“He’s not a drug dealer, Mitch.”
“I know who he is, Elliott. And I know what he did. How do you think I got his house?” He spins around and glares at me. “You’re not getting this house back.” He gives me an opening for a comeback, but I’m not about to go there. “Or I’ll be dead, and you’ll be old by the time you do.”
Years ago I would have told him to fuck off. “I’m not here to lay claim to this house, Mr. Tesch.” Asshole. Relax. Deep Breath. “I’m hoping you’ll be interested in a business proposition— with a lot of tax free cash.”
He laughs. “Why on earth would I ever get in bed with you?”
“I’m not suggesting a union, sir. This is a one-time thing. A quick exchange, and you’ll never see me again.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the counter top and waits for me to continue.
“Some instruments that are very important to me were mistakenly included in the sale of this house—two acoustic guitars. And I would pay quite a bit to get them back.” To hell with tactical negotiations. I want out of here.
“Are they your guitars?”
His question throws me. “Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Yeah. I think so. If no one moved them, they’re still in the studio room.”
“Let’s go check.” He walks past me. Elliott and I follow him back to the studio. He flips on the florescence upon entering, lighting up the menagerie of drums, giant speakers, full-scale keyboards, mini soundboards, mics on stands, stools, amps, cluttering the space. I spy both guitars still sitting in their stands against the cork wall, covered in dust so thick I can write my name on them. Instinct is to grab them, clean them, cradle them, but I just stare at them from across the room, much the same way I watch the twins sometimes.
“That them?” He goes and picks up the Gibson Mike gave me when I was five.
“Yeah.” Don’t hurt it. Don’t bang it. Be careful.
“Here.” Mitchell hands me the guitar. “Play something.”
He has to be kidding. I take the guitar, smile at him, sure he’s joking. “What?”
“Play something that proves you’ve been intimate with that guitar. Do that and you can take ‘em. Both of ‘em. I don’t want your money. I have enough of that.”
I look at Elliott and he shrugs, but the big, happy grin is back on his face. Mitchell stares at me. Okay...Whatever. As long as it’ll get me my guitars back. Sit on one of the many wooden stools, position the Gibson in my lap and tune it, its unique, rich resonance bringing me home. What to play... Start with an even pick, Dm, Am, Em, Gm, and faster; repeat, then slide down in D on 5/3, 5/7, 7/9, 9/12, keep it smooth, and stop; beat; and pick it back up, C, G, Am, Em—fast, faster; repeat, fluid. Stop. Look up at Mitchell.
“They’re yours. Take your guitars and get out.” And he walks out of the studio.
Still holding the Gibson, I hesitate only a second then go get the Takamine 12-string my mom gave me.
I have them. They’re mine. They’re safe.
Clean them with my shirtsleeve, making sure they’re dust free then put them in their cases. The click of the lock is surprisingly loud as I snap the last case shut. Practically echoes in the dead quiet of the abandoned room.
One last look around, and again I’m swept up in memory and rushing with the rhythm Bob Greene and I are creating strumming acoustic guitars. I’m trying to block out the cramping in my hand as we battle it out to see who’s faster. His face breaks into this huge smile, and then I burst into laughter and surrender. We must have raced at least ten more times on that stormy afternoon all those years ago, and I seem to recall in the end we came out fairly even. My smile lingers with his ivy-league image as I pick up the guitars and leave the studio.
Elliott walks me back out to my car and waits to shake my hand while I put the guitars in the back of the Jeep. “It was great meeting ya.” He grabs my hand in both of his and pumps. “An honor really, especially to hear you play.” He has that big, happy smile on his face.
It’s hard to take Elliott seriously. I smile back at him. “Good to meet you too, Elliott.” I retrieve my hand and get in the Jeep. One last look back, and the distance is complete. It’s a house I used to own. There’s no more music, just the sound of the surf echoing against the cliff. I’ve jumped the dimensional warp all the way to present day. Can’t wait to get back to Liz and the kids, on my way home again, out on the highway, away from this place.
Take Hwy 1 all the way out to the 101 to stay by the ocean. Living by it again, back to surfing in it almost daily, and I still can’t get enough of the Pacific. The water shimmers in the full moon as I drive up the coast, and coming over the hill at Leo Carrillo it looks like phosphorescent sea the way the moonlight reflects in the crashing waves. Wish Liz was with me to share the view.
Pull my cell from my jacket pocket, and of course, can’t get a connection around Point Mugu. No bars at the top of the glowing screen. ‘No Service’ is printed in the center. The onshore winds bringing in the fog buffet the Jeep with whistling gusts. The highway is virtually empty this far out on a Thursday night past the evening commute. I’m out of contact, and fight the familiar panic with reason. I’m a free man, no wants or warrants under any of my names. No one is out to hurt me, ‘cept maybe Tesch. He could’ve reported the guitars stolen the moment I walked out the door with ‘em to fuck me up—a hedge against me going after the house.
Scan the sides of the road for cops. Stupid, James, taking the guitars without some sort of contractual agreement. Really idiotic. My throat constricts, my heart pounds. Force myself to focus on driving, tighten my grip on the wheel. Hold the phone and check it every minute or so to see if I have service, fear collecting and taking form, choking me until I finally get a connection to Elisabeth coming into Oxnard.
“Hi, honey.” Smooth, rich tone of her voice calms me. I’m not alone in the middle of nowhere. “Where are you?”
“Coming into Ventura. I’ll be home in half hour, tops. Are the kids in bed?”
“Sara and Kyle are. Cam’s doing his homework, or on the net playing video, but he doesn’t think I know. A pox on you for getting our son into that.” She’s mad, but there’s humor in there, too.
“You’ve got it wrong. He got me into it with—”
“Who got him online, James?”
“Just the online part, for school research, access to knowledge. He found Zero-G all on his own. And it isn’t so bad, really. He’s building all kinds of structures with respect to physics, designing complex cities on alien worlds—”
“To have guerrilla warfare in, honey!” She growls in frustration, this rather cute mid-range roar. I laugh, which she does not find amusing. “I can’t believe I’m having the exact same conversation with my thirty-three year old husband that I did this afternoon wi- my fiv- y--r old s-n.” Her voice starts breaking up and I think we’ve dropped the connection and tension creeps in again, but then I hear Elisabeth say, “Kyle? What are you doing up?”
“Can I have some water?” I hear Kyle’s high pitch in the background. “Is that daddy? Can I talk to daddy? Can I talk to daddy, pleezze?”
“Tell him I’ll be home soon and come kiss him goodnight.” Hear rustling and water running above the constant din of road noise. The hybrid Jeep was Elisabeth’s idea of a 4x4 SUV. Except she likes the concept more than the noisy, drafty, bumpy reality, so I’m stuck with it most of time.
“Your three year old son is playing the ‘let’s find ways to stay up’ game.” There’s more rustling. “I’ll take that. Now, get in bed, munchkin.” She speaks to Kyle, and I picture her long auburn hair bouncing softly against the small of her back as she followed him down the hall.
“Tell him sweet dreams from me. And kiss him for me.”
More rustling. “Okay. You warm enough? Kiss from daddy. Goodnight, sweetie pea.”
“Tell him sweet
dreams.”
“And daddy says sweet dreams.” Rustling. Hear the door click shut. “Hi,” and she’s back on the phone with me.
“Hi.”
“You okay? You seem kind of...weird.”
“Yeah. I had an interesting experience tonight. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”
“Good or bad?”
“Well, hopefully good, ultimately.” Oncoming headlights sweep across the guitar cases crammed in the back of the Jeep. Looks like people sitting back there.
“Then why are you feeling sad?”
I smile. She’s right, of course. I’ve just failed to acknowledge it. “It reminded me of what I had, and how I got here.”
“Let’s get off of Mars and come down to Earth, shall we? Less abstracted, please.”
“Okay.” I laugh. “I love you.” I pause, then add, “I love my wife, my kids, my life.”
She laughs. “Cool.” I swear I feel her smiling.
Lose our connection at the 101 connector, our signal now competing with countless other cells for towers. And I’m alone again, though the freeway is packed. Heart beats hard, loud, hear it in my ears above the road noise. I want to be home, in my sanctuary. But maybe it’s not safe there now, or won’t be if Tesch called or calls the cops. It’s hard to breathe again. My entire body flushes and I break out in a sweat, pull my sleeves up to cool down and expose the light red scars up my forearms and flash on slicing them with that broken shower tile. I had to get out of there. It was the only way out.
Drop the phone on the passenger seat and try to focus on driving. But the highway becomes background, the oncoming headlights turn to ceiling fluorescence that flash by as they wheel me into the rubber room.
And then I’m back in hell, naked, my wrists and ankles strapped with three inches of padded leather around them, pinning my body spread on the quilted fabric floor. Parker is kneeling beside me, sticking small patches on my upper thighs next to my balls and the thick plastic edges cut into me as she presses them into my skin. I’m screaming at her to stop but only muffled grunting comes out with my tongue pinned and mouth gaping from the leather bar.
“Today’s the day, sweetie. Can feel it deep down,” and she laughs as she straddles me. She holds an iPad and it washes her face in electronic blue light. She looks like the bad witch out of Harry Potter—long, black, stringy, damaged hair frames her ashen face, sunken cheeks and eyes, iris’ black marbles from enlarged pupils reflect the blue and red screen as she touches the tablet. And white hot shocks constrict every muscle in my body and I pull against the restraints. She rides me, staring down at me like a child after stepping on an ant hill, then lifts her finger off the pad and the shocks stop.
She giggles with delight. “Just testing. Feels grand though, don’t it.” Parker puts the tablet on my torso and takes hold of my cock as I lay moaning, gasping, panting helpless beneath her. “Ready?” and she grins twisted yellowed teeth at me. Her breath stinks of alcohol. She strokes my hair from my eyes and then reaches down and touches the tablet and stinging shocks come over and over, along with my screaming.
“Come on, baby.” Parker slurs. “Give me a little love.”
I hate her. Want to kill her, put her on the floor. I try to fight the stimulation, but my balls and penis surge with blood and I feel my cock stiffen, and tears well, then slide down the sides of my face.
Then she mounts me and I’m inside her, and she leans over and buries her breasts in my face, and laughs as she sits back up and rides me. And I can’t stop her. Cramping in my loins and stomach is excruciating and the pain becomes intolerable, and I’m with her in hell as she forces me to ejaculate into her.
A loud horn brings me back to driving. Drifted to the right so I crank the wheel left and get the Jeep back into my lane, miss hitting the guy next to me by about half a second. He guns his BMW and passes me, then sticks his hand out his sunroof and flips me off.
Cell vibrates and rings. Liz’s beautiful face appears on the screen. Pick it up trying to shake off my fury, my fear, take a deep breath, clear my throat and hope I sound normal. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Again Elisabeth’s warm, sultry voice fills me up and I am not alone. “I missed you this week.”
“Me too.” I did, more than I ever dreamed possible—her face, her touch, her taste, her smell, lying together, safe inside her.
“I’m really glad you’re coming home.”
“So am I.” Decide not to mention my irrational fear of Tesch calling the cops on me with no real reason, and Elliott as a witness to what really happened. Anxious to get home. Bad memories rarely came to the fore with the distractions of family. And I flash on Elisabeth’s casual smile; Cameron slapping me a high five; Kyle and Sara’s toddling gait when they run to me. I’m not alone anymore.
“I have the Vanity Fair shoot in the morning out at Sea Ranch, so I’ll feed the twins and get them over to Beverly’s so you can sleep in—give you a chance to recover from just cat naps all week,” she scolds. “But you’ll have to get Cam to school.”
“No problem.”
“Have to swing by the gallery after the shoot, but I’ll get the cake and pick up the kids on the way home.”
“Is Larry still rearranging?”
“It’s always a floating point with him. He’ll probably keep changing the layout right up until the opening. He’s decided to go with the pictures of you playing guitar as the window teaser.”
“'Lizbeth, I told you I don’t want my body displayed in a gallery storefront, no matter how great the shots are.”
“You can’t even tell it’s you. Besides, you should be honored.”
“And I am. Just a little shy.”
She laughs. “I love you. We can argue about this later. See ya when you get here.” And she hangs up without any salutations, which I find somewhat irksome. Hear her laughing even after she’s disconnected which saves me from getting sucked back into the black hole of the past.
Get off the freeway at San Ysidro Road and release a deep breath. It’s dark, shrouded by the canopy of old knurled cypress that block the streetlamps. Road is tight, and parking for Cameron’s birthday on Sunday is going to be a bitch. Invited way too many people—somehow it’s exploded into this extravaganza, but Liz tries to convince me that social gatherings are, if nothing else, excellent creative stimulus. Truth be told, I looked forward to spending time with Aaron and Mimi, and the kids love having grandma and grandpa around. And it’s always a kick seeing Martin, and even John now, since Martin deemed them the kid’s official Godparents, whatever that means.
Turn onto Edgecliff, pull into the drive and up to the house. Cameron’s light is still on. After five long days away I can hardly wait for that first hug—him slamming up against me, body to body, his head nuzzling into my neck. Lately I’ve been thinking about giving him something for his birthday just from me, turning five being a milestone and all. As I pull the guitars from the back of the Jeep, I decide on the Gibson, the one my stepfather gave to me when I was five.
The night is damp and cool, and fragrant with foggy sea salt and pine. Trudge up to the house with guitars in hand, anticipating the warmth within. I’m home. Safe.
But somewhere deep inside me I hear derisive laughter.
*********
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a psychological disability often developed by a person who has experienced one or more traumatic events, such as sexual assault, warfare, serious injury, or threats of imminent death.
For information, resources for treatment and support for those suffering from PTSD, and/or affiliated family and friends, please contact The National Center for PTSD: http://www.ptsd.va.gov/
♦♦♦♦♦
About the Author
“Writing fiction is intoxicating,” author J. Cafesin said in a recent interview. “Fully engaging. Hot. Sexual. Physical. Mental. Spatial. Virtually touching real as I enter the scene. And I’m a million miles from solitude.”
J. Cafesin
is a novelist of taut, edgy, modern fiction, filled with complex, compelling characters so real they’ll linger long after the read. Her debut novel, Reverb, has been called “Riveting; Compelling; An original and unique read,” by recent reviewers.
Other works include her fantasy YA/NA short story series, Fractured Fairy Tales of the Twilight Zone: “5 Stars. Great read for young adults, and even some not-so-young adults.” Her second novel, Disconnected, called “unabashedly unafraid, completely honest writing,” released July 2014.
The Power Trip (the first in this upcoming YA/NA three-book series) unveils the misanthropic adventures of the four Stanford students, who implement an online game in which players manipulate each other. Due to release summer 2015.
Her essays and articles are featured regularly in national publications. Many of the essays from her ongoing blog have been translated into multiple languages and distributed globally: http://jcafesin.blogspot.com
J. Cafesin lives on the eastern slope of the redwood laden Oakland Hills with her husband/best friend, two gorgeous, talented, spectacular kids, and a bratty, but cute Shepherd pound hound. Find her on Facebook and Twitter.
J. Cafesin, Reverb
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends