The Rock Chamber Boys : The Complete Series

by Daisy Allen

  “You just told me that nobody tells everybody everything. Your exact words.”

  “Shit. Stupid me.” She taps her temple and then tilts her chin, leaning her head on one hand, thinking. “Okay, it’s not very interesting though.”

  I have the urge to tell her that she could recite the terms and conditions for signing up for a phone contract and I’d find it fascinating. But I have the good sense not to. So I just wave my hand, encouraging her to share.

  “I wish I lived in Australia for one very silly reason,” she blurts out.

  “Koalas? Kangaroo? The desire to marry Crocodile Dundee junior?” I throw out the wild guesses.

  “No, but now I have two reasons. No, it’s because I love that they call fall ‘autumn.’”

  “Um. Okaaayyyyy, but you can do that here, I’ve heard it.”

  “But not ALL the time. I mean, I would take every opportunity I had to say ‘autumn.’” She sighs. And repeats the word under her breath. “’Autumn.’ I mean it sounds so atmospheric and romantic and of cool afternoon drives through the mountains and spicy pumpkin soup with melting buttered toast on the couch at night. You say ‘autumn’ and you hear French music in the background, which is where the word ‘autumn’ comes from ‘automne.‘ You smell the scent of cinnamon in an apple pie baking knowing there’s freshly whipped cream in the fridge, like real whipped cream, not that stuff out of a spray can and a hot fire crackling and a bodice ripping romance novel waiting when you come in from a long walk around a still lake, crunching red and orange and yellow maple leaves under your feet.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of pressure for a little word,” I tease her, but I’m fast falling for the undeniable charm of this woman. Such passion over something as simple as a word. I feel the same way about a music scale; the perfect note, the right tempo or expression for a song.

  She pulls her knees in and lays her chin on them, looking out into the night. “That’s the way I like it. Word shouldn’t just be used willy-nilly. Why use ‘fall’ when you can convey all those other things with ‘autumn.’ I mean, it’s built into the word, ‘awe-tum,’ like awesome.” She grins as if she’s just thought of that. “I hear ‘fall’ and I want to check my body for scrapes. Where’s the allure in ‘fall?’” She frowns as if angry at the word for even existing, for not carrying its weight.

  She stops and wraps her arms around her legs, laying her cheek against her knee and looks over at me. “Sorry, was I rambling?”

  “If I say no, will you keep talking?”

  “I think I’m out of autumn things,” she shrugs, and I can tell a thousand more are flooding her brain right now. I want to hear each and every one.

  “How ‘bout I trade you for another one of mine,” I offer her. Any excuse to get her to open up more to me.

  “Is it juicy?” Her eyes sparkle at the prospect.

  “Like a lemonade stand on the first day of summer.”

  “Ooooh! Spill!” She clasps her hands together, gleefully, and spreads her legs straight out in front of her again. I can’t help noticing how long and curvy they are, even jailed in those tights. I wonder how she would react if I offered to help her out of them right now.

  Geez, focus, you bloody hound dog. I can’t help it, it’s like I’m suddenly in heat and I’ve caught a sniff of her scent and I won’t give up until I have a taste.

  “Hey! Don’t leave me hanging!” Her voice infiltrates my dirty thoughts of her and I have to look away before I speak. I don’t even know why I’m sharing what I’m about to tell her. But now isn’t the time to be contemplating her sorcery. It’s the time to just trust and fall.

  “Okay, okay. So, I’ve never admitted this to anyone before but… I’ve never, ever been in love. Not even close.”

  Her eyes widen and her jaw drops a little. “Wow. Really?”

  “Really.” I nod my head. “Have you?”

  “Of course I have!” She exclaims like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It makes me feel a little embarrassed of my confession. “Of course I’ve loved. It sucked!” She laughs. “No, it’s great. It just sucks when it’s over. Falling out of love is one of the worst things ever. You know, you expend so much time and energy, falling for some one. Then it happens and you’re so happy and you build this world and future together, and then one day, you wake up, and you’re looking at this face and… you just realize. I don’t love this person anymore. And you don’t know how to extract yourself from that life.”

  “Wow. You just made love suck.”

  She guffaws and there’s the tiniest snort at the end of it. She burns red and covers her face.

  I bite my tongue trying not to tear her hands away. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself running my fingers over her flushed cheeks in the process.

  “Your turn,” I remind her, once we’ve been quiet for a few seconds.

  “You can’t handle my real secrets.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay, I stole a handful of cheese from the falafel place and put it in my bag and when I go home, I’m going to have the best grilled cheese you’ve ever dreamt of.”

  “Wow. Hardcore.”

  “Told ya. Wanna hear another one?”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “I don’t know how to ride a stick.”

  “Um, you’re going to have to be a little more specific…” Because I’m coming up with my own version of what she means. Stop thinking about her riding… anything, Jez. Just stop it.

  “A manual! A car with gears you have to change yourself and stuff.”

  “Oh! DRIVE a stick.”

  “That’s what I said,” she glares at me.

  “Toilet Girl, I can guarantee you, if you had said DRIVE a stick and not RIDE a stick, I would not be having issues with my own… er, stick right now.”

  Her eyebrows raise and I know she’s doing everything in her power not to look at my crotch. Which is probably better for us both.

  “I gave you two. It’s definitely your turn now.”

  “Fine. Um, ok, how about this. I think I’m a fraud.” I let out a breath. One I’ve been holding all day.

  She frowns. I guess she didn’t want to hear that. “In what way.”

  “In my work way, I guess. Like tonight? Something huge happened, a big achievement. But I think I didn’t deserve it. I mean, at the time I was stoked, but now, I can’t stop thinking… I didn’t deserve it.” I rub the back of my head, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling.

  “Why do you think that? Did you lie or cheat?”

  “No,” I shake my head. “I worked hard.”

  “Then why do you feel like a fraud?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you think?”

  “Well, keeping in mind I know nothing about you…” she turns to face me again, and her eyes bore into my skull, rifling around in there, reading my deepest thoughts. “Is this a big dream of yours?”

  “The biggest. I mean, it’s not the first time I’ve achieved it… but let’s just say, it’s a new level.”

  “Okay. So. Maybe here’s the reason. Maybe you don’t want to have achieved it. Maybe finally attaining the one thing you’ve been chasing your whole life, is now making you feel empty. Like, where do I go from here? But instead of just feeling that, your brain is screwed up and telling you, you didn’t deserve it. That way, you still get to keep trying. Feeling like you’ve got something to live for.”

  I think she’s right. Of course she’s right. Who is this woman?

  “Or, it could just be, you actually do suck and your brain is trying to tell you that. That you just got lucky.” She shrugs, matter of factly.

  “My brain is a fucking bitch!” I declare.

  This time her snort is loud and clear. And she doesn’t care. She just keeps laughing and I laugh along with her. Openly, freely. Until there’s no more air left in our lungs to laugh. My whole body aches by the end of it, my stomach muscles trembling from contracting, but it’s the best sort of ache.

&nb
sp; “That’s probably the best laugh I’ve had in a decade,” she says, when she’s caught her breath.

  “That’s too bad. You have a great laugh.” I tell her, and she rewards me with a smile so sweet, I almost feel bad for the feeling of desire rising up in me.

  I look away and run my fingers over my stomach, massaging it, and I look up and she’s watching. Her scrutiny makes the skin on the back of my neck stand up, and I realize in the course of our conversation I’ve inched closer and closer to her, our legs touching at the thigh and all the way down to the knee. I can’t tell if she’s noticed or not, but now I can’t focus on anything else.

  I clear my throat and try to move my leg away, but hers just follows, comfortable against mine.

  There’s the sound of someone clearing their throat and I look up and see Mike standing in the shadow of the doorway, holding two bottles of water. I reach out and he hands them to me.

  “Thanks, Mike,” I say and he nods and disappears back inside.

  I open the top and hand one to her. She takes a long, slow sip, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” She plays with the lid of the bottle for a moment, and then lays her head back against the way, sighing softly.

  “I’m 25 today.”

  I nod. “So I heard.”

  “This is not where I thought I’d be.”

  “Here in an alley with royalty?”

  “I mean, sure, that’s a real dream come true. Sitting here with someone who’s just been elbow deep in the waste of half of L.A. and all…”

  “You’re welcome,” I cut in.

  “But I thought. I thought I’d be… more.”

  “More than?”

  “Being a bean scooper.”

  “You mean counter.”

  “No, I literally I scoop beans. Well, lentils. From the bag into the pot. From the pot onto the pan. The pan into the bucket. The bucket into th-…”

  “I think I get it. So, what do you wish you could have achieved at the ripe old age of two and a half decades?”

  “Well, I haven’t even been to Europe. I would have loved to have been to France and Belgium in particular.”

  “Why there?”

  “I… love the music from there. It’s just so…”

  “Musical.” I say, although it sounds ridiculous. Music being musical. But I know she knows what I mean.

  “Yes!”

  “I assume you don’t mean the lyrical genius of their prominent electronic music scene.”

  “No, I mean, like…Edith Piaf and Jacquel Brel and Christophe. Vocals charged with emotion and heartbreak.”

  I just nod. Who is this girl? What woman in their 20’s living in downtown L.A. listens to that kind of music? The kind of woman who cradles scotch like it’s her first born and feels completely comfortable forcing strange men to go fishing for her iPhone out of urinals, that’s what kind. The irresistible kind. The kind I wish I could bury myself in, in every way possible.

  “I love that kind of music too.” I hum a few bars of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. The last few notes fading away.

  “Wow,” she whispers. “I might not know a lot about you, but I know you are definitely …not a professional singer.”

  “Hey! You don’t know that,” I shout, offended.

  “Oh, I know. I know that like I know this freckle on my left hand.” She waves her hand up to show me, and I catch it, bringing it to my face, pretending to peer at it closely. I flick my finger at it and pretend to gasp.

  “Oh no! I flicked your freckle off! It must mean I AM a singer after all.”

  She rips her hand back and inspects it. “You did not. And even if you did, I would still be right about the singer thing. You are monumentally terrible. Like probably the worst thing I’ve ever heard ever. My poor ears.”

  “You haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “Surprise me,” she challenges me, one eye brow cocking. Her eyes lighting up the night. Her skin pale and translucent, like the surface of a milk bath. Smooth. Silken. Begging to be touched.

  I take a breath.

  Now or never.

  I lean in, so close only moonlight fits through the gap between our noses.

  “I want to kiss you more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time. I’ve wanted to kiss you, ever since I saw you at the bar. I bumped into you on purpose, because I wanted to touch you, be near you. You’ve entranced me from the very first second I saw you. So, please, just fucking let me kiss you.”

  Her breath stops in her throat, and her pupils grow large and perfectly round. Drinking in the world around it. And me. I can see myself in them.

  I feel, rather than see, her move. Closer.

  She touches my chest with her hand, and her eyes start to close as she leans in.

  My body grows hard in some places and soft in others in the anticipation of her lips on mine.

  My cheek feels a warm breeze as she parts her lips, as our mouths almost touch.

  So close…

  “HEY! THERE YOU ARE!” A loud, brash voice clangs into the night and we jump apart.

  She looks up at the woman at the door, “Oh, Paige. Um….”

  “We have to go, NOW. James’ girlfriend just showed up! Can you believe it?! What a cheating tool! Let’s GO!” She storms down the alley, stopping only to yell at her friend to hurry up.

  Toilet Girl just looks at me, and I know the moment has passed.

  I get up, dusting the back of my jeans off and hold my hand out to her.

  She hesitates for a moment, and slides her hand into mine, and lets me help her to her feet. She stumbles, and presses a hand against my chest to steady herself. My blood and breath cleaves to the skin where she’s touching and I can’t help but slide one hand up her back, pulling her closer to me.

  She might’ve been working in a steamy kitchen for sixteen hours, but I can smell talcum powder on her skin. I take a deep breath, the scent anchoring itself in my brain.

  I don’t want to be the first one to pull away, and it’s a while before she finally pushes on my chest, and we peel apart.

  She gives me a soft smile, and shakes the water bottle. “Thanks for this.”

  “No problem. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  She smiles, and hugs her arms around her body, goosebumps appearing on the back of her neck.

  “Oh, hey, You’re cold. Here, take my jacket.” I pull my leather jacket off and drape it around her shoulders. It’s my favorite jacket, but there’s something about seeing her in it that makes my heart flip flop in my rib cage.

  “No…I can’t….”

  “No, please. You kept me company out here, think of it as a birthday present.”

  She smiles and slides her arms into the sleeves and make it looks like the jacket was tailor made for her.

  “I guess I’ll see you around,” I say, not sure how to end this strange and wonderful interaction. She just nods and stares at her feet for a moment. She has a boyfriend, I remind myself. I’m not sure what I thought I was doing, declaring that I wanted to kiss her. And now I’ve made it awkward. Time to let her go.

  “Happy Birthday, Toilet Girl,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek, lingering longer than I need to. But not nearly long enough. I pull away, and now it’s my turn to have goosebumps rising all over my skin.

  “Happy You’re Not A Fraud Day, Sir Elbow Jerk,” she replies, and gives me one last dazzling smile before she takes off on a run to catch up with her friend.

  It’s quiet in the alley again. With just me. All the noise of a city reluctant to go to bed after a wild night out blends into the background. I think about the things I told her. Things I’d never really thought about myself. How I feel like a fraud.

  Maybe she’s right. A few hours ago, all I wanted was to win the Grammy. Then we held it in our hands – and now I feel empty.

  Maybe it’s time. It’s time to focus on something else, something that’s been missing.

/>   Shit.

  Why did I let her just walk away? When I have ever felt like that before?

  I push myself up off the ground and make my way to the street. I’ve got to find her. How? I don’t have her name, her number.

  But you know where she works, you idiot. That logo on her shirt, what did it say? Think, idiot, think[R5].

  It said “Federico’s”, of course.

  I grab my phone and type the name into Google Maps. Bing. I’ve found it. It’s just around the corner, and three blocks down. I’ll go, I’ll find out her name, her phone number.

  What if they don’t give it to you? Then I’ll camp out there until the next time she’s working.

  I run down to the end of the alley, filled with energy. For the first time in forever, I have a new purpose.

  Welcome to this new phase in your life, Jez. It’s the new age.

  I check the direction on my phone and step off the sidewalk onto the empty street, a smile on my face.

  And I hear a car horn.

  There’s a bright light.

  I hear tires screeching

  Then everything fades to black.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jez

  3 months later

  I open my eyes. I’m greeted by the same damn sight that’s been greeting me for the last three months. White. Sterile white. Pops of random color from wilting flower bouquets and shit my bandmates leave every time they come and visit. But the rest, is white.

  Like germs can’t stick to white fucking paint.

  Just paint it white. Microscopic bacteria and viruses are only attracted to dark colors.

  Apparently, that’s a thing.

  White.

  White walls, white shades on the windows, white bed linens, white floor.

  White and white and more fucking white.

  “I need to get out of here,” I say to the white room. And the white doesn’t respond.

  Three months. I’ve been here for three whole months, ever since that car wiped me out on the night of the Grammys.

  A broken arm, a shattered wrist, a fractured elbow, three splintered fingers, two broken ribs, a punctured lung, some random blood floating where it shouldn’t inside me and a concussion that went on for what felt like a decade.