“Even though I've done nothing?” I ask, because maybe I'm just thinking too logically about things. Crazy people don't operate under the same principles as the rest of us. What makes sense to one person, baffles another. Brayden puts his hand on my shoulder and his back against the door. Cool air blows in and swirls through the kitchen, making the pots and pans on the overhead rack sway gently. In his green eyes, there's a carefully kept story, one that I'm not going to get.
“Don't think too hard about it. It'll only hurt your head. Trust me, I've tried to make sense of it. Sometimes, bad things happen to good people.” Brayden tries to smile, but it's so forced, it gives me a stomach ache. “And that's why I'm here. Just try and think of me as an Irish Batman, and you'll be alright.”
And then with that particularly satisfying bit of information, he kicks us out the door and into a van, so I can spend the next two hours sitting next to my mother's corpse.
Sydney sits across from me, on the other side of the wooden casket. She's wearing a long sleeved, black shirt with cut outs on the shoulders, flashing me these little hints of tattoo when she adjusts her short skirt, pulling it down so that it sits mid thigh. Underneath it, she's got on a pair of nude nylons that I have to literally pinch myself to ignore. Looking at her in all black, I'm guessing she was trying to dress for a funeral. I appreciate that, but Sydney Charell doesn't look anything like a mourner. The only two places I could imagine her right now are at a club or in my bed. Crap. I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my hand on the wooden lid. It's nailed shut, but I keep touching it anyway, just to make sure it's not going to pop open and assault me with a flurry of hushed curses from beyond. I'm sorry, Mom. What kind of son am I that I'm staring at a woman's legs right now? You must be so disappointed in me. But I don't want to sit here and think about my mom's bones. I want to pretend this box is full of dirt, rocks, sand, whatever. Anything but what's really in it. I'd much rather be thinking about Sydney's mouth on mine.
I run my hands over my face. In the face of death, the promise of life is that much more beautiful to behold. I drop my hands to my lap and look at Sydney.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell her, still unsure as to why she's even here. We're not friends, just acquaintances thrown together through random circumstance. Still, I can't stop thinking about my parents' first meeting. This is probably the hundredth time it's brushed through my mind while I've been around Sydney. Your parents were in love the moment they met. They didn't know it, but everyone else did. Most especially me. You don't look at a woman the way your father looked at your mother, not unless you've already been bought and sold. It was her eyes, I think. Blue as the lake in the rain.
“You're doing it again,” Sydney says, leaning forward. Her blonde hair hangs over her eyebrows and covers her ears, framing her beautiful face in gold. “Disappearing somewhere. Tell me about it.” I glance up at the men in the front. There's a pair of them sitting in the captain's chairs in the center and one driving the van. I don't even get to do that, for safety reasons, of course. The men aren't carrying rifles or frowning through the windshield, looking for trouble. They're just all sitting there, bored, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. It's a little unnerving. They look so ordinary. I turn back to Sydney and lean in. With the soft drone of the radio and the roar of the highway, I doubt they can hear me, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious.
“You don't want to know. I have the most asinine thoughts running through my head.”
“I don't care,” Sydney says, tilting her head to the side. “I like your mouth, and I want to hear what it has to say.” I draw back a bit. Her breath is tickling my face and making my stomach tight. At least I don't get another fucking hard-on. Mom can at least be glad to know her son has some modicum of self-control. I pat the box apologetically.
“I'm thinking of my parents. Of their first meeting. Or at least what I was told of it anyway. My grandmother liked to remind me how perfect they were together, just so I'd remember what it was that I'd destroyed.” Sydney blinks rapidly, like she's trying to make room in her head for what I'm saying. Her blue eyes are beautiful, open and eager. I'm not used to people looking at me like that. Nobody takes me seriously here anymore. Blair, Kash, and Wren have known me too long. Naomi's too wrapped up in Turner Land, and the world only sees what it wants to see. Sydney, though, I can tell by her face that all she sees right now is me. I look away and try to control my breathing. My heart is pounding and my throat's gone dry again. I try to remember if Naomi ever looked at me like that, if maybe that's why I fell in love with her because right now, I feel like I could trip head over fucking heels for Sydney. As hard as I try though, I can't remember her orange-brown eyes ever looking at me with this openness. Yes, she listened. Maybe she even understood. But it wasn't like this.
I glance away and focus on the black scuff marks that mar the back doors.
“What happened?” she asks softly, her voice like a feather, trailing across my skin, light but oh so powerful. Fuck. I shake my head and clasp my hands together, sighing and leaning forward again. Just because it's not entirely a secret anymore doesn't mean I want to share it with the world.
“I was … ” I try to think of a different way of explaining. Born wrong. That's what I always say. But in truth, I don't exactly know how. I don't know the medical reasons responsible for my mother's death. Nobody ever bothered to tell me that, only that I was responsible for it. I was there and she wasn't, period. “My mother died in childbirth, so my father hates me. This,” I reach out a hand and gesture at the box. “Is just the icing on the cake. I don't think he'll ever forgive me for this.”
“Born wrong,” Sydney says, trying the words out on her tongue. “That explains the tattoo then?” I nod, but I don't make eye contact with her again. I'm too busy staring into my past and wondering how the hell I'm going to get through this without opening another wound. The way I see it, that's not possible. I'm going to walk out of there with a bleeding wound, a hole in my heart that'll take months to heal. That's why I don't visit my family often. It's more pain than pleasure. “But Dax, you do know that you're not to blame, right? For either event. You can't help being born. You didn't bring yourself into the world. And this, I mean, come on. This doesn't even have anything to do with you. You're just caught in the middle.” I've heard this before, of course, but the guilt is buried so deep, I don't know if I'll ever truly believe that.
“Anyway, it doesn't matter. I just want to get this over with.” I don't mention the other thing I have to do when I'm there. I still haven't figured out how I'm going to get away from the security guards. I definitely can't take them with me, not for something as delicate as this. I have to go confront this secret before Stephen uses it to confront me. You can't get burnt if you're already standing in the flames.
“Well, I'm here if you need help through this, if you need me.” I smile softly and look back up at her, holding my breath like I did last night. It helps me stay in control of myself. If I can pause my breathing, slow my heartbeat, why can't I put a pause on this? I'm coiled tight, though. If it breaks, I pity the person who has to watch it unwind. I don't want to put Sydney through that. Just because we're physically attracted to one another doesn't mean she wants me to pour my heart and soul into her. “I'm a pretty good listener, believe it or not. The girls at the club always needed someone to talk to. I never wanted to talk about a damn thing going on in my life, so I became that person. At first, I thought they were all crazy. Who the hell was I to them? I couldn't help with their problems; I could barely handle mine. But eventually, you realize, it's the listening part that's all that matters. Sometimes, you just need somebody to hear you. It's that simple. Once it's out there, it's not all on your shoulders anymore. You can split the burden.”
“If only everybody lived by your principles, Sydney,” I say and she grins at me, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them on the opposite side. I do not stare at her nylons. I hate to say it, but I think I have a fetish or something. Sydney's
tall black heels and her tights are drawing more of my attention than her breasts. Not that I should be looking at all. Goddamn it. I pull out my new phone and check for messages. Nothing. My dad assumes I'll show up, and he's right. Why should he check in on me? I've always done what he's asked me to. Hasn't made any difference in how he feels about me though.
“It's never too late to start,” she says, sitting up a little straighter and grabbing a glance out the front window. The sky is starting to brighten, ushering in a new day. In no time at all, I'll be standing on the gray porch that wraps my father's house, shaking hands with him and hoping my grip's firm enough this time. It's never been good enough before. “You know, I meant to say that I really enjoyed your drumming yesterday. I've listened to some Amatory Riot songs before, but I never took the time to really listen to the drums. You make me want to take up the art.”
“I'm not that good,” I tell her, wishing I believed that I was. Confidence. I need some more of it. Drumming is all I have. If I don't think I'm good at it, what point is there in chasing after the dream? I need to learn to believe in my own talent. “Ronnie's better.” That part's true. He is. But then he's also five years older than I am. I could catch up.
“How about Lola?” Sydney asks, her foot bouncing up and down, matching the beat of the song that's playing in the background. I wonder if she even knows it's one of ours. I smile at her, secretly enjoying watching her body move to my sound.
“Lola's good.”
“But you're better?” Sydney asks, and I laugh.
“I guess. Maybe. I don't know.”
“Oh, come on. Just say it.”
“Say what?” I ask with another laugh. I'm running my fingers through my hair and leaning back, putting my body on display without even realizing I'm doing it. Flirting. Why even bother to fight it? It's taking more energy to pretend I'm not interested than to roll with it. I don't have to take my pants off. Sydney brushes her bangs back and raises an eyebrow. “Okay, fine. I'm better.” She claps her hands.
“Good for you, Dax. Praising yourself doesn't have to be a bad thing. Don't be arrogant, but don't be afraid to say when you've done a good job.”
“What about you?” I ask her. I know she's a stripper. That's all anyone ever calls her, but there's more to Sydney Charell than a beautiful body. Anybody could see that. One look in her eyes and it's obvious she knows twice as much about the universe as the average person. I get this really itchy urge to have her face tattooed on my arm. There's one blank spot left, on the backside of my left bicep. I've been saving it for something special. But what a stupid idea that is. Look at Turner and Naomi … and those are just names they have on their bodies. What would happen to me if I etched this beauty permanently into my skin? I run my hands up and down my arms, watching Sydney's eyes as they follow them hungrily. She likes my arms. Fucking cool. I work hard for them, but sometimes, I think they get hidden in the grinning ghosts and the gravestones. Sydney doesn't let those bother her. She hasn't once called me an emo bitch, a freak, a faggot-y little Goth douche. It's kind of refreshing.
“I want to be someone better tomorrow than I am today,” she says, and I get chills down my spine. Without even thinking about what I'm doing, I put my hands on the box lid and lean forward. Our mouths touch, just barely. I wouldn't even call it a kiss, but it pulls the air from my lungs and leaves me struggling to stay clearheaded. I sit back down and we continue talking, a little breathier than before, a little more softly. “In less than two weeks, I have a photo shoot in L.A.” Sydney rolls up the sleeves of her shirt and touches her hands to her tattoos. We both have full sleeves, covered from wrist to shoulder in ink. “Tattoo Terror.” I raise both my brows and feel this rush of cold settle over me. “Hah,” she says, pointing at me. “I can see you're familiar with the magazine.”
“Of course I'm familiar with it,” I say, trying not to bite my lower lip. My voice is gruffer than I'd like it to be. “I grew up in the Midwest with the worst parental controls you've ever seen. My dad's version of site blocking was standing over me while I surfed the web. He didn't even need to use a program. His fist was enough of an incentive.”
“So what you're trying to say is, you cleaned the pipes with an old paper copy of Tattoo Terror?” I pull off a rubber wrist band and flick it at her, like we're old friends. Sydney catches it in one hand and stares at the lettering. “They stopped printing the magazine, but they have a digital copy. And a website. They're giving me a year's worth of tips for the one shoot.” I imagine her naked body plastered across the web and my stomachache turns into full on cramps. I don't like that. Not that I enjoyed entertaining thoughts of her stripping, but the Internet is so permanent. That shit never goes away. Sydney decides to keep the bracelet and puts it on. It's my Dream Big, Die Loud band. I'm going to miss it.
“Congratulations,” I say and watch as her eyes come up and find mine. “So you want to be a model or … ?” I'm not quite sure what sort of career path a naked photo shoot falls under. I don't judge her, but I do get this ugly spark of jealousy in my gut. There are hundreds, probably thousands of guys that have seen Sydney naked, and I haven't. After this shoot, it could easily be in the millions. I clench the bench seat with tight fingers. Not fucking fair.
“I don't know, Dax. I don't have anything in mind. I'm heading where the wind takes me. I think, if there was actually any money in it, that I'd dance for a living. Not topless, of course. Real dancing. If I could sing, I'd be after Broadway.” Sydney flashes me another smile and leans back. I feel like my future is uncertain most days, but hers isn't even etched in pencil. I wonder if it makes her nervous? I decide not to ask and we sit in companionable silence.
I think I doze off after awhile because the next time I open my eyes, the van is still and Sydney is missing.
“Sydney?” I ask, panic lacing my voice. I struggle to blink away the cobwebs, shaking my head to clear it. “Sydney?”
“She's inside,” a voice says from beside me. I turn and find one of the bodyguards with a Kindle in his hand. It's kind of a weird sight, especially when I see him purposely tilt the screen away from me. I wonder what's on the reading agenda for today?
“Inside?” I ask. My voice comes out sounding hollow. “With who?” The guard shrugs as I scramble to my feet, cursing as I slam my knees into mom's casket. “Sorry, sorry,” I tell her as I push open the back doors of the van and land on my feet. The sunshine is beaming down hard tonight, forcing me to put my arm up and shade my eyes.
Eighty acres stretch out around me, nice and flat, covered in brown-green grass and a series of half-finished fences, none of which keep anything in or out. The sad part is, they've been like that for as long as I can remember. Nothing around here's changed, at least not from the outside. The porch is still painted gray, and the single white chair still stands guard by the front door. Inside somewhere, is Sydney Charell. The thought terrifies me. I don't want to spend time with these people. The last thing I want is for Sydney to get drenched in their shit.
I walk across the gravel driveway as fast as I can without looking like a fucking idiot. When I hit the steps, I take them two at a time and don't bother knocking.
“Hello?” I ask, listening for the sound of voices. They filter out from the kitchen and echo in the nearly empty foyer. My dad still has that picture of my mom at her high school graduation hanging to the right of the door. On the left, there's one of them together on a beach in Australia. Other than a coat rack and a basket for umbrellas, the room is bare of decoration. I look at the security guard that's with me, trying to see if he's making any judgments about the house, but his face is as blank as these walls. The voices don't stop talking. Either they can't hear me or they're ignoring me. My bet would be on the latter. “Hello?” I move down the hallway, past the dining room and into the kitchen.
My dad is standing behind the island talking to an assorted arrangement of cousins fanned out on stools in front of him. He doesn't look up from his cup of coffee when I wa
lk in.
“Hopefully we can get started on that tomorrow,” he says, taking a sip. His blue eyes are focused squarely on the white tiled countertops, not like he's purposely avoiding me, but like he just doesn't care that I'm standing here. Only one of my cousins even bothers to look back at me. I stand there under the archway resisting the urge to cover up my tattoos with my hands. I feel so out of place here it's not funny. Everything is white and beige, functional and necessary. And here I stand covered in black and purple and green tattoos, makeup on my face, gloves on my hand. I feel like a male doll, all dressed up with nowhere to go. I hate that fucking feeling. My nostrils flare as I struggle to catch my temper.
“Where's Sydney?” I ask, and then they all turn, acting like they've just noticed I've arrived. Nobody bothers to answer me though. “The blonde?” I continue, filling the silence. I can't stand it. I hate how quiet it is out here. The first time I visited New York City was the first night I got any real sleep in my life. I loved the noise, craved the sound of humanity writhing around me. Here, at night, it's as dead as the moon. Barren, blank, empty. I hate this house, this family. When I'm standing here, it's hard to remember that I'm a fucking rock star now. I feel like a high school kid again, rejected and unwanted.
“Right here, Dax,” she says, appearing at the top of the stairs. When I see her, my heartbeat slows a bit. She looks just as out of place as I do, like the other half of my equation. The female doll they sell on the next shelf. “Your father said he didn't mind if I checked out your old bedroom.” I wish there was a list of words I could ban Sydney from saying. Bedroom would be one of them. “And guess what I found?” She waves a copy of Tattoo Terror around in one hand. At my look of horror, she rolls it up and tucks it under her arm. I move closer to her as she comes down the steps, keeping my eyes above waist level. Fucking nylons, I think as she steps down next to me.
Born Wrong Page 14
