over the back of the tall chair by the vanity mirror before removing his worn shirt.

He didn’t look at her.

After toeing off his shoes and socks, he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down his long legs, stepping out of them and folding them before setting them on a black bag.

He didn’t look at her.

Just as slowly, he slid down his black boxer briefs.

Jersey swallowed hard and held her breath as emotion grated her conscience.

He didn’t look at her.

Ian stood tall, turning toward the mirror as he closed his eyes, holding completely still.

Naked.

It wasn’t seconds … it was minutes later that he opened his eyes and dressed for the show.

Clothes.

Hair.

Deodorant.

Teeth.

Ian primped for his performance—never looking at Jersey.

When she realized there was no sense to be made, no non-perverted reason to watch what she had witnessed—what so many men had witnessed with her—Jersey left the room.

As she turned the corner at the end of the hallway, looking for Dani, Max almost ran into her.

“Oh! There you are. Dani is looking for you. Have you seen Ian?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen him.” And right then, another question got its answer. The image? It stuck. She would always remember what Ian looked like naked, just like so many men walked around with clear memories of Jersey naked and vulnerable.

Max chuckled. “Okay … where? Is he in the green room? I hope he’s getting dressed.”

“He is.” Jersey nodded slowly, chewing the inside of her cheek as what just happened started to fully come to life in the part of her brain that wasn’t fucked up from an unspeakable past.

Ian did that for her. No questions asked. Why? Why did he do that?





CHAPTER TWELVE





Charleston.

Atlanta.

Nashville.

Birmingham.

Indianapolis.

Detroit.

The following weeks flew by. Ian Cooper put on unforgettable concerts. Jersey didn’t see much of them, but she heard them—or more accurately, she heard thousands of screaming fans. After they ended, she wasn’t beckoned to the green room or an SUV behind the building. She helped tear down the pop-up merchandise stands, gorged on food catered to the crew, and looked for Chris. But she rarely found him in the mix of local crew and Ian’s traveling crew bustling to get everything taken down, packed up, and on the road.

Chris traveled by bus. She traveled by plane. Ian treated her well, like a friend. So did Max, Shane, Rex, and Ian’s bandmates. Since the stripping incident, Ian kept a safe distance from Jersey or at least made sure they were rarely alone together.