Clutch

by S. M. West

  “Santa Monica sounds good, but you can drop me at a motel,” Pansy says.

  Shaking my head, I bite my lower lip to keep from arguing with her. I like the idea of her going my way, and I’m grateful as fuck that she didn’t want me to take her back the way we came. I would have gone back to Vegas if that’s what she’d wanted, but I’d have hated it.

  Once released from jail, my manager, Bianca, was waiting for me. My bandmates were already in LA, and she was there to take me home. I insisted on staying, telling her that I’d find my own way home. It took some convincing, but Bianca eventually arranged for a car rental and left.

  “Okay. When do you want to go?”

  “I call the shots?” She raises an eyebrow and cocks her head, baffled.

  “Yup. I already said it but it deserves saying again, I’m truly sorry for being a jerk and calling you stupid yesterday.”

  I do regret my rash and cruel words. I didn’t mean it, not for a second, but as usual, my anger got the better of me. It happens more often than I like to admit. While no excuse, the crap with my band and my shit luck with Pansy on the road were weighing me down. I haven’t handled stress well recently, especially when feeling out of control or trapped. Unfortunately, I took it out on Pansy.

  “Silas, you don’t have to keep apologizing. We’re good.”

  We share a smile, and I drink her in as she stands, hesitant. I love the cute-as-fuck shorts she was wearing yesterday, showcasing her long, bronzed legs, but what she’s wearing now, fuck me. Her pants are painted on her and from the looks of things, she’s not wearing underwear. Or if she is, it’s one of those string-like contraptions that resemble dental floss. Her toned legs, displaying every flex and tightening of her muscles, and her heart-shaped ass are mesmerizing.

  With a deep breath, I force myself to get a grip and keep this clean.

  “We can leave tonight or tomorrow. We’re only a little over two hours away. The choice is yours.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not tired, we could leave tonight.”

  In less than thirty minutes, we’re packed, checked out and in the rented Range Rover. Before getting on the highway, we stop to get gas, and I can’t help myself. I head to the convenience store and grab some things for Pansy.

  Slipping into the driver’s seat, I hand her the plastic bag with a silly grin on my face, before putting the car into gear. She peers inside and releases a belly laugh that causes me to laugh too. She pulls out the Twizzlers, salt & vinegar chips, Sour Patch Kids, and peanut M&MS, and lines them up on the console between us.

  “Oh my goodness, seeing all of this kinda makes me sick. I can’t believe I ate all that. My teeth still ache.”

  “I can’t believe it either. I’m surprised you still have teeth.” She rolls her eyes, and I wink. “Do you want me to get rid of the junk?”

  “No way.” She scoops up the items and dumps them in the bag, giving me an evil eye. “I didn’t say I won’t eat it. Just not now.”

  “Whatever. They’re your teeth.” I glance her way. “I’ve been thinking. We’re going to be getting in late. Stay at my house for the night.”

  “No way. Thanks for the offer, but I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you can. My place is huge, and you don’t have a place to stay.”

  “Silas, this is my last chance to get it right.” She turns her head to look out the window.

  “Help me out here, I don’t get it. How does staying with me get in the way of you figuring things out?”

  “I don’t even know you.” Her tone is defensive and irritated. “Sorry. It’s just that I need to do this on my own. Outside of my parents, I’ve always been accused of flying by the seat of my pants and not following through on things. I need to prove I’m responsible and can make something of myself.”

  Her tone is emphatic, and her distress is clear. I don’t want to add to it, but I want to understand. “Can I ask a question?”

  My tone is cautious, and she turns, her gaze on me. “What?”

  “Who are you proving this to? Your sisters or yourself?”

  She shrugs and twists back to the window, her voice low. “Both, I guess.”

  “I know you didn’t ask, but I think the only one that matters is you. What do you want?”

  “I want to make something of myself. Look at you. You’re thirty, and successful. I’m twenty-seven and don’t have a home, a career, or even an inkling of a future. I want more.”

  “Don’t use me as your role model.” I squeeze her knee, and she pivots in my direction, our gazes meeting. “I’m switching gears, too. I think life is meant to be like that. It’s not a pre-determined route or straight path with no detours or U-turns. Sure, for some people, that’s how it goes, but I think a little of the unknown is exciting and some of the unexpected or mishaps along the way are moments to learn and grow. Do you regret what you’ve done to date?”

  She crinkles her nose and twists her lips in contemplation. “Well, when you put it like that, no. But Ivy, in fact, all my sisters have their shit together. They all have careers and are doing something with their lives.”

  “And you will too. You’re still young, and it’s not like you’re letting life happen to you. You’re making choices.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Her smile is faint. “They just make me feel like a failure. I’m tired of feeling that way.”

  “Don’t listen to them. Listen to you. That’s all that matters.”

  I’m surprised at how honest and open I am with her. I understand her struggle. Family plays such a big part in how we see ourselves. It’s hard not to care what they think. Trust me, I know. I’m working on my crap with my parents, and it isn’t easy. If I can help her in any way, I want to.

  My parents are at the root of my anger and my distaste for this life. My dream of a band and being famous has become a nightmare because of my family. It sounds like we could help each other if I don’t let my anger get the better of me.

  “Thanks, Silas.”

  His candid pep talk surprises me and makes me feel better. He’s right. I don’t want to follow a path or live a life set out by others. I will make my own way.

  “Anytime.” His dimples pop as he smiles. “So back to my invitation. Staying the night doesn’t mean you’re not doing this on your own. What’s wrong with a friend helping another friend? Come on, stay with me.”

  “I can’t. I’ll stay in a motel for now, and once I get a job, I’ll find a place to live. I’ve got some savings, so I’m okay for two or three weeks, a month tops. That’s plenty of time.” I don’t want to be too harsh, but I also don’t know him at all. “Besides, do you really want to take in some strange woman? You’re a rock star for crying out loud, what if I’m some stalker?”

  He laughs. “I think we’ve already established that you’re not a fan, so I don’t think I need to worry. Stay with me.” His voice is smooth and inviting. “At least until you’ve got a place, or longer if you want, so you wouldn’t have to touch that money.”

  It’s tempting to take him up on his offer. While I’m not scared of living on my own -- I’ve done it before -- it’s the uncertainty. I’ve never lived farther than a twenty-mile radius from where I was born, and now, I’m moving to another state with only a suitcase and a rock star as my acquaintance.

  “I guess.” I waver. “Although, there’s always plan B if I run out of money.” With my uncertainty of staying with him, I attempt to joke.

  “Plan B?”

  “Forget finding a career; I’ll marry a rich guy and spend my days barefoot and pregnant.”

  It was an ongoing joke between my parents. Mom raised four girls while Dad had a daily escape to the office. She would say that she should’ve married a rich man, at least then she could get a nanny and would have no problem being barefoot and pregnant.

  The hint of nostalgia tugs at my heart. I miss my parents. My dad died of a heart attack when I was in my early teens and my mom of cancer about a decade later
. They were in love until the very end, and while we weren’t rich, we didn’t lack for anything.

  Silas’s mischievous glint has me straightening in my seat, anxious for what he may say next.

  “I could help you with the marry a wealthy guy part, but we’d have to ditch the rest.”

  “You don’t want kids?”

  “Nah. I’ve got firsthand experience with how people can fuck up their kids. I don’t want to be responsible for messing up an innocent child.”

  I’m surprised by his revelation, and the weirdest part is, he strikes me as needing a family. He’d told me about wanting to leave the band and the rocker lifestyle, and I suspect that while he has plenty of people who call themselves friends, he doesn’t have people he can trust and confide in. People who’ll always have his back. A family.

  I inwardly cringe; I could use one, too. I may not be alone as I have three older sisters, but our relationships are varied and for the most part, distant. I’ve spent years trying to ingratiate myself into their lives and change their perception of me as the flighty, stupid one. The spoiled baby.

  I have no clue why I was their shared target other than being the youngest. My parents doted on me, much to the detriment of my sisters. I understood their animosity, I just didn’t deserve it. I didn’t ask for my parents to treat me differently.

  “You’re not your parents, Silas,” I reason.

  I may be overstepping, but it needs to be said. It’s too easy to be trapped in the confines of the past, whether it’s the pigeonhole your family or friends put you in or some notion you bestow on yourself. We all have the ability to break free, and sometimes, all it takes is someone telling you that you can.

  “Yeah, well, I still don’t want kids.” His jaw tightens, ticking as his lips thin and his thumb and index finger pinch at his short beard.

  With his eyes off the road, our gazes collide, and the connection is rife with emotion, laden with much more than our two days’ worth of knowing each other. There’s something between us -- even with our different lived experiences, we share something common and unspoken.

  “Stay the night.” There’s a vulnerability in his voice that I’m certain he doesn’t let many see. I ache for him as my barricade of independence crumbles a bit more.

  We drive along the winding highway, the violet sky shifting, deepening until darkness covers everything except the stars, with the sound and scent of the surf in the background.

  Inside, I’m a bundle of nerves, the battle of staying or going grows tenfold as we turn onto a street of homes facing the ocean. A thirty or forty-foot expanse of carpet-like sand lies between the houses and the sea. This is my dream; the sand and surf at my door. I’ll never want to leave.

  He parks along the curb in front of a beautiful modern beach house made of glass, and white stucco with terraces on every level. One side of the building is a monotone candy cane of clear and frosted glass, four stories high, and just behind is a hillside, lush with palm trees and bigger homes.

  Following Silas up the walkway, I pause every few steps, confused. I don’t get it. It’s not a mansion, although it’s obvious this place cost millions, but even at that, it’s like he’s an average Joe.

  He inserts the key and stops to examine me, his eyes narrowing at my fidgeting and sweeping glances.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Um, where are the paparazzi or guards or gates? I know we’re not in LA, but you’re a rock star, why is there no one around?”

  He chuckles, opening the door. “I pay a lot to keep this place a secret. I’ve got a home in LA that’s registered as my place of residence. There have been some close calls, but the good thing is that I’m on tour so much this place is a secret. I have to be around a while before the paps realize I’m home.”

  “Hmm.” I find that fascinating considering how popular he is. You’d think the media would be all over him.

  We’re standing in an open foyer with high ceilings, at least fifteen feet. A middle-aged woman and man of Mexican descent, if I had to guess, stand to the side with smiles for Silas.

  “Jorge and Lucia, hola.”

  Silas shakes the man’s hand and then kisses and hugs the woman before introducing them to me as his housekeeper, cook, and all-around everything. He speaks of them like family. They live with him and keep the house running while he’s on the road.

  Out of my periphery, a swath of black fur bounds into the room, barking. It’s a black Labrador Retriever.

  “Come here, Boy.” Silas slaps the tops of his thighs.

  As the dog charges for him, he braces with his arms open, eager and willing to get some love from his pet. At the last minute, the animal changes course and runs to me.

  With no chance to steady my legs, the dog jumps, paws landing on my stomach, and in slow motion, I rock back and forth on my heels, trying to stay upright. The dull yet hard claws of the dog scrape my flesh under my shirt, and I laugh and hiss at all the attention bestowed on me by this friendly, four-legged creature.

  “Silas, she’s gorgeous. She’s yours?”

  “Yeah.” He’s got an amused smirk on his face and hands on his hips. “Gee, man’s best friend, huh? Until a hot chick enters the scene.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “It’s a he and his name is Boy.” His expression is filled with yearning as Boy showers me with affection.

  “Boy? What? You can’t be serious! That’s not a name for this beauty.” I feign indignation.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but that’s his name.” He shrugs, unfazed by my outrage.

  Crouching down, I pet Boy and peek at the anatomy while the dog pants and licks at my face. Giggles erupt within me at how happy she is to see me. My laughter intensifies upon my discovery. As I stand, Boy saunters to her master, and they share a loving, playful reunion.

  “I hate to break it to you, but Boy is a she, not a he.” I deliver the news to Silas, who stops mid-stroke on Boy’s back.

  “Not funny.”

  “I’m not joking. She doesn’t have a penis.”

  Jorge coughs at my use of the word and Lucia stifles a giggle. In catching her eye, we share a small smile, and she confesses, “I didn’t have the heart to tell him. We always took the dog to the vet for him, so he never knew.”

  Now it’s my turn to stifle my laugh, but I lose the battle and fall onto my butt in a fit of giggles. Silas looks from Lucia to me, at first in disbelief which morphs into hilarity at discovering how inept he is at deciphering his dog’s gender.

  “Damn, I’m an idiot.” Shaking his head, he wipes the few tears of laughter from his eyes. “Has he had his walk yet?”

  “No, she hasn’t. I was just going to,” Jorge responds.

  “I’ll do it.” Silas gives the dog another pat. “Lucia, would you please show Pansy to one of the guest rooms?”

  “Sí,” she answers at the same time I ask, “Can I come?”

  He nods and saunters off with Boy and me trailing him through the house. I try to take in the beautiful yet austere décor, but it’s all a flurry. Grabbing a Frisbee, he slips on flip-flops, and since I’m still in my beat-up cowboy boots, I take them off.

  My bare feet wriggle in the cool, damp sand and I sigh contentedly. I can hardly believe I’m on the beach. Thrilled to be here, I launch into back-to-back cartwheels, with Boy barking and running around me in excitement.

  Above the wind and the surf, Silas laughs and calls my name. He must think I’m crazy. Once upright, he catches up to me, still chuckling, and throws the Frisbee for Boy.

  “That looked like fun, although I have no clue how to do what you did.”

  “A cartwheel? You don’t know how to do a cartwheel?”

  “Nope.” He shakes his head.

  “I could teach you if you want.”

  “I’d like that, but not right now. I just want to walk along the beach with you.” His voice softens as he takes my hand. “How does it feel to be on the beach?”

  “Amazing.
There’s nothing quite like the smell of the salt air and the sound of the waves.”

  “True. Now that I’m back, I realize I missed it.”

  “Your house is stunning,” I gush, unable to contain my awe.

  “It’s okay.” I move closer to hear him over the waves.

  “Okay?”

  “It’s just a house.” He shrugs, and the gesture matches his nonchalant tone. “I’m not here that often, and while Lucia and Jorge are, the place is too big.” He adds with a mumble, “And lonely.”

  My heart aches for him. I get it. No matter how beautiful the house is, there would be no joy if you had no one to share it with.

  Tugging him closer to my side, we bump arms as I lean my head on his bicep. “Thank you for inviting me to stay with you.”

  It’s not smart, and it’s temporary, but being here with Silas feels good.

  “I should be thanking you. Something tells me I’m getting more out of this than you are.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I guess because I see all this through your eyes. It’s like I’m seeing it for the first time and I like it. Who knows what else you’ll make me see differently?”

  I wake with unease sitting heavy in my stomach. After Boy’s walk last night, Pansy crashed, and I called my manager to arrange a meeting with the band. It’s time to face the music.

  These past couple days with Pansy, while not always smooth, have been an escape from all of that. Everything with her is simple and refreshing. My fame and fortune don’t matter to her.

  Once we’d wrapped our North American tour — that last night in Vegas was supposed to end things on a high. The crew and our manager had already headed back to California, and we were staying one more night to celebrate the success of our tour. If only I’d waited until we got home to tell them I wanted out.