For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2) (17 page)

"I’m sorry," he says, his voice reverberating in the moist darkness of Mrs. Stallworth’s front porch. "For the parking lot, for tonight, for being so mixed up," he continues.

"It’s okay—"

"No, it’s not. This isn’t who I want to be. I don’t want to be pissed and petty and just generally so fucked up."

He leans his head back and sighs. His exhaustion is palpable. My heart aches.

I shift on the seat, angling my body toward him. I lightly run my fingers through his hair above his ear, thinking how long it’s gotten since we used to live together. It’s like everything else about him now—familiar and completely foreign all at the same time.

"You’ve got to give yourself a break, Walsh. We both made mistakes. I made the biggest one, and I’m angry too. Some days, I’m so mad I just want to rip all my hair out and beat my fists until they bleed. I’ve been angry most of the time you’ve known me. It’s sort of a constant state for me, you know? I’m learning how to handle it, but I’m the last person in the world to hold being angry against you."

He turns his head slightly and gives me a small smile. "I’ve always liked your brand of angry. You’re fiery, and it’s only because the rest of the world can’t keep up with you. You get frustrated and that’s understandable. This—with me—it’s different, Tam."

He looks up at the sky, occasionally leaning his head into my hand as I continue to stroke his hair. He’s always been a very tactile guy, so I know that touching him is soothing. We used to lie in bed at night and he would caress my skin over and over. Not in a sexual way, just because he loved the feel of it. He had his favorite spots—the soft skin at the very top of my inner thigh, the underside of my breast, the little place right behind my ear. He’d often fall asleep just stroking one of those small patches of skin.

"So tell me about it," I whisper. "I’m here because I love you and I want to understand what you’re going through. You aren’t angry at me anymore?"

"I’m mad at everything. You. The band. Joss. Ronny. This place. Portland. All of it. I’m just mad. I can’t explain it."

I feel tears burn in my eyes. He uses the word mad, and it comes out in barroom brawls, but what I hear—the emotion behind the words—is sadness. He’s so very, very sad. And in this moment, I will do anything to make him feel better, give whatever I have to in order to restore peace to this beautiful man’s heart.

Yes, I will sacrifice everything—even myself.

I stand and take his hand. I don’t say a word as he follows me, his head down. I silently lead him upstairs, into my room. There, in the dark, I undress him like a doll. I pull his shirt over his head then undo his jeans and pull them down, kneeling before him as he lifts his feet and steps out of the denim. I reach for the waistband of his boxers, and he digs his fingers into my hair, forcing me to look up at him. His face glows in the moonlight seeping into my tiny room. His expression is inscrutable, and I almost see him as much as hear him whisper, "Are you sure?"

I nod, and he loosens his grip on my hair as I gently pull his underwear off. I lay my head against his thigh, breathing in the smell of his skin, his sweat, his heat. Slowly, I run my palm along his erection, and I hear him sigh long and low. I follow my hand with my tongue, sliding it along his length then taking him into my mouth. I use one hand to hold the base of his cock while I move my other to his lower back, pulling him against me as tight as I can. He keeps one hand in my hair and carefully massages my scalp. The other arm hangs at his side, his fist clenching and unclenching as he struggles with whatever feelings are ricocheting through his body.

The room is silent except for the soft sounds of our breath, his becoming raspy the longer I pump him in and out of my mouth. Finally, he pulls away from me and leans down, his face bending to mine. He strokes a thumb along my cheekbone as I gaze up at him. I see a single tear work its way from the outside corner of his eye and travel down his scruffy cheek. He reaches out and grasps both of my elbows as he lifts me to stand.

"This way," he whispers, "if we’re going to do this, it’s about both of us."

My heart lurches in my chest as I remember him saying the same words to me the very first time we ever made love.

I remove my clothes before he lays me down on the bed and kneels between my thighs. He spends the next few minutes just stroking my body. He runs his hands over my torso, my hips, my arms and legs. He caresses me from head to toe, silently, gently, memorizing every curve and dip while he looks down at me with the same serious expression the entire time. I bite my lip to keep from sobbing. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, don’t know what he’s feeling. Is this hello or goodbye? It’s not just a fuck, but something deep inside me tells me that it’s not a new beginning either.

When he finally covers me with his body, I’m heaving with desire but also with terror. He kisses me tenderly as he enters me, and everything in my entire being becomes one shining focus of pleasure and pain. Inside, my heart cries out because this is the only place it ever wants to be, and somehow the rest of me knows this will be the last time.

But I swallow my pain, and we lie together in my tiny bed, our bodies moving by instinct—caressing, worshiping, entering, and enveloping. Softly, in unison, we move until I cry out his name and he whispers, "I love you, Tammy. God, I love you."

Walsh

I
WAKE
at five a.m., my body conditioned to living at the ranch where you’re up before the sun starts to filter in over the horizon. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. Something is familiar yet very different. I turn my head and see Tammy’s face covered by skeins of her long dark hair, the sheets having slipped to expose one perfect breast.

Then it all comes back to me in a flash—a man’s hands on her, the fight, talking, breathing her in like some sort of oxygen I’ve been craving for months. Her skin against mine, the feeling that some missing part of me was returned. The way it felt to be inside her, her dark, dense walls clutching me as she gasped my name.

I sit up carefully, dreading the idea of waking her, having to face her. As powerful as the longings are, the need to flee is greater. I lean down and pick up my clothing, panic washing over me as she makes a little sound and rolls over onto her back. Silent as a mouse, I pull on my boxer briefs and then tiptoe out of the room, the rest of my clothes in hand.

Once I get into the hallway, I slip into my jeans, t-shirt, and boots. I turn and face the closed door to Tammy’s room, my heart beating like it might escape my chest. I place my palm against the cool, smooth door. It’s as if I can feel her heart beating through the old wood, and the pull—her pull—is so magnetic I nearly can’t take the first few steps away. But I do, down the hall, then the stairs, and out into the gray dusk before sunrise.

My mind is spinning, emotions reeling inside of me, rolling through me one after another so rapidly that it makes me motion sick. I’m dizzy, nauseous, and shaking hard. I hear Mike’s words.
"I don’t have a fiancée for you to fuck."
Then Joss’s.
"It’s not what you think."
Then Tammy’s.
"It was an accident, I swear."
I can’t sort through it all. It sticks in my head and in my heart, and the force of it nearly brings me to my knees.

I’m overwhelmed in a way that has me almost unable to stagger down the sidewalk. I try to breathe, try to think of something—anything—that will clear my head, but all I can process is the stunning contradictions of what lies in my heart at this moment. The love, the lust, the complete lack of trust. And ultimately, the complete lack of worth.

Because I’m not worth it—not worth her. If that weren’t the case, she’d have never cheated on me. I can’t blame her, really, and it feels good somehow to finally admit that. As hurt as I was by what Tammy did, it was no more or less than I’d expected all along. Who would want a raging alcoholic? A guy whose biggest accomplishment in life is banging on a piece of plastic with a pair of sticks? Shit, toddlers do it. It’s not like I’m something special. No, Tammy did what most women would have done. She picked my best friend, the guy who has it all—the whip-smart business sense, the movie-star looks, the musical genius to make Lush what it was. And ultimately, to take the one thing I loved away from me.

Until I figure out how to be more like Joss and less like Walsh, I’ll never really have Tammy, and that is killing me. The taste of her last night has only served to drive the point home further. I couldn’t stand the feeling of her pity, the way her eyes told me that she felt sorry for me, that she thinks I’m someone fragile when I ought to be the strong one, the one in control, the guy who can give her the life she deserves.

But no. I’m without a band—without a purpose, really—spending my days hammering nails and digging graves on a cow ranch in the middle of nowhere. I already gave her all my money, so I don’t have that to offer up. My so-called job is based on the fact that I’m a lush, and my only friend is hated by half the Western Hemisphere. I’m a fucking loser, and I know it. There’s only one way to make this feeling that’s creeping through me go away. I can’t take the sick, putrid sensation in my gut. I can’t fight it anymore. I give in. I give up.

I wander through the streets into downtown, and within a few minutes, I find myself right where I knew I would. The lights in the liquor store are still dim, but I can see a burst of brighter illumination from the back of the store as I press my face against the glass. I head around the corner of the building toward the back. A delivery truck is parked in the alley, cargo doors open and loading ramp released. A guy is bringing a dolly loaded with boxes of liquor off the truck then disappearing inside before coming back out with the empty dolly and starting all over again.

I lean against the side of the building, not hiding, but not making my presence known either, and I watch him make a few trips in and out the back door. I make a mental note of the time it takes him to go in, unload, and come back out. I could do it, but I’d rather not. Somehow it seems even more sordid if I’m reduced to stealing it.

Instead, I step away from the building and casually saunter up to the guy as he’s exiting with his empty dolly.

"Hey, man," I say as he sees me.

"Good morning," he grins. "I didn’t think there was anyone else up this early besides me and Dale." He tips his chin back toward the building, indicating that Dale is inside.

"Yeah, I had one of those nights, you know?" I say, grimacing. "Woman problems," I expand.

He shakes his head as he eases the dolly up the ramp and into the truck. I hear his voice change to a grunt as he lifts each of the three boxes he brings out a moment later. "Yep. The ladies will do it to you every time, won’t they? I’ve got an ex-wife and a girlfriend, and between the two of them, they’re about to put me the fuck underground."

I laugh as he returns, backing the dolly down the ramp this time. "I hear ya," I say, giving him my most charming rock-star smile—because I know it works, and I am working this for all it’s worth. "I think I’m going to get me a bottle of J.B. and just ride this one out. Hope that when I come to, something will be better—or different at least."

He looks at me sharply for a minute. This guy’s in the liquor industry. Even though he’s just a driver, he’s probably no fool. I wonder if he’s been approached like this before. Maybe I should just be wondering how many times.

"Let me see what Dale’s got lying around," he says. Apparently I’m far from the first.

A minute later, a guy who must be Dale comes out, a bottle in hand. I’m reaching for my wallet before I can even think, my eyes riveted to the shiny jewel that’s going to make everything in my world better.

"I’m not allowed to sell before seven a.m.," Dale tells me. "You sure you want this?"

I nod my head. "Yeah, man. I’d appreciate it. It’s just been a hard week, you know?"

He gives me a sad smile. "Yeah, it always is." He holds the treasure out and I take it from him, hoping he doesn’t notice my hands shaking.

"I can’t give you anything for this?" I ask as I clutch it to my chest like it’s my firstborn child.

"Help unload the rest of these cases?" he asks.

"Gladly," I say as I tuck the bottle in the back pocket of my jeans. Then I head up the ramp and into the truck and lift a box.

Twenty minutes later, I lean back against the trunk of an old oak tree in City Park. This tree has probably been here for a hundred years, and as I look up through its branches with their new greenery, I wonder what all it’s seen. Births, deaths, love, loss.