Unsurprisingly Complicated

by Claudia Burgoa

  “My beer.” I look over my shoulder and he shrugs. “One thing, only one small favor in exchange of all the shit I bring.”

  “Hey, blame the sis, she liked your shit,” MJ blames Ainse, as he pulls a tissue out of a box and blows his nose. “Just like I blame her for this nasty cold.”

  My brow arches with what he says. I wait for more information, but it doesn’t come.

  “Thought she can’t drink alcohol,” I recall her diabetes. “She had a cold?”

  “AJ was sick with a nasty, deadly virus.” He points at his red nose. “All because of her new job. She became a sub and brought all her fucking germs home.” MJ blows his nose, drops the tissue in a trashcan and squirts some sanitizer on his hands. “They say no good deed goes unpunished, and this is what I get for babying her.”

  “She’s a sub?” My brain can’t think pass that information. What the fuck happened to her? Blood drains from my face. Is being a submissive a new career, and should she be telling anyone? Well, I’ll talk to her, because no one should touch a pretty girl like that.

  “Yeah, for the school down the street from her house.”

  “School?” My brain halts one more time. The anger, worry, and insane thoughts that were brewing freeze. “Sub, school? You’re not making sense.”

  He wheezes laughter, but the laugh becomes a loud cough causing him to choke.

  “Don’t spit your lung at me.” I pat his back. “You’re going to get me sick.”

  I hand some water to him, and once he recovers, he begins to explain. “She’s a substitute teacher, but that sounds fucking boring. So we like to call her: the sub.”

  Being an only child makes situations like this one extremely confusing, because I don’t understand the pleasure he gets from torturing his sister. I’d like to see her fighting back with this; she’s funny with her comebacks.

  “She’s not happy,” he continues. “About the nickname; the job is okay.”

  “Where’s JC?”

  “I told you that you were late,” he continues. “Something happened while we were with the parents and he snapped. Most likely gone for the night. Since you weren’t here when we arrived, he took off. Are you staying?”

  I acknowledge him with a light nod and scurry to the other recliner.

  MJ and I don’t talk much for the first couple of hours as we play the latest game I received from a friend who creates them. The Deckers are some of the best beta players we have. Neither one holds back when it comes to feedback. Once I send back the report, it takes about three months for the launch of the game—while they fix the bugs.

  “Pizza,” MJ blurts.

  “You order it, dude, and I’ll pay.”

  MJ grunts and grabs his phone.

  “Ugh, the sis texted,” he complains, staring at it as if it’s a strange animal. “We owe her the nightclub shit.”

  “Nightclub?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, she has a list of places she wants to go and people to meet.” MJ is tapping on his phone, multitasking as he clarifies. “We promised to help or take her, whatever.”

  Hell, that sweet little ass isn’t going to a nightclub with these two by herself. They’d be looking for the next fuck and forget about her. She’d be left to the mercy of any asshole to use and discard her after a few hours.

  “I’ll go with you guys,” I offer.

  “Whatever, Bradley.” He finishes with his phone and continues the game. “I guess you can keep an eye on her. If she dances with you, it won’t be weird.”

  I don’t add that I’m safer than anyone else she’d encounter at a night club. Of course I am… or I’ll pretend to be for one night. The lower part of my body reacts to the image of Ainse dancing so close to me not even a sheet of paper would fit between us. Fuck, I need to get laid before we plan that night.

  “Looking good,” I comment while dropping off the check for the latest invoice I received from J & J Construction.

  A few side glances around the entrance of what’ll be the main music room gives me a brief idea of their updates. The walls are bare, but the cables and everything that goes behind them look new. The renovations are progressing as promised.

  “We finished replacing the plumbing yesterday,” Mr. Johnson informs me. He’s the project manager in charge of the remodeling for the building that’ll hold my music school. “The walls will go up tomorrow after the electrician and his team are done with the entire building. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Miss Colthurst-Decker, we have to keep working, but thank you for the check.”

  Waving at them, I make my way out, but not before leaving the hard helmet on the temporary shelves they have next to the main door. I pick up my umbrella, the one I left leaning against the door as I made my way in, step outside and gulp.

  Porter Kendrick is only a few feet from me, exiting the brick building with the big sign Decker’s Records. My father’s record label to be exact, and my ex-boyfriend’s former record label. Porter Kendrick, a solo artist who climbed to the top at an early age and stayed there until he semi-retired. He was my parents’ foster child for four years, and I dated him for almost five, from the age of sweet sixteen until my bitter twenty-one. We haven’t spoken since he phoned me while in rehab. He asked for forgiveness as part of his twelve-step program. Forgiveness for subjecting me to a long period of emotional abuse. Abuse I barely survived. I thought the emotional damage would be like a snake’s skin that would shed, but it isn’t. It’s more like a scar that remains as a reminder of my weakest moments and the mountain I have to climb to find myself, a better me who’ll be strong enough to believe in herself.

  Being better doesn’t mean much yet; the healing is a daily process that sometimes sets me back because, after all, I’m human. I like to overthink and overanalyze everything, as if my actions are a reflection of some ideal Porter ingrained in my mind instead of an original thought. Ugh, I hate this, but I’m a work in progress. I’ll win as long as each day I fight those pesky demons and don’t give up. However, among all my therapies and the bunch of books I read, nothing prepared me for a face-to-face with Porter, especially after defying him and that power he exercised over me. He was unhappy about it, and for years his happiness had been my number one priority. So yeah, there’s that pesky twinge inside my heart, the typical gut pain of fear, and some drumsticks hammering my head.

  It’s not fear of him particularly, but fear that I won’t be strong enough and end up falling for his old tricks. The traps I fell for again and again without once stopping and thinking about myself. Yes, self-doubt is my close enemy, but not as close as my low self-esteem. As I said, I’m a work in progress.

  The six-foot guy with light brown hair, chocolate-brown eyes and sly smile directed at me marches to where I stand. That same melting smile with hypnotizing eyes that captivated me for years. The corner of my lip turns slightly up as he gets closer. It’s not the joy of seeing him, but the joy that my body and my heart aren’t reacting to him. Nope, my heart beats at its regular rhythm. In fact, I think my heart paid more attention to the guy at the coffee shop I went to earlier today than Porter. I high five myself—mentally, of course.

  This is progress, I cheer.

  The fear is gone! The warning about running away disappears as he walks toward me.

  “Hi, baby,” he greets me.

  “AJ,” I remind him. “My name is AJ, Porter. How are you?”

  “Sorry, it’s a force of habit.” He lifts one shoulder and drops it as he tilts his head toward the record company. “Just like coming over to the studio when I want to record some shit. Your father kicked me out.”

  Chris told him not to ever show his face. According to Dad, he hurt one of the most precious things in his life—his daughter.

  “Music is my life,” he presses his lips. “I fear Chris will ruin my career—my life.”

  “No,” I assure him. “Chris wouldn’t do that to you. There are plenty of studios around the country. You’ll be back on your feet. You have plenty of mon
ey.”

  His head drops, his chin bumps on his chest and he shakes it.

  “Port?” The concern for his wellbeing overtakes me. I chew on my lip as I think of a way to help—to make it better. Because that’s what I do when it comes to him.

  Not very smart, AJ.

  “What happened, Porter?”

  “Drugs, baby, they cost money—lots of money.” He glances away as he mumbles the obvious.

  Of course they do, I don’t chide him.

  “As I said,” I repeat. “Any studio will love to give you a hand. Release a single as an indie and go from there. You’re smart.” I stop listing his qualities, because this is what I do best—or worst. Be the person who pumps his morality, and for some freaky reason he craves it so much, it’s his drug.

  I’m his fucking drug.

  “Look, Port, I have to go.” I get ready to leave. “You’ll be fine.” I stop any praise I may give him on how amazing he is and how he can conquer the world. Because he isn’t that amazing, and he needs to work on that himself, not through me.

  “When can I see you again?”

  “Never.” The response comes automatically. My mouth and brain are synched. “This is the best for both of us, Porter.”

  His eyes flash a hint of anger, but a mask of tranquility overtakes with a quick blink.

  “We’re one,” his steady voice is mellow. Porter’s hand lifts my chin, and his eyes try to connect with mine. He is trying to rekindle our connection. A connection that is no longer possible. I see them—his eyes—but I don’t see through them. In fact, I don’t give him the chance to look at mine either. I block him because he no longer belongs inside my head, my heart, or my soul.

  “We’re meant to be with one another, AJ,” he informs me as if it’s an inevitable fact of life. Like getting old, dying, or the circle of life. “I’m patient, you’ll come back. One way or another, today or in a year, we’ll end up together, baby.”

  I take a step back and shake my head. “Good luck, Porter.” There’s no use getting into an argument about his crazy ideas and some future that will never happen. Not in this lifetime. Instead of heading to my car, I proceed to my father’s office. It’ll be good to get a hug after this conversation that has my legs wobbling a bit.

  As soon as I push the door open to Decker’s Records my phone chimes. It’s a picture of a kitty watching the sunrise.

  Mase: Morning!

  J-9: A little too late to call this morning, sir. Unless you’re in Hawaii, and if you are, you should’ve taken me with you.

  Mase: Maybe I am, or Australia.

  J-9: Australia? How’s tomorrow looking?

  I pause, wondering if I should tell him what just happened. In a way, this was another tie between Porter and me that has been broken. Hopefully the last one, so I can finally be completely free. If someone understands about my years of captivity, it’s him. He’d understand everything.

  Mase: You’re silly. Everything okay with your life?

  J-9: Yes, Ten, stay safe.

  Maybe another day we can talk about it. If we ever see each other again.

  Mase: Always. Stay happy!

  Ah, Mason, he never fails to send a ‘cheer me up’ text when I need it. That’s the kind of guy I wish would promise that we belonged together. Not Porter.

  “Everything okay?” I look up to find my father’s green eyes staring at me. Playful, worried, but bright.

  Gabe, my other dad, says that he loves everything about me, but my eyes are special because I have Chris’ eyes.

  “All is fine, Papi.” I walk into his open arms. Warm, safe. It’s best to shove Porter’s encounter to the side for now, as well as my thoughts about Mason Bradley. Now that’s an impossible wish because I don’t allow myself to even dream it.

  “You saw him, didn’t you?” I nod as my head presses against his chest. “Anything you want to say?”

  “No, I’m totally fine.”

  “I’m proud of you.” He squeezes me. “Thought you were going to beg me to help him. You resigned as his savior. I’m glad.”

  Me too. I’ve always asked my parents for stuff on behalf of Porter. Not today or tomorrow –hopefully never again.

  “Just keep him away,” his voice is solemn. “He’s not clean, I can tell. Next time, walk the other way and call me.”

  I brush that aside. I’m old enough to care for myself. What can Porter do?

  It didn’t take long for Dad to appear in my office. Buzz cut, gray eyes, black jacket over a white dress shirt, and jeans. Jody, my assistant, doesn’t announce him; he lets himself inside my office making his way to my desk.

  “Dad,” I acknowledge and finish the quote I’m preparing for the installation of a new security alarm. “What a surprise.”

  “Son,” he greets me as he slides into one of the leather chairs in front of my desk. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing well, Dad. How long are you staying in Seattle?” I question, wondering if I should leave tonight to avoid him for whatever time period he’s around.

  “Not long.” He pulls out his phone and sets it up on the desk. “The Deckers don’t need me as often. Some days I think they only invite me along because we’re friends and not because of my services.”

  I crook a brow and watch him as he speaks about something I never thought about before. I wonder if they are using another company.

  “My personal services,” he continues, as if he reads my mind. “They use the company for everything else. I bet if the children were younger, I’d be busier. That reminds me, how long are you going to be in town?”

  “Not long,” I respond and chuckle as there’s not much difference from his answer to mine. “Depends on what job I decide to personally oversee, Dad.” Nothing has pulled my interest. Everything we have on the table are short-term projects.

  “The Princess moved to Seattle.” The Princess was the code name Dad assigned Ainse. She hates it. Rascal was JC’s and Grumpy was MJ’s.

  “The neighborhood where she moved is on the high end,” I offer, instead of telling him that I know she’s here; only a few miles away from me. My people installed the security alarm in the house and gave me a concise report of the area. “Are the Deckers concerned?”

  “Not about the neighborhood, but Porter.”

  The palpitations of my heart speed up as blood rushes through my veins. I’d warned the asshole he’d better stay away from her.

  “I’ll make sure he stays far away, Dad.” My voice steady, the rage in control. As long as I don’t break the mouse from the tight grip of my hand, Dad won’t notice. “Anything else?”

  “How about a visit to your mother?” The statement is a question, but also a gentle order. “You haven’t visited her in a long time.”

  “Why do you still talk to her?” That puzzles me… they make no sense. Each time he speaks about my mother, I hope something will come up; a nuclear bomb, the end of the world—anything that’d take me away from this particular topic of conversation. “You’ve been divorced since before I was born, and you can’t stand each other.”

  “Because we have you in common,” he explains. “I respect her. If anything, she gave me you. When you become a father, you’ll understand. I’ll always be thankful to her for giving me that gift and letting me be a part of your life.”

  As if I’ll ever become a father. His old age is hitting him hard. One thing I admire about him is that he can live his life, pining for my mom, but he doesn’t need anyone around to survive. I learned not to need my parents or anyone else to survive. Not once does he bring up the moment I turned sixteen and they both agreed that sending me to live with my uncle Alfred and my aunt Tara—his brother and sister-in-law—was best for me. Mom was on husband number five, the jerk that tried to hit me, and who I beat the shit out of. A perk of being trained by my father from a young age. She couldn’t live with me anymore, I needed a male figure. Dad was busy and couldn’t have me living with the Deckers; they already had their hands
full.

  “Maybe you remember your childhood a different way from how it actually was, Mason,” he suggests. “But we weren’t that bad. We both tried our best. Your mother loves you and wants to be part of your adult life. I do, too, but it’s hard when you keep yourself out of reach.”

  Now he makes me sound like a complete jerk. After the way they pushed and tugged me around, I’m the one who fucks up the entire family portrait they worked to create all these years.

  “You’re too old to blame your parents for whatever fucked up issues are going through your mind, Son.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about and work hard not to regress to rolling my eyes or yelling at him. “Nothing is going on, Dad.”

  “Then why not buy a place and settle?” he asks. “Living inside this office isn’t healthy. I worry about you, about what’ll happen to you in twenty or forty years from now.” He stands up and looks around the office, “I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished so far, but this won’t fulfill your life. Think about it.”

  I massage the bridge of my nose as I assimilate the bunch of crap he’s telling me. “You’re alone,” I bring out the truth, not trying to hurt him.

  “No, I’m not a lonely man as you believe me to be, and I have you.” His head slightly leans to where I sit. “Your priorities are screwed, Son, and I think it’s my fault for letting you believe…”

  He can’t finish the phrase as Jody enters the room. “You have Commander Terrance on line two…it’s urgent.”

  “You can stay at my place,” Dad offers.

  “I’m too old to live at my father’s, Dad, but thank you.” He stands up and gives me a sharp nod before pivoting around to leave.

  “See you around, Dad.” I wish we had a better relationship, that this parent-son stuff was simple and not as complicated as it really is.

  “Commander,” I greet him.