by S. L. Scott
Patience has no concept of time, but cravings do, so I touch his arms, encouraging him closer… closer… until he’s centered on top of me. He leans down resting on his elbows and kisses me. Pushing in, my body welcomes the stretch and burn, desiring the long lost sensation. Deep inside our bodies, our feelings emulate the intensity of the act. Our pace picks up in a frenzy of kisses and caresses. Heated bodies move together in sync, out of sync, and everything else that feels good and natural. A bite to my neck, a nibble to his earlobe. We cover each other in panting breaths over skin that becomes slick with passion.
Every thrust elicits sounds from our mouths we can’t contain. Guttural. Sensual. Every thrust purposeful and rough, sexy, and caring. Our connection is not casual but filled with an unbridled passion I wasn’t aware lay deep beneath the surface.
Pushing his hair back with my hands, I look up at him as a sheen of sweat starts dotting his forehead. His body moves fluidly, his experience showing. I push him over and readjust on top, slipping down slowly. His three gun tattoos wrap around the muscles of his arm and flex when he steadies me on top of him. Our pace slows. I don’t want this to end too soon, but my insides urge for more. I close my eyes, willing the darkness behind my lids toward the imploding light I know is buried, longing to be seen.
Fingers rub assuredly, a confidence in the action. I feel. Feel. Feel. My head drops back as his touch drives me closer. I want. Want. Want. I move, rocking on top of him, increasingly selfish in pursuit of my own ecstasy. With a gasp, I catch that elusive sensation that makes me feel Heaven and Hell equally. “Oh God! Cory!”
Everything stops.
Just when I peak, I fall back into reality, well aware of the damage I just caused. I open my eyes, seeking his out. It’s not a soft gaze I find but a glare cloaked in hurt and shock. I’m still, afraid to move at all, but the words come tripping out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Then shame fills my racing heart. “Oh my God! What have I done?” I’m swift to my feet as disgust fills my soul. “What have I done?” I mumble again. Cory’s face flashes in my head, memories of his laughter ringing in my ears as a torturous reminder. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Not sure what to do, I stand there mortified.
“You wanted this,” Dex says, sitting up. His voice sounds as confused as I feel. “You fucking wanted this. You wanted me.”
His words are messing with my head as guilt slithers in, drenching me on the inside. How could I betray Cory like this and with Dex, his friend? “Fuck. I’ve gotta go.” I run for my jeans, pulling them on, then drop to my knees to feel for my shirt. I slip it over my head and stand, my thoughts are like broken nerves, the pain of what I’ve done covering the raw ends like pinpricks of shame. I feel Dex’s gaze heavy on my backside as I put my shoes on and run out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
Down the staircase and through the party-goers, I run for the front door, not bothering to shut it or look back this time.
Outside, I stand on the stairs that led me away from his bedroom and the disgrace, hoping I can escape the cramping in my chest. I hate Hollywood and their fucking valets and mansions. Humiliation like this needs a quick escape, but I have to wait for my car to be pulled around. When it is, I jump inside, relieved that I didn’t run into anyone I know while waiting. I leave through the gates of the neighborhood and speed home. My hands are shaking, so I hold the wheel tighter.
What would Cory say? I’ve disrespected his memory. What will Johnny say? He barely tolerates him since his drug use almost destroyed the band. He would never support me and Dex being together. Shame coats me. And Holli? Will she be disgusted that I gave into a physical desire instead of using my head and mourning quietly like I’ve done for the last six months? Will I be able to face them if they find out? What if Dex tells them? I’ll become one of his many, but this time with a face, a name for them to judge. Will I be able to face myself? Look in the mirror without feeling disgusted for a lapse in judgment?
I flip the visor down and open the mirror. The lights are bright, making me squint. When my eyes adjust, mascara is smeared on the left corner. My cheeks are flushed, not from the night or the rash exit, but from sex and lust, desire, and dishonor—everything I had managed to avoid until tonight.
Flipping the mirror back up, my eyes fill with heavy tears. I hope to find physical safety in the distance from him before they fall. But no distance will protect me from betraying the memory of the man I loved so much.
One month later…
The phone call comes just as I return to my car after dropping Neil at preschool. I’m strapping CJ’s carrier into the base when the ringer sounds. I double check the straps before answering and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Hello?”
Tommy sounds panicked as he asks, “Rochelle, I need a favor. Can you meet me at your house in thirty minutes?”
“What’s up? What’s wrong?” I can’t lie, my heart is thundering in my chest, knowing something is wrong.
“It’s Dex. I need you to come with me.”
There’s no question I’ll go because I’d do anything for the guys. I drop CJ off at his grandmother’s. Luckily, I had already arranged the visit and I can run my errands tomorrow. I drive back home and spot Tommy’s silver Mercedes G-Class parked at the curb. The gate closes behind me and I take my purse from the passenger’s seat and walk toward him. I get in the SUV and buckle in. He says, “He’s been missing for three days—”
“What? Why am I just hearing about this? Where is he? Is he okay?”
“He’s fucked up, Rochelle. Johnny can’t know. We just hired the new guys and are talking shows and tours for the first time…” He turns back to the road and I see his hands tighten around the wheel. “…since Cory’s death. If Dex blows this, the tour will never happen and the band will be done.”
“Damn it, Tommy. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
We hit the highway and he’s off, way over the speed limit. “I know what happened… between you two. He told me. His head’s all messed up… I should have seen this coming.”
I stare out the windshield, watching as we pass car after car after truck, staying quiet. I don’t want to talk about that night or what happened.
“Rochelle?”
When I turn and look at Tommy, he says, “It’s okay. I understand. And I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. Setting my elbow on the door, I tilt my head, resting it against the glass. “Where are we going?”
“Barstow.”
I sit straight up. “Barstow? I can’t go to Barstow today. I have a meeting in three hours.”
“Dex needs us.”
Closing my eyes, I exhale, knowing he would do it for me, just like I would do it for any of the guys if they needed me to. “I’ll reschedule.” I call my part-time assistant and ask her to move the meeting to tomorrow or Wednesday. Then I call Cory’s mom to pick up Neil for me after school. When I hang up, I ask, “What’s he doing in Barstow?”
“He wasn’t clear on the phone when he called. I think he called me by accident.”
I’m still in shock over hearing this news. I feel so bad for not knowing, for not noticing. “He’s relapsed?”
Tommy hesitates to answer. I only know of two reasons why: one, because he doesn’t know or two, because he doesn’t want to tell me. I’m thinking it’s more the latter. His large fingers turn the dial of the air conditioning up so it gets cooler inside the vehicle, then he replies, “By the way he sounded, my guess would be yes.”
“And your gut?”
“Same answer.”
“How can I help him?”
“I’m hoping he’ll listen to you, so I need your help to either get him home or checked into rehab.”
“Why me?” I ask, but I think I know the answer already. My hunch is confirmed when he remains silent. I sigh, letting the burden of the situation be heard. “What is he trying to do to himself? What is he trying to prove?” Tommy doesn’t answer because he
knows I’m not asking him.
The miles pass as I return emails and phone calls, set more appointments and touch base with Johnny. It’s been our thing since Cory died. “So you doing okay?” Johnny asks.
“I’m okay.” Fine and well aren’t answers either of us can give these days. He sounds better since he and Holli moved to Ohai a few months ago. He’s writing music, playing his guitar and moving forward with the band.
My sadness and guilt haven’t left my side or my heart. My kids are daily reminders of their father’s death. I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough for them, if I can fill the role of both parents the way they deserve. But I get out of bed and try my damndest every day despite my secret fears.
Johnny says, “I’ll drive us to the cemetery tomorrow.”
He goes with us sometimes. I like the company. “Okay. Pick us up at 4?”
“See you then.”
“Bye.” I see a mileage sign just as I look up from the phone. “Ten miles to Barstow.”
Tommy says, “Ten miles. Johnny doing okay today?”
“Getting by.”
“And you?”
I reply, “Getting by.”
Tommy has never been one for forced conversation, which I’ve come to appreciate over the years. He may not have started with the band back in the day, but he’s been with us for eight years, so he is one of us. He’s also someone we all can rely on even when it’s not band related.
A sand colored motel with blue doors is visible up on the right. When we pull into a parking space, I wonder if it’s painted that way or if it used to be white and the surrounding desert colored it naturally. “Which room?” I ask.
“Twenty-two.” He leans forward over the steering wheel and points to the top right.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. It’s either the girl’s age or the room number. We’re about to find out.”
A sick, sinking feeling fills my stomach and I push open the door and step out. “Great,” I reply sarcastically.
Tommy follows me up the side stairs to the second floor. Room twenty-two’s door is cracked open. The music is loud and I recognize it as Jane’s Addiction’s “Summertime Rolls.” We glance at each other, take a deep breath, and then he moves in front of me before pushing the door open further. Our eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness of the room after being blinded by the brightness of the desert.
The curtains are drawn on the only window, which resides next to the door. A broken coffee table is in front of the loveseat that has some girl with long brown hair asleep on it. She’s in what looks like Dex’s T-shirts and by the way it rides up, I can tell nothing else. The bathroom light is on, the door to it closed, the sound of the shower coming from inside. Dex’s shoes are on the ground and two empty bottles of Jack Daniels and Fireball are on the floor next to them. White powdery residue is on the nightstand. Dex is passed out on the bed next to it, lying on his back. He’s wearing his leather jacket, revealing a shield tattoo on his chest, one that he’s become known to show at concerts when he plays. His jeans on with the button fly are wide open. His hair covers his eyes, his signature bandana fallen and knotted tightly around his neck. My heart breaks seeing him broken like this. This is not the man I’ve know all these years. This is the shell of what remains when someone sells their soul to the devil.
I push down my emotions and rely on logic. Besides immediately wanting to check and see if he’s even alive, my second thought is to look for needles. My third, for condoms. No needles are found, but I see three condoms near the trash bin. That relieves me for some reason.
Tommy looks at me and says, “Stay outside the door.”
I see the concern in his eyes, so I step back without asking questions. Peeking inside, I watch as Tommy goes to the bed and shakes Dex. Dex doesn’t respond, so he calls his name, grabbing his face to look at him. Dex shifts, but doesn’t come to. Tommy grabs his phone and turns off the music right when the door to the bathroom opens. I lean back, not knowing who to expect. A female comes out with a towel wrapped around her body and stops when she sees Tommy. As if this is a normal situation, nonchalantly she says, “He’s been out like that for a while. Is he okay?”
“How long?” Tommy asks, watching her.
“Two hours maybe. I think he had a seizure poor guy. Jenny and I didn’t know what to do. It really freaked us out. I think he just wanted another shot, so we gave it to him. But we need to get back to campus. We have evening classes and a test to study for. Can you drive us back?”
Knowing they won’t hurt me, I hurry to Dex’s side. I hear the girl asking who I am, but neither of us bothers with her. “Dex? It’s me. Can you hear me?” When he doesn’t respond, I lean down, resting my cheek to his. He reeks of alcohol and sweat, but I don’t care. His cheek is warm and he’s alive. While rubbing my hand over his tattooed heart, I whisper into his ear, “Dex, it’s Rochelle. Please wake up. Wake up for me, Dex. I’ll take you home.”
I feel his hand cover mine and his breath against my skin. “Rochelle, beautiful Rochelle.” His other arm comes up and wraps around me.
“I’m here, Dex.”
The words just murmurs, but I hear him say, “Stay with me.”
“I’m here with you. Can you sit up?” I lean back to find his brown eyes dull and bloodshot, so unlike the roguish ones I’m used to. Running my hand over his cheek, I say, “I want to get you out of here. Okay?” He nods, and when I try to move him, I feel every pound of his muscular body. “Help me, Dex.”
Tommy snakes an arm under him and says, “Hey man, it’s Tommy. We’re gonna help you.”
Dex nods again, talking seeming like too much of a chore for him.
When he’s standing, the girl on the couch wakes up. “Are you our ride?”
“No,” I snap. “I’ll call a car for you if you promise never to repeat what happened here again.” We get Dex to his feet, an arm over each of our shoulders.
Tommy says, “He’s able to walk. Get his stuff and let’s move him to the car.”
“A ride? That’s it?” the one girl says, putting her hand on her hip.
Pissed, I glare at her. “You left him here on the bed to die and you expect what exactly?”
“We were just having a good time. He didn’t seem that out of it,” she protests.
I don’t say anything else because I need to control my anger, which I’m struggling to do. With Dex’s boots and wallet in hand, I walk out, leaving the girls for Tommy to come back to handle. Catching up to them on the stairs, I help by holding Dex’s waist. Dex’s arm comes around and he holds me tight. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I say, meaning every word.
We get him into the back seat where he lays down. Tommy runs back upstairs and is gone a few minutes before heading to the motel office. I assume he’s paying the bill and for the damage to the room.
As soon as Tommy pulls back onto the highway, Dex puts his forearm over his eyes. I gulp, hearing the pain in his voice, the strain of the death that has destroyed us winning the battle when he says, “Cory was my best friend and I slept with the woman he loved.”
Tommy reaches over just as my tears begin to fall and squeezes my shoulder. I’m reminded that everyone grieves differently and Dex might kill himself in the process. Even though it’s obvious to us he’s hitting bottom, hitting his lowest, the worst stage in the grieving process, I look out over the flat desert and realize my turn is coming.
It was the harder decision to make, but Tommy and I made it while driving back to LA. Dex had passed out again and we refused to second guess ourselves. It will leak to the press by tomorrow, but we can’t worry about that. Dex needs help. If he had died… we’re not equipped to give him what he needs right now.
He’s not talking to us anymore. Sitting in the backseat, he’s staring blankly out the window, quiet for the last hour. Before that, he was talking a mile a minute trying to convince us that what we were about to do was wrong. Empty pr
omises he can’t guarantee were being made. Anything he could think of saying to change our minds, he tried. We’re holding strong.
My heart starts racing after entering through the large wrought iron gates of the rehab in Santa Barbara. The cobblestone driveway is lined with short pristine grass and flowering bushes. It winds around a large fountain and there’s a bench off to the right that overlooks a large ocean vista. With doubts and the possibility of regret seeping in, I glance back to Dex. When he finally turns and looks at me—his own pain and regrets are showing. I’m betraying him, but I can’t help but think this is seated in the best of reasoning. I apologize anyway. “I’m sorry.”
He looks away from me again and as soon as the car comes to a stop he gets out without hesitation, then slams the car door shut. Tommy sighs, glancing at me before he reluctantly gets out.
When I get out, I overhear Tommy say, “It’s only two weeks, man. You need to clean up, clean out. You know the deal with the band. If you’re using, you’re out.”
Dex pushes past him and spits, “Fuck off, Tommy.”
He treats me worse. The glare he gives me comes without any words at all.
A woman walks out with a clipboard and a fake smile to greet him. He doesn’t look back before the door is slammed shut. From this point on it’s up to him.
One and a half years later…
The curtains puff like sails of a ship as the wind slips in through the small crack of the open door. The weather is turning from cool to warm as spring settles in, reminding me that the grass needs to be mowed again. I should call the lawn service in the morning and get them back on a regular schedule.
My mind can’t rest despite how much I wish to sleep, so I roll over and grab the journal I’ve come to rely too much on and begin writing.
Dear Cory,
The night is always the hardest—nightmares plague my sleep. I go to bed hoping for the best, but the best has become the worst.
