by S. J. Blaze
“Fuck,” he grunts. “Take care of my girl,” he says to the table and kisses me on the head before walking away.
“Lee, who the fuck are you? You look like the angel of sex tonight and you hang out with rockers? Day-am, I wanna be in your world,” Olivia says.
Lori adds. “You know, you kind of resemble that rocker chick in their band. What’s her name?” She looks at Olivia who adds. “Shooter.”
“Right, right Shooter. Are you her?” Lori continues.
I squint my eyes. “Oh most definitely. I lawyer by day, and by night turn into a hardcore rocker chick.” I laugh while stating it sarcastically. The best lies always have truth built in.
I’m all about truth…in lies.
They laugh with me, shaking their heads, because the notion is truly preposterous. That’s why it’s fantastic.
Suddenly, a pissed off Bull storms towards our table. He doesn’t ask to speak with me. Fuck no. He simply leans into the booth and picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder. My ass hangs out as the thong I’m reluctantly wearing easily broadcasts my ass cheeks.
“Bullet Harrison, get me the fuck down now! My ass is showing! You big muscle head. Dumb, dummy!” Apparently, I can’t think when my ass cheeks are escaping. He covers my ass with his big fat tatted hand to hide said cheeks and continues his trip down the hallway. I glance up to see Malice looking confused, still seated at the bar. “Intervene, dumb ass!” I scream. He shakes his head and smirks.
Finally, Bull throws me down against the wall by the back door. I immediately go into fight mode and start punching him in the chest, screaming. “Never ever touch me like that. I don’t deserve this. You ignore me and hang out with your friends. I’m not worthy of you.” I’m so livid as thoughts come at me from every which way.
He grabs my hands and throws them above my head with one hand, and then pushes his body hard against me, caging me in. His other hand goes over my mouth. “Shut the fuck up! You don’t fucking hit me. You got me. Calm down…you need to calm the fuck down. Now.” I’m still screaming and attempting to add my knee to his rather important man parts. I can get out of this, I know I can, but I can’t stand the idea of hurting Bully. It hurts to fight him. To fight with him.
I shut down and stop all movements.
“You good, baby girl?” he asks, his hand releasing my mouth. “You gonna listen?”
But I don’t nod. I’m breaking down, and I can feel myself crumbling. My bottom lip starts to tremble and I’m trying hard to keep it locked in. Lock it in. Just a speed bump. Breathe. One, two, three.
It’s too late. A tear falls free and slides down my cheek. He spies it. “No, no baby girl. Please don’t cry. I’ve got you. Everything is fine.” He coos and hugs me so tightly that my feet no longer touch the ground. “Baby...”
I shake my head and pull away. He doesn’t get it. I wipe away my foolish tear and try to pull air into my lead filled lungs. Everything feels heavy and like I’m slugging my way through.
“No, you’re wrong. Six days, Bull. Not one word for six days. And if you didn’t see me tonight, who knows when I’d have heard from any one of you.” I start walking backwards, walking away.
“Charlie,” he grinds. “That’s not what’s happening here.”
But it’s too late. I’m done with this conversation. He never called.
No correction, he never called me!
Dead girl walking.
Chapter Twelve
Today is Thursday, April 23, the day I’ve been dreading for the past nine months. That’s right, my sister’s wedding. Dum, dum, dum. Cue evil dark music and the sounds of women screaming in fear. That’s what’s circulating in my head right now as I wait to board my flight to Florida. I haven’t been home in more than three years and would prefer to keep it that way, but my sister had other plans. She always does.
I scroll through my phone for one last time before boarding and shutting it down. After last Thursday Bull, Trig, and Gunner began operation “Annoy the shit out of Charlie.” It always starts the same; we need to talk. I know we need to talk, I’m just afraid of what will come out of me when we do.
I wasn’t an original member of the band. In fact, I thought they were terrible and I was their biggest critic.
There are three levels to BedHead; main level, upper level, which houses the VIP, and the basement. The basement is reserved for up and coming bands, or bands trying to get their foot in the door. When I created the club, about three and half years ago, Loaded Gun was determined to make it big and would hit every venue in the general Boston area and beyond.
In those days, I was more of a control freak. When investing a shit ton of money, it’s advised to keep a solid watchful eye on it. BedHead was my first investment after I bought my condo. I would observe the various bands in the basement and determine if they could hit the main floor with Steve-O by my side as manager.
I was always drawn to the trio’s band when they would play, but I never connected with their music. However, I did see the potential. They had the ‘It’ factor. They were gorgeous, had a unique sound, and they had the drive. For some crazy reason, I would find myself in their audience week after week, always trying to figure out what was missing.
Finally, one night, I grabbed a blank music sheet and started changing rhythms and adding riffs and chords. I followed the guys offstage and brought them into my office. I handed them the sheet and told them my recommendations and that they had tremendous potential, they just needed to harness it. But I may as well have been a punk teenage kid, the way they treated me. I was eighteen, after all, and they thought I was playing dress up in my daddy’s suits as club manager.
After several attempts and having them finally look at my revisions, they took notice. They also applied my recommendations. I liked the change and so did the crowd. Their sound slowly evolved. Gunner was rhythm guitarist at the time, and one night after the show when I handed him my nightly observations and critiques, he asked for me to play. Picking up the guitar I played their songs with my modifications, never thinking twice. After a few more weeks of this, they would join in, playing with my adjustments. We had a nice flow. We ended up hanging out and eventually developed a surprising rapport.
They had been playing the main stage for a couple of weeks, when out of the blue, they called me up during the show. Not wanting to stop the show and upset my paying customers I joined them. It was an unforgettable moment that altered my world permanently. I became part of something more.
Looking back, I now see that I was just an addition. A new beat, which might easily be removed. We aren’t an ‘us.’ Instead, it’s the trio and then further down the line, me. I’ve been living in a music dreamland for the last three years and I’ve finally awoken. Reality is unpleasant but necessary.
Of course, this epiphany comes to light when I’m hours away from five days of pure, unrelenting torture. Yes, please pour acid on my ripped open heart…thank you ever so much.
The flight flies by too quickly and I’m in my rental car driving, when my cell rings. Mother was already frustrated with me about my delayed arrival. Apparently, when I told her that my plane arrived at 3:14, she thought it meant I’d be at a spa appointment across town and through Orlando traffic by four. How could I have been so cruel as to upset her only days before her big event?
After being griped out during the forty-eight-minute ride from OIA to the Ritz-Carlton, I wasn’t surprised to be attacked the minute I walked in the door. Mother was standing there ready to strike. First, came my tardiness. Next, my attire was ripped to shreds, verbally. Finally, my hair.
Mother had already taken the liberty to determine exactly what needed to be done to correct me. And she literally threw me to the wolves to do so.
The Paz family dynamic is horribly dysfunctional, to say the least. Mother, aka Delilah, is a Savannah Southern Belle by every sense of the word. She has blonde straight hair styled into a short bob, she’s statuesque at five foot seven, and she still
wears a perfect size four. Her eyes are a stunning emerald green and everything about her is proportionate. She was a model prior to meeting my father, mainly in print ads as she never evolved into runway.
My sister favors mother, though her hair is wavy and light brown, naturally anyway. She is five foot eight with a similar build but Jo’s eyes are brown and prior to her rhinoplasty, she had my father’s bulbous nose. Though three years older, I was always far ahead of her in school, which somehow crowned her as leader of the “Charlie is a freak” fan club. Needless to say, we never got along. My mind was fully engrossed in my books, while her pursuits were more superficial and trivial. We have never gotten over that hurdle. At least, I haven’t.
During my senior year, when I was recruited by the University of Florida on a full scholarship, I jumped at the chance to escape. I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. Mother refused to allow me to go until certain measures were put in place by the University for my safekeeping. Since I was still a minor, I didn’t have a say in that. I realize now that she had my best interest at heart, even if it didn’t make a difference.
By the end of the day, nearly every hair on my body had been altered in some way. The hair on my head was threatened to be cut, as according to mother it is too long. I had to put my foot down on that, only to be persuaded to get a trim and add auburn highlights. Next the hair on my legs and underarm area were waxed, along with a more sensitive area. Why mother would be concerned about my bikini line, I don’t even want to know. My brows were tweezed, my stache threaded, and any extra hair on my face plucked away.
Needless to say, that was the least relaxing spa day ever!
After a trying dinner with my parents, I attempted to shower, making sure the hot water didn’t spray my sensitive now hairless parts, and then I finally climbed into bed. I’m in my old room turned guest room, messing with my cell when I get a text.
10:18 Coen: You left Boston?
I’m not surprised Coen knows I’ve left town. I think he’s still having Davis follow me. I know it was Davis who entered my apartment, though I have no idea what he was doing there. I’ve now taken some precautionary measures and installed a more responsive security system to at least slow him down.
Coen has texted me a couple of times a week since our peculiar dinner with Andrew six weeks ago, though I never respond. Andrew, however, has stopped contacting me entirely. In his last text, he called me a stuck-up, self-righteous cunt. That one kind of stung.
10:23 Charlie: I’m at my folks…
10:24 Coen: Is everyone okay?
10:26 Charlie: Probably not. My sister is getting married.
10:27 Coen: Sounds serious, do you need backup?
10:28 Charlie: You’ve got no idea how you just hit the nail on the head.
10:29 Coen: I can be there in five hours.
10:30 Charlie: Mr. Collins….
10:30 Coen: Please, Charlie.
10:31 Coen: Believe it or not…I can’t stop thinking about you.
10:33 Charlie: It didn’t look that way when I was last at your building.
10:34 Coen: I am so sorry about that…please, can we talk?
10:34 Charlie: No
10:35 Coen: Please Charlie….
10:40 Coen: Please, love…
Like all men in my life, Coen has let me down. Saying one thing while meaning another. I turn my phone off and place it on the nightstand. Restless, I can’t fall asleep. The gaping burning hole in my chest is expanding and slowly eating me entirely.
******
On Friday afternoon, we all move into the Ritz-Carlton for the weekend. Although the wedding is on Sunday, family members will be arriving any time. It is Orlando, after all. Home of tourist mania.
I spend time loving on my grandparents and catching up with other members of my family. The contrast between mother’s family and my dad’s is undeniable.
My father, Maurice, was born in Morocco. When he was a child, he and his family moved to Israel. He speaks four languages, the two he was raised with; French and Arabic, and then he learned Hebrew upon his move to Israel. After completing the IDF, he moved once again, this time to the US where he learned English. He’s a brilliant man and works as an I-O Psychologist, which basically means he has his PhD. in Industrial-Organizational Psychology, for Darden Restaurants.
At five foot eleven with black wavy hair and almond-shaped dark grey eyes, he was everything mother was looking for; tall, dark, handsome, and rich!
Despite my griping, even I notice that although they’re in their early fifties, they still make quite a stunning pair. I’m envious. With my one failed attempt at a relationship, I recognize how challenging it can be.
The family Friday night dinner is relatively peaceful and I reach my room without attracting too much attention. Tonight was the first time I’ve met my sister’s fiancé, Gene Mc Fadden. I can’t place my finger on it, but he gives me the willies. His family seems off, too. But mother…she was in her element. Outside of her attacking my wardrobe choice, she was pleasant all evening.
People still look at me strangely. They all know my history. My father’s family, more so than mother’s, are the biggest gossips. They love to get their hands on juicy information, and my life has provided no shortage. And they don’t even know the current craziness in my life.
After climbing into the quiet room I again scroll through my phone. I have two calls and one text from Bullet, making sure that mother hasn’t eaten me, yet. And another call and text from Coen.
8:17 Coen: Are you still alive?
10:57 Charlie: Barely…
10:58 Coen: Hey love, you seem down. Do you want to talk?
The sad thing is that I think I do wish to speak with him. I feel an inexplicable pull to him. And right now I feel as though I’ve been cast out in the middle of the ocean. It appears that Bullet has found a regular to entertain himself with, and whatever moment we shared, was fleeting. As for Gunner and Trigger, I can’t get those looks out of my head. It felt like I had disappointed them. Betrayed them. I feel incredibly alone, and being surrounded by my family, I’m only reminded of how alone I am. Of how I don’t quite fit. I’m the square trying to squeeze into the circular hole. I can’t reshape myself, no matter how hard I’ve tried.
I need a friendly voice to tell me that everything is okay. I’d bug Tank, but he’s in Vegas prepping for his big UFC fight next month.
So, Charlie plays stupid and picks up the phone.
With the receiver nestled between my ear and the pillow, I hear it ring.
“Hello, Charlie?” he asks softly.
“Hi,” I respond with a whisper in the darkened room.
“Hi. Love, tell me what’s wrong. I’ll do anything you need to fix it.”
“I wish you could, Coen. I’m fine, though. I mean, I guess, shit, I hope I will be.”
“Did something happen there?”
“Just the usual.”
“Then what has your beautiful voice sounding this way? I know…you’re missing me?” Cocky has reentered the building, ladies and gentlemen.
I can’t help but snort. “Always so full of yourself, Mr. Collins.”
“I got you to smile, love. That’s all I want in this world.”
“All you want?” Why am I being flirtatious with this man? It’s like rolling around in raw meat then running through the tiger enclosure at the zoo.
“Mmmmhhmm. You may be right. I’ve had a desperate craving for a certain mole.”
Sigh…now my head is back there. Visions of Coen’s body pressed to mine. Visions of what happened after.
“Coen, can you do me a favor?”
“Anything!” he replies instantly.
“Can you…um...can you tell me that everything will be okay?” I ask, while fighting tears. I’m hurting so hard right now.
His voice becomes hard and serious. “What happened? Tell me. I’ll kill anyone that’s fucked with you!”
“No…it’s…um…it’s nothing like
that. I swear. I’m just…I don’t know. Never mind…it was silly.” I lean over and grab my sleeping pills and a bottle of water. My head is a mess. The only way I’ll get any sleep is with medical assistance. There’s silence on the other end for about half a minute. I question if he’s still there.
“Charlie, everything is going to be okay. Do you hear me, love?” He says this with such conviction that I nearly believe him. But he doesn’t know me. I’ll never be okay. The tears choke my throat and burn my eyes. I swallow hard to rid them.
Clearing my throat, I whisper to Coen. “Thank you. Sleep well, Coen. Sweet dreams.”
He sighs. “They’re only dreams when you’re in my arms, love. Sleep well, Charlie. Please call me tomorrow.”
I hang up and press the phone to my heart. My head nestled in the pillow, I can feel my body getting heavy, the pull of the medication. I know that when I blink next, tomorrow will be here.
Why can’t they make living pills like this? You blink and it’s a day...you blink and it’s a year. I just want life to fast-forward.
Chapter Thirteen
Waking up groggy in the morning, I decide that a dip in the pool would wake my senses and help me put a positive spin on the day. Tonight is Jo’s bachelorette party and by default I have to go as one of her bridesmaids.
Mother had other plans. As soon as I was situated on the lounge chair, after a few laps to get the blood flowing, mother found me and asked, well demanded, that I pick up some family members from the airport, insisting that I take her Mercedes, as her SUV would be more accommodating than my rented compact.
Maybe it was an excuse to keep me out of her hair, but it kept my mind occupied for the most part. On one of my trips, I did get to pick up my Aunt Perla and her family. When I moved to Boston to go to Harvard, I lived with them in Swampscott instead of one of the dorms in Cambridge. My cousins are a few years younger than me, but I had a lot of fun with them. It was one of the few times I remember smiling in those early years there.
