In the Absence of You Page 13

  “I haven’t given up yet,” I whisper. “He likes me, but he’s trying to get over someone from before, a girl who left him.”

  My sister nods, squeezing my hand with strong fingers. “He’s lucky. I hope he understands how wonderful a life he has ahead of him if he lets you love him.”

  The fear of a darker outcome sucks the air from my voice. “Me too.”

  EMIL

  “Russian roulette is the shit,” I puff out, tipping back the last chug of Jameson from the bottom of my glass. Whiskey and pizza’s the perfect mix. My head is swimming.

  “It doesn’t have to be with a revolver,” I continue, my tongue thick. “You could do it with any gun as long as it has chambers with room for more than one bullet. Ya know? The point is there’s got to be a margin for error, or whatchamacallit. Like, you can lift it to your head”—I raise the wireless mic I haven’t let go of since I got off the stage and point the narrow end to my temple—“and then you go, Click!, then Click! Then POW!” And there comes the first happy-rush in my veins since Zoe joined us.

  “Pretty sure it’s got to be a revolver. You’ve seen how’s supposed to go, right?” Elias butts into my contentment. “Riiip,” he creaks, adding a single round in an imaginary cylinder and placing the muzzle of a nonexistent revolver to his head. “Revolvers are the only guns with cylinders, at least that are small enough to—”

  “Well, fuck,” I say. “We’ve got tons of hunting rifles at home. We could shut our eyes while loading them though. Put the bullets in without looking.”

  “No, dude. Have you never loaded a rifle? You’d have to pop in blank ammunition and mix it with the real deal. Problem is, they look so different you’d know which was which. Wait, not if your mom put them in randomly for you.” Elias snickers.

  “Guys, we gotta get back for the meet-n-greet,” Troy says, staring at his phone. The screen is lit up, probably with Troll texting him.

  “No!” I exclaim, sounding drunk even to myself. “I don’t wanna sign boobs tonight. I want another Jameson.” I half-point at the waitress. “Lady?”

  “No one’s forcing you to sign boobs, Emil. If it’s not what you want, just don’t do it.” Troy is the voice of down-to-earth reason. I don’t want to be reasoned with.

  “Pff. They expect me to sign their bodies. You do it too.”

  “Bo doesn’t. And there’s no rule saying you can’t mix shit up and do things differently. Pull yourself together now. Let’s go.”

  “Well, I’d rather talk about Russian roulette.” I lift my chin high enough to stare him down. Troy folds his arms, waiting. Elias rolls his eyes. But I think Russian roulette kicks ass—Click—Click—Fucking pow.

  “How about you talk about Russian roulette all the way up the street and ’cross the road,” Troy negotiates. I grumble. Wobble to my feet. Sway a little and wave to the girls at the next table. Then I make it outside without toppling over.

  At the meet-n-greet, Troll has about fourteen worry lines crisscrossing his forehead. “Finally. The band is here,” he mutters to Irene, God knows why.

  “Ja! Where’re all the horny chicks with boobs to sign?” I ask. Bo doesn’t look up at my question. He’s being proactive, signing T-shirts and posters and whatnot, getting them ready. He’s all snooty. I’m not signing crap, I decide.

  “You hoity-toity t’nite?” I poke him in the ribs, but he still doesn’t pay attention to me. Life’s hard when your girl’s waiting for you. Prick.

  “Just shut up,” Elias says. “Let’s get this over with. I want to go to bed.”

  “Ah!” I say and blink at him, long and hard with one eye. “Elias’s planning to get laid.”

  “Not even. All I want is a warm hotel bed and to not see your Russian roulette-obsessed face for freaking hours in a row. It’ll be awesomeness.”

  “That again?” Bo asks, and Elias bobs his head.

  The hordes enter with stars in their eyes, and I quickly remember how much meet-n-greets rock: like, one hundred percent. It turns out I have no issue signing boobs and bellies after all. I don’t have a woman who hates it anymore, so I’ll totally whore out my Sharpie.

  I offer to sign an especially flirty girl’s pussy. She stomps off, shocked, but she still sends a pretty intense bedroom look over her shoulder as she leaves.

  I need someone in my bed tonight, and I can’t share quarters with Troy. Every girl seems the same, eyes wide and adoring, and it doesn’t even matter whom I choose.

  I chuckle. Bo claims that with me, what you see’s what you get; right now, I’m fucked up on the outside, and it’s a true reflection of who I am all the way in to my whiskey-soaked marrow. Yep. Should become a pretty stupid night for the lucky fan.

  Jameson really got his claws in me tonight. Might’ve been for the best that I didn’t stay at that pizza joint for more drinks.

  I scour the room for Zoe. Of course she’s not here. Nadia and she are probably as far away from me as possible in this town.

  I make a girl bend over so I can squiggle a tramp stamp on her lower back. She plays along, laughing, and I smack a kiss above it, causing her friends to squee loudly. “You got some on your lip,” she says, pointing, which makes sense, because my mouth felt wet. Guess I kissed on top of my autograph.

  “Troll, can you get me a single?” I say once the meet-n-greet is over.

  “You sure you want to spend your per diems on a hotel room? My guess is you’ll fall asleep like a rock anyway,” he says.

  “Ja, I’m sure. Where’s Aishe?” I ask, and Troll frowns so low it’s like I’ve invited him to an orgy with us.

  He opens his mouth wanting to berate me. I’m not ready for his shit tonight, so I stare hard, waiting. Dude has no idea how easy he is to read. He shuts his mouth for a moment. Then he reminds me in the clipped tone he uses when he’s not happy with someone, “Aishe is with her sister. She probably won’t come home until the morning.”

  “Oh yeah? Troy!” I yell. Aishe and he spend a lot of time together, playing games and talking on the bus. “Is Aishe returning tonight? She gonna stay at the hotel?”

  Troy slows down and waits for me. He bundles his arms up, crossing them hard across his chest like he too has a moral hang-up on my behalf. “I don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you guys s’posed to be close?” I ask, a little jealous.

  “Doesn’t mean I know her schedule.”

  “I like Aishe,” I tell him, while he nods out that he’s aware. “Imma call her and find out when she’s coming.” So I do. She picks up, sounding out of breath. I wonder if she’s been running. I slur when I tell her we can have a room to ourselves tonight and that I want her to be there as soon as she can.

  “Who’s that?” a girl’s voice says in the background.

  Aishe must be covering the phone with her hand, because her answer is distorted. I could have sworn she said, “My plague.”

  EMIL

  Troy insists on following me to my room. I don’t need help. He thinks I should give him my mic, which I’m not about to do any time soon, and clean up.

  “Schtick to your drumschticks, fool,” I say, pulling my clothes off and pressing the mic to my chest. “You ain’t gettin’ my joyschtick.”

  “All right. All right. Just put it on the desk until you’re done showering.”

  “Showers are for pussies!” I roar into the dead mic in a perfect imitation of Uriah Heep’s David Byron. “Imma going to bed dirty as the day I was born.” Troy blinks, his face expressionless while he waits for me to stop snickering.

  “Just leave already, Troy. Imma have a visitor soon anyway. Aishe’s not only your friend. She’s my friend too.” I want to lock him in an intense stare-down for effect, so I crane my neck deep, making vertebrae grate against vertebrae. My display doesn’t impress him.

  “Yeah. Well, let me know when you’re ready for a convo about that friendship,” he murmurs, sounding acidic.

  “What’s up with everyone? You’re all so uptight tonight! Anything
wrong with my friendship with Aishe, all of a sudden?”

  No one likes it when I work myself up. I do that when I’m sloshed sometimes. I’m aware it’s why he doesn’t take me up on my invitation to chat about friendships right the fuck now. Which is a pisser. I’d welcome a fight.

  “You good then, man?” he asks instead, slapping my back real carefully in case I explode. He doesn’t have to treat me like dynamite.

  Kapow. I snicker, mollified by the imaginary detonation. “Ja, go to bed. Not here—I want my own room. Go home to your own bed. No cozy-time with me.” I guess I chatter until he’s out the door with his arms raised in lazy surrender.

  I sigh once he’s gone. My body’s beat. The green lights on the alarm clock display eleven p.m. Alcohol has the power to make you go limp, and now all of my muscles give up at once. I slump on top of the bed and grab the hotel phone. Stupid big keys you need to press down. I do it though, press away, and get to the receptionist person while I’m still awake.

  “What’s my room number?” I ask without introducing myself.

  “Four fourteen, sir,” he replies politely and so professionally.

  “Isn’t that something?” I croak out.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I lift my hand in a sloppy, military greeting at his reply. “There’ll be a girl comin’ in soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Beautiful Gypsy girl, okay? Be on the lookout, and when she appears, give her a key to my room. Four fourteen.” It’s fun to remind him. “You’ll get your own weight in tip tomorrow morning—if you’re light.” I let out laughter that sounds like a prolonged pig’s grunt, which is fascinating. I should be drunk more often.

  “Sir, can you describe the girl in more detail?” tomorrow’s winner of the tip game asks.

  “Sure can,” I say. “Loong, black hair with red chunks all over and then she’s got feathers and shit in it that makes her look like a hot little Native American. She’s wearing super-tight jeans or—or, maybe she’s wearing a really long skirt, like an awesome Gypsy skirt of the type you just gotta lift really high if you get close enough. Know what I mean?”

  The guy clears his throat uncomfortably. What, is he ninety? Or maybe he’s fixed. “Do hot skirts make you nervous?” I ask because he’s my brother-in-arms now, and if he’s got a problem with hot skirts, then I think our bond as a whole might be snapping with one of those brittle, way-too-short sounds.

  “No, sir.”

  “’Kay, the sir thingy was fun for a minute, but you can drop it now and call me Emil. Or Mr. Clown Irruption.”

  A stunned silence ensues while I let my gaze blur over the ceiling. It’s pretty funny though, when I hear how hard he’s trying not to laugh out loud. “Yep, Mr. Clown Irruption’ll do,” I decide.

  Finally, he manages, “Can I have her name, sir?”

  “‘Mr. Clown Irruption,’ remember?”

  “Can I have her name, Mr. Clown Irruption?”

  “Sure can. Her name is Aishe Faa.”

  I wake up with a warm washcloth being drawn across my face with some plant scent on it. Soap probably. I gag, because it’s wet, and then I shudder because I’m in my boxers on top of the comforter and the cloth leaves a cold trail.

  “Gross. Who’s there?” I mumble. My brain’s hazy. There’s something I should remember, something related to the phone cord that’s being unwrapped from my lower arm.

  “It’s just me,” Aishe whispers, voice so low it’s like the lights should be off.

  “Why’s the light on?”

  “Because you never turned it off.”

  “I’m cold.”

  “And dirty. Give me a minute and you’ll be clean and dry and under your covers, sweetie.”

  Sweetie.

  I sigh, feeling better about a lot of stuff I can’t identify. “You staying?”

  “Yeah.” She makes it sound simple, and I appreciate that. I force my eyes open enough to see her. Aishe is a little bit super-gorgeous as she dries me off with a nice, fluffy towel.

  “You can pull my underwear off,” I tell her. “They’re dirty too. You don’t like dirty, right? Just clean my sausage too, real quick.”

  “Shh,” she says, smiling. She’s so pretty when she smiles. Shit, she’s like a nurse and an angel in one. How nice is that? I’m glad I asked her to come to my room. I’d be totally alone without her. Wow, even my thoughts are slurring.

  I feel warm now that she’s here, warm and not alone. I’d be even warmer if she stopped doing stuff and got under the covers with me. It’s what I wanted her to do in the first place. Who cares about washcloths?

  “Nuff nursing around,” I say. “Get naked’n c’mere.”

  “Emil,” she says, trying to sound admonishing. She says more too, but I just feel her next to me on the bed, and I’m disgruntled that she stays on top of the duvet all dressed. I try to explain this, but then I’m too tired, I’m warm, finally, after God knows how long on top of my blankets, and it’s so nice I relax way too much again.

  I flop over to the wrong side, away from her. My brain triggers some recognition of this being the opposite of what I want, but geez, it’s even awesome with her scooped to my back from the outside.

  “Please?” I sigh, pitiful. “Get under and hold me? I miss you here.” Funny how I know I shouldn’t insist on this. No matter how drunk you are, there’ll be some part of you taking sides with morally superior people—like Troy, Shandor, Troll, whoever else likes to litter out opinions about Aishe and me.

  Aishe sighs too, but it’s a happy sigh. She doesn’t reply, and I don’t speak up against my own words. From the shuffling on top of the sheets, she undresses behind me. Then a knee slips under the comforter, followed by another. Soft fingertips reach for me. They curl around my upper arms.

  It feels perfect when her entire body slides up close. My back is bare to her stomach, skating smoothly against her as she gets comfortable. I don’t move at first, just let her snuggle up to me and pull air in through her nose as she inhales the smell at my neck. She likes my scent, I can tell. A remnant of Bleue.

  I start to turn when her breathing evens out. Her arm is limp around my waist, and all she wants is sleep. It’s okay with me. All I want is nearness with a great girl I really fucking like.

  Since Zoe arrived, my mind’s been on overdrive and my guts have returned to stage one of twisting and hemorrhaging. But with Aishe here, peace trickles back in. That dream from earlier, of holding onto this peace for more than brief moments, tempts me again with its brighter, alternate reality.

  I move her limbs as I flip toward her. Accommodate her arm around my waist and let it rest over my shoulder. A small smile accompanies her quiet breath. I open my eyes enough to catch the way her lids flitter in slumber. On instinct, I press my lips to them one at a time. Still drunk, still not coherent, I whisper, “Sleep tight.”

  In the morning, she wakes up as soon as I climb out of bed. I asked her to come to my room. Despite the guilt, I’d lie if I said I’m sad she’s with me. Now I owe her. I need to pay her back for another pocket of relief from pain.

  “I’ll get the shower warm,” I say, ignoring the pounding inside my skull. Surprised, she stares. I guess I haven’t showered with her before.

  Aishe’s got the sheets crinkled around her chest when I return from the bathroom to get her. I take a soft hand and lead her out of bed. She brings the sheets along for a bit, but I pull so they fall away. We won’t be showering draped in anything, and she looks pretty without them.

  This girl, she’s there whenever I need her.

  Once she’s with me in the shower, I return her kindness. “You need a hair wash?” I ask, picking feathers out of her hair. She’s slept with them, and now they’re getting wet.

  She laughs, morning hoarse. “Guess I do.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Her hair is so long and thick I use the whole bottle of hotel shampoo when I knead it in. I massage her scalp until her eyes fall shut and a tr
ickle of mascara finds a path down her cheek. “Lean back.”

  She does and almost loses her balance, so I steady her. I rinse her hair with my other hand, until I have to let go and use both to get it all out. Aishe lets out a contented sigh.

  “Conditioner?” I ask. “You probably can’t brush your hair without it, huh?”

  “Yeah, that would be hard.”

  I massage the entire bottle of hotel conditioner into her locks too, but when I begin to rinse, she takes over and works it out with deep pulls of her nails through the sections. I soap myself up in the meantime, watching, then spreading soap along her skin too. My dick reacts, hardening.

  Between the pounding in my head, the guilt, and missing my Zoe, I find her mouth under the shower and deepen a kiss. She doesn’t have reservations. No, sweet Aishe just links her hands around my neck and pulls herself close. She slides against me so deliciously. I form my hands over a rounded ass and find her entrance slick. I press her into me, letting her feel how ready I am, and she responds with a quiet pant, lifting a knee over my hip.

  Yes. Here. In the shower.

  Afterward, I dry her off too. The better my head feels, the more I want to make up for shit. Now I wish I hadn’t asked Aishe to come. She should have stayed with her sister. I haven’t even asked her how last night was.

  “Was it fun to hang out with…?” I begin as we head to the elevator, an overnight bag each over our shoulders. She looks up at me, hair shiny and dry with those feathers back in there and big earrings dangling. She isn’t wearing makeup. Her face is clean and young-looking, how girls are without war paint.

  “Chavali. Yes, it was amazing. Fun isn’t the word, but… yeah. We had a good time.” She bites her lip, emotional, as the elevator sinks with us on board. It opens on the third floor. Letting in Bo, Nadia, Zoe, and Shandor. Wow.

  “Morning,” Bo says. “You get some rest?”

  I press against the wall. I’ve already dropped my leisurely hold on Aishe. She and I are rarely physical in public, but with Zoe so close that I can smell her, I need a lot of space between us.