Rocker Series

by Gina Whitney

  “Where is Frank?” he barked, his face red with fury.

  “In his office, sir,” Handsome responded. “Would you like for me to get him? He did say he’d be out in a moment. But, again, I can let him know you’re asking for him.” He was polite but his undertone was slightly sardonic.

  “What I do want is someone who’s respectful of my girl. Respectful of me. You are not. Now, unless you want that tongue ripped out of your mouth, I’d put it away. But, then again, I don’t have a problem doing that, either.” Abel leaned into Handsome’s personal space. Holy Alpha father of God. Damn, it was fucking tense in there. To distract myself, I drank my water, then grabbed a breadstick, looking everywhere around me but at them. Abel sat back down with a sigh.

  “Sorry, babe. I don’t normally lose my shit. But, what the fuck? He was undressing you with his eyes. And that’s even with my clothes on! Can you imagine if you had that dress on? Christ, I would have kicked that fucker’s ass up and down this street.” He smiled apologetically. I nodded, smiling back. I really didn’t know what to say. So why say anything at all? Abel clearly was sensitive. I just wanted to move on already. Tomato sauce and basil filled the air. I hummed appreciatively. I was suddenly ravenous. I wanted whatever the hell that was. Now.

  “Beauty, you keep humming like that and I’ll take you right here. Clear the fucking place out. Fuck you right in that delicious pussy. On the table. Then on the floor, and up against the wall. And then we’ll give it a go in the bathroom—both of them.” I sighed. I wouldn’t mind doing any of that in the least. I was grinning like an idiot. His possessiveness and sexual appetite was catching.

  However, the sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted our eye-fucking. It was a sweet, silver haired older gentleman in a crisp, black suit. He nodded to me, then addressed Abel.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Gunner. It is our honor to have you here. As always, I have everything just about ready. All your favorites. I will personally be waiting on you,” the kind, Geppetto-looking man said. His blue, misty eyes reminded me of Frank Sinatra’s. Abel reached across the table linking our fingers. Geppetto’s eyes followed curiously until meeting mine and then traveled back to Abel’s.

  “Frank this is Gia, my girl.” He winked at me, then turned to Geppetto, who seemed morbidly fascinated by Abel’s fingers laced together with mine. I wanted to remove my hand. I had a strange feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on. There was definitely something to it, though. My hackles were raised. Was it me? Was I not good enough, even at 3:00 am? Oh shit, maybe it was the way I was dressed. Of course, that had to be it. I was wearing men’s sweatpants and a tee-shirt that hung from my body like a loose-fitting dress. I moved to excuse myself, feeling very self-conscious. Then I thought, fuck this. I belonged there as much as anyone else. If I’m to live in his world, I’d better start getting used to being treated differently—doted on. I moved to excuse myself to wash my hands when Gepetto went to get our food.

  “Sit!” Abel commanded sternly. He was abrupt. I couldn’t help but flinch at his tone.

  “I’m going to wash my hands.” I raised them to him. “You know I’m not dressed for this place. There’s got to be a dress code. No wonder they are looking at me. I can imagine the models you bring here. They’re probably dressed in the latest runway fashions. Then, here I am in sweats and a tee.” Jealously reared its ugly head. Who did he bring here? What in the world was I fucking thinking? He grabbed my hand from across the table. I pulled my hand back slightly, only for him to tighten his grip. My eyes tilted upward to catch his fierce, heated look. Something moved behind his eyes. I couldn’t read this dude for shit. I was fucked. He pulled my hand around the table for me to sit on his lap.

  “While I love sitting on your lap, I don’t think this is the time or place. Not to mention, Geppetto will have a stroke.” I turned my head until our noses touched. He tilted his head, bringing our lips a hair’s breadth apart. Then he licked my lips and bit them lightly. I pulled back, but he didn’t let go. I opened my eyes in panic. His eyes were filled with light-heartedness, with just a touch of sex in them. My mouth was starting to water. I tried slurping my spit back before I drooled on him—which got him laughing again.

  “Let me hear you say: ‘I’d be happy to let you feed me with my ass perfectly perched on your cock,’ “ he murmured playfully, my bottom lip still in his grasp.

  “Seriously?” I murmured back, followed by a slurp. His shoulders shook with laughter. “I’m going to drool in your mouth. And down your face,” I said in my most threatening voice.

  “I had my tongue deep in your pussy. Do you think I’m worried about spit?” he insisted. Meanwhile, someone was filling our table with what smelled like my favorite Italian dishes. Oh God, it was Geppetto. He was going to think I was an under-dressed hoochie after that.

  “Kay… kay.” I tried to nod. But still nothing would come out of my lips—except spit.

  “Say it,” he repeated biting slightly harder.

  “I’d be happy to let you feed me with my ass perfectly perched on your cock.” There, I said it. Release me please. Slurp. He let go of my lip after he gave it a good suck. I melted into him, wanting more than a kiss. I wanted his talented fingers. I was now perched on his perfectly hard, tatted and pierced cock. I sighed. Would I, could I, ever resist this man and go back to being the cool chick I was before him? I was unraveling quickly.

  “Stop thinking. Let’s eat,” he announced as Geppetto served up healthy portions of Mozzarella en Carrozza, Arugula Tomato Salad, Chicken Scarpariello, and fresh Pesto Gnocchi. Umm. Best date ever. Wait until Cindy hears about it.

  “This is ridiculous. Look at all this food. There’s only two of us. We won’t even put a dent in these dishes,” I said in total amazement, shaking my head.

  “So, you take the leftovers. Problem solved.” He stuffed a piece of the freshest fried Mozzarella in breadcrumbs into my mouth. And for the next forty-five minutes, a whole lot of sighing, humming, and belly rubbing went on. Gepetto dutifully packed up our leftovers as I begged Abel not to order dessert. I couldn’t eat another stitch. My stomach was just one burp away from vomiting all over Abel. As promised, he dropped me off at my apartment, giving me a swooning kiss to end the night. We got out of the limo as he helped me carry the cartons to the door. I just got my keys out to put into the door, however, the door was nearly ripped from the hinges when Cindy opened it with brute strength. We both jumped.

  “Christ, you two. Could you do that licking-kissing-moaning thing any louder? Another minute of that and the whole building will be fucking.”

  “Yeah, and you have the strength of the unstoppable rebel force. You nearly ripped the door off and scared the fuck out of us,” I laughed. She rolled her eyes and Abel watched the dynamic between us. He was clearly entertained.

  “Eww, why do you reek of garlic?” she pinched her nose. Of course she would say that. I was going to punch her face in. Abel lifted the cartons up toward her.

  “Brought you leftovers, Cin.” He handed them to her, and she willingly accepted them. We said a final goodbye with the promise to text and call. Once I was back inside the comfort of my apartment and saw what time it was, exhaustion descended fast.

  “Nice outfit, chick.” Cindy said packing the fridge with our goodies. I grabbed myself a water before offering her one. I knew that look on her face. She wanted deets.

  “Not now, Cin, but tomorrow. I promise I will give you all the details. I swear.” I held my hand over my heart. I could barely keep my eyes open. Besides, the sooner I closed them, the sooner I would see him again. I knew he would be running on a loop throughout my dreams.

  “Whatever you say, chick. I’m beat anyway.” She said goodnight, retreating to her room.

  I fell asleep to the All-American Rejects, “It Ends Tonight.” What little sleep I got was interrupted by Medusa’s ringtone. I had given her the Darth Vader theme song.

  “Hello, Medusa. To what do I owe the pleasure of th
is 8:30am call?” I snapped, annoyed.

  “Don’t you call me Medusa, you unlovable little bitch! Get your ass over here. I want to know what’s going on with the Gunner kid,” she roared, hanging up.

  My eyes burned with rage. My brain surged past full-function mode to pissed-the-fuck-off wrath. My entire existence had been about her, her needs, her wants and selfish desires. I decided to get this house-call over with. I was determined not to be daunted all day by her wickedness. My limbs screamed in protest as I dragged myself from the comfort of my bed. I took a 3 minute shower, slicking my hair afterward into a ponytail and throwing a cap on with some lip gloss. Then out my bedroom door I went.

  Cindy’s door was still closed. She wouldn’t be up for another few hours with any luck. I didn’t want to get into it with her about visiting my mother. Girls from nice homes in nice neighborhoods with nice families didn’t understand the incessant need for acceptance. We would argue constantly about my need to please Medusa. “Why don’t you kick Broom Hilda to the curb,” she would say. It didn’t make sense to her. Things had to make sense to Cindy. She just didn’t get the abusee/abuser conundrum. People who grew up like I did knew the score. We smelled it on each other: the shame, disappointment, and the lack of courage that change required. I was not only a product of my abuse, I would now become what I knew: the abuser. And that, I hated. The lack of control I had over it unnerved me. I understood it plainly, as all children of abuse do. However, it was changing that was the tricky part. And let’s face it: it took too much work. It was easier being who I was than it was to try to be a better person. But that also made me an enabler, as most abused children were. That was all we knew. Medusa was the only one who was always in my corner. She may be hate-filled. And it might be the darkest corner, but it was something, right? Anything from her was better than nothing.

  I opened the refrigerator door and the night before came barreling back. The delicious smell of garlicky take-out from Arte de Dello’s restaurant made my stomach growl in hunger. I opened one of the pretty, white containers and ate the Pesto Gnocchi with my fingers. I was in too big a hurry to waste time getting a fork. I needed to feed this sense of shame that was my mother. I shoveled the shit in, hoping to bury the guilt along with it. I ate to forget; I ate to remember. It was psychosis in its rawest form. It was self-mutilation. I hated who I was, hated how I felt. I would do just about anything not to feel. My feelings ran too deep. Superficial ones, I could do. I stayed far enough away from the deep end. However, I was envious of everyone who had courage.

  Before I could put the carton down, I purged. I had to force the pasta down the drain with my hand. Gross. Robotically, I started rinsing out the sink when all of a sudden a gasp got my attention. Cindy! She ripped the squished carton free from my hand.

  “What in the fuck, Gia? This again? What’s gotten you this upset? That incubus that calls herself mom?” she asked, grabbing her car keys.

  “Please. Please don’t. You’ll only make things worse for me. I’m fine. Really. I promise.” I smiled joylessly.

  “What? Make things worse? How could they get any worse? Scratch that, stop making promises you don’t mean, Gia.”

  She retreated to her bedroom, slamming the door. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My day was already going to shit, I didn’t need her adding to it. I. Did. Not. Need. It. At. All. I brushed my teeth and brewed coffee from the Keurig. I figured I must have been one of the only people in the world who could puke and drink coffee right after. My stomach was used to the abuse. I was used to the abuse. Cindy was not.

  I was standing in front of Medusa’s lair with the Halloween theme song playing in my head. She was my Michael Myers. The ever-present knot in my gut broke off into multiplied tiny herniated ones. The window curtain moved slightly. It was time.

  I made my way up the walk of the old Victorian I used to call home, my breath steaming my sunglasses. Fuck, it was a cold day. That home housed many of my demons. And the biggest one would be on the other side of that door. The house was never a home. It was a mausoleum. I was never allowed to touch any of my mother’s prized possessions, never allowed to use the living room. I was isolated to my room. She even had control of the color. But as long as I had my shelves full of books, I was fine. My books were my escape. It’s a nerdy escape, but an escape, nonetheless. My hand shook as I unlocked the door. I leaned my forehead against the wood for a moment. One breath in. One breath out. I opened the door and walked inside. The smell of Tiger Balm hit me hard. To me, I associated that smell with Medusa and pain. And when Medusa was in pain, you were in pain.

  “Are you going to come in? Or just stand there like an idiot? Close the damn door, Gia. Unless you’re paying my heating bills now.” She rolled across the parquet floor in her wheelchair. I winced at the sight of her. She caused me physical and mental pain. It was hard not to dwell on my past. That’s why I didn’t like to go there. It was easier to just text or phone her. That day, I didn’t have the luxury, though. I wouldn’t be spared. I closed the door, somberly hoping that if I showed obedience, the visit wouldn’t be too bad.

  “Is your pain that bad that you’re in the wheelchair today? Didn’t you take your meds?” I asked, walking over to the one chair I was allowed to sit in while visiting.

  “Isn’t that a moronic question? To think, I birthed you,” she tisked. “Of course, the pain is bad. You’re making it worse with your ridiculous questions. Now, tell me what I want to know and leave.” She wheeled closer. She was a human lie detector. I couldn’t lie to her face.

  “I met Abel when he stopped by work. Then was invited to his concert. There was an after party, to which Cindy and I both went. And I um … um … went to his Penthouse for a visit.”

  I waited for her retort. My palms were sweating, my knees knocking, and my nose running. I was definitely allergic to her. My body reacted strongly to her presence. I was told once by a school counselor that the mind was powerful, that it could make you symptomatic of anything it wanted. Right then, it wanted me safe from her clutches. So much so, my anxiety took on physical form. There was that healthy side that fought her at times. I relished those moments. But I needed to be in the right head space to be able to do so…

  “Is he a freak like I read? Did you do everything he asked? Men like him are very particular in their needs. If you give him whatever he wants, whatever it is he wants, he will give you the world—which would put me in a great position.” She reached for her bottle of Percocet, shaking a few in her mouth. She chewed them like tick-tacks. Christ, she was a twisted druggie bitch.

  “You need a glass of water, Mama? That medicine has to be nasty.” I went into the kitchen to get some for her. The dining room table was filled with unopened bills. It was a mess. Returning with some iced water, I handed it to her. She took a sip, gargling with it before she swallowed. I couldn’t help but shudder.

  “Sit. When will you see him again? You should try to make yourself available whenever he calls without looking needy and pathetic. Can you do that? Not look pathetic?” She scowled at me. Her words carried the weight of mortar. I started twirling my hair—a bad habit I had picked up as a kid, a habit that drove her into a fit. I knew it was unwise, but I couldn’t help it.

  “How many fucking times, girl.” She slapped my hand away from my hair. “How do you expect to get a man to bed and keep you, acting like you do?” she barked. “You like an immature, ill-mannered, little girl. Next, you’ll be rocking back and forth, thumb-sucking.” She wheeled her chair to the window, peering outside. I wanted to stab her in her fucking eye.

  “I’m not immature or ill-mannered… I’m not a little girl, either. And I’m certainly not an idiot. I’m a college graduate. Do you forget that, Mother?” I moved quickly for the door.

  “Gia, don’t you forget who paid for that diploma. Make sure you pick up the phone when I call. I want updates on your progress. I want to see an announcement in the paper about upcoming nuptials. If it were me, I would have wrapped it up alre
ady. But I keep reminding myself you’re not as bright as me. Be a good girl and lock the door on your way out.” She smirked.

  “I’m always a good girl,” I said, slamming the door. I wanted to cry—cry and rip my hair out. I needed food. I needed to make this pain go away. I drove to McDonald’s, ordering enough food for a college dorm. I parked my car behind the dumpster, and then I shoved Big Macs into my mouth faster than a fox in a forest fire. Four Big Macs, two large fries, and a sundae later, my gut was percolating. My brain was on sensory overload. I couldn’t deal with the weight of these feelings, the hatred I had for my mother, the need to prove her wrong. I wanted to prove her wrong, and shut her the fuck up. The time bomb was ticking. I needed release.

  So, I opened the car door and puked all over the pavement. My esophagus burned. The acrid juice seared the tender tissue. Fat tears streamed down my face as I stared at my spew. How very representational of my life it was. Shame chilled me to the bone. I needed a warm shower and some wine to rid myself of this … this thing I called my life. It was time for change. That night I would try to find the courage to embrace the life I wanted. I’d slip on the mask I wore the night before as Gia the Vixen.

  We were on lunch break from our Saturday afternoon jam session. I was journaling some lyrics that danced across my mind, begging to be recorded.

  Promise me you’ll try to leave it all behind

  You … you … you …

  The only way is to let my guard down

  Stay with me …

  This is what we need

  This heart, it beats

  Beats for you

  My heart is your heart

  What am I gonna do with you … everything

  Now, I just needed Jake to work his magic to make it shine. It was a productive day, despite my lack of sleep. The boys were having a rough go of it. It was hit or miss being hung-over. We either played like shit, or we sounded great.