Burn (11 page)

Craven runs

Crave stays

Craven runs

Crave stays

A cold, dark stain on a hot sidewalk

From a water balloon thrown

Craven freezes

Crave ducks

And writes the sound of nothing in crimson chalk

Craven stays

Crave runs

Craven stays

Crave runs

Puzzle pieces in an open box

Find perfect fit, alone then

Crave touches

Craven sees

Pieces shifted, while five little lenses watch

I sang the bridge a little louder looking in his jade eyes. I wanted to connect with him, to put my feelings into him so he’d understand.

I’m scared all the time

And I need all the time

I’m scared all the time

And I need all the time

I stopped. We said nothing, our voices shushed, and the only sounds in the room were the droplets of water falling on our bodies and the whoosh of the showerheads. His eyes flicked over mine, his expression a mask. I didn’t want to hear his thoughts. I didn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t like what I heard; I knew it.

“That one’s not so revealing, I guess.” I knocked the handle down to shut the water.

“More revealing, actually.” His lips were at my cheek, but I didn’t have the courage to turn and kiss him. “Puzzle pieces. A box full, and only one fits. And you leave me standing on my porch because you’re scared.”

“I was either going to stay with you because I was scared or leave you for the same reason. At least this way I’m not dragging you into my shit.”

He leaned away. The tile pattern was pressed into the flesh of his arms.

“Don’t,” I whispered, putting my hand on his waist.

He didn’t twist away, but he didn’t want me to touch him. I sensed it in the way he stiffened, his sharp intake of breath, the way his eyes closed halfway. “The cameras in your house. I know who put them there.”

The
plink plonk
of water dropping from the faucets and our bodies echoed like slaps on the tile. “Who?”

“Me.” He opened the door with a snap.

“What?”

He stepped out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it over his shoulders. I was still naked and wet, unimpressed by towels or anything else, standing half out of the shower.

“Santon found the serial numbers and followed the money to one of my accounts.”

“What does that mean?” I felt wound up, hot, heart pounding like a drum machine.

“It means someone who had access to one of my accounts had them put in. To answer your next question, yes, Jessica had access to that account. Yes, I think it was her, and no, I don’t know why.”

“Why?” I asked as if I hadn’t heard him.

“Still don’t know. What I do know is you’re not ready to deal with whatever she’s going to dish out.”

If I had been mentally sober, I wouldn’t have been so insulted, but it had been a rough ten minutes. “So basically, you burst in, mostly naked and fully hard, terrifying the hell out of me. You make me sing this heavy song in your ear, and then you tell me your ex-fucking-wife is the one who shit on my house, and for a finale, you call me
weak
?”

“I’m protecting you.”

“Bullshit. How about the sadism staying in the bedroom?”

I balled my fists and stared at him, trying to transmit how offended I was. The showerhead dripped three times.
Plink plonk plink
.

He moved so fast I didn’t even see it, but I felt it in the shifting of the air. I flinched as though I was about to get hit. His hands grabbed the sides of my face, and his mouth came to mine, his tongue parting my lips forcefully. I opened them once I was over the shock. His tongue touched mine. It may as well have touched my clit, my cunt, my ass, such was the intensity of the feeling. Between the song and the adrenaline rush, the chemicals in my body were set to respond, rushing blood and fluids between my legs. I put my hands on his neck, moving my face against his. He pushed me against the glass of the shower.

I pressed my pelvis against him, grinding against his dick. He felt good. Better than good. He felt right. I wanted him. I wanted his chest against mine. I wanted his hands to grip my ass. My nipples hardened for him, as if drawn millimeters closer by sheer magnetism.

Grabbing my hair as if for leverage, he pulled away. “Monica,” he gasped, eyes closed, lips grazing mine.

“Jonathan, please.”

“I shouldn’t even be in here.”

“Yes, you should. It’s fine. We’ll just do it now. Figure the rest out later. I’m screaming inside; you have no idea. I don’t feel like myself. It’s like something in me is sleeping until you show up. When you do, it turns into a wild animal in a matchstick cage.”

He pulled away. “You drive me crazy.”

I felt him leaving even before his body moved. “Don’t make me beg.”

“I won’t let you.” He dropped his hands. “I’m sorry. I just lost control when I heard you singing. But you can’t come back to me just because we’re naked in the same room. I can’t…” He looked at the floor, then back at me. “Jessica’s the tip of the iceberg. You being afraid—it hurts in my bones.”

“I know,” I said, resigned to him walking out of the bathroom without fucking me blind. “I’m the one sleeping on her best friend’s couch.”

I snapped the robe off the hook. It was warm, white, and plush as hell, yet when I put it on, it offered no comfort.

“Just go,” I said. “I can’t even look at you.”

He paused, looked at the floor, then he spun on his heel and strode out without looking back.

                                                  
CHAPTER 22. 

MONICA

Two in the morning.

No word from Kevin.

I heard not a peep from Jonathan’s side of the door. I touched it once before bed. At one-thirty, I sat on the floor with my back to it, looking at the ridiculously opulent suite. Everything was done perfectly, and nothing was fixed.

I knew who’d put the cameras in the house. Maybe I could go home, or maybe knowing it was Jessica would make it worse. What the hell was she trying to do? Make a public scandal? If so, why now? Why with an anonymous waitress she’d tried to take into her confidence? Who did it and when was it done?

I wished I hadn’t found out. All the questions I’d tried not to ask because they were upsetting came to me in a flood, and I couldn’t sleep. I repositioned myself on the floor, pulling cushions from the couch. I was about to open a work of art in a museum, and at early o’clock in the morning, I found myself curled up in front of a locked door, my mind going in circles.

In between those questions and stumbling blocks over my house, I had to ask myself if I wanted that man in my life. Due to my prolific musical output over the past Jonathan-free weeks, I knew he was a work-stoppage waiting to happen. He knew it. That was why he’d walked out in wet underwear rather than take me right on the floor.

I really did wish I hadn’t touched him that first time. I wished I hadn’t taken that monkey of a bet that night at Frontage. I wished I hadn’t met him at the Loft Club after his trip to Korea, and I wished I hadn’t forgiven him for kissing Jessica. I had had every opportunity to take control of my life, but I didn’t.

I watched the sky go from navy to royal, to cyan, to baby boy blue. I’d entered a fugue state of regret and dissatisfaction but had found no sleep. It wasn’t a good day to be tired, but I had to get up and do the work.

                                                  
CHAPTER 23. 

MONICA

“Have you heard anything?” Darren asked without a “hello” or “good morning.”

“No.” I peered over his shoulder at the breakfast buffet. It was ridiculously luxurious. “Nada. I called him, like, seven times.” Silver chafing dishes held three different preparations of egg, sweet treats like pancakes and French toast, and breakfast meats all in a row. Or if we preferred our breakfast fresh and had a minute to spare, stations with men in chefs’ hats were ready to make us an omelet or waffle. The dishes were pure white and spotless. The flatware was heavier than a clarinet. Everyone who worked there smiled in their crisp whites, and all the guests seemed perfectly comfortable with a white-linen-and-crystal breakfast.

I got a little fruit and a croissant, feeling as though I wasn’t taking advantage of what was given, but I had no appetite.

“I called the hotel,” Darren continued. “They can’t tell me if he checked in or not. It’s against some kind of law or rule or whatever.” He carried his corn flakes to the table.

I grabbed tea and followed. “We should blow by the hotel.”

“Yeah. Then we gotta go to the B.C. Mod and pray we can figure it out.”

I shrugged. “You know he’s probably there in a designer suit already, chatting up the curator about luminous banalities and cultural fetishism until she lifts her skirt.”

“It’s a him.”

“Kev’s not that picky.”

“Crabby this morning. Did we fail to get Mister Drazen into bed?”

“He means nothing to me.”

Darren cracked a laugh.

“Good morning,” came a voice that shouldn’t have surprised me at all.

“Speak of the devil,” Darren said.

“Good morning,” I said as Jonathan sat down. He looked well-rested and fresh as a fucking daisy. Suit pressed. Shoes shined. Hair messed up exactly enough so it looked as though he spent no time on it at all. I figured I looked pale and wrung out, dark circles and all. My body wasn’t built for three hours of sleep a night, and certainly not for as little as I’d gotten in front of his motherfucking door.

“How are you guys getting around today?” he asked.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said.

A waitress brought Jonathan scrambled eggs, potatoes, and fruit. He didn’t even have to stand at the buffet for it.

“Please,” Darren said around his cereal. “Whatever you’re going to offer, I’ll accept. She won’t take anything from you in front of me. We had this fight—”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

Jonathan put sugar in his coffee, smiled at me, and turned back to Darren. “The hotel car is a blue Audi. Your driver’s name is Feran. He’ll take you to the museum and back, and he’ll take you back for the event tonight.”

“We have to make a stop,” I said. “We haven’t gotten in touch with Kevin, and I want to go to the Marriot and see if he’s there.”

“They won’t tell you anything,” he said. “Not even his room number. It’s the law. Do you want me to find out for you?”

“You own that hotel, too?” I said.

“Yes,” Darren cut in. “Can you do that please? See if he checked in? Text me if she’s being a bitch.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at Darren, seemingly offended by the name-calling. Was he seriously being protective against Darren? And this was the same guy who left me in my bathroom, fully unfucked, without looking back? This guy was bristling about me getting called a bitch by a guy who was practically my brother?

“Darren,” I said, “it’s cunt to you. See-yoo-en-tee.”

Jonathan smiled behind his coffee cup.

Darren laughed but didn’t repeat the word. “I prefer bitch, but whatever.” He threw down his napkin. “I gotta arrange the equipment. When is the driver going to be around?”

“The front desk knows who you are. Have them send him when you’re ready.”

“This is the only way to fly, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

Darren kissed me on the cheek and left me with Jonathan, who looked unflustered.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“You don’t sleep anyway. You nap.”

“Three hours I need, and I didn’t get them.”

I leaned to the right, just to be a little closer to him. “I crashed in front of the door.”

He sighed as if he got no satisfaction from the information. “I was lying on the couch not sleeping.”

“My guess is it was for the same reason I was on the floor, not sleeping.”

He fingered his water glass, and again I couldn’t keep my eyes off his hands. His watch had a fat metal band in a blackish silver. Analog. One dial. The simplicity of it, draped on his wrist, brought out the arch of his hand, and I remembered the deep clinking sound it made when he fucked me.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“You’re trying to get me to beg for you back.”

“I’m trying to get you to see that your fears are real. If we do this, if you commit yourself to me, you’re going to get consumed. I think that’s what you’re trying to avoid.”

“Yeah.” I could see it. The cameras in my house were no more than a sign of worse things to come. The uncontrollable publicity that had nothing to do with my music. The implication that any success I had was because of him. The kink. The enemies. But worse, the emotional entanglement. I already felt more than I wanted to. If I actually let myself go, he would truly devour me.

I shook my head. “Can we decide when we get back? My brain’s mush right now.”

“Would you come to Seoul with me?”

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to have to leave as soon as I get back to L.A., and I can’t wait another two weeks for us to figure this out. If I take off, I could lose you. I need to convince you, and I need it to be real. I can’t fuck a commitment out of you. That’ll be worthless. I have to have your heart, Monica. The real thing. Without fear.”  

“I can’t promise I won’t be ever scared.”

“Of me.” He put his hand over mine. He didn’t touch it; he hovered as though he wanted to touch me and was as afraid of the contact as I was. “I don’t feel close to anyone, except sometimes you. Sometimes I have moments with you.” He took his hand away and put it back on his glass. “I want you, and I need everything from you. First, that you take me the right way. No compromises. No halfway mark.”

He didn’t equivocate with his gaze or posture. A part of me melted in his direction. How I wanted to yield to him, and how I wanted to run in terror. The tension between those compulsions made words as impossible as movements. I couldn’t run away from him or touch him. I couldn’t agree to two weeks away from L.A., the logistics of which were no small thing. I had a job and a commitment to Frontage.