In the Absence of You Page 11

  Kaven didn’t look like us. Flaxen-haired and with muddy blue eyes, his skin was too pale for a Romani. His father, a widower of thirty-six, lost his wife to pneumonia when Kaven was a baby. Because of her mild ways and her husband’s position in our hierarchy, she’d been the only non-Romani accepted into our caravan. Kennick hadn’t found his love fire, but in Cynthia, he’d found peace until she died a few years later.

  “I’ve told Chavali where the concert is, Aishe. They’ll be there.”

  “No…”

  “Yes, and I’ve talked to Troll. He’ll leave tickets for them at the door.”

  “Ah why are you doing this?”

  “Because you need to talk. She’s your sister, your only living sibling, all right? Enough time has passed—you can do this now. We don’t chat much with the rest of the kumpania. My brothers, our parents, the chieftain. It’s what happens when people give up on their clans. But with your sister it’s different. She has no one checking in on her, and she misses you so badly.”

  “She’s got her husband,” I mock, mad about him. It’s his fault. He was there, igniting her love fire and ruining her relationship with everyone she loved. He made her tie a noose at fifteen years of age. Like everyone, I believe in the power of the love fire, but it doesn’t always make things right.

  As soon as the blue roses disappeared from her cheeks, the two of them went against all that was right and true, and they got married in the closest city. Chavali didn’t have an opulent Romani wedding and a dress so colorful and expensive it set the family back months financially. No, Chavali eloped, leaving even me behind, and got married at a courthouse without her family.

  Oh Chavali.

  EMIL

  My mind’s jacked up. In thirty-six hours, we’ll be in Portland for our next show. Two hours before we go onstage, Bo and Nadia pick Zoe up from the airport, and I need more Bleue, her favorite cologne. I’ve had no reason to wear perfume since she left me.

  Aishe is a bonfire, devouring me from afar unless I give in to lust and crook a finger at her. Since her shopping spree, she’s been wearing colorful hot-hot outfits meant to be ripped off, and her stare has been daring. She makes it clear she knows whom she wants, and I have a weakness for determined girls.

  But I’m impatient. I can’t wait to see Zoe even if she ignores me or looks at me with contempt. Everything is better than never seeing her. I belt out songs in the back lounge, the only way to keep my impatience under control. I’m loud. Peeps leave me alone.

  The bus bounces over a dirt road in the forest—some shortcut, I’m sure. Our driver likes to find those, which drives Troll up the wall. I steady myself against the window frame and roar out the chorus to “Bullshit,” about how chicks should never leave their man over single mistakes.

  “Emil!” Troll shouts from the door.

  I stop and turn. Watch him shake his head. “Take a break, man. Don’t destroy your voice.”

  I sigh and press my forehead against the panel. “Dude.”

  I need to do something.

  “Play video games. Read. Get drunk—anything. Just stop singing. Ragging out your voice isn’t on your checklist for the tour.”

  I pop in my earbuds and listen to Bo’s scores for future songs. I hum along, leaving one of the buds askew so I can hear my own voice. “We got beer?”

  “What, do I look like a butler?” Spine curved with his customary backache, Troll swings to me.

  I snicker and splay my middle fingers up at him. “Three, please? One of the shitty Mexican ones, and a few of those designer brewery beers.”

  Troll huffs, muttering something under his breath, and lumbers out. “Just keep it low. No yelling out songs. You can do that tomorrow night at the show.”

  With Zoe in the audience.

  I sing along, changing up the bass, which is nonexistent on this ballad. The door clicks shut behind me, and Aishe is there, in a long, green skirt and a skimpy top that makes her look fucking tempting.

  “Three, you said?” She wiggles beer bottles in front of me, held by the necks and squeezed tight.

  “Ha, you lifesaver you,” I murmur. She removes the cap of a beer, making it hiss invitingly. “You here to get me drunk?”

  Aishe’s got a bold gleam in her eye. She bites the corner of her lip and slinks closer, knowing I’m studying her. Her feet are bare under that awesome skirt, with small toes peeking out. They’ve got nails shaped like perfect half-moons, and they’re covered in dark nail polish.

  Impatience does weird things to a guy. Even with the best intention, it’s hard to hold back when someone, full of plans like her, steals up so near she can remove your earbuds and nurse you straight from the beer bottle.

  I’m too tall for her to feed me comfortably, so I put my phone to a side and slump to the couch. She comes after me, scooting in behind the table. Most times, Aishe waits for me, but tonight, she cups my face, leans in, and then she angles the bottle up for another sip.

  I watch her lips slide apart, revealing the tip of a pink tongue as she feeds me. It’s hard to stay away from her when she keeps invading my space. I hold a small sip of beer in my mouth and jut my chin at her.

  She catches on. Sees that I’m not swallowing my beer. I don’t signal her closer, but she shifts her stare from my mouth to my eyes, looking for confirmation that she’s reading me right. I give her no such sign. Still Aishe, sexy Aishe, obliterates the last inch between us and finds my lips with hers.

  Lazy, I don’t sit up from my reposed position against the backrest of the couch. I pucker my mouth, opening for her. Add pressure so the beer meets her teeth and sieves beyond. Aishe plays along. She sucks the beer in and deepens our contact once she has swallowed.

  She kisses me, and I accept. The long, wide skirt with that tight waist billows over my lap as she straddles me and settles down. Sluggish, I knead my fingers into her middle and dip my thumbs under her top for warm flesh.

  She knows I’m unredeemable. I can’t be more than a good fuck to her. I won’t spend energy on worrying, on repeating myself like she’s deaf, especially not when her hands move mine up to cover her tits.

  I groan, because I’ve stayed clear of her for days. Aishe’s is a surprise attack, right when I need distraction the most, and she’s massaging my dick with her weight, undulating on me. I let go of her breasts to press her down harder. A small moan puffs from her, eyes already fluttering closed with need.

  “You’re funny,” I whisper. “Why do you want me so much? Is it the sex?”

  She nods, grinding her pussy on me, making herself feel good too. “I like you,” she manages. “A lot.”

  From the blush on her chest, I’m guessing she’s about to come. I’ve never met a girl who reaches orgasms as fast as Aishe. I slide my hands down over her skirt and wedge my thumbs between our bodies, right where her clit should be. With a few strokes, I’ve got her sobbing out her first one.

  I examine the ecstasy on her face while she’s lost in pleasure. Then I toss away caution, get up, wiggle the door to make sure it’s locked, and lift her skirt high so I can get rid of her panties.

  “My turn,” I growl, horny from her climax. She pants, nodding, not coming down from her high. I widen her thighs on the couch and kneel between them, pulling my last condom from my wallet and threading it on. I plunge inside her. My relieved grunt mixes with her small whimper. She contracts around me, wet, welcoming, exactly how a girl should feel.

  I work her hard, fast. Take a moment to shove her top up so I can rip her bra open at the front and watch her nipples pebble with desire.

  “Again? Already?” I say when she starts to shake only minutes later.

  “Yeah…” she whispers, trying to remain quiet.

  “We’re stopping for pizza,” Elias announces at the door.

  She contracts so beautifully around me I curse under my breath. It’s hard to hold off when she does that. Her head angles backwards, a whine at the back of her throat. I cover her mouth so Elias doesn�
��t hear. I don’t slow my pace while I yell back, “Okay.”

  “Canadian bacon and pineapple on yours?” Elias insists.

  I slow down to catch my breath. Draw back from Aishe so I can widen her lips between us and watch myself bathed in her juices. It’s a pretty sight. Her breath shudders when I rock back in again, just half the length so I can still watch us. “No, pepperoni and extra cheese. Oh and bell pepper.”

  “Copycat.” Elias laughs. “That’s my favorite.”

  I decide to come slowly and enjoy the experience. The more time spent doing something besides counting minutes, the better. I fill my hands with Aishe’s breasts and watch golden skin between my fingers as I push inward. “You gonna do another one?”

  Speechless, she nods and lets her eyes sink closed. Her spine arches off the cushion. “Crazy girl,” I whisper to her. “Always in heat, aren’t you?” The pressure builds in me, and if she’s answering, I can’t hear her. Short, slow thrusts, a perfect glide into her body. Right when I come, I widen her sweet lips again, and stare as I give her clit a short, circular rub.

  She yelps through her third orgasm, spasming and making me groan out my own climax.

  I pull Aishe on top of me without removing myself. I still have her hooked deep, blanketing me with her hair in my nose. That spicy flower scent tickles me. I’m content with her relaxed in my arms.

  I’m the kind of dude who needs a better half. When I don’t have one, I miss the girl I lost even more. Aishe is warm over me. Exhausted. I’ve given her pleasure and release, and she’s done the same for me. I pull up high enough to grab my beer and lie down again, leaving soft hands where they are around my neck as I take a few swallows.

  I let myself dream of possibilities: what if she became my better half? She’s not Zoe. No one is Zoe. But what if I didn’t distance myself from her again? What if I allowed this ease, this relaxed bliss to last between us? I stroke long, silky hair away from her face. I like Aishe. I like her very, very much. Could I give her what she needs to be content as my girl?

  “That was nice, huh?” I whisper, pecking her cheek.

  Her answer is a whisper. She might not mean for me to hear it, but I do. “Yes. You’re amazing.”

  AISHE

  “Shandor.” Troll’s voice is sterner than I’ve heard in a while. “I’m sorry we’ve had to send home the second drum tech in a row, but I count on you. You are being paid extra, let the records show.” He stares around him for agreement. We all look away, not wanting a part in this uncomfortable conversation. “Now, what made you think Troy doesn’t need backup drumsticks tonight? He. Breaks. Them. Remember? You know they splinter all over the place. Once we get to ‘Fuck you,’ we’ll be toast!”

  This arena is enormous. We’re at The Aurora in Portland, where Moksha, one of Emil’s favorite bands, had their breakthrough a decade ago. It is incredible to have been invited to play here. Even Troll with his twenty years of experience hasn’t worked this venue before.

  “I’m sorry,” my cousin murmurs. “It’s been one of those days. I should have thought of it when we picked up guitar strings this morning. I have a few backup sticks left, five maybe, but there’s still time to get—”

  “Five? You kiddin’ me? And no; we need you in the back!” Troll shouts. Then he whips around and yells to a stagehand. “You. Do we have a runner who can go to the Guitar Center at this fucking hour?”

  Troll isn’t the only one who’s on edge. Locked up in the small bathroom at the far end of the backstage area, Emil screams out song after song. Troll has stopped interfering. He knows it’s because Zoe has arrived. She’ll be in the front row of the audience instead of accepting the band’s typical side-of-the-stage seats for girlfriends, and Emil is a mess.

  He needs to be with me. Because his ex is nuts. Plague aside, I’m pretty sure I’m better suited for Emil than she is. I’ve already been through harder moments with him than a single slip-up where he let some girl suck him off. How long were they together anyway? If I know him well enough to understand that there’s more to the story than what the Internet tells us, shouldn’t she? I want to pump him for details.

  I haven’t seen Zoe in person yet. Nadia isn’t backstage either. Bo mentioned that they’re having a burger and catching up outside the arena. It’s okay. I really have enough to worry about with my butterflies over Chavali. I don’t know what to say to her tonight.

  It’s surreal that she’ll be here. Emil was too busy with his own misgivings, and he doesn’t ask me about mine unless they’re obvious and related to him. Shandor keeps saying we’ll be fine, that to catch up with Chavali will mend broken days and years, and that love between sisters doesn’t actually die. But I’m not so sure about that.

  “Is Bo back yet?” Troll shouts, losing it a little bit at a time.

  “Troll. Man. Take it easy. I’m here. We’ll get through this, okay? We’re ready for Portland. We’re going to knock them dead. Whatever the hell you want to happen, will happen, all right? Don’t fret.”

  I watch as Troll’s face turns a light pink at being called out on his level of stress. But it’s Bo who’s talking him down, so he can’t really cuss him out. Bo stares, frosty greys undaunted, an island of peace in the middle of the tension around us. “Take a seat. I’m getting you an O’Doul’s.”

  “No! No, no. I’m fine. I’ve got to get the duct tape replaced for lines two and fifteen at front-of-house.”

  “Cool, I’ll call in the order.” Bo pulls out his phone and keys in a series of digits. “The house guy’ll fix it. You’re too important for us to go down with a heart attack.”

  “Bo, listen—”

  “Sure, the arena’s sold out,” Bo cuts in, unruffled as he waits for the sound engineer to pick up, “and we only have a few backup drumsticks. But sound check fucking rocked, we’re on schedule, and everyone’s accounted for. Emil’s got his voice. No one’s even drunk. So take a breather, Troll. You’ve worked your ass off since five this morning, and to be honest, we all need a break from you to focus on the show.” Bo’s smooth expression tilts into a one-sided smile at the last admission.

  I leave the backstage area as Troll accepts the chair Bo points at.

  The Aurora is an amazing venue. I climb the dozens and dozens of steps to the exit at the top of the auditorium seating and push through the door to the second story to find rows of simple, elegant bars and restaurants.

  Intermingling with souvenir stores and merchandise boutiques, the miniscule eateries give off an international airport feel. My booth is double the size of my regular Clown Irruption merch stand, and three teenaged girls man it, courtesy of the venue. I’m supposed to supervise them, but their expertise is already beyond mine; you can tell they’ve worked with bigger acts than ours. It’s good. Tonight, I don’t mind feeling obsolete.

  The walls of The Aurora stretch abnormally tall, glass screens doming into pointy angles twenty feet above me. I head to the windows, thumbs latched into the lining of my skirt, and I look out.

  Below me, the crowd waits in front of the ticket booths. Doors aren’t open yet, but the fans are there ready to be first in line. The sea below me is diverse, in all colors and ethnicities, the only common denominator being their age. My cousin might be right; the concertgoers seem to be predominantly students. Though Clown Irruption’s music could attract older listeners, the band is too new to branch out past the college crowd.

  I realize that I’m scouring the lines for a mini-me, someone a few years younger with long, black hair and enormous eyes. She’d be an inch or two taller than me by now, I suspect. It’s the law of life—the younger ones grow taller.

  There’s a tug in my chest. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just a band being pulled and causing ripples of longing along the inside of my ribs. For a second, it makes me pause, because, really: what we humans go through. The bonds we feel with others.

  I don’t see her down there. Maybe she chickened out and isn’t coming to the concert anyway. I can be mad at Sha
ndor all I want, but deep down, I can’t deny wanting to see for myself that Chavali is all right. Hell, I’m fine with admitting that I never stopped loving her despite how she treated me. Doesn’t mean I’ll forget what happened.

  I’d love to scrutinize her life from up close for a moment. I think I’d bounce in and interrupt things if need be. Yeah. If I ever were to kill someone, I’d do it to that old fart who took my sister as his wife and extracted her from her people, because Chavali should have remained where she was.

  Me, I was born a rebel. Shandor and I are the same that way—why we became self-made outcasts, leaves blown off on gusts of air.

  My cousin, being a man, and I, because I left too early to leave unpardonable mistakes in my wake, we never caused the ire of our microsociety. Our families still talk to us, still love us, and want us to come home.

  Many before us have left our community for short periods of time. If they haven’t committed deadly sins against the Rromanipé, they’re welcomed back like lost black sheep. But my sister broke the rules—Chavali smashed the Rromanipé in unforgivable ways. First, to avoid being married off to someone other than her love fire, she tried to blow out the flame of her own life. Then she survived and took him as her husband instead.

  I’ve seen people that remain safe from the plague. Not many, but they exist. I used to think Chavali would be one of them, impervious to boys as she seemed. Never did I see her send long looks after anyone. Nor did she appear affected by their interest in her.

  When we were little, Chavali and I shared all secrets, with the exception of the darker ones I kept to myself as a teenager. Older, wiser, I’d guard deep emotions my baby sister wouldn’t be able to absorb. I kept mum to curb her from worries, because I didn’t want to expose my mini-me to the fears of adult life.