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  Discovering Benton

  (My Life with the Band Series, #1)

  Jessica Sorensen

  Discovering Benton

  Jessica Sorensen

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Sorensen

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form, or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  * * *

  For information: jessicasorensen.com

  Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Zhara

  Benton

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Benton

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Benton

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Zhara

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Sorensen

  Zhara

  Dear Diary,

  Shattered. Broken. Ruined. Destroyed. Guilt. Those are the words that describe how I’m feeling right now. They’re branded into my mind, my flesh, like crimson letters, only no one else can see them. I can’t even see them. I can only feel them. They’re in me. They’re all over me.

  They are me. And I’ll never get rid of them.

  What I did, what I said, I will always carry that with me. And I should. It’ll be my punishment for what I did…

  The pen falls from my fingers as tears pour out of my eyes. I collapse to the bed as a sob wrenches from my chest, and I curl into a ball.

  “Mom,” I whisper. “Mom… Mommy…” I keep saying her name, hoping that somehow I can bring her back.

  That I can erase the pain. But it stays.

  Just like the guilt of what I did.

  Benton

  I see their faces everywhere I go.

  I call out to them.

  But they never hear me.

  I’ve lost my voice.

  But my lips still move.

  Silently begging them to hear me.

  Silently begging them to love me.

  But the soundless words slip past them.

  And blow away with the wind.

  And I watch them walk away.

  Walk away from me.

  Leaving me with my soundless words.

  And an endless amount of buried pain.

  “Dude, that’s dark,” my friend Jackson says as he leans over my shoulder and reads the lyrics I just wrote. “Maybe a little too dark for us to sing.”

  “It’s not for us. It’s not even a song.” I close my notebook and tuck it away, tuck away the pain and the heartache of the day my parents left me.

  And I refuse to let it out. Ever. Because if I do, I’ll have to go back to being that pathetic guy that cried for them. That thought they’d eventually come back. But I know better now. Know better than to trust anyone again.

  “You ready to party?” I ask him as I rise to my feet, ready to focus on something else.

  Drinking. Partying. Hooking up. That’s the stuff that’s easy.

  “You know it.” He follows me out the door, and we head toward a night of fun where everything will blur together, and I’ll find myself falling into a state of numbing bliss.

  And it’s what I crave.

  It’s what I always crave.

  Because things are easier that way.

  Easier to forget.

  Zhara

  I feel so guilty I might throw up. Wouldn’t that be a great way to start the night? My first time going to a party and I puke my chicken and rice all over the welcome mat. I can hear the gossip on Monday. Did you see Zhara yack her guts out on Friday? No? Well, you should’ve. She looked like an idiot! I might agree with them, too. I probably do look pretty idiotic at the moment, climbing the stairs to Benton’s party, pretending I actually belong here.

  Despite my semi-optimistic thoughts, I almost turn around. But when I glance over my shoulder, Taylor, one of my closest friends, catches my gaze.

  She smiles. “Relax. You’re going to have fun.”

  Swallowing hard, I nod and keep marching forward.

  “Zhara, stop being so damn nervous,” Taylor scolds, moving up beside me. “You need to chill out. It’s just a party.”

  I swallow the massive lump that’s been wedged in my throat ever since I told her I wanted to go to the party. “Sorry. I’m just nervous.”

  She sighs heavily. “You should’ve taken a couple more shots before we left. You’d probably be more chill.”

  I shake my head. “Why? I almost puked up the one I had.”

  She adjusts the hem of her thinly strapped, black and pink dress as we near the third floor. “Shots aren’t supposed to taste good, silly.”

  I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, feeling self-conscious. Compared to the short dress and four-inch stilettos she’s wearing, my shorts, tank top, and gladiator sandals make me feel way underdressed.

  “Then what’s the point of drinking them?” I question.

  She shrugs. “That’s what I always do before I go to a party. It’s like my warm-up before the big game. You know, like how we stretch before we cheer.”

  I nod like I understand, but I don’t. Drinking before partying? So, that’s a thing?

  God, I’m so clueless. When did I get so completely clueless?

  “Don’t worry; you’ll catch on after a party or two,” she assures, reading the confusion all over my face. “That is, if you go to another one. I was shocked when you said you wanted to come to this one.”

  I’m shocked myself. I’ve never been to a party before. At least, not a crazy, drinking, famous end of the school year party like the ones Benton throws. Taylor’s been to her fair share, so I’m hoping she can show me the ropes. I don’t want to seem too out of place. Although, I feel that way most of the time anyway, even when I’m with Taylor.

  We’re completely different from each other, and it shows big time. We haven’t always been that way. Back during our freshman year of high school, when we first became friends, we had a lot in common. We were both shy and a little naïve, had never had a boyfriend, loved spending Saturdays watching morning cartoons, and had crushes on most of the varsity football team, even though we knew they were way out of our league. We were so close that sometimes people thought we were sisters. But, at the end of our sophomore year, Taylor outgrew her shy, naïve, never-had-a-boyfriend phase, and transformed into a fun, popular, flirty, party girl who’s dated most of the varsity team. Me? I’m stuck in the same place. I never go out on weekends; I’m kind of popular, I guess, but mostly by association through Taylor; I’ve never kissed a guy; and I’ve been told I can be very dull and boring.

  I can't help who I am, though. When I think about changing, I get so stressed that it feels like a giant elephant is squashing my chest and crushing the oxygen from my lungs. Whenever that happens, my first instinct is to suck in a breath and get the air flowing again. The problem is, I'm afraid to take that breath. Afraid that, if I open my mouth, I'll end up screaming until my lungs burst and everyone will see me for who I truly am—a girl who's lost, frustrated, and
confused, instead of the put-together, proper, goody-two-shoes people portray me as.

  Sometimes, I want to just do it. Take an inhale, an exhale, then yell, I’m not really as good as everyone thinks! And I don’t want to be! But then I remember the final words my mom said to me before her and my father died in a car crash.

  “Zhara, this isn’t you,” she said after I told her I wanted to make some major changes in my life.

  I was almost sixteen-years-old and felt trapped in a life I didn’t believe I belonged in. I wanted to quit cheerleading, stop focusing on school so much, explore more things, have more fun, and be a little reckless for once in my life, like Taylor.

  My mom didn’t agree.

  "I know you might think you need to try new and maybe even crazy things, but I'm afraid, a few years down the road, you'll regret giving up what you have now." My mom placed her hands on my shoulders and smiled at me. "You've always been my good little girl. I love that I can rely on you to talk to your brothers and sisters out of doing stupid stuff. That's who you are, sweetie. And just wait; when you're going to some major, fancy college, you'll look back at this moment and be glad you didn't give everything up."

  I felt so frustrated with her. My parents had always thought of me as the one who kept an eye on my siblings, while everybody else got to do whatever they wanted. Even my twin sister Alexis wasn’t nearly as responsible as me. She went to parties; her grades were considered passable, not great; and she was allowed to explore her artistic talent through paint, photography, sculpting, and any other class she asked to take. Our mom supported her ever-changing dreams. Me? If I got so much as an A-minus on an exam, I got drilled with questions about what was going on, as if a tiny grade slip stemmed from some major crisis.

  I usually kept my mouth shut and gave up on the argument, but that day, I was exhausted from being someone I wasn’t. So, I opened my mouth and let the pressure in my lungs burst.

  “I don’t want to be this person anymore! I don’t know who I am. And I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m starting to hate my life!” I shook her hands off my shoulders and stepped back, glaring at her.

  My mom’s lips parted in shock. “Zhara, you don’t mean tha—”

  “I do. You and Dad are always on my case. Zhara, do this. Zhara, do that. Zhara, be perfect. But you know what? I’m not perfect. I don’t want to be perfect. And I’m sick and tired of listening to you guys tell me I am!” I stormed toward the door, shaking so hard with my anger.

  I didn’t understand why I couldn’t be whoever I wanted to be, like my older brother Loki, who was away at college, studying philosophy with no set future goals. Or like my oldest sister Jessamine, who just moved to London to attend culinary school, chasing her dreams of being some fancy chef. Even my younger brother Nikoli, who was barely fourteen, frequently changed his mind about what sport he wanted to play. He even dropped out of tennis because he decided he wasn’t that into it, and no one gave him crap about it.

  “Zhara!” My mom chased after me. “Come back here. We need to finish this discussion.”

  I barreled down the stairs. “Leave me alone!”

  As I reached the bottom of the stairway, she caught hold of my arm and pulled me to a stop. "I'm not going to leave you alone," she said, struggling to stay calm. "Not until you calm down."

  I jerked my arm away from her. “I’m tired of being calm,” I snapped. “I want to be able to feel however I want, not how you tell me I should.”

  Her eyes widened, taken aback by my sharp tone. “Sweetie, you can do that. But I’m not going to let you walk away during a fight. That’s not what we do. We talk through stuff.”

  “I’m tired of talking.” I yanked open the front door. “I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

  I didn’t really mean it. But we never did get to talk again, because the next afternoon, she died.

  It’s something I have to live with every day—the guilt over those horrible words I said to her, all because she was trying to turn me into the person she wanted me to be. And, while I still don’t think she was right, I’ve done my best to live up to her expectations. I’m still the same good girl who spends most of her free time doing extracurricular activities and making sure her brothers and sisters stay out of trouble. But I’ve struggled to maintain my good girl image. I want to let loose just a bit and for once see what it’s like to be carefree instead of this wound-too-tight person.

  That’s what tonight is about. Going to one party and experiencing something I’ve only ever been able to experience by listening to Taylor’s wild stories.

  Boy, oh boy, was Taylor shocked when I told her I wanted to go. She looked at me like I had sprouted a unicorn horn in the center of my forehead and said, “Are you sure? Benton’s parties can get really intense.”

  “I want to go,” I assured her, battling to ignore the voice in the back of my mind that told me I wasn’t a party girl. And maybe I wasn’t, but how would I find out if I didn’t go to a party? How was I supposed to figure out anything when I hardly did anything? “Unless you don’t want me to.”

  A smile broke across her face, and she let out a squeal. "Hell yes, I want you to go!" She clapped her hands together excitedly. "I've wanted us to party together for, like, ever. I just never thought it was going to happen."

  And just like that, I found myself stepping out of my comfort zone and into a new, unsteady, tightrope zone, where I can’t quite get my footing and where I feel extremely guilty all the time.

  If my mom knew what I was about to do, she’d be so disappointed in me.

  More guilt chokes me, but I bury it down as we reach Benton’s apartment door. The music on the other side is booming so loudly that the floor beneath my feet shakes. Though I haven’t been to a party before, my mind conjures up all sorts of wild ideas of what could be happening inside.

  It sounds so loud in there, I think. That thought is followed by, holy crap, I sound like an old lady who lives with ten cats and never leaves her house.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Taylor asks, noting my wary expression.

  I wipe my damp palms on the sides of my shorts and force a smile. “Yep. Let’s do this.”

  She grins, lifts her hand, and knocks on the door. When no one answers, she knocks harder.

  “What are we going to do if no one answers?” I ask, biting my nails.

  "Walk in." She reaches for my hand and gently tugs my fingers out of my mouth. "No nail-biting tonight. Got it?"

  I bob my head up and down, an anxious breath rushing from my lips. “Sorry. I do it when I’m nervous.”

  “I know.” She points a finger at me. “But you shouldn’t be nervous. You’re supposed to have fun at parties. You know, let your hair down or whatever.” Her eyes light up. “Speaking of hair …” She reaches forward and steals the clip from my hair, making my long, brown curls spill across my shoulders in a wildly untamed mess.

  I hastily comb my fingers through the locks, attempting to tame them, but it’s no use. As usual, my dang curls are untamable.

  “Give me the clip back,” I beg, sticking my hand out. “My hair looks like crap.”

  “No way. Your hair is sexy.” She touches her shoulder-length red hair with her fingers and pulls a face. “God, I wish I had your curls. But noooo, I had to be cursed with thin, flat, lifeless hair.”

  “Your hair looks amazing.” I motion for her to give me the clip, but she shakes her head. I grimace. “I didn’t even brush my hair today.”

  “So what? You have this sexy bedhead thing going on. Guys love that.”

  “I’m not trying to impress any guys.” I lunge for her, but she skitters to the side, moving out of my way, and I almost run into the wall.

  “You say that now, but you’ll change your mind.” She flashes me a devious grin then chucks the clip over my head and down the three flights of stairs. The cheap plastic breaks into pieces as it hits the concrete.

  I frown at her. “So not c
ool. That was my favorite one.”

  “Then I’m glad I broke it. You shouldn’t have a favorite hair clip.” Smirking at me, she hammers her fist against the door again.

  I narrow my eyes at her, trying to appear irate, but she only laughs.

  “You trying to get pissed off is the funniest thing ever,” she says. “You’ve always sucked at it.”

  That’s not true. I was angry at my mom for the entire day before she died, and my inability to let go of that rage has haunted me for the last year.

  “I’m sorry. I just—”

  The door swings and all the noise from inside spills out.

  Benton casually leans against the doorframe with his lean arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Taylor.

  His gaze is intimidating, at least to me. Taylor appears completely undisturbed by it, however. Probably because she’s used to it. He looks that way a lot; every single time I’ve seen him in the hallways, whether he’s walking alone or talking to people. Most of his friends don’t get too fazed by it anymore, but if a stranger crossed paths with him at night, they’d probably run in the opposite direction—he gives off that scary of a vibe. And it doesn’t help that he looks older than he really is.

  Like Taylor and I, Benton just finished his junior year of high school, but with his tattooed arms and his I-don’t-have-to-answer-to-anyone attitude, he looks like he should be in college. Or kicking someone’s ass at a biker bar.

  I remember the first time I saw him, back at the start of our freshman year when he first moved to Honeyton. Everyone was talking about how sexy he was.

  “That’s Benton?” I asked Taylor, gaping at him as he walked down the school hallway with an air of confidence that could only be envied.