Full Tilt Duet Box Set

by Emma Scott

  “I’ll do it.” I pulled him closer. “You’re being exhibited at the Wynn for god’s sake. It’s a big deal. Don’t you think it would be awesome to have all your old friends there?”

  “I haven’t talked to them in a year,” Jonah said. “The first thing they hear from me is an invite to a gallery show? They’ll think I’m a pretentious asshole.”

  “Not if you let me handle it.”

  Jonah leaned back, sliding his palms down my arms to take my hands instead. “I can’t be distracted with reunions right now, Kace. The fact that Dale Chihuly might come is screwing with my brain enough. I appreciate it, but I just have too much to do. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “I will.” He drew me back into him and kissed me long and hard. “Boyfriend,” he murmured.

  “Do you know what girls do for their boyfriends?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “They take care of them. You’ve taken care of me since the day we met. Let me have a turn.”

  He sighed with a little smile. “We’ll see.”

  The rest of the week flew by in a blur. Jonah worked hard at the hot shop. I slung cocktails at Caesar’s at night and started a half-dozen songs during the day, none of which sparked me. The Chihuly invitation made Jonah a nervous wreck. The approaching Sunday dinner with his parents did the same to me.

  I went shopping at a local thrift store for something plainer than my usual get-ups. Something that covered my tattoos and wasn’t made from leather or vinyl. I combed racks, consumed with wanting to make a good impression. All I found were echoes of my father, telling me what a disappointment I was. All the old demons followed me into dressing rooms as I tried on garment after garment. I felt like a fraud in everything. I came home with nothing.

  “They either like me or they don’t,” I muttered to myself back at home, as I dressed in my own clothes and applied my usual cat-eye black eyeliner and red lipstick. I sucked on a Diet Coke, wishing it had a slug of rum in it.

  I tied my hair in a side braid and slipped on a black sleeveless tank dress. It came to mid-thigh, meeting up with my tall black boots that came just over my knee.

  Jonah arrived at my place wearing jeans and a dark dress shirt rolled at mid arm, his hair still damp from the shower.

  “You look amazing,” I said, fastening a long necklace with a Celtic-looking silver pendant. “As usual.”

  “That’s my line,” he said, his eyes raking me up and down. “And you…are fucking beautiful.”

  My cheeks burned as I smoothed down the billowy folds of the dress. “I thought about wearing a normal dress. But it felt wrong. I mean, this is who I am. The tattoos and the hair and the makeup… It’s not a rock star act, it’s me.”

  Jonah moved to take me in his arms. His hand ran up my tattooed arm. “I like it,” he said. “I like you.”

  “I just want them to like me. I’m afraid I might not be what they’re expecting.”

  “Listen.” He held me tighter. “My parents expected nobody. The fact I’m even bringing someone to dinner is in your favor. Trust me, my mother is going to flip over you.”

  I glanced up at him. “And your dad?”

  Jonah gently brushed a tendril of hair from my eye. “He’s going to love you.”

  The Fletchers lived in a modest two-story house, in a cute, suburban neighborhood of Belvedere. We drove past row after row of houses, all separated by rock lawns and wrought iron fences. Theo’s truck was already parked along the curb in front of the Fletcher house. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since his unexpected visit last week. Another knot twisted in my gut as I got out of the car.

  At six-fifteen on a late July evening, the heat had mellowed to a bearable ninety degrees. Las Vegas had been my official home for three weeks and I was already getting used to the weather.

  I clutched Jonah’s arm as he led me up the short walk to the front door. “Shit, I didn’t bring your mom anything,” I said. “Can we go back? I saw a flower shop on the way—”

  The front door opened and a short, plump lady beamed at us from the threshold. She was in her mid-fifties, with chin-length brown hair, dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved blouse.

  “I thought I heard voices,” she said.

  “Hey, Mom,” Jonah said.

  She hugged him tight and held his face for a moment, her eyes taking him in. “You look wonderful,” she said. She turned to me. “Doesn’t he look wonderful? And you must be Kacey.”

  She stepped down to embrace me. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

  Her embrace smelled like warm bread and it soothed my nerves. “I’m happy to meet you too, Mrs. Fletcher,” I said, inexplicable tears filling my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time my own mother had hugged me.

  “Please, please, call me Beverly.” She started back to the house, waving us in after. “Theo’s already here, and the lasagna is just about done. Do you like lasagna, Kacey?”

  “I love it,” I said, slipping my hand into Jonah’s.

  “Did I forget to mention she’s a hugger?” he whispered to me.

  I nodded. “I love her.”

  Beverly led us through the living room. It was simply furnished, a little cluttered, with Jonah’s beautiful glass pieces displayed on side tables, bookshelves and windowsills. A gallery of photos on one wall showed Theo’s artwork—he’d been a talent since he was a toddler—and Theo and Jonah at every stage of life: Little League, school portraits, prom pictures. Mugging side-by-side from preschool to adolescence, one smiling bright, the other making a face or scowling.

  “You’ve been adorable your whole life,” I said, pausing to examine a middle school photo, Jonah’s teeth obscured by braces.

  “Let’s move along, nothing to see here,” he said, gently dragging me to the kitchen.

  Theo sat at the island, its counter brown speckled granite that matched the backsplash. The cabinets were a warm, scuffed white. Like the living room, the kitchen was simple and cluttered. The heart of the house, filled with warm, comforting smells and good food. The last of my nervousness fell away, and I went to wrap my arms around Theo from behind and kiss his cheek.

  “Good to see you, Teddy.” He smelled good—a clean, sharp cologne over the softer smell of his soap.

  He tolerated my hug and kiss, and hunched further over his beer bottle.

  Beverly shut the oven door and shot me a knowing smile. “Theodore is named after my husband’s great–grandfather, who went by Teddy. But Theo refuses to answer to it. Right, honey?”

  Theo’s jaw clenched. “Not that anyone fucking listens.”

  “Language,” said a voice at the kitchen door. Mr. Fletcher joined us at the island. He was a tall, slender man, with dark hair graying on the sides. He stuck his hand out to me as if I were a potential business partner. “Henry Fletcher,” he said, giving a firm shake. “A pleasure, young lady.”

  Jonah shot me an amused look, but I nodded politely. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “No sirs here. You can call me Henry or Henry.” He winked. “Whichever you prefer.”

  “Something to drink, dear?” Beverly asked, opening the fridge. “I have beer, soda, wine. I picked up O’Douls for you, Jonah.”

  “I’ll have one of those, too,” I said.

  Beverly handed the green bottles to us. “The night is so lovely, I thought we’d eat in the back yard. Do you mind, Kacey? We can stay indoors if you prefer.” A nervous lilt wove through her words. And her hands never stopped moving. Fussing, arranging, doing.

  “Outdoors is perfect,” I said.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll turn on the lanterns Jonah made his first year at Carnegie. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful in your life.”

  “They really are something,” Henry said.

  “I believe it,” I said. “Jonah’s work is astonishing.”

  Jonah waved his hand. “Enough.”

  “As
tonishing, yes,” Beverly said, her eyes resting on her son.

  “And an ample payoff of the tuition investment,” Henry added.

  “Dad,” Jonah said quietly.

  Theo’s muscled shoulders hunched and he took a slow, deliberate pull from his beer bottle.

  “I’m merely stating a fact,” Henry continued. “The arts isn’t an easy sector to make a living in. One has to direct one’s talents appropriately.”

  “And not squander them working at a tattoo parlor,” Theo said.

  Like a stick wedged into a gear, the levity of the room came to a screeching halt. Henry and Theo exchanged long, hard glances.

  “Who wants to help me set the table?” Beverly asked, her voice taking on a shrill edge. She reached into a cabinet and lifted down a stack of plates.

  “I got it.” Theo took them from her hands and shouldered out the door toward the patio.

  “I’ll help too,” I said, taking napkins and silverware and following.

  Mrs. Fletcher beamed, and the night was rolling again.

  “Wonderful!”

  The outdoor dining table sat beneath a pergola, clusters of glass globes hanging down like elegant fruit. Here we ate lasagna, bread, and a green salad. Solid, homecooked food. The kind of meal my mother made when I was a kid. But dinnertime at my house was a sullen, cold event where I was always talking too loud, even when I wasn’t speaking. My father’s stony, oppressive presence turned the good food to dust in my mouth.

  The Fletchers’ table was full of laughter, nonstop talking and bickering. A bit of silent tension lingered between Theo and Henry, but Beverly defused it with stories of her sons’ youth that had me choking on my bread.

  “I swear,” she said, pouring herself a glass of cabernet. Her third, I noticed. “Lake Tahoe has an enormous beach. Plenty of sand for everyone. Millions of grains, and these two fought over one bucketful.”

  I nudged Jonah on my right. “You fought over sand at the beach?”

  “So speaketh an only child,” Jonah said. “Sand appropriation is critical to four and six year olds.” He glanced at Theo with a sly smile. “So are imaginary butterflies.”

  Theo jabbed his fork in Jonah’s direction. “Don’t even.”

  Jonah ignored him. “Once, Theo got pissed at me because he caught an imaginary butterfly and I let it get away.”

  Theo reached across the table to poke his brother with the fork. “Shut. Up.”

  “I love this story,” Beverly sighed.

  “That makes one of us,” Theo said.

  Jonah brushed off the fork, and rested his elbows on the table, regarding his brother with affection. “Theo cupped his hands over thin air and told me he’d caught a butterfly. I asked to see it, but he was afraid it would fly off.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Last week,” Jonah said.

  “Try twenty years ago, asshole,” Theo muttered.

  “Language, please,” Henry said.

  Jonah’s voice grew low, the teasing ebbing out of it. “Finally he said I could hold it. He put his hands in mine, all the while describing the butterfly’s wings—bright blue, rimmed in black. How it opened and closed them, as if it were breathing. He even told me how its legs looked like black hairs against my skin. Remember, Theo?”

  I glanced at the tough, built, tattooed man sitting across from me, glaring daggers at his brother. Yet I could easily see the sweet little boy he’d been, describing this nonexistent but precious butterfly.

  “But I wasn’t careful enough,” Jonah said. “I opened my hands too much and Theo said the butterfly flew away. He cried and cried.”

  “Are you fucking done?” Theo said.

  “Language,” Henry murmured.

  All the teasing was gone from Jonah’s face now. “I never apologized for letting it go,” he said. “I tried to give him another one—a monarch in orange and black, but it was the blue butterfly he wanted. And it was gone forever. I’m sorry about that, bro.”

  Theo sat back in his chair. “Are you serious?”

  Jonah shrugged. “Just clearing the air.”

  The brothers stared silently. A silence full of love despite Theo’s hard tone. Full of that one memory and thousands like it.

  “So,” Beverly clapped her hands together. “Who has good news?” She turned to me. “I believe everyone has good news from the previous week, even if only a little.”

  “Jonah has amazing news.” I put my hand over his and gave it a squeeze. “Right?”

  His mother leaned in. “What’s that, dear?”

  Jonah toyed with his fork, his gaze flickering to Theo and then down to his plate. “So, Eme Takamura—the gallery curator? She says Dale Chihuly is going to try to attend the opening for my installation.”

  Beverly’s hand flew to her throat. “Really? Honey, that’s wonderful news.”

  “Remarkable,” Henry said. “Well done, son.”

  Jonah sat back in his chair. “Well, hold on, he hasn’t said he’s going to be there. Only that he’d try.”

  “Still, the fact he’d even consider it,” Henry said. “It means he’s taken note of your work.”

  “I guess,” Jonah said.

  “It’s fucking awesome,” Theo said. “He’d better show up. Be an idiot not to.”

  For once his language went un-admonished. Another loaded look passed between the brothers and I found myself smiling, as if I’d become a translator of their unspoken exchanges.

  “Theo has good news,” Jonah said. “One of his clients is going to be photographed for Inked magazine. He’ll be credited on one of the designs.”

  The barest smile flickered over Theo’s lips.

  “That’s wonderful,” Beverly said.

  “Body pollution, is what it is,” Henry said.

  Jonah set his empty bottle down hard. “Jesus, Dad.”

  I leaned back in my chair, fighting the urge to cover the tattoos on my bare arms.

  “What?” Henry said. “No one is a bigger fan of my sons’ talents. Theo is an exceptional artist, but it boggles my mind to think of spending one’s life drawing on other people.”

  “Because it’s art,” Theo said. “It’s permanent art people carry with them. And when I get my own place, I’ll be a legit business owner.”

  “You’ll be taking a risk,” Henry replied.

  “Can we not do this right now?” Jonah said.

  As the Fletcher men glowered at each other, I thought Henry was nowhere near as intimidating as my father, but his disapproval of Theo left the same bad taste in my mouth.

  “Not every guy who can draw can be a tattoo artist,” I said in the silence. “It’s a special skill, being able to take a person’s vision and turn it into a reality. And you’re absolutely right it’s a risk. The artist has to ink it perfect the first time, because there’s no second time. Jonah can recycle the glass and start over. Theo gets one shot. No do-overs.”

  I felt all eyes on me but I only looked at Theo, who stared back in that way he had, like he couldn’t believe I was real.

  “Obviously I’m biased,” I said, running a hand along my arm. “But I don’t see it as body pollution. It’s expression. Every one of my tattoos means something. And getting the tattoo is as much a part of it as having one. Because of the trust and collaboration with the artist.” The silence deepened. I shrugged and took a sip from my fake beer. “Just my two cents.”

  Henry shifted in his seat. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  Everyone seemed to exhale at once. Jonah’s hand found mine under the table and he gave it a squeeze.

  Beverly stood up, gathering plates. “Who wants dessert?”

  It was nearly eleven when we said our goodbyes. Beverly pulled me in for a long hug. “I’m so happy to have met you. Come back next Sunday. Every Sunday. Can you?”

  I nodded, melting in her embrace. “I’d like that.”

  She released me, and turned to Jonah. “I’ll see you next week, honey
?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  He kissed her cheek and she patted his. She held still then, her gaze unapologetically memorizing every detail of his face.

  I looked away, my eyes stinging. I felt a shift in my soul as I was exposed to this moment between a mother and her son. For the whole drive home to my place, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Words wouldn’t capture it. They might even ruin it…

  “What you said to Theo was amazing,” Jonah said.

  “It was the truth.”

  “But it was new. Dad is so hard on T and he’s grown deaf to hearing me defend him all the time. He needed a fresh perspective.”

  “I was worried I’d crossed a line.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I heard faint echoes of my dad in your dad. Don’t get me wrong, yours is nothing like mine. It’s just I know how Theo feels.”

  “Never good enough.”

  “To say the least. Does he really want to open his own shop?”

  “He does, but unless he gets a big chunk of cash for a down payment, he needs a co-signer on a loan. That’s a huge point of contention between him and Dad. My parents had to take out a second mortgage to help cover my hospital bills because my insurance only went so far.”

  “Oh.”

  “Theo would never complain about that, of course. It’s just our parents have always been one hundred percent supportive of me, and less so with him. The balance is horribly skewed.”

  Jonah pulled into the lot of my apartment and parked.

  “It must be so hard for him,” I said.

  Jonah brushed his knuckles over my cheek. “I think you won him over a little tonight. And my parents loved you. I knew they would.”

  “It was a good night,” I said. I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed into his lap, straddling him. “Let’s end it with a bang. “

  “Literally or figuratively?” Jonah murmured, his hands sliding up my thighs as our mouths met.

  “Both.” Our kisses quickly became more heated, even as a passing car lit up the interior of the truck and the steering wheel dug into my lower back.

  “This isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies,” Jonah said, breathing hard. “Change of venue?”