by Kacey Shea
My recent admittance to Julliard is the very reason I’m presently bored out of my goddamn mind, dressed to impress, and schmoozing with two hundred of my parents’ closest friends. They’re all here to celebrate the music prodigy and only child of Harrison and Felicity Wellington. I haven’t seen this much ass kissing since my father’s brother ran for governor.
I smile, shake hands, and act as if this next step in my life is a fulfillment of my every dream. I’m so good at lying, even I start to believe I’m happy. The truth, if anyone would ever care to ask, is I fucking hate classical music. Maybe it’s burnout. I have been playing since before my fingers could reach across two keys. With a mother who came from a long line of symphony pianists and a father whose pedigree and clout goes generations deep, I never stood a chance. My musical genius is cemented by my parents’ persistence and background. There’s never been a question as to what my future would be. Some say I was born with a gift. A talent almost superhuman. It’s no exaggeration. I can pick up any instrument and play better than most professionals within a matter of hours. However, when it comes to passion, hopes, and dreams, I’m as resentful, unsure, and frustrated as any other eighteen-year-old young man.
“Having a good time?” My mother’s friend Sierra slides next to where I gaze out the window, watching the ocean waves crash into the shore from a distance.
“Fantastic.” I don’t mean to be unappreciative for the socialites my parents dragged to this soiree, but maybe I am. It’s another scene in which my parents show off to the world and I’m a puppet made to act, smile, and pretend this is exactly how I’d prefer to celebrate my high school graduation. I force a polite smile and tip my glass of club soda spiked with vodka at the rise of her glass of pinot.
“We’re all so proud of you. Your mother hasn’t stopped singing your praises since she got the news. You’re going to make us all proud at Julliard.” She pats my shoulder and moves on to someone who’ll entertain her gossip better than a barely legal graduate.
I shouldn’t resent my family for celebrating my accomplishments. I should be grateful. They’ve given me more opportunities than most people receive in a lifetime, but instead I find myself wishing for something else. Normalcy. A guy who gets together with his friends for a bonfire at the beach, or has a pool party with his fellow classmates. That would be fun. That would be average.
I’m none of those things.
“Leighton, sweetie, would you be a dear and fetch your father?” my mother calls from her perch on the sofa.
“I’d love to.” Really, it’s a blessing she’s given me a means to escape this stuffy room filled with champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and the who’s who of Laguna Hills. Next, she’ll probably ask me to perform.
“Oh, and Leighton.” Her voice halts my retreat. “When you bring him back, why don’t you play for us? Everyone’s dying to hear from our prodigy before he’s off to conquer the world.”
“Yes, Mother.” The words are as practiced as my smile but deep down there’s a panic, an anxiety clawing to get out. I don’t want to play for these people. I don’t want to go to college. I especially do not wish to spend my foreseeable future studying and performing classical music.
I want to play for myself. To be free.
What would that even be like?
Searching for dear old Dad isn’t as easy as you’d think with over six thousand square feet for him to hide, and trust me, he’s hiding. While my mother loves to entertain, my father is always the first to slink outside and indulge in solitude with the aid of a cigar. Which is why the backyard is the next place I go after checking his study. With his private entry to the rear of the house left cracked open, I’m almost certain I’ll find him back here.
Puzzled and prepared to keep searching, something catches my attention from the corner of my eye. Movement, just in the slightest, comes from one of the pool house windows. Huh?
Mother will have a fit if she finds him smoking in there. Curious as to why my old man has wandered so far, I move quieter than normal and round the corner to the entry door. It’s ajar as well, and though there’s nothing else out of the ordinary, I can’t help but find it strange.
My fingers—long and skilled from playing six different instruments professionally—settle on the doorknob, but for now they simply push open the door.
My ears are met with a symphony of moans and heavy breaths. Oh, shit! No, no, no. This is a scene no son should witness. My father watching porn! It’s the first thought that runs through my mind. But then I realize the groans are real, in-person, and the television isn’t on.
What the hell? He would never cheat on my mother!
“Fuck yeah, suck me.”
And that’s when I realize it’s not my father’s voice at all. It’s much too low. Not that I have ample experience listening to my father groan, but yeah, this isn’t him. Which begs the question . . . Who snuck away from the party for nookie?
I tiptoe closer to the bedroom. No one is staying here, so it should be empty. The door is wide open and no one’s inside, but another moan of pleasure amplifies from the attached bathroom.
I should leave. Walk away now. It doesn’t matter who’s getting it on, and I shouldn’t care. Only I’m a tiny bit curious and my feet scoot closer of their own accord. My heart rate picks up. My muscles tense. Even my dick starts to lengthen with the erotic soundtrack of sucks, groans, chokes, and spit.
“Fuck, yes. That’s it. You want this fat cock? You want me to come in that dirty little mouth of yours, don’t you? Don’t you?”
My eyes widen and it all clicks as the couple comes into view. Rather, a woman on her knees, her hair tugged back, and head bobbing before my uncle as she gives him head.
Fucking gross! My goddamn uncle!
I tell myself to leave but my feet won’t go. Why can’t I move? I wish I could erase this image from my mind, her hair bouncing with the bob of her head, and his chin tipped back in utter ecstasy, but instead it’s as if I can’t look away. It’s as if my brain can’t put all the pieces together. My uncle. Here. With a woman! I swear to God, I always assumed he was gay.
“You want that? You want that? Yeah, you do, and you’ll give me exactly what I want.” His eyes pop open and he pushes her head down so long she starts to gag. “Fuck . . . yes!” he shouts and lifts his gaze. He spots me immediately. “Shit!”
His swearing somehow connects the part of my short-circuiting brain. My feet move and I dash out of the pool house before the woman has time to detach herself from my uncle’s cock and get a good look at me. And thankfully so, because if I recognize who she is, I’ll never be able to look her in the eye after this. As it is, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stomach family dinners ever again.
“Leighton! Leighton, stop!” My uncle calls after me as I race toward the house.
I should slow down. I should face him and deal with the uncomfortableness, but the fact I became aroused while listening to him get off is messing with my head. How fucked up am I? In fact, there’s no way I’m getting off again before scheduling a session with my therapist.
“Leighton!” He’s faster than he should be for a man his age. Must be all those rock stars he hangs out with. He reaches for my arm and snags hold before I can sneak back inside my father’s office.
“Let me go.” I can’t meet his eyes and instead stare at his hand on my arm. “Please.”
“Sorry.” He drops his hold and clears his throat. “We need to talk about this.”
Laughter, humorless and bitter works its way out of my mouth. “No, Uncle Bedo. We really don’t.”
“Hey.” His jaw clenches as I lift my eyes to meet his. His stare is narrow and calculating. “You can’t tell anyone what you think you saw.”
“You mean I can’t tell all my friends I just witnessed my uncle getting he—”
“What do you want?” The question snaps from his lips and his hands go to his hips, where part of his dress shirt still hangs outside his pants. “Money? That
what you need to shut your mouth about this?”
He doesn’t want me to tell, which means what I saw was more than just him getting off. Interesting. My eyebrows rise and I tilt my chin. “Oh? Did you not want me to tell my parents?”
His glare hardens. “Pussy, then?”
“A prostitute?” I roll my eyes at the insult. “That’ll be a hard pass.” If there’re two things I’ve always had ample supply of, its money and women who want to get with me because of my money.
His gaze narrows. “You’re a little shit, you know that?” The toe of his shoe taps with an impatient beat.
I’ve pissed him off, but why? It must be the woman, the girl he was with. Damn it, I wish I had gotten a better look. I can’t recall anything familiar about her. Those bleach blonde extensions are practically standard issue here in southern California.
My uncle’s always played the black sheep of our family. I’m surprised my mother even invited him. He doesn’t give a shit about social propriety, or her dumb parties. Forty years ago he walked out of my grandparents’ mansion without a trust fund to make his own way. And holy hell, has he made his way. Managing one of the biggest bands in the world for the top music label in Los Angeles, he’s made his name stand on its own without any family connections or pull.
“Well?” He glances over his shoulder and it hits me. He’s really nervous. But why? He obviously didn’t want to be seen with her, but then why were they together?
His reaction piques my interest. For the first time in months I’m fully in the moment and energy buzzes through my body. My lips pull into a slow and steady grin as I gauge how far I can use this. “Maybe I could call up some of your reporter friends? The ones who like to put things in their magazines about the bands you manage. You think they’d like to chat?”
His gaze goes from annoyed to deadly. “Cut the shit, kid. Name the price and it’s yours. But only if you keep your mouth shut.”
I don’t want money. I have more than enough locked away in my trust fund. What I really want is something money can’t buy. The idea hits my brain and sends pleasure throughout every molecule of my body. Ironically, the only thing I’ve ever really wanted is something Uncle Bedo can give me.
“You hire a drummer yet?” The grin on my lips takes over my face.
“Ah, fuck.” He shakes his head. “No way. No fucking way. Besides, I’ve already heard all about Julliard. Congrats, little man. You’ve got big plans.”
I shrug, expecting his initial refusal. “They’re not my plans.”
“Your mother would kill me.” His Adam’s apple moves as his jaw works back and forth. I’m wearing him down. “Besides, I found someone. You’re too late.”
“Then I guess I better get my phone. Or should I Google gossip rag? Is that the best way to get in touch?”
He releases a sound of disgust. “You don’t know any of the music.”
Please. Fucking please. That’s the most offensive thing he’s ever said. I’m a musical prodigy. Fucking brilliant. I raise my brows and meet his stare. “I can learn the repertoire in one day.”
He scoffs at my retort. His eyes narrow, and for the first time since the idea popped into my head I think he’s actually considering it. “But your look . . .” He shakes his head.
“I’ll get a tattoo.” I hold his stare but my lip ticks up with the thought. My mother truly would kill him for that. “Come on, Uncle Bedo. You know how my parents are. They won’t let me walk away from college for anything. But this, if I have your help? It’s possible.” When his glare doesn’t waver, I shrug and feign nonchalance. “I’ll delay my admission by a year and then go.” Or at least it’s what I’ll tell them. I never wanted to spend my life studying classical music, but I was never given the choice to do anything else. This is my chance at something big. Something that sets the blood in my veins on fire.
His brow lifts and maybe, just maybe, he’s considering my proposal.
“I’ve always wanted to be a rock star.” The minute the words slip through my mouth, the most honest thing I’ve said all day, his jaw loosens and his glare morphs into what I think is surrender.
“She’s going to kill me.” He groans as if it pains him when we both know he loves riling his sister.
My lips stretch across my face in a lazy grin. “So, it’s a deal?”
He points his finger in my face. “You open your mouth one time—once!—and your ass is on a plane back here.”
“You won’t regret this.” I hold my hand out and he stares a long moment before giving it a hesitant shake.
“I think I already do.”
72
Opal
“Be brave.” I clear my throat and try it again, into the mirrored glass of this airport bathroom wall. “I want to get to know you better, and if y’all don’t mind, I’d like to stay here for a while.” The words fall flat, even to my own ears. My pocket buzzes with the sound of an alarm. It’s time to head to my gate. Practice time is over.
I’m not sure whom I’m trying to convince more, my sister or myself. Because the truth is, I’m not brave at all. I’m running away. Away from my problems, sure, but also from the only life I’ve known. Lexi promised I could come to her for anything. I believe she means the words, truly, but there’s this tiny piece of doubt that wonders whether she’ll let me down. Maybe it’s why I don’t allow myself to get my hopes up, even as I hand the flight attendant my printed boarding pass for the ticket Lexi bought me, and step down the jetway to an airplane bound for sunny California.
I’ve spent the past few nights at a friend’s house, her parents taking pity and offering up their couch on a temporary basis. I couldn’t go back and face Gramps, not after the words he said. The names he called me were nothing I hadn’t heard before, but never from his lips. Grams never would have allowed it, but now I have to wonder, is it really how he felt all the years they raised me?
No matter now. I’m not going back. I made that promise to myself after packing up the few clothes and keepsakes I couldn’t bear to leave behind. Everything I own fit into two duffle bags. Convenient, if not plain sad.
Thankfully, Gramps was out, as I hoped, having his early morning coffee at the diner with his fellow vets from the Legion. Had he been home I would have demanded he allow me to gather my stuff. The box of keepsakes from my mother and photographs of me with Grams was worth going up against him, but it was easier to avoid the argument. Knowing news would travel fast, I left a short note along with the keys to my car, which wasn’t even mine, for Gramps to find. Then I called the only cab company in our little town and took one last look at the only place I’d ever called home.
Now, thousands of feet in the air, my thoughts are at war with the decision I made. For most of my life I never dreamed of leaving Denison. My mother died when I was born, and my grandparents were the only family I’ve known. The only ones I knew existed until I discovered the pale blue box hiding in the back of Grams’s sewing room. It was the one time I’d gone in there, looking for matching thread to mend my sundress before we had to leave for church. I don’t even know what caused me to lift the lid on the box, other than the natural curiosity any sixteen-year-old possesses.
That was just three years ago. The contents changed my life. Broke open my small world, shattered all I knew, and gave me insight into the woman my grandparents never spoke of. Inside the box were letters, and photos, and even a lock of hair. My mother’s. Grams must have hidden the items. Gramps would never have approved.
Oh, how I wish I could have thanked her for keeping those things before she passed. Because inside were photos and letters from my father, too. They’re ultimately what led me to my half-sister, Lexi Marx, the talented and now-famous rock star. We only met last year, but she’s been everything I need.
Especially now.
Am I crazy? Getting on a plane to live in a world I know nothing about? Probably. But it is a chance I am willing to take. Correction. I need to take a risk. Life in Denison always felt to
o conformed. Too simple. And mostly boring. As a young child I dreamed of leaving and moving to a big city, and gosh darn it, it’s what I’m doing.
The flight dips with an air pocket and sends my stomach and all the nerves with it into my throat. Oh! It happens again and my fingers clutch the metal seat dividers so tightly my knuckles turn as white as bone.
We’re gonna die. We’re gonna crash.
Panic pulses with each skip of my heart. I glance to my left and the woman there is sleeping. Sleeping! To my right the man doesn’t seem jarred but for the way his jowls jostle with each bounce of our flight. Everyone, actually, goes about their business as if we’re not careening to our imminent death.
“This is the captain. We’ve hit a bit of this storm. We’ll get you through this turbulence and on to LAX with no foreseeable delays. Till then, though, please stay buckled and in your seats and try to enjoy the ride.” The scratch of his voice through the loudspeakers does help calm my fears, though really, it only confirms what I already know.
I’m not brave. Not when it comes to important things. Not even when it comes to flying. I might have stood up to Gramps, but I have no clue how to make it on my own. Not in Denison and especially not in Los Angeles. If this flight is any indication of the rest of my life, I’m not only screwed. I am so out of my element.
“Opal!” Lexi waves from across the stream of steadily flowing pedestrian traffic. She holds Trent’s hand and pushes through the crowd.
“Lexi.” I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of her and fold into her hug. She’s shorter than me by four inches; smaller too, but her presence is bigger than any room.