In the Absence of You Page 19

  Emil is angelic in sleep, light wrinkles smoothened and the outer corners of his eyes tilting high in some relaxed adventure. I caress my plague with a finger. Two lines deepen between his eyes before he opens them, golden lashes trembling before his attention settles on me. He doesn’t pull me in and kiss me. It’s okay. Last night was a rough night. I understand.

  “My mouth is dry,” he husks, smacking his tongue. I get up and grab him a bottle of water, which he downs quickly, his focus still on me. I’m not wearing much, a semi-transparent camisole with no underwear, but Emil isn’t staring at my body.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “I’m sorry. I talked up a storm last night, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I got what I asked for.” I’m holding myself in a tense little hug, I realize. I unwind the grip I have on my torso and crawl back to bed. “I’m glad you told me, and I’m sorry… about everything.”

  He huffs like he wants to laugh. “It was my own fault. I should have known better than to down tequila like it was going out of style. Hell, it’s been outta style for me since I was sixteen. ‘Never again,’ I promised back then, according to Bo. Really, I don’t remember.”

  “So Georgiana wrote every detail in her article? Wouldn’t she be putting herself in a horrible light as a journalist if she did that?” I ask what I mulled over once Emil fell asleep last night.

  “Listen, Georgiana’s writing is pretty clean now, but she was a groupie for Gusher back in the day. That’s how she wedged into the music world. She did her fair share of sucking and fucking less than a decade ago, and she actually sold her first story to BLAST! on her sexcapades with Gusher’s drummer and bass player—at once. Yeah, so back to the roots; the magazine had no problem publishing her latest erotic fantasy with me. Sold a shit-ton of copies too. Assholes.”

  “Fantasy? Last night you said—”

  “No, that’s the problem, Aishe. She fucking lied shit up. Her imagination went on a rampage. The stuff she said we did? I never even undressed Georgiana. I definitely didn’t bend her over the table and give her a rim job or ask her to open her mouth for me.”

  “How do you know if you blacked out?”

  He blows up his cheeks, exasperated. “I just know. I would never come up with the idea of sucking someone’s asshole, and she was fully dressed when I came to.”

  I nod.

  “At first I was thankful that she didn’t say I’d fucked her. But then I realized it made no difference to Zoe. She cut me off immediately.” He groans, scrubbing pink eyes with the back of his fist. “Shit, I can’t talk about this anymore. I feel sick.”

  With a hand cool against his forehead, I stay with him while he throws up in the bathroom. I wring a fresh washcloth with soap and clean his face to make him feel better. Then I run the shower. Pass him my toothbrush and get him a new bottle of water from the fridge. Because that’s what you do for your love fire.

  EMIL

  I have no issue being drunk and hung over. Troy’s right though. Aishe is innocent in my business. She’s playing cards with Troy at the kitchen table, but she has a female intuition or some shit that picks up everything related to me.

  She’s thoughtful, beautiful, exotic, fucking loving. What did I do to deserve someone like her? Nothing, is the answer. Not a thing.

  Aishe catches on to how I’m handling the revolver. It’s one of the fake props, but she hates that I hold it. If she were Zoe, I’d find her outrage hilarious, especially since it’s so subtle. I’d tease her and jostle her. Make her laugh about it.

  Good thing for Aishe that she doesn’t know about my souvenir from the stop in Cheyenne. And good thing for me we have shady fans there. Though my brand-new revolver is real, it looks damn similar to this one. I wonder if Troll would notice if I swapped them?

  There’s that sting again in my chest. Is the heart at the center of your chest? It could be to the left. If so, mine must have moved to the center, and that sting is not my heart breaking, just my heart being shot to pieces by a bullet.

  I should write a song about that. Russian roulette to the heart instead of the temple. Wouldn’t that make so much sense?

  Maybe I’ll rewrite the lyrics to “The Entertainer” and perform it pointing at my heart. And then we can get bags of fake blood and tape them to my chest so they rupture when I press the revolver against it.

  “Why are you smiling?” Aishe asks. Her eyes go between the gun and my face. Troy turns too, studying me.

  “Nothing. I might readjust my act a little on ‘The Entertainer.’” I lift the prop to my heart, blow my cheeks up, and let out a silent pow. When I open my eyes from my half-keeled dead position in the captain’s chair, Aishe’s gaze is full of sadness.

  She makes me feel guilty.

  I don’t want to feel guilty.

  She asks me to meet her sister, and all sorts of alarms go off in my head. I can’t really say no though. I think? I check with Troy.

  “You’d be a total douchebag if you said no. We have no after-party, no meet-n-greet.” He adds a second finger to the first he’s raised counting out reasons. “It’s an early gig, and it’s small. We have that quick radio appearance afterwards, but that’s it for the night.” He clenches his hand around four fingers worth of reasons why I can’t turn down Aishe’s invite.

  With Zoe’s folks, Troy used to tease me over family get-togethers. I’d moan and groan even though they were a small sacrifice to be with her. But Troy’s aware of my non-commitment, my discomfort over disappointing Aishe on a daily basis. That’s probably why he never cracks jokes involving her.

  Aishe chose it though. I never hid what a nutjob I am, and it beats me that she doesn’t find someone else. There are plenty of awesome dudes.

  Troy for instance. He’s a great guy, and the fans call him “a total babe.” The two of them have more to talk about than Aishe and I. Dude’s even trustworthy!

  Uncomfortable, I shove my hands into my pockets. I can’t have them hanging by my sides when I feel like I’m heading to the principal’s office. I remind myself that it’s Aishe’s sister, not her father, I’ll be meeting.

  “All right,” I say. “Where do we go?”

  Aishe lets out a half-muffled squeak, and it’s so unexpected I look up. She’s doing a discreet hip-wiggle, reminding me of a belly dancer. I can’t deny it’s nice to make her happy. I reach for her with my pinkie and hook my tour girl onto my lap. “I don’t get why you want me there,” I admit, “but hey. It’ll be fun to check out your sister.”

  “Shut up,” she laughs. “You’d be in so much trouble with her love fire if you as much as looked at Chavali.”

  “Love fire?”

  “No, husband, I mean. So, they’ll be at the concert, okay? Then I’ll meet up with them, and we’ll just wait for you to finish the interview. Then I’ll come pick you up. Chavali and them have their camper parked a few miles from here. They want to make us dinner.”

  “Homemade food,” I sigh out, digging my fingers into her waist then lifting the fabric enough to find some skin. I like how she’s got flesh here, that she isn’t all bone. My Zoe wasn’t all bone either. She is now. It’s a regret I swallow down.

  I shake hands with the radio dude and hop out of their van. Aishe’s there, face smooth with anticipation. A younger, long-haired replica of her with tons of jewelry is glued to Aishe’s side with both arms slung around her waist.

  “Hey, honey,” Aishe says to me, all flowing skirts mingling with her clone’s. “This is Chavali, my baby sister. I’ve told her all about you.”

  Which explains the cautious expression on Chavali’s face.

  “I hope you held back the worst parts,” I joke.

  “She didn’t.” Chavali’s mouth slants just below a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  The husband pulls up in an SUV and drives us to the campground. The camper itself is the oldest I’ve seen in a long time, but it’s huge and on the inside, it’s almost as spacious as a tour bus. The white exterior h
as yellowed with age, reminding me of appliances from the fifties with its rounded edges. Idly, I wonder if the maker considered it sleek back when it was made.

  The camper is cozy with colorful stuff hanging on the walls, pillows arranged on a couch, and a few chairs. There’s a door going in to what must be their bedroom, and like our bus, they’ve got a kitchen and a bathroom.

  “Cool pad,” I nod out. “I’d live like this. Gotta love being on the road.”

  “We get bored in one place,” Kennick murmurs as he targets his wife with a quiet smile. She’s in the process of cutting something crunchy. The smell of food really makes an impact in such a small room.

  I’m famished. I can’t tell what they’re making, but it contains condiments that waft off mouthwatering aromas.

  “I wish Shandor could have made it,” Chavali says. She’s low-key and sweet like Aishe. I wonder if she can be fierce like Aishe too.

  “It was me or him,” I explain, raising my arms in victory.

  Aishe blows her lips out in a small laugh. “Sadly, that’s true. Shandor wouldn’t join me since Emil came along.”

  Chavali swings at the waist. Though her knife isn’t pointing at me, she’s clutching it tightly. “We really wanted to meet you in person. Right, Kennick? We wanted to get to know you a little, because you mean a lot to my sister.” She gazes back at me with a soft, open sort of awareness.

  “Chavali, enough,” Aishe says. She joins her sister at the counter and relieves her of the knife. Starts in on the remainder of an onion and some other veggies I can’t see past her back. “And in case you wondered? Yes, I’m using the same knife on all the vegetables, because it’ll all blend in the pot anyway.”

  “I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?” Chavali speaks in a hushed tone. I observe them, heads together and with locks of hair mingling over each other’s shoulders. They might not always have been close, but they definitely are tonight.

  “Beer, wine, or soda?” Kennick asks, clearing his throat as if it can drown out the awkwardness the sisters have created.

  “Beer sounds good.”

  Dinner is fine. Kennick isn’t a talkative person, and we have nothing in common, so mostly we listen to the sisters. Chavali is subtly mortified every time she oversteps and touches too close to family secrets. Each time she earns herself a stare or a verbal correction from Aishe.

  “She raised me,” Chavali murmurs while the four of us walk through a nearby forest to a river. “My mother wasn’t all that ready for another baby, a girl and all, but thankfully, I had Aishe. She treated me like a doll she could dress up and love on.” She chuckles. “I’d probably adore any sister or brother I had, but Aishe’s just amazing. If anyone deserves love and happiness in this world, it’s her.”

  “Chavali, come here.” Aishe sounds strained when she tugs at her sister, making her lose her balance on the slippery ground. There’s a muffled ouch while Chavali hops on one foot, wiggling her shoe back on straight, but then they’re ahead of us, whispering. And from the snippets I pick up, Chavali’s being muzzled.

  Shit. Look at Aishe’s sister and her husband. They don’t mess around when it comes to each other. I mean, talk about being a hundred and ten percent in? Chavali and Kennick just took us to the hotel, and after tonight the last thing I want is to sleep in a room with Aishe.

  I’m a poser in a rock star Barbie relationship, but this fucking thing holds more than one fake. It’s damn obvious that Aishe is pretending too, though in a different way than me; “tour girlfriend” my ass.

  When we’re about to say goodbye, I suggest she show them the bus and treat them to some of the thirty-year-old booze we got. “Sponsor gifts rock,” I add. “Party down.”

  Her eyes widen—she wants to tell me no—but I explain that I want them to have fun, that I’m exhausted and going to bed. “If I’m asleep when you come upstairs, no worries. I’m so beat I probably won’t wake up if you turn the lights on.”

  I wave goodbye and head to the elevator with her stare in my back, because Aishe knows concerts are invigorating, not draining. I go back to press a kiss to her lips. Really, I’d rather they don’t catch on to how fake I am. “See ya soon, babe.”

  In the elevator, I fold my arms, a knee bouncing with impatience until I get to our floor. I have a song in my head, Billy Ocean’s “Suddenly.” His voice has an air-filled, breathy substance, and he winds a slow vibrato through it, sinking and climbing, sometimes a whole octave. Damn good singer. It’s not me, but for a short period, I can do that voice. I’m pretty sure I could do all of “Suddenly” and be right on. The thought perks me up.

  A half-bottle of Jameson beckons from the overnight bag. I unscrew the lid, let a mouthful sink to the back of my throat, and gurgle it there, cleaning my voice of its tinge of road-worn.

  Troll is wrong. I’m not on the verge of ragging my voice out. It’s still strong and carries me through whole shows four to five nights a week. It gets a little husky after, but I can trust my instrument.

  I swallow. Repeat the process with another swig. Then I strip down to my briefs and close the door behind me in the bathroom.

  The lyrics are on my phone.

  “I used to think that love was just a fairy tale

  Until that first hello, until that first smile.”

  My bitchy girl loved this tune. Swoony, silly Zee.

  No girl looks at a guy like Zoe looked at me. When I sang it, she’d tear up and bore her gaze into me like she meant it.

  She doesn’t mean it anymore.

  Months-long agony rips through my chest, wanting me to blast open. I stalk out again to grab the liquor—I can’t sing when my voice chokes on regret.

  Watery eyes stare back at me from the mirror. I soothe my tongue with more whiskey, slap my face hard, the echo of it tinny in the bathroom. Another chug of him helps much, oh Jameson.

  I shut the bathroom door, shove against it from the inside, hit it with my forehead to feel something other than her absence. I start to hum.

  The pain quiets with the effort of my vocal cords.

  I don’t dial her from my own number. I key in star and six and seven, then the number. With the lyrics bright on my phone, I wait while it rings.

  And as her greeting reaches its end, I begin to sing.

  AISHE

  The look in my plague’s eyes told me he shouldn’t be alone for long, so I don’t go to the bus with my sister. She and I hug goodbye in the lobby.

  I take the elevator up. The carpeting is soft under my feet, leading me down the corridor, and the keycard creates a slow electronic tick that allows me to enter. I’m quiet, almost hoping he’s asleep.

  The lights are on. A voice I don’t know vibrates through the bathroom door. It’s beautiful, haunting, singing an old ballad I’ve heard before.

  A choked sob punctures the song; Emil’s sob. He’s doing one of his imitations, such an expert, but the sob is all his before he returns to living the lyrics like they’re important—

  A thousand words couldn’t describe what he feels for her, he sings.

  She’s all a man could want, he sings.

  She’s all that he lives for, he sings.

  He isn’t singing for me.

  I don’t know what I’m doing when I turn the knob slowly and slide the door open. When I find eyes that shimmer in the mirror, blond fringes coated with wet grief as he sings that he wishes their love had lasted forever.

  There’s a phone in front of his mouth. His phone.

  He looks at it, clicking it off and interrupting the song mid-sentence. My throat thickens with sadness, but I bite my lip, staring and waiting, until the time for an explanation has passed.

  It’s too late to complain now that I’ve made my bed. I knew from the start what I went into. I can’t talk without crying though, so I whisper my question out. “Didn’t she want to hear the rest of the song?”

  The cell falls into the sink with a dry clatter. Emil’s hand goes to his face. Rubbing away moist
ure and devastation, he whispers back, “No. She didn’t want to hear any of it. I…”

  His Adam’s apple lifts in a swallow. I want to breach his space and his grief and put my arms around him. “What, baby?” I manage.

  “I just sang until her voicemail cut me off.”

  AISHE

  We go to bed together. Jameson is on the nightstand, and I smell it on his breath when I curve up close under the covers. Emil doesn’t drink from it tonight though. He isn’t drunk. He’s just crushed. Again and again and again she crushes him. I don’t want my plague to suffer, and I try—

  I keep trying—

  I try so hard.

  A flash of hopelessness hits me. I’ve seen him much better than tonight. I hope to God that visiting Chavali didn’t trigger this breakdown. My sister and her not-so-subtle message, Love my sister like she deserves to be loved. Damn her sweetness.

  My pitiful mind runs back to the bathroom scene I walked in on. Emil lives for her. That’s what he sang with such feeling; Zoe’s still all he lives for.

  I suppress my misery, enjoy the feel of his skin beneath my fingers, tell myself what I tell myself every day—

  It’s just a matter of time.

  He’ll be ready for you soon.

  Emil, he smiles and pulls me down on his lap whenever I fulfill wishes he hasn’t even uttered on the bus: a drink, food, turning on the TV. He kisses me like he wants me to mean something, and bad, so bad I want it too.

  “Are you tired, baby?” I ask him now, tracing his lip with my finger. Emil’s eyes bat shut. Then they open and float to his bag on the floor. Shoulder first, he bends from me slowly, leaning out enough to rummage in the main compartment. The revolver for “The Entertainer” appears. He falls to his back again and lets it thump to his chest.

  “I should write a song about revolvers.”

  No, you shouldn’t.

  “They’re sexy,” he husks, sounding every bit as road-worn as Troll fears he’ll become. “Sexy as a woman. And lethal like one.”