Exposed (The Alpha Stranger) Book 2

by C. T. Sloan

  My lover begins to pull away. Oh fuck! I’m scaring him. I’m being weird. He backs away from me as though I were contagious.

  “Please don’t go,” I say softly. It’s too late. Before I can plead my case, my anonymous lover walks away. I can’t even move. My legs lose all feeling. I lean back against the front of a storefront. Then I start to cry. I fall to my knees and crumble on the ground in front of the stained stars on the Walk of Fame. I may be on my way to wealth and fame. But I have never felt so fucking empty in my life.

  ***

  I stagger around Hollywood Boulevard like a zombie. Some of the junkies look at me like I’m the one who needs help. Prostitutes and pimps fight and curse as I walk past them. Cops tackle some drug dealer. It’s all just white noise to me. I am numb. I walk to my car and slowly make my way back to my apartment. The thought of veering into oncoming traffic comes into my head one too many times.

  By the time I pull into my parking space, I just lose it. I cry. I scream. I slam the steering wheel. There is so much fucking emotion in me right now that my body can’t function. It’s really over. There is no way for me to contact my lover. I pushed too far and he pushed me away. Yes, I know I am only 21 years old. Right now, I feel as though my life is over.

  I struggle to climb each step to my shared Culver City apartment. I walk inside and slump over to the kitchen. I just want to get drunk. Alas, there is nothing in the fridge that will fuck me up. A half-full bottle of red Gatorade will have to do.

  As I take a drink, I hear my roommate’s door open. She walks into the living room and looks at me. Yes, I know I am a mess. I don’t say anything. I don’t even want to look at anyone right now. My body is slumped over the kitchen counter. My heart hurts.

  “He dumped you, didn’t he?” my roommate says.

  “Fuck you!” I yell as I storm off into my room. I slam the door and lie in bed. I begin to cry into my pillow. I just want to fucking die right now. I would trade all the success I have had with my music to get my anonymous lover back. I can work the rest of my life at the reception desk. I don’t care.

  Everything on my body hurts. I want to go to sleep but I can’t even calm myself down. After an hour I lie on my back, too paralyzed to even turn off the lights. I keep replaying the scene out on Hollywood Boulevard. Why did I show him that one-hundred dollar bill with the phone number?! Why did I push things too far?

  By 7:00 a.m., I finally fall asleep. When I wake up six hours later, my world isn’t any better. I still can’t get myself out of bed. I’m afraid to go outside of my bedroom and hear my roommate tell me, “I told you so.” I don’t want to confront the world. I begin to hum one of my own songs to myself. The music makes me forget about my anonymous lover if only for a few minutes. I stare at my keyboard and decide to take my focus off of my pain and try to work on my craft.

  I grab the keyboard and begin to play. It takes me a little while to get my mind focused on the music. After about an hour or so, I’m fully immersed in the music. I grab my notebook and begin to write. Of course, the first thing I want to write about is heartache. I try to tell myself that this whole incident will be worth it if I can get one good song on paper. But the truth is, no song is worth getting your heart broken like this.

  By the early afternoon, I stop writing songs. I begin to cry again. I grab my notebook and start to write a letter to my anonymous lover. It is a plea that will go unanswered since I have no way to contact him. As I write this letter, I keep repeating the plea, “Come back to me. Whatever I did wrong, just come back to me. Whatever you want me to be, come back to me.” I keep writing the same type of sentence over and over again until I start to sing those words to myself.

  I put down the pen and pick up the keyboard. I begin to sing my desperate words. In minutes, my letter becomes a song. I call it, “Come back to me.” I keep playing it over and over again hoping that somehow, the universe will transmit my plea to my anonymous lover. It’s wishful thinking from inside of a lonely bedroom. But it does help make the pain go away.

  The evening comes. I emerge from my bedroom at 9:00 and head to the Arrow Bar. My mood is still bleak. My body still hurts. The only reason why I am going to the bar is in the hopes that maybe my anonymous lover will be there. Perhaps he will give me a second chance. It’s my only hope.

  I arrive at the bar at 9:30. The bartender is glad to see me. I ask for a shot of Vodka. Then I head to the piano and play. Song after song is met with appreciative applause from the audience. None of that matters. During each and every song, my eyes are transfixed on the front door. I am just watching, waiting for my anonymous lover to appear. By Midnight, there is still no sign of him.

  I look out into the audience and say, “This next song is not for any of you. It is for one man. He is not here tonight. But I will play it anyway. It is called, ‘Come Back to Me.’” I begin to play. After the first few chords, tears stream down my cheeks. I am having a nervous breakdown. My lower lip quivers as I sing my pleas. Several people pull out their cell phones and begin to videotape me. Wonderful, my meltdown is being captured for posterity.

  Each lyric is like a self-inflicted stab wound to the heart. I continue to play even though it hurts me to hear my own words. When I finish my song, the entire crowd erupts in a roar of applause. I get a standing ovation. In my fucked-up state, I am not sure if they are saluting me or mocking me. All I know is that my world is falling apart for all to see.

  My body is completely drained. I just sit there with my head down as I hear the cheers coming from every corner of the bar. Several people come up and place tips into the jar. This would normally swell my heart with pride. Right now, I just want to close myself off to the rest of the world. I want to close my mind to any outside input. So I do the only thing that I know how to do right now - I play and I sing.

  The next few songs are slow and sad. The crowd loves it. They continue to videotape me. A little part of me wants to just push the piano off of the small stage and throw the stool into the audience. But honestly, I am just too sad to be angry. I continue to play with my head down, occasionally looking at the front door and waiting for my lover. 11:00 turns to Midnight. Midnight turns to 1:00 a.m. I continue to play and play.

  By 2:00 a.m., the crowd is starting to thin out. That doesn’t stop me from playing and watching the door for my anonymous lover. By 3:00, the crowd has dwindled down to a handful of sad, drunk and lost souls. The bartender announces “last call.” I just play and play. By 3:15, the bar has cleared out. The bartender pulls me from the piano. “I’m calling a cab for you.” He was sure doing me a favor. I may not be drunk but I am in no condition to drive.

  The cab comes and takes me home. I count out my tips. There’s over four hundred dollars in my hands. This should make me happy. Instead I look at the money - and the sudden rise of my musical career - as a cruel jinx doled out by the universe. I got my dream and I lose my man in the process. When I get to the apartment, I stagger up the stairs and go straight to bed.

  ***

  I wake up at Noon. But I don’t get out of bed. I never want to get out of bed ever again. Finally, At 1:00 p.m., I hear a knock on my door.

  “Carrie? Is everything okay?” my roommate asks.

  I don’t answer.

  My roommate knocks again. This time he pounds on the door.

  “Carrie?! Are you okay?! Should I call an ambulance?”

  “I’m fine!” I yell.

  “I just want to make sure you didn’t do anything to yourself,” my roommate says with genuine concern in her voice.

  I get up and answer the door. I owe her that. I thought Deb would still be upset at me for yelling at her last night. Instead, she comforts me like a friend. It doesn’t take long for us to make-up. After all, I need at least one friend in the world.

  “How’s the music coming?” my roommate asks me.

  “It’s going well. I just can’t enjoy it.”

  “I’m sorry I have been missing your performances. You k
now I’m working nights now,” Deb explains.

  “People were videotaping my nervous breakdown at the bar last night. So I’m sure I’m on Youtube.”

  “Look, it sounds like you’re going to have a music career. I know you’re upset about this guy breaking up with you. But you’re going to be getting hot looking guys now that you’re going to be famous.”

  “I don’t want anyone else right now. I want him.”

  “Carrie. You don’t even know this guy’s name. You don’t know where he lives. Perhaps you were more in love with the situation than the actual guy.”

  “All I know is that my body feels incomplete without him.”

  Deb tries her best to cheer me up. I know I am being a huge wet blanket. So I retire back to my room and play my keyboard. After a few minutes of noodling on some songs, I decide to check my cell phone. Holy crap, I have fifteen new messages.

  All of the messages are from one phone number. All I can think is that my anonymous lover has found my phone number and wants to get back with me. I quickly call the number.

  “Hello Carrie. It’s Jonathan Ellis. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “Oh hi,” I say trying my best to mask my disappointment.

  “Have you checked Youtube this morning?”

  “No.”

  “You’re like freaking famous. Someone uploaded a video of you playing at the Arrow Bar last night. You sung a song called, ‘Come Back to Me.’ And you were crying during the song. The video is getting 10,000 hits an hour. It’s already getting posted on a bunch of blogs and music news sites.”

  The bittersweet feeling just get more bitter and more sweet. My life is falling apart on the inside while prospering on the outside.

  “You should come down and record that song. I think the record labels will want to hear it,” Jonathan urges.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” I tell him. While I am mentally crumbling, I don’t want to let on my condition to this producer who has been nothing but supportive of my work.

  “Great. How about late this afternoon?”

  “That would work for me.”

  “I gotta tell you. I saw that performance on Youtube and I have to be honest. I have never seen anything like it before. You don’t hold back your emotions. In a world where music has become so clinical and manufactured, you have a unique gift.”

  “Thank you, Jonathan.”

  We hang up. I feel a little better. I go back to my music. Perhaps if I could get lost in my songs, the thoughts of heartbreak will leave my body.

  ***

  The afternoon comes and goes. I record “Come Back to Me” in three takes. Each time is more painful than the next. By the third take, I nearly have a complete breakdown. Jonathan can’t stop gushing about how great my song sounds.

  “You are going to have a huge hit,” he tells me. If only I could enjoy this moment. We mix the song with some minimal arrangements. Jonathan tells me he can’t wait to send this song out to his record company connections. I thank him while trying my best to maintain my composure. After leaving the production house, I wander around Santa Monica Beach. The weather is so beautiful that I almost feel bad for having a sourpuss look on my face. Dammit. Why can’t I enjoy this moment?!

  I walk onto the sand and sit down as the sun sets. Next to me is a couple not much older than myself. You can look at them and tell that they will be together forever. Right now, I would give back all of my recent success for one more moment with the anonymous stranger. The sun slips behind the Pacific Ocean. Darkness descends onto the West Side of Los Angeles. I get up and take a stroll around Main Street. It’s still a little too early for me to go to the bar. Besides, I need some time to clear my head before I go back behind the piano.

  At a little past nine, I wander back into the Arrow Bar. I don’t take ten steps before people come up to me and say hello. For the first time, there is a slight smile on my face. Everyone seems so happy to see me.

  “Will you be playing ‘Come Back to Me’ again?” a young girl asks me.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s great. I want to buy the song but I can’t find it on iTunes.”

  Wow. Hearing that actually makes me feel good.

  I head over to the bar. The bartender heads straight over to me and offers me anything I want, on the house. I go for a bottle of Heineken. I really don’t want to get too fucked up tonight. I’m afraid what will happen if I fall too far down the emotional rabbit hole. I make my way over to the piano. As I walk across the bar, I notice that more than several people are looking at me. While the attention is flattering, my heart is still broken.

  I climb onto the small stage to some scattered applause. Then I sit down and settle myself in front of the piano. I tap the microphone and say, “Good evening everyone. My name is Carrie and I will be your musical entertainment for the evening.” I begin to play. The music feels soothing to my ears. It helps to distract from my inner pain. The tips start coming in pretty early. I see the same familiar faces near the stage. Then I look at the door in the outside hope that my anonymous lover will show up. I know I am being delusional at this point.

  I launch into my next song, “Lover without a Name.” As soon as I begin to sing the first lyric, “Do you like to get spanked?” the crowd begins to applaud. I continue to play to the delight of the Arrow Bar patrons. When the song is over, I get a nice ovation. More tips come in. But, right now, all I can do is stare at the entrance to the bar. My eyes begin to water.

  Dammit. I’m going to do the song now. I begin to sing, “Come Back to Me.” The crowd roars. I see the cell phone cameras come out again. Instead of a full cry, one tear rolls down my cheek. I don’t know why I am doing this to myself. This music hurts me. The words hurt me. But this is what the crowd wants. They want to see all of the emotion. Well, they are getting their money’s worth. I close my eyes. It’s the best way to block out the world while I continue my sad dirge.

  I play an extended, improved solo. My fingers dance across the keys with a power I didn’t even know I had in me. The solo goes on for a full five minutes. A solo that I am able to completely play with my eyes closed. I bring the song home and send it to an emotional end that drains me. When it is all over, I hear the bar erupt like it’s on fire. I dare not open my eyes. I dare not check the door. I just listen to the adulation of the crowd. All of them love me. But it is not the love that matters most to me.

  I slowly open my eyes. Through the tears, I see hands placing tips into my jar. Most of them are women. I must be touching a nerve somewhere. Then I see a man’s hand place a bill into the jar. The man’s hand seems familiar. I recognize those long, strong fingers. I open my eyes wide and look up. My lover. My anonymous lover! I don’t believe it is him. I must be hallucinating. I am probably going mad.

  I wipe the tears from my eyes to get a better view. It is him!

  “I got your message.”

  “My message?!” I say with a broken voice.

  “Come back to me. It’s kinda hard to miss on Youtube right now. You certainly know how to reach a guy.”

  I stand up and jump onto his body. I wrap my legs around his waist. He holds me.

  The crowd isn’t exactly sure what is going on. There is a mixture of clapping, laughing and whistling. They must think it is part of the act. I don’t care what they think. All I care about is my lover!

  “Dammit. I wanted to leave you so bad,” my lover whispers into my ear. “But you know how to seduce a guy.”

  I don’t respond with words. I just kiss him on the neck. He puts his hands on my ass. He carries me out of the front door of the bar. I hear him kick the door open. He carries me down the sidewalk, towards Santa Monica beach. I pull on my lover’s hair and smell his masculine scent. I just want to melt into his body.

  My anonymous lover places me down on a grassy park right in front of the sand on Santa Monica Beach. He rips open my blouse and pulls off my bra. “Going two days without my mouth on those tits i
s two days too long,” my lover says before he runs his tongue across my flesh. He bites down on my nipples and chews on them. It hurts in the best possible way.

  My anonymous lover pulls down my jeans and my underwear. He goes down on me with a ferocity that I have never experienced before in my life. It doesn’t matter that we are out in the open. Nothing is going to stop us from going at each other. I moan and cry as my lover runs his tongue between my legs. He plays with my breasts and gropes my thighs. All the emotional pain is replaced by the pleasurable pain of sexual aggression. My anonymous lover forces me onto my knees and pulls down his pants. “Put your talented mouth where it belongs the most,” he orders.

  I stare at that nice, juicy dick. Oh, how I missed it. I give my lover the best possible blowjob that I can imagine. My hands grab that perfect ass of his. He grabs the back of my head and forces me to swallow every inch of his manhood. Trust me, he doesn’t need to force me to do anything with his body. I am more than happy to oblige. As I am sucking off my lover, I am reminded how exposed we are as the cool breeze brushes against my naked body. My lover pulls my head away from his cock and pushes me onto the ground. He gets on top of me, pushes my legs apart and goes deep.