The Redemption

by S. L. Scott

  “Whatever happened to that motorcycle you had?” I ask Rochelle as we lay on a blanket in the middle of the backyard. The sun has set, the kids are watching a cartoon, and we just finished a bottle of wine.

  “I got rid of it a few years ago,” she replies. “It’s clear enough to see some stars tonight.”

  I’ve learned when she changes the subject, not to push. She’s not as open as she used to be, but I understand that the harshness of life changes people. It’s changed her in ways I wish I could give back to her. I move to the new topic to keep her in the moment, here with me. “I once heard that only those who see the big picture can focus on the details.”

  Looking tired, but amused, she turns to me. “What does that mean?”

  Seeing the sparkle to her eyes, I give her a smile. “If we see things on a grander scale, we’re more likely to appreciate the little things that make it up.”

  When I look at her, there’s a small smile on her face when she says, “Sometimes you say the most amazing things and I don’t even think you realize it.”

  “If it makes you smile, my work here is done.”

  With a giggle, her hand nudges mine between us. As if the thought just came to her, she comments, “You never ask for anything. Not even on your performer’s contract rider. No special requests whatsoever.”

  I want to touch her, to kiss her again, and reinforce that it wasn’t a wet dream. We had sex once and the memory still haunts me. As casually as I can, I cover one finger over hers, and reply, “Nothing I want can be put on a tour rider.”

  From the look in her eyes, she’s analyzing the meaning beneath my words, but she knows deep down what I really mean. Knowing we can’t quite go there yet, I add, “Anyway, the guys request enough shit for all of us on tour.”

  “That’s true.” Moving closer, she uses my chest as a pillow. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and steal a peek at her boys inside. They look content with popcorn and big smiles on their faces, giggling at the kid’s movie playing. These two boys that I’ve watched grow from a distance might become my responsibility one day… and I’m not opposed to this. I see Cory in their faces. They have Rochelle’s heart and spunk.

  I can give… What can I give them that matters? They have money. They have family. Any toy they could ever want for is easily bought. What role can I play in their lives that add value? How can I make their lives better by being in it?

  Her voice is soft and cuts into my doubts. “If you could have anything, what would it be, Dex?”

  I slip my hand down her back and rub while staring up at the sky again. “Time. I’d want time back.”

  She sits up, leaning over me while looking down, her gaze soft but direct. “And what would you do if you got time back?”

  “I wouldn’t waste a minute.” I sit up and kiss her, running my hand into her hair and holding her close.

  “Ew! What are you doing?” Neil says with disgust in his tone.

  We part like two teenagers busted by their parents. Rochelle is to her knees and then standing up in a flash. “I, uh, he was helping me look for my earring.” She tugs at her earlobe.

  “It looked like kissing,” Neil adds.

  “It was,” she starts again, her voice shaking. “It was kissing but like just a friendly goodnight kiss since Dex is leaving. Yeah, so—”

  “Yeah, kiddo, I’m leaving.” I stand and look between the two of them. “Thanks for having me over.” Rochelle’s a mess and Neil seems a little protective of his mother in his stance. That’s my cue. When I approach, he opens the door nice and wide for me. I walk inside and he follows with Rochelle behind him. “I’m thinking you can come over this week, Neil, and we can play on my drums. I can teach you some beats, easy rhythms. What do you think about that?”

  “That’d be cool,” he says, his tone lighthearted again.

  At the front door, Rochelle says, “Thanks for coming over.”

  I’m not sure what to say because everything I want to, I can’t with Neil between us, so I turn to leave instead. “Thanks again for dinner. Bye, CJ. Bye, Neil. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “Bye-bye,” CJ yells.

  Neil nods. “Bye.”

  And when I see Rochelle, she mouths silently, “I’m sorry.” When I start walking away from the door, I hear her say, “C’mon, buddy, let’s get you guys to bed.” The door shuts and I’m left standing in the dark under a blanket of stars wondering what the fuck I’m doing. I think I just got in trouble by a seven-year-old.

  As soon as I walk into my house, I head for the bar. It’s stocked just the way I like it because although I don’t make requests on the road, I do in my own home. I pour bourbon over ice and watch as the ice begins to melt on contact. It’s the same burning that I usually feel, like an addiction reminding me how it has all the control. I give into it every time, realizing I don’t need the upper hand. I just need to feel the burn again.

  And the sensation is euphoric much like Rochelle—a burning euphoria.

  Outside, I sit in a chair, setting my drink down to replace it with a cigarette. Under the same stars, but separated by more than a few miles physically and emotionally. Deep drags calm my insides as I rest my hands on my thighs and close my eyes.

  I need to loosen up.

  Addiction.

  Obsession.

  Square One.

  There are more cons than pros when it comes to Rochelle. Just when I thought it might be our time after all of these years, life has happened, making it more complicated. She’s a mother. Damn, that still blows my mind. She’s a good one, not like mine at all. Rochelle’s warm. My mother is cold. About the only thing they have in common is money, but my mother comes from undeserved, family funds. Money I’ve already started to inherit on a monthly basis from my grandfather’s estate since I turned thirty. Apparently thirty is the expected age to have one’s life figured out and in order.

  I’ll take his money and try not to think about him too much. But memories are powerful and hard to force down.

  Theodore Dexter the Fifth was a trip. The most formal man I’ve ever known. He wore suits to dinner and everyone was expected to follow the dress code when in his presence. My mother obliged him when we stayed there. She would stay for a few days before taking my brother on her escapades around the world. Gage was more presentable by nature, the chosen child to represent The Dexter’s. I would stay at my grandfathers for at least two weeks each summer without them. I actually liked the time alone, but when visiting, even my play clothes were discarded after one wearing for not being crisp in appearance. Breakfast was at 7 or you got none. Lunch at eleven. Tea at three. Dinner at six. Bed by eight. The name of the city always felt fitting. Expectations ran high in Diablo, California. They ran high back in LA too, but here I missed my friends.

  At thirteen, I snuck out of my room after curfew with thoughts of running away, running back home. I figured no one would notice anyway. I cut through the property and passed the guest quarters when I heard some banging. I moved closer, feeling very stealthy at the time. When I got close enough to look in the window, I saw Tres, the handyman I had seen around the house playing drums. I didn’t even know he lived here. He was probably in his early twenties and was wearing a black Ramones shirt. A cigarette, or joint, hung from the corner of his mouth. It was dark outside, but he wore his sunglasses anyway. One of the newly hired maids, a blonde who looked like she was his age, danced around with her arms in the air. Her uniform was unbuttoned enough to see her bright pink bra and the skirt rose up as she moved.

  My journey that night ended there. I sat down in a chair outside the window—watched and listened for over an hour. I was fixated on that kit and the power he put into hitting it as much as I was on seeing her slowly strip for him. They turned out the lights, but a purple lava lamp lit the room enough to see them as they hit the bed. I’d never seen two people having sex. I had magazines I stole from a convenience store down by the public school near us, but never seen a video, much
less two people in real life having sex.

  Tres blended into the darkness. But the blonde was hot and as much as I knew I shouldn’t watch, I stayed there until she yelled his name long enough to penetrate the walls. I got up after that and went back to my room.

  I lied in bed that night, jerked off for the first time to visions of her before falling asleep. When I woke up, I was angry. I had taken piano for five years and I hated it. I hated practicing and the recitals. I hated the formality and having to perform at dinner parties like a chump. I knew it wasn’t frowned upon to play piano or any classical instrument, but the drums were, so it made them that much more intriguing

  The next morning when I thought no one was around, busy at their jobs, I went back to the guest house and went inside. I spent three hours banging away on that drum kit and that was it. I saw how she reacted to him, turned on by the man behind the drums. That could be me. I could turn her on too. I knew I’d found my passion. The secrecy of it all, this crazy, loud, invasive music just clicked with me.

  My legs are burning, causing me to open my eyes in a hurry. “Shit!” I jump up, the cigarette flung from my hand. I grab my drink and pour a little over my burned skin. The lit end had burned a small hole through my jeans and singed some hair on my leg.

  I finish my drink in three gulps and set the glass down on the table before going inside. Up the stairs to my room I go, opening the door, and closing it behind me. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, debating if it should be hot or cold; I have a good argument for each right now. I decide on hot, wanting to relieve some pressure. Stripping down, I then move under the water. My muscles not relaxing like I hoped.

  My body is tense. I want to fuck. I want to fuck hard. I want to fuck and come and not wonder what the fuck I’m doing chasing Rochelle. I have a phone full of numbers I could call. I don’t want them. They are a thousand numbers that are meaningless to me. They aren’t her and my hand is a better option than a poor substitute.

  Leaning my head against the slate wall, I close my eyes, remembering her body on top of mine, and how it was wrapped around my cock like a warm blanket. My grip tightens. She was so fucking wet, wet for me. Kisses to her neck became licks of ecstasy. I tasted her sweat, her sweetness before wanting her to come so I could taste all of her.

  But Cory’s name shocks me back to reality just like it did that day and my dick goes soft. “Fuck!” I slam the shower off and get out, dripping across the floor while walking to the cabinet and retrieving a towel.

  After drying off, I get into bed angry. I sit up and punch the fuck out the pillow next to me before throwing it across the room and hearing it hit the door with a thud when it falls. So fucking anticlimactic for how I’m feeling.

  Getting out of bed, I grab boxer brief from my dresser and pull them on. I go outside onto my balcony and sit down. The lighter and pack of cigarettes are on the table. I light up, resisting the urge for another drink. I look out over the city of Los Angeles all lit up in the distance frustrated that the best thing that ever happened to me sometimes feels like the worst.

  I reach for my journal, but stop when I realize what I want to write is not what I’m ready to share with Cory. I grab my laptop instead. I write to get it out, to help unburden my heart.

  Love finds most of us fast and unexpectedly, but when it came to me and Dex, it was slow and calculated as if it knew to hold on and wait. I’m caught in the middle of developing feelings for a man that has shown me more than his heart. He’s shown me his soul.

  Feeling much like lyrics, I title it ‘Dex’ and save the document in my Songs folder. The one thing I’ve learned about giving a part of yourself away is that you may not get it back. Love is a risk and I’m finding that I’m more willing to take it with him. I’m still left questioning if I’m as ready as I think I am, if I’m prepared to have someone in my life that is also a regular fixture in the boys’ lives. I have no room for casual when it comes to them, so I need to be sure before jumping into something that could leave us devastated again.

  Me: Hi.

  Thirty minutes go by on this Friday evening before he replies: Hi.

  What to say? What to say? Me: How are you?

  Dex: Good. You?

  I’m not feeling very liked right now. Me: I’m fine. What are you up to?

  Dex: I’m out. You want to join us?

  Me: Us?

  Dex: Some friends of mine. You should come.

  “Beth?” I call from my office.

  The boys’ nanny comes in. “Yes?”

  “Can you work late tonight?”

  A sly smile works its way across her face. “You going out?”

  “I’m thinking I might.”

  She’s always supportive of me. “I’ll stay. I could use the extra money and I owe CJ a foot race in the backyard. He’s convinced he can outrun me just because I’m a girl.”

  “Make sure to win big. We can’t have them growing up thinking women are the weaker sex.”

  With a laugh, she says, “Nope, we can’t have that. Now you get ready and I’ll go tell the boys we get to make ice cream sundaes.”

  “Thanks for staying.”

  “No problem at all.”

  I close my email and shut down my computer before going into my bedroom, phone in hand. Me: Text me where you’ll be in an hour.

  Dex: I’m glad you’re coming out. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.

  Me: You saw me yesterday.

  Dex: Like I said, it’s been too long.

  And I swoon, holding the phone to my chest as the happy emotions bubble up inside.

  Just over an hour later, I’m walking into the outside patio of a restaurant that’s located at the back of a well-known hotel. It’s a private place that’s hard to get into unless you’re famous or you’re with someone famous, so celebrities like to hang out here.

  Dex is seated at a table on the far side of the garden. There are four other people with him—three guys and a girl. With a cigarette in his mouth, he turns my way and a smile appears. Smoke fills the air above his head as he exhales, then stubs out the butt. Standing up, his chair is pushed back. He takes my hand and kisses my cheek, then whispers, “Glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I reply.

  “Sit here. I’ll get another chair.”

  When I sit, the conversation ceases, so I lift my hand awkwardly, and say, “Hi, I’m Rochelle.” I recognize two of the guys from parties or somewhere in the past. But the other man and the woman I don’t.

  She smiles, but it’s tight-lipped while she scopes me out to see if I’m competition for whomever she has her eye on at the table. This happens a lot in LA. Men hold all the cards here and too many women indulge that power by presenting it on a silver platter to them. “Enchante,” she says, putting her hand toward me like I should kiss it. I take the limp hand, dropping it as quickly as I can.

  Dex brings a chair, setting it at the corner of the crowded table. Tilting his head, he looks at me and smiles. It’s sexual and genuine all in one. “It’s good to see you.” When he looks back to the group, he starts the introductions, “Toby, Keith, but not the country singer, Wes, and Firenza. This is Rochelle.”

  Firenza? Sounds exotic. Funny, I didn’t hear an accent.

  Her chair is bumped up to his, and she leans forward, her arm resting on top of Dex’s. “You look familiar. How would I know you?”

  Dex sits back, moving his arm out from under hers.

  Everyone looks at me, waiting for an answer, but Toby replies, “She was married to the guitarist of the band.”

  “Which band?” Firenza asks.

  Dex sits up, looking annoyed. “The Resistance.” His answer is clipped.

  She ignores his mood and continues in on me. “So you’re divorced, but you still hang on… I mean, hang out with Dex?”

  “I’m not divorced. Cory and I weren’t marrie—”

  Dex’s hands hit the table, drawing my attention as the metal feet of his chair
scrape across the cement when he stands. “I haven’t seen the waitress in forever. I’m gonna get a drink from the bar.” He leaves so abruptly that we’re left staring at his back as he goes inside.

  Uncomfortable being left here with her and confused to why he left, I start to get up so I can check on Dex. Persistent Firenza keeps going like nothing unusual happened at all though. “So you were only dating?” She scrunches her nose at me.

  Wes touches her arm and she glares at him when he says, “He died. He was the one who died in the plane crash.”

  Hearing Cory dismissed so easily by her angers me. I stand, my own chair noisy this time. When I look at her, her expression never changes. It’s just as cold and bitchy as a moment earlier. “You’re dating his band mate now?”

  My eyes meet Wes’s and I say, “I’m gonna find Dex.”

  As I’m walking away, I hear her explaining to the others, “So what, she’s dating Dex now. Who’s next, Johnny Outlaw?”

  I let the bad vibes go as the distance grows between us. She wants to package me up and categorize me so it’s easier for her to understand. But none of this is easy to understand and if I don’t, then she won’t either. Dex is leaning on the bar talking with a tall brunette. She’s laughing. He’s smiling. I’m stepping to the side, debating. And now I’m apparently spying. Ugh! I make my way through the crowd of cocktail tables and patrons, not wanting to confront him, which is exactly what I’ll do if I talk to him now. But I still can’t resist sneaking a peek at him. He takes her card and tucks it into his shirt pocket before they say their goodbyes.

  Wow. And here I was stupid enough to think he actually wanted me. Why’d I even bother? I just don’t fit into his world and by watching him, I don’t want to. I can’t stay here and continue to be hurt by him or these women.

  I continue toward the door that will lead me to the valet. Just as I exit, I hear him call after me. I hand the ticket to the valet attendant and step to the side, pretending to be oblivious to Dex. “Rochelle? Why are you leaving?”