Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  For one thing, why would he try after what I did?

  For another, how would he have managed to find me?

  I know that we were kids back then, but that doesn't change the fact that I hurt him anymore than it changes the fact that I loved him. I did.

  But love didn't make a difference. I screwed up, and I destroyed everything.

  I'd thought I could handle tonight. That the fact that I needed the money would give me the strength to make it okay. But it's not okay. Because when he touched me, everything rushed back to me. Infatuation. Desire. Need.

  I wanted him.

  But more than that, I wanted him to want me. Maybe I was shy. Maybe I was awkward. But I wasn't scared. I was turned on.

  He barely touched me, and yet I craved so much more. His hands on me. His lips hot against my skin.

  With each infinitesimal change in the position of that sheet, I fantasized about his hands moving intimately over my body, not simply to set up the shot, but for his pleasure. And for mine.

  He was a man I couldn't have--a man who rightfully despised me--and yet I would have willingly slept with him tonight, then slinked away in the morning hating myself.

  He'd tempted me on purpose, of course. But not because he felt anything for me. He'd already told me as much, hadn't he? This was my punishment, and he was an expert at inflicting it.

  Or maybe he wasn't.

  Because instead of being something to endure, the night was something to treasure. Yes, I was scared. But I was excited, too. Not just because of how he touched me, but because I was pushing myself. I was breaking out of that shell. Going a little wild in ways I hadn't let myself go in years. Or ever, really, except for that one time twelve years ago.

  That felt good. Bold. Like I was a butterfly pushing out of my cocoon.

  But then he took me to the monitor, and when I peered down at the digital image, the reality of what I was doing struck me. This was just like twelve years ago. A bad choice. A dangerous choice.

  And as I gazed at the monitor and the stunning, vibrant image of a confident, sexual woman who had my face and body, all I could do was stand there as my father's voice rang through my head. Everything I've done for you, and you still turn out to be a whore. Just like your mother. And you'll get the same as she did, too. You keep acting like this, and you just see what you get.

  I couldn't do it.

  I hate myself for letting him down--for letting myself and Griffin down, too--but I just couldn't do it.

  And I know--I know--that my father is wrong. That it doesn't really work that way. That the bad things that I do don't punish other people. That my mother's affair wasn't the reason that she and her boyfriend died in a car wreck.

  I know that.

  I even know that posing for Wyatt's pictures doesn't make me bad or wicked or any of the things my father would shout at me.

  It doesn't, and I get that.

  But knowing and believing aren't always the same thing. And maybe it's better sometimes to just avoid walking that line.

  Besides, I've never had the best judgment where Wyatt is concerned. He's like a hurricane dropped in the middle of my neat, orderly life.

  Too much stress. Too much mess.

  I'm better off without him. And I can still figure out some way to get the money.

  The money.

  I wince as I think of Griffin. I need to see him. At the very least, I should tell him that I'm going to have to sell the Mustang. Except he'll try to talk me out of it, so maybe it's better to just stay quiet. If I tell him after the fact, at least it will be a done deal.

  I wipe my tears, then start the car back up. Now that Griff's in my head, I want him near, and so instead of going home, I head for his apartment in Silver Lake. I know I'm being silly, but the truth is, I don't want to be alone.

  Since he's surely asleep by now, I let myself in, then drop my purse on the coffee table. Like my place, it's small. Just your basic layout, with a living area that flows into the dining area that flows into a hall with a closet-sized bathroom at the end. Griffin's bedroom's on one side of the hall, an almost perfectly square room with minimal closet space, and there's an identical, mirror-image bedroom across from it that Griffin uses as a sound studio.

  The kitchen is across from the little dining area, and I go there next, then grab one of the cans of cold brew coffee that my brother is addicted to. I'm about to pop the top when I realize how stupid that will be. With Wyatt on my mind, I'm going to have a hard enough time sleeping. Add caffeine to the mix, and I'll be staring at the walls all night.

  Fine.

  Alcohol it is.

  I'm not a big drinker. The one time in my life I drank bourbon was the one time in my life I messed up royally. Which is why I swore off hard liquor when I was fifteen, even before I was legally allowed to drink the stuff.

  Now my drink of choice is white wine, and I'm certain there's a bottle in the fridge, because Griff always keeps a bottle chilled for me.

  I open the fridge, then blink at the bright light in contrast to the darkened room. I squint as I peer in, then find not only a lovely Chardonnay, but also a box of cupcakes from Love Bites, which is my absolute favorite bakery. It's also inconvenient, since it's all the way in Beverly Hills. Griff must have had a meeting. Usually, he avoids Beverly Hills like the plague, and when he does go, he treats himself. And me, by default.

  I debate, decide Griffin won't care, and grab one with yellow frosting and decorative fondant flowers.

  "Cupcake thief."

  I yelp as the kitchen light snaps on, then turn to face my brother. He's wearing grey sweatpants that hang loose around his hips and a jersey Tee with a mock turtleneck. He's worn his midnight black hair long for years, and now it's hanging loose around his face in what I like to call his sexy, rocker style, with most of it combed to one side so that it forms a curtain over most of the right half of his face, accenting the vivid green of his uncovered, right eye.

  Looking at him, I can almost imagine that I never ruined anything for him.

  "Up, Kels?"

  I shake my head, realizing I've been standing in front of the open fridge, just staring at him like an idiot.

  "Sorry. It's late. I was spacing out." I grimace. "I didn't mean to wake you."

  "You didn't," he assures me, even though he's yawning. "I've been editing. Lost track of time."

  He yawns again, as if to accentuate the point, then rubs his palms over his face before raking his fingers through his hair. For just a moment, the thick strands are pulled back, revealing what had been partially hidden before. But of course it's never truly hidden, not even when his hair hangs down. Because how could something as simple as a fall of hair hide the massive scarring that mars the right side of his face and his decimated outer ear?

  It's been twelve years, and the guilt still plagues me. And even though I'm used to the scars now, I don't think there's ever been a time when he's taken off his shirt or pulled his hair back when I don't silently beg the universe to make it all have been a very bad dream.

  "I thought you were coming tomorrow after your Zumba class."

  I shake myself, literally shaking off this damn melancholy mood as he studies my face.

  "Yo. Sis. You going to tell me why you're here? Or do I have to start guessing?"

  I hold up the evidence. "Cupcakes and wine. Why else?"

  "You didn't get the job?"

  I frown. I'd forgotten that I'd told him I was at an audition.

  Our conversation before I danced at X-tasy seems a million years ago.

  "Oh, hell," he says. He comes to me, and though I expect a hug, instead he reaches for the cupcake box. "Grab your wine," he orders. "I think we're going to need more than just cupcakes."

  I laugh and do as he orders. Then we sit at the wobbly Formica table we found one Saturday at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. I get paper towels to use instead of plates, but I pull out a real wine glass for me and a highball glass for him. Nothing fancy--we both liv
e in homes furnished and stocked by Ikea--but I draw the line at drinking wine from a paper cup.

  "I'm really sorry," he says, once we're settled and he's scooped up a chunk of frosting with his finger. "I know you were the best dancer in that room."

  "I was," I agree. I'm modest about a lot of things, but not about dancing.

  "Then why didn't you get the job?"

  I shrug. "Technically, I did. And then I lost it again."

  He leans back in his chair, a clump of chocolate frosting in the corner of his mouth. "You wanna explain how that works?"

  "Sometimes, it's not really about the dancing."

  "So, what? The producers have some sort of agenda?"

  "You could say that."

  He licks off the chocolate, then leans forward. "Okay, spill. What aren't you telling me?"

  "Probably a lot," I admit. "I haven't told you about the rash I got last week--it's all cleared up now, by the way. And I never told you that Mr. Kingman had an affair with that woman who's always volunteering in the library."

  "The assistant principal at your school?"

  "Yup." It's summer now, so this gossip really is old. I have over two months before I have to think about being a kindergarten teacher again.

  "That's all nice and juicy, but not really what I meant."

  "I know." I smile brightly. "Do you want to record that part you called me about, or is it too late?"

  "You're not going to tell me any more about the job, are you?"

  "Nope."

  "Don't you teach a dance class at eight? Can you leap around a room on less than five hours of sleep?"

  "One, I don't need to leap around the room. It was a class of three-year-olds. And two, they cancelled the class. So my Friday mornings are now free and clear."

  "They canceled it? Just like that?"

  I grimace. "Welcome to my exciting, yet unstable world. Yeah, just like that. But it's okay. I've applied at a few other dance studios. There are plenty of kids out there. And even more moms who want them to dance."

  "You need to audition for a show."

  I sigh and push back from the table. We've had this talk a billion times, and I'm tired of it. "The scene. Come on. Let's go."

  "Fine." He pushes back his chair, too, and stands. "But you know I'm right. You should be spending your summers dancing professionally, not teaching kids. For that matter, you should be dancing professionally all the time."

  "I know, Griff. And when the nice talent scout plucks me out of obscurity, I'll do that. In the meantime, I figure steady work is a good thing. So let's go do this, okay? Because I still have lunch with Nia and then my second and third grade tap class after lunch, and then the Zumba class after that. I thought it might be fun to sleep a little, too."

  "You'll sleep here," he says. "I'll take the couch."

  "I'll sleep here," I agree. "But I'm not kicking you out of your bed."

  "Okay."

  "Really?" He never gives in that easily.

  "We'll argue about it after we fix the scene. Come on."

  The spare bedroom is packed to the gills with a variety of computers and sound equipment. There is, however, no bed. I sit at the makeshift table, an old door placed over two triangular frames. It works, though, providing enough room for us to sit close enough to play off each other, and yet far enough apart that our microphones can be adjusted so as to not get interference from the other person's dialogue.

  Griff does all the adjustments and a sound check, and I fight the familiar swarm of butterflies that have suddenly taken up residence in my belly.

  It's weird that I get so nervous. I'm never shy about dancing--not unless my dad is watching. But he and Tessa, my stepmother, have lived in the Atlanta area for almost ten years now, so I don't have to worry about that too much anymore.

  But recording these podcasts? It gets me every time.

  "You look green," Griffin says, passing me a bottle of water. "But not as green as last time. Another decade or so, and you'll be as comfortable in the studio as you are on stage."

  "Jerk," I say affectionately. "There's something about acting with my voice that ties me up in knots. Honestly, I don't know how you do it."

  As soon as I've said those words, I cringe inside. He does it because he feels like he has to. It's hard to be out in the world with his scars, especially the ones on his face. Of course, he swears he loves the work, but sometimes I wonder if he wouldn't love something else better. If he got herded into this career because of my bad choices.

  "When are you going to launch?" I ask, rushing to change the subject.

  "I'm hoping for sometime in the next two months."

  "That long? You already have at least a dozen episodes recorded."

  "I want to do this right. That means I need to have the whole first season recorded, edited and ready to air. If it's a flop, I don't want to leave my four fans floundering just because I've lost enthusiasm for a show that only four people listen to."

  I roll my eyes. "It won't be a flop. It's going to a runaway success."

  "Thank you, Nostradamus. And thank you again, because if you're right and it's a hit, then I owe you part of the credit."

  "Yeah, well, that's me. A walking, talking inspiration for artists the world over." I smile, but the truth is that I'm thinking of Wyatt. Of that one sunset long ago when he took my picture under the canopy of a massive oak, and he swore that I was his muse.

  "At least you have the easy part," Griffin deadpans. "Being the inspiration is a hell of a lot easier than doing the work."

  "Hey!" I protest for form, but the truth is he's right. Years ago, I started giving him bedtime story prompts. I came up with a scarred boy who lived in the shadows of an imaginary town, and who grew into a detective who worked in the shadows, fighting for the innocent.

  Not very original, I grant you, but I was only a kid trying to entertain her brother in the hospital. I'd set the stage, and he'd spin out most of it, with me taking over when his meds made him groggy.

  Soon, we were telling the stories all day, letting the detective's adventures entertain us when another afternoon of bad television was too much to bear.

  Now, of course, Griff's taken the original kernel of my story and run with it. His scripts are amazing, and Edmond--the hero, in a nod to The Count of Monte Cristo--is brilliant, scrappy, tortured, and honorable.

  Griff's written at least five new episodes since the last time I recorded, and I flip through his story bible to see what's happened.

  "Ha! I knew Detective Wilson was going to be suspicious."

  "Yeah, you're very smart. You ready?"

  I take a sip of white wine, then nod, and he switches the microphone on.

  I don't notice it when we're not performing, but my brother has an amazing voice. Deep and melodic and sexy. And that's just another reason I think the podcast has a real chance of becoming something.

  "You still need a name for the show," I tell him when we finish recording the first scene, and he's doing something with the soundboard.

  "It's on the list, believe me. But it's a very long list."

  "You need to be more organized." I spend my life making sure everything I do is set up eons in advance, with all the t's crossed and the i's dotted. But Griffin just goes with the flow. Sometimes that makes me jealous. Most of the time just thinking about it makes me crazy.

  "Ready for the last bit?" he asks, then starts the recording and cues me when I nod. I dive into the words, giving it my all, which really isn't hard because the story's so good. And this is a particularly fun episode because I'm a detective who's giving Edmond grief, and even though I love my brother, that's a role I know how to play.

  When we finally wrap and he shuts off the microphone, I actually applaud. "I don't know how you do it. I think each episode gets better."

  "I guess I'm just swimming in talent," he says, and I roll my eyes. Not because he's exaggerating, but because it's true. And every time I think about that, it makes me a little sad
. Because in Hollywood everything is about appearances, and I'm so very afraid that talent alone isn't enough.

  "Any new gigs?" I ask.

  "I'm recording an audiobook, which is fun. And I get to work from here, which is a plus. And we're going to start recording the tracks for the movie next week. That's going to be a blast. Not lucrative, but you can't have everything."

  He's just been cast in an independent film as the adult voice for the kid who stars in the movie. It's not much money, but the exposure should be amazing.

  "I did get my signing check," he adds. "That was handy. Paid off my last two therapy bills."

  "I hate that you're always working toward a bill," I say. What I don't say is that I wish I could afford to pay for his physical therapy.

  He shrugs. "It's the American way."

  I scowl. I don't like talking about his scars and the nerve damage and all the medical mess that goes along with it. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all go away, but the only wand I have is the clinical protocol, and I just walked away from the money to pay for it.

  "By the way, they called me about the first appointment for the Devinger Protocol," he says, referring to the protocol I was just thinking about. "You know you're the best sister ever, right?" My insides tighten up, just like they always do when we talk about his treatments. "Don't say that."

  "It's true." He crouches in front of where I'm still sitting, then takes my chin in his hand. He forces me to look him in the eye.

  "And you're amazing for getting me enrolled in that program."

  I lift a shoulder and twist my head, freeing myself. I've already paid the first five thousand, which pretty much cleaned out my bank account. That was to hold his spot and cover the initial testing and evaluation. The fifteen I'm still trying to gather covers his full enrollment into phase one of the protocol. And, if the results are in line with expectations, he'll be invited into phase two for free, where we could expect even more dramatic improvement.

  "I still can't believe you can afford it," he says.

  "It's not that expensive," I lie. "The hard part was getting all the paperwork in." That wasn't a lie. It had been a nightmare getting all the signatures I needed so that I could get the records in order to submit the files. "Besides, I told you. I started a savings account for you back when you were twelve." That also isn't a lie. But what he doesn't know is that since I'd been a minor, my dad was on the account. And he cleaned it out without telling me the year I started college.