by Kyra Davis
Can I feel pain? Physical pain? I wonder as I go to the sink and wash the blood and alcohol off the shard of glass. Surely I’m not too drunk for pain, am I? Because if I can’t feel pain . . . then I’m not alive. You have to feel things to live. Almost without thinking about it I find a spot on my thigh where my jeans are ripped and use the glass to make a small cut into the skin. It’s really barely a surface wound, and yet I can see that thin line of blood bubbling up, becoming more pronounced with every second.
And I feel pain.
I look up at the TV and see that an alien worm is infecting human hosts, making them homicidal. Wouldn’t that be nice, if we could so clearly identify what gets under our skin and makes us do the stupid shit we do?
I look down at my wrist and make another cut, this time just a little to the left of the vein. More blood, more pain, and yet I’m still here. Gently I put the glass down on the countertop. And then I break down and cry.
CHAPTER 20
WE’RE PLAYING AT 1960 tonight, a reference to the street address, not the year—although they have clearly tried to integrate a beatnik sensibility into the place, with the cocktail waitresses dressed in all black and sporting ridiculous-looking berets. Everything about this nightclub feels like it’s trying just a little too hard, and although the location is good, this place just hasn’t caught on. As we move to set up I can see that tonight’s crowd is sparse, one of the worst we’ve had in a while. Undoubtedly this is one of the second-rate clubs that Ash thinks are beneath him.
“Hey,” Brad whispers as I start to walk past him setting up his drums. Traci has already hooked up her keyboard, Tonio’s guitar is ready to go. Both are outside, getting a smoke in before we begin.
“Hey,” I reply, sticking my hands into my pockets. It’s almost 10 p.m. and I got out of bed just four hours ago.
“New look?” He gestures to my hands. I’m wearing what I affectionately call my dominatrix gloves. Long leather gloves that go all the way up past my elbows.
“Had them for a while and figured it was time to bust ’em out.” I adjust the one on my right arm. They’re not going to be the most comfortable things to wear while performing under the stage lights, but they look hot and they cover up the angry red scratches on my left wrist. Maybe if we went full-on Marilyn Manson the marks might be a plus, but I’m not ready to go there just yet.
I glance meaningfully out at the floor. The stage is dark, and being back by the drums makes us inconspicuous, but still, it’s not really good form to be hanging out on the stage before a performance.
He gets up, examines the drums, and then steps off into the wings with me.
“Do we need to talk?”
“Nope.” I glance around at my surroundings. This place is pristine. It’s almost as if someone has taken out their anxiety and aggression on the dust mites.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep . . . well, okay, I do have one thing to say. Thank you for hearing me and stepping aside.” I shrug. “That’s it. Now there really is nothing more to talk about.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Do I get to say one thing, too?”
“Nope, we’re done.” I look over to the door and expect Tonio and Traci to come through any moment. “We can go straight to pretending nothing happened.”
Brad lets out a low laugh. “That seems to be your go-to strategy.”
“Yep.” I stretch each arm in front of me, limbering up before the performance. “I am exceptionally good at pretending that things are other than what they are. Been doing it since I was four.”
Brad studies me, taking in my expression, my body language. “Are you okay?”
Just then Tonio and Traci come through the door and I gesture to them to hurry. We’re supposed to be on in a minute. Under my breath I say to Brad, “I’m okay enough.”
We all walk out together, finding our places onstage. Within seconds the lights go up and we dive in. Always better to introduce yourself after the first few tunes, after the crowd has learned to love you.
I stand front and center, pouring my anger and angst right into the mic. It’s a risky way to start. Angry women aren’t really in right now. Even Alanis Morissette has gone Zen. But I don’t know that I have any gentleness to share at the moment. Right now I want to dig my fingernails into the world and just rip it up. And so that’s what I do, song after song. The audience doesn’t resist, but I’m not sure they’re entirely with me, either. I sense their trepidation, I can hear the conversations they’ll have when they leave. They’ll say I’m bitter, mean-spirited, a man hater. If I were a man singing about women like this—say, Eminem—I’d be a revolutionary.
The injustice of it all just pisses me off more. I can hear the spite dripping from my tone, from the way I enunciate certain lyrics and scream others. I see the problem. Even Eminem balances his rage with humor, and I’m not balancing mine with anything. I don’t feel balanced. I just feel frustrated, and angry, and . . .
. . . and there he is. It’s Ash, standing in the back, just like he was that first night he reentered my life at Apocalypse. But now he’s holding a bouquet of red roses and wearing a hangdog expression that makes it clear he’s here to express regrets.
And I stop singing. Just like that, in the middle of the song, I stop singing. It takes Tonio and Traci a few chords to figure out that they should stop, too. Brad on the other hand stopped with me, so the last bit of this song the crowd heard was an instrumental melody, unmolested by my angry ramblings or the beating of the drums.
And now we’ve all stopped, the rest of the band members looking at each other nervously, the crowd murmuring, unsure if this is part of the show or some kind of epic fuckup they’ll be able to tell people about later. And I’m just standing there, looking at Ash, who’s looking at me.
Just as things go from weird to extremely uncomfortable, I bring the mic to my lips again. “I want to do something different,” I say in an amplified whisper. “We haven’t performed this next one in a while, but now seems like a good time for a revisit.”
I turn to Traci and mouth the word “Want.”
Traci arches one eyebrow. We haven’t done this one in ages and it’s questionable whether everyone in the band has it memorized well enough to execute it well. But nonetheless, she runs her fingers over the keys, produces the first few chords of the song, cluing Tonio and Brad in to what we’re doing, and slowly I pivot back to the room. After two full counts of eight I start to sing:
I don’t want to hate
the man that you are
I want to feel the laughter
I don’t want the wound
that’s hurting my heart
Give me something lighter
That night that we had, I want it again
I don’t understand this future
Let’s go back, let’s do it again
but make it last forever
make it last forever
I don’t want this loss
this stab to my soul
Give me something better
It was a dream
Then the nightmare unfolds
Can’t you give me your forever?
That night that we had, I want it again
I don’t understand this future
Let’s go back, let’s do it again
but make it last forever
make it last forever
I want it to last forever
The crowd loves it. It’s the first thing I’ve sung tonight that gets the hoots and hollers I’ve been wanting. And both Tonio and Traci are totally on their game. They remembered the notes and the rhythm perfectly. But Brad’s dragging a bit, which isn’t like him. Of course he’s not as familiar with the piece, so perhaps it’s to be expected.
And Ash? Ash gets it. Or at least he thinks he does. It’s funny how different this is from the last time I saw him at a performance. That had been confusing, but it had felt like, like somehow he was a manifestation of all my dreams and nightmares, an ap
parition from the past, a prediction for the future, a god, a demon.
Now . . . now he looks very human. He lifts the flowers in the air, silently broadcasting his apology. The cheers of the room have softened me and I’m charmed by the gesture. “Now we can tear it up,” I say into the mic. And off we go, to another, more upbeat tune. The room is finally warm; they like us, and perhaps more important, they’re rooting for us. Ash is digging it, too. His body is moving ever so slightly to my music. For once I am moving Ash rather than the other way around. I draw a unique sense of empowerment from that. Perhaps that’s reflected in my performance, because the crowd is just getting more and more enthusiastic. It doesn’t mean anything’s forgiven, and it certainly doesn’t mean anything’s been fixed, but it does mean that this time onstage is giving me the therapeutic relief I’ve come to rely on. The beat of Brad’s drum is lifting me, the whine of Tonio’s guitar is drowning out the perpetual chorus of self-doubt, Traci’s keyboard has given my life a sense of harmony. And my voice, my voice is my true savior. I lift and lower it, giving it a rough edge here and then a smooth gentleness there. These little touches grant me the illusion of self-control and personal strength. When I’m here, onstage, the world has meaning and I get to decide what that meaning is. The only reminder that it’s ever otherwise is these stupid gloves, and half the time during this performance I don’t even notice them, and when I do, well, I push the reason for them aside. I can do that when I’m onstage.
When we finally wrap, our little crowd goes wild. We’ve redeemed ourselves. They love us. In this moment everything really is okay.
And then the spotlight disappears. We’re in the dark and there’s nothing to do but walk away from the love.
What is the opposite of stage fright? What do you call it when you are terrified of the moment you must step away from the spotlight? With every step into the club’s back room my anxiety builds. The owner is here, standing to the side, nodding his approval, an envelope full of money in his hand. This is a job after all, more an act of prostitution than passion. I accept his congratulations as I take the payment, try to pretend that my hands aren’t shaking. The owner doesn’t linger. He goes off into the club to survey the scene. Tonio and Traci are already collecting their instruments. There’s a rave on the other end of town and they want to get there as quickly as possible. I could go, too, drop some X for a few hours of artificial bliss. Maybe I should. I mean, Jesus, who am I being good for? What’s the point?
A hand is placed on my back. “You still okay enough?”
I look up to see Brad, those beautiful deep-set eyes looking down at me, and for just a second I consider falling against his chest, asking him if he would wrap those big strong arms around me again, see if they can protect me from . . . everything.
“I—” But before I can even finish the thought, Ash steps into the space. For a moment he just stands there, about fifteen feet away, looking at me, then Brad, then me again, the roses taking on a rather Goth-like appearance in the dim lighting. My heart is pounding so hard it actually hurts. When he finally does walk toward us it feels like his pace is particularly languid.
“Hey there, Luv,” he says quietly, and then he cups my chin and places his lips against mine, right there, with Brad’s hand still on my back. It takes me aback, not just because of Brad but because of how we left things last night. Part of me wants to smack him upside the head, hard. But to do that here . . . in front of Brad, knowing Tonio and Traci will be by my side in a moment, I just feel like I’ve hit my week’s quota for drama.
And so I let him kiss me, and Brad removes his hand.
When Ash finally pulls away his eyes immediately turn to Brad. “So,” he says, “you’re the new drummer. Awesome beat.” He lifts his hand for a fist bump.
Brad reciprocates the gesture with a wry smile. “And you’re the new boyfriend.”
“Not so new,” Ash corrects, pulling me to him, away from Brad, draping his arm over my shoulder. “She and I go way back.” He then turns back to me, his expression softening as he leans in to give me another kiss, this time on the cheek. “You were amazing tonight. And I know you wrote that song for me.”
I flush and look away.
“Hey.” He turns my face back to him, looks me in the eye. “I’ve never been so honored.” Again he switches his focus to Brad. “That song was about our first night together.”
“Yeah?” Brad asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “To me it sounded like it was about disappointment.”
I feel Ash tense, his grip on my shoulder involuntarily tightening. “Um,” I say awkwardly, “it’s about different things at different times I guess . . . Sort of depends on my mood when I sing it.”
Ash doesn’t even seem to hear me. He’s in a staring match with Brad. “You know what they say, the road of love is never smooth,” he finally replies. For once I let the cliché lie. “But Mercy and I always find our way back to one another,” he continues. “That’s what’s important. We’ve got an unbreakable connection. What you see before you?” He uses his free hand to gesture to the two of us. “This is fate.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Brad says simply. “I believe in choices.”
“Oh my God, are you Johnny Depp guy?”
I turn to see Traci clutching her keyboard lengthwise against her body. Tonio is right behind her with his guitar. I don’t know why they were onstage for so long after we finished, but at this point I’m just grateful they’re here now to interrupt this weirdness.
“Johnny Depp?” Ash asks, a huge grin spreading across his face. “That’s how you describe me?”
“Not only that,” Traci adds as she walks up to us. “She’s refusing to share you. I asked for a threeway and she totally shot me down. You must be pretty special.”
And now we’ve entered into a whole different kind of weirdness. I wrinkle my nose. I don’t know what’s worse, that Traci thinks that not offering your boyfriend up for a threeway makes him special or that she just implied that I’ve had threeways with all my previous nonspecial boyfriends. Probably the latter.
“I’m game for a threeway,” Tonio offers, and then casts his eyes on Brad. “What do ya say?” He gestures to Traci. “Should we hook her up?”
Traci and I exchange looks. We just got a peek inside Tonio’s closet.
“Okay,” Ash says with a laugh. “We’ll leave you guys to it.” He gives Brad a wink. “Mercy and I need a little alone time.” And then softer, a little more vulnerable, he turns to me. “We do, right?”
I give a small nod. He places the roses in my hand, which I accept without comment. And then, just like that, I let him lead me out. As we walk out the back exit I feel Brad’s eyes on me. I don’t even turn around to say good-bye.
Maybe leaving like this with Ash, the flowers he’s given me held against the crook of my leather-covered arm like I’m some sort of MTV beauty queen . . . maybe this is romantic.
Or maybe, just maybe, this is good-bye.
CHAPTER 21
WHEN WE STEP outside he turns to me. The streetlight above us makes his black hair shine and highlights the chiseled cut of his cheekbones. He’s so beautiful. But then, devils always are. He walks me up to his bike. “Here,” he says softly, “I got you something else, too.” He reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out a flat, square box. Without a word I take it and open it. It’s a Betsey Johnson necklace. Clunky and cute and fun and very me.
“Thank you,” I say simply and close the box.
“Least I could do,” he says with a sheepish smile that disappears quickly when I don’t smile back. “Where do you want to go?” he asks. “There’s a Denny’s a few blocks over, or you could hop on the back of my bike and we could be at Lori’s Diner in less than five. Or maybe your place? We could go there if you want privacy.”
I stare down at the red petals, almost black in this lighting. “I want you to take me to your home.”
He blinks, his body still. For the longest time he doesn
’t say anything at all.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. My voice sounds unnaturally loud in the stillness.
“It’s all the way in Santa Monica,” he finally says, his lips curling into a practiced smile.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s not exactly looking great right now. I, um, wasn’t expecting company.”
I swallow and look down at the sidewalk, which is covered in cracks and stains of unknown origins. “Either you take me to your place or we don’t talk. And I don’t mean we don’t talk tonight. I mean that there will be nothing left to say.” Finally I find the courage to look up and meet his gaze directly, and I can see both understanding and discomfort in his stare. “If we’re gonna do this, if we’re going to have any chance at all, you have to let me into your life. You have to at least care about me enough . . . you have to trust me enough to show me where you sleep at night. I . . . I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.”
Ash’s smile is gone. “I’ve . . . I’ve told you about my house in Santa Monica.”
“You have.”
“Yeah.” He glances down the street. “I . . . I may have made it sound a little nicer than it is.”
I laugh. Not a giggle, or a chuckle, a full-blown laugh. “Oh my God, Ash, if all you’re doing is trying to keep me from finding out that your place is a dump, we’ll have no problems. Really, I don’t care. I just need you to let me in.”
He continues to look off into the distance; the wind plays with his hair, reminding me of all the times I’ve done the same. We’ve shared so much intimacy while maintaining so much distance.
“Yeah,” he says again after almost a minute of silence. “Okay. You can follow me.” He sucks in a sharp breath of air and lets it out in a low whistle. “Get ready, you’re about to see my life.”
EVEN WITH THE light late-night traffic, it takes a while to get to Santa Monica. But tonight the distance doesn’t bother me. As I follow Ash’s bike I find myself bouncing between eagerness and apprehension. It’s not that I’m scared about what I’m going to see when I check out his digs, it’s that I’ve committed myself to talking to him about everything else once we’re there and to be honest, I’m not sure how that’s going to go. It could be that after driving all this way, I’ll be turning around and driving all the way home in less than twenty minutes.
