Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  I smile and clamp my hand on Josh's shoulder.

  “Of course, man. Go pick a fucking bedroom.” He sighs with relief and rises to his feet, tossing a smile Lola's way and disappearing into the hallway. I watch after him and take a deep breath, gathering my courage for what I know I have to do next.

  “Hey,” I tell Lola, turning my attention to the world's most beautiful woman. My mind calls traitor and tries to bring up Asuka's smile, but I refuse to look at it. I've spent years fantasizing about her, years looking at old photographs. It won't do me any good to keep obsessing over my lost soul mate. All I can do is try to embrace the woman in front of me, my second chance, my redemption. I make myself smile. “I don't think I can sit around here right now. To be honest, this place is giving me the chills.” I cough into my hand and take a deep breath. “Would you like to go visit my parents with me? I … need to see Lydia.” Lola stares back at me for a moment, and I consider throwing out an excuse to get her to stay here. Maybe she shouldn't be moving around right now, anyway?

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, scooting to the edge of the bed with a considerable amount of effort. I move over and take her hands in mine. I know we're moving too fast, that meeting the parents and dealing with the kids is usually something that comes six months or more down the line, but we're way past that now. Besides, I've learned my lesson. Time isn't always kind to love. You never know when it's just minutes and hours that you have left, instead of years. The day Asuka died, I was fantasizing about how I was going to propose to her after a year or two of college. Fucking laughable. “You know I'm always up for a bit of family drama, Ronnie,” she says as I pull her to my feet and fold her gently into my arms with a sigh.

  “I'm glad you are, babe,” I say as I stare out the window at the foliage blowing in the gentle California breeze. “Because I'm not sure that I am.”

  It takes a hell of a lot more maneuvering to get out of the mansion than I thought. Milo has to call in a few extra guards from the new security firm he's working with. They bring their own van, this one a hell of a lot nicer than the one we had rented before. The seats are leather and there's a pair of TVs flickering from the headrests in front of us. Champagne is served and I'm pretty sure Lola drinks an entire bottle by herself.

  “Beverly Hills,” I say with a sigh, and the exclamation is not one of fondness. I hate this fucking town. But this is where I need to be right now. I can feel it. As we head towards my parents' place, we pass the intersection where Asuka lost her life and a wave of pain washes over me, making me sick to my stomach. My fingers twitch and I thank fucking God that I don't have anything good on me. If I did, I'd take it.

  Lola notices my shaking hands and my bouncing knee and leans over, brushing hair from my forehead.

  “You alright there, mate?” she asks and I sigh, squeezing her knee and trying not to let the emotions cut me into those same grooves they've always run through. Instead, I try to focus on Lola's voice, on the conversation I had with my mom before getting in the van. When I said I was coming over, I thought she was going to have a heart attack. Other than our brief encounter at the airport, I haven't seen my parents in four years. I took her sobbing as proof that she really was excited to see me. Wait till she hears I'm planning on taking Lydia away. That oughta be exciting.

  I lean my forehead against Lola's.

  “We just passed the spot where Asuka breathed her last breaths,” I whisper and Lola's body stiffens for a moment before she wraps her arms around me and holds on tight. We stay that way until we pull into my parents' driveway and straight into the garage where my father's waiting. He closes the door before the engine's even off and stands near the open doorway to the backyard with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Fuck.

  Every time I see that man's face – stern but not mean, confident but not cocky, loving without showing a hint of weakness – I feel like a little kid again. God, what a disappointment I must be for him. I'm nothing like the boy he raised, the one he nurtured and encouraged, punished with compassion, believed in. Shit. Shit. Shit. I pull away from Lola and feel my quivers turn into full on shakes, like I'm on a frigging comedown. Great. Awesome. First time in my life that I'm not high as a freaking kite and it sure as hell looks like it.

  Don't be afraid of your father, Ronnie. He loves you almost as much as I do. I can see Asuka speaking to me, winking at me, wrapping her arms around my neck. Home for five minutes and my newfound sanity's already turning to ice and cracking around me. Shards fall to my feet, melt across my skin and turn to sweat as I run my tongue over my lower lip and try to force myself out the open door. One of our security guards is standing there, off to the side, not even looking at me. The perfect celebrity escort. Ugh.

  I feel bile rise in my throat – I can fucking taste that shit – as I try to pull some semblance of self-control over me, wear it like a coat in winter, protect me against the icy shards of my crumbling soul. Oh my God. I start to pant and feel Lola's fingers curling around mine, tugging on my hands, drawing my attention to her face.

  “Ronnie,” she says, voice low, blue eyes rife with concern. Her sister just died and here I am, freaking the fuck out over nothing. I'm such an asshole. “You're having a panic attack,” she tells me calmly, squeezing hard, digging her thumb nails into the backs of my hands. I try to focus on her face, but images assault my mind, twisting me into a big, sweaty mass of nothing. A decade of believing that was true, losing the will to live, it took its toll on me. Right now, I'm paying the fucking price with hefty interest. “Breathe for me, baby,” she continues, leaning her forehead against mine, sucking in a massive breath that I do my best to imitate. “You can get through this. Chin up, love.” She leans back and presses her full lips against my sweaty skin, sliding her hands from mine and placing them on either side of my face. Lola's eyes are big and round, like marbles, stuck in that perfect face. They draw me in, and I let them, matching my breaths to hers.

  It's not perfect, but it'll do. It'll have to.

  “Son, are you alright?” My father's standing right behind me, the wisdom of his years tinting his voice with this be-all, end-all authority that turns my bones to jelly. I might be twenty-eight years old, but he's sixty-five and far wiser than me. I'm intimidated; I won't lie about that. So when I turn and have to look this guy in the face, I'm sure there's sweat dripping down the sides of my face.

  “We drove past the spot where Asuka … ” It seems like as good an excuse as any. The skin around my father's mouth tightens, but he nods his head like he understands. I study him carefully, his brown eyes, his gray hair, the strong set of his shoulders. We stay like that for several moments, observing one another, taking each other's measures. I come away like I always do, feeling as if I've failed this man somehow, wasted a good portion of his life with my fuckups. I don't know what he sees in me, but he reaches out a hand to help me – and then Lola – out of the van. “Dad, this is Lola Rubi Saints. Lola, this is my father, Ronald McGuire, the first.” I pause and look between the two of them as they shake hands. Lola grips tight which is good. My dad is old fashioned, judges people by their handshakes.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Saints,” my father says, his expression difficult to read. The wrinkles around his eyes don't change nor does his stiff stance. He doesn't embrace me or even throw out a smile, but he's standing here and that's all that counts. After all the crap I've pulled, I wouldn't be surprised if he were to disown me. Four kids. Four different mothers. A total screwup. “Your mother's in the living room with Lydia,” he says and then hesitates, like there's something he wants to ask but is afraid to. After a moment, he shakes his head, gives the bodyguards a strange look and then leads us out the back door and down a white gravel pathway in the backyard.

  The foliage is nice, the grass green, a beautiful facade of luxury and greenery plastered over a Goddamn desert. I ignore it and hold Lola's hand, moving slowly and watching her for any sign of weakness. Bringing her here was selfish, I know that.
I should have left her back at the mansion to sleep. Fuck, Ronnie, get yourself together, asshole.

  Our bodyguards trail behind us, like shadows, blotting out the brightness of the sun. I kind of wish I'd told 'em to fuck off and took my chances. I have a feeling this Stephen/America bullshit is over, at least for the most part. No more snipers, no more ruined concerts, no more bloodshed. But, hey, I guess if some crazy ass fangirls hop the fence and try to rape me, these guys can hold them off. Huh. I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair, dragging it away from my face.

  My dad opens the back door of the house and leads the way into the breakfast nook and kitchen area, the cream colored granite of the countertops shimmering in the sun. As usual, everything's immaculate and homey, like a page torn from Better Homes and Gardens. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Even when I was a little kid, like real real little, and my parents lived two blocks away from Turner's trailer park, everything was still nice like this. My mom put everything she had into turning that shit hole into a proper home, and it paid off. I never knew we were poor until we weren't anymore.

  “Ronnie,” my dad says, glancing back at the guards and gritting his teeth. I peer over my shoulder with a grimace. “Lydia hasn't been in the best place since you left her with us. She's getting better, but I think it'd be wise to introduce as little trauma as possible. Do you think your friends would mind hanging out in the kitchen for a while?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and one of the two men nods, stepping back near the door like he's invisible in his perfect suit and sunglasses. Jesus Christ. Where did Milo get these guys? They're nothing at all like Brayden Ryker's men – rough, wicked normal, unassuming. Our new dudes might be plain in the face, but they've got that polished Hollywood look that bugs me. Whatever. No time to deal with that right now. “They'll wait here.” I turn back and nod my chin. My dad sighs, like he's regretting the decision to let me come over, and leads Lola and me into the living room.

  As soon as I see Lydia, my throat gets tight and I feel my world collapsing in on itself.

  She's sitting on the rug in a blue and white striped dress, playing with some of my old Hot Wheels die-cast cars. My mom sits beside her on the floor, fingering a string of pearls around her neck. She looks up when we walk in and tears fill her brown eyes.

  “Ronnie,” she whispers, drawing Lydia's attention around. As soon as she sees me, her face breaks into a smile. A smile. My knees go weak, and I suddenly find myself crouching on the hardwood floor, unable to take another step. My breath rushes out of me, and I have to close my eyes as my mother rises to her feet and moves towards me. I manage to stand up in time to see Lydia climbing to her feet and following after, wrapping her hand in my mother's dress. “It's so good to see you, son,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I put my arms around her, trying to keep it together as I look down and see my daughter staring up at me, green eyes shining.

  “I have cars,” she tells me with confidence, lifting up a red Volkswagen Beetle for my inspection. I pull away from my mother and bend down, reaching out a hand to take the toy from her small fingers. “I have fifteen cars,” she adds, dropping her hands to her sides and looking up at Lola.

  “Hey there, squirt,” Lola says, reaching out a hand and placing it atop Lydia's red curls. For a second there, I feel like everything's going to work out. Shoulda known better, right? If it's not one thing, it's another. “Good to see ya again.”

  “Hello there,” my mom says, looking down at Lydia with a protective gleam in her eye that I'm not sure I like. It reminds me of the one she used to get when she felt someone was bullying me or being unfair. A motherly sort of gleam. I want my mom to play grandma, not take over my duties entirely. I have a feeling she's going to fucking freak when I tell her I want to take Lydia. I bite my lower lip and hand Lydia her car. “I don't believe we've met?” I don't like the implication in her question, like Lola's just another girl. My mom might be aware of my philandering ways, but the only woman she's ever met via yours truly was Asuka.

  “Mom, this is Lola Saints, my … ” I glance over and we exchange a look. I hate titles, hate fucking labeling things. But okay. Shit. I'm a big boy; I can do this fucking shit. “My girlfriend. We actually just bought a place together,” I continue, trying to figure out how to explain the fucked up reality of my life. “With the boys, I mean. Us and the boys.”

  “You're all … living together?” my dad asks, confused. He's never been one to have many male friends. He doesn't understand the brotherhood I share with Turner, Trey, and Jesse, and for that, at least, I feel sorry for him. I guess if I really think about it, there's at least one aspect of his life that he didn't get perfect. My mom takes my statement in a completely different light.

  “You're staying?” she whispers, and I nod, rising to my feet and debating the pros and cons of pulling Lydia into a hug. She hasn't called me dad yet, so maybe she doesn't remember my loser ass. Gonna have to change that. It's not too late. She's only three for fuck's sake. God, I could really use a cigarette. “Here? In California?” I force a smile to my face and try to pretend I don't notice my father scanning my tattoos with a critical eye. He's not a big fan of ink, let's just leave it at that.

  “Even better than that. Over in Beverly Hills. It's a … well, I guess the only word would be mansion. Turner's idea,” I add and my mother's face lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. She smoothes her hands down her cream colored blouse.

  “Now that is good news,” she says, turning her smile on Lola. “Not just for us, but for Lydia, too.” I cough into my fist and try to figure out the best way to put this.

  “Actually, that's kind of what I'm here about.” Both my parents frown and Lola reaches out a hand for Lydia.

  “Hey doll, want to show me the rest of your cars?” Lydia looks between Lola and my parents for a moment before taking her hand and letting her lead her away from us, proclaiming in a bold voice that she's not three, that she's five years old. I feel a real smile hit me for a moment before my parents' expressions manage to strip that away.

  “What are you talking about, Ronald?” my mother asks, and I cringe at the sharpness in her voice. I keep my eyes wide open and focused, try to be the man I want to be, not the man I was. But Goddamn, this is hard. Asuka, I miss your face like fucking crazy. I lick my lips and try not to picture her almond shaped eyes and her long, dark hair. Daisuki, she'd whisper in my ear as we made love. I love you, in Japanese. I take a deep breath.

  “I mean, since I'm putting down roots here, I want Lydia to come and live with me.”

  My father's laugher hurts ten times more than a scream. I watch him shake his head, and purse my lips into a thin line. My fingers curl at my sides, and even though it'd be totally fucking inappropriate to rip off my shirt and beat the shit out of my old man, I kind of wish that I could. That laugh shows just how far I've fallen in his eyes and it fucking kills me.

  “You want your three year old daughter, whom you've just met, to come and live with you and your new girlfriend at some Beverly Hills mansion you bought with your rock star buddies? You're a smart man, Ronnie, try to act like one. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

  “She's my daughter,” I state coldly, not liking the sudden turn of this meeting. I wanted to get out of the mansion, come see my old fucking room, have a moment of Goddamn normalcy. I should've waited to bring this shit up. “So, yeah, maybe my life is weird, but that doesn't mean I can't be a good father. I'm clean and I've got the time and money to take care of her, so that's what I'm going to do.”

  “No, what you're going to do is leave her here with us,” my dad says while my mom folds her arms across her chest and looks between us like she can't even believe this conversation is happening. “When – if – we feel like you've got your life together, then we can talk about transitioning Lydia to life with you. We can start with one or two days a week and go from there. Right now, it's not happening. Son, do you think I didn't see that fiasco of a con
cert on TV? That's the environment you want to raise your child in? Maybe it's time for you to take the money and run. This whole 'rock star',” he makes quotes with his fingers, “life hasn't exactly been kind to you. I mean, just look at the last decade of your life.”

  “The last decade of my life is a blur but not because of music or even drugs or sex or what the fuck ever,” my mom cringes at the word, “but because I lost my fucking soul mate in a horrific car accident. Three years after that, I lost my brother.” I flick a finger against the side of my head and try not to scream. I've been hanging around Turner too long. He wouldn't just scream right now, he'd rage and throw shit and he'd get his way, no matter what. So why the fuck do I feel like I'm about to lose?

  “You were eighteen years old, Ronnie. I understand that you loved Asuka, that you were hurting, but you can hardly blame all the mistakes you've made on that one incident. Travis … he was a good boy, but he wasn't your brother. A good friend, yes. A nice person, I don't doubt that. Ronnie, you need to take responsibility for your own actions. I love you, and you know that, but I can't in good conscious hand this little girl over to you.”

  “It's not like you have a choice,” I whisper, and I hate how cold my voice sounds, how empty. “You gonna take me to court?”

  “If that's what it takes. I know in your mind, it seems like a clear win, but when I present evidence of your drug use, of our involvement in Lydia's life and your lack thereof, maybe things will take a different turn? If you want to go through that, put Lydia through that, so be it.”

  I clench my teeth and put a hand to my face. Really wish I could channel some Turner right now, throw a raging fucking fit. Anyway, what's stopping me from picking Lydia up and walking out of here? My parents wouldn't put up a physical fight, but then again, I don't doubt my father's words. If he thinks he can win in court against me, I should be scared. Fuck, I don't know crap about custody and all that shit. I'm just a fucking drummer. I can slam out a beat that will knock your skull in half, make you beg me to stir up that gray matter between your ears. But court shit? Legal stuff? Uh, fuck that.