Adrenaline: An Ode to Love and Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  “This isn’t about a following. The Guitar Institute is awesome. Small classes, guys, even some chicks, on my level. But… Fuck. I return home to an empty apartment every night. There’s nothing fucking happening, here.”

  “Why don’t you go out?”

  “No, I do. But it’s a dull chat with a bartender and a quick lay who leaves in the morning. I don’t know, Inga—this fucking sucks.”

  What Bo’s telling me right now? Is a lot. He’s the moody, brooding artist type to a T, but he’s got pride and he doesn’t share easily. The man usually bottles up, writes songs, and takes his frustration out on stage.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask him, because I’m not in his life anymore. I’m not his girlfriend. A short puff erupts from Cameron’s mouth, and I eye those generous lips. Generous in everything. Kisses, smiles, words. That mouth vomits unfiltered words faster than I can absorb them sometimes. I smile inwardly. Thanks to Bo, it doesn’t reach my face.

  Bo doesn’t answer on the other end. Shit. His breathing is erratic, like he’s about to come. I know he’s not aroused now, though.

  He’s sobbing. Bo’s fucking sobbing. In five years, I never saw him cry—not when his dad went on a drunken rampage in his house, scaring his little brother—not when his grandfather died on an overnight visit. Bo—

  Does not cry, and I love him so much. He can’t feel this way.

  I need to be there, hold him, touch him, make him feel better. This is the love of my life hurting, hurting, and…

  “Bo, baby… Shhh.”

  “God, Inga. I’m an idiot. It’ll be fine. Probably had too much to drink.”

  He hasn’t.

  “You share the apartment with someone, right?”

  “Yeah.” He draws a deep breath in an effort to stop his own breakdown. “I’ll go find them. Hang out, you know,” he adds for my benefit. “Fuck me, Inga. It’s late there again, huh?”

  “Ja.” I huff a short laugh.

  “I’m sorry I called you. Not like you need my whining.”

  My chest caves in on itself. When you love someone as much, as long as I have, the only way to let go—I think—is to know that person will be all right. Small and dark, my heart needs to know. Verify that he’ll be back on his feet.

  “Do you want me to visit?” My question goes off like a bomb in my head. Its repercussions could be the Apocalypse to my sanity.

  But I’ve asked now. I’m not taking it back.

  Bo doesn’t reply right away. What he’s mulling over is familiar; what he needs versus what I need. Like me, he recognizes the setback my offering entails.

  Finally, he sighs. Allows his ego to trump compassion.

  “Would you… Would you come out?”

  I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. When Cameron woke up in the morning, the first thing he commented on was how my hands shook. It was the damn adrenaline pumping, pumping.

  Now, I’m on a plane to Los Angeles. The adrenaline hasn’t stopped pouring through me, and it won’t stop until I’m in Bo’s arms.

  There’s no way we’ll remain platonic. We’ve tried, but we gave up ages ago. Not once have we managed that.

  When Cameron asked what happened while he slept, I tried to downplay it. I still feel guilty, like I’m cheating on him by going west to bring some solace to Bo. But I have no reason to feel guilty, because Cameron and I are just friends.

  His beautiful, sunny face had contracted in a frown that was new to me. “Why are you doing this? Last time you saw him, you were a wreck afterward. You think things will be easier this time?”

  “Cameron, he’s depressed. He’s all alone in L.A., and—”

  “Do you hear yourself? When you came to Deepsilver, did you not come alone? Did you summon some ex to have him fly out and comfort you?” Cameron’s mouth pursed tighter, looking less generous. “Gee, how noble of him to call for backup from a woman. The asshole needs to learn to figure shit out on his own and not come crying to you.”

  “All right—enough!” I’d shouted. “What’s it to you anyway?”

  “Seriously? I care about you, Ingela. You’re my friend.”

  “So? I’ll let you know when your opinions are welcome. I happen to help friends in need instead of hindering them from doing the right thing. Which is exactly why I’m going.”

  I’d packed. Stuffed random clothes into my suitcase. Arms crossed, Cameron watched me with eyes blazing from the urge to slice more opinions my way. When a few racier pieces of lingerie landed on top of the heap, Cameron said, “Really?” grabbed his jacket, and barged off.

  I can’t think about this now. We’re landing at LAX, and Bo will be waiting for me. I want to get drunk. Dammit, I should have brought a couple of miniature vodka bottles or something. Or bought them on the plane, duh. It’s too late to numb the adrenaline rush now.

  As I walk down the gangway to the exit, I fumble with my single carry-on. I just spent a lot of money on a four-day trip to Los Angeles. One long weekend. What do I expect to accomplish besides ripping open always-fresh wounds?

  Arriane dropped me off at the airport. Usually, she’s not overly opinionated, but she’d been as clear in her judgment as Cameron was. Everyone’s right. I can’t heal Bo’s loneliness with a four-day visit.

  They don’t know me, though. No one knows how it is to walk into love and not come out again, to never be able to leave it behind.

  People press by me at the end of the gangway. It seems I’m blocking, but I can’t move. In front of me, dyed-black bangs drape a dear, dear face, showering winter-frosted irises full of newly discovered pain.

  I watch delicate features, the old black leather jacket. Dark jeans, and the way his boots meticulously straighten under his pant legs.

  Hands in his pockets, he waits for me. People pass him too—they shove past. Even this far away, I catch the red rims of his eyes. What has L.A. done to my sweetheart?

  I brave the ropes and into his arms. I nuzzle his warm throat, kiss soft skin. I don’t care, don’t care, that I’m about to dissolve. Nothing matters besides comforting him.

  I’m always the one who needs him, but now he needs me.

  I’m bleeding for him.

  Bleeding, bleeding.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” he assures me, chewing on what’s supposed to be the best hot dog in the West. We only need one each, he’d said, and he’s right. It’s enormous and sprinkled with everything you can imagine. Shrimp salad tops mine, and I don’t remember what other garnish I nodded yes to.

  Above our heads in the makeshift sitting area, the sky shines light blue, promising a cloud-free future. It’s lying, but I worship the moment. Sucking dry city air in through my nose, I lean a temple on Bo’s shoulder because love makes me alive.

  Slowly, he cups my face and lifts my chin. Bo places a soft kiss on my lips and helps me stand. I giggle at that; I’m not incapacitated in any way, and in Sweden, men aren’t gentlemen, so from him the gesture is funny. He draws a swift smile too, knowing where my thoughts are. Sadly, his amusement is fragile and ruptures instantly.

  “Let’s go to the Hollywood sign?” he suggests, brow arching, and I nod. Yes, yes, I’ll be a tourist with my forever. Whatever he wants, even though he’s likely done this before and isn’t doing it for himself.

  He’s quiet on the way back in the taxi. Darkness owns my Bo the way it owns me whenever we break up. This isn’t fixable. What—what can I do?

  “Have you talked with your mom? Your siblings?”

  “Yeah.” He presses two fingers over the bridge of his nose. An inhale that sounds like a sob hits the air, and I kiss the back of his hand. It’s between our faces, obstructing my access to his lips. “They think I should forget this and come home. Sit out a semester, do some gigs or whatever to keep busy until I’m back on track with classes in Gothenburg.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” I murmur. Bo isn’t me. Clearly, he wasn’t made to build a new life from scratch. Everyone he loves is in S
weden.

  His hand drops with a slap on his thigh. “No, Inga. I’m not giving up. This is my dream. What I’ve learned so far at the Institute is already priceless. And I’m forming professional relationships with the future of rock ’n roll. I can’t chicken out of this because I’m fucking homesick. How pathetic would that be?” His laughter is quiet, silky, and goes straight to my sex. Even in this state, my body craves his.

  “Can any of those professionals become your friends, then?” I ask like I’m a kindergarten schoolteacher. His flipping psychologist.

  Funny how I always found him to be so strong and independent. I figured I was the weak one in our relationship.

  “Yeah, Inga. Probably. Don’t worry about it, okay? You ready to go back to the apartment?”

  I am.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Robin’s had it with my attitude tonight.

  “All I’m saying is how ’bout you play something not fucking shitty for once. Dub, dub, dub. I mean—dude.”

  I bop off the podium of his DJ booth before he can reply. Then, I stalk to the bar. New chick Tara’s there, opening a bottle of beer like it’s never been done before. Leon hires the weirdest people sometimes.

  I eye her. She’s on the plump side but her rack’s up Arria’s alley. Nothing wrong with that. I love tits—any tits—even though my preference is the tiny, firm type with nipples turning to unripe raspberries in my hands. Ingela’s are…

  Fuck Ingela.

  “You ever had a threesome, Tara?” She’s so new I don’t have a rep with her. The common reaction is for the girls to be all shocked and not speak to me again until our colleagues make up some story about me having redeemable qualities.

  Sometimes the newbies can’t believe their own ears when I ask—they find it too rude to be real—and I get the pleasure of repeating myself after their incredulous Excuse me’s.

  Tara doesn’t ask for a repetition. She’s not surprised either. My guess is someone warned her. She starts at my shoes and lets her gaze dance slowly up my legs to my crotch. Lingers for a brief moment and trails up until she meets my eyes.

  “Mm-hmm, sure.” Then, she lowers her lashes and peeks through them. “Have you, young Cameron?”

  Truth be told, I’ve yet to score the right number of girls saying “yes” on the same night. I cross my arms, grinning. This night just became a whole lot easier to tolerate. “T, believe it or not—I’m a two-girl virgin.” I waggle my eyebrows. Lean an elbow on the counter next to her. She laughs an affected laughter, which is fine by me. She’s a willing pussy. I’ll shut her up soon enough.

  “You got any likeminded friends?”

  She snorts. “Last I checked, I’m no one’s go-get—her.” Tara accentuates the her part, being a smartass. A smartass I’ll cleave open. Don’t think I’m ready to do her alone, though. It’d be for the rush of having two at once.

  “I’ll keep you posted,” I say, winking.

  “Rumor has it you’ve got tools.” Jesus, she’s a walking cliché.

  “If you mean a tool, you’d be right, Tara-sugar,” I murmur in her ear—

  Just as Christian slaps the back of my head, saying, “Enough bullshitting, Cam. Get on with the clients. It’s Arria and Leon’s monthiversary, and I’m in charge, so no slacking.”

  “Shisha Gardens again?” I ask, rubbing my head. “Wasn’t the last one, like, yesterday?”

  “Month ago exactly. And where other than the Gardens? I think Leon’s uncle’s doing ten-course meals for them up there, now, since Lyric. He’s a sucker for the only baby in the family.” Christian grins. Twirls a glass in the air before popping in two ice cubes and some Jack.

  “Lyric with them?” I flick a look at the bright yellow slide in the distance. Lyric’s been using it every chance he gets, whether it’s sneaking through cracked front doors or one of us playing with him before opening hours at the club. Little dude’s a daredevil.

  “Yep. The uncle’s insistent. The new playground keeps Lyric busy, though, so Mom and Dad get alone-time.”

  “Funny,” Tara offers, sliding a finger up my thigh.

  The rest of the night, I look for BB Beth without success. She’s here every spare moment, so she must be working tonight. Just my luck. My mood, which lifted at Tara’s unspoken promise, loses air like a ruptured wingsuit.

  I text Ingela once to make sure she has arrived safely. Of course she has, because doesn’t the news spew out every plane crash the moment it happens?

  I’m good, Cameron. Safe and sound in L.A.

  Only she’s not safe. Maybe not even sound. If she makes it back here and doesn’t fucking remain in Los Angeles with Whiny-Boy, I’ll be picking up the pieces of her.

  Shit.

  I will. I totally will do that.

  I stare at my phone again. Four a.m. in this part of the world. They’ve probably hit the sack, Inga with her scanty bra and panties on. Fuck. The red set? That little see-through number that landed on top in her suitcase? I can’t stand that I’ve never even touched it.

  This feeling I have right now. I’m not stupid. I get that it’s jealousy, that I’m being fucking possessive of someone who’s my friend, my fuck-buddy, a girl who has no actual ties to me.

  The last customer’s out the door, and Tara and I are in charge of cleaning up behind the bar. “You been to the Blood Bank before?” I ask.

  Her kitchen cloth halts on the wood as she pulls a bang back behind her ear and stares up at me. She’s all giant blues and sensuality. “I’ve been. Why? You heading over? Are they open late?”

  “Naw.” I sniff. “Got a call from Rob over there. The boss left early, so we’re having an after-party.”

  Tara tilts her head back. It’s Friday night. She’s a student like most of us here at Smother, and Saturday classes are rare. Betcha she’s on for this. “You want me there, Cam?” she hums out.

  “Shore. Maybe we’ll run into a friend of mine.” I wink. Tara’s chin angles higher, and a small, triumphant smirk elevates her cheeks for some reason.

  I’ll definitely need Beth for this. I’m not doing a single-girl sleepover tonight. It’s got to be a polar opposite experience to Ingela for me not to compare. A chubby chick and a stupid BB girl. That should work.

  Bo—Bo—Bo. His name is on my brain, repeating itself, cycling, cycling as his arms fold me in. I’m home in this place I don’t know, where I’ve never been. Blue night and yellow lights honk by outside. We’re freezing bedroom air, thin blankets, my foot outside the covers and scorching heat beneath the sheets.

  Bo is mine tonight, all the way mine. His thoughts are on me, on my body. My skin. He’s loving me forever—maybe forever… His quiet sigh in my hair is for me, and I’m the luckiest, happiest woman. I’m primitive instinct, a need to be owned so completely.

  He gives it to me. Smoothens dry fingers over my hips, my stomach, my ribs. He forms over my breasts the way he’s done thousands of times before. Softly, he pinches a nipple, arching my back with his touch. The gasp he creates in me makes him exhale, content.

  Yes, this has been us since we were teenagers. We do this. It’s what makes us us.

  “Bo… Bo… Bo,” I whimper, and he meets my mouth with his, melting us there, entering me and moving us languidly on the mattress. “You,” I mumble, swallowing and not owning more words.

  Waves of pleasure, of smooth skin sliding, warming me, making me climb and climb higher. He presses me tight, so tight to him, as if he’d never dream of letting me go.

  “You love me.” I don’t ask, because I know. It doesn’t help me to know.

  “I love you,” he assures me, hard as bone and deep inside of me. I close around him, wanting more, and he groans, reveling in the tightness I offer.

  I’d give Bo anything. Whatever he asked, I’d pass to him. But I take too, and he’s aware.

  Now, what I absorb is his quiet release. His hot puff in my ear and the scent of damp skin. He times himself so he can stroke my cheek, touch the corner of my
eye and watch me lose myself when I come with him. It’s what my forever loves, to soak in the ecstasy he catapults my way.

  Afterward, we remain entangled. Slick with sweat and mingled juices, we defy the freeze of reality outside our blanket-made cocoon.

  Darkness claims neither of us, but the night wants our sleep. Bo surrenders, while I’m content with his head beneath my chin, with his gentle fingers cupping my breast in sated repose. This is nighttime brightness. Deep and blue, it sucks me in and makes me dream of a world that involves him for life.

  On Saturday, Bo lets me tag along to a composer’s seminar. What I pay attention to is the others in class. They’re from different corners of the world, a few from England and China, and even a Danish guy. All in all, they’re eight, and everyone is fully focused on the instructor.

  I’ve got my phone. As the hours pass by, a fragment of my brain frees up so I can focus on Arria, who’s texting me. When I don’t answer her first two texts, she sends me the perfect picture of my godchild with no comment attached. He’s on the slide, upside-down with his arms and legs open wide. Lyric’s got a grin on his face that reminds me of Cameron’s right before he bungee-jumped off the bridge.

  Haha. U took the pic when he’d already started gliding, huh?

  Yep, he snuck out. Look.

  She shoots me another picture. Lyric’s on what looks like Leon’s lap with a piece of cotton up his nose and a virgin Bloody Mary or something between chubby fingers. He’s sipping on it and grinning at once.

  Jesus. He faceplanted?

  Yes. Nosebleed. Wriggled around halfway down the slide.

  He’s such a daredevil!!!!!

  Yep. Slide needs to go. How are you?

  I shoot a glance at Bo, who’s hunched in over a note sheet. We just had lunch with everyone, and they’ve got another couple of hours to go.

  Bo’s better, at least for now. Will call you in a min.

  Every moment with Bo is too precious to squander. It’s why I don’t go all the way outside in the nice weather to call her back. Instead, I walk the hallway as we speak.

  “How is Cameron?” Once she’s given more details on Lyric, this is my first question. It’s surreal to think that I left Cam feeling horrible. Cameron, sweet funny Cameron, almost seemed mad at me.