by eden Hudson
“Shit,” Terrie says.
“Yeah, shit,” Corey says, eyeing me like the pills are my fault. Or like maybe he’s trying to convey to me that, in another situation, it could’ve been me getting held.
The whole time we do paperwork, I watch Corey and think about Bro. I haven’t filled a prescription in my life. Corey’s my manager. He makes sure I have what I need.
Danny
Shannon is shocked to see me waiting on the police station steps, but she covers the surprise with a wry smile.
“Two nights in a row outside a police station?” she says. “You’re going to give yourself a bad reputation, Daniel.”
She pats her shirt and skirt as if she’s got pockets on them and Tiffani steps up with a cigarette. Shannon’s hands shake as she lights it.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Shannon nods, but I can’t stop seeing that SWAT cop kneeling on her back on the stage, shoving her face down like she wasn’t this tiny, frail thing. If I could’ve gotten to them, I would’ve taken him apart.
“What about you?” she asks, tilting her head and looking down her nose at me. “You get a lungful of the tear gas or was it all fresh spring air where you were?”
I don’t know how to explain why I couldn’t stay, so I don’t say anything.
The police station doors open again and Terrie, Anna, and the band’s manager come out. Only Terrie acknowledges me.
“Hey, Danny,” she says. “How’s your parents?”
“Good,” I say. “I saw Brandt last time I was in town. Seems like he’s doing well.”
Terrie nods. “He is. We asked him if he wanted to join up last year when Mena left, but he says he likes his job with the city too much to leave.”
“Terrie,” Anna snaps, halfway in a cab. She doesn’t even look at me. Maybe she’s still holding out from when Shannon and I broke up and the whole band decided I was dead to them.
Terrie gives me a wave and backs toward the car.
“You take care, Danny,” she says.
“You, too.”
After Anna and Terrie’s car pulls away, the Derringers’ manager comes back over. He shakes his head and sighs.
“Okay, Shan. I don’t know what you want me to say.” He lifts his hands up and lets them fall back against his sides. “Just a wonderful night all around.”
Shannon blows smoke into the breeze and watches it dissipate.
“I thought yelling at the terminally ill kid was a little over the top, myself,” she says.
That gets him laughing. Even Tiffani smiles. That’s the thing about Shannon. She can run you down until you’re exhausted and you don’t know what else to do, but you can’t hate her. When you least expect it, she turns on the charm and makes you fall in love all over again.
“Go home and get some rest,” the manager tells Shannon. He looks at Tiffani. “Keep her out of trouble for a few hours if you can.”
As he steps off the sidewalk to flag down another cab, Shannon hooks her arm through mine and starts walking me toward the street.
“Come on, Danny,” she says. “The least you can do is see us home.”
The man who couldn’t eat sugar from Dad’s illustration leaps to mind along with a slew of memories of Shannon after gigs back when we were still dating. I slide my arm out of hers and stop.
“I need to get going,” I say. “Make sure the guys got back to the hotel all right and let them know I didn’t get lost.”
“Okay, but there’s this new thing with buttons you can push to talk to people through a grid of interconnected wires,” Shannon says. “It’s called a telephone and I’ve got one at my apartment, if you want see how it works.”
Shannon
After a show—and ten times more after a kickass riot like tonight—I need skin contact, physical connection. Sweat and movement. Instinct and breath and touch.
Even back in high school, when Mena and Terrie were still bribing people with kegs so that the Derringers could play at their house parties, and I didn’t know yet that what I wanted was sex, I sought Danny out after gigs. I held his hand, leaned into his body on the rides home, kissed him if no one was looking. One night, when Anna’s mom let us take her cargo van, Danny and I sat in the very back with the instruments and made out. Until we went on tour, that was the closest I had gotten to what I needed after a show—wrapping myself in Danny’s arms, tasting that clove chewing gum he liked, hearing the catch in his breath if I moved just right.
Most of the time these days, I rattle like a vibrator that got accidentally switched on in your purse while you’re checking out at the store. Tonight, though, on the ride back to Brooklyn in the after-midnight traffic, my hands barely shake.
“You like living here?” Danny asks, his fifth or sixth attempt at making conversation.
“Sure, whatever.” I’m letting him think I’m still mad about him leaving.
Tiffani gives me an assessing look. Predators recognize stalking when they see it and she’s seen me stalk enough men to teach a class. She looks out her window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looks upset. But I don’t know why she would be. She’s never had a problem with any of the other guys I had sex with, not even ones I brought back to the apartment.
Whatever. Let her be upset if she wants to. I look down at Danny’s legs by mine. There’s a gaping rip in the knee of his jeans and a crusted ruby scab in the middle that looks brand new. I wonder where he might have gotten something like that, but before I can open my mouth to ask him, he starts jiggling his leg, then stops when he realizes he’s doing it.
So I cross my arms and push him a little harder instead. “Your friends seemed to enjoy the show. The blonde one, especially.”
“Clare,” Danny says. “Clarion. He’s really into the Derringers.”
I look out Tiffani’s window at the passing cables of the Manhattan Bridge and grumble, “Good to know someone is.”
I hear him exhale and I know he’s shaking his head. For a second, I feel like I’m back in high school and on the edge of one of our huge fights. If I yell, “I already bought my dress,” or he yells, “All I did was tell the truth,” I don’t think either one of us would be too surprised.
The driver turns down my street and the blocks go from cramped old world to spaced-out space age. If not for the dark room and the east-facing bay of windows in my apartment, I would’ve picked something in a much less ugly building.
Tiffani pays the driver when we stop. After he drives off, she says, “I’m going to go hunt. Be back in a little bit.”
Even with the closest streetlight out, she sees my surprise.
“He knows,” she says, shrugging. Then she’s leaving, moving at vampire speed almost like she can’t wait to get away from us.
I look at Danny. I want to ask him how he knew about Tiffani when it took me months to believe I wasn’t just imagining the angel of death following me around. Until the crash, there were still times I thought maybe I was just insane.
Then Danny’s taking a breath, opening his mouth to tell me. My hands start shaking crazily. I need him, I don’t need explanations. If I want to kiss those lips, drown myself in that body, forget everything for a little while, this has to go on the back burner.
“You needed to use my phone,” I say, punching in my code to unlock the gate.
That throws Danny off-balance. He follows me up the steps and into the building without saying anything. When we’re in the elevator, he turns to face me and again I know I’ve got to keep him from directing the conversation.
“Why didn’t you want to stay?” I ask.
“Who were you telling to come and get you?” he asks.
“Anybody who wants a piece,” I say. Then I realize what that means. “You came back?”
He nods. “I ran into Tiffani outside right before you started the riot.”
“Rock concerts aren’t supposed to be orderly and tied down,” I say.
“Depends on who you ask, I guess,
” he says.
“You know, you never would have sided with the man five years ago.”
“I didn’t say I was on the man’s side. I’m just saying someone called the riot police. So, someone thinks you started a riot.”
The elevator stops on my floor and we fall silent again. I unlock my apartment and hold the door open for Danny. He stops just inside and looks at me, those blue-green Whitney eyes reaching down into mine.
I lick my lips, let my gaze travel down his body, practically jerking him off with my eyes.
Danny clears his throat. His face is on fire.
“I need to call Noah and Clare,” he says. “Let them know I’m on the way.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Do you know the number at the hotel?”
He shakes his head.
I spin around and flip the lights on. Lead him over to the phone.
“That’s okay. If you call information, they’ll probably be able to connect you.” I give him the handset, then I gesture toward the bedroom. “I’m going to get out of these dirty clothes.”
While I’m peeling off my tights, I listen to Danny ask the operator for his hotel. It’s actually not far from here. Maybe if he stays all night, I could take him for breakfast in the morning.
Danny won’t stay all night, though. I know that as sure as I know Tiffani will be back before sunrise. Danny’s a preacher-in-training, the son of a preacher whose dad was a preacher whose dad was a preacher, too. After we have sex, it’s all going to hit him at once. I’ve seen it happen before to guys who weren’t even religious—the sudden shame of sex for the sake of sex—and for a second, I wonder whether I can defuse a guilt-bomb the size Danny’s is going to be.
Then the survival instinct kicks in.
After all the jealous bullshit while we were dating, after breaking up with me because of gossip rag rumors, if anyone deserves a guilt-bomb, it’s Danny. Maybe once he gets a taste, he’ll understand how sex can become something you need to survive. And if I just reduce him to what he is instead of who he is, I don’t feel the least bit sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever had sex with a virgin. I can see why guys like the idea so much—all that untouched muscle and bottled-up need, getting to be the one who breaks him in.
I leave my underwear on. It’s his first time, so I should probably take it slow.
Danny
“Would you like me to connect you?” the operator asks.
“That’d be great, thank you,” I say.
“Just a—”
The operator’s voice cuts off. For a second I think maybe he transferred me before he finished talking, but instead of ringing through to the hotel, I get dead silence, not even a dial tone. I push the hook button a couple of times, but still nothing.
“Shannon, your phone line’s—” I turn around and the words get lodged in my throat.
She’s standing by the wall with all that red hair down around her shoulders, wearing just a black bra and panties. Together with the tattoo sleeves, the underwear makes her pale skin glow. She drops the disconnected phone cord and walks across the room to me. Takes the phone from my hand and sets it back on the receiver.
This is a dream. It has to be. I fell asleep too early. That’s the only possible explanation.
Shannon hooks her arms around the back of my neck and stares into my eyes as if she’s waiting for something.
The detached, suspicious part of my brain finally grasps that this is really happening. I should be embarrassed that she can feel how hard I am. I should step back, break contact. Put a stop to this before reality comes crashing back down and kills me.
But I can’t. Her body against mine feels so familiar and so right.
I reach behind my head for her wrists. Touch the bluish-black ink. Follow it down her arms, first with my fingertips, then with the palms of my hands. Smooth, soft. Until my hands make it to her shoulders, I don’t even realize that I was waiting to see if the tattoos felt different from the rest of her skin.
“Kiss me,” she says.
How can I not? It’s Shannon.
I try to do it gently, but the second my lips touch hers, the pressure goes from light to bruising. She’s kissing me back just as forcefully. I’m out of breath. My heart’s pounding. My brain’s spitting partial verses from Song of Solomon and incoherent thanks to God, all while screaming that I’m finally with my Shannon again. This is right. This is the way it was always supposed to be.
Shannon drops onto the couch and I hit my knees between her legs. She pulls me back to her lips. Her fingers slide under my shirt, and if I’m hot, Shannon’s on fire. She traces blowtorch paths up my stomach, then around my ribs to my back. She pushes my shirt up. The split-second we’re not touching while I pull it off feels too long. I know I should hold back, but I can’t. Everything I have—everything I am—has always belonged to her.
Her legs wrap around my hips. I can feel how hot she is, even through my jeans. She moans and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Shannon turns her head, and even though it’s been five years since we last made out, I know what she wants. I lick, then kiss that spot at the corner of her jaw that gives her goose bumps. She shivers.
“Yeah, baby, just like that,” she says.
I freeze.
Hours tick by as it sinks in—Shannon’s not talking to me. She’s looking right at me and not even seeing me. It could be anybody on top of her.
I feel the raw itch of tears in my throat. Breathing hurts. I swallow hard, try to push the pain and humiliation away.
Like some kind of jerky robot, I stand up. Adjust my jeans. Find my shirt.
Shannon just stares. “What are you doing?”
“Danny.” I flip my shirt right side out and yank it on. “What are you doing, Danny. Make sure you get the name right.”
“Are you having a freak-out or something?” she asks, sitting up.
“I’m not one of your groupies,” I say.
“Groupies?”
“I don’t even like your music anymore!”
“Newsflash, Danny—” Shannon jumps up off the couch, fists balled like she’s about to punch me. “—your dick doesn’t care what you think about my music. Your dick thinks I’m great.”
I head for the door. Her bare feet smack the floor, following.
“You’re pathetic.” She throws it at me like some kind of weapon, like after all this that’s what’s going to do the damage.
“Yeah, I’m the pathetic one,” I say. “Have a nice life, Shannon.”
“Where you going, Danny?” she yells. “Going to go contemplate the glory of God?”
I turn around so fast she almost runs into me.
“Don’t,” I say.
She closes her eyes and leans her head back, shaking her fist back and forth like she’s a man masturbating. “Oh, Jesus, thank you. Oh, thank you, Jesus. Oh! Jesus!”
I grab her shoulders and shove her back against the wall.
“Make fun of me,” I say.
“Get your fucking hands off me, Daniel Whitney, or I’ll scream until your ears bleed.”
“Keep making jokes.” My voice is low in my throat. It sounds like I hate her. God, why can’t I just hate her? “Screw your brains out until you can’t feel what a mess you are inside.”
“You holier-than-thou son of a bitch, I—”
“When I get married,” I say, louder, “When I make love to my wife for the first time, she’ll know for sure that she’s the only woman in my mind. She’ll know I’ve never loved another woman the way I love her—with my whole heart and mind and body.”
Shannon starts screaming. This close, it feels like a combat knife to the eardrums. I have to yell at the top of my lungs to even hear myself.
“If I ever find the sorry excuse for a man who made you think you weren’t worth that much—” I hit the wall and the sheetrock caves in around my fist. Shannon jumps, shocked silent. “—that you weren’t worth at least that much,” I say, “I’ll kill
him.”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” she says.
I let go and walk away.
Shannon
I scream. I smash lamps and slam kitchen stools into walls. I break plates and glasses and throw silverware and scream some more.
Then there’s nothing left that I can lift but my acoustic. The one I fought Philly for. The one I got Tased for. The cheap Martin knock-off I bought when I was fourteen with money from working at the gas station in Halo. The one I started drawing on in high school and covered with more ink than I have in my arms.
I pick my guitar up by the neck and stare at the tattoos on its body. Follow the black marker lines until they stop making pictures and turn into nonsense. They slip and slide through each other, loop around, come back, break off and on again. I can feel them churning in my stomach and in my chest. If they make it to my brain, this will all be over. The angel of death and destruction won’t need to drag me to Hell. That vortex of sickness and anger and madness will suck me down so far that not even my screams will be able to claw their way out.
“Shannon?” Tiffani’s voice cuts through the noise. “What’s wrong? Did he hurt you?”
I can’t answer.
Tiffani hugs me, takes my acoustic away, sets it down. I put my arms around her, lean against her cool body.
At first, she just holds me and rests her cheek on the top of my head, but I keep burrowing into her. I’ve got to get away somehow.
When I look up at Tiffani, she has that same desperate fire in her eyes that Danny had. Tiffani wants me. She loves me.
I feel myself relax. My hands start to move. They know where Tiffani needs to be touched. They know how to tease her just enough to snap that iron self-control.
She tries to ignore what I’m doing. She pretends like she doesn’t notice, hugs me tighter, rubs my back, whispers in my ear that I’m safe. But I can feel her on the edge. And like some kind of twisted epiphany, it dawns on me what will push her over. Tiffani’s been waiting for one thing, dying for it for so long that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before tonight.
