by Daya Daniels
“Olivia,” he groans.
I suck him off, until he explodes in my mouth, saying things he won’t remember tomorrow.
Zane
Liv is asleep.
She looks so peaceful when she’s in dreamland. I stare at her for I don’t know how long. I brush her golden hair away from her face and trace the line down her spine with my fingers. Her skin is warm and as soft as the outside of a peach.
She pissed me the fuck off tonight but I couldn’t stay angry. The way she took me into her mouth after was fucking incredible. I accepted that when I first met Liv something was happening to me. I didn’t know when women started undoing me. I run my hands over the scruff on my jaw and sigh loudly.
Liv is crazy in possibly the same way I am. She’s desperate for attention, fucking desperate for it—like a toddler stuck in the terrible twos stage. It all makes me wonder if she was breastfed when she was a baby. I certainly wasn’t but I got over it. Liv seems to still be getting over it. I touch her fingers and they close a little.
Taking a deep breath, I pull the comforter up over her shoulders. She shifts but she doesn’t wake.
I wander through the apartment, taking in that the sun is about to rise. I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-six hours and I still can’t fucking sleep. I stop in the foyer when I notice a few boxes. A leather satchel sits next to them. The cream edge of thick paper sticks out of the zipper that isn’t fully closed. I step closer and pick it up. Laying it out on the foyer table, I unzip it slowly. I pull the large sketchpad out and turn to the first page.
I’m certain my face is twisted in some fucked-up expression. I want to smile, laugh and then I want to be pissed. I keep turning the pages. I feel like a kid unwrapping gift after gift at Christmas and now that I’ve opened them, I don’t know which is my favorite because I like them all. The bottom righthand corners are all signed “Mackenzie.” These are Liv’s.
“Incredible,” I whisper. “These are fucking incredible.”
I rush across the room and turn the lights up in the foyer. There’s four other leather satchels piled against each other in the corner of the room. I bite my lip, debating. I return to the sketchbook and continue to turn the pages.
I stand stunned, staring over a charcoal sketch of me standing on the Big Sur Coast with a cigarette to my lips. Liv’s captured every single one of my features perfectly, as well as the writing on my neck. She never took a picture of me, so this all had to be from memory.
I turn the page to find another sketch of me asleep in a leather chair. The next one is of me standing next to a redwood. The next is a profile picture of me. Then one of my outline from behind.
“Amazing,” I whisper to myself.
When I get to the middle of the book, it’s more sketches of her father, Tom, sitting behind his desk. The next is a sketch of Liv’s mother sitting in front of a vanity in lingerie, applying lipstick.
I groan when I get to the sketch of Olga. She hates me. The old woman is standing in front of a stove cooking.
Every sketch is lifelike and vivid. They’re fucking incredible! I don’t understand why Liv hasn’t told me about this. She’s an artist.
I drop my hands to my sides and laugh. A bit of sunlight creeps in through the windows, as it rises. I haven’t been through Liv’s entire sketchbook but I will. For now, I shut it and try to get some sleep.
Liv
I awake at some late hour in the afternoon. Zane is sitting across the room near the window in his underwear, writing in a notebook and strumming an acoustic guitar. I slip out of bed, without disturbing him, and head into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I return to bed and crawl back under the covers. He brushes his dark hair away from his face when I meet his grey eyes but continues to play.
“Lost, with nowhere to run. There’s nothing you can say. I’m a motherless son.
“The air is thick with your ghost and places you should be. But you have no memories of being a mother. Of me.
“I’m a man now. No longer a boy. Who even knows what that means.
“I breathe.
“I carve my own path. Protect my own heart. Fill my life with its own disarray.
“There’s nothing you can teach me. Except, how to walk away,” he sings, then quiets for a long while, letting out a breath.
“Why didn’t you tell me you used to fuck Rachel?” I deadpan.
He stops strumming and lifts his head slowly to look at me. I purse my lips and cock my head to the side.
“It wasn’t important,” he mumbles. “Do you want the entire list of the women I’ve fucked, Liv?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
Zane laughs but it isn’t genuine. “I can guarantee you, they all hate me,” he says.
He puts the guitar down, placing it next to the chair. He stands straight and walks towards me. I take in the sight of his bare chest and the sparse line of hair in the center of the cut abs, which leads down to his black boxer briefs. He’s looks so friggin’ good, even just rolling out of bed.
He crawls up the bed, kisses my lips and then slides under the covers. He turns on his side, so he’s looking at me. A finger traces over my cheek and then over my lips.
“None of this is important, Liv. It’s the same reason why I don’t ask you who you’ve fucked, because it doesn’t fucking matter to me.” Zane takes a deep breath. “I don’t do this—this girlfriend/boyfriend, relationship bullshit. It’s too hard and it’s too much drama, on top of all the other nonsense I have to deal with when it comes to this life,” he whispers.
I feel my tears gathering but I’m not sure why. As much as I try to stop it, one slips down my cheek.
“She’s no threat to you, Liv. I used to sleep with her a long, long time ago and I haven’t since. She’s with Cash now. She works for us. I barely even talk to her. If anything, she hates me.” He places a kiss to my lips. “No woman has me like this, only you. You have to believe that, Liv.”
I give him a small nod, while he wipes my tears away.
“Well, how did her stuff end up in your house?”
Zane chuckles and twists his face. “I don’t know. She’s been to the house a few times but she’s never lived with me, Liv, or slept over or anything like that.”
“She’s still in love with you?”
Zane shrugs and his eyebrows cinch, like I’d just asked him the most annoying question in the world. “I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
“I’m still learning how to do this—me and you thing. I like it though and I don’t want to lose it.”
His fingers rake through my hair, while he slides his other hand up the soft T-shirt I’m wearing. His hands feel good on my skin—possessive, warm.
“You’ve never been in love with any of these women?”
“No.”
“But you’re in love with me,” I say quietly, moving closer to his face.
Zane freezes and blinks slowly but doesn’t answer. I hold his gaze, kiss his full lips, then back away again to stare into his stormy eyes. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. It’s almost comical. Only the sound of distant traffic—honking horns, tires screeching against pavement and the whistles of the traffic police—fill the graveyard quiet air around us.
“You told me you loved me, last night,” I whisper, with a hopeful smile. “Remember?”
Zane laughs but the laugh seems like it’s for himself—not so much for the two of us.
“You said it. It was sweet. You were stroking my cheek with your thumb, when I was su—”
“Yes, Liv,” he says, not allowing me to finish.
He places a soft kiss to my lips. I kiss him back hard, pulling him to me. I part my legs and he slides his heavy weight in between them. His hand slides up my seam. He groans when he already finds it’s wet...for him.
“You’re going to drive me crazy,” he mumbles into the skin on my neck.
“I’m a little annoyed you didn’t tell me about your art, that I had to r
esort to snooping just to find out about it,” he whispers with a loud breath. “It’s good.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, when I realize he’s seen them. I don’t share my work with anyone. I never even talk about it but I told a friend once. “Thanks, no one knows really.”
“They should.”
I look up at him, pushing my hands into his thick black hair. Slowly, he pushes himself inside of me. I suck in a breath of air at the welcome invasion and moan, when he begins to move.
“I love you, Zane,” I tell him.
He gives me a sexy smile and picks up his stroke.
CHAPTER SIX
Liv
We’re in Chicago, Illinois.
Zane had his own bus, which we didn’t sleep on unless we were travelling overnight. It had every comfort you could think of but we still stayed in hotels.
I’d been travelling with the band for two months now. The Vs had played at every major concert venue in Maine, New Hampshire, Philadelphia, Vermont, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Delaware. Now, we were in the middle of the Midwest leg of the tour.
Zane was exhausted and so was the rest of the band. Between concert performances, which were sometimes three nights back-to-back, interviews, music video filming, recording and writing music, he was preoccupied a lot and away from me. I focused on my art, which kept me busy. It was only a hobby now but it still took up a lot of my time. I spent most of my days exploring whatever city we were in and I made a few new friends. Dexter started dating a girl named Charvi and Rose’s long-time boyfriend, Wyatt, joined us when we hit the last northeast city.
Charvi was a real hippie. She had piercing green eyes the color of celery, lashes for days, and long black hair that always looked like it needed to be cut. She talked slow with a slight accent, which was funny because she was never high. Her words just spilled from her lips like thick molasses—maybe to make sure you heard each one, I don’t know. Charvi told me she grew up in Sir Lanka but spent the rest of her years in New York. She’d recently taken a break from NYU. It wasn’t planned. She went to a concert with a friend to see The Vs perform, and somehow, ended up at their after party where she met Dexter and he asked her to stay. That was all there was to it. Charvi promised that after September she’d be back to school full time.
Wyatt was preppy and mature. He had the air of a complete responsible adult. He always dressed like he was going to the country club or to a meeting, in khaki pants and dress shirt with a crewneck sweater over the top. He could’ve stepped off the front of a billboard. He was level headed. He was a few years older than the rest of us. He’d already graduated from Columbia with a master’s degree and had a job as a stock analyst on Wall Street that he’d taken a sabbatical from. Wyatt had his life figured out, whereas most of the rest of us were still trying to find ourselves. He reminded me of someone’s responsible father—the man who told you to pay your bills on time, to make sure you rotate your car tires and to keep all your receipts for your tax returns. He was handsome with thick dark hair that was never out of place and he spoke his mind—no matter what.
This morning the three of us sat in a Starbucks adjacent to the Art Institute of Chicago, sipping lattes and talking about nothing. Wyatt holds a copy of The Chicago Tribune in his hands.
24K Magic by Bruno Mars sounds from the speaker above us.
“Are we going in there?” Charvi asks referring to the grey building across the street.
I shrug and place my paper cup back on the table. I brush a few strands of hair away from my face. When I lift my eyes again, Wyatt’s brown ones are bulging out at me.
“Are we, Liv?” he chuckles.
“I don’t see why not. It’s not like we’re busy,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m on vacation,” he chortles out. “I’d rather spend the day with you gals, than in the middle of all The Vs’ bullshit,” he scoffs.
I suppress a smile and play with my fingertips in my lap.
“I don’t know how you’ve done it for this long, Liv. I hate touring with them but I do it for Rose.”
I shrug. “I don’t mind. It can be intense sometimes.”
“Intense?” Wyatt repeats, leaning across the table. “It’s beyond intense, Liv. Cash is cracking. He and Zane are always fighting. Rachel is like the band whore.”
The three of us giggle.
“At least you have your hunky piece of man candy, the infamous and uber-talented, Zane Presley,” Wyatt jokes, batting his long, dark eyelashes. “God, he’s hot.”
“Isn’t he,” Charvi mumbles and I feel myself blush.
“I don’t know how you’ve managed to tame that wild animal,” he hums.
I giggle. “What makes you think I have?”
Wyatt lifts a brow in my direction and takes a slow sip of his cappuccino. “If I was straight I’d be in love with you too, Liv. You’re fucking perfect. You’re cool. You’re pretty and you’re sweet. I’m sure you’re a bit nuts though. All women are fucking crazy if you ask me.”
I whack him in the shoulder and he laughs.
“You know Cash fucking hates Zane, right?” Wyatt adds, returning to the original topic.
I widen my eyes at his statement.
“Barry just bosses everyone around. Yandi is a basket case. It’s same old, same old,” he goes on. “It’s just drama from the time the tour starts to when it ends. I’d rather watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.” He laughs.
“It’s not that bad,” I interject.
“It is,” Charvi whispers. “According to what Dexter’s told me.”
Wyatt speaks. “After this fucking tour is over, I’m going to ask Rose to marry me and we’re moving to the Cape.”
I laugh and shake my head. “The Cape? As in Cape Cod? As in the hook-shaped peninsula of the US state of Massachusetts—the popular summertime destination?”
“Yes, it’s majestic there,” Wyatt says, fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt.
I give Wyatt an incredulous look. “It’s just not where I imagine you and Rose, Wyatt. Cape Cod is for senior citizens.”
He laughs and shifts his eyes back to the newspaper in his hands.
“I can think of a lot we can do today in this great-big-city,” Charvi says lifting her arms wide.
I let out a loud breath and stand to go back to the counter for another round of caps. I tap Wyatt on the shoulder. He swats my ass playfully, making me yelp.
Zane
Liv was already asleep on the sofa. I sit outside on the deck of the hotel suite at The Guesthouse Hotel. The Chicago air is warm and the electric sounds of the city fill my tired ears. I strum the guitar in my hands, writing down lyrics and notes in a thick book. I’d been at this since before I left Malibu—writing songs. I nearly had eleven finished already, that needed to be put to work in the recording studio. I couldn’t rely on Cash to help me. As usual, he only sung the fucking words. The rest of the hard work was left to me and often Dexter, who helped to bring it all together.
Cash promised to write songs for the next album. So far, all I had from him was scribbles on a notepad, along with smiley face doodles and one chorus that didn’t work. It was all shit. Super-crazy shit.
I take a draw of the cigarette in my hand and watch the smoke puff away in the light breeze that blows over where I sit. This place is modern, not opulent but cozy. I take a sip of scotch from the tumbler that rests beside me and place it back down. It burns when it hits my throat but that’s the best part. I feel the effects of it spread throughout me, calming my anxious nerves. I know what I really want but for the first time in a long time, I’ve decided not to. I didn’t need the White Gypsy. She didn’t make me better. I could live without her. I had Liv.
I told Liv I loved her every single day. Each time I said the three words, her face lit up in a way that made me feel something I don’t think I ever had before, for a woman. It warmed my insides and made me dizzy. I really think it’s only making me fucking crazy! What the fuck is
wrong with me? I stifle a loud laugh, putting the cigarette to my lips again. I’m a bitch! I’m. Her. Bitch.
I’m not sure if I like it.
The deeper we seemed to be getting into the tour, the less time I was around for Liv. I saw her late nights and early mornings, a few minutes between shows and interviews but most of the time, she was spending her days with Charvi and Wyatt or alone. She hadn’t complained yet but slowly, I knew she was coming apart like a hem sewn up with brittle thread—it wouldn’t hold.
I strum the guitar, seeing how the melodies work, if they work at all.
“I rise to you, like the blazing afternoon sun. You teach me what I need to learn.
“You scorch my insides. I love the burn. You’re in my veins, like bitter blood.
“I want you. I need you but it can’t be love. It can’t be love.
“I’m immobile, exposed. As frozen as a terrified child. I just want to see you smile. Maybe this will be for a while. Maybe we can go for miles. Just you and me, baby.”
I stop singing when I look up and see Liv standing in the doorway. Her long golden hair falls over her shoulders in waves. She puts her hands together and claps. Then tugs at the hem of the shorts she’s wearing, exposing her toned, tanned legs.
“I love that. It’s beautiful.”
I set the guitar down next to me, right before she crawls into my lap. She smiles but she seems sad, withdrawn, angry even.
“What’s the matter?” I ask nudging her chin with my knuckles.
She puts her face in the crook of my neck. The fresh, herbal scent that lingers on the strands of her hair fills my senses. It reminds me of that night on the Big Sur Coast, when I first met her. I run my hand along the soft skin of her thighs and, instantly, I’m hard.
