The Redemption

by S. L. Scott

She blushes with a hand on her hip, and replies, “I have a new boyfriend, so there might be a little workout involved.”

  “You dirty girl!” he says with a look of approval.

  “Stop it.” She swats his arm and he playfully ducks out of reach. “Anyway, you’re here for lunch with your mother, but unfortunately, she’s not here.”

  The good-natured moment has evaporated and a staleness fills the air. “Where is she?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Antonio. I’ve got a wonderful meal and I see you’ve brought a friend. Hello, I’m Judith.” A warm, welcoming smile crosses her face as she reaches for my hand.

  “I’m Rochelle. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  She covers the back of my hand with her free one and asks, “Are you hungry?”

  Dex cuts in before I can respond, “We’re not staying.”

  Judith rubs his arm. “Don’t let her upset you.”

  “She already did. Where’d she go?”

  Judith hesitates then glances to me before she answers him, “The club.”

  He nods as he walks toward me. “She always did enjoy spending more time with a martini than her own son. Did Gage call her?”

  “No, he was due in court today.”

  “We’re gonna go.” His pain evident.

  “Antonio…” I hear the sadness in Judith’s voice. It sounds a lot like the ache in my chest I’m feeling for him.

  He takes my hands and starts walking back out the door.

  Judith hurries behind us, and says, “I’m sorry she’s not here.”

  “Not your fault. Always good to see you and go easy on your new boyfriend. Not everyone can handle a sex kitten like you in the sack,” he jokes.

  She laughs. “More like cougar. I haven’t been a kitten for many years.”

  In the car, we wait at the bottom of the driveway for the gates to open. The tension in the car is building but I just want to make it go away and heal the hurt he’s feeling. “I’m sorry you won’t get to see your mother.”

  “We’re gonna see her.”

  “We are?”

  He nods, not adding to the conversation. Certain topics control his mood like a pendulum. He can be the happiest guy around and then fall to the other side when a heaviness replaces the joy. His mother is obviously one of these topics. Cory being another…

  Ten minutes of listening to the engine roar as the wind blows through the open windows of the car, and we’re there. Security waves him through. “Are you a member of this country club?” I ask.

  “My family has generational privileges.”

  “Makes sense and very fancy, Mr. Caggiano. I didn’t think you golfed.”

  He pulls into a parking spot and says, “Actually, I do golf. I even played in high school on the team for a year before I quit.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “Because I hate golf clothes almost as much as I hate Chad Spears and he was Team Captain.”

  “Why do you hate Chad so much?”

  His irritation is apparent. “Spears is a spoiled asshole.” His eyes hook to his right onto mine and he says, “Listen, stay away from him. He’s shiny on the outside, all packaged up and manufactured by his producer parents and Hollywood, but he’s bad news.”

  “Are you jealous?” I tease. Wrong move on my part.

  Cutting the engine, he stares at me. “I’m not jealous. The girls he dates, they’re different when he’s done with him. He’s a user of drugs, people, and connections. He gets high off of building himself up by destroying others. Bad news, Rochelle. Don’t trust him. Okay?”

  I’ve never seen him so serious before. “Fine.”

  “Promise me?”

  “Okay, I promise,” I reply.

  I’m learning there’s a long history there. I mentally note that Chad Spears is another one of those hot topics for Dex.

  We walk inside the main building and I follow as he begins walking faster, taking big strides to the patio on the other side. The place is busy, the ladies who lunch dressed in tennis clothes, Diane Von Furstenberg, or silk dresses. I feel out of place, definitely underdressed now.

  There’s a beautiful woman, flawless skin with chestnut colored hair that is reminiscent of Jackie O. She’s laughing with three friends, martini glasses in front of each. He sets the present down in front of her and says, “Happy Birthday, Mother.” With that out of the way, he turns around and starts walking away.

  She doesn’t seem surprised in the least as she calls, “Antonio. Come back here.” Her tone is not demanding, but lilted with a smile, maybe to keep up appearances.

  “Dex,” I whisper, taking hold of his arm before he passes me. “Stop.” I nod behind me and add, “It can be different. Give her a chance.”

  His hardened glare softens before my eyes as he looks at me. When his hand touches my face, he whispers, “You’re so damn beautiful.” He leaves me standing there in awe of his sweet words and twisted from the sad event.

  Her voice reminds me of Katherine Hepburn and other women of society back East, not California at all. “Are you with my son?” she asks, fluffing the bottom of her bob hairstyle.

  With big curious eyes on me, I reply, “I am.” Maybe more than I’m ready to acknowledge.

  “Please send my gratitude for the gift.”

  Her sentiment feels cold despite the words. “I think it would mean more coming from you.”

  She’s uncomfortable in the conversation by how she shifts on her feet. “He doesn’t take my calls,” she states with one hand on her hip.

  “Maybe because you stand him up. Excuse me. I need to catch up with him.” I hurry away, rushing through the clubhouse and out the doors. Dex is sitting in his car, windows down, the engine off. When I approach, he slides his sunglasses down over his eyes and looks straight ahead. Choosing to let this all die down, his emotions showing in his slumped shoulders, I lean my palms on the open window, and say, “Hey, you still owe me lunch.”

  With a tilt of his head in my direction, I see a slight smile cross his face. “You’re right. Get in.”

  “I didn’t know Beverly Hills had burger joints.” I take another big bite of my burger.

  “It’s a little secret. Most people don’t realize that not everyone in Beverly Hills proper is wealthy. There are pockets of average working Joes.”

  Related, but my thoughts veering, I state, “I’ve thought about moving.”

  His head jolts and he’s facing me. “Where?”

  “I’m not sure. Just somewhere else.”

  Setting his burger down, he appears to have lost his appetite. He pushes his plastic basket away from him and looks out at the nearby street. “LA?”

  “There are a lot of memories tied up in LA, but I feel it might be time for a change of scenery.”

  When he turns back to me, there’s an earnestness found in his unwavering confession. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  His honesty strikes me, causing me to take him seriously. “I have the boys, Dex.”

  Leaning forward, his whispered words don’t hide his irritation, “You keep reminding me like I don’t realize you’re a package deal.”

  “I remind you so you can get out before it’s too late.”

  “It’s already too late.”

  His words take my breath, a silent gasp held hostage while I stare into the sincerity of his comforting eyes. Two beats of my pulse and I’m revived, and reply, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Under the table, he finds my hand and holds it. “My feelings for you are real. But for you, I’ll be your Peter Pan and you can pretend to be Wendy and we’ll stay in Neverland until you’re ready to see that Neverland doesn’t have to live only in our imaginations.”

  “Dex?” I say, looking down. It’s all too much and I push my burger away, feeling a lump forming in my throat. “You say these things in broad daylight—”

  “I say what I feel and I feel so much for you.”

  I sigh. “Please—”

&n
bsp; “Please what?”

  Sitting up, our fingers falling away from each other, I say, “Please leave the future out there in the distance for just a little longer. I have things that I need to sort through first, right here in the present.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Getting up, I set my napkin on the table and walk around the booth to his side. Sliding in next to him, I take his face between my hands and ask, “Did Wendy and Peter ever kiss?”

  With a smug smile in place, he says, “All the fucking time.”

  My smile is unstoppable as I lift up to kiss him on the lips. His strong hands cover my sides, holding me to him, but he pulls back. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Good. Because I’m really not.”

  He leans forward this time and kisses my forehead. “Let’s go. I need to get you back to the Valley before the kids are out of school.” Hearing him say that makes me think that maybe he does realize what comes along with dating me.

  In the car, I want to ask him about his mother, but I’m not sure how to broach the subject. I decide direct is best. “Your Mother said to tell you thank you.”

  Silence.

  “Dex?”

  “I haven’t seen my brother, Gage, in almost a year. He’s married and lives in Thousand Oaks. LA’s big, but it’s not that big.”

  “Why haven’t you seen him?”

  “He’s a lawyer, a partner at a firm with a steady job and all that, former pride of my family, but he took money from me and I found out three years ago.”

  “He stole from you?”

  Dex’s fingers tighten around the wheel, his knuckles going white. “He set up this account and had me sign a contract that I thought was for IRS reporting. It blew up in his face when the IRS contacted my accountant wanting their money. Like I wouldn’t find out.”

  I shift my back against the door, so I can see him better. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  With a glance, he says, “You were kind of busy three years ago.”

  The plane crash. The funeral. My darkest year.

  “I’m sorry.” I say it because my heart aches for him and his betrayal.

  With a reassuring smile, he says, “Why are you sorry? You have no reason to be.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

  “There was nothing anybody could do. I dealt with my shitty brother. Per her usual MO, my Mother didn’t take my side—”

  “She took his?”

  “No, she tried to play Switzerland, but I know deep down if the roles had been reversed, she would have sided with him. He was always her favorite. It was easy to see it. Each summer, I was shipped off to my grandfather’s. She took him to the South of France.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it was all bad if you ask me. I mean, how much sun and beautiful azure-colored water can you really stare at all day?”

  His laugh is heard over the wind that whistles through the car. “True.” When his hand finds mine, he says, “You have a really unique way of looking at situations, Wendy.”

  “It’s a gift, I guess. I just learned that you see a situation how you want to see it, whether it’s the truth or not.”

  “Your beauty shines through.”

  “Well I’m also learning that you’re not just a pretty face and kickass drummer.”

  Chuckling, he says, “Nope, I also have other talents.” He waggles his tongue, and at the sight of that, I clench my legs together. If he wasn’t so damn sexy, I might be offended.

  Pulling up into my driveway, I say, “Can’t wait to see that in action, you big tease.”

  “It’s not about seeing. It’s about feeling. And trust me, I’m struggling to wait too.” He looks past me, and says, “You’re home.”

  I’m too stunned and now too turned on to think clearly, so I just sit there for a few seconds trying to collect myself from the puddle I turned into on the floorboard of his Challenger. The name of the car feels way too apropos right now. “Yeah, I should go… home, inside, the place I live,” I start rambling.

  One more stunning smile in my direction, and he adds, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, um, right. Tomorrow.”

  I get out and stumble a bit, left a little off balance from his words and a lot off balance by how much he affects me. And just like how the day started, I’m left impatiently waiting for Thursday to get here.

  She’s become an addiction, and something I obsess over. Living the life I have, living it hard, I’ve become an expert at both addiction and obsession. I know the difference. Rochelle is the first person I’ve felt both over.

  Now that she’s let me in, I never want to go. I’ve waited so long for this chance. I have to pretend to act normal, but I feel anything but that when I’m around her. I don’t want to scare her. I want… I want… I want so much with her, from her, that it scares me. But I play it cool, keeping my deepest thoughts to myself. I’m good like that, the quiet one. I’ve been called moody, but it’s not that. That’s an emotion someone wears for show. My moods aren’t for show, but to hide, to protect what I don’t want any of them to see. If they know how I really feel, rejection can follow and I’ve had too much of that in my life to survive a rejection from her.

  I lie on the couch in the middle of my dark house, letting her invade my thoughts and crawl under my skin, becoming a part of me. She’s the sun when it sets and my moon when it rises. My day begins and ends with her on my mind. She asks about me but all I want to do is hear about her. Her days are mundane to her, but are envious to me. Routine. She has this amazing life, her routine as she calls it, and I just want to be there, be a staple, a part of her daily routine. Too much.

  Obsessed.

  I’m obsessed.

  This girl, this light, walked into my life and I just had to follow it. At nineteen, she was beautiful. She had brown hair with that just come from the beach look—chin length, a little wild, a little off. Her big brown eyes reminded me of the sun tea that would sit in the window sill when I was a kid. Rochelle didn’t belong in that bar, but she owned it the minute she walked in, under-aged and full of confidence.

  From behind the drumkit, I watched her, changing my beat to match the rhythm of her vibe. She was unique in the middle of a crowd of trite. As she put her straw to her mouth, my gaze wrapped around her wrist and followed the floral tattoo that had been started but not yet finished. When the band took a break, she climbed right up on stage and said, “You’re good. You ever consider playing rock?”

  “We play some rock covers sometimes.”

  “What about rock music that you help create? Original stuff.”

  Leaning back on my stool, I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t own my drums. It’s me and the sticks for now.”

  She shrugs. “That’s cool. It’s your talent that caught my ear. Anyway, the bassist has a set of drums you can use if you want to join our band.”

  Suddenly, she had my undivided attention. Well, she had it before, but now she’s talking drums and a real band. “Why does a bassist have a drum kit?”

  “He used to think he wanted to be a drummer, but his talent lies in the guitar.”

  “And what do you play?” I ask, so damn curious by this tenacious girl.

  “Guitar. I’m not in the band, but two of the best guitarists around are. They’re gonna be big. This is your chance.”

  I stand and notice the height difference. She’s short and really fucking cute. “Why aren’t you in the band if you play guitar?”

  “If you wanna sit around here all night yapping, then I’ll let you get back to playing cover songs from the seventies that should have never been made in the first place. But if you want in on the next big thing, then come with me.”

  “You want me to meet them tonight? Right now?”

  With a smile, she says, “Yeah, right now. We have a gig in an hour and no drummer.”

  “You want me to play a
gig with them tonight?”

  Nodding, she looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “Yep. I saw how you hit. You’re good. You’ve got natural skill. Not all drummers do.”

  “You actually want me to leave before the end of this gig to go play your gig?”

  “I sure do. Is that a yes?” She turns and looks around the club. “I mean, I understand how karaoke—”

  “Covers.”

  “I stand corrected. Covers. I totally get that playing covers can sometimes be cool and all, but I’m giving you the chance to be a part of something great.”

  “Promise?” I smirk.

  “Promise. C’mon. I hate being late.”

  She hops off the stage and I follow right behind her, hoping that ‘something great’ will include hooking up with her later. Calling across the room to the old guys I was backing, I say, “Thanks guys. It’s been fun, but my work here is done.”

  They don’t seem entirely surprised and raise a pint to me.

  Out on the street, she takes a helmet off of a Honda Shadow motorcycle and hands it to me. I recognize it from when I worked as a mechanic last year for a few months. I helped rebuild one similar to this. “This is yours?” I ask.

  “Sure is.”

  “It’s in good condition. What year is it?”

  “An ‘87. Ever ridden one before?”

  She’s a feisty little thing, but I can handle her attitude. “Yeah, but I’ve never owned one.”

  “You should. There’s nothing that feels more freeing than riding a motorcycle.” She tightens the strap under her chin, and adds, “There’s always a chance of death when you ride a bike. Makes you appreciate the life you have.”

  Nodding, I try to relate to this girl. I tuck the drumsticks into my Martens and pull my jeans over them. We get on and she warns, “Hold on tight.”

  I wrap my arms around her waist and we swerve into traffic. Holy shit! The girl’s a dare devil. Leaning forward, I ask, “So what’s the name of this soon to be big band anyway?”

  She speeds up and yells into the wind, “The Resistance.”

  Because of a last minute project Neil had due, Thursday turned into dinner at her place again. Rochelle apologized, but I didn’t mind. I actually liked it. I’m already attached to the boys, being around them is fun. And anytime I get to spend time with her is good.