SPACE FOR BREATHING
A Rock Star Romance
By: IK Velasco
To C.I.H. – Your music was like a beacon. It helped me find my voice as a writer. Thank you.
Copyright 2017 © by IK Velasco
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including emailing, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, with permission in writing from the author.
Table of Contents
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-two
About the Author
One
The swirling patterns on the sand reminded her of the sky during monsoon season.
The little girl sat at the side of the dirt road. Pensive and lost in her task, her demeanor was so unlike the other children around her. They were playing a raucous game of tag. Twelve little boys and girls, darting in and out of the rows of plywood houses, avoiding the noisy jeepneys, buses and cars, were obnoxious and loud in comparison. Her mother always said she was as quiet as a butterfly.
Her small hand gripped a straight stick, stolen from her younger brother's stash of treasures. She guided the end through the yellowish grit, drawing circular pictures. She really didn't know what she
was drawing. The patterns just looked pretty under the blistering tropical sunlight.
Suddenly thirsty, the little girl got up from her perch. She went back towards the wooden shack that was home, her sandaled feet shuffling over her masterpiece, spreading the pattern into a wavy smudge. She dropped her stick and rubbed her dusty hands over her once white smock, now stained with kid-dirt.
Inside was cool, the tin roof providing much needed shade. The little girl stood on a stool in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. She guzzled the liquid greedily; trails of moisture pouring down her chin streaking the kid-dirt on her smock. Passing a hand over her mouth, she noticed two silhouettes outlined in the curtain separating the kitchen from the parlor, the only other room in the house. She quietly made her way there, pulling the material aside to peek behind.
"You cannot understand how grateful we are for this great thing you are doing for our family." The woman's voice was watery and cracking. The little girl could almost hear the tears, threatening to break free, like leaks in a dam.
"You don't have to say it, Mrs. Rinaldo. It will be a great service to me." The man towered over her mother, almost a foot taller. He was crouching, but still the top of his head touched the metal corrugated roof. The little girl's eyes widened. He had yellow hair. She had never seen anyone have anything other than black hair before.
The man placed a hand on her mother's shoulder. Rather than a gesture of comfort, his touch seemed to weaken the dam. A single tear tracked down the woman's cheek. She took a deep breath and swiped at the moisture.
"I'll let you get her ready. I'll be back the same time tomorrow,” the man said. He smiled kindly—two rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. He left, ducking his head even lower as he passed through the short doorway.
The little girl's mother dropped onto a chair, as if her legs had no strength to hold her standing. She stared straight ahead, no expression on her smooth, olive-toned face. The little girl entered the room. She sat down on the floor and laid her head in her mother's lap.
"Oh, anak. I didn't know you were here. Quiet as a butterfly," the woman murmured, stroking back the fringe of bangs off her daughter's forehead.
Finally, the dam of tears broke, and the mother began to sob, her tears soaking the little girl's shiny, ebony hair.
The next day, the little girl prepared for a trip.
"You have always been good and obedient." The woman fixed the last button on the little girl's dress. Her light blue dress with the tattered ruffles at the sleeves and seams frayed. It was the only dress she owned. "I want you to be just as good in your new house."
The little girl didn't say a word. She couldn't even nod. Her mother kissed her on the cheek, then took her hand and led her into the parlor. Her whole family was there--her father, three brothers and baby sister. The tall man with yellow hair was there too. Her mother's hand gripped her knuckles together so tightly, it hurt.
"Ah, there she is," he said. He smiled at her with his straight, white teeth, kneeling to face her at eye level. His eyes were hazel-toned, almost yellow like his hair, but they were warm and friendly. Her mother handed him her small hand. The little girl stared at her hand engulfed in his, struck by the contrast of her dark tanned skin against his pinkish white skin. "We are going to get along just fine, I think."
He began to lead her out of the shack house, and she went willingly, despite the desire to pull away and bury her face in her mother's skirt, something she used to do when she was a baby.
The tall man with the yellow hair led her to a fancy black car where a driver was holding the passenger door open. She looked back once to her family, standing at the doorway of the shack house. Her mother stared with such longing she almost went back. Before she could think about it again, the door to the fancy black car slammed closed, and the little girl was on her way to her new home, her new life.
* * *
Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate 8 am
Maeva
I bolted upright, breathing fast and ragged. Eyes bleary from the sudden burst of daylight, I struggled to slow the panting in my chest.
I'd been having the same dream since I was seven years old. The dream's vividness never faded though. The images always managed to wake me, trembling at distant memories.
A familiar knock at the door helped calm me a little.
I could've recognized those soft rapping knuckles from anywhere. "Yes, Rosa?" I said, hoping my voice didn't betray the nighttime demons.
The door opened to reveal the shiny golden-brown face of sweet Rosalita. "How do you do that?" she asked, smiling. A routine conversation, she always asks every time I guess it's her at my bedroom door.
I gave my usual answer, "Because I'm psychic."
Her smile grew wider, deepening the delightful crinkles on each side of her bright, mischievous eyes.
"I'm sorry to wake you, but you have a phone call. It's Mr. Owen." Rosa entered the room, holding out the cordless phone. I thanked her, and she left to give me privacy.
"Hello, Mr. Owen," I said into the receiver.
"Hello, Maeva. How is my little Orchid today?"
"I wish you would stop calling me that. I'm not little anymore, you know."
"I know. But I must," he replied. We must have experienced this exchange a thousand times - comforting banter that happens between real fathers and daughters. I liked it. I didn't bother arguing this time, only laughed.
"It must be coming close to that time of the year again," I said.
"Yes. I'll be arriving in a week. How is everything at the house?"
"Just fine, as usual. The gardening crew has begun their summer landscaping. I'm having them plant more trees near the veranda. We need more shade. The pool's water is being changed next week. The bills are paid for this month. I'm thinking about firing Lolita, and getting her replaced. That situation with Antonio is getting out of hand. Otherwise, everything is fine. You know you can trust Rosa and I
to make sure that everything is running smoothly."
"Of course, darling," he replied. "You are blossoming into a capable young woman. I can't believe you have been with me for 15 years. I will be lonely when I must let you go." This last thing was delivered with more than a twinge of sentiment. Mr. Owen was getting soft in his old age.
We continued our usual news exchange. I caught him up on all the gossip at the Estate; he shared some stories about his work at the record company. Most of the time, I didn't understand the business mumbo jumbo he talked about, but I knew that it made him happy to have me listen.
"Sweetheart," he said. "I have to run soon, but I have something important to tell you."
Intrigued, I asked, “What’s that?"
"I want you to prepare the house. We're having a guest. He's going to be arriving on the flight the day before mine. I need you to have Tito pick him up from the airport."
It wasn't unusual for Mr. Owen to invite guests to the Estate. In his line of work, he met a lot of people who needed a place to retreat. Solitude and anonymity was something the Estate could give.
"Of course. Who is the mystery guest?"
"His name is Jacob Slone."
"Oh," I replied. "He's in a band with his brother, right? What was that song that they did? Fast, something? It was on the radio all the time."
I remembered Jacob and Riley Slone, two blonde, fresh-faced American brothers, teen heartthrobs who grew up in the limelight. I remembered them not because I was particularly fond of their music, but because of the never-ending stream of coverage the media had afforded them over the years.
"Gone So Fast," he corrected. "But that was a long time ago. He's a lot different now. He's grown up."
"I see."
"Maeva, please treat him with the utmost pampering. This one really needs it."
I nodded even though I knew that he couldn't see me. "Would you expect any less?"
We said good-bye, and I got up to dress for the day.
I carefully stepped over the brushes, tubes of acrylic, pots of oils, palettes and canvas scattered all around my bedroom floor. Rosa was forever complaining about the mess, but I liked being surrounded by these things. It reminded me of myself – one of those important things that defined me.
On the easel was a half-finished painting of a maya bird. It had perched itself on the balcony rung and posed for me, just long enough to capture its essence. But of course, the maya bird had better things to do than to pose for a painting. Why stand still when you can fly?
I walked over to the balcony doors. I liked to leave them open in the spring, to fall asleep to the sound of crickets in the garden below.
The sun was just below its peak, and I knew that in a few hours it would be hot and muggy, so I savored the cool morning breeze seeping through my nightgown. The gardener's children were already in the yard, playing. They were trying, with zeal only present in children, to fly a homemade kite. I cringed when their romping got dangerously close to my rose garden. The children, on the other hand, were squealing and clapping with delight, watching the colorful kite dancing against an azure sky. They were free of care. I was the only one bogged down by something as adult as crushing a rose garden. Their exuberance was infectious, and I wondered if I could capture it somehow. I sat down at my easel, replaced the canvas with a fresh one and began to paint.
Looking out over the view, a view I had been looking at since I was seven years old, I thought about Mr. Owen's words. I will be lonely when I must let you go. Would I ever leave this place? They say that when it is time to leave the place where you grew up, you always take a piece of home with you. But hadn't I already left home?
I thought about this Jacob fellow. His life must be so foreign and different than mine. I wondered what was bringing him to the Estate. Will he bring a piece of home when he comes?
* * *
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean 2 am EST
Jacob
I looked out the airplane's window at the sky filled with diamonds. It was a dark expanse, much like the feeling inside my gut.
"Would you like another drink, Mr. Slone?"
I turned to meet the flight attendant's inviting smile. They always seemed to smile at me that way.
"No, thank you," I replied. "I'm good for now." I turned back to the window, then realized that she wasn't walking away.
"I'm sorry…um, Jacob," she said, placing a hand over her mouth, holding back a scream. I resisted rolling my eyes.
"May I call you Jacob?" she continued, shakily. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm your biggest fan. I've been an admirer since '97. Your music meant a lot to me when I was growing up."
I studied her face for a moment. She was very pretty—blonde with sparkling blue eyes. She had a nice, tight body, long lean and curvy in the right places. The way her weight shifted back and forth, she reminded me of an eager little puppy, anxious to please. Images of naked bodies writhing in an airplane bathroom crossed the front of my mind, but I pushed them away. Another time, another place, another life.
"Thanks," I replied, flashing my own smile. "I guess we grew up together, huh?"
She visibly brightened, walking away with a bounce in her step. I stole a glance at her shapely form.
* * *
Two months earlier
Los Angeles - El Rey Theatre, 11:00 pm
"And we won't go dooowwn, yeah..." The last of the lyrics echoed off Riley's lips as we finished the last song of the set.
There was the almost imperceptible hush of the crowd, a collective deep intake of breath, right before it erupted into the familiar frenzy of cheers and screams. I watched Riley as his face relaxed, previously contorted with the last note of the high harmony he sang. Customarily, he pulled his mike from the stand, stepped out from behind his keyboards and made his way to the center of the stage.
"And now before we go…"
I didn't even listen to my younger brother's usual final speech. Squinting against the stage lights, I quickly pulled the guitar off my shoulders and handed it off to the roadie, quickly making my way backstage.
I noticed Riley fumbling, though I doubt anyone else in the audience caught it. "Um, before we go…" I could still hear him even from backstage, the booming resonance of the stage speakers echoing in the back hallway. The confidence and poise he always carried came back quickly, though. "Before we go, I just want to say that you guys have been the best audience…"
I wandered through the backstage maze of boxes, lights, cords and equipment and attempted to find my way back to the dressing room. I avoided all contact with the backstage staff, even ignoring the production assistant who tried to hand me a towel. Luckily, I remembered where the dressing room was located. Regardless of the venue and location, heavy, darkened crevices, harshly lit corridors with endless twists and turns look eerily similar.
I shut the dressing room door behind me and heaved a heavy sigh. Leaning against the counter, I glanced up at the mirror. Hair a mess of sweaty, tangled strands, dark circles under my eyes, perspiration dotting my face; I looked and felt like the walking dead. I licked at the sweat on my upper lip.
My reflection began to waver as the nausea bubbled up my throat again. I closed my eyes, hoping it would pass, but it only intensified. I fumbled for the garbage pail under the counter, vomiting what little was left in my stomach.
The door opened. Without even looking up, I knew it was Riley. I heard him suck his breath back, about to yell, but changed his mind at the last second.
"Are you okay?" he asked, thinly disguised words of concern, laced with venom.
"Does it look like I'm okay?" I gripped the sides of the garbage can with shaking hands, willing for my stomach to stop rolling.
"Here."
I reached up and took the tissue he handed to me and swiped at my mouth. "Thanks," I mumbled. I could feel the heat washing over my face, a sickening combination of nausea and shame.
"What did you drink?"
"Does it real
ly matter?"
He snorted. "Yes. When we’re performing in front of a thousand people, and you have to get off stage before the encore to spew your guts, it matters."
"Whatever, Riley. Not like you've been sober at every show we've ever performed…"
Christopher Anderson, our manager, arrived interrupting him in a flurry of snakeskin leather boots, fedora hat and bubbling enthusiasm. I could hear the faint chants of "Slone" filtering through the open dressing room door. "Hey, guys, they're cheering for more…" The enthusiasm turned to worry when he saw me.
Chris was the invisible third of the duet called Slone. He was as integral to the band as Riley and I were, maybe more so. Seeing him standing there, deep brown eyes darkened with worry, I remembered when we had first met. I was ten, and Riley was eight, ages when the only things that mattered was how fast we could ride our bikes home from school so we could get to the garage and practice. We were practicing that afternoon when Chris confidently strolled up my mother's driveway, leaning against the garage door, snapping his gum, listening, watching and scrutinizing us like a seasoned music executive. Even at fifteen years old, Chris knew when a band was going to make it, and he made it happen for us. He was the one that kept us together, the one that handled most of the business bullshit so that Riley and I could concentrate on being musicians. But he couldn't protect us from everything.
Space For Breathing Page 1
