Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  “What did Jenson ask you to take photos of, Sebastian?” I ask, following as he crosses the room and begins stuffing earbuds into his ears. I grip the cord and yank them out. “Why are you suddenly so shy? You were all talk just a second ago. Why did Jenson ask you to take pictures?”

  “It’s not my business,” he says, holding up his hands. “I thought you knew.”

  “I didn’t, but I think I have a right to know if it involves me and my—” My words falter, my mouth gaping.

  Sebastian smirks, tossing his iPhone and earbuds onto the crate serving as his bedside table. “Your what? Or does Jenson not live up to the great Lindsey’s expectations, either?”

  My head jerks back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Isaac answers from the doorway, popping his head in. “It means nothing.”

  But when I turn back to Sebastian, he looks at me through locks of long hair and lifts a brow challengingly. I want to flick his stupid hair out of his stupid face. Or maybe cut it while he’s sleeping and see if he cries. Man child.

  “What do you know of my expectations? I hardly even talk to you.”

  “It’d take someone blind not to notice the way you string people along who genuinely care about you, then act like you’re the tortured girl no one understands.”

  Now I’m really confused. “What are you talking about? Did Jenson put you up to this?”

  “What do you think we’re doing, having fucking tea parties behind your back? No. I hardly know the guy. Maybe I would if you’d be straight with yourself.” He drops onto his bed, lazing back on the pillows.

  It’s really none of his business, but it’s not like I’m not going to defend myself. Then I remember the reason we’re even having this discussion. “Just tell me about the pictures and maybe I won’t shave your head in your sleep.”

  As if to spite me, he gathers his hair in a fist and ties it up into a bun, a sly smile on his face. He’s enjoying this. “Jenson asked me to take pictures of a guy he thought was following you. Said he’d seen a few messages that worried him, and he needed the pics as collateral. That’s it.”

  My stomach turns. Jenson went through my phone? It doesn’t sound like something he would do, but how well do I really know him, anyway? Sebastian’s wrong. He has to be. I let out a barely controlled breath and spin on my heel, ready to get away from him and the bullshit he’s spewing.

  “Your behavior is just proving my point,” he calls, and I spin back around and peg him with a heated glare.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re fucking fuming over someone who’s just looking out for you.”

  No. I’m fuming over someone who thinks they know what’s best for me. I’m no stranger to the feeling. “The next time you decide to do something behind my back, maybe make sure to drive the knife a little deeper, would you?”

  His response is garbled as I shut his bedroom door behind me and snatch up my wallet and keys. It’s not too far of a walk, and maybe the extra time spent traveling between Jenson’s place and mine will temper my ferocity. Besides, I don’t want to stop long enough to ask Isaac for a ride.

  It’s just my luck that it’s raining. The clouds are swollen and ominous, showing no sign of finishing their assault on the city, but I don’t care. I don’t care about the rain, I don’t care about Sebastian, and I’m running out of fucks to give about Jenson too, if what Sebastian’s saying is true. For anger’s sake, I accept that it is, and I stew as I skitter down the wet sidewalks.

  I don’t know how Jenson caught wind of Craig. As far as I know, Anika was the only one who knew about him. Ashamed of the position I was put in, I’d kept him hidden from everyone I knew, sometimes even myself. I’d deny he was real, that his looming presence was just a figment of my wild imagination. But Craig was real. Is real, depending on what happened between him and Jenson. But the only evidence of Craig is the string of texts and voicemails on my phone that were promptly cut off a week ago.

  My feet pound the pavement with renewed vigor. My hair hangs heavy and lank around my face, drops of rain falling from the ends to course in rivulets down my chest and beneath the neck of my T-shirt. My jean jacket, distressed for the sake of fashion, does nothing to shield against the cold, and instead just weighs my shoulders down. But the wet and cold are the farthest things from my mind. I’m inwardly burning, cursing all the circumstances that pushed Craig and I together in the first place.

  I’d seen someone post about a music photography workshop in one of the photo groups I’m a member of on Facebook. The photographer was Craig Potinski, a name that circulates like mad in the music world and holds the kind of weight I hope mine will one day. I knew there’d be a fee, but I figured I’d reach out to Craig anyway to see if there was some kind of payment plan we could come up with. After all, I make good on my debts. Instead of getting right down to the payment specifics, he expressed an interest in my work and what kind of experience I had at that point. We discussed my goals and he offered to critique my portfolio, free of charge. After reviewing my work, he said he recognized my talent, my drive, and invited me to the workshop, stating we’d work out the money situation later. I should’ve recognized that for the red flag it was.

  The warehouse where the workshop was being held, although ominous on the outside, was filled to the brim with energy and promise. There was a stage set up and a band playing, and there was even a small crowd of “fans” singing and gyrating to the beat. We were instructed to take out our cameras and shoot. No preparation involved, no guidelines. Just us, our cameras, and the music. It was one of the most unique and unforgettable experiences of my life.

  After that, we went through a group critique exercise, then endured feedback and redirection from Craig Potinski himself. He seemed to like my work. He seemed normal. I didn’t necessarily want to reiterate that I couldn’t afford the guidance I’d already received, but I brought up the matter of payment again once the workshop ended. I offered what I could—a couple hundred bucks—but Craig shrugged it off and mentioned going to dinner and exchanging “great company and invigorating conversation” for his services instead. I’d thought it odd, but I played along. After all, I owed him. But it didn’t end at dinner. He’d texted me almost nonstop, and when I politely declined a romantic relationship, the tone turned more hostile.

  I could’ve turned him in, or blocked his number, but I knew I’d never truly be finished with Craig if I went that route. If victims of domestic violence are often abandoned by the law, what kind of protection would I get for a few lurid text messages and phone calls? I’d dug my grave and leaped into it willingly. Still, I was scraping together my pennies to come up with the original amount I owed. Each paycheck, each job, brought me a miniscule step closer to being rid of him for good, my way. Jenson, and whatever he did, took that away from me.

  I push through the door into Jenson’s lobby and ignore the glance the concierge sends my way, a mixture of concern and disgust, and give her my name. She checks it against her database of approved visitors and hardly gets out a nod before I’m sliding down the slick concrete hallways to the elevator bank. Luckily the first cab arrives empty, and I ride up to the twelfth floor with nothing but my steaming thoughts playing as a background anthem.

  Banging on the door with a fist, I shift uncomfortably in my Chucks. They’re leaking water all over the hallway. Then the door’s opening and Jenson is in front of me, taking me in with wide eyes. I watch for guilt, but he just frowns in concern, as I could’ve guessed he would. I duck beneath his arm, going no further than the entry.

  He turns to me, a list of questions in his eyes. “I thought I was supposed to pick you up. Did you wa—"

  “You want to tell me about the photos?” I cut him off, and after a moment of stunned silence, he drops his arms to his sides. The ones I didn’t walk into when I arrived. Under other circumstances the sight of him in only a pair of thin, worn sweatpants would’ve made an irresistible pack
age. Right now, it only makes me angry. He’s like bait in a trap set especially for girls like me, who fall for sad eyes and a little body ink.

  “What photos?” In place of confusion, his features are passive, unflinching.

  “The ones you asked Sebastian to take,” I say, inadvertently shivering in my wet clothes. “Or did you really not expect me to find out?”

  “Can I get you a towel first? You’ve gotta be freezing.”

  “You can explain why you went to Sebastian behind my back.”

  At the sight of my stance, motionless and unyielding, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “He needed to be dealt with.”

  That would only make sense if he were aware of the entire situation. And that would only be the case if he was digging through my things. “How did you even know about Craig in the first place?”

  “Why would you bother to hide something like that?”

  “Just answer the question, Jenson! Stop talking me in circles,” I huff.

  Something flashes in his eyes, a cool recognition of my outburst. Like he’s been here before. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to. When I came home and you were passed out here, he was blowing your phone up. I didn’t know who Craig was, but he’d called and texted so many times I assumed it was some kind of emergency. Maybe back at home, I don’t know. I just meant to take a look, but the way he was speaking to you, the things he was saying. . . Jesus Christ, Lindsey, I didn’t know what you were caught up in.”

  I catch his tone and my jaw tightens. “What did you think I was caught up in?”

  “I had no clue. I had no reason to suspect you’d been doing anything, but how could I know? There are plenty of opportunistic people and plenty of kids out here wanting a taste of success and going starry-eyed at the sight of it. It could’ve been anything—money, drugs, sex. I didn’t know what you owed. How could I? You didn’t say anything about it. You don’t say anything about anything, except to tell me how to live my life.”

  His words are like caramel-coated barbed wire. Rich and smooth, but taking root in my skin all the same. I can’t help it when my teeth grind. “I won’t even dignify that with a response. What did you do with whatever you found out? Did you call him? Finally find out about my supposed debt?”

  “I met up with him in person.”

  My head falls back on my neck. I know how persuasive Craig can be, how unassuming. Like a viper in velvet. What did he put in Jenson’s head?

  “And we had a little chat. He won’t bother you again.”

  I lick my lips, not meeting his eyes, then turn and twist the doorknob. I think we’re done here. Before the door is open enough to get through, Jenson’s arm appears over my shoulder to bar my path and push it closed. I give the handle a frustrated jerk for good measure, then blow out a sigh mixed with a cry of frustration.

  “Is this my punishment for not coming to you for help? I’m trapped now?”

  “No. Say you want to leave and I’ll let you leave—”

  “I want to leave,” I say before he can finish.

  “But for once in your life, just talk to me first,” he says over my declaration. “You had a problem and I handled it. Tell me why that’s so wrong.”

  I turn toward him, caged between his outstretched arms and the door, and duck beneath his elbow so I won’t feel so trapped. Then I stalk toward the bathroom for a towel. I am freezing. Jenson follows, walking alongside the little puddles I leave in my wake. Shrugging out of my sopping jacket, I sling it over the glass wall of the shower, followed by my shirt. Makeup is pooled beneath my eyes. I look like a tragic, drowned Goth girl.

  I use his towel to start squeezing my hair, unconcerned that my bra is soaked through and more of my skin is pebbled with goosebumps than not. I can feel Jenson’s heated gaze from the doorway, but he doesn’t crowd me. He gives me space to form the answer I might not have volunteered otherwise.

  Without looking at him, I speak. “Because I thought you were different. You have your shit and I have mine, but things were always easy with you. But, you did what everyone else does. You thought you knew what was best for me better than I did.” Just like my mother and father, when they kept their divorce a secret until I left for college to spare me from the harsh reality that love sometimes fails.

  At his silence, I look up to see resignation in his eyes. He knows what he did, but he doesn’t regret it. He also knows I’m right.

  “You think I don’t know what’s good for you?” he finally asks, sliding through the doorway and propping one arm on the towel rack and the other on the counter across from it, effectively cornering me once again.

  I use the towel as a shield between us, covering some of my vulnerability, and squeeze excess water out of my bra. “You overstepped a boundary.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “You know which one.”

  “Boundaries are meant to be crossed, don’t you think? Or else when would we have any fun?”

  I know he’s trying to be sexy, or slick, but that doesn’t distract me from the war path I’m on. And I’m past the point of no return. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”

  He drops his head between his muscled shoulders in surrender. “You’re right. I crossed the line.” Then he looks up at me and sears me with just a look. “How would you have handled it?”

  “I was saving up to pay him off,” I grumble, wiping rainwater from my stomach and chest. “Not that it matters to you.”

  “And you think money is enough to keep a guy like that away? From someone like you? Not a chance. He never would’ve quit. He would’ve held something above your head until he got whatever it was he was after.”

  “If you’re expecting my gratitude for not only going behind my back, but coercing my roommate to do the same, you can forget about it. I’m not a doormat.”

  “I’d never make the mistake of thinking that.” He straightens and takes a step closer. “You’re more like a steamroller.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Yeah, that’s more like it, flattening anything and everything in your path.”

  As he draws closer, I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “A piece of construction equipment. You’re comparing me to construction equipment.”

  “Why are you so angry with me?” We’re nearly toe to toe now, and I’m doing my best to ignore the proximity and focus on drying myself, but I’m burning up from the inside out already. My adrenaline from earlier hasn’t subsided with his admittance that he was wrong. It’s just amped up, pumping through my veins like something volatile, electric.

  “Because I don’t need protecting.”

  He reaches out, and I brace myself as he sweeps the pad of his finger over the line of my jaw. “I know you don’t need it, but I’ve always been too little too late. It’s probably the worst thing about me. Forgive me if I wanted to change that.” His eyes are boring into mine with an intensity that makes me forget the feeling of wet denim clinging to my legs, the hair sticking to my back. I just stand there, every nerve homed in on the burning path of his fingers. Then I find the strength to bat his hand away.

  “Yeah, how well did that work out for you?”

  He winces, but I don’t take it back. It’s better like this. You let people in and they know they can play your strings. He seems to gather himself, shaking his head wryly. “I don’t think you know how fascinating it is to watch. You’re more willing to drown than be saved.”

  I force out a shaky breath. “An outstretched hand isn’t always a helping one. Sometimes it’s there to drag you under.”

  “I won’t drag you under. But I’ll damn sure follow you down.”

  Without a word, he takes the towel from my hands and steps behind me, gently rotating my shoulders so I’m facing the mirror. He doesn’t give me a say in the matter. I trace his movements in our reflection, watching as he lifts my hair and uses a towel-covered hand to massage water from the nape of my neck. He drags it languorously down my spine, skipping over
my bra clasp and caressing my lower back. With the other hand, he pauses over the clasp of my bra and meets my eyes in question. When I don’t say no, a flick of his fingers has it springing from my shoulders. I shift my arms so it slides to the floor.

  Jenson turns me to face him, and I stare back unabashedly as he opens the button of my jeans and drags the zipper down. With his palms against my skin, he runs his hands downward to separate the denim from my legs, kneeling so he can peel them past my thighs to the floor. I lift each foot so he can tug them off, tossing them into the corner where they land with wet flump.

  And there, knelt on the ground before me, he continues drying my legs, giving each swell and depression, each bone, muscle, and ligament his undivided attention. When he meets my eyes, I look for the question I know I’ll find. I shift my hips to push off the counter, allowing him to slide my panties down my legs. His lips meet the inside of one knee, then the other, and he works his way up, up, all the way up until his mouth closes hotly on the juncture of my thighs. By default, my head falls back and my breath escapes between my teeth with a soft hiss. He hikes a leg over his shoulder, and I’m open to him as his tongue parts me and runs the entire length of me until it stops to circle my knot of tension.

  My anger, my frustration, is a bar of wet soap in tight hands as he works me over. I lose track of my reason for being here, of sense. And when I fist my hands and shatter with my legs around his face, it’s all I can do to stay upright, though “upright” is a generous word for it. Then Jenson’s standing and lifting me into his arms, carrying me out of the bathroom and lowering us both onto his duvet. He sucks the thin skin over my collarbone, and sensation returns to my gelatinous limbs.

  “You want to follow me down?” I ask him, hooking my ankles around his thighs. He buries his face in my neck, and crackling pleasure jolts through me. Then he’s flipping us and I’m on top, and his hand makes its way between my legs again.