When his warm mouth moves seductively against mine, it’s easy to believe all is right with the world. A few times in the past few weeks of dating, doubts have gathered like a storm on the horizon seeded by my meddling mother’s voice warning me Jayson is a curveball I can’t handle. I barely made it through the fall semester because of this balancing act, walking the tightrope of what’s expected of me and what I want for myself. Between school and work, squeezing in a relationship nearly depleted me.
Yet, here we are. One semester down. I don’t know what’s to come, but I know I want it with Jayson.
“Let’s just skip the dinner,” I whisper impulsively. Fingers dance down his taut abs to the belt buckle holding up his black slacks and I teasingly run a hand over his crotch. He growls in arousal, easing his hips forward and pushing his hardening manhood deeper into the palm of my hand before easing away. It feels so natural to have a lover, to make love. I can’t believe how fast that happened!
Jayson collects my roaming hands in his and lets out a laugh. “Watch out, now. You know I can’t stop you when you really get going, and we can’t skip the Christmas Eve dinner. I’m sure your mother went to a lot of trouble to get it together. Alright, my little actress, get in character and—.”
Giggling, I grope his butt and give him a friendly, enticing kiss to the side of his neck. “Surely, this is allowed in character….”
“Hey! Gimme some personal space,” he jests. “No verbal mushy stuff either, honey—remember, you said I’m just a friend.” I’d admitted that to him when we woke up this morning. “Oh, baby, you—” He launches into a badly sang version of the old school rap song his words echo, bumping his hip against mine and clapping to the music only he hears. I burst out laughing at how horribly off the beat he is.
“Enough, enough! I promise I’ll stay in character!” I howl. “You just promise me you’ll keep your dance moves to yourself and we should be fine! Now, let’s get a move on. We’ve got a show to perform for the great and powerful Candace of Pacific Heights.”
That feeling of near euphoria he always inspires burbles up in my brain. Looking back at his playful face as I lead him down the stairs and to the front door, I can’t help but think everybody should get a taste of this kind of joy. What could be wrong about this? Why do we have to hide? I know the answer is that love is a singular experience that not everyone will understand, and right now the least understanding person of all is my mom.
There’s an old saying about chickens coming home to roost. I never quite understood the idiom, but I know it means something similar to ‘facing the music.’ As Jayson and I get into his truck and shoot across San Francisco, leaving Western Addition for mother’s house in the neighborhood many, many tax brackets above my own, the phrase comes to mind. For better or worse, I’m about to orchestrate a culture clash the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Jesus supposedly had dinner with Zacchaeus. OK, maybe I exaggerate. But it feels pretty damn big to me.
When Jason eases to a halt in front of the impressive mansion, I smile tightly, trying not to show my nervousness. A valet driver steps up and politely accepts the keys to park the car along with others in a neat row filling the driveway. I shiver when we walk up to the front door, though not from the cold. The house looks warm and inviting, glowing with Christmas lights against the dusky early evening sky, but I’d rather stay outside. I can all but feel the impending doom, contrary to my adamant denial to Jayson that there’d be any problems with him showing up for this shindig with Mom and all her ritzy friends.
He was worried about my mother and me getting into a heated discussion. I’m more worried about him getting brushed off or, worse, Mom treating him like shit because she thinks he’s beneath us.
“Ready to go inside, cupcake?” Jayson whispers out of the corner of his mouth as another couple pushes past us and walks on in. He eyes the sky. “I don’t want you to catch a cold out in this damp weather. Looks like we might get some snow soon.”
I take a deep breath and steel my nerves. “Hmm, that’d be a rare treat, a white Christmas for San Francisco. Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go in before it starts dumping.”
We boldly stroll into the house, and hired staff collect our coats and whisk them away to the corner office Mom uses as a coatroom when she does big events. I can see Candace has spared no expense. We’re met by scenes fit for a style magazine, the elegant decking of the halls evidence that she had a decorator do the place up. The front entrance is dominated by a ten-foot- tall spruce dripping with white lights, shiny tinsel and glossy ornaments. Music tinkles invitingly from the grand piano just outside the dining room, and Jayson and I follow the well-dressed guests who came in ahead of us toward the sound of pleasant conversation in the next room.
We pass through the main corridor past other invitees. All the while Jayson wears an uncomfortable half-smile, which tells me he’s just as much on edge as me. We end up in the formal living room where the bulk of the partygoers are enjoying the music, and I meander through and greet the people I know personally, neighbors and old family friends.
A bald guy with a diamond stud in his right ear makes a beeline for me the minute he sees me. I quickly rummage through my memory for a name to fit the face. “Kitrina, darling! You look amazing!” he exclaims.
I remember his name just in time. “Well, thank you. Mr. Peters, this is my friend, Jayson.” Jayson nods as I drop a hand on his forearm. Now that I think about it, the lecherous old bugger asked me out once, but I turned him down because he has to be pushing forty. Judging by his excitement at seeing me, he’s still showing interest. I’m absolutely not ready to deal with his persistence, especially with Jayson at my side.
“Oh, hi. Jayson, is it? Yeah, pleasure to meet you.” Clint Peters gives Jayson a dismissive glance and gazes back at me, oozing charm I’d rather he put a Band-Aid over. “But, wow, look at you, Kit. How old are you now? I haven’t seen you since your eighteenth birthday party. How have you been?”
“I’ve been well,” I effuse, trying to keep a plastic smile in place.
“Hi, Kit!” A girl’s voice calls from across the room, rescuing me.
I look around for the caller. “Hey, Lily! Um, could you excuse us a moment, Mr. Peters?”
I dash away to speak with the fresh-faced captain of the cheer squad from high school, someone I was never close to in the past but welcome seeing now, if only to get away from Clint. Her parents are friends of Mom’s, both doctors. I hardly notice that Jayson gets left behind until I look back and catch Clint, the CEO of Yeager Real Estate, asking Jayson what he does for a living.
I distractedly speak with Lily Penton and then hurry back to retrieve my boyfriend, feeling like a ping pong ball volleyed back and forth across the room. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur sincerely once I’m able to pry Jayson away. Clint looks disappointed to see me walk off. We might be in character, but Jayson has no qualms about possessively placing a hand at the base of my spine with a confident smile.
“For what? Your chatty ex?” he whispers back with an unconcerned chuckle. I lead him to an alcove in the formal living room so we can tuck ourselves away in a corner, allowing me to scope out the scene. I have yet to see my mother, the Dragon Lady.
“I didn’t mean to leave you back there talking about what you do for a living with him, and he’s not my ex. Or did you mean my ex-stalker? He’s old enough to be my grandfather. Maybe great- grandfather,” I say disdainfully, mentally depositing an extra forty years on Clint Peters. “Hardly my type.”
Jayson laughs, that rich baritone of his ringing out sexily. Heads turn, mostly women staring like he’s the last candy bar and they’ve all been on a diet far too long. Frowning, I reach up to adjust his tie. It’s a tiny gesture, but enough to let all the lookie-loos know Jayson Zephyr is well taken care of right where he’s at, thank you very much.
“Don’t worry about it, Kit. I’m not embarrassed by what I do. I’m an entrepreneur who makes an honest living and happens to
love his job. I’d call that successful. But, while we’re on the subject, what’s your type?” He grins and I’m reminded of why I like him. He’s so down to earth, so self-assured. Anyone looking at us at that moment would catch my dreamy sigh and the two of us locking eyes like we know the best secret in the world but were keeping it to ourselves. We’re so damn obvious.
“You. You’re my type,” I murmur.
Jayson discreetly squeezes my hand before pulling a comfortable distance away and shooing me with his hands. “You go mingle. I’m not here to monopolize you. I’m fine, and your mother needs to see that you’re fine, so get out there and talk to people.”
“About my mother, I wonder where she is. Have you seen her? She’s usually the star attraction.”
I scan the room again, but my attention gets arrested by the star I picked out when I was five years old. It’s perched atop the living room tree, another lovely spruce like the one in the entry hall, but this one with more personality. Dotted amongst the branches I spot special ornaments I picked out during my whimsical years, even a few I made personally—old popsicle sticks, glue and glitter monstrosities that add a nice, homey touch.
I nostalgically remember thinking the empty, prettily wrapped boxes beneath the gaudy displays were a crime against Christmas for lacking gifts. When I was a kid, Mom didn’t wrap presents; they were delivered in designer shopping bags. I once wrapped a gift for her—not well—and she let me know that the store would do it for me, if I asked.
“Well, she’s done a fantastic job of combining warm, cozy memories she knows I’ll notice and mixing them with her particular brand of giving me the cold shoulder,” I grumble to Jayson. “Half the stuff on this tree is stuff I picked out. Yet, she treats me like the bane of her existence now that I’m past the cute kid phase. Unbelievable.”
“Don’t be sensitive, darling,” he murmurs gently. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves. Let’s not look for trouble.”
“I know I’m being unkind to think her motives smack of manipulation, but honestly these tributes to my childhood just add to the growing sense that, with adulthood, no matter what I do or who I become, I will never be good enough for my mother.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” he denies. I swallow past an unexpected lump and exhale the petty emotions.
“Whatever. Do you want a drink or something?” When I turn to Jayson, I freeze in my tracks. There she is at the entrance to the living room looking like a sparkling ruby in a daring red dress that clings to her still-youthful body. She shows cleavage. My mom never shows more than a hint of cleavage, but tonight...it’s almost frightening to see her look so sexy. Her frosted platinum blond hair curls stylishly around her smooth face, a radiant smile alight. However, it’s not what she’s wearing or what she’s saying to the guests hanging on every word that drops from her crimson lips that draws my attention. It’s the man at her side. I don’t know him.
“What the hell?” I mutter in shock. The bold stranger looks young enough to be her son, and is clinging to her like a damn toddler, arm wrapped around her waist. Then, I notice he has on my dad’s best suit—the one Mom refused to bury him in because she said it reminded her of him—and fury rises like a black tide. I bristle, unaware that I’m squeezing Jayson’s arm in anger. Jayson disengages my clenched fist and places smooth, cool fingers atop mine.
“What’s the matter?”
I direct his gaze to mother. Glaring at her, I murmur, “This is exactly like her. I cannot believe she’s taking it to this new low.” I look back at Jayson, and his face blanches like he’s just seen a ghost. “Jayson?”
“Excuse me for a second, please.”
Chapter 26
JAYSON
“Jayson, what’s wrong?” Kit asks in alarm. A sick feeling forces me to stumble backwards out of the crowded room, unable to offer an explanation.
“Excuse me…Pardon me,” I murmur, pushing past glittering guests, everyone with a drink in hand, Kit in close pursuit. I manage to lose her in the crush. I don’t know my way to an exit in this fucking house where I don’t belong, but I move by instinct, seeking a light, a window, a door. Any way to get out of here.
I know exactly who the young man clinging to Kitrina’s beautiful mother is. Know him well enough to understand that his presence does not bode well for me. I push open a side door and stumble out into the frosty evening air. Inhaling lungfuls, I gulp them down and the nausea subsides. I’ve lost Kit, but she doesn’t need to see me like this.
Memories I want to forget break free. Lamont cackles from the past, “Bust that motherfucker open!” I shake my head, gasping, and throw my body against the side of Candace Schneider’s house, feeling the coldness leach through the suit that cost too much money but had to be bought so I could look like I fit in with this circle of frivolous spenders and rich dandies. Covering my face, I try in vain to block out the flood of history threatening the present like a tsunami approaching a calm beach.
“Bust that motherfucker open!”
Lamont. Here. I’m positive Candace now knows all about my juvenile delinquency, if she’s been keeping company with my old running buddy, which wouldn’t be so bad if Kitrina had already been made aware of it, too. She can’t find out this way. If Kit hears what happened all those years ago from the wrong lips, there’s no doubt she’ll see me with the same jaundiced eye as her mother. And who could blame either of them? But it looks like I’ve run out of time to break it to Kitrina my way.
My head spins. “I should’ve told her,” I mutter to myself with growing anxiety. I should’ve told Kitrina when I had the chance.
My vision distorts to a black parking lot in a dirty, desolate corner of the worst side of Tenderloin. The mansion in Pacific Heights is far away in a different place and a different time. Back then, I never would’ve imagined I’d be allowed inside Candace Schneider’s home.
It’s winter and the hobos hang around burning trashcans for warmth. Thunderous rap music rattles the block as a low rider slowly rolls past, and men with hardened faces nod heads to Monty and me in passing. This is the place where I grew up, the streets familiar. Around the block is the crowded two-bedroom apartment where my family lives. Across the street is the corner store I got busted stealing candy bars once. Old Man Akbar didn’t charge me. He made me work it off, and he kept me on for the rest of the summer so I could have some pocket change and wouldn’t have to steal from him anymore.
This is a place where people like Kit would lock their car doors fearfully while passing through. A place of desperados with a code of silence the police can’t penetrate. I know the dope dealers and gang members, people I stay away from with respect. But one look at me, and anyone would know this is where I belong.
I’m wearing a hoodie and jeans as threadbare as the homeless. My buddy Lamont scored us a bottle for Christmas Eve. Likely pried it from his alcoholic dad’s clutches while the loser was passed out drunk. There’s only two-thirds of amber liquor left in the pint, but it doesn’t matter. It’s whiskey and it’s good shit and it takes the worst of the sting out of the biting wind. I toss the bottle back for courage, swallowing the fiery hard liquor with difficulty. “Here, hold this and keep an eye out for me, Monty.”
I shove the whiskey bottle into Monty’s freezing fingers and pick up the rusty wire clothes hanger we brought with us just for this. “Dude, we’ll get in so much shit if we pull this off,” he giggles. A year younger than me, Monty is my next-door neighbor and has been my best friend ever since we were old enough to steal quarters and walk down to the arcade by ourselves.
“Yeah, well, consider us in the shit, ‘cause we’re in this bitch!” I boast. Slipping the straightened wire hanger in through a crack between the window and the door, I attempt to depress the locks of the car that’s been parked in the lot for days. Around these parts it’s a tossup whether or not the abandoned vehicle is worth breaking into. I look through the dusty glass and spy nothing I want. The floor is littered with fast food wr
appers and other debris. There’s an old tape deck instead of a CD player.
As the lock pops, I laugh with the wild exuberance of a stupid sixteen-year-old doing stupid shit. Lamont whoops and runs around to the passenger side, yanks the door open and climbs into the car. I hop into the driver’s seat.
“This is just what I need. Freedom. Fucking Momz wanted me to babysit while she works her second job. I told her it’s Christmas Eve, bitch! Fuck that and fuck them. Greedy fucking bastards,” I reply urbanely.
“You did not,” Monty denounces me with a chuckle.
I don’t press the issue; we both know I’m lying. Letting the seat back, I snap a picture with the cellphone my mom gave me that doesn’t dial out or text. We pass the bottle back and forth, drinking it down to the last drop. Monty and I have never had liquor before yet are probably as intoxicated from breaking the rules as from drinking the pint. The fiery whiskey sloshes around in my stomach and threatens to come back up, but I can’t barf in front of this kid. Monty thinks I’m the best thing since gym socks. He looks up to me like I’m a big brother or something, which is weird because lately I’ve decided I can barely stand him. He’s a yes-man, a sidekick, and he makes me realize I’m wary of guys that offer a challenge. There’s more to our friendship that this, but this part has been troubling me lately, making me angry at him. Yet here we are.
Lamont levers up and out the passenger window, howling at the moon. “Man, fuck the system! Fuck the parents! Fuck the police! Whoo-hoo!” he shouts gleefully. I laugh nervously.
“Cool it, fucktard. We don’t want anybody to come investigate what we’re doing. Are you dense?”
“Yo, who gives a shit what happens round here?” Monty asks happily, climbing back inside. “Wanna see if we can get it going?”
“Be real. How the hell do you think this piece of shit will go anywhere?”
Jayson: A New Adult / Coming of Age Romance Page 20
