His Ex-Boyfriend

by Avis Black

  "I have another for you. Alexis told me you knew about me and Amanda.”

  The student turned away. "Yeah, I knew. I guess we spent the whole time mad at each other." He rubbed his shoulder and made a face.

  "Sorry. Did your arm fall asleep?"

  "It's just that after battling suitcases, a snake, and a flying Jason, I'm rather sore."

  "And I'll bet I was the biggest hassle of the three." The guitarist's bitter tone had returned.

  "Actually, it was the luggage. My only regret is that I didn't make the evening news. I would have loved to have seen Lang's face at the sight of Diane flashing her boob at me. Lang's always been a chaser of celebrity chicks, though he denies it."

  "She what?"

  The sharpness of the question surprised Rafe. He shrugged. "She flashed her boob for the camera, and I happened to be standing in front of her."

  Rafe found himself seized by the collar. "You made a pass at her?" Jason asked in a deadly tone.

  "Hey! You think I'd try that in front of Alexis? No way!"

  The mention of Alexis's name made Jason turn away in disgust. "Of course not," he said sarcastically. "The only thing you two were ever interested in was this." The guitarist reached over and performed a quick, violent grope between Rafe's legs. Rafe shot forward so fast that his face hit the steering wheel. His cigarette, bitten in two, fell in his lap.

  Just as quickly, Jason let go. He put a hand to his face as if nursing the aftermath of a punch.

  But there had been no blow.

  Rafe plucked the burning stick from his jeans and tossed it out the window, and spat his filter after it. Then he studied his passenger questioningly. Jason was ignoring him.

  "Just like old times," said Rafe after a moment, lighting up another cigarette. "It doesn't take long for the usual patterns to return, does it?" He settled back into the seat. After the initial shock of the violation, he was feeling both horny and mellow.

  Now Jason was holding his fist against his mouth, his eyes shut. "No. It doesn't."

  "I sort of miss them."

  "I don't," the guitarist replied shortly. "It was never what I intended it to be."

  "Jason.”

  The tone alerted the other man. He opened his eyes. Rafe had turned to face him. The cigarette was on the dash, an arm wrapped around the headrest. Rafe's other arm dangled out the window. He had slid down a little, and his foot nudged Jason's ankle.

  Jason's pupils dilated. He knew the mental picture well, the mock-coy fall of jagged hair, the hard dark eyes going soft, the pair of lips touching together just so.

  "Whatever you want," said Rafe. "Come home with me, and I'll give it to you. Anything. If you're lonely, I'll fix it. If you just want company, I'll give that to you. Anything you want. No regrets."

  Jason's hand reached out with a palsied quiver, but it wasn't shaking from the alcohol. The next second, Rafe found himself plastered against the car door with the guitarist on top of him, Jason's mouth gnawing his throat with a violence that surprised both. The guitarist's lips and teeth met metal, and he stopped in confusion. A chain with a bright silver leaf was in his way, glistening as if slick with saliva.

  A tonguing kiss, moving with curiosity deep into his mouth, delivered by a crazy singer. The point of a knife screwing into his flesh, leaving blood trails that stank of panic and heart-pounding. Teeth gnawing at his neck like a wolf flensing a bone, delivered to the counterpoint of a probing, delving knee, rousing for a brief moment a fear-caused erection.

  Alexis had felt it with his leg and looked down, then smiled up at Jason behind those sunglasses. The guitarist had almost fainted with mortification. He hadn't wanted to learn THAT about himself.

  The car door flew open, and Jason fell out onto the pavement.

  "Hey!" Rafe was climbing out after him.

  "I've got a thousand fucking regrets," the guitarist sobbed, "and I'm done with them."

  Sober, Rafe did not answer for a moment. "I'm sorry if what I asked was inappropriate."

  "I have to go inside. Thanks for taking me home."

  "Jason. One last thing. Please answer, 'cause I really want to know. Would you ever do it again?"

  Jason swayed, desperate to flee.

  Rafe waited.

  "No," Jason blurted. "Never. Not in a million years." The guitarist escaped inside the lobby doors of his apartment building.

  Rafe stared blankly. Never? The memory of that rough grope came to him, and Jason's face, so wounded and poignant afterwards.

  "Goddammit, you motherfucking asshole! You want me! Why don't you admit it? I have had it with your fucking self-deceptions and your so-called nobility. You didn't dump me once, you motherfucker! YOU DUMPED ME TWICE! I offered myself to you again, and you didn't, you didn't . . . take me."

  Rafe had never been one to cry. To hide his face, he threw himself inside Alexis's car and laid rubber, only slamming the car door shut when he was half-way down the block.

  "Jason North, I'm going to prove to you what you really want," the driver snarled.

  After he plugged in and tossed the guitar strap over his shoulder, Jason lit the first cigarette. He peeled the cellophane off the package, tapped out one of the cigarettes as he'd seen Rafe so often do, and placed it in his mouth. The dry cylinder of paper stuck unpleasantly to his lips. Flick-flick-flick went the little metal wheel on the cheap lighter he'd bought that morning. The store had been almost out of lighters, and he'd had a choice between a Boxkite Airscrew lighter or an embarrassingly silly Hello Kitty.

  He'd picked the Hello Kitty.

  Flick flick flick.

  On the other side of the recording studio, Sam stopped to watch.

  Flick flick flick flickityflickityflickity.

  "Having trouble?" the drummer asked with sarcasm.

  Jason was not in the mood for this. Just as he was about to dash the lighter to the floor and stomp it to pieces, the flint cooperated and spat out flame. The cigarette tip caught fire, and Jason inhaled cautiously.

  "North," Sam said, using the tone he reserved for when his bandmates did something unusually stupid. "You don't smoke."

  "Doesn't mean I can't now." The cigarette tasted terrible.

  "Hey guys!" Denny interrupted as he entered the studio. “Bob!” The singer waved a sheet of paper at the producer in the sound booth. "I've written some lyrics to that new song you came up with the other day. I think this might be our new single!"

  "As long as it's not about giving wedgies," observed Sam dryly.

  "Excuse me, but that was just a momentary aberration in our climb to greatness," Denny huffed. "I do not always write about wedgies. Jason, listen to this. Jason? What's with--"

  The guitarist could not reply, being bent over with a nasty coughing fit.

  "Um, Jason, you don't smoke," Denny added.

  "If one more person says I don't smoke, I'm going to slay them, okay? Just shut up about it."

  Denny and Sam glanced at each other, then at Bob. Jason's fingers were clutching the cigarette with the tremor of an aged junkie.

  "Is something wrong, North?" Bob asked through the tunnel-like distortion of the soundbooth speakers.

  Jason did not look up. "I'm just stressed, that's all. Can we start?" he asked impatiently.

  The studio door swung open as Carl arrived. "All right, men! Lang says he's running behind, so he won't--" The manager broke off. His eyes narrowed like a panther's. Then they altered, showing something else. He reached out, and with a surprisingly delicate touch, eased the cigarette from Jason's mouth.

  "Jason," he said in a strange tone. "You don't smoke."

  It was odd to see Carl's face in such pinched distress. The guitarist was on the verge of another outburst, but he couldn't yell at Carl. Anybody else, but not Carl.

  "Fuck. These cigarettes aren't working," Jason said to the room. "What the hell do you guys do to get rid of nervous tension?"

  "Play till my arms fall off," replied Sam.

  "Have sex with
my girlfriend," Denny admitted.

  "I can't do the latter," said Jason with a bitter laugh, "so maybe I'll try the former." His fingers began to chop up the metal strings, moving too fast to watch.

  No one interrupted him. They all understood he needed to do this. For nearly an hour they lounged around listening, while Jason's guitar ran like a loose bull, trampling everything. Lang entered in the middle of it, gave everyone a baffled look, then simply listened.

  Near the end of the rampage, the guitarist began to look sick, his face and hands sweat-soaked, no longer able to control his cording because of the slippery moisture. Melody had dissolved into screeches and feedback, as if the guitar only wanted to scream and scream again. The hideous noise stopped when Carl caught Jason's wrists. "I think that's enough," the manager said carefully. Jason peered at him, blind from sweat and watering eyes. "You don't want to wear yourself out. We still need to work on the new song," Carl added. "Take a short break, guys," he said to the others. "Get some drinks or something from the lunchroom."

  When they had gone, Carl fetched Jason's bandana from the guitarist's gym bag and handed it over. Jason took it and wiped his face, scooping aside masses of sticky, cobweb-like hair.

  "I think I can guess what the trouble is," Carl said, after checking to see that Bob had left, too.

  The guitarist nodded. "I'm sorry. I've fucked up the session. I'm such a hypocrite. Sam and I were always such bastards to Denny whenever he brought his hassles with his girlfriend to the studio with him. I'm no better. Shit. I should have gone easier on Denny."

  "Maybe Sam complained about it, but I always thought you were patience itself," Carl replied as Jason twirled the bandana into a roll and tied it around his forehead. "Have you talked to Amanda recently?"

  "No. Rafe told me something important the other day. It's not just about what's best for Amanda, but Leila, too. I'm going to give Amanda an ultimatum of my own."

  "What kind?"

  "I'm not quitting. She can come back to me, but I'm not budging."

  "What about Rafe?" Carl asked, checking the room again. From the hallway came the noise of the others as they returned from the lunchroom.

  "Oh, God. Don't even ask." I can't believe I treated him that way. I owe him a huge apology.

  Carl's cell phone rang as the band reentered. "Go ahead and start working, guys. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  Sam took his station on the drum stool, while Lang addressed the guitarist. “You sane again?”

  Jason nodded silently. Denny set a can down on the amplifier. "I brought you a soda,” he said offhandedly to Jason. “I thought you'd be thirsty. Do you feel like you want to start on the song?"

  "I'm okay. Thanks for the drink."

  "That's good," said Denny with relief.

  As they took their places, Denny announced. "All right! Get ready." The singer struck a tough rock-god pose, clenching his fist dramatically in the air. "Wedgies, Part 2!"

  Lang ripped off his headphones and threw them, and Jason added his gym bag.

  "Hey, it was only a joke!" Denny protested, dodging.

  The outraged band members were so busy stoning their lead singer that they failed to notice the man who had slipped into the recording booth. Bob startled aside, vacating his chair. The newcomer settled in, resting his arms on the console as he watched the mayhem.

  "Excuse me, please," a voice said over the soundbooth speakers. "I understand you have a single to work on, and I want to produce it."

  Confused, the members of Mullerin broke off, trying to locate the voice. Alexis Mellor smiled and waved at them through the glass.

  "Alexis?" Denny squeaked.

  "Alexis," Bob echoed. "I'm supposed to be producing this session."

  Mellor waved him aside. "Don't worry, I've made a zillion records, and I've always wanted to work with my all-time favorite band, Mullerin!"

  As he watched Alexis's glittering eyes, Jason felt his blood turn to ice. The band looked at each other, dismayed. Unfortunately, none of them were tough-minded enough to throw Mellor out, and it was apparent that Bob was completely intimidated as well.

  "Take your places by the microphones, please," Alexis said through the speakers. "Thank you. Denny?"

  "Y--yes, Alexis?"

  "I understand you've written some lyrics for this song. Would you sing them a capella? I want to hear them clearly for the first take."

  "A capella?" Denny asked.

  Pained, Sam leaned forward and whispered, "It means by yourself." The drummer knew the limits of his bandmate's musical education and was obviously unhappy to have Alexis witness it.

  "Oh," said Denny, "but this wasn't a song with backing vocals anyway."

  Sam clapped a hand to his forehead. "He meant without instruments."

  "Was the term," Alexis asked, "new to you, Denny?" Mellor was smiling at the dials, glancing up from time to time as he made adjustments.

  So that's his game, thought Jason queasily.

  "Yes, just your voice alone," Alexis said. "What's the new title? I think I overheard someone say, 'Wedgies, Part 2?'"

  Denny colored, and his jaw set. "No, it's called 'Enter My Life.'" With that, he began to sing.

  From the first, Jason knew everything was going to go wrong. Denny's throat went tight, bottling up the sound. The singer squirmed in front of the microphone, his voice sounding weak and shy. Twice, he fumbled the words and had to stop and prompt himself from the lyric sheet. It was a disaster of a performance. Alexis listened without expression, then nodded when Denny finished and switched on Jason's microphone. "If you would please, North, I'd like to hear your part alone as well."

  Jason ground his teeth. He refused to be humiliated like some kid during a high school band tryout. When this was over, Mellor's eardrums would meet in the middle of his head. The guitarist strummed the opening cords, only to be interrupted by the soundbooth speakers, "I see you've taken up smoking, North." Alexis was squinting at the pack of cigarettes lying on Jason's guitar case. "That's Rafe's brand."

  A horrible squawk came from the guitar. Rafe's brand? Jason hadn't even noticed. He'd simply bought a pack that seemed familiar. "I'll bet you clear your throat behind golfers, too," the guitarist snapped.

  "If you'd learned to play in shitty clubs with the audience throwing broken bottles at your head, North, you would have learned how to concentrate by now. Boxkite Airscrew had to do that." The flash of hostility was unmistakable.

  The harsh perfume of Jason's unfinished cigarette still lingered. The feeling, the smell, the taste of his ex-boyfriend came so viscerally to Jason that he lost all awareness of everything except Rafe.

  "You deserved it," Lang replied sharply to Alexis. "Boxkite Airscrew sucked in your early days, and I've got tapes of your old practice sessions to prove it."

  "C'mon, people. Everyone calm down," Denny urged. Furious, Lang held his hand like a gun and made a shooting motion at Bob. The producer nodded and ran off. "He's trying to destroy our confidence. He's trying to destroy us," Lang hissed at the others.

  Jason wasn't listening, lost in reverie. "North?" Alexis's eyes moved over the guitarist's unresponsive form. "You still haven't played your part. Do you even know it at all?"

  "Jason!" his bandmates chorused.

  "I'm sorry. What?"

  "North," said the soundbooth speakers. "We're trying to produce a single here, so would you please start showing some consideration for others? For example, the next time you try to commit suicide, do it alone. I would be frantic if Rafe were maimed or killed when you're trying to get run over by a car."

  The guitar strap was ripped off Jason's shoulder. Kicking the soundbooth door open, the guitarist backed Alexis up against a wall, spitting out the words, "I didn't ask him to save me. Fuck off, you piece of shit.”

  "You won't call me that in the end."

  "Why?" Jason sneered. "What do you intend to do?"

  "Exactly what I'm doing now. You'll be grateful for it."

  Jason
purpled. He couldn't believe this. Denny and Sam were grabbing his arms, dragging him away from the singer.

  "Gentlemen!" Carl shouted, stepping between the two quarreling musicians. "It's time you left, Alexis."

  "But I'm not done with North," Alexis purred.

  "Yes, you are," the manager replied. With one deft maneuver, Carl shoved Mellor forcefully out into the hall and locked the soundbooth door behind him. Evicted, Alexis rested his face against the glass. He smiled strangely at Jason, then vanished down the hallway.

  That weird smile disquieted the guitarist. It's as if he wanted to be thrown out. What is he up to?

  "What does he mean you tried to commit suicide?" Denny demanded.

  "That's not what happened. It was just an accident. I fell against a car, and Rafe pulled me out of the way." He can't keep warning me to stay away from Rafe, Jason fumed. Rafe is not his personal property. If I want to sleep with him, that's Rafe's business, not Alexis's.

  "Thanks, Carl," said Sam.

  The manager's face softened. "Just doing my job," he said, his eyes flitting cautiously to Jason.

  At the end of the session, Jason stopped by the Boxkite lunchroom for something to drink and found Denny holding a stuffed rabbit on his palm. The singer was contemplating Mr. Bunny much like Hamlet brooding over the skull of Yorick.

  "Mr. Bunny got left behind again," said Denny in a hollow voice.

  "Going to return him to Alexis?" Jason asked as he headed over to the soda machines.

  "I can't. Haven't found another car yet."

  "Too bad. Mellor will have to survive without his rabbit then," Jason replied briskly.

  "It--it wasn't Alexis who left Mr. Bunny behind," said the singer.

  Jason, in the process of feeding a banknote into one of the machines, stopped.

  Denny glanced down anxiously. "I shouldn't expect you to take him home. I'll have Lang return him."

  Mr. Bunny left Denny's hands, and the singer looked up in surprise.

  "I'll do it," said the guitarist.

  "You don't have to," Denny replied quickly.

  "I'll take him," Jason repeated. "I have to give someone an apology, anyway. See you tomorrow." He exited the room, passing Sam on the way in. The drummer did a double take at the sight of the rabbit and ran over to his singer.