by J. L. Brooks
As I went to wipe my tears, her hand went out to stop me.
“Oh honey, don’t wipe them away. I want to have a little fun with my son.”
I giggled at her sharp wit and immediately went along with whatever she had planned. Walking back into the kitchen with a stern face, she was shaking her head at Grant and walked to the stove so he could not see her nearly burst with laughter. His eyes grew wide, believing the worst. He was obviously unsure of what to do; his mother could see his panic and rolled a towel, then snapped it at his rear, causing an uproar between all of us ladies.
In two quick strides he had me backed against the counter, pinning me against the edge with his hips.
As he growled into my mouth, the other women made catcalls at Grant’s open display of dominance. When he dropped his head into my neck, I felt him chuckling low.
“You are going to pay for that, Lila.”
Bringing my mouth to his ear, I whispered low enough so as no one could hear but him.
“I am going to hold you to that.”
Another growl barreled through his chest as he backed away and began to lead me through the house and up the stairs. As we entered a dark hallway, Grant slammed my back into the wall with a kiss.
“Grant, we’re at your parents’ house!” I squealed.
“And your point is?” he taunted back.
I knew better than to argue, because he warned me he would push me. When I relaxed into his arms, he stepped back and smiled.
“Good girl.”
I shook my head as we walked to the end of the hall and he knocked on a door. Realizing we were most likely at his father’s bedroom, my smiled dropped and I prepared for whatever was behind the door. Grant opened it slowly and approached the bed, yet I waited at the door. When he turned around to call me in, I resisted and looked directly at the man in the bed.
“May I come in sir?” I asked quietly.
His father turned to Grant and smiled, reaching his hand out and inviting me in. I refused to meet Grant’s eyes as they questioned my actions.
While looking me over, his father praised, “Krasivyy.”
I did not respond to his compliment, as my eyes were focused on the navy-hued tattoo on his chest of a crucifix with a crown that peeked through the button-up shirt. Noticing my preoccupation, he asked me to sit and then dismissed Grant.
“Leave us for a moment, son. I need to speak to her alone.”
Reluctantly Grant left us without an argument, but I could see he was not happy about it. His father turned to me with bright eyes and simply said, “Hello.”
He too had a broad accent and spoke English only for my benefit. He was surrounded by light tan medicine bottles and oxygen tanks; his days were numbered and the family wanted him as comfortable as possible. On the way over, Grant explained that his father had a very aggressive cancer and was refusing any treatments other than what could ease the pain. With a frail hand, he reached across his chest and opened his shirt.
“Do you know what this means?” he asked.
Nodding my head, my answer was meek. “You are a krestnii otets. A godfather.”
Sucking in a deep breath, his lips popped before replying. “How does that make you feel?”
The gravity of the situation changed remarkably as he confirmed what the symbol meant. Grant’s father was a pakhan, which most likely meant Grant was in the family business, too. Russian Mafia.
Looking at the ceiling, I closed my eyes and cursed God. I knew better than to believe that I would end up with something good and pure. This revelation was one more stop in a long line of bad situations. My lips were numb, unable to speak the words that barely formed in my consciousness.
“Ispugannyy,” I whispered. Of course, I was fucking afraid.
With his other hand he reached out for mine. Trembling I placed it in his grasp as he pulled it to his chest and pressed down.
“My name is Viktor. Do not ever be afraid in this home or when you are with my son. Understand?”
I nodded and went to slide my hand away, yet his grip was firm.
In his native tongue, he began to question how I was able to understand. “You speak Russian? Why?”
My reasoning was embarrassing, but I knew he would see through any lies I used to try to cover it up. Knowing what kind of man he was, Grant’s directness and bouts of aggression made sense.
“When I was in graduate school, I took a class on International Economics. It was there I learned about the origins of organized crime. I became fascinated by the Bratva and ended up learning the language so I could better understand articles. During that time, I also dated a fellow classmate who was from Moscow and tried to convince me to teach English once I finished school, yet it never came to be.”
“And why is that?” he queried further.
Feeling suddenly ashamed of why I chose not to pursue that path, I bowed my head before responding. “Because I began writing to pay for school and it took me another direction.”
Several moments passed before his hand squeezed mine again. As I raised my eyes, his face was lit up with a smile.
“Adaptability is a trait of a survivor. I also hear you are quite talented. It warms my heart to have met you before meeting my maker. My son has chosen well.”
Once again, my eyes burned hot and the tears flowed freely. The consequences of accepting a life with Grant was so much more than I would have ever anticipated. Although it broke etiquette, I wrapped my arms around the old man and rested gently across his chest. Feeling his hands wrap around my ribs, I waited until he released me before sitting back again.
His hand felt for a remote, pushing a call button that Grant answered. Instantly he walked in and focused on my tear-streaked face, yet he was unsure to know if this was truly a reason to be concerned or another prank. As his father directed him to sit down, honest fear raced through my veins at how he would take my exposure to the truth.
Looking at his son intensely, he too was watching for how Grant would react. I could feel the tension in the room becoming claustrophobic, ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. Inhaling a ragged breath, Viktor turned to him and smiled.
“I think I want to keep her; you don’t get her back.”
Like a vacuum, the weight in the room lifted and both of the men laughed heartily. I walked over to Grant and sat on his lap, curling into his arms and breathing a sigh of relief. When he noticed his father’s shirt was open and the tattoo exposed, his muscles stiffened around me. Although I was unable to see his face, I watched Viktor’s become serene. The dynamic between the two men was electric as they silently battled wits. Knowing that he didn’t have to speak English anymore, he was much more comfortable in my presence. However, being unaware of my abilities, Grant tried to stop him so I would not feel left out.
Viktor laughed so loud he began to cough. “Son, you have underestimated this one. You are in so much trouble!”
When he grabbed my chin to look into his eyes, I smiled as innocently as I possibly could. He wasn’t buying it for a moment, and I watched as the corners of his mouth curled into a grin. Repeating the word in my head to ensure my enunciation was perfect, I looked to Viktor and winked before I allowed it to roll off my tongue. “Syurpriz.”
3 months later
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I know how much this means to you.”
Even though I would be on a flight out of La Guardia in the morning, I could hear the disappointment in Grant’s voice at missing my first public appearance since releasing In the Groove. A line wrapped around the bookstore, despite the low temperatures so common to a New York winter. With Christmas mere days away, the city was a buzz with holiday cheer. As soon as I arrived, I insisted that Melanie and I take a trip to Rockefeller Plaza so I could ice skate and take a picture in front of the tree. First stopping at my favorite Jamaican restaurant in Queens, I convinced the owner to ship me a bottle of jerked chicken sauce three times a year, paying in advance for the troubles.
Twisting the diamond and ruby ring around my finger, I smiled contently at the family heirloom Viktor gave to me as an early present.
“It’s okay, honey, I understand. I will be home before you know it. No worries. I will call you before I go to bed tonight.”
Holding my breath, I looked across the railing to the growing crowd below me and waited for Grant to say the words that never failed to send my heart racing. “I love you, Lila.”
Closing my eyes, I smiled to myself and wrapped my arms across my chest, squeezing tightly, imagining it was him. “I love you, too. See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
[Click]
The call ended and I slid the phone into my pocket and nodded my head to allow the crowd into the seated area. Perched on the edge of a massive wooden table, I swung my legs back and forth nervously as the rows filled with chattering fans that pointed and snapped photos, each holding a fresh copy of the book. Melanie took charge of the event and quieted the room, allowing me to introduce myself and start the reading. Holding the first sheet in my hand, I looked out once more through the glass windows to the falling snow.
Although it was widely known the story was based off of real events, my reluctance to even write it was not. This was so much more than a work of fiction. This was my life told through the voices of imaginary people. Reality and fantasy colliding in ink, the tale would live on forever. When I coughed slightly, the room fell silent, attentive to every word.
“Few were scattered about the abandoned warehouse when the last record played. The floor was sticky and coated with flyers as we sat around drinking orange juice and eating breakfast sandwiches from the local drive thru. In the morning, everything looked different. The magic was gone, and it was time to go home. My memories are different than most. When I think back upon the scene, I do not see stars. There is only a fragment of space in which we ruled the night and held on for as long as the ride would allow. Some of us made it, and many fell behind.
Locked away in my closet was a small shoebox full of laminates and glow sticks, photos and flyers—all poor remnants of an era that transcended understanding, yet nearly twenty years later, the passion continued to run deep.
The styles and faces may change, yet the underground does not. It will always continue to operate outside of the mainstream. There will be those that understand it and nurture creativity, pushing art to the limits, as well as those who merely see it as entertainment or a passing trend. It has a way of forming bonds thicker than blood—ones that will last a lifetime. An empire composed of dreams and grit . . . we carved our own paths. A safe haven, a home, it was always more than just the music, dancing or graffiti. When you can battle just as effectively with a microphone as with your fist, civil society should take notes. Where you come from is not nearly as important as where you are going, and in my world the underdog stands a chance at being somebody. This is what I remember and what I will take with me to the grave.
And then there was Hayden, my partner in crime and first true love. I would have followed him to the ends of the universe, yet that was not our destiny. His dreams were bigger than the plans we made, and little did I know that I had my own road to travel. Our morning came, and it was time to move on. Tucked away in the same little shoebox was a picture of us, before the hurt and disappointment, broken dreams and broken hearts. As an old woman, I will not look back on my life and think of what I had lost, but what I had gained and the good fortune that shined upon me to bear witness to history being made.
When the lights came on and the party was over, my day was just beginning. I got to bring the DJ home and wait for it to happen all over again. Freshly showered and snuggled between the sheets, he was not a celebrity I placed on a pedestal, but a man on the brink of greatness. Ascension does not come easily, for if it did, we would all know the cost of soaring above the clouds. Look at the birds of the air, for there are few. Flight requires leaving the ground, taking the chance that when you step off of the edge, the wind will carry you. Fame is no different than flight, and in order to fly, he had to let go.
It is hard to fathom how that changes people, yet it does. Their reward is horizons we will never see, new lands and exotic strangers. Adventure awakens the senses, creating a hunger unlike any other. I tried not to allow my bitterness of his departure dictate my journey; however, it was impossible to deny it wouldn’t alter the course I would take to my place in the heavens. I watched as others grew resentful when my own gift flourished and witnessed firsthand the measures others will take to gain from your light. Looking back, I could feel the conflict of leaving what was familiar for what was possible, consciously weighing out which regret to carry.
Innovation requires a great deal of risk and accepting that failure may be the outcome. I was raised with chance in my veins and the Flats at my feet. Slinging drugs and buying wax did not make us stupid; it made us street prodigies. We knew what people wanted and catered to the masses. When those are the cards you are handed in life, you play them the best that you can. I left the game when Hayden left me. Believing I couldn’t keep up without him, I faded into the crowd.
However, it was only a matter of time before the siren’s call lured me back, promising to once again propel me up to where I belonged. I did not need Hayden to fulfill my role, because I wasn’t returning to the game; I was coming home.”
Reading the last paragraph, I looked up to gauge the faces of those who came to listen. The room roared with applause, causing me to choke back a sob. With no time to waste, the hands began to rise for the Q&A. Immediately, the questions pried about my relationship with Hunter and if Hayden was based off of him. My response was the same. “It is true. I cannot deny it, because the Internet would prove me a liar. Mr. Michaels and I are childhood friends. However, this is a work of fiction, not a memoir.”
Realizing that the topic would not be explored any further, the inquiries moved on to questions related to the book and future projects. Over an hour passed before the line formed to have copies of the book signed. It never failed to amaze me how patient readers were willing to be just for a few moments of my time. I hardly considered myself anyone worth wanting to meet, yet greeted each fan warmly, thanking them for coming.
My hand started cramping by the time the last few individuals stepped in front of the table. With sore cheeks and a tight neck, I battled through to the very end. Laughing while the bookstore was taking down the banners, I was packing up my satchel when Melanie tapped on my shoulder.
“Um, boss, there’s one more,” she said coyly.
Turning around, my grip on the bag was lost, and I spilled the contents to the ground. Sitting in the back row was Hunter, wearing a black wool military jacket and holding a bouquet of roses with a small red box tied with a white bow. Standing up and walking towards us slowly, he nodded to Melanie before handing me the flowers. In his hands was also a book, which he set on the table so he could help pick up the papers and markers that cluttered around my feet. Unable to move, I felt my body tremble in fear.
Noticing my discomfort, Melanie picked up the book and a marker, placing it in front of me.
“Miss Keaton, we must hurry or you will be late for dinner. I don’t mean to rush you, but they are waiting on us.”
Turning to Hunter, she offered an apology while pulling on her coat and bringing mine over. Still holding the book, I looked up gratefully and asked her to wait a few moments. Warily she offered to stay, but I shook my head to assure her I would be okay. Watching as she descended the staircase, a group of fans pointed at Hunter excitedly while snapping more photos. Overhearing t
hem, Melanie grew tense and encouraged them to respect our privacy.
“What are you doing here?” I asked quietly.
“I had something to give you. I wasn’t sure if I would have the chance again.”
Furiously, I glared at the box and flowers before ripping open the front cover of the book. I scribbled my name across the first page and shot it across the table into his hands.
“I don’t want anything from you,” I sneered through clenched teeth. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to show up here. Perhaps he felt as though my arrival in Colorado violated the same principals and it was revenge.
“Lila, please,” he pleaded.
A small pang tightened in my chest yet quickly passed. Meeting Grant had strengthened my resolve and shown me how sweet life could be. Almost as if this was a test of will, Hunter no longer had the pull over me he once did. Feeling the venom dissipate, I stood and pulled my coat on.
“There’s nothing left to say. If there was, you wouldn’t have waited so long to tell me.”
As he clenched his jaw, I watched his eyes redden and well up. Shaking as he held the box, he waited for me to take it. For as furious as he made me, the desolation in his eyes was heart wrenching.
“Please, Lila. Just take this. I will never bother you again.”
Timidly, I took the small box from his grasp and watched as he turned and bolted out of the store.
Melanie rushed up immediately, wide-eyed and panicked. “What was that about?”
Unsure of how to respond, I shrugged and tucked the box in my satchel and grabbed the flowers. After thanking the store managers, I stepped into the town car and asked to be taken to my hotel. I was no longer hungry and wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of New York. Calling Grant immediately, I began to scream into the phone while trying to explain what had just happened.
“Calm down, baby, it’s okay. What did he give you that was so important?”
Ripping the box from my bag, I yanked the white ribbon off and lifted the top layer of tissue paper away. Unable to see the items in the dark car, I turned on the dome light. Holding the phone in the crook of my neck, I opened the card sitting on top of a smaller package. Inside the cream colored paper was scrawled a simple message:
