by Kyra Davis
“Privileged?” he says incredulously.
“Yeah, privileged.” I’m shaking now, my hands that were so ready to run over his back balled up into fists. “Tell me something, Brad, how do you support yourself and your kid? Oh wait, let me guess, Mommy and Daddy help. Isn’t that right? You’re living off love and inheritance, and that’s great, but some of us don’t have any of that! Some of us have to work for a living. I had to waste money on a cab to get here because I can’t afford to invest in headlights until I’m paid out for tonight’s gig!”
“Mercy—”
“I’m not finished! Because you should know I don’t live in the future. And I refuse to live in the past. With me it’s all about the now, and right now I like this attention. I like this little job that you think is so beneath me. And so you know what I’m going to do?”
“What.” It’s not so much a question as it is a statement of resignation.
“I’m going to go back out there and I’m going to Dance. My. Ass off! And if guys stare at my ass while I’m doing it, then it’s a job well fucking done!”
I push past him, not waiting for Preston or Aaron to escort me. The hell with them, the hell with all of them! As I close myself into the cage Len’s “Steal My Sunshine” comes on.
Yeah, that’s right! I think as I start to dance. No one is going to steal my sunshine!
The silliness of that thought mixed with the buoyancy of the song actually makes me giggle a little. Did that really just happen? Did I say those things? Who knew I could become so righteous about cage dancing?
But the giggle dies on my lips as I see Brad again, working his way through the room, heading toward the exit.
And then, just like that, he’s gone.
He’s gone and I’m left here . . .
. . . dancing in my prison.
CHAPTER 12
I DON’T GET HOME until almost 1:45 a.m. The money I have to spend on taxis does nothing to improve my foul mood. It seems like a pretty cruel irony that I have to pony up money for what is normally a luxury because I can’t afford the necessity of fixing my friggin’ car.
When I get out it’s cold and drizzling. I dig my keys out of my bag and start up the walkway. When I’m about ten feet away from the door to my building I spot Ash. He’s just standing there, under the awning, beside the door, in his leather jacket and jeans, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for me.
I stop abruptly. “You have got to be kidding me.”
He responds with his Cheshire cat grin, white teeth glittering in the gloom.
“It’s late, Ash, I don’t want to talk,” I say, quickly getting ahold of myself as I walk past him, jamming my keys into the front entrance.
“Ah, come now, Mercy, I’ve been waiting out here in the rain for some time, just for you.”
“Have you?” I glare up at the sky, wishing the drizzle would turn into a downpour and really give him something to complain about. “That’s funny, because I’ve been waiting for you to call for five fucking days.”
I finally manage to get the door open, but he puts his hand out against it to stop me from slamming it in his face. “Hear me out, just this once.”
“This would make twice, and for a pretty similar offense.” I put my hand on my hip. “How did you know where I live, anyway?”
“You showed me your license, remember?”
I pause for a moment as I take that in. “You memorized the address?”
His smile is just as compelling as it’s ever been. “There is very little about you that I will ever forget.”
Well damn! I chew on the bottom of my lip for a moment and then somewhat reluctantly step aside. “You get ten minutes.”
He steps inside, walking past me. “Make it fifteen.”
UPSTAIRS HE MAKES himself comfortable, throwing off his jacket and relaxing into the cream-colored sofa in my studio apartment. He’s slowly taking it all in. The tiny, freestanding flat-screen TV on my black metal Ikea entertainment stand; the turntable on a small side table and the collection of records I have stacked below it; the surfboard leaning against the wall. My bed is in a small alcove and the kitchen is separated from the dining area by a tiled counter. The walls are papered with B-movie posters, one large Rolling Stones poster, a smaller photo of Little Richard, and a giant print of the Roman Colosseum lit up at night. “I like your place.”
“You’re wasting your minutes,” I retort. “In fact, I don’t know why I let you in here at all.”
“I have a good excuse,” he says, giving me a doe-eyed look.
“Maybe I don’t want a man who needs excuses.”
I take off my coat and Ash’s eyes get significantly bigger. “Whoa, I like that!”
I give him a withering look. “I was working tonight.”
“Singing?” he asks, clearly confused as to why I’d change my look so dramatically from gig to gig.
“No.” I throw open my closet and find a hanger. “I dance at Envy twice a month, in a cage.”
“Are you serious? Well then I really like that!”
I smile a little. Maybe his reaction should mildly insult or annoy me, but after my argument with Brad, Ash’s enthusiasm is welcome. “What’s your excuse?” I ask as I cross to him, perching myself on the arm of the couch farthest from him. My purse is still clutched in my hand just in case I need to swing it at him.
“Something came up. Something unexpected and . . . and big.”
“What could have possibly come up that would invalidate promises you made less than a week ago?”
He drapes his arm over the back cushions, looks me in the eye. “My future.”
I look away. I’m getting tired of futures. Still, I might as well hear this. “Tell me.”
And so he begins his story of the last week. It seems that in addition to music, Ash has a love of acting. It’s why he moved to LA. His parents told him his pursuit was hopeless, that he was wasting both his time and his inheritance. And for a while there it looked like they might have been right. But now something has happened: on Tuesday he found out he had scored a principal role in a TV pilot. And unlike so many pilots, this one was guaranteed to be green-lit. Everyone at the studio is completely in love with the script, the show’s creator, the choice in director, and yes, the casting. And the names attached to this thing! The producers are movie stars! The other actors have devoted followings and credentials. The female lead just finished up a run on Broadway! This role is going to change his life in the most spectacular ways imaginable. “This is it,” he says, his smile now charged with excitement. “This is everything I’ve been waiting for.”
“That’s it?” I say flatly. I toss my purse onto the coffee table. “You didn’t call me because you were . . . happy?”
“Well, no”—his smile falters, then vanishes—“it’s not like that.” He stares down at his hands as if he blames them for their idleness. Perhaps he wishes he was holding me. Or maybe he just wishes he was holding a drink.
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t,” I agree. “I’m sure you were very busy, too. I mean, there must have been contracts to sign, agents to talk to, oh, and there must have been other girls to call, right? I mean I should probably consider myself lucky for making the list.”
“I went to tell my parents.” The words shoot out of his mouth with almost a venomous intensity. Taking a deep breath, he rests his forearms on his knees and trains his eyes on the floor. “I got a last-minute flight to Oregon and I went to tell them the news.”
I don’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned there’s not a lot to say. So he went to see Mom and Dad. Last I checked, the phones in Oregon worked pretty damn well.
“I knew that if I told them about my success they’d realize they had been wrong to doubt me,” he continues. “It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?” he asks with a bitter laugh. “That a grown man would crave the approval of his parents.”
I feel the edge of understanding poking against my rib cage, trying to get to my heart.
“Clearly I don’t need it,” he explains, still keeping his eyes on the floor. “But they’re my family. It would be nice to feel connected to the people who brought me here.” He makes a vague gesture, indicating that he’s talking about being brought into the world in general.
“So if they didn’t give you approval, what did they give you?” I ask quietly. “Trepidation? Advice?”
“It was more along the lines of disappointment.” He finally lifts his head and looks toward the window as a siren goes by. “I should have called you,” he adds. “What can I say? I screwed up. I just let this whole thing get to me and I, I don’t know . . .”
I wave his regret aside with a flick of my hand. I’m no longer thinking about myself or my bruised pride. “What could they be disappointed in? You got the part. You’re gonna be big-time, right?”
“It’s not what they wanted for me. Not stable. My father thought I’d be more sensible. Find a job that had a predictable trajectory and stay away from the ‘Hollywood lifestyle.’ ” He uses his fingers to make air quotes around the last two words. “Anyway, my dad’s extraordinarily good at being disappointed in me,” he says with a bitter laugh. “He has a lifetime of practice.”
I scoot off the arm of the sofa, sitting now on the cushions of the couch. Not close to him, but not quite as far, either. “What about your mother?”
“Mom’s a little less passive-aggressive than Dad. Given the choice between disappointment and anger, she’ll go with the anger every time. It suits her.” He angles his body toward me. “It pinkens her cheeks.”
“Maybelline offers an easier fix for that,” I note, “and it lasts longer.”
Ash raises his eyebrows. “You’d be surprised at how long my mother can stay angry. She can stay pink for years.”
I laugh and shake my head. “They just need time. When they actually see you on television it’ll feel more real for them. Then they’ll be calling all the neighbors, their coworkers, the gardener, the works, all to brag about their son the celebrity.” I reach over and give him a friendly swat on the arm. “They’ll come around, Ash.”
“Not so sure about that, Mercy.” He says my name carefully, as if forcing himself to remember the change. “I’ll still never be the man they wanted me to be. But hey, once I’ve got the money and the fame, I’ll be above their bullshit. I’ll have fuck-you money!” Even his laugh is laced with pain.
I pull my feet onto the couch, hug my knees to my chest. I don’t mind that he’s covering. Stiff upper lip and all that. I’ve played that part before. I don’t have to see his pain to know exactly what it is. I’ve lived it.
“I’m your eldest daughter, and I’m sitting here and telling you that we need you!”
“You are not my daughter. My daughter Melody is dead.”
I wince and look away, not wanting Ash to know that my thoughts have wandered back to my own heartbreak. Still, I can’t stop myself from reliving that moment. Hearing those words, seeing him walk away from me, leaving me.
I had a fresh cup of coffee in front of me, but when I wrapped my hand around the mug it didn’t feel warm. I scratched my fingernails against the back of my hand but it didn’t hurt. And I thought, yes, perhaps he’s right. I must be dead. Because I have no one in this world and I feel . . . nothing.
So Ash’s parents are like Melody’s. But he won’t be alone in the world. Not if I have something to say about it. “Maybe,” I say in a low voice, “maybe you’re the man I want you to be.”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Twenty minutes ago you were ready to scratch my eyes out.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not some kind of hysterical drama queen, Ash. I wasn’t going to scratch your eyes out.”
“Right hook to the face?”
“Bingo.”
He laughs and another siren goes by, rushing off to put out one more fire, imprison one more person, or revive one more heart.
“Seriously,” I say, keeping my hands in my lap. “I think you were right, about fate that is. I think we’re supposed to be here, together, just like this.”
“So we can help each other?” Ash asks. He reaches forward, takes my hand, weaves his fingers between mine.
“So we can heal each other.”
For a moment he doesn’t move, and when I look into his eyes I see innocence there, and ignorance, and pain. And then he leans forward, slowly, oh so slowly, and places his lips right up against mine. I can taste the faint remnants of vices he indulged in earlier on his tongue. Bourbon and herb, little escapes to elevate him above the pain of rejection. But there is no rejection here. Not now. Not anymore. Just escape. And I will take in his pain so I can drown out my own. It’s a seductive and beautiful melancholy, and as I lower my lips to his neck he raises his mouth to my ear and whispers, “I really do like your outfit.”
I burst into giggles, resting my head in the crook of his neck. “I’m glad,” I finally manage. “But I’m not so fond of yours.”
“No?”
“Too many layers.”
He pulls back a little, cups my face in his hands. “I’m only wearing one layer.”
“Like I said, too many. But don’t worry.” I reach for the bottom of his shirt and pull it up, revealing his abs. “I have a remedy.”
I remove the shirt from him, tossing it aside. I give myself a few seconds to take him in. Here in the light of the room, without the disadvantage of a screaming cousin to distract me.
His tattoos cover his upper arm, crawl over his shoulder, and lick the gentle swell of his pec. His chest is smooth and hairless and I can see the subtle outlines of his abdominals accentuating his flat stomach. He’s beautiful. So very masculine, but with a unique feline quality. I can imagine him prowling through the night looking for pretty little things to play with or devour. Of course I want him. And I understand him. And maybe, just maybe, he understands me.
I lean forward and gently kiss a bird that is woven into the bold strokes of black and gray ink on his bicep. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s the phoenix.” He reaches up, pets my hair. “The thunderbird. The Native Americans believed he brought the storms.”
A mythical bird that brings the reverberating warnings of thunder. I like that. “And this?” I ask as I lower my face just enough to kiss the drawing of a geometric sun that’s above the inside of his elbow. “Does it have a story?”
“It’s the sun, the bringer of growth and power. The highest deity of the natives.”
“Hmm.” I let my tongue dart out and taste it one last time as I pull away. “I want to see the back.”
His eyes twinkle with his signature sense of mischief and he stands, turning his back to me. I stand, too, and press myself against his back as I reach around his waist to undo the button of his jeans. I bend my knees so I can let my tongue dance over two arrows facing different directions directly below his shoulder blade, just like I did on the first night we met. “And these?”
“The arrow pointing to the left symbolizes protection, the one to the right is to ward off evil.”
I straighten, raise myself up on my tiptoes, placing my lips by his ear once more. “Have you been tempted by evil, Ash?”
“Tempted?” He turns and uses his finger to slowly outline the contours of what there is of my top. “Yes. I’ve been tempted.” He reaches around, and with impressive speed and force, he manages to unhook and then almost violently yank off my top. Then, gently, he brushes his hands against my breasts, toys with them until my nipples are erect and tender. “But not by evil,” he says quietly. “There is no evil here.”
“No?” I ask innocently. I put my fingers on either side of his waistband and then I pull away just enough and drop down, pulling his jeans down with me. He steps out of them without a word and suddenly I realize, he really was wearing only one layer.
Again I feel his fingers in my hair. “Tell me, how many naked men have you had in this room?”
“Ash,” I bre
athe, kissing the area right above his knee, then a little higher, “you’re my . . .” But then I hesitate, flushing slightly.
“I’m your what, Mercy?” he asks, his voice a seductive growl.
“Shh! I’m trying to count.”
“For fuck’s sake . . .” But now it’s his voice that fades as I move higher up his leg. The truth is, Ash is the first man I’ve had here in this particular studio. He’s the only man I’ve been with since he and I lit up the night that one time in Seattle. But he doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know about the emotional pain he caused that led to my temporary celibacy. All he really needs to know is what’s happening right now, and right now, I want to taste him.
I lift my fingers to the trim groom of the curls from which his erection grows, straining against the very air, ready for me, waiting . . .
I let my tongue dart out again, this time against the tip. Exploring him gently, learning his body through sight and touch and taste. Slowly I take in more of him, hearing him groan. My hand reaches between his legs, cupping him, toying with him, playing with that thin stretch of skin loaded with nerve endings, listening to the hum of his pleasure, feeling him shake against me. Quickly I take him fully into my mouth, running my lips up and down, driving him to the point where I know he’s within seconds of losing control. I reach over to my purse on the coffee table and pull out a condom. Ripping the foil, I remove the condom and put it in my mouth, using my lips, my tongue, my precarious control to roll it over his erection.
He leans down and grabs my shoulders, pulling me up and then pushing me backward until I’m up against the wall, and then he’s on me. His mouth is on my throat, his teeth grazing my skin as his hands move over my breasts, pinch my nipples, and then one hand lowers between my legs. We’re only a few yards from my bed now and he closes that distance in seconds as he pulls me away from the wall and drags me to the mattress, on which I fall back, my knees slightly apart as he pulls off my hot pants and throws them aside. Whatever reluctance I harbored when I saw him at my door is now overridden by a more appealing ache and wanting. Slowly, so slowly he climbs on top of me, his eyes studying every inch of my body as he makes his journey. “What is it you want, Mercy?” he asks, his voice gruff, demanding.
