Surreal Estate

by Jesi Lea Ryan

  BZZZZT!!!!

  “Sorry!” Damien turned the volume down on the old guitar amp that he’d dug up from somewhere in the bar’s back room. “It’s old, but it works.”

  Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and looking at the size of Damien’s bar—a converted Catholic schoolhouse located next door to Saint Norbert Church—I was going to need some sort of amplification, or no one would hear me over the clanking of pool balls. I plugged the old amp into the pickup on my guitar and strummed a chord. Not bad for equipment older than me. A moment of nostalgia came over me with the memory of the Fender amp my grandfather had bought me for Christmas when I was sixteen. I’d loved that thing. Owning it had made me feel like a real musician, one that could play music for a living. Then, one afternoon, I’d come home from school to find the amp missing from my room. Mom had pawned it.

  It took a few months, but Zayde had replaced the amp. He’d even helped me find a hiding spot for it in the basement where Mom would never think to look. But it hadn’t been the same, and I’d ended up having to pawn the second one myself when I’d decided to prioritize eating over my rock star dreams.

  I grinned at Damien. “Sounds fine. I can work with this.”

  Damien grinned and clapped his hands. “All right, then. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll introduce you.”

  I tuned my strings. As I did so, I inventoried the crowd. This was a neighborhood bar that looked like a popular after-work hangout. The kind of place that sponsored softball and bowling teams. Ages ranged a little older than the college bars I used to play. Most patrons were in the thirty-to-fifty range. My mind flipped through my repertoire. I should sprinkle in some eighties tunes into my set.

  Just then, Nick walked through the door and waved at me. He’d changed into a clean pair of dark jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. I lifted my hand to wave back. His presence added a layer of nerves over my usually cool stage demeanor. I wanted Nick to like my music. And not only like it. If this thing between us was going to continue, I needed him to experience the same thrill listening as I did playing.

  As Nick ordered a beer, I motioned for Damien. He bounded up onto the tiny stage and artfully flipped the messy hair from his eyes in a way that had every female in the place sit up and take notice.

  “Welcome to the Communion Bar, Milwaukee’s most holy watering hole. Don’t believe me? Ask Deacon Dave nursing his pint at the bar.”

  An older gentleman dressed in business casual raised his glass with a smile while the small crowd applauded.

  “We’ve got a special treat for you tonight. As the former front man of Stomping Erebus, he played all the best venues in Wisconsin, including Summer Fest. Put your hands together for my friend and all around good guy . . . Sasha Michaels!”

  Mildly curious applause sounded, and Damien returned to his place behind the bar.

  I stepped forward and tapped the mic. Skipping opening remarks, I started right in with a crowd favorite, “Brown Eyed Girl.” It was a good warm-up, and something I could play in my sleep. As was my habit with this song, I quickly located a woman, about my mother’s age, with large brown eyes sitting at one of the front tables. I made eye contact with her as I sang the chorus. She and her friends twittered over my blatant flirting, and sang along with the “tra, la, las” with enthusiasm. This was one of my favorite things about performing: interacting with strangers in a way that was fun and socially acceptable without awkwardness.

  When the song finished, I gave the woman a wink and glanced back to Nick. He was sitting on the edge of his barstool, staring at me intently. When he caught my glance, a gigantic grin spread across his face, and then he began clapping and whistling loudly, encouraging the rest of the bar to applaud with a little more enthusiasm.

  I played covers for about an hour, gradually drawing the crowd out of their shells to have a good time. I even took a request from the ladies at the front table to play “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” a song I hated, but which went over well with the middle-age set. At some point, Nick worked his way up to a seat directly in front of the stage, where I couldn’t help but see his grinning face mouthing the words along with me. Seeing him there, supporting me and truly enjoying himself, filled me with warmth that almost certainly shone on my face.

  I wiped the dampness off my brow with my sleeve. “Whooo, that was fun, but I need a break. Stick around, and I’ll be back in twenty.”

  Damien turned the jukebox on, and I sucked down half a bottle of water. Man, I miss playing. Before I had a chance to check my tip jar, Nick stepped onto the stage, took me by the hand, and dragged me into the store room. He slammed the door and pinned me up against it with his big body, heat dancing in his eyes.

  “You were so fucking sexy up there.”

  I grasped the back of his head and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Nick stiffened at my sudden affection, but recovered quickly, becoming an enthusiastic participant. Performing made me horny, and based on the lump in his jeans, watching me perform had the same effect on him. My hands trailed down his spine, grasped the globes of his ass, and dragged him tight against my groin, pinging all my pleasure centers.

  “You’re amazing. A natural,” he muttered as he nuzzled my beard. “I’m officially your number-one fan.”

  “Of my singing? Or my guitar playing?”

  “Of everything. You can do no wrong.”

  Our kisses grew more rough and heated. My lips followed his jawline and sucked on his earlobe that had the scar of an old piercing. Christ, I’d missed him. Exhausted or not, I needed him.

  “Want you so bad.” Nick leaned in, licking and nipping at my collarbone, and my head dropped back against the door as I reveled in the way his hands roamed my body.

  When his palm wrapped around the bulge in my jeans, I groaned. “Oh, fuck, Nick. I can’t start this now. I have to go on stage in like fifteen minutes.”

  He lifted his head and looked me in the eyes with heat and the spark of something more. “No worries. Let me take care of you.”

  His hands slid down my body, and he slowly sank to his knees.

  “Nick! You don’t have to do that.”

  He glanced up at me with hooded eyes. “‘Have to’? Shit, I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.” He teethed his lower lip as he undid my jeans.

  Well, fuck. Who was I to protest?

  Nick’s hands trembled as he drew out my cock. I loosened my stance. He gave me a few strokes with his hand, obviously reacquainting himself with the feel of me. I squeezed my fists and let him take his time exploring with his gaze and hands. Curiosity and lust shone in his eyes, and tenderness rolled through me. That he would choose me for his first experiences with a man was a gift I wasn’t sure I deserved. Unable to stop myself, I reached for his face, running my palm down his cheek and under his chin, tilting it up so he’d meet my gaze.

  “If you don’t like it, you can stop anytime.”

  He nodded and gave an experimental tug on my ballsack, sending a rumbling groan through my chest. The noise of the bar faded away, and the only thing left in the world was Nick Cooper.

  After a couple of more strokes, Nick leaned in with parted lips and licked around my cockhead. His mouth was tentative and slow, but so warm. Clearly gaining in bravery, he took in my length and sucked.

  “Shit . . .” I hissed, pressing my palms on the door.

  Nick popped off. “Am I doing it right?”

  “You’re perfect. You okay with this?”

  “You kidding? I think I found my new favorite hobby.”

  And with that, he sucked my cock with a little too much enthusiasm, choking a little. He couldn’t take it deep, but he kept up a fierce rhythm. I dropped my head on the door and gave myself over to him. Much sooner than I’d have liked, my balls tightened up and the impending orgasm rose.

  “I’m gonna come,” I warned.

  Rather than pulling off and finishing me with his hand, Nick doubled down on the suction. I exploded and pulsed so hard I saw spark
les. Nick swallowed my come like a champ before resting his forehead on my hip and wrapping his arms around my thighs.

  “How was it?” he asked hoarsely.

  I drew him up and held him tight, still breathing like I’d run a marathon. “Fishing for compliments now? It was incredible, and you know it.”

  “Not fishing, just . . . unsure.”

  His voice sounded hesitant. I glanced up to see worry in his eyes.

  “Stop that,” I said, tapping his lips with my finger. “What’s that look for?”

  “I know I don’t know what I’m doing with you, and I appreciate you giving me a chance . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He stepped away and turned his back to me. I buttoned my jeans and slid up behind him, leaning on his broad body. “What is it? What’s bothering you? Didn’t you like it?”

  “Like it? I loved it. It was different to be on the giving end, but also kind of amazing to make you come apart like that.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  He groaned and rounded to face me. “I’m worried that I’m screwing this whole thing up. I don’t know how to be with a guy. You gotta tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “Who says you’re doing anything wrong?”

  He fixed his gaze on mine. “Look, that night at my house was one of the best nights I’ve spent in a long time. I thought you were into me. But then you pulled away like you weren’t interested, and we’ve hardly talked since. If I did something wrong, if I didn’t make you feel good or something, can you just tell me so I can learn?”

  And now I felt like an asshole. The whole time I’d been wallowing in my family drama, Nick had been beating himself up, thinking he wasn’t good in the sack. Was that what this whole seduction scene had been about, him trying to please me? I didn’t like the one-sidedness of that idea.

  “Hey, look at me,” I said. “You’re the best thing I’ve got going on right now. I understand I’ve been distant lately, but honestly, it’s only because I’m crazy exhausted from working so much. I’m getting about half the sleep I should be, and all I do is run from one task to another without a break. I guess I took it for granted that you understood it wasn’t you.”

  “You’ve been shutting me out.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take me so long to deal with my zayde’s house.”

  “It’s taking so long because you won’t let me help.”

  “That’s because you can’t help. I’m not only clearing out the junk. I’m trying to heal the damage my mom has done to the home’s psyche.”

  Nick’s brow knit up in confusion. “You what? How?”

  I wasn’t used to talking about this stuff, and I wished I hadn’t said anything. How could I explain it? He seemed to be handling my freakiness so far, but what if this pushed him over the edge?

  “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t do that,” he pleaded. “Stop shutting me out. I thought we were in this together.”

  Were we? In it together? I weighed the idea in my mind. It felt like I’d been on my own for centuries. Did I even know how to be a partner to someone else? I wasn’t sure I was any good at it, but for Nick, I was willing to try.

  “Fine. You’re right. I’m sorry. Tomorrow after we finish up at your place, let’s go down to Oak Creek and I’ll show you what I’m up to, okay?”

  “Thank you.” He leaned in for a tender, but too-brief kiss. “Now get out there before your new fans storm the stage.”

  My hands tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the classic rock station as I pulled up in front of Sasha’s grandpa’s house. I’d been high as the moon all day after reconnecting with Sasha last night. I still couldn’t believe I’d sucked him off . . . and that I liked it. Couldn’t wait to do it again.

  “Jerry come for his things?” I asked, spotting the empty porch.

  Sasha unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the truck. “I assume so. One day his shit was gone and the words ‘fuck you’ were carved into the floor boards. I sanded them out.”

  I winced and followed Sasha inside.

  “Wow! It’s totally different in here.” Everything was clean and in its place. A fresh coat of paint brightened up the room, and it smelled like the carpets had been shampooed. The living room was still missing a couch, but Sasha had arranged a couple of recliners in front of the TV so that it seemed intentional. “What more do you have to do?”

  Sasha blew out a sigh and considered the space. “I cleaned and painted every room except the back bedroom. Still can’t go in there. I was hoping that if I could heal the house enough, I’d be able to deal with it.”

  “I can take care of that room for you, but I need you to bring me up to speed on this house-healing you’re doing.”

  Sasha sank into one of the recliners and closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to talk about it.”

  “Then show me.”

  He looked up at me in consideration. “You sure? Don’t you think I’m some sort of a whack job?”

  “No. I don’t.” Yes, my brain was buzzing with questions about the whole psychic thing, but it was curiosity, not concern. I sat in the other recliner and motioned for him to continue.

  “When I got here the day after Mom and Jerry had their big blowout, I couldn’t even get through the front door. I don’t know everything that went down, but the violence coming off the place was too much for my head.”

  “But you did go in.”

  “Yeah, but only after I spent a half hour draining the bad juju away from the front porch.”

  I choked on a laugh. “I’m sorry, ‘bad juju’?”

  “I don’t know the technical term. You get what I mean.”

  “Okay, so how does this bad juju stuff work?”

  “Whatever went down here imprinted on the house. Not just the violence of that night, but an accumulation of nastiness that has been growing since Zayde died. Have you ever walked into a room where people were fighting and felt a heaviness in the air?”

  “Yeah. Actually, I have.”

  “Well, it’s like that for me all the time, only with all kinds of emotions. When I got here, the house was so filled with violence and anger I couldn’t get past the porch without my heart speeding into palpitations and my breath going all asthmatic.”

  “Jesus, Sasha. Are you sure you should be here?”

  He clasped my hand. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I turned down the worst of it when I first got here.”

  “What do you mean by ‘turned down’?”

  “How do I explain?” He paused. “Say you have a spectrum of emotions ranging from manic to completely depressed. Neither extreme is really good, you know. The stable emotions are the neutral ones in the middle of the spectrum. So when I open myself up to the emotions of a house, I just kind of nudge them to a more neutral place on the spectrum. Turn down the intensity.”

  “Where did you learn to do this?” I asked, envisioning some sort of Hogwarts for psychics.

  “When I was a kid, Zayde told me stories about his mother who had a gift similar to mine. She was an empath with an emotional affinity with people in much the same way I have with spaces. Zayde told me about how she could manipulate emotions of people around her to calm down heated situations. He thought I might be able to do the same kind of thing. It was part of the reason he took me to meet her when I was a kid. I was young, and we were only there for two weeks, but she did her best to teach me how to meditate and tune in to the energy around me. I admit, I wasn’t a good student. But I liked the feeling of oneness when I let the energy fill me. As I grew older, I began to experiment with the meditation. I wish now that she had lived long enough for me to visit again. I’m sure there are more things I’m capable of that I don’t know about.”

  “Okay, so how does this emotion thing work?”

  “Um . . . let me try to show you.” Sasha moved to sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor, rested his fingertips on the carpet beside
his thighs and let his eyes drift closed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then grinned. “Never done this with an audience before.”

  “No worries. I’m not judging, only curious.”

  He let his grin fade and took a couple of more breaths.

  “I sort of meditate on the emotions of the space, setting whatever I’m feeling aside and let them fill me.”

  I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees.

  For several minutes, Sasha didn’t say anything, just breathed. Without thinking about it, I slid down to the floor and mirrored him. When I’d been married, Melissa had talked me into going to a meditation center with her once. She’d said it would help with my ADD. It didn’t. I spent an hour kneeling in a room with a bunch of hippies, my mind racing a million miles an hour and my foot falling asleep.

  What Sasha did was like meditation, but with more purpose. I breathed in and out in the same rhythm as he did, but didn’t feel any emotional connection with the room. Instead, I watched him, his eyes closed, lips parted. Just his presence calmed me in a way no one else’s ever had.

  “Okay,” Sasha said softly. “I’m fully connected now.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Like energy coursing through my veins. My stomach is a little queasy and my neck muscles are tightening. I’ll probably get a headache soon.”

  “So are you going to turn the volume down or whatever?”

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “No. There is too much going on here for that to do any good. I need to open myself up and absorb as much of the bad juju as I can to remove it from the house altogether.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “Shhh . . .”

  I watched and waited. The tiny wrinkles in Sasha’s brow deepened, and his cheeks began to flush pink. The minutes ticked by at a snail’s pace, and I had to sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting and wrecking his concentration.

  When his breathing grew rapid, I stopped mirroring him. And when the beads of sweat appeared on his brow, my worry cranked up ten notches. I wanted to stop him, but feared hurting him. Whatever he was doing seemed to take deep focus, and I was afraid of what would happen to all that energy if I broke his fragile connection.