Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  “How clever of him,” I say dryly.

  “No one ever accused him of being stupid.” He sighs. “He was a highly educated man. A respected member of society. And I was his angry kid, determined to best him in every way. I wanted to defend my mother, but I was too small. I needed an outlet.”

  “Oh,” I say with the dawning of understanding, “that’s where the drums came in.”

  “That’s where the drums came in,” he repeats with a nod of confirmation. “My father hated the drums, which made me love them all the more. At the time my mother was a music teacher at an all-girls Catholic school, and when I started playing . . . it was the only time she ever stood up to my dad. She insisted I be allowed to play and so I did. He would start yelling, she would start crying, and I would go down into the garage and beat the hell out of those drums. And since I’ve never been able to do anything halfway, I made sure I was the best damn drummer around.” Finally he turns toward me, and the expression on his face is startling. Pain, anger, guilt—it’s all there, mixed up in his all-American features, making him look dangerous and vulnerable and absolutely beautiful. “The day he ran off with his mistress was the best day of my life,” he continues. “I will never understand why my mother didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Oh, Brad, really?” I whisper, genuinely surprised by this rare flash of ignorance. “Haven’t you figured it out by now?” When he creases his brow I explain, “Those of us who are self-destructive will always love the ones who hurt us most.”

  His eyes widen with a startled understanding. “Jesus,” he murmurs, and I quickly avert my gaze as I struggle to contain my own emotions. “But didn’t you have an outlet, Mercy?” he asks quietly. “A way to escape and cope?”

  “Drugs,” I say simply. “My outlet was drugs. Maybe if my mom was a music teacher I would have thought to find comfort in my voice; then again, maybe not,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. “Drugs were just easier . . . more efficient. I popped my first pill when I was twelve.”

  “So young?” Brad asks.

  I nod, bringing my eyes to the overflowing bookcase. “I was at my friend Gina’s house and I started feeling . . . I don’t know, antsy I guess. Like I needed to go on a twenty-mile run up the steepest mountain around, or jump rope for an hour while yelling out gibberish at the top of my lungs, like I needed to crawl out of my skin. I get like that sometimes,” I say with a shrug. “I told Gina how I was feeling and she led me into the bathroom, took out this very official-looking bottle of prescription pills from the medicine cabinet. She told me that it’s what her mom took when she got a case of the nerves. I remember that’s what she called it. A case of the nerves. Anyway, the meds had been prescribed by a doctor, so I figured they must be safe. So I took one.”

  “And what happened?” Brad asks gently.

  “It helped!” I say with a laugh. “Nothing had ever helped before, but this thing did. It was some generic label with a name I couldn’t pronounce, but I figured my dad would find out what it was and where to get it. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He had been complaining about how hyper and weird I could get all my life, and here I had found an actual chill pill! I couldn’t wait to get home and tell him about it.”

  Brad doesn’t say anything, but without even looking at him I can tell he’s listening. Listening with a brain that can understand books about free trade and the roles race and class play in our society, and listening with a heart that has been exposed to all those primitive cruelties that can never be explained in a textbook. “When I told him about the pill?” I say quietly. “It was the first time he ever hit me. Gave me a huge shiner. Told my sister I got it by riding my bike without wearing a helmet. So you see, he was able to use me as a punching bag and a cautionary tale. A twofer!” I laugh and shake my head. “She was only five at the time. The next time he hit me he told her my face was swollen because I had been chewing gum with my mouth open and a bee flew in there and stung the inside of my cheek!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Totally serious!” I insist, still giggling. “Poor Kasie, by the time they threw me out they had her convinced that if she so much as put her elbows on the dinner table it would somehow lead to certain self-destruction. Still,” I say, my laughter finally fading out, “I think it’s better to be hit than to have someone always threatening to hit you. Anticipation of pain is usually more intense than the pain itself.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Brad murmurs.

  I lower my gaze to the floor. “You may not have planned to be a dad so young, but you’re a great one. June will never be able to fully relate to our stories. And that’s the way it should be.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he says. For at least a minute or two, neither one of us says anything. He must be right about the soundproofing, because I can’t hear the traffic on the street or the water flowing through the courtyard fountain. I can only hear my own thoughts, which are just loud enough to cause physical pain. “Did your parents plan for you?” he asks, his baritone adding warmth to the cold silence.

  I consider not answering, but then I hear myself say, “Once upon a time I would’ve told you that yes, they planned for a child, but no, they did not plan for me.”

  I sense him shifting his position, perhaps taking a step closer to me. “And now?”

  “Now?” I focus on the orderly woven rows of beige fabric that make up the thin carpet beneath our feet, both flawless and dull. “Now I would tell you that I have no parents.” I pause as I consider what it’s like to say the words aloud. “I’d say that I am a product of my own invention, that I am free from the burdens of family and expectations. And I would tell you,” I add, taking in a long, shaky breath, “I’d tell you that I am utterly and completely alone.”

  I can feel him studying me, but still, I can’t meet his eyes. I should never have opened my mouth. I should never have come here. I should never, ever pretend that there is anyone in this world who might understand.

  I hold my breath as I feel him approaching, one slow step at a time, only stopping when he’s just a few inches from me. I bite down hard on my lip and wait for his judgment, or for him to make light of it, or find a way to get us out of this uncomfortable exchange. But instead he reaches forward, and I feel the brush of his hand against my hair. “You deserve more.”

  I blink several times as his fingers continue to wind their way into my blond and pink locks. Slowly I raise my head just as he is lowering his. The kiss is slow, needing, beautiful. I lift my arms and wrap them around his neck, and then I’m being raised, onto my feet, my body against his, wrapped up in his arms. His large hands move up and down my back. I’ve never been surrounded by this kind of strength, this power. He picks me up, and it’s as if I weigh no more than a daisy that he’s picked for a bouquet. He’s cradling me in his arms and his mouth is still on mine, parting my lips with the tip of his tongue, tasting me as he gently lowers me onto the firm mattress, his body on top of mine. I can feel him react to me, feel his heart accelerate with mine, feel his desire pressing against me.

  I pull off his shirt, and for the first time I really see what he has been doing such a poor job of concealing. This body, this carefully structured work of art . . . he overwhelms me.

  And then he’s removing my top. His hand goes to the small of my back and he’s crushing me against him as his lips find the edges of my bra, one hand brushing gently over my hardening nipples, straining against the layered black lace, needing him. He pulls on the fabric, just enough to expose me, just enough so he can brush his lips over the delicate pink flesh as his hand moves lower, unbuttoning my jeans easily with one hand, slipping that hand inside the denim, inside the silk of my panties, his finger brushing against my clit, bringing forth a moan of pleasure from my lips. I know he can feel how wet I am, how much I want him. And yet, for all his intensity, I know he is being careful with me. He is so much stronger than me, yet I don’t feel intimidated. Delicate, yes, but also so cared for
. And the slow, deliberate movement of his fingers—dear God, it doesn’t seem possible, but here I am, already dangerously close to an explosion.

  His kisses move from my breast to my shoulder, to my neck, finding that secret spot that always drives me wild. And against my skin he whispers, “You are not one of the unwanted.”

  He knew. He heard the words I didn’t say. I dig my fingers into his back, wanting to draw him even closer, wanting him inside me, and oh, oh God . . . this is too consuming, too wonderful, too intense. I’m shaking now, so very close. Everything about this man is so intoxicating, so male, my grip around him grows tighter. There is nothing predatory here, nothing feline, not like Ash . . .

  Ash.

  Ash is the reason I’m not unwanted.

  “Brad,” I say, pronouncing his name as a warning. But his kisses are on my jaw, he’s touching me, toying with me, my entire body aches for him. In another few seconds I will come, I won’t be able to stop it.

  I can’t let this happen.

  “No . . . no!” I push with all my might against his shoulder. I’m nowhere near strong enough to move him, but he releases me immediately. I quickly roll off the bed, grabbing my shirt as I stand up.

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” I say. I’m shaking, my legs are weak even as I back away. “I . . . I don’t know . . . I just . . .” There are no words. I have never wanted someone this badly, never deprived myself of so much.

  I pull on my shirt. “I’m really sorry about snooping in your stuff. That was totally not cool.”

  “Mercy . . .”

  “Tell you what? You don’t have to pay me anything. No money, no lessons, ’kay? I’ll just head out.” I’m trying to button my jeans but my fingers are clumsy, I can’t get anything right.

  “Mercy . . .”

  “Don’t forget, we have a gig in two days, so, you know, practice, practice, practice, right?” Finally, I’m able to fasten my jeans. I almost cry in both disappointment and relief. “Of course you probably practice every day, right?” My purse, where did I leave my purse? “I wish I had a sound-insulated room at my place. I’d be caterwauling at all hours of the night.” I left it in the living room, I remember now. “Actually, you know what? It’s totally none of my business. Just be ready for the gig. I am really sorry, um, I gotta go.” I turn away from him and start to open the door, but he comes up behind me and pushes it closed again.

  I stare at the closed door, feeling the warmth of his body as he stands so close behind me, his arm to my right, holding the door closed, his breath in my hair.

  “I have to go,” I whisper.

  “Not before we talk.”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  “One who doesn’t even care enough to come to your performances.”

  “He did see me perform!” I whirl around and immediately regret it. He’s so close. And yet I have just enough distance to really see him. The man must live in the gym. And I’m here, pressed up against the door, quivering like a child.

  I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath, which turns out to be yet another bad decision, because now I’m simply breathing in his scent, knowing that it’s on my skin as well. “You may not think that Ash does all the things that a boyfriend should do,” I say, my voice quivering uncontrollably, “but we have a connection. Against all odds he cares for me, and for my entire life I have been disappointing the people who are supposed to care for me . . . every time.” Finally I find the strength to open my eyes, to meet his gaze. “You need to get this,” I whisper. “I’m not just asking you to let me out of this room. I’m asking you to save me . . . from me.”

  Brad doesn’t look away, doesn’t move, and for a moment I think that there truly is no mercy in this world. That I will once again find myself giving in to an enticement that is put before me. That I will lose myself in the moment, and in doing so lose the future entirely.

  And then, slowly, he pulls his arm away from the door and takes a deliberate step back.

  Without turning I put my hand back on the doorknob, open the door, and back away, slowly at first, and then, my legs still unsteady, I stumble into the living room, find my purse, and run. Out of that home, out of the courtyard that leads to it, down the street to where my car waits for me, and then I am off as fast as I can go. Running away from temptation, running away from Brad.

  Running away from Melody.

  CHAPTER 18

  I AM ALMOST NEVER early for anything, but a full half hour before Ash is scheduled to show up I am completely ready for him. I have spent extra time on everything. I deep-conditioned my hair, meticulously applied my makeup, wore my best, purposely torn jeans and a new crop top, showing off the results of the eighty sit-ups I did earlier in the evening. All I’m missing is the belly-button piercing that I’ve been meaning to get, and if he wants to get it tonight I’m totally game.

  And when he calls me to let me know he’s running late I don’t complain. On the contrary, I tell him I’ll take a cab to Graffiti. I know that makes his life easier, considering he’s coming from Santa Monica, I’m coming from North Hollywood, and the club is in between the two (as is pretty much the entire city of LA).

  I make a call, and within ten minutes a black-and-yellow pulls up. Last night was an anomaly, I think as I slide into the back. I just screwed up, it happens . . . a lot in my case. But not anymore. Tonight everything is back to the way it’s supposed to be. From now on everything will be better than before. I have decided.

  “Graffiti, please,” I say to the cabbie, only to then have to give him the address because, really, how often do these guys get to go clubbing?

  We’re there in no time. Like most clubs there is no sign outside . . . well, no sign other than the valet that is conspicuously out front and the line of people trying to get in.

  And there’s Ash, pacing the sidewalk, to the right of the hopeful partiers who are waiting to be let in. He looks wild, agitated. “Ash?” I ask as I approach. He turns to me, steps into my space, weaves his hands into my hair as he pulls me to him, kissing me with an urgency I hadn’t expected. Some of the people in line hoot and whistle their approval, and as the kiss goes on, his hands move to the small of my back, then lower. I find myself wondering if he plans to make love to me here, right on the sidewalk with all these people cheering us on.

  When he finally pulls away it’s not by much. “It’s happening,” he whispers. “Everything I’ve ever dreamed of, it’s all happening.”

  I search his face, trying to understand, but what I see confuses me even more. His eyes look almost black, his pupils dilated from the lack of light, and . . . and there’s anger there, determination in the set of his mouth, and there’s an energy radiating from him, an invisible need, a longing that crackles around him like static electricity.

  “Ash—”

  “Hush now.” He covers my mouth with his hand. “No need for us to be standing around on the sidewalk, talking in the cold.”

  He runs his hands over my arms, but I don’t mind the night’s chill. What unnerves me is this unknown element that has given Ash his crazed glow. Without another word he pulls me up to the bouncer, who waves us in immediately. “How’d you get on the list?” I ask as I trail behind into the club. The chill from outside is replaced by an almost muggy heat brought on by a crush of people moving to the rhythm of Jay-Z’s “Big Pimpin’.”

  “Because I’m me,” Ash says over the din. “Because things are changing.” He’s pulling me toward a staircase, toward another bouncer who checks Ash’s name and waves us up. Ash is taking the steps two at a time now, as if running toward a new kind of salvation. The space we enter is illuminated with red-tinged lighting; the walls are lined in a brocade-textured fabric of gold and rouge, elements of purposely worn luxury from a different era. People are seated on the black tufted leather of love seats placed strategically around low wooden tables with leather trim. I recognize the man sitting with those women there, but I can’t say if I’ve seen him on a small or bi
g screen. The room is filled with people like that, actors and actresses who have had just enough exposure to make you look twice, but not enough that you would know their name. There’s a small crowded bar here, and this is where Ash leads me first, maneuvering us through the horde. Pushing my back against the counter, he takes a wide stance, so when he leans in to kiss my neck he’s straddling my body, making it clear to the world that I’m his. He looks up, above my head to the pretty bartender in a skintight tank. He orders us drinks, but even though he’s right next to me, the pounding of the music and the confusion in my head make it impossible for me to understand what he’s telling her. And yet I hear him so clearly when he brings his lips to my ear and whispers, “You’re going to like this.”

  “Ash, what—?”

  But he quiets me again, this time by placing a hand on each of my shoulders, at the base of my neck, holding my gaze. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

  “I see . . . I see . . .” I hesitate; what does he need from me? “I see my man,” I say lamely. “I see the one I’m fated to be with.”

  “Do you see greatness?” he asks, a tinge of insecurity in his voice now. “Or do you see failure?”

  Really, these are the choices? “Greatness,” I say meekly. “Ash . . .”

  Two shots are delivered by the bartender, tinged pink in color, a wedge of lime split by the edge of each tiny glass. Ash drops money onto the bar and lifts his drink. “To greatness then.”

  I smile uncertainly and accept the toast, throwing back the drink before I can think better of it. I can easily identify the mingled flavors: cranberry, vodka, triple sec, a variation of a Cosmo in a shot. But stronger, definitely stronger.

  “This project, this show, it’s better than The Sopranos,” he continues. “We’re bringing something new to America, to the world. We’re changing everything, and by being part of it I’m changing my life.”