The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  I’ve taken hikes meant to inspire me. I’ve listened to other music, wondering if there’s something I can steal because Picasso more or less said stealing, for artists, is cool. I’ve pored over the old photos. That took some hacking. I have my own pictures, of course, but I wanted Grace’s. They never found her phone, but luckily her cloud password was the same one she uses for everything. I bought a new phone, entered her email and password, and set it up as a replacement. A clone. It has all of her settings, her email, her bookmarks, even the browser tabs she had open when the backup was made. And it has all of her photos. Pictures of me. The three of us together, held at the end of her stupid selfie stick.

  None of it works. Supposedly, pain makes great art, but all I get is the horrible ache. It isn’t fair. It’s all rubbing, no orgasm. I can’t even cry. I don’t want to ask around, but I’m pretty goddamn sure I should be able to cry, if I’m healthy — if I’m not Jack Torrance in this version of the Overlook.

  I’m blocked. You can’t fight block.

  I decide to give myself a break. You can’t rush the creative process. I conveniently shove aside the fact that my rush has spanned three years, but it’s not entirely accurate to say I haven’t created in that time. I did all those acoustic adaptations. I did that banal stuff that I find embarrassing, though it keeps me on Danny’s stage. And there’s all that came out in those fugues, when I couldn’t sleep. Not that any of that survived, because it was sleep-drunk, pretentious bullshit. I pitched it. Nobody needs to hear that crap.

  I stand up. Change my shirt, dragging a plain white tee over my worn jeans. I grab my keys then fish off the door key to carry by itself so I don’t need to carry the whole ring. I pull out my credit card and license, then thirty seconds later I’m walking out the front door into the warm air.

  I’ve no destination in mind. I just walk. I’m a tiger finally out of his cage. But instead of running off to eat babies, I want to meander, seek the muse, or let her find me. Maybe she doesn’t like my apartment. Maybe the air is too stale, the mood too maddeningly neutral.

  My feet stop in front of a place I’ve seen before and heard a lot about. It bills itself as a diner, but serves malts like a ’50s shop. Like the other kitschy eateries around here — bricks in this city’s increasingly trendy foundation. Somewhere around here serves homemade Twinkies. It should sound horrible, but I’ve always been curious.

  Just like I’ve been about this place.

  I don’t buy lunch for myself. Ever. I don’t like to spend money other than on rent and groceries, and I glom off Danny’s generosity as much as humanly possible, eating at the Overlook for free like a mooch. It’s not that I’m cheap. It’s that studio time costs a ton, and some day I’m going to have something worth recording again. I don’t know how long that will be, but I intend to be ready. We almost had our shot with Firecracker Confession, but it’s not like failure killed that shot. I could probably even get myself a band right now and try again — same songs, different players, different singer. Chloe might even do it. She can’t write, I don’t think, but Grace gave us enough Firecracker songs for a couple of albums.

  I’d just need to summon the nerve.

  The diner’s transfixed me. Probably because the minute I decide to break my no-spending-money rule and step inside, I can stop thinking about the past and start thinking about my lunch choices instead. Part of me knows exactly what I’m doing, but I’m going to do it anyway. Like a guy on a diet deciding to eat the damned donut even though he knows he shouldn’t. This is my donut.

  I walk inside.

  The Nosh Pit is as trendy inside as it is outside, but in a totally different way. On the deck, under a partial canopy, there’s a lot of wooden furniture — benches and bamboo chairs — some backed with wicker and padded with pillows. There are hanging lights in the shadows and natural light beyond. From out there, it looks like a cafe. But inside, where I am now, it’s easy to see why the place calls itself a diner. I feel like I’ve stepped back decades, to a time before I was born. There are round, alternating red and white barstools along a black-and-white-tile countertop. The floor is made of tiny little squares, and there are padded velour booths opposite the counter, along the windows facing the terrace.

  It’s a look that shouldn’t work, but totally does. Two cooks are visible in the open kitchen, and they actually ring a little bell when they set food into the pass. Waiters and waitresses are all smartly dressed — men in slacks and women in modest skirts — but the uniforms don’t match. They’re as eclectic as the diner itself.

  There’s a hostess stand, so I wait. And soon, a stunning brunette approaches, smiling with full pink lips. She has delicate, catlike features and light-blue eyes. Her name is Roxanne, stitched into her uniform. It manages to look cute, not tacky like a mechanic’s.

  “Hi, Sweetie,” she says, “table for one?”

  It’s just five words, but it’s like she’s read me some sort of seduction act. Her voice is breathy, her eyes knowing, her lashes practically batting. I’m sure she’s going to bite her fingernail, or finger, or find a pen and bite that. Then wrap her lips around it. Even “table for one” carries undertones, as if she’s asking to join me.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  She leads me to one of the booths in the middle, but I very much don’t feel like being in the middle of anything right now. I’d be right there, smack in the center, more or less with a spotlight above me. I’m a bit self-conscious about sitting alone in a restaurant, but mostly I’m still ruminating on the morning’s emotions. I came out to get inspired. I need mood for that, not scrutiny.

  I point to the corner. “Can I have something back there?”

  She wets her lips, as if planning to kiss me. She looks at the booth she just offered then ignores a mousy woman in the booth beside it trying to get her attention for a coffee refill. Her eyes move back to where I’ve pointed and responds with a voice that’s somewhere between put-out and disappointed. She shouldn’t mind if this means I won’t be in her section. Even if I had money for a big tip, I’m too diligent about saving right now to spend it.

  I sort of pity the server who has to wait on me. I barely want to eat; I’m feeling picky; I’m cheap as hell.

  I sit. I pick up a menu. Roxanne leaves, but ten seconds later I feel her return.

  But it’s not Roxanne. This must be my waitress. The poor girl who has to wait on the moody, self-destructive cheapskate.

  Her name seems to be Abigail.

  And I like her smile.

  CHAPTER 3

  Abigail

  I don’t think I’ve ever met a beautiful man in person before. I’ve met handsome men, and the new customer at table 14 is definitely that. But in addition to being handsome, with his firm jawline, deep, soulful eyes, and strong-looking forearms, this man is actually beautiful. He has soft, baby-blue eyes. He’s wearing a few days’ stubble. His cheekbones are perfectly shaped, a sculpture of perfection. His lips are wide and soft. His eyebrows are strong and make his whole face seem serious. A mess of brown hair hangs across his forehead — only it doesn’t look messy; it looks like he’s just come from a day at the beach and his hair has taken on an infusion of salt air.

  “I … I’m Abigail,” I stammer. The pause between my first and second attempt at “I’m” is slight but obvious. I want to slap myself. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

  “Abigail?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t go to restaurants often. I have a question.”

  “Sure.” I shuffle through my mental filing cabinet, looking for food to recommend. I’m good at organization — supereasy since I moved here, seeing as I have little to organize.

  But his question isn’t what I assumed. He’s not asking about food yet.

  “Whenever I do go to a restaurant, everyone says the same thing. About how they’ll be taking care of me.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I’m wondering how this man’s perfect cheekbones would l
ook on my pillow. It’s a scandalous thought, but it’s been a long time for me. I’m reserved most of the time — shy, even. But that doesn’t mean I can’t think what I want in the privacy of my mind.

  “Sure.”

  “But they always just bring me food.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, that’s not really taking care of me. My mother? She took care of me.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  He smirks as if realizing he’s being bizarre. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’ve just always wondered.”

  “I bring you water and other drinks. Get you napkins and anything else you need. That’s taking care of you.”

  “That’s bringing me stuff.” He puts one elbow on the table then rests his face on the upturned palm as if settling in and getting comfortable.

  I consider making some joke about taking care of him, but despite his easy, forward manner, I’m already having to remind myself that I know literally nothing about this man, let alone know him well. I only know that he’s pretty. And that I’m curious if his lips are as soft as they seem.

  Besides, making a joke like that? That’s the kind of thing Roxanne would do. Probably is dying to do. I saw the way she batted her eyes at him up there, and I won’t pretend I didn’t laugh inside when he requested my section instead of hers.

  The thought makes me glance toward the restaurant’s front — and sure as anything, Roxanne is staring right at me.

  “What’s good here, Abigail? Or do you like Abby?”

  “Abigail.” To my own ears, I sound nervous. Not like a competent server at all. I don’t love this job, but I’m usually decent at it. I should be playing along, milking this beautiful man for a good tip, but for some reason I’ve reverted to several-syllable responses, like I’m afraid.

  He closes the menu, which he’d laid on the table when adopting his casual, wistful face-on-palm posture. Then he folds his hands over it, straightens, and looks up at me. I realize that I didn’t even answer his question about the food. Instead, I chose to answer his question about me.

  “Tell you what,” he says. “Bring me your favorite thing off the menu.”

  “Oh, I like the — ”

  He waves it away. “No, don’t tell me. Just bring it.” Then, voice lower, so I can’t tell if he’s serious or kidding, he says, “Just tell me if it’s more than fifteen bucks.”

  I don’t know what to bring him. We’re a diner. Only the steak is pricey, and I don’t think it belongs on the menu.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Good.”

  But I don’t move. I just stand there.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asks.

  Oh, God. I feel like such an idiot. I’m still a little dreamy about finally landing a Friday shift at the Overlook, but I can’t imagine my one-minute chat with Danny is the reason I’m so foggy right now. Maybe it’s my earlier malaise. The malaise I have no right to feel, seeing as I’ve got it pretty good and come from rich parents who have it even better. So what if I’m a waitress and seem destined to stay one forever? This guy might be a garbageman.

  Or a surfer. Or a fireman who works with his shirt off. Or a model.

  “Sorry,” I say, turning.

  “Hey, Abigail,” he says.

  I turn back, too fast. I’m suddenly sure he has a complaint of some sort, maybe about my standoffishness.

  “It doesn’t have cottage cheese on it, does it? What you’re picking for my lunch? I figure no, but maybe it’s better safe than sorry.”

  “No. No cottage cheese.”

  “Good. And no coconut.”

  “No.” I have no idea what I’ll pick for him, but he’s not exactly picking common ingredients. I don’t think we even have cottage cheese or coconut.

  “I probably shouldn’t have pasta. I make a lot of pasta for dinner.”

  “It’s not pasta,” I say.

  “And not — ”

  “Do you just want me to tell you?”

  “No, no. I want to be surprised.” He seems to think. “But no chicken, okay? And no beef. Oh, and no bread, please.”

  “Um … ”

  “Abigail?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m just messing with you.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “I used to wait tables. I hated when people were demanding. Seriously. Just bring me whatever, and I promise to like it.”

  I finally find my voice. My brow bunches together, and I say, “Why don’t you just let me tell you?”

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I didn’t say it to be funny, but the man in the booth laughs. “Okay. Fine. But I’m serious about the pasta. It’s all I eat at home. Maybe a burger. How are the Nosh Pit’s burgers?”

  “They’re good. Get the sunrise.”

  “Does it have an egg on it? Is that why it’s called ‘sunrise’?”

  “Ew, no.” I make a face. I’d never have egg on a burger. “It’s just a normal cheeseburger. I don’t know why it’s called sunrise.”

  “Okay. Bring me that.”

  “How do you want it cooked?”

  “On a stove.”

  I don’t know why that’s what does it, but I burst out laughing. Roxanne stares daggers at me. She looks around after she’s done, probably looking for Ed to complain about me. I escaped her suggestions this time, but I’ll bet she has plenty at shift’s end. Like not spending so much time at one table, with one customer, whom I’ll bet Roxanne wants to spend some time with. Never mind that I just came off break and it’s slow, and he’s my only customer.

  He’s watching my face, seeming to enjoy my laughter, and for a moment I’m sure he’ll make a comment. It would be forward, but he strikes me as confident. About some things. There’s a depth to his eyes, though, and I’ll bet plenty scares him silly. My ex, come to think of it, was a lot like him. I wonder how far the similarities extend. I hope not far. I’d hate to think I’m attracted to a type — especially that type.

  We’re in public. Even though this feels private, others are hearing it.

  My ex was great in public, and terrible in private. He needed an audience to be intimate.

  “Okay,” I say, unable to drop my new smile. “One sunrise burger. Cooked ‘on a stove.’”

  “That’ll do,” he says.

  I head back to the kitchen, thinking that even though I’ll probably never see this guy again, my day has definitely begun to look up.

  CHAPTER 4

  Gavin

  I get back home, pick up my guitar on a whim, and find my fingers plucking a brand-new melody. Something that, unlike what I create in my late-night fugues, I think might be worth keeping. Part of me must think it’d be a jinx to write the notes down, so I don’t bother. Usually, melodies will rattle around in my head for a while if they’re worth anything, and I’ll commit them to paper later if so. Or at least, that’s how it used to work.

  But it progresses quickly. As I go about my midday business, the hook starts to form. I’m thinking of lyrics, but they suck. Still, they’re there. I remind myself not to get my hopes up. I sometimes come up with hooks, and I sometimes come up with snippets of lyrics, and I sometimes come up with pieces of disconnected verses. They never want to work together.

  It’s like I’m looking at a drawer full of singleton socks, but no matter how many singles I find, none of them match. Trying to Frankenstein my scraps of different songs together is always a mistake. Some songwriters and lyricists can pull that off, and it’ll either make sense as a whole or come off as a mash-up (or, on the outside, a medley), but not me. My sampler platter songs always sound like the shit that they are.

  I take a shower, my mind reviewing the day. I got up late, so lunch at the Nosh Pit was really my breakfast. I may have lunch at the Overlook before my set or before anyone’s sets, at or after most people’s dinnertimes. If I have dinner, it’ll be after my part of the night is behind me. I
don’t always. Sometimes (and this is totally unpredictable), I get a nervous stomach. Even free food doesn’t sound good when that happens.

  For some reason, my mind keeps detouring from the song to the waitress.

  I don’t know why she’s stuck in my head. Probably because she’s so unique an experience to me, as a guy who never goes out — let alone for lunch. When’s the last time I hit a restaurant in the middle of the day? When’s the last time I hit a restaurant alone? I can’t remember. I may never have done it before.

  As my thoughts roll, I’m hit with a strange wave of melancholy. It blindsides me, and I have no idea where it’s come from. I’m sure it has something to do with Grace because that’s where my thoughts turn, but I don’t know why. I think about her (and Charlie) at least some every day, but at this point it’s mostly background. That particular blade has mostly lost its edge, and now what I feel is a distant sense of pulling. But today it’s more immediate, almost like alarm.

  Maybe Grace and I used to eat at diners.

  I don’t want to search my memory, but I do anyway, eager to discover why I’m suddenly feeling so crushed right before my big Friday night set. And no, I don’t remember going to diners with Grace. I did go a few times with Charlie because he and I were always looking for places to sit for long periods of time and drink coffee into the wee hours. Maybe that’s what this is: another symptom of loss.

  I head to the club early because I have nothing better to do and my apartment feels suddenly oppressive. I’m a bit skeeved out, and want to be around other people. I want to be around activity. I want to be around noise. It’s too damn quiet in here. I’d turn on the TV if I’d ever bought one, but I don’t want to turn on the radio or dock my iPod and listen to that. Listening to music, for me, is a bit like walking through a minefield. I attach location to songs, and almost always remember where I was when I heard my favorite songs last.