Enfold (Thornhill Trilogy Book 3)

by J. J. Sorel

  While other kids kicked balls around the yet to become fashionable streets of Brooklyn, I played in and around the bar. It was the only time I had with my father, who, despite loving us, was married to the theatre.

  The faces on the wall were like family. They would never leave the bar if I had it my way.

  My favorite was Marlon Brando, gritty and defiant, on his motorcycle wearing a cap and leathers and looking sexy as sin.

  The regulars that shuffled in during the day had been coming to Wild Thing since they were able to drink. In the evenings, it was mainly young, fashionable, indescribable types, looking for a place that was different and hid them from the glare of normality.

  Clinging to wall like sodden memories was the stench of alcohol. No matter how much I scrubbed it remained stubbornly ingrained. Still, it was strangely comforting. Smells were like that— a type of sensory photo-album conjuring up memories.

  The creaking door roused me, as Mel bounced in, looking luminous and bathed in daylight. The sun shone on her hair, highlighting red streaks.

  “Hey Mel.” I greeted my friend who’d I recently hired.

  Tough as nails, Mel didn’t take any shit. One needed that backup in a Brooklyn bar.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not. I just got here myself,” I said, shrugging out of my coat.

  “Want a coffee?” Mel stepped behind the bar and turned on the coffee machine.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  I met Mel at a counseling group. She wore masculine clothes and had lots of tattoos. That’s why she’d joined the group in the first place. Being gay in a conservative family had made her a nervous wreck.

  At the time, we shared that in common, given that I too was a nervous wreck.

  It was one big mixed up world. Suddenly I didn’t feel so weird with my green and blue hair and unusual choice of wardrobe. In fact, it was my boyish appearance that had attracted Mel in the first place. Assuming I was gay, she tried to hit on me. But after I told her that I’d originally camouflaged my femininity to ward off sexual advances from a sleazy uncle, she shook her head in disgust, and embraced me as a buddy.

  Since Mel started at Wild Thing, I’d grown to love her as a friend. She was the type of person who would drop everything to help. And as it was, since she’d started working there, everything changed for the better.

  Within one month of Mel behind the bar, money trickled in from gay poetry readings, open-mic nights, and weird and wonderful indie bands who attracted a following of equally weird and wonderful patrons.

  Rubbing her hands together, Mel said, “I feel great. I saw my parents last night and told them that I was gay.”

  “Shit. That’s major, well done. Are they okay?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “It will take some time, I think.”

  “At least, you have a family. I’ve only got my sex-maniac twin sister.”

  She tilted her head, as if to say I was adorable. I felt more like a freak.

  “Come here, give me a hug. Then I’m going to hang up the velvet drapes on the stage. I had them washed.”

  After I’d soaked up her warmth, I pushed out of Mel’s arms and said, “You call that a stage? It’s more a platform of sorts.”

  “People perform there. Speaking of which, we have the poetry reading tonight and there’s sweet little Brooke, who’ll be reading.” She nodded with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Mm… I can smell love,” I sang.

  I sipped on my third coffee for the day, and for the first

  time in months, I felt lighter. A bubbling of motivation, the like of which I’d rarely experienced, gained strength. Maybe that creative writing course that floated amongst the nebulae in my mind would one day materialize.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CURTIS

  “How was it?” Seb asked. His dark impelling eyes had that searching look that inspired openness.

  I exhaled slowly. “It was hard.”

  “In what way?”

  We were seated in the park across from the children’s shelter where I’d just performed my first stint teaching kids whose parents had either passed away or were half-dead on drugs and booze.

  “There were a dozen children. Some of them just sat there and stared at me with wide, frightened eyes, while others ran amok.” I rubbed my prickly scalp. I’d gone for a buzz cut for some reason. When I returned, after a year in Montauk, I got the barber to go all the way— not bald, but close.

  My Italian friend regarded me with that scrutinizing stare of his. “Why are you doing this, Curtis? I mean you’re a monster guitarist. I wish I had your talent.”

  I turned and stared squarely at his handsome face. “I wish I had your grounding, Seb.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah, that helps. You need a plan for these kids, you know what I mean?”

  I stared down at my fingers. “I was totally unprepared. I just wanted to meet them. Anyway, I’m going to buy some small hand-drums and shakers for tomorrow. I’ll get them jamming. We’ll sit on four/four timing for a while. There’s a piano in there, but it’s seriously out of tune. I’ll have to call a tuner. Can’t have them listening to dissonant sounds. Not unwillingly, at least.” I chuckled.

  Seb laughed. “What, you’re not going to expose them to John Cage or Schoenberg?”

  I chuckled at his reference to our time at the Juilliard, where we were made to listen to and examine modernist composers.

  We both sat on the park bench soaking up the sun, as people ambled along talking to their cells, while dogs made us laugh as they went about sniffing each other narrowly avoiding the lunchtime joggers. It was something we did regularly, watching people going about their lives while we discussed music, women, life, and shared the odd laugh.

  Seb looked down at his watch. “I’ve got to go, man. I’ve got a rehearsal.”

  “The Rodrigo piece?”

  “Yeah. What an opportunity.”

  I patted Seb’s well-manicured hand, which was not due to vanity, but like all classical guitarists, his nails were long. “You’ll carve it. You’re a brilliant guitarist, man, the best.”

  “Coming from someone who could have been a world player, Curtis, that’s nice.”

  Seb’s six-foot, buffed frame stood before me. He looked more like an underwear model than a classical guitarist, especially with that wave of black hair perfectly stacked above his chiselled permanently tanned face. “Hey, tomorrow my house, yeah? Mom’s cooking pasta forno.”

  I tapped my tummy. Seb’s mom was an amazing cook in the Sicilian school of pasta making.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “That will make her happy. She thinks you should be an actor. Mom’s always going on about how handsome you are.”

  I laughed as I recalled both Seb’s mother pinching me on the cheek and carrying on about how tall, strong and good-looking I was. It was nice. I liked it, in spite of my red face.

  “Zio Iano will be there tomorrow night. You should taste the wine he’s come up with this year.”

  “Oh fuck, not that pink stuff.”

  Seb nodded with a growing smirk. “You bet. It’s fucking fire water.”

  Laughing, I shook my head, thinking of all the times we drank his uncle’s wine.

  Seb hugged me and he was off.

  I watched him move away with a relaxed stride. He was a charismatic Italian to be sure. The girls at Juilliard had gone mad for him. And Seb loved women! When he wasn’t talking about music, he was always on about some pretty girl.

  I’d had my share of admirers, too. But I’d changed. The days of treating sex as a game was over, especially after Irina, a girl that had not only robbed me, but had hurt my pride, or was that my ego?

  It was going to take more than a pretty face and helplessness to draw me in again. I’d always been a sucker for fragile women. Maybe it was some caveman instinct to protect and save. Irina definitely needed saving, only she was so fucked up I couldn’t compete with the big brutish dru
g dealers she preferred.

  I must have been nuts to think I could cure her of a drug habit that had taken a grip of her soul. She wanted to be beaten around, telling me that her father had shown his love that way. No fucking way, I was no woman beater.

  Feeling restless, I stood at the gate to my new home. As I studied the tree-lined street a sign with the words ‘Wild Thing’ caught my eye. Scratching my prickly five-o’clock-shadow, I decided I needed a coffee or something stronger, like a beer, just to take the edge of things before tussling with all the unpacked boxes filling the hallway.

  When it came to procrastination, I was king.

  As I gazed at the sign, the title intrigued me. Maybe Wild Thing was some seedy joint frequented by masked men and women with whips, I thought with a silent chuckle. And considering the only thing I needed to do was visit a music shop, a beer had my name on it.

  I’d committed to a morning class, five days a week. As I puffed out a long breath, I questioned whether I’d overstretched myself. But then, what else would I do, busk?

  That’s what I’d been doing in Greenwich Village for years. I was kind of over it, especially after what happened with my ex Irina.

  I pushed on the squeaky door and stepped into Wild Thing. The bar certainly had a time-traveling feel about it and was so moody one forgot it was daytime.

  There were black and white images of mostly serious men wearing period clothes and cravats. Some wore smirks and pierced me with their judgmental stares. They sat next to famous actors, who I did recognize given my mother’s love for classic Hollywood.

  I paused at a picture of the famous vampire actor, Bella Lugosi and those black menacing eyes, I could almost see the blood dripping from his mouth. My focus shifted from a bare-chested, gladiatorial Kirk Douglas brimming with steely determination, to Grace Kelly and her dreamy sensual bedroom gaze, before settling on Jane Fonda in a body-hugging, cock-swelling rubber suit. My favorite by far, however, was the larger than life frame of Marlon Brando, with that ‘don’t fuck with me’ glint in his eyes. Now that was one cool looking dude I thought to myself.

  I had a weakness for motorbikes. I’d left mine back in Montauk, only because my mother made me swear not to ride it in the city. I’d had a fall once and that was enough for her to worry. As I stared at Brando on his bike I felt a surge of inspiration. I’m not sure why. Maybe, because, like Brando in that cool film, I too was a misfit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BONNIE

  A noisy creak from the swinging door roused me. I lifted my head up from the book on my lap. Light flooded in, as I left Oscar Wilde’s strange world for a moment.

  Our first customer for the day entered. He had black scrolled tattoos wrapped around his large, muscular biceps. Pausing, he stood before the wall of images and placed his weight on one leg. His hip jutted out as if he, too, like the subject before him, didn’t give a shit about anything. As he regarded Marlon Brando I imagined he was either a biker or in the army.

  Having bent down to collect some fresh coasters, I stood up and found him towering over me, which wasn’t hard given that I was only five-foot-four. He must have been at least six-foot-two because I had to lift my head up to meet his eyes.

  As I took in his handsome face, I leaned against the bar because my knees weakened.

  Making it back to bar attendant reality, I had to work overtime to pull my eyes away from those deep blue pools of his.

  Ten seconds stretched forever. His eyes ploughed into mine. Not one of those friendly social glances one received from strangers, but intrusive, as if he wanted to know me, to read my thoughts.

  I swallowed deeply. “What can I get you?”

  “A beer, thanks,” he replied with such a deep, sexy husk I wished he’d ordered a complicated cocktail.

  After managing to extricate myself from his unshifting gaze, I went about pouring a beer.

  The glass trembled in my hand, making my face scorch. As I took his money, I made sure I didn’t gaze into his eyes given their pull. Instead, and stupidly, my eyes settled on his lips. Lips that were full and shapely and made me salivate. When his tongue unconsciously caressed his fleshy bottom lip, it seemed so suggestive, a shiver slid up my spine.

  He picked up the beer with his large hand and placed the rim to his lips. Even that seemed sexual. Or was that just my imagination running wild again?

  “Will that be all,” I asked, desperate to get away.

  He nodded, and his gaze once more drew me in.

  Mel entered carrying a tray of sandwiches. Unlike me, she was totally unaffected by our sexy customer. She greeted him with a nod, while I returned to my seat and picked up my book as a distraction.

  “Can I have one of those?” he asked, pointing to the tray.

  Mel said, “We have ham, egg, or veggie burger and salad.”

  “I’ll take ham, thanks,” he said with that husky voice that seemed to penetrate me somewhere deep and unvisited.

  His gaze returned to me. Or at least I felt it burning on my face, as I opened my book on my lap. I lowered my eyes onto a page of words swimming around.

  “Interesting book?”

  I looked up at him. “Um… yeah.”

  “What are you reading?” He asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Oscar Wilde.”

  “Let me see, The Importance of Being Earnest?” When he smiled dimples appeared on his cheeks. I nearly dropped the book.

  “Oh, do you read?” I asked, berating myself at how stupid that sounded.

  He smiled. “I do know how to read, yes.”

  “Oh, no… I mean… I meant do you read books?” I took a deep breath. What was wrong with me? I asked myself. I had gone to putty. Still the fact that he knew about that play and Oscar Wilde made my heart miss a beat. He wasn’t just bad-boy gorgeous.

  He cocked his head gently to a side, not in a smug way, but in an adorable, sweet way. “My mother’s a huge fan of Oscar Wilde. She took me to that play when I was young. She has tried to get me to read it over the years, but, well… I’m a little distracted when it comes to reading.”

  I nodded slowly. ADHD? I wondered. He could have been an alien from Mars and the deep swelling heat between my legs would still have throbbed.

  I quickly buried my head in my book again. Not that I read one word coherently.

  After he finished his sandwich and emptied his glass of beer, he said, “Just what I needed. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Looking up, I managed a smile even though my lips threatened to quiver. “No, thanks.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “Yes, but not until it’s dark, as a rule,” I said.

  He nodded slowly. “I don’t normally drink this early, but I’ve had a bit of a morning.”

  “Can I get you another?” I asked.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CURTIS

  I wanted to say yes, keep them coming until I’d drunk enough to ask her out. But I could see she was nervous. I wasn’t normally uneasy around women, but for some reason she made me think twice before speaking.

  The barmaid added to the weirdness of the bar. In an exciting way with that blue and green streaked blonde bob that fell over her face. I generally liked long hair to tangle my fingers around, but she was so beautiful that it wouldn’t have mattered what her hair was like.

  In many ways my tastes were pretty typical— big tits, long hair and a curvy butt. I had a weakness for that kind of woman, despite Irina being petite and flat-chested. My ex was a ballet dancer, or so she’d told me. She was a great bullshit artist.

  I toyed with my beer doing everything to make it last so that I could take in that beautiful face. My pants felt tight around my groin as my eyes traveled from her eyes to her bee-stung, pouty lips which she held together as if pursing them. I couldn’t make out her body because of the loose top and pants she wore, but by the way the blouse tented out I could see she was stacked.

  “Maybe another, then, why not?” I said, lifti
ng up my glass.

  “Sure,” she said.

  Another woman came out and whispered something to her. They laughed, and the masculine-looking chick left again. I wondered if they were girlfriends.

  By the way she looked at me with a hint of suggestion, or was that just wishful thinking? I got the vibe that she was into guys.

  Placing the beer on the bar, she asked, “Will that be all?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I took a sip.

  She went back to her chair.

  “I take it you work here each day?” I asked.

  She lifted her pretty face up from her book. I felt bad for interrupting her reading, but I needed to know this woman.

  She nodded. “I own the bar.”

  I sat up. That I didn’t expect. “Really? It’s great in here. I love it. I’ll tell all my friends about it— every single one of them.” I laughed.

  Her brow lowered. “Oh?”

  “Well, I have more than one, but you know, I have one that I kick around with. The one I trust.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. If you can count your friends on one hand you’re doing well. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Something like that.” Our eyes met again. “I’m Curtis, by the way.”

  “I’m Bonnie.”

  “Bonnie? Is that short for something?”

  She nodded. “Bonita.”

  “Beautiful. Which is what it means in Spanish, right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose that was my father’s intention.”

  “It suits you,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said with a tight smile.

  “Was your father Spanish?” I asked, in a bid to keep her from reading and leaving me alone with my beer.

  “He was from an Irish background.”

  “Are you from Brooklyn?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I grew up here. This was my father’s bar. I inherited it after he died.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry he passed away. It’s an amazing set up.” I pointed to the wall of frames. “Who are all those people in the pictures? Were they relatives?”

  She giggled. Her face lit up so beautifully that I forgave my obvious silly question. “In some ways they may have been, spiritually speaking. They’re all famous writers.” She pointed to each. “There’s Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, Jack Kerouac, Arthur Miller.”