Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) (86 page)

He slowed but kept his hand on me, stroking me down until I felt as though I could think again. “Again, goddess. And quietly.” He pushed in me, gathering juices, and put his fingers to my clit again. The waters rose like a flash flood.

“Fuck.” I groaned, clenching and thrusting. A grunt stopped in my throat as I came for him again. My eyes closed involuntarily as I released, the fireworks between my legs taking up every sensory input.

A machine beeped. We froze. It double-beeped once, twice, then stopped. He patted my ass, and I knew what that meant. I scurried off him and pulled up my pants. I got them buttoned just as Irene Maslov, RN opened the door.

“Mister Drazen,” she said in her thick Russian accent, “you are okay?”

“We’re fine.”

“I didn’t know if I should be getting the crash cart again,” she joked, shuffling in on her clunky padded shoes. Her hands, like risen dough, pulled Jonathan to a sitting position so she could mess with his pillows. Her grey hair was cut short, and her lower lip seemed to extend a good seven inches from her face.

“For two beeps?” Jonathan said. “I’m going to start thinking you want me to live.”

“When I started to nurse, we had rules. No girlfriends in the room alone with door closed. Now patients can make request. Request is like
law
, so I have machines beeping twice all night.”

“I don’t think it’ll beep again,” I said meekly.

She went to the computer and tapped away at it with two lightning-fast fingers. “You ready for tomorrow, Mister Drazen?”

“Like any other day in paradise, Irene.”

She took his blood pressure, and I sat by and held his other hand. “What’s tomorrow?”

“Wednesday,” he whispered back.

Irene snapped the belt off his arm. “Okay.” She tapped his IV bags. “You’re fine.” She looked at me over her plastic trifocals. “You be a good girl.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She scuttled out. “I love how it was my fault.”

Jonathan shrugged and held out his left hand. His left side didn’t have IVs or tubes, and it was the side I’d slept on since the third night of his stay. I slipped onto the mattress next to him. I couldn’t move much, but I didn’t want to. He turned the light out, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

“I’m selling my house,” he said.

“Why?”

“I bought it with Jessica. It’s not relevant anymore.”

“I have some nice memories of that house.”

Curled up against him, I felt his smile. “Me too,” he said, voice heavy with those same memories. “We’ll make new ones somewhere else.”

“Where were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”

The machines whispered dreams of a future I’d given little thought to, blinking lights of hope and trepidation. “I live in Echo Park. If you stayed close, I’d like that.”

He turned his head, pressing his lips to my hair. “I’ll stay in the basin. More or less. Not the west side. Too many people I know, and it’s far from you.”

I didn’t think he could get up and walk me down the hall without collapsing, but he still managed to make me feel protected. That hospital room, that bed, his body next to mine had become my world. I came at night, and when he turned off the light, he was my beautiful, healthy Jonathan again, and I his goddess. The troubles of the day melted away.

Over the past week, with only the light pollution of Los Angeles coming in through the windows, he’d told me about a losing game he’d pitched at Penn, walking in a run in the ninth. He’d told me about the out-of-control years before his suicide attempt, about his friends and him drifting their cars on rainy nights in the Valley, breaking into schooners on the piers of Seal Beach. He’d told me about Westonwood, where he got into a fistfight over a French fry his first night and, over the next months, learned to maintain the tight control over himself he still exhibited. I exchanged stories of my father, who couldn’t play a note but made sure I had everything I needed to make music, his gardening, his lust for life, and my mother.

“Why don’t you talk to her?” he’d asked.

“She doesn’t approve of me, and I won’t change into something I’m not, to please her.”

“You live in her house. You could say hello.”

“It was by default. I was already there when she called Kevin a seducer and a slimeball. I just kept paying the rent, and she kept cashing the checks.”

“It’s unlike you to be so passive.” Every word expressed in that bed was said and heard without judgment, an unspoken rule I’d been able to obey without trouble until Jonathan implied I should see my mother. He’d felt me stiffen and tightened his arm around me. “It’s true.” Back then, just a few days before, his voice had been weak and breathy. He’d had oxygen tubes in his nose, and talking was difficult.

He sounded so much better now. Almost like his old self. Soon, they’d give him the surgery he needed, and he’d walk out with a healthy heart. I could go back to work. He’d fuck me blind as often as I let him. Our nightmare would be over.

MONICA

A
nother nurse came at the two a.m. shift change. She took Jonathan’s blood pressure and tapped on the computer. That happened every night, as if he didn’t need a full night’s rest. I slid off the bed, kissed him good-bye, and left.

My studio time started at eleven a.m., and I wanted to be fresh. I tried to pick up another hour of sleep, but I only succeeded in two things: worrying about Jonathan’s arrhythmia, which would postpone his surgery yet again; and thinking of new ways to add percussion to “Collared.” It needed some kind of thump with the stringed hum. So freshness was a fail, but punctuality didn’t have to be. I decided to conserve the gas by getting ready early and taking the bus.

That was considered a major faux pas, unheard of and even shocking to most of my friends. One simply didn’t
take the bus
. But it was a straight shot across Sunset, and I found looking out the window while someone else drove meditative enough to make it worth my while. It wasn’t rush hour, so I wouldn’t be late. I didn’t need to bring anything but my vocal chords and my viola. Just me, and my thoughts, and Los Angeles lumbering by my window.

I imagined Jonathan naked as I tapped my thumb to a song without words. The tempo was an expression of his curves and edges, the notes colored by the flavors of his skin, and the dynamics became his voice when he commanded me for his pleasure. My mind curled into itself, conjuring a song as the bus lurched and heaved to its own time, drawing me into a state of melancholy contentment.

My phone rang. I considered letting it vibrate until it went to voice mail, but it kept ringing. The protective coil around my song shattered, leaving me with the music but not the mood. Might as well answer. It was Margie. Up until the day before, I didn’t know if she was calling about my contract with Carnival or Jonathan. I spoke to her more often than I spoke to myself.

“Hi,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“Santa Monica and Canon.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was taut. “Did you guys discuss you not coming or something?”

I sat upright. “What’s going on?”

“He’s in surgery today, and I thought you might want to be here when he got out. Unless something changed with you two.”

“No!” Fuck. I rang the bell to get off at the next stop. If I picked up a connection, I could make it in an hour.

“What was that?” Margie asked. “Are you on the
bus
?”

In my haste to get off the bus, I dropped the viola case. It popped open next to the driver, who yelled at me. I scrambled to get it together before my viola got stepped on, while the phone was pressed between my jaw and shoulder. I didn’t have a free hand to pick it up, so I had to listen to Margie have a fit over my location and circumstance, which irritated me enough to shoot back at her. “Lot parking is fifteen dollars and it’s permit parking on the street over there at this hour. I don’t need to blow gas money when the bus is fine.” The bus dumped me in front of the Beverly Hills Police Station. I headed across Santa Monica, scuttling to make the light.

“Wait,” Margie said, and I regretted blowing off steam at her. “Did you know about the surgery today or not?”

“I was on my way to the studio, but I can make it there in an hour if I get the Rapid at Beverly.”

“Stay where you are. Lil is coming for you.”

MONICA

I
 sat in the back of the Bentley, wanting to absolutely die. The idea of being in the studio when Jonathan got out of surgery was unacceptable, yet the thought of not showing up to sing for any sickness besides my own seemed ridiculous. Cancelling studio time would cost Carnival a fortune. Everyone would still have to be paid. An orchestra full of people. Assistants. Session guys. Whatever executive felt like showing up to see Miss Taking-The-Bus cut her debut EP. I was a complete career fuckup. Who would set up another session after this bullshit?

Margie met me in the hallway as soon as I got out of the elevator. “They just wheeled him into the OR. He didn’t ask for you which tells me he knew you weren’t coming.” She walked me down the empty corridor.

“I told him I was laying something down for Carnival this afternoon. He knew if he told me he was going under the knife today, I’d cancel.”

“Is it important? The studio thing?”

“Not as important as being here.”

“Spare me the emotional comparisons.” Her impatience was a sign of how tightly wound she was. Her words were clipped, and her intent unmistakable. I felt compelled to give her any answer she asked for. She must have been a magician in a courtroom.

“It’s going to make my career,” I said. “But not today.”

“First of all, you don’t ask my brother ever again about his condition. He’s a notorious liar of convenience.”

“No shit.”

“Secondly”—she stopped and stood in front of me—“how broke are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You two are so sweet together. Really. He lies so you’ll go to the studio, and you omit your destitution so he won’t worry about you. It breaks my fucking heart to see this level of well-meaning duplicity.”

We stared at each other for what seemed like a minute and a half. She had that Drazen thing where she looked perfectly put together even though her family and her work were eating her alive. Her hair sat up in a copper bun, her skin was luminescent, and her lavender business suit looked as if it should still be in the dry cleaning bag.

“How broke?” Margie asked.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to tell her. It was shameful, but I couldn’t avoid it any longer. “I haven’t had a roommate in months. I haven’t worked since before I left for Vancouver. I bought clothes I shouldn’t have. I fixed a car I didn’t need to. Here I am.”

“Is he not taking care of you?”

“I’m not his whore.” I said it in a sotto whisper, but it seemed to amplify and echo against the hard walls and floor. Margie took me by the bicep and pulled me into an empty room. I followed because I didn’t want to make a scene, but by the time she closed the door, I was livid. “Is bossiness a Drazen thing?”

She held up her finger. “Don’t posture with me. No one who ever saw you together would call you his whore, so stop it. How much do you need?”

I held up my hands. Taking gifts from Jonathan was one thing; having his sister write me a check was viscerally offensive. “I’ll figure it out.”

“How? What’s your plan to stay with him and go to work at the same time?”

I didn’t have one, except closing my eyes and hoping I’d wake up at the end of it with a healthy Jonathan and an undamaged career. The signs did not appear to be in my favor. I was pretty sure I’d wind up unemployed, ten pounds lighter, and evicted by my own mother. My EP wouldn’t get cut, and I’d have a reputation as a flake.

“I’m going to be there for him,” I said. “If it makes me broke and ruins my career, that’s the deal. I’m not taking a dime from you or anyone else. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with him when he comes around.”

“You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Welcome to the family,” she said, as if I’d ever been welcomed. “Speaking of, we have good attendance today.”

“Can I have a roll call?” I leaned on the foot of the empty bed.

“Theresa’s calling, but she can’t come in. Deirdre’s in chapel. Leanne is here but running off to some Asia backwater in three minutes. Fiona’s in and out with her entourage. Sheila’s ripping paper. Carrie’s still not coming.”

“And your mother?”

“Fully medicated. I spoke to her.”

From what I could see, Margie and her mother had a sisterly relationship. The elder Drazen was only fifteen and a half years older. “I spoke to her” meant Margie had reprimanded her own mother over how she’d treated me, which included stone cold silences, saccharine kindness, and blatant disregard when she was tired.

I nodded. “Will she ever say more than two words to me?”

“She and Deirdre love Jessica. That’s not going to change.”

“I don’t expect it to.”

“Good. There’s something else.” She glanced at the door as if making sure it was still closed. “Jonathan hasn’t spoken to our father in fifteen years. He’s here. You might not see him, he and Mom are on the outs, but he’s in the building. If he meets you, whatever he tells you, grain of salt, okay?”

“I don’t know what he’d have to lie to me about.”

“He’d say something just to see how you react. My brother thinks it’s evil. I think it’s just a shitty hobby.”

“Can we go?” I collected my things and stood up straight, ready for the door.

“I’m not done. About the money—”

“You’re done.”

JONATHAN

W
hen I first felt as if I was dying, I stood in a doorway at the L.A. Mod for half an hour, trying to control the tightness in my chest. I focused on my breathing, sat down, tried to think about anything else, but it kept getting worse. I kept sitting there, thinking I had to get to Monica before my father did, and I really started panicking. It had tumbled down from there to that ridiculously long hospital stay, to getting wheeled into an operating room for surgery at thirty-two.