by S. E. Hall
“Rhett?” I call.
“Teaspoon?” he calls back in sarcastic mockery.
“What’re you doing?”
“Chanting the Serenity Prayer in my head repeatedly. You?”
I don’t stop my giggle. Recalling the words of such prayer, I ask, “What things can’t you change?”
“That you’re magnetizing, angelic, and absolutely gorgeous. And the fact I’m a moody, selfish bastard and you live across the country.”
Candid, honest... and the most titillating words ever spoken to me. I should jump up and go to him, have one tawdry night of all that I’m not, never have been and more than likely never will be again. I should leave with the memories of the one time he’ll give me, armed with the creed “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” But what I opt to do, predictably, is stay frozen, cowardly tucked in his fragrant bedding, and ask more about the applicability of the Serenity Prayer. “You seem courageous. What things can you change?”
“Nothing I just listed.”
“You sure about that?” I’m already up, propelled by a baser instinct I didn’t know I possessed. I saunter to him, scared and unsure but tempted beyond reason. I’m burning from the inside out at the possibilities of what might happen when I get there.
“What’re you doing?” he grouses, damn near wails, scrubbing both hands over his face when he spots me standing over him. “Reece, even God took a day off, and I’m hanging on by a string of dental floss here. I’m an asshole. I fuck random women and never look back. I know it, you know it.” He sits up and takes both my hands, looking into my face with solemn anguish covering his own. “I will not treat you so callously. Everything about you screams unequivocally that you deserve better. Better than me.”
“You seriously meant it.” My flattered shock is audible. “You don’t want to just sleep with me. But how is that possible? We hardly know each other.”
“Not true and you know it. Have you told me more about yourself than anyone else in a long time, if ever?”
“Yes, no contest.”
“That revelation you just had? Multiply it by ten and you’ll be where I am. I barely know their first names, let alone their middle, last, and birthday. I’ve never even wanted to know their minds, souls, little tics. But we know each other, no matter how much you downplay it. So please, I’m begging you, go to bed, lock the door, and do not come out in that outfit in the morning.”
Amid my slight embarrassment of being denied, far greater is my astonishment and respect. I turn to go… but not before catching him off guard with a surprise hug and kiss on the cheek that I was still hoping he’d turn his face into, but didn’t. “Thank you again.”
“Tea,” his grunted plea is strained, “go. And you’re welcome again.”
Shuffling down the hall, disoriented but still tingling, I almost turn back to tell him how wrong he is. I’m far from angelic; I’m a farce, a liar by omission, the prototype of what probably built up his walls in the first place. It’s good he didn’t succumb to my pathetic, wanton invitation. It’ll be all the easier to retreat from this enticing town of what ifs as the unrewarded imposter I am.
I just pray Landry keeps her mouth shut long enough for me to quietly disappear.
The next morning, I wake from a vivid dream of her. Dreams—when the mind is left to its own accord to do major damage, freely straying—to things such as the fresh scent of her hair as crisp as if draped in my face, her sweet whimpers of pleasure ringing in my ears, and the beautiful vision of her curled in a miniature ball in my sheets. I was imagining her soft sighs against my pillow, her little toes digging in under the covers, until the smell of… food, an oddity, must’ve woken me. Oh, that’s right—somebody owes me French toast. I can’t get dressed and into the kitchen fast enough.
I expect to come around the corner and find her cute little ass twirling around, plating up the breakfast I’ve been looking forward to since she promised it.
Instead I find a note on the counter:
Rhett,
Thank you again for giving me a place to stay last night. I was able to navigate your kitchen without waking you. There’s a plate of French toast in the oven, should still be warm. I hope you like it.
And yes, I turned it off so your place didn’t burn down.
I made the bed. The clothes you let me borrow are folded and on top of it.
Thank you for everything. This weekend, while interesting, was also perhaps the best one I’ve ever had. I’m going to blame my embarrassing lapse in judgment last night on you… for being so enlivening. I hope you stop with the acting and pick up some drumsticks!
Take care,
Reece
Okay, one thought at a time.
I can’t believe she was in here, digging around and clanging pans, and I didn’t wake up. I was asleep in the next room, didn’t even take anything… first good night’s rest I’ve had in forever, of course. I mean, why wouldn’t it have been last night?
I bet those clothes smell twice as heavenly as the food, but walking in there to sniff them would tell me so much more about myself than I’m ready to acknowledge.
Also, where the fuck is she and how’d she get there? Breakfast and scenting her aside, I rush to find my phone. I just want to make sure she made it safely to Jarrett’s; she doesn’t know this town or even his address.
I notice the red 1 next to my email icon, but I ignore it for the time being.
Me: Reece at your place?
Jarrett: Nope. Landry took her to the airport about an hour ago. Why, w’sup?
Airport, gone.
And then there’s that.
Me: Just checking.
This morning’s shaping up to be real damn shitty real damn quick. I might as well ice the cake. My finger hovers over the email icon, dark anger constricting my chest before I’ve even read it. Only one person sends correspondence to this account, so I take a few deep breaths, send up a silent prayer that this is the time, and open it.
Mr. Foster,
Hope this finds you well. Our team found your song “Timeless” to be exactly what we’re looking for, and we’re ready to proceed immediately with buying the rights to the work.
I’ll have a contract couriered over by close of business Tuesday, the same legal and payment terms as our last transaction, but of course, feel free to read over it carefully. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.
As always, Mr. Foster, the entire Crescendo family appreciates your talent and would like to thank you for allowing us the opportunity to be a part of it.
Sincerely,
Preston Waterman, CFO
Crescendo Records
Same monotonous load of bullshit in every email. I don’t even know him, let alone everyone at the label, so I seriously doubt they requested their thanks be conveyed. And be a part of what exactly? There’s no “part” left for me—the song is theirs now. I’m just meaninglessly richer and on my own.
This makes the third piece I’ve written and sold to them. I have no idea how they found me and don’t care. I’m not allowed to know, or even ask, which artist will record it or when. Don’t give a fuck about that either really, except how the denial of even basic knowledge reiterates my insignificance.
I don’t need the money. I sold the first one in hopes they’d see my potential and want me along with my songs. That’s what I was hoping would be different about today’s message too. But it wasn’t, and deep down, I’ve known all along it never will be. Some boy band composed of ex-Mouseketeers whose balls haven’t dropped yet are going to strike it rich off my work, and sniff it up their noses or sue their parents for it. Songs written for See You Next Tuesday—the three childhood friends who I’d have sworn could never be parted: Liz singing like an angel, Jarrett ripping chords that gave verve to my thoughts, and me banging the drums—will now be the background noise to choreographed routines geared toward the hormones of thirteen-year-old girls worldwide.
They can f
ucking have ‘em. The songs are nothing more than painful reminders now.
Me: Heading to the gym.
I go get ready while I wait for Jarrett to respond; the plate in the oven and clothes on the bed both remain untouched. I can almost taste the cinnamon-sprinkled, syrupy goodness, and damn if I wasn’t looking forward to it, but a man gives you his bed and keeps his promise—not laying you wide open and eating you like his last requested meal on death row, especially when you press your sublime little body against him, pert nipples poking his bare chest while your soft lips rest on his cheek—and you can’t even say good-bye in person? I’d rather fucking starve.
The gym will help me work off some aggravation. One thing I refuse to let happen, no matter how entrenched I become in my own internal demise, is for my outsides to remotely resemble my lackluster insides. So I splash my face with cold water and brush my teeth then throw on some work-out clothes. I grab my keys and phone to head out the door when a text chimes.
Jarrett: Be there in 30.
“Rhett,” Tracie croons when I walk in the gym about fifteen minutes later and approach the counter to swipe my membership card. “How’re you today, handsome?”
Tracie’s hot and a superb lay, but she’s not worth breaking the rules. Flashbacks—some with my dick in my hand, some not—will have to tide us both over. Said memories aren’t hard to conjure up when she leans over the counter like that, double D cleavage that I’ve enjoyed up close and thoroughly begging to pop out for a rematch with my tongue.
“Any better and I’d be somebody else,” I reply, veering my eyes away from the twins of temptation.
I should probably ask the same polite formality of her, bluffing the most basic of manners found in anyone capable of using a fork instead of their fingers to eat, but instead I keep walking straight for the dead lift. It’s always my first choice, working every part of my body at once, thus releasing the most aggression with one exertion. Shockingly, I have more than my usual abundance of it to work off today. The email from the record label pissed me off as usual, but I can’t lie to myself—Reece’s vanishing act is what really has me tied up in irate knots.
The one time I keep it in my fucking pants and I’m snuck out on?
I’m gonna feel this workout tomorrow, careless with my warm-up, or lack thereof, and not fully extending and resting on my reps. I’m really just a frenzied shit-show of needed release.
Oh fuck me. “Dark Horse” blares overhead. Surely they know other songs do, indeed, exist.
“Hey, sunshine,” a jeer comes from my left.
I don’t need to look to give my brother a grunt in response.
“I’d say you need to get some, but we both know that’s not the problem. So what gives, man? Why the hell are you so damn miserable? I mean, more than usual?”
“Not,” I clip on an exhale, no break in my sporadic rhythm.
“Are,” he counters adamantly. “You’re a shit liar, always have been. So either you didn’t tap it last night, you did and regret it, or you’re mad she left before you could leave her first. Which is it?”
“You’re wrong on all counts, not that I’d tell you if you weren’t, and don’t fucking talk about her like that. Thought I’d already given you plenty of warnings about that shit?”
“Which brings me to my next question. Why have you given me plenty of warnings? You’ve jumped my ass about the way I talk to her, about her, way too many times for just meeting her. What is it with this girl?”
I glare at him, silently warning him to drop it now, but he doesn’t take the hint, testing me with a defiant grin. “She’s gone now and you’re the only one still talking about it. Don’t make a big deal about something that isn’t.”
“It isn’t?”
“Fuck no. Jesus Jarrett, you need to go have your testosterone levels checked.”
“Okay.” He backs up, hands out in surrender. “So is this about the band then? ‘Cause I was thinking I might be ready to give it another go.”
“What band?” I set the bar down and grab my towel to wipe my face and neck. “Only two members are left standing, and I really don’t see us pulling off a Sonny and Cher thing, so I’ll ask you again. What band?”
“We could find new members.”
“Then why haven’t we already done that?” I raise a sardonic brow, calling him out. He and I both know damn good and well he wouldn’t even entertain this idea if Vanessa hadn’t cheated on him. The fact my dreams are again his consolation concern and distraction pisses me off more than just a little.
Jarrett ducks his head and shifts in place, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. “What do you want me to say? Yeah, I’m crawling back. And no, I didn’t care about the band when I had her. But at least I took a chance, put my all into what I hoped was the real thing.”
He’s right, and I truly wish like hell it would’ve been. I want nothing but happiness for my brother. I’m proud as hell of his optimism, zest for life, and ability to bounce back as open-minded and hearted as ever.
“It’s alright, really.” I walk over to the bench press, and he follows, ready to spot me and helping load his end with weights. Which he can stop doing anytime. “Jarrett, one-fifty’s good, man. You trying to kill me?”
“Sorry.” He laughs, pulling one of the discs back off. “But seriously, let’s do a few local gigs a week and see what happens. I’m worried about you.”
“Couple problems with that plan.” I lift, my voice strained with exertion. “I already do a couple gigs a week. Nothing happens other than the songs get bought. By the way, I sold ‘Timeless.’ I’ll wire your cut as soon as they pay me. Anyway, doing gigs more often or at different places, it’d just be more half-ass, pass-the-time bullshit, and you know it. I’d rather give it our all”—I lift back down and up—“or just keep doing what I’m doing now. A one-man set has a chance at pulling off urban eccentricity. Two-man duo? Just looks like the band forgot to show up.” I do ten consecutive reps before saying any more. “Done.” I guide the bar to its bracket with his help and sit up. “Any decent musician we’d want to sign on should feel the same way. Go big, go home, or go broke.”
“Let’s do it then. Audition people and hit the road, balls out!”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I’ll think about it.” I gather my gear, waving over my head on my way out. “Later.”
I don’t move the car, sitting in the parking lot with my forehead resting pathetically against the steering wheel. I thought this Rhett died, the “deep thinker,” the “old soul” who felt things and paid them prose to melody. But in one weekend, Reece awoke hibernating parts of me, didn’t want me, and didn’t even say good-bye. Liz got loved and Jarrett got screwed over. Now he’s talking about the band again, but some of my best songs are already sold. This version of myself I was sure was so well buried is clawing his way up and out of the grave—I need a shovel to ensconce the pansy-ass motherfucker down a little deeper this time.
I’ve got “In the Air Tonight” blaring, but even it can’t drown out his voice.
“Your son is ‘creating’ again, Margaret. Too flowery to be any son of mine. This is your doing, coddling him when he should’ve been taught how to be a man.”
Fuck you, Dad… any day, night, or second I choose, I can have my choice of pussy. Not rank, honky-tonk bottom-shelf-whiskey or stuffy, saving-herself-for-marriage debutante shit either. No, I have my pick of the perfectly manicured and prime, the mistresses of men who could buy any woman they wanted. The grade-A likes of which you’ve never even had a sniff, and it doesn’t cost me a damn thing—not even sweet talking, let alone a five-star dinner and “getaway weekends.”
Yeah, Pops, I’ve got your “man” hanging.
Hell yes, this is more like it—anger with a vengeance. I start the car I love, zero to sixty in under six seconds, three hundred horses powering the good vibrations humming through my body, and drive to the Goldsbury—my buffet.
Less than five determined, predatory steps insi
de, and it’s game time.
“Wanna play?” A hand snakes around my arm, the fingers and their talons searing their claim into my skin. They belong to none other than what I’m almost positive is “Jenny,” a frequent “guest” of Mr. Rotti, the highest roller of them all. CEO of Rotti Industries, a diversified conglomerate buying up every electronics company possible, the man donates some serious coin to Goldsbury at least once a month. He’s married with children older than Jenny; same song and dance as all the others.
“Sweetie, I just finished working out. Don’t have it in me.” Lie. I could bust out my fly with one stiff breeze.
I haven’t fucked anyone in… I don’t know in how long exactly, but it’s been more than a day—too long. But oddly, and quite disturbingly, now that an offer is right in front of me, I’m not feeling it. That usually happens during, when they say something that’s a total turn-off, or after, when they whine or get clingy and send my regret ratcheting. But never before. And isn’t this exactly what I came here for? Easy, willing ass?
“Thank you though, gorgeous.” I smile, letting her down gently, and pat her hand as I peel it from me. Picking up my pace to the exit, the bitter vengefulness I ambled in with loses steam.
Again, I sit in my car, staring out the windshield but seeing nothing. I have no idea why I just shot that girl down, highly flammable and a fire I’ve refused to hose down far too many times, but shoot her down I did. It’s undeniable—somehow I’ve wandered into a weird headspace I don’t like, a commotion of mystified confusion. Your mind is the trickiest, most deceitful bastard of any nemesis you have. If you don’t stay in control of that relationship every single second, it’ll drift in a direction of its own choosing and turn on you the first chance it gets.
I know when, and why, it happened. All that’s left is figuring out the “how to fix.” And there’s only one way to accomplish that. Enough pussy-footin’ around.
