by Jean Haus
“Yet you want to move out,” I add, truly trying to understand the connection to his father.
“Most of the time I can’t stand the mean, old bastard, and he can’t stand me, but more than that, I have to get out the cycle. When I’m there, I’m too close to my fifteen-year-old self. But for the six weeks during the tour, the first time I was gone for more than a few nights here and there, I felt like a different person. Calmer and freer somehow. Perhaps from the never ending worry of what’s going to happen next. So I’m hoping moving out will bring that sense of calmness and freedom back.”
Surprised at his awareness of the cycle he’s caught in, I stare at him in contemplation until I blurt my next thought out. “Will you go back to visit him?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know…” He looks at the parking lot. “Damn, why am I telling you this shit? Some of it I don’t even tell my shrink. It’s like you ask, and my mouth spouts shit. Are you Jedi shrinking me for practice?”
A loud laugh bursts from me.
He cocks an eyebrow.
I reign in my iconic chuckle. “I’m not shrinking you. But it’s kind of the same for me.”
His eyebrow remains up.
I straighten my collar, feeling a bit anxious being so honest. “I can’t keep up my pleasantly polite, even keeled front around you. I’m either angry and blurt stuff out or curious and blurt stuff out or strangely honest and blurt out the truth.” Sighing at my own lack of control, I reach for another fry.
“Pleasantly polite?”
“Nice ring to it, eh?” I pop the fry in my mouth.
He lets out a grunt. “More like boringly stuck up.”
I throw the next fry at him. He flicks it away before it beams him in the eye. “That’s not true.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes, prying the lid from his coffee. “But I recall hearing that you bitched out Riley once. So you’re not always Ms. Pleasantly Polite.”
“That was pre-meditated. She was hurting Romeo with her indecisiveness.”
“And you needed to be the one to set her straight?”
My look at him is sharp. “I didn’t like seeing him hurting.”
His gaze over a gulp of coffee is wry.
“I wanted her to get back with him. Romeo and I are just friends. Very good friends.”
“You dated.”
“So what?”
“People are going to assume.”
“Don’t care. I don’t have many friends like him, so people can think whatever they want.”
“You know, you’re like a walking dichotomy.”
My brows rise.
“You want people to think you’re perfect, yet you don’t care what they think.”
Suppose it seems that way. I take a sip of water, collecting my thoughts. “I don’t care. I keep up the perfect image for me.”
“Why?”
“So… so I keep going.”
His fingers drum a slow steady beat on the rough wood of the bench as he leans back, studying me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then slightly shakes his head and sits up. “I’ve spilled my guts. Tell me about your parents.”
I don’t like talking about myself. Maybe because I tend to hide too much, but after him sharing so much, it seems more than discourteous to brush the question away. Instead, I push the fries away.
“They’re not very exciting. My mom lives in northern Ohio with my stepdad. My dad lives in California.” I was born in Malibu, but when I was two, my mother took a job in Ohio, hoping my father would beg her to stay and propose. “My parents never married—”
“You’re a bastard,” he says in a shocked, high-pitched tone and clutches his chest.
“Takes one to know one,” I say in a sassy tone.
“You’re right,” he says with an uncharacteristic wink. “Guess it’s something we have in common.”
“Are we supposed to be ashamed or something? What is this? The fifties?”
“No.” He laughs. “But I’d guess people who grow up with dysfunction, though I suppose some kids with unmarried parents are fine, recognize it better than others.”
I slowly nod, realizing that not only is he probably right, but he is also very intuitive. Though the dysfunction of my father living on the west coast and dealing with my moody stepfather are not even comparable to what he has dealt with.
He picks his coffee back up. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”
“Okay, Nietzsche.”
“Who?”
“Um, the German philosopher you just sort of quoted.”
He shakes his head. “Must have heard it somewhere and it stuck. I’m not in to that college shit. Life has given me enough lessons. I’m a drummer then a mechanic. Probably wouldn’t have even got that skill, but since I’m good at figuring things out, a high school teacher pushed me”—he shrugs—“made me apply for a scholarship and go to tech school.”
His tone is very nonchalant, but I read through the lines and find a mix of pride and humiliation. Obviously, between the skill set of music and mechanics, Gabe is quite intelligent, but I’m guessing that someone has repeatedly told him that he isn’t. I don’t even want to imagine the plethora of names his father has called him over the years. My heart aches for him as a boy, but as he lifts his chin and almost dares me to comment, I realize this man does not want my pity. And in a way, I know how he feels. Though my not wanting pity isn’t about pride; it’s about me not deserving it.
I crumple my fry bag, trying to appear indifferent. “Lots of people are successful without college. It just depends on what you want to do, I guess. I want to help people, be a counselor, so to college I went.”
He watches me as if judging my words, while the tilt of his chin remains prideful.
And suddenly, outside a fast food restaurant, under his perusal, I finally notice—on a conscious level—Gabe from a female perspective. His fierce pride, especially after his history, is the spark that leads me to become aware of him physically.
Practically every single—some not single—female at our college has gushed about one of the band members, Gabe included. I’m not a blind idiot—though sometimes I am just a plain old idiot. Like a connoisseur of art, I understand the female admiration. Each band member is attractive in their own way. Romeo with his dark good looks. While blond Justin looks like a tatted up model. Then there’s Sam with his blue eyes and curly dark hair. But pretty male faces do not make my heart, or other body parts, flutter. My mother’s beautiful. The sculptures in the university’s art gallery are beautiful. A 57’ Gibson-B acoustic guitar is beautiful. Beauty has never made me all google eyed and wistful.
Until now.
Harsh masculine beauty hits me hard. Winged brows over russet coffee colored eyes. A flared but defined nose. Full sexy lips. Cheek bones that slash across each side of his face. Sun streaked, brown hair extending past a hard jaw line lined with his nearly ever-present, sexy scruff. He is a tsunami of male brilliance that rolls over me in wave after wave. I’m a sunbaked, parched island shocked at the sudden drench.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach—I never understood the reference until now—while words build in my conscious, trying to form lyrics to his beauty. Longing pounds in my chest—thump, want, thump—and desire curls my fingers around the edge of the bench. I feel dizzy, like I’m about to fall backwards off the bench and into another world. My grasp strengthens until my fingernails cut into the wood. I don’t want to fall.
His gaze turns speculative as I attempt to control the blast of longing hitting me. “Your cousin’s death really messed you up, huh?”
The question breaks the spell that my sudden awareness of him spun.
I instantly let go of the bench. “Yeah, it did,” I agree, as grief and guilt twist and tear throughout me, their thorny vines cutting and slicing. As usual, I run from the old wound that never ceases to feel freshly open if faced. “I need to get going.” I jump up and quickly smash all our trash in the burger b
ag. “I have homework to do.” Both statements are honest. At least separately.
“Sorry,” he says, standing, running a hand through his hair, and wearing a contrite expression. “I’m guessing you don’t like to talk about it.”
I pause in the middle of pushing the bag in the trash. A sad laugh escapes me. “That would be an understatement.” I step away from the trash bin, reaching for my purse on the table. “Really, I have to get going.” I don’t wait for a response, just march to my car.
Once Gabe gives me directions to his house, the ride is quiet with the blare of rock music. Luckily for me, Gabe seems to sense my mood. Though I suppose it isn’t too hard to perceive how I just shut down—the only way I can deal with the past. Once I faced my wrong, accepted it, and decided to make amends, I had to move on or the guilt would have destroyed me, and most times I fear it still could.
I pull in front of Gabe’s house, my mind in tumult.
He breaks the silence by saying, “Piece of shit, huh?”
Confused, I look at him then the house. Small with a sagging porch, peeling white paint, and cracked windows, the house is old. The weeds and overgrown bushes in the yard don’t help improve the broken down appearance of the house. Obviously, it screams poverty, and apparently this is some kind of test. How horrified will she be? I’m not in the mood for his test.
I shake my head a bit. “It’s just a house. It’s not like it’s a sneak peek into your talent or soul or something.”
He stares at me for a long moment, as if trying to gage the authenticity of my words. “Well, I’m almost out of this shithole,” he says, tugging the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
Caught in the perfection of his face for a quick second, I quickly snap forward. “No problem. Thanks for…lunch, and for sharing with Jeff.”
And with that, he is out of the car. I shift into drive and let out the breath I’d been holding in. Between my weird reaction to him and his bringing up Rachel, I feel like I’ve been through the wringer.
Too bad I don’t have a ton of homework instead of just a six page paper to write.
I love homework.
It keeps me busy.
And sane.
And until now, oblivious to the word lust.
Chapter 11
~April~
Fridays. No work. No classes. No group therapy. Nothing to eat the time away. I’ve cleaned my living room and kitchen top to bottom, and they both needed it. Finished my reading for the next week and completed the rough draft of my final paper for Clinical Psychology which isn’t even due until December. Re-read some parts of my old psychology textbooks. Enjoyed two hours of crap TV. It appears the only thing to do is go to bed. At nine-forty at night.
My ten measly credits are killing me.
With boredom.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I fill and set the coffee maker. On my way to the bedroom, a knock at the door almost has me tripping and running into the wall. Who would come to my house on a Friday night?
I groan, realizing who is most likely on the other side of the door.
Besides my weird, sudden attraction to his looks—which was the pinnacle of superficial since he annoys me most of the time—I’m aware he makes me feel too much, remember too much, and be like the old me far too much.
He pounds harder.
I don’t want to be the old me. I need to be the now me.
His pounding becomes too loud to ignore.
I march across the room and whip the door open.
Yep. There stands Gabe in all his grunge looking glory. If it were the nineties, Gavin Rossendale of Bush would have lost a few—a ton—of female fans.
I wish I was physic, but no, I’m being tormented. By a hot looking jackass in loose jeans, long hair, a hoodie, and strangely a jean jacket. Who wears those anymore?
Before I can chastise him and his loud banging, he asks, “Pajamas? At ten at night? On a Friday?”
I cross my arms over my tank top and braless chest. “I’m tired.”
“From what?”
“From none of your business.” I don’t want to admit the tortuous boredom that plagued me all day. That admittance may have me pitying myself.
His brows rise.
“Why are you here?”
“It’s raining.”
“What?” At first, as usual, I don’t put two and two together, but of course, the list. “It rains a lot.”
“Yeah, but it’s going to get cold soon.”
“It’s late September. We have at least three more possible weeks of mild weather,” I retort.
“Don’t want to tell Jeff you did another two?”
My jaw clenches. I hate group therapy. “Fine. Let me get a jacket or something.”
A grin curls his full lips. “Nothing wrong with what you’re wearing. In fact, it’s perfect for a little dancing in the rain.”
I glare at him. White tank in the rain. Yeah, right.
“Give me a minute.” Instead of inviting him in, I shut the door in his face. That’s what he gets for making such comments. And for his hot, seductive grin.
Digging inside a dresser drawer, I tell myself to get it together. This is just another check on the list. This is just a way to get Jeff to give a positive report to Dr. Medina. This is just two strangers swaying in the rain for a few minutes.
That is all.
Done with my inner pep talk to keep me from being an idiot, I drag an old flannel—the only one left of the ten or more I used to wear—out of the drawer, tug it on, and slip on a pair of flip-flops. When I yank open the door, he’s leaning on the frame, looking out over the parking lot. I almost run into him.
He catches me by the waist. “Slow down. We’ll get to the dancing soon enough.”
“Ha, ha,” I say, moving out of his grasp. “Where were you planning on doing this?”
He tilts his chin, his glance speculative. “I’m thinking the basketball court would be romantic.”
Um, no, but that is good. “Very,” I agree, and start moving toward the stairs.
“Is that flannel from an ex?” he asks, following me down the stairs.
Ha, my ex list is rather short. “No. It’s mine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Like you bought it?”
“I did.”
“To wear?”
“No, to practice doing laundry,” I say in the most sarcastic tone possible then add, “Yes to wear.”
“Like to bed?”
“Like in an ode to grunge rock.”
“You’re into grunge rock? Like Nirvana and Pearl Jam shit?”
I step off the last stair and into the dark night full of misty rain. “Yeah, like STP and Alice in Chains and Screaming Trees, but more like I used to be, and it’s not crap.”
He chuckles, a light muffle trapped in the rain, as he catches up to me on the sidewalk. “Always full of surprises aren’t you?”
“Me surprising?” I push back damp strands of hair already sticking to my face. “I’m supposed to be sleeping right now, not getting pneumonia.”
As we turn the corner, he leans near my ear. “I’ve been told I’m worth it.”
My side-glance at him is flat. “So you usually give girls an illness?”
This time the rain can’t muffle his loud laughter. “Oh, I give them something, but it doesn’t make them sick. It leaves them…satisfied,” he says in a tone over dripping with sexuality.
I’m aware he’s laying it on thick, trying to make me uncomfortable, and I refuse to appear as uncomfortable as his teasing is making me. “Oh, really?” I put a finger on my wet chin. “Usually bragging stems from some sort of inadequacy.”
“It isn’t bragging when it’s pure fact.”
“Says who?”
“I could give you some phone numbers if you’d like to conduct some interviews.”
“No thanks,” I snottily say as we cross over a length of wet grass.
The
basketball court is dark with only porch lights illuminating it and out in the open where a breeze mixes with the mist. At the center, I turn to him. “All right let’s get this over with.”
His brows rise. “Why am I getting the impression you’re not excited about this?”
“Oh, I dunno? Maybe because I’m already sopping wet.”
He chuckles s at that.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s being perverted. I wipe the water from my forehead. “Oh, shut up and start dancing.”
He hunches over, messing around with something tucked in his inside left pocket. When he stands and holds out a hand, music, a soft acoustic guitar strum, mixes with the pitter pat of rain on the cement. Suddenly, a guitar slide, then sharp notes ring out in the dark. It takes me a few seconds to recognize the tune.
A laugh escapes me. I’ve heard the song many times. My father loves the Rolling Stones. I used to be more of a Beatles girl. And we have argued for hours about which band is better more than once.
Hand still out, Gabe patiently waits.
“Come on. Wild Horses?” I put my hand in his warm one. At least it’s the acoustic version.
He yanks me closer until my hips bump his thighs.
The contact has my breath catching as Mick Jagger’s voice joins the rain.
A soft, closed mouthed smile forms on his lovely lips. “Rock’s not known for slow dancing.”
Stop thinking about his lips. “Can’t listen or dance to anything but rock, huh?”
“It’s only rock and roll but I like it,” he says with a grin.
I shake my head at him using a Stones song title, yet before I can retort, he starts swaying.
We shuffle and move together in some strange circular pattern, reminding me of middle school dances. My hands on his shoulders. His on my waist. Our feet scraping on the cement. Yet unlike middle schoolers, we sway and step with a precision that is in perfect rhythm to the song.
The rain, along with the wind, picks up.
I try to remain irritated with the rain, with the chill, with the pervading wetness. I try to stay outside of the moment. I try not to think of why Rachel would find dancing in cold, wet rain romantic. Yet, the coolness of the rain doesn’t touch me. Instead, Gabe’s body warms me with each sway when my chest or thigh or hip comes in contact with him. Even when inches apart, the space between us is a raging fire. The space around us is a muffled bubble filled with rain and music and the sway of our bodies.
