Vessel, Book I: The Advent

by Tominda Adkins

And where was I on that day? I was sitting in the kitchen of a South Beach condo, writing my two weeks' notice while the regrettably familiar sounds of Jesse Cannon's carnal deeds shook down from the second floor.

  That’s right. Jesse Cannon.

  Yes. The Russian Opera darling turned Broadway sensation turned Hollywood explosion, Jesse Cannon. That one. Exotic accent. Golden throat. Irresistible lips. Zero discretion. A total vacuum.

  Don't get me wrong. By any standards of artistic talent, Jesse Cannon was a certified, card-carrying genius. He was the full package: a mesmerizing vocalist, a groundbreaking pianist, a schooled dancer, and a powerhouse of marketable personality. Lord knows the man could entertain. I hadn't been impressed so far by the feature film acting, but hey, I’m no critic. Just a personal assistant.

  And I was fed up.

  The way I see it, I had squandered nearly five golden years of my precious young life taking care of this tart. Most other women my age would've sacrificed a kidney―maybe both―to have my job. I spent practically every minute of every day with a two-time People's "Sexiest Man Alive". I have rubbed his shoulders. I have rubbed his feet. I have mixed thousands of drinks and walked many miles looking for the correct bottled water, to deliver the dry cleaning, to find misplaced designer sunglasses. I have cleaned up after exotic pets. I’ve fought off sharp-nailed groupies. I’ve been his unwilling partner in white water rafting, in bikram yoga, in strange diets, in rock climbing, in bungee jumping, and in some things I have forced myself to forget. I’ve nursed him through every illness, enabled every bad habit, and coached him through every break down, freak out, bad trip, and conniption fit since day one.

  And yes. I have seen him naked. Please stop asking.

  It was just before sunrise when I pulled the notice from the grip of my portable inkjet printer, eager to sign and date it. The noises from upstairs were beginning to transition from thuds and screams to footsteps and conversation. Which meant it was time to call a cab. I paced around for a few minutes and then started chopping papayas. I knew what I was doing.

  The cab arrived just as the sun was starting to peek out of the sea, casting its glinting, orange light across the water and into the floor-to-ceiling picture windows, which bore many interesting smudge marks from the night before. I was grabbing a grapefruit from the stainless steel fridge when my phone rang.

  It was Jesse's agent, Margot. The bitch. She would call from Tokyo, knowing it was six in the morning here. I wedged the phone against my shoulder and started to answer her questions, how the tour was going, if Jesse had signed the most recent contracts she'd emailed, whether we'd seen the new cologne ad or not, because apparently it had sparked some kind of Catholic outrage.

  I interjected a "yep" whenever necessary and peeled grapefruit while pretending to write down details for February's Japan performances. Those were a few months away still, but I had the dates memorized already. With my free ear, I heard the sounds of two very satisfied fans coming down the stairs, a pair of stragglers from the night's impromptu after-party. They stopped in the entryway and looked at me expectantly, like they always do, both sharing that aura of quiet giddiness that often envelops people in the aftermath of a world-famous fuck. These two were fairly typical: flat abs, bronzed skin (waxed, for certain), and big, beautiful doe eyes. Brazilian maybe? Jesse does love his Latin men.

  You heard right, ladies. Now don't go barking up the wrong tree.

  I gestured wearily to the cab waiting below, and the pair saw themselves out with polite smiles, leaving me to squint against the blazing Florida sunrise. Without wasting a movement, I tossed a chili pepper into the blender and topped everything with a shot of vodka and generous shakes of ginger. Upstairs, I could hear a perfect opera aria being belted out over the roaring of the shower. Almost time. I rushed Margot off the phone and turned the blender on full steam.

  My timing was such that, when Jesse Cannon came down minutes later, wearing only jeans and his most effective hangover sunglasses, I was pouring his usual "Hair of the Greyhound Post-Coitus Julius" into a chilled glass, complete with a lemon gumdrop on top.

  I was awesome at my job.

  Jesse perked up considerably the moment he saw it, making with the jazz hands and shouting biblical exaltations in a grating falsetto. I did not consider this an unusual greeting.

  "Morning," I mumbled, subtly sliding my two weeks' notice off the counter. I felt suddenly anxious about Jesse's obliviousness to my decision. Maybe I should have announced it more gradually? Or waited until the end of the tour? No, I told myself. No way. Today was the day, come hell or high water. Finding the best moment would call for prudence and tact, but I would not allow myself to turn tail now.

  Jesse slid up behind me, squeezed me with a passing one-armed hug, and took the glass from the counter.

  "Oh, these nights, Jordan," he moaned. Perfect pitch, that moan. "I can't keep this up, I have to sleep. You see how I'm starting to look old?" He thrust his chin upward and made a few ounces of the drink disappear between pouting lips.

  I shrugged. "Your sins will find you out."

  Jesse swiveled to face me with a wicked smile. "Thank god, they always do," he purred, then began humming "Young Girl" and bumping me vigorously with his overworked hips.

  Before you get the wrong idea, this was a fairly typical way for Jesse to interact with me. With anyone, really, but I had long since become immune. And that, honestly, was the problem: the immunity. When it feels normal to be harmlessly dry-humped in the morning by an outrageously famous person, then it is simply time to move on.

  I swatted him off and paced around the counter, folding and unfolding the paper in my hands. My resolve was strengthened, but my nerves remained unwilling. Prudence, I reminded myself. Jesse went right on strutting around the general area of the kitchen, chattering between gulps, undaunted. "Was that Margot on the phone? Do we know anything about Chicago yet? Oh my god, that one guy had the fugliest tattoo I have ever seen on his―"

  Fuck prudence. There was never going to be a proper moment.

  "Jesse." I held a hand up. "I have something to tell you first."

  "But listen, listen," he insisted, "it was a―"

  I stopped him again, placing my notice on the counter between us. "I have to give you something."

  "Oh?"

  Jesse plucked up the sheet of paper and contemplated it over the tilt of the glass as he drank, removing his sunglasses. I could tell he wasn't really reading it word for word, because nothing was registering on his face.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "It's a two weeks' notice."

  "What's a two weeks' notice? Do we have any straws?"

  Sometimes I don't know if it's just the Russian, like maybe there are phrases he hasn't heard yet, or if it's just the dumb.

  I took a deep breath. "It's me letting you know that I'm only working for you for two more weeks."

  It took a minute. Then he cocked his head and looked at me, like the lovable animal set free at the end of a Disney movie, not quite getting it. It was evident that by the end of this, I would be the little girl forced to shout and throw sticks at him before riding away in Pa's truck, leaving him alone in the wild.

  "Don't get upset," I said, knowing I would have to be as blunt as possible. There's no dancing around an issue with Jesse Cannon, or he will be moonwalking to another subject in no time. He needed to know that I was serious. "I've been looking at other options."

  "What? Jordan! Why?" Jesse put the glass down to imply how alarmed he was. He made a good show of it, letting his dimpled jaw slack just slightly and everything.

  "It's just too much, Jesse," I said. "I've reached my limit with this job and I need to move on."

  "I don't understand."

  I really wanted to bypass specific reasons, although countless examples came to mind. Like the time I ran almost the entire length of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade for a particular scarf, or the time I had to break into a Malibu beach mansion to
retrieve the headline-worthy sex tapes being wagered as blackmail. Or how about the time he broke my glasses on the red carpet at the Grammys?

  Need motivation to switch to contacts? Try having a Best Metal Performance nominee escort you out of the men's room. That's all I'm saying.

  Anyway, it appeared that examples were necessary. I started mild:

  "I haven't had a vacation in two years, for starters."

  "Oh, what are you talking about?" Jesse smirked dismissively, hopping back with effortless grace to sit on the counter. "We were just in Maui for two weeks!"

  "That was your vacation!" I jabbed a finger toward him. "I spent the first three nights running to buy condoms and holding your head over the toilet. The only time I even saw the ocean was when you demanded genuine kelp for some recipe, and I stepped on an urchin and got an infection." Kicking off a flip-flop, I lifted my right foot up as far as I could without falling over. "Remember that part of the vacation?"

  "Oh. Yeah." Looking at the scarred sole of my foot rang a bell. Jesse's nose curled. "Yeah, that was gross."

  "Jesse!"

  "That was just ... nasty."

  "Jesse!"

  "Ugh! Put it away already!" Jesse retched and returned the glass to his lips, stretching against the counter in a feline way. "So what time is my bus getting here? Do we have time for shiatsu? Go check and see if there's anyone available this early."

  He popped the dissolving yellow gumdrop straight up into the air, and I watched it follow a perfect trajectory back down into his waiting mouth. When he saw that I was still standing there, arms crossed and glaring, he looked genuinely surprised.

  "Go on," he said, with a shooing motion. "Go, go."

  Unbelievable, right?

  I snatched the paper out of his hand and held it up to his face. "Acknowledge this. Now."

  "Enough of that." Jesse guided my arm down and smiled entreatingly. "Let's do something for you, then. Shiatsu? Mimosas? New jeans? You could use new jeans."

  "Jesse. We are going to talk about this―"

  "Jordan, honey. Look at these things." He ignored me, gesturing at my perfectly attractive, comfortable jeans. Dropping down to his knees, he spun me around by the waist. "Look at this ass! Look at it! You are not glorifying that ass. You need to glorify it. Glorify. The. Ass. Get our stuff. Let’s go."

  "You get away from my ass!" I couldn't help but laugh, but I whirled around and stared down at him nonetheless, my glare softening. "Jesse, I’m serious about this."

  "Then what do you want?" He put his hands out beseechingly, still on his knees.

  "I don’t want anything. I don't want jeans. I don't want a vacation. I want to quit. That’s it."

  "Just ask, girl." He wasn't hearing me. "Whatever makes you stay, it's yours."

  I stared at him, my nerves fraying. Now I have seen the worst of this man, the very worst of him. But I can't go any farther without putting a word in for his beauty.

  It has powers.

  Even as hungover and exhausted from meaningless group sex as he was at the moment, Jesse Cannon looked alarmingly ... perfected. The good people at Vogue never had to airbrush a thing. Flaxen hair falling in absurd waves down to his shoulders. Eyes the color of honey, eyes which―trust me, I know―can make you do just about anything. The same applies to his dimples, and his peculiarly feminine face. And that body. God, the man's body was a drag queen’s dream―long and poised and taut, refined in every way. Jesse Cannon was a twenty-six year old masterpiece.

  Thank god I lost any shred of sexual desire I had for him around the time he described his annual colonic cleanse to me.

  And so now this gorgeous man was kneeling before me, begging me to stay, offering anything I desired. Lucky me, right?

  "Jesse ..." I groaned and sat down at the counter. "I don’t want anything. I just can’t work for you forever, that's all. So please don't take it so personally, okay?"

  Jesse didn't say anything right away. He stood up and slumped down on the barstool next to me, leaning until his head rested on my shoulder. Golden hair tumbled into my line of sight. I was too tired, too defeated, to move it out of the way.

  "But what would I do without you?" he asked softly.

  Probably drown in the shower, I thought, preparing to let the matter rest, at least for the moment. But in two weeks, I told myself, I was out of there, no matter what. My signature said so.

  Side by side, we watched the sun and ocean do their dazzling thing.

  "Jordan, I need you."

  I rolled my eyes. "Now you tell me ...."

  "I do. I can talk to you. And sometimes I feel like I'm really starting to lose it."

  I frowned. Jesse didn't say things like that, not unless tequila was involved. If he wanted to appeal to my sympathies that badly, well, he could try all day. I stared at the ocean, fighting its brightness. It was hurricane season, but the water looked so still and clear. A clean, flat horizon. I could almost taste it.

  "What do you mean, lose it?" I asked, fully on guard.

  Jesse eased off my shoulder and shook his head. He swirled the remnants in his glass and shrugged, a poor attempt at nonchalance.

  "I keep having these dreams," he said.

  If I only knew, I would’ve run like hell.

  C H A P T E R 3