A Lush Betrayal

by Selena Laurence

  I hit “send,” then close the email and lie down on the small bed in “my” room at my dad’s place, looking up at that dirty ceiling he won’t let me paint. I think about that vision I have for my future. I think about Mel and her big blue eyes, soft auburn hair, and creamy skin. I think about how smart she is and how perfectly she fits in my arms and in my world. I’d give anything if she’d let me try to fit in hers. Maybe we can build a new world together. Maybe it’s not too late.

  Mel

  TAMMY’S BEEN gone for two weeks. She texts or calls every day. She’s seen Walsh, but that’s all she’s saying. She sounds solid though, so I guess I won’t be flying down to clean up a mess anytime soon.

  I’ve stayed in her house. One of these days soon, I’ll have to see about finding a place to rent in Seattle for the summer so I can finish my class. I just can’t seem to get motivated to take care of it though. I still want the degree, and I’m grateful for the chance to get it, but I know it won’t fix the one thing in my life that means the most. So, instead of apartment hunting in Seattle, I spend my days outside on Tammy’s huge property, shooting pictures, walking, watching Mesopotamia try to catch the koi in the pond.

  And thinking about Joss.

  I’ve only heard from him once since I emailed about Tammy, and I’m starting to think maybe he’s met someone, gotten over everything that happened and moved on. It slices my heart into pieces just thinking about it, and makes me realize how many fantasies I’ve been harboring all these months we’ve been writing to one another. Fantasies about me and him and some sort of a future.

  I know a lot of people would wonder how I could still love a guy who slept with my sister and then hid it. But I know, after watching and listening to Tammy all these months, it was so much more complicated than it sounds. Joss and Tammy never pined for each other. There wasn’t some unrequited love there. They were two lonely people grieving over a common loss. Walsh really was a brother to Joss, and seeing him nearly die was something Joss and Tammy experienced and suffered through together. As much as the thought of them with each other that way makes me ill, I think I understand what happened. And I guess I feel like everyone’s suffered enough for it. It’s time to put it to rest.

  I miss him so very deeply that some days I wonder how I lived twenty-four long years without him. It’s as if he’s a part of the fabric of me. Woven into my soul, knit into my heart. To tear him out I’d have to completely unravel who I am, and I’m not sure I’d be able to reconstruct something worthwhile afterwards.

  So I walk around Tammy’s exurban estate, I talk to my cat, I take pictures of nature, and I wait, wait for some sign that will tell me if the future I’ve been fantasizing is possible, or if I’m torn in a way that can’t be repaired.

  It’s a Friday afternoon when I finally get a new email from RockStar1. The message is short, cryptic, and thrilling.

  To: picsbymel

  From: RockStar1

  Tomorrow night, 8 p.m., Lonny’s Tap Room across the street from Studio B.

  I read that one sentence over and over again. Is Joss here in Portland? The mere idea sets my heart to pounding. I Google Lonny’s Tap Room. The website doesn’t tell me anything. No mention of famous rock stars stopping in to perform or party. Maybe he’s working at Studio B and plans to grab a drink at Lonny’s Tap Room afterwards? Maybe he won’t even be there and he’s just telling me about some show he thinks I’d like. Maybe this email was meant for someone else and he accidently sent it to me. What if it was meant for another woman? If I go there and he’s with someone else, I will die.

  I curl up on my bed and start to count the hours until I can get in the car and drive to Lonny’s Tap Room.

  IT’S A few minutes past eight when I walk into the darkened bar. It’s a simple place, but not grungy, and the clientele is more Portlandia than working class. There are booths all around the perimeter of the main room and tables in the center. Off to one side is a small annex room with the bar, and the twin wing on the other side has a series of very private niches with curtains that pull across the entries. Opposite the front door is a stage raised about two feet off the main floor. And sitting in the center of that stage, guitar in hand, singing into a microphone, is Joss.

  A single spotlight shines on him, and he’s singing a song I’ve never heard. It’s soulful and bluesy, and his voice vibrates through me, reminding me of how it felt to have him whisper in my ear at night as we lay together in bed. I stand, caught between the desire to run onstage and throw my arms around him and the need to flee, leaving the possibility of rejection forever a mystery.

  As the song ends and the audience claps enthusiastically, I force myself to move forward, looking around for a seat that isn’t too conspicuous. As if I’m wearing a homing device of some sort, Joss’s head whips up and he looks straight at me. The smile that floods his face is so blindingly brilliant, so full of undisguised joy that for a moment I’m unable to catch my breath. I see him motion to someone on the edge of the room, and a moment later, a tall, dark-complexioned man approaches me.

  “Ms. DiLorenzo?” he asks very politely.

  “Yes?”

  “If you’ll follow me. Mr. Jamison saved you a seat up front.”

  I walk behind him while Joss says a few things to the audience and tunes his guitar a bit, as if he’s stalling, waiting for me to get seated.

  Once I’ve been shown to the table that sits front and center before the stage, Joss smiles down at me again. Then he talks some more.

  “Almost a year ago now, I met someone.”

  The crowd gives him a hard time. Not rudely, just teasing. Some of the women yell that he’s broken their hearts. The men say, “Thank God too!”

  “You guys know it’s been a pretty rough year for me, and I’m afraid I made it a pretty rough year for her too.”

  This time there’s sympathy from the audience.

  “But tonight is sort of a fresh start, and I hope it can be a fresh start for both of us.”

  Then he starts to play, and with the first words that fall from his lips, I realize it’s the song about me. The Girl From Shangri-La. I sit raptly and listen as he sings about a woman who is his paradise on earth. How he fears that what they had didn’t mean the same to her that it did to him. How she taught him to fall in love and now he can’t fall out. I listen to his smoky voice sing what he feels about me, and I realize tears are rolling down my face and pressure is building in my heart.

  As he strums the last dying chords of the song, I put my hands over my mouth, afraid if I don’t physically stop myself I’ll cry out how much I still love him. He looks at me from the stage, and somewhere in the corners of my consciousness I hear him say, “I’m going to take a five minute break and then I’ll do another set.” Everyone claps, some house music comes on, and Joss sets his guitar carefully aside as he stands up and hops off the stage, walking straight to my table.

  I stand on shaky legs, trying quickly to wipe the tears away. He looks at me, reads me as if I’m a book.

  “You came,” he says quietly.

  “Yes,” I nod, my voice trembling.

  “Did you like the song?” He seems genuinely concerned.

  “How could I not?” I ask, feeling tears trying to squeeze out yet again.

  “Aw, Mel, please don’t cry,” he whispers as he steps closer.

  This causes me to break down entirely, and I shake with sobs as he wraps his arms around me and simply holds me, stroking my hair.

  His lips are next to my ear, and he’s pressing me to him as if he’s afraid I’ll try to escape. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he says over and over again. “I love you, Mel. You have to know that. I will always love you. Only you. It’s only ever been you.”

  I try to catch my breath and stop the tears. The front of Joss’s t-shirt is drenched, and I’m sure I look like hell. He pulls away to look at my face, running his fingers gently under my eyes to wipe at errant tears.

  “Talk to m
e, baby. Tell me what you’re thinking. Do I have any chance at all here?”

  I finally look up at him, into those perfect, crystal-clear green eyes. He’s so scared, so vulnerable. I’ve never seen the rock god Joss Jamison look this way. I take his hand and hold it over my heart. “Do you feel that?” I ask.

  He nods, his breathing heavy and his hand trembling.

  “It needs you, Joss. I need you. Only you.”

  There is no warning at all as his lips crash into mine. His big, warm hands cradle my jaw and his fingers dig into my hair. I feel the shock of the kiss from my chest all the way to my toes. There are no preliminaries, no gentle touches, just sheer, unadulterated need. His breath comes in gasps, his biceps under my hands are tensed, and his tongue invades my mouth with hot longing. I hear a small squeak come from me as he surprises me with the force of his onslaught. But then I give in to it and feel as if molten light is being poured through my body, warming all the places that have been so cold and dark without Joss.

  As his hands start to wander from my face and skim down my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts and then working down to cup my ass and draw me closer, he breaks the kiss and rasps in my ear, “We should probably go home to finish this.”

  I giggle, slightly embarrassed. “You’re probably right,” I gasp out.

  “I have one more set. I’ll go fast. Will you sit right here and wait for me?”

  I answer by wrapping my arm around his neck and rocking his world for a few more seconds. I leave him breathing heavily and quietly swearing as he tries to adjust his jeans so he can go back onstage. He gives me one more hard, quick kiss and then walks up to his stool, grabs his guitar, and sits down.

  The house music stops and the spotlight comes back up.

  “Portland,” he says, grinning. “Is this a great fucking night or what?”

  WHEN JOSS is done performing, he asks me to come backstage with him. I wait in the hallway while he ducks into the dressing room, grabs his jacket, and puts his guitar in its case. Then he strides out, guiding me down the hall to the exit. We walk out into a cool spring night, moisture in the air creating a soft, filtered look to the lights in the parking lot.

  “Did you drive here?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer, pointing to my little Subaru hatchback parked nearby.

  “I’ll bring you back to pick it up later?”

  “Okay.”

  He leads me to a long dark sports sedan. I notice the hood ornament.

  “A Jaguar?” I ask, squinting at him.

  He shrugs. “Why not?” He opens my door for me, and I realize that I’ve never been driven in a car by Joss. We’ve always ridden with chauffeurs. It strikes me suddenly that, while we spent all day and all night together for months, I’ve never seen where Joss lives and I’ve never had him drive me somewhere. We’ve never been to a grocery store together or cooked a meal with each other.

  I sit in the car and wait for him to walk around to the other side and get in. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I’m hoping to my condo,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

  As he starts the car and the engine literally purrs to life, I observe, “You know, I’ve never ridden with you driving.”

  He stops for moment, thinking. “I guess that’s true. Are you scared to drive with me?” He winks.

  “No, but you have to admit we had a weird relationship.” He turns out of the parking lot and heads toward downtown. “I’ve never seen where you live, yet I called you my boyfriend most of last summer.”

  I quickly realize that the Jag is in fact the perfect car for him. It’s as smooth and sleek as Joss, and he drives it as though it’s an extension of him. He doesn’t respond to my observations, instead turning on some Bonnie Raitt. Her gravelly voice fills the darkened car as we speed along Portland’s urban avenues until we come to a medium-sized building, obviously a depression-era WPA project with Art Deco design details.

  Joss turns sharply into the parking garage beneath the building and winds around until he gets to a row of stalls with doors. He punches the button, and after one of the garage doors opens, he pulls the car inside then shuts the door. We exit the car and he leads me through a small door into a hallway that ends at a set of elevator doors. He’s still silent, and I start to worry he’s changed his mind or I’ve made him question the whole thing by mentioning that we’ve never done normal things.

  Inside the elevator, he punches the number three and up we go. When we get off, I see that there are only two doors on the floor. Joss leads me to the one on the west side of the building and unlocks it as he ushers me inside. Lights go on automatically as we enter, and I’m faced with a large open floor plan. A living room, a kitchen, and a dining room are all within view of the foyer. The floors are dark wood, and the walls range from taupe in the living room to a creamy white in the kitchen. All the rooms have high ceilings and thick white wood trim.

  Before I have a chance to say how lovely I think it is, Joss’s hands and lips are everywhere. My face, my neck, my back, my hair, my skin.

  “Mel?” he whispers as his fingers play with my hair and his lips brush across my collarbone.

  “Yeah?” I squirm under the attack.

  “Would it be okay if we talked about all the stuff we need to later? Like after I’ve been inside you for five or six hours straight?”

  He starts walking me backwards. I have no idea what’s behind me or where I’m going, but I don’t really care as long as he keeps licking my earlobe and caressing my—Oh, dear God, that feels good. Before I know it, we’re in a room that’s dark, a sliver of light from the street outside peeking through the gap in the curtains.

  I feel the pressure in my core building, and my heart struggles to keep a steady rhythm. Joss reaches for the buttons on my blouse and starts to undo them. They’re small and there are a lot of them. He stops. “Is this a special shirt?” he asks huskily.

  “Um, not really.” I respond.

  Before the words are even fully out of my mouth, he’s ripped it down the front, popping those little buttons off every which way.

  “Shit,” he grinds out and he looks down at me, my pale blue silk and lace bra glowing in the low light. He brushes the backs of his fingers down my torso. His expression is reverent, and I watch him, seeing myself through his eyes. I’ve never felt so beautiful.

  He slides the blouse off of my shoulders and I let it drop to the floor. Next he reaches behind me and unsnaps the bra, tossing it away quickly. Then he cups both my breasts in his hands.

  “You’re the most perfect creation I’ve ever seen.”

  I can feel myself blush. I reach up and stroke his face, the light stubble on his jaw. He leans into my touch, his eyes closing for a moment. He kisses my palm then the tips of each of my fingers before he lets go of my hand and returns his touch to my breast. I kiss him on the face, the neck and the mouth, and slide my hands under the hem of his t-shirt. He shivers at the contact, and I lift the shirt and pull it over his head. He growls then and pulls me close so we’re skin to skin.

  “I missed this so much,” he whispers. “Just being able to touch you.”

  “Me too,” I gasp as he takes my breast in his mouth and gently sucks. I moan and unbutton my jeans when his erection presses against me.

  “Great idea,” he says as he undoes his own perfectly worn jeans and drops them, along with his boxer briefs, to the floor. I do the same and then we’re on each other—stroking, licking, and kissing. Hands, tongues, mouths, and fingers, slide along each other’s bodies, encouraging, emphasizing, captivating. Joss takes my hand and leads me to the bed.

  He sits down, bringing me along with him gently. We lie side by side, just exploring one another after being apart for so long. As his hand slips between my legs, he sighs. “I love you, sweet Mel. I want this—you and me—forever. Promise me that’s what you want too.”

  I arch against his fingers that are stroking my center so slowly and smoothly. “
Yes,” I gasp. “It’s all I want, Joss. I love you so much. I missed you. I don’t ever want to be away from you again.”

  “Never again, baby. Never again.” And then there are no more words. He’s inside—my body, my heart, my very soul—and I know that no matter what, this rock star is mine and he always will be.

  Joss

  I’VE FINISHED up my run and I’m stretching outside the apartment. It’s a typical Seattle summer day, not too hot and not too damp. There’s very obvious giggling nearby and I fight the urge to look up. Pretty soon I hear a girl’s voice near my shoulder.

  “Excuse me?” she asks.

  I stand upright and turn to face her. She can’t be more than seventeen, so I smile and try not to look too irritated. “Yeah?”

  “Are you—” She and her equally young friend dissolve into giggles. I keep the smile pasted on my face. “Aren’t you Joss Jamison?” she finally gasps out.

  “You know,” I respond, “don’t be embarrassed, because you’re not the first person to ask me that, but no, I’m sorry, I’m not. I just look a hell of a lot like the guy I guess.”

  She turns bright red. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” she squeaks out.

  “No problem. Really.” I give them another smile as they turn and hustle off. I roll my eyes and finish my stretch before heading upstairs.

  I enter the apartment and find Mel curled up on the sofa with Mesopotamia and a newspaper. She smiles as I walk in and inside my chest my heart does the thing it does every time she smiles at me.

  I threaten to hug her with my sweaty self, get the requisite shriek that we guys love so much, then flop down next to her. Mesopotamia, who barely tolerates me, hops up and stalks off.

  “I can’t believe you got up so early after that late performance last night.”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep thinking over all that stuff Dave had to tell me.”

  “About the amphitheater tour?”

  “Yeah, playing places like Red Rocks and the Hollywood Bowl. What a rush that’d be. But I need to put together a backup band and a crew.”