Vessel, Book I: The Advent

by Tominda Adkins

Every evening during the height of summer, for a brief window of about five minutes, the last streams of sunlight coming into the apartment would become unbearably bright. The light bounced between buildings and through the tall windows at just such an angle, and with such great intensity, that it would blind anyone in the room.

  I was protected. I slept on a twin mattress, in my designated corner, out of the dying sun's aim. So it was Jesse Cannon's voice that woke me up, and never the light.

  "All The Difference". That was the name of the song that came out of my CD alarm clock, which was plugged into the wall next to my head. The same song that had awakened me, always two hours before my night shift, nearly every evening for the past three weeks.

  This was not a coincidence.

  I programmed the alarm to play that song. It made my roommates homicidal, that particular track, but I wasn't the only person on earth overplaying it. You couldn't go out for lunch without hearing that song at least once, not since it had been featured in some romantic comedy the winter before. And though it thrilled me to see that finally, finally, the rest of the world was starting to catch on―the world outside New York, beyond Broadway―it also made me feel sort of ... possessive. I didn't mind sharing him with a city, with opera connoisseurs and lusting fanboys. But I wasn't quite ready to let the rest of the world have him.

  Let's get one thing straight: Jesse Cannon was not the reason I decided to move to New York. That had been the decision of someone young, bored, and in possession of a useless business administration degree. I moved to New York because I had this idea in my head that I wanted to be a bartender, and I had friends who'd moved to Queens for grad school. Friends with an extra couple of square feet on the floor of their crumbling, roasting little apartment. So that's exactly where I wound up, for a little more than a year: on the floor.

  New York was savage and tiresome, but it had its saving points. It had cheap thrills and endless opportunities to practice the craft of bartending. It had amusing people and picturesque winters and good pizza. And, for another week at least, it had Jesse Cannon.

  Jesse Cannon, born Yeshiv Corsakov.

  Jesse Cannon, who'd dropped out of Juilliard to focus on his pick of Broadway roles.

  Jesse Cannon, already huge in Japan.

  I had never been a fan before, of anyone or anything. Sure, I had always been fond of the Cardigans and CCR, and I preferred certain brands of macaroni-and-cheese over others, but I'd never been a fan. I'd never understood what compelled people to shell out hundreds of hard-earned dollars for tickets, to camp out before shows, to squabble and battle for sweat-soaked T-shirts.

  Until Jesse Cannon.

  Until I heard one of his songs in a crowded grocery on Boylston, and went, out of inane curiosity, to one of his last free concerts. I'll never forget that performance. I went alone. Seat 32-J. I wept. I applauded until my hands were red and stinging.

  Before my first year in the city had passed, I'd sat through maybe a dozen more of his shows, whatever I could save up for, any chance I could get to see him. He was just so impressive, so original and bizarre and beautiful. The way he played piano, the way he moved, his nightlife reputation in the tabloids. And his voice. Oh, that voice. It was the most perfect thing on earth then, I mean it. It was so clear and full it could just break your heart, without a single catch in it, like a cloudless blue sky. There's no way I can describe how haunting it was, or the way it made people feel. It almost hurt to hear it. Can you understand what I mean?

  At any rate, it was a good voice to wake up to. It hit me around the first chorus that I didn't really have to be up, that it was my night off, but I rolled off my mattress anyway and cranked up the volume. No one was around to mind. The other two people currently squatting in this one-bedroom unit were still at work. I knew this because we all worked at the same dive bar, a little place frequented by Juilliard kids because of its location, and because it served watercress sandwiches, a favorite among ballerinas.

  Shower. Teeth. Vitamins. All while singing along, as loud and off-key as I pleased. I jumped into a stiff pair of jeans, the ones that made my ass look square, and the "Pink Ivory" T-shirt, the one from Jesse's second solo show. I pulled my hair back, slapped myself awake, and did a quick evaluation in the mirror.

  Meh.

  My skin always looked peaked then, pale but not in a pretty, luminous way, and was usually offset by a pimple or two. Puffy blue eyes, framed by plain, wire-rim glasses. Straight, light brown hair. No bangs, not then. No one had shown me yet what choppy bangs could do for my particular face-shape. No one had booted my cigarette habit or whipped my skin into shape, or paid for my Lasik surgery.

  My phone went off―Jesse Cannon ringtone, of course―interrupting my self-assessment.

  Work.

  And that was it, right there: answering that goddamn call from work. I cannot tell you the hours I've spent wondering what my life would be like today if I had just ignored that call. I still cannot tell you what possessed me to answer it.

  It was Steve, my manager. Long story short, the place was crazy and he wanted me to come in on my only night off.

  "No way," I balked. "I have plans."

  "Bullshit, Jordan. You have a tube of cookie dough and stolen cable."

  I should mention here that Steve was also my roommate.

  "What I do with my night off is none of your business!"

  "It is when you screw up my HBO queue," he countered. "Whatever. Look, you have to come in tonight. Please."

  He pleaded, I refused, and this went on for almost a full minute, which, in crowded bar minutes, is a significant amount of time. He was that desperate. The place was that packed.

  "Trust me, you want to be here for this," he added, with a hint of amusement. "You'll hate yourself if you don't get here quick."

  I wasn't falling for it. "For what? Fat tips?"

  "Just trust me!" He hung up.

  I snapped my phone shut, appalled. Just who did he think he was? I'd been holding up my end of the rent. I replaced the milk carton, every time. Did he really think I needed the money that bad?

  Prick. I did need it that bad.

  I was lacing up my slip resistant shoes before the sun was completely down, grudgingly gathering pocket change for the bus and going over the math in my head. Busy night. Empty pockets. And Jesse Cannon's final shows coming up this weekend, the last performances before his impending move to L.A.. I could make enough on a busy night to swing a scalped ticket, easy. And now I could negotiate a night off to see the show.

  Thirty minutes later I was in downtown Manhattan, trudging toward The Crescent's blinking lights. Steve sure hadn't been lying. People were packing themselves through the front door, forming a jumbled line against the wall. The bouncer looked hopelessly out of his element, funneling in not just the usual types, but an overwhelming mix of scene snobs, hipsters, leather guys, and drag queens.

  I ducked around to the service alley and through the kitchen door, stunned to find no chaos in the back of the house. Quite the opposite, actually. The entire staff was crowded by the swinging doors, their backs to the kitchen. None of them even noticed me entering.

  What the hell was going on? I strung on an apron, immediately noting with delight that a Jesse Cannon song was playing in the dining room, a welcome but weird omen. "All The Difference", the very song I'd used for my alarm, no less. Only this was a version I'd never heard before, a beautiful, more playful take. The original? A live track maybe? Too many voices were singing along to tell.

  This is why I don't work karaoke night, I reminded myself. Too out of control.

  Steve burst through a cluster of cooks while I was washing my hands. He grabbed both my soapy wrists and shook me, looking dually thrilled and panicked.

  "He's here!" he gasped, hopping in place.

  "Who?" I asked, shaking him off. "The health department guy?"

  Before I knew what was happening, Steve dragged me to the front of the house, stopped me abruptly b
ehind the bar, grabbed the sides of my head, and twisted it around so that I was facing the far corner of the place.

  "He's here."

  My heart bungee-jumped to my feet and my jaw went slack. He was there. Way in the back, seated at our dilapidated piano―which had never been tuned, to my knowledge―, barely more visible than a mirage between all the people who'd packed themselves into the dining room to see him.

  Jesse Cannon.

  No one heard me scream. Too many people were singing.

  "He's been here a whole hour and I don't know what the hell he wants!" Steve started pulling me back to the other end of the bar, rambling about drinks. "Some sweet thing with strawberry liqueur but not pink? Is that even possible? Something about a sparkling boy? Used to get it here all the time, my ass. That was three years ago. I don't even know who worked here three years ago!"

  "Boye Sparkle," I said, automatically.

  Steve threw his arms forward and hugged me. A little too hard. "I knew you'd know what he was talking about!"

  "Yeah, it's champagne with―"

  "I don't care what it is, just make it happen!" Steve giddily pushed me over to the bar fridge and started hopping again.

  "But we don't have the stuff!"

  "Make it happen!"

  I spun to the shelves, glancing over labels. Jesse Cannon. No mango purée. Jesse Cannon. No champagne in the house. Jesse Cannon, I'm sorry. I can't make you a Boye Sparkle.

  But I can make you something better.

  A kind of emergency mode came over me, and Steve gave me a wide berth. I remember it like an out-of-body experience, like I was standing there watching myself turn bottles and pour liquor. Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to do it at all. I would've broken something with my trembling hands or puked into the blender. My nerves were the only hurdle. The drink was the easy part, always had been for me. If it had to get you drunk and it had to taste positively exquisite, then I was your girl.

  Steve hadn't hired me just because I was his friend.

  I still remember every ingredient, every measurement, every ounce of that drink. Toss four ounces of orange juice and a shot of vodka in the blender with a few strawberries, purée setting. Infuse with soda water in a tall glass, drop in two ounces of strawberry liqueur, peach schnapps, and a touch of scotch. Coat a fat strawberry in course cane sugar and set it oh-so-carefully on top.

  Steve and I stared at it in wonder, as if the concoction had been poured into the Holy Grail.

  And then he whisked the drink out from under me. I watched, holding my breath, as he weaved through the pandemonium, all the way to the piano. I wanted to look away, should have looked away, but I just couldn't take my eyes off of him, not while he was right there.

  Jesse Cannon took the drink into his right hand without so much as a sideways glance, his other hand still rolling carelessly across the keys. A break came in the chorus and, still playing, he put his outrageously symmetrical, silken lips to the edge of the glass, tilted it back ...

  I saw him make a face like something had hit him between the eyes.

  He immediately set the glass down on the piano's lid and went right back to singing, playing with both hands, never missing a single beat.

  The bridge came, then the ending chorus. Jesse belted out the last of the song, oblivious to the fact that he had just crushed a young woman irreparably. As all those people continued piling in, lining up around the building, each of them vying to get closer to the decade's most beloved up-and-coming celebrity―my celebrity―I just stood there behind the bar, trying to think of a place private enough to curl up and die in.

  What had I done wrong? Was it the sugar? No, scotch and vodka don't normally complement, but when paired with just the right―

  "Excuse me!"

  I looked up and made probably the most embarrassing sound ever produced in the human throat in the history of forever, something between a goose honk and a whimper.

  Jesse Cannon stood directly across the bar from me.

  I had seen him in person many times, it's true, but never this close, never like this. It was quite obvious that he'd been drinking long before I'd shown up, yet the effect only enhanced his perfection. Every misplaced hair was spun gold; every bead of sweat was a drop of ambrosia. Those unbelievable lips of his were smoothed into a wicked smile, though his amber eyes were strangely severe, the eyes of a god about to pass judgement. I half expected lasers to shoot out of them.

  "I need to know who made this." His demand soared over all the clamor behind him. He nudged the empty glass forward.

  Steve sacrificed me, pointed at me without pause or mercy. I was frozen. Helpless to defend myself, I cowered in my own hideous mortality.

  "Is there something wrong?" Steve started. "I could offer―"

  "You can offer me anything later, honey." Jesse winked at him before shifting his attention back to me. "But this, this," he purred, tapping the glass. And then he moaned, as if there weren't words, closing his eyes rapturously.

  My knees liquefied. My eyes stung because I had stopped blinking entirely. I couldn't move, much less respond.

  The throng of people behind Jesse were whooping, pressing close. Someone slapped his famous rear, and he swiftly returned the favor before pivoting back to me. He leaned down from his lofty height and put his elbows on the bar, as if to invite continued assaults from behind while he tormented me.

  "Oh, you liked that show, huh?" Jesse jerked his chiseled chin at me, and I remembered what I was wearing. My stupid shirt, I groaned inwardly. My stupid fucking Jesse Cannon shirt. Stupid stupid stupid ....

  I backed up, reaching behind me for the glassware shelf. I must have looked for all the world like a girl reaching for something to bludgeon a snake with. I had never been so terrified in my life.

  "D-Do you want another one?" I warbled, getting my hand around a clean flute glass―

  "Oh, no, darling. I want you."

  ―and dropped it promptly to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

  Some guy sidled up, and without even looking to see who it was, Jesse slinked an arm around his waist. He lifted his free hand and rolled his fingers at me hypnotically. "Come, come, come ...."

  Steve pushed me forward and smacked me against the bar.

  "Everybody!" Jesse spun away suddenly and shouted in a startlingly loud tenor. The room roared in response, and Jesse leaned back against the bar, so close I could smell the new denim. "Where will I be next week?"

  Woeful booing broke out. "Los Angeles!" people shouted. "Leaving us!" they cried. "In my pants!" yelled one of the leather guys.

  Jesse jumped up straight. "But where am I tonight?"

  "New York!"

  "New York!"

  "My pants!"

  "New York," Jesse confirmed. Like clockwork, someone thrust a shot into his hand, and he lifted it into the air. "Na zdarov'ye!"

  Whatever that meant. The resounding cheer was unintelligible and endless. Jesse drained the shot and wheeled back around, beaming, hunting down my eyes again. His face was startling this close up, its glow fueled by all the cheering. And the additional alcohol, no doubt.

  "Come with me," he commanded, concealing a slur. "Come to L.A. with me, and drive my car and mix my drinks. Make all of them as good as that one, girlfriend, and I'll never leave home without you."

  Oh God. Jesus. Bloody Mary. Jim Beam. My legs felt useless. I gripped the bar for support.

  "I've been out there!" Jesse was raving. "And those people in L.A. can't pour their way out of a wet paper cat."

  Agreeable cheering all around. Jesse never had to make sense to work up a crowd.

  Jesse outstretched a hand to me. A beautiful, elegant, piano-loving hand.

  "Come on," he grinned coyly. "You can't possibly have a reason to say no."

  Something in me unfastened and flew away as I stared at that hand, like I'd just gulped down a tank of helium. The feeling terrified me, because I didn't know what it was. There were so
many things I didn't know, that I couldn't have known.

  I didn't know that one week later, I would be carrying twice my weight in Louis Vitton luggage through the JFK International Airport, or that everything I enjoyed about life at the moment, every friend or aspiration I had, would soon vanish into the vacuum of one person's demands.

  I didn't know that at that same moment, it was still late evening in Filbert, Missouri, where Jackson was shaking the fire-marshal's hand at his own induction ceremony. Or that, at 3:00 a.m. London time, Corin was squeezing his elderly mother's hand as she passed away. That in the late and lazy Seoul morning, Su Kim Khan was being dumped on the curb outside his employer's residence, hours after having alkaline poured into his eyes. That a storm had kicked on the generators at the Emirates International Hospital just before dawn, and that Ghiyath Ayman was waking up in the dark after a year of endless sleep, confused, terrified, and without a name.

  There were a million reasons to say no. I just didn't know any of them yet.

  "Okay," I heard myself say, and I took Jesse's hand.

  He was already holding another drink, some electric blue thing. Without spilling a drop of it and without releasing my hand, he leaped onto the bar and hoisted me up beside him. A tall drag queen in neon yellow thrust a shot glass into my hand, and Jesse wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close. I went numb. I couldn't see. I smelled strawberries and vodka and music and sex and magic. He howled and the room howled back.

  "What's your name?" he asked into my ear, under all the cheering.

  "Jordan."

  "To Jordan!" he sang, and punched his glass toward the ceiling. More screams. And then Jesse Cannon, Jesse Fucking Cannon, pulled me right off my feet and kissed me fully and fleetingly on the mouth. My toes touched down again. I threw the shot down my throat and never felt the burn, because that was when I passed out and fell off the bar.

  Guess who paid for the visit to the emergency room? And guess who had a new job and a minor concussion in the morning?

  C H A P T E R 2 3