He turned his face to me. His eyes reflected my insides, painfully damaged. “You think I can’t feel it,” he spoke somberly. “Every time you’re close to me. You want me, but you don’t. You give a little then you take it away. How do you do that? You get close to me, I want you. I hear your voice, I want you. You look at me and I want you. You do things to me, Harley-girl. You move me, affect me, in here,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I don’t know how you do it, push me away. I’ve tried to push you away. Talk myself out of you. Get you out of me. But it never works. You’re just there. It’s always been you.”
And that did it. I was done. Done lying, done pretending, done pushing. I went to him, taking the ring off my left hand, laying it on the counter beside him. I knew what this meant, what I was doing, throwing away my future with Xander. Completely cognizant of my choice, I was prepared to face the consequences. I could bear that. What I could not bear was leaving here without giving myself to him, and taking a piece of him with me. I had always been his, as he was mine. I took his hand, leading him into his bedroom. Neither of us assumed any future beyond tonight; he knew I would be gone in the morning.
His hospital bed, removed days ago, had been replaced with his bed, the same one he had when I used to climb up the fire escape. Tonight, he would share it with me, no sleeping in the rocking chair. I removed his towel, the only thing separating his flesh from my own, gently coaxing him down on the bed. I stood in front of him, pulling every stitch of clothing from my body, no need to drag it out. He saw it all before.
He swallowed hard, looking at me, all of me, as he slid his arms around my waist, pulling me to him, his lips meeting my stomach. I ran my fingers firmly through his hair before kneeling in front of him, replacing my abdomen with my lips, reveling in his taste.
I moaned with the contact, the release, as I had wanted to kiss him for the past month. His lips felt full, his mouth moist, hot, arousing. I coaxed him onto the bed, flat on his back, as I did not want him to do anything to strain it. He was recovering so well. His hands busied themselves with my body as I kissed my way down his, following that happy little trail to its end. I looked up at him, his eyes mesmerizing, provocative. I wanted him. He throbbed, hard and ready.
I took him in my mouth, causing him to groan, pushing his shoulders back into the bed, his hands wound in my hair. I continued, enjoying every sound, every move he made. I wanted to please him beyond reason, until he had all he could stand. Nearing that point, he pulled me up to him, his breathing fast and ragged. His eyes searched mine, reciprocal in their desire.
“You gotta slow down.” With total disregard for his plea, I kissed him crushingly, urgent, committed as I guided him into me. I didn’t want to slow down. I wanted him as fast as I could get there. It had been three long years since I had him last, and it would be complete torture to wait any longer. I needed him, now.
“God, you feel good,” he groaned, feeling me around him, wet and warm. I rocked against him slowly, taking him every time, all of him. “Harley,” he warned, steadying my hips.
“Let it go, Miah,” I hovered over him, one hand supporting my weight, as I stroked his hair with the other. “I’m ready.” He looked at me dubiously through sex-laden eyes. “That’s what you do to me,” I confessed.
“I love you,” he lamented, as if he wished he didn’t, before pulling my mouth to his. I cried out with the severity of his kiss, biting down lightly on his lip. I stayed there above him, my eyes steadily reflecting the look in his, hungry.
“Aw, baby,” he whispered. He was almost there. I sat upright, taking him definitively until he had no other option but to release himself inside me, as I, in turn, came to him rapidly in full contentment.
My mind slowly returning to itself, my body quivered. “I love you...I love you...I love you,” I whispered, unable to keep my mouth from expelling those three little words. My body collapsed to his chest, as he pulled the blankets up over us. His arms, strong, familiar, the two things in life that made me feel safe and secure beyond compare. This man, he was my friend, my love, my muse, and my hero. The world could have ended that night, and I would have perished completely and utterly fulfilled.
Lucky One
Morning found me New York bound, once again on the run. I cried the entire way, my almond, apparently on vacation. Seems I cried a lot lately. I was a wreck. Leaving Jeremiah again, facing Xander, and Gram’s passing, taxed my emotions. My once dysfunctional family finally functional, I felt like the dysfunctional one. I had completely lost me while attempting to find myself.
I quit my job at the hospital, returned the engagement ring to Xander, and left the city as fast as I could. Xander was willing to forgive, forget, and move forward. I can’t believe he still wanted to marry me, after I betrayed him so. I declined, fully convinced he deserved better. Jeremiah was right, I couldn’t promise Xander anything, certainly not my heart.
I did give it away years ago. I didn’t intend to. I had no plan to give it away, no recollection of it, really, until the words came out of Jeremiah’s mouth. And why couldn’t I admit that to him? Why wouldn’t I?
Sure, I was who I was because of, in spite of—however you want to look at it—my father, my upbringing, and my environment, coupled with all of my experiences. We all are, right? But I made my own choices. I was who I was, because I chose to be so. Why did I always fight my own heart? Why did I push against what it wanted?
I wanted to succeed in life, maybe even love, acting as though I could have it all, but never truly believing I would. I was a prime example of someone who tried hard and wanted to make things happen, but never dared to believe those things would actually happen for me. I never believed it when I sat alone in the quiet of the moment, when it really mattered.
Afraid to go for it, all the way, what if I put it out there and someone didn’t like it? I was so easily inclined to believe that one person who thought I wasn’t good enough. I wanted to please everybody.
I allowed myself to dream while disbelieving it could actually become reality. I always had a Plan B, as if my Plan A were automatically doomed to failure. I assumed I would need something, anything, to fall back on. When would I ever believe I was enough, that I deserved what I wanted out of life?
What the hell did I really want? What do you do when you want to do everything? What do you do when you can’t find that one, special little thing you just know you were born to do?
Sometimes I felt like a lost soul, searching for something to hold me, affect me, keep me, something I could dedicate myself to because I couldn’t imagine life without it. Isn’t that what a person is supposed to find, that one thing that drives them? Was I so used to detachment I refused to dedicate my life to something, anything?
Or was I too scared of the commitment it takes? I had the attention span of a two-year-old, jumping from one thing to another. Sometimes I even caught myself in the act, getting close to something, things starting to go my way, and I would find some reason to jump ship, changing my mind about what I wanted to do, sabotaging my own efforts.
Sure, I was still young, only twenty-five, but I had yet to accomplish anything that made me feel I had done something with my life, what I set out to do. I had more dedication at five than I did at twenty-five!
I was anti-commitment, and I wore it like some kind of badge of honor. I reasoned it wasn’t a good way to be, unhealthy, yet I remained so. Letting people and things get close to me meant they would eventually affect my thoughts, my decisions, and the overall direction of my life. I could not risk such control. I felt I had no control as a child, my emotions and my mood, my life, constantly affected by my father, like a yo-yo, relentlessly up and down.
I would not allow myself to be in that position again. The only person I wanted controlling me and my environment was me—or the universe. Oddly enough, a firm believer in the universe, I opted to think things happen for a reason. Go figure! How could I covet my control, yet wholeheartedly believe certa
in things are left up to fate?
On the road again, unsure of where I would end up, my mind drifting to Willie Nelson and his song On the Road Again. Now there was a man I could identify with, a rogue, a nomad. I felt happiest on the open road, behind the wheel, heading somewhere, anywhere. Just Charlene and me, it was empowering, spiritual. I was free to dream at seventy miles per hour, her engine luring me on, almost daring me to make it happen, to claim it.
If anything could help me through the mess I just made, it was music, so I headed south and west, my destination the home of Willie Nelson and the Live Music Capital of the World, Austin, Texas.
In Austin, I worked as a personal trainer and yoga instructor at a local gym part-time during the day, and bartended part-time at night, at Lucy’s Retired Surfer’s Bar on Sixth Street. The Texas Music / Red Dirt / Americana movement thrived in full swing, with bands like The Great Divide and Cross Canadian Ragweed.
The music was a hodgepodge of influences, a little country, a little rock, a little blues, some folk thrown in the mix, a bit of everything. It resonated with me, lyric-driven, storytelling, perfectly imperfect. You could find anything “music” in Austin, and people appreciated it, not because it was catchy or the number one song in the nation, simply because it was what it was.
Ten o’clock in the evening, Saturday night, and Lucy’s joint jumped, a three-piece band played, calling themselves Three Tequila Floor. Jack, a regular of the bar, a burly biker dude who looked like he walked straight out of the Sixties, sat in his usual space at the end of the counter. Jack had a motorcycle, of course, a Harley Davidson, his only set of wheels. He loved my name and thought we were kindred spirits in a past life.
I didn’t know anything about that, but he sure was good company. I never saw him without his black leather vest, full black leather chaps, his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, sporting a doo-rag.
Having Jack at the end of the bar was like having my own personal bouncer; he took good care of me. Every now and then he had a tiny cigarette rolled up, emitting green smoke, always so kind to offer me a toke, which I politely declined. I often wondered what it would feel like to put that little roll to my lips, inhaling deeply. I never did try it. I reasoned it was the same as alcohol. What if I lost control, liked it, acquiring a regular intolerable habit? Addiction runs in families, so they say.
The band, determined to get the audience involved, asked people from the crowd to come on stage and sing with them. Jack heard me with my acoustic set a few times in the bar, opening for the main event, the real band. He insisted I get up on stage. That wasn’t my style. A bit on the shy side, I certainly would never volunteer.
Jack grabbed me up from behind the bar, throwing me over his shoulder, and carried me to the stage, right into the lion’s mouth, I thought. The place was packed, and I had no desire to be the center of attention, contented to be the opening act, not the headliner. I played for the happy hour crowd, those who smiled and sang along, simply happy to hear anything besides the sounds of their workplace. I didn’t play for the party crowd, the crowd that expected you to entertain them, give them something to be happy about.
“What if they don’t like me?” I asked, as Jack stood me up on stage.
“Fuck ’em,” he said so naturally. “I like ya, and I want to hear you sing.” He took the microphone from the guitarist, shoving it into my hand. And there I was, a deer in the headlights. I felt like I participated in amateur night at the Apollo, where the crowd chewed at their fingernails with angst at the promise of booing someone off stage, someone like me.
“What do you want to do?” the guitarist asked, leaning close to me to hear my answer over the crowd.
“Do you know any Susan Tedeschi?” I spoke, nervously. “How about Hurts So Bad?”
“I think we can do that one.” He smiled at me, identifying with the fear on my face. “Here,” he offered, a glass containing a double shot of tequila someone kindly placed on the stage for him, a token of appreciation for the tunes. I didn’t want to drink it, but I really did want to drink it. Liquid courage sounded great about now, any kind of courage would be astounding.
I took the drink from his hands, quickly placing it to my lips as I threw my head back and downed it, my first drink. It was warm. I could feel it light up my throat and my insides as it went through me. Within a matter of seconds my limbs went tingly, my head felt light, and I had a compelling urge to laugh. The crowd cheered, holding up their glasses, partaking of their own beverages. Wow, people cheer when you drink. Maybe this isn’t such a tough crowd after all.
“You ready?” the guitarist asked. I nodded, ready as I ever would be. One more shot of tequila and I think I would have been ready for anything. “I’ll lead you in.”
I heard the guitar intro and before I knew it, my turn to come in arrived. I started modestly, picking up into my vibe with positive feedback from the crowd. I think maybe they liked me. I was going to be okay.
Jack sat on his designated barstool, watching us, beaming with pride. How amazing I thought, that other people would put themselves on the line, willing to believe in me, when I wasn’t even committed to believing in myself. I never would have got on that stage if it weren’t for Jack, a complete stranger until a few months ago. He had no ties to me, nothing to gain from encouraging me, yet he did. I will carry that with me forever.
And the crowd at the bar, they accepted me, allowed me to share my voice, a little piece of myself with them. It was difficult at times, for me to fathom the human connection. How others, maybe even total strangers, would lift me up, while my father, who I thought would love me unconditionally, had a unique way of tearing me down, and how I so often played into that by allowing myself to believe the worst of me. It wasn’t like my father never told me positive things; he did. I found it easier to believe he actually meant the negatives. That night, another aha moment, reminded me most people want others to succeed. And for every one person, for every crowd who boos you off stage, there’s another who will cheer you on.
Adam, the guitarist, asked me to join up with the band. After that night at Lucy’s, I became the newest member of Three Tequila Floor. I planned on finishing my broadcasting degree at the University of Texas, starting spring semester, January 2005. However band commitments immediately took priority, as we traveled out of town quite often for gigs. My degree would have to wait. I decided it was now or never, Plan A or bust. I took up with Adam and the band without missing a beat, simply happy to create music and make some sort of menial living with it.
Adam and I quickly progressed into an easy friendship, sharing writing and singing responsibilities, along with our beds, every now and then. We had great chemistry. No love, no muss, a kinship through music, heightened by the high of performing every night together, sometimes to a packed house, most often to a small crowd in some hole in the wall.
We lived from day to day, gig to gig, traveling in a van from one town to the next, whoever would have us. I found my band of brothers so to speak, my niche, where I belonged, surrounded by people who wanted the same things I did. My life and my theories validated, normalcy was our antagonist. Nobody called me crazy because I didn’t have a real job, or because I wasn’t married with a kiddo. I started to feel like myself again, like that little girl, that five-year-old who allowed herself to dream, believing anything could happen. I felt alive.
Heading to a gig in Dallas from a show we finished in Denver, dawn was upon us. Adam drove, I rode shotgun, everybody else asleep in the back.
“So how did you come to music?” I asked, attempting to start a conversation to keep Adam awake, as well as myself.
“Suicide.”
Adam’s persona, a little dark, had an aura of danger about him, dressing in black, his hair black, a regular contemporary Johnny Cash. But for the most part, I assumed that was his way of expressing himself, depicting an image. I certainly didn’t think his mysteriousness went any further than his clothing. Completely thrown by his answer,
I questioned cautiously, “What do you mean?”
“My mom killed herself when I was sixteen. Music was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that let me escape reality.”
“I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“Not many people do. It’s not something I tell everyone.” He smiled briefly.
“No. I wouldn’t think so.” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have much experience or knowledge of suicide. I heard about it but was never personally affected. How awful, your own mother committing suicide.
“The two V’s, Vodka and Vicodin,” he further explained. “Women usually ingest something, men just shoot themselves.”
“Wow,” I stated solemnly. “Your dad, is he alive?”
“Yeah. He bought me the guitar after she died, thought I might need something to concentrate on.”
“You really have a talent for it, ya know...the guitar. No wonder you play with such emotion.”
“You know what they say about musicians, every one of us, a tortured soul. The hardest part is accepting it as my legacy. We’re reflections of our parents, right? What does it say about me that my mother killed herself?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Her actions don’t define you, no more than yours defined her. And it says a lot about you, that you found something like music to cope, to make a difference, to carry on.”
“I miss her sometimes. Is that twisted, to wish someone back from the dead, who wanted to be dead so bad they killed themselves?”
“It’s only natural to miss her, to want to see her again.”
“I just wonder if she felt any pain. Was she scared?” He paused. “When I think about dying, I sure don’t want to be alone. She was.”
“I guess it depends what she thought waited for her on the other side. Some people say when you die, it’s like a release, no more pain, no more hurt, total euphoria.”
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 20
