Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  On his back was a large, lone tattoo, and judging by the color and crispness, it was relatively younger compared to those on his chest. An intricate compass rose inked in black, robin’s egg blue, and scarlet spanned across his shoulder blades. “Blake’s Four Zoas,” I breathed, tracing the slanted script. Each prominent point identified one of the directions in Blake’s cosmology, rather than the traditional four cardinal directions.

  “I was going through a major William Blake phase last year.” He shivered as my lips touched down on his cervical spine and I paraphrased from memory.

  “Eternity had Urthona, the Imagination, in the north. Urizen, or Reason, was its opposite in the south.” I ran my index finger gently down to the small of his back. “Tharmas—the senses—lies west, and Luvah, Passion, in the east, right?”

  “Correct. Blake felt the Zoas resided within each human being, but when the Zoas fell from Eternity into Experience, they each split into two, a male and female counterpart, and they were no longer in harmony.”

  “So what does that say about us, male and female?” I wanted to know.

  “Good question, luv.” He rolled over and smiled at me. “All I know is you and I are currently”—he kissed my left breast—“together in the eastern quadrant.” His warm and calloused hands played lightly across my shoulders, fingertips exploring my flesh. I reveled in it, enjoying the way he looked at my body, as if quenching his thirst after many desert miles. “And in a proper bed,” he reminded me, his eyes celestial in the dim candlelight.

  Purge

  “So where are those grapes and that poetry you promised me?” I chided, barely a breath left in me. We loosely held each other, waiting for our hearts to resume their normal rhythm.

  He delicately placed hands on both sides of my jawbone and kissed me, as deep and soul-searching in his afterplay as he was in his foreplay. “Consider that the amuse-bouche, mon amour,” he breathed.

  I ran my fingers past his dewy temples into his hair and gently pulled him close again. “Who am I kidding? I can get by on this sustenance just fine,” I whispered.

  “But since you brought poetry up . . . this is what I’ve been pondering over lately.” He reached across me and pulled a red leather-bound book from the nightstand, along with a pair of reading glasses. I settled into the crook of his arm as he arranged the glasses on his nose with his free hand and pushed his thumb in between the pages bookmarked with an old MetroCard.

  What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song?

  Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

  Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children.

  Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy,

  And in the wither’d field where the farmer plows for bread in vain.

  Adrian stopped reading. He removed the glasses with a sigh and turned to face me. He lowered his head in a way that was slightly boyish, a chunk of hair falling over one eye. I gently kissed his forehead. “Don’t be sad.”

  “Ach, Kat. I’ve been alone with my memories so long. The thought of bringing them to the surface verbally is . . . overwhelming.”

  I understood completely; it was as if he had plucked those two sentences from my brain, where they had been stewing for years now.

  “I know. It’s one thing to ruminate, but another to enunciate.” My voice trembled. Where that tightly knit gem of wisdom had come from was beyond me.

  Adrian gazed at me for a long moment, his eyes smooth as worn sea glass against his weathered face. “Cripes, I hope you don’t think me a selfish prat. Here I’ve been pissing and moaning about the life I’ve lived, when—”

  I put my finger to his lips, shaking my head. “God, no. I’m grateful, actually. In time . . . thank you for being patient.”

  “No one has ever used that word to describe me. From you, I’m learning patience . . . and fortitude.” He took a deep breath. “That being said . . .”

  We spent the next two hours holding each other, Adrian’s fingers kneading his history across my skin. My vertebrae became pinpoints on the time line he lingered upon, as I kissed my questions along his shoulders and neck.

  “We were nobodies going nowhere fast. Until Wren found us. When we signed with him, he immediately put us on the road. I remember the tour exactly: London, Kingsbury, Burton-on-Trent, Warrington, Blackpool, Liverpool, Birkenhead, Retford, London, Swindon, Bristol, and back to London for Christmas.” His ticked off each city across my body as if it were a map of the UK, his thumb traveling from London at my pubic bone, up to my navel, circling my entire right breast and across to my left before coming back to my pelvic area, then over to linger on my right hip, and returning back to London with a smile.

  “Fun trip?” I asked wickedly.

  “The best.” There was a devilish gleam in his eye. “The camaraderie was brilliant. Wren showed us he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He was our security at the back door as well as the number-crunching maniac who refused to back down when some of those promoters tried to pull fast ones. Like the fifth member of the band by the time we arrived home. Little did we know, he would end up on the other side as soon as the stakes were high enough.”

  Each player in turn—from the musicians themselves to the girlfriends, wives, manager, and crew—had a unique role in constructing the beast that was to become one of the most successful new wave of British heavy metal bands. “We were monstrous, unstoppable. But the fame . . . fame was like the mob. It was relentless, tireless. Attacking our personal lives. Drugs, money, excess—those were the pitchforks and torches the mob pursued us with. The monster had to burn and die.”

  My eyes traveled to his abdomen.

  “Ironically, that happened when professionals were in charge of our pyro. I got too close to the spot on stage where a six-foot flame was programmed to ignite. I realized my error just before it went off and moved away, but not before suffering second-degree burns. My guitar actually shielded most of the blast, and the leather pants helped as well.”

  The white sheet was a sharp contrast next to the sunburst of his scar. I tentatively touched the raised purple ridge close to his navel. “It doesn’t scare me,” I said quietly.

  He fingered it lightly as well, and then ran his hand over mine. “I probably would have healed better had we not been in the middle of a world tour.”

  “No worker’s comp for you?” I joked, lifting both of our hands together and gently kissing his.

  “Nope, no rest for the wicked. Skin grafts, compression garments, and a whole lot of morphine got me through that first month. Which is a chapter far from where we are now.” We slipped deeper under the sheet, Adrian winding and unwinding my curls as he progressed and digressed.

  Wren vowed if they stuck with him, their albums would soon be on turntables in the bedrooms of every teenager on earth. “How do you say no to that?” He leaned over to blow out the candle, which had burned down to a thick dark pool. “You don’t. You say ‘yes please’ and ‘thank you, sir’ and you sign your name on the dotted line. You make a deal with the devil.”

  My eyes followed his gaze, and we both stared at the candle, its orange-hot pinprick pulsating brighter as it gasped for air before finally succumbing.

  “I think that’s enough purging for one day.” Adrian leaned back against me and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Like a purification . . . watch the smoke.” A black ribbon sifted its way up to the ceiling from the extinguished wick.

  I laid my cheek on the top of his head, my hands resting on his rib cage. “Hey, you never explained these.” If I spanned my hand wide enough, I could cover each tattooed bullet hole with a finger, as if I had the ability to staunch the old wounds.

  “Bloody hell, I’ve been prattling for hours now and I haven’t even reached these parts of my tale. They tell the story better than I can.” He took my fing
er between his thumb and pointer, guiding me across them. “This one here is for Wren; for what he eventually did to the band. The next one is when Robyn left. This one, well—I inflicted myself, losing custody of Natalie. This”—he lingered on the bloodiest one—“was Adam. He killed our roadie, Cass.”

  I gasped, my fingers instinctively jumping from his chest to my mouth.

  “The minute Rick mentioned Adam and a car, I knew the news couldn’t be good. Most days on tour he was over the drink-drive limit simply upon waking. Cass was just trying to get home to Essex for Chrimbo,” he commented softly.

  “How horrible.”

  “How did Wren put it? Oh—‘At least it wasn’t one of the band.’ Like Cass was somehow less of a loss because he wasn’t lining this guy’s pockets! I was devastated. I had practically grown up with Cass . . . salt of the earth, he was.” He breathed deeply. “That’s when I really began to look at Wren in a different light. Suddenly, everything he said could be taken more than one way. I didn’t like his colleagues, starting with the prat he hired to handle our money. I distrusted him, but felt powerless. I was nursing the loss of Cass, the breakup of my marriage, and the disillusionment I felt toward my mentor and didn’t know where to turn.”

  “What about Rick?”

  He pointed to the largest and final bullet hole. “This. Was Rick.”

  I didn’t know what to say. His recollections had caught me up in their spellbinding details, and yet I felt as if I had been woken prematurely from a dream, or a nightmare. The best and the worst had yet to come, I surmised. He had painted such a vivid picture of his humble beginnings, but there were still years to go to get to the man I saw before me now.

  “Want to hear a secret?”

  I leaned closer, but he shook his head. “No, really hear a secret?” I nodded. “Wait here.”

  He yanked on his jeans and disappeared down the hall. I began to wonder how many rooms he had upstairs and how they were filled. More guitars and memories . . . I slipped on his Norton T-shirt and sat up to wait. Adrian returned, guitar in hand. It was his signature Ibanez, recognizable from so many of those posters in my attic. An amp I hadn’t noticed doubling as a nightstand began to buzz warmly as he united guitar and power cord. He began to shred a complicated melody, fingers nimbly attacking the frets, and I could instantly see this was what he really loved, he was so alive. His gaze was concentrated on his playing while mine was zeroed in on his face. The pure rapture was apparent, although there were glimmers of what could only be described as an exorcism. He was simultaneously reaching for something yet trying to rid himself of it at the same time as he ran through a smooth and fast legato. It was as heavy as any Corroded Corpse material I had heard in the past, yet fresh and timeless. I had a feeling it was the first time he had actually played it for ears other than his own. His eyes were on me now, and he was grinning as his fingers changed their direction and their mind, working up a heavy groove that tingled down my spine.

  “You should do something with this.” It was the only thing I could think to say as he stood in front of me, his torso slick and heaving with the labor. My own heart was thumping its muted applause.

  He unharnessed himself and joined me on the bed once again. “The only person I can see myself playing this with is Rick, and we aren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore.” He ran a hand up my bare leg. “It’s going on sixteen years. I have no idea where he is.” His phone began to ping next to our heads; I had asked him to set the alarm so I could get back home before school dismissed. “Ah, the bell tolls,” he murmured apologetically as I groaned.

  “Already?”

  “No. I set it a half hour early. I like long good-byes,” he breathed, crossing his legs over mine.

  Reality Bites

  As I navigated the Mini up through the borough toward home, I couldn’t shake the essence of my lover’s mesmerizing storytelling. The overcast afternoon reinforced the mood, painting the concrete landscape even grayer than usual. I felt like I had been dropped into eighties London; my native city had never looked so foreign.

  But with each underpass and highway ramp, modern-day reality began to creep in. I checked my messages while in standstill traffic on the bridge. Two texts from Marissa, two hours apart: We Miss U and Leaving S’bucks, C U @ Ballet? I had forgotten we had signed the girls up at the dance studio across town. I had no doubt Brina would take to the lessons without a fuss, but wondered if Abbey would make it through this first class without pirouetting to her own tune, right out the door. She often followed a sound track that resided in her head and had a hard time with step-by-step instructions.

  My thoughts drifted back to Adrian as the road opened ahead of me, and my stomach grumbled a reminder that we had not consumed a single thing, other than each other. The coffee had grown cold, food hadn’t been a thought, and Adrian didn’t touch a cigarette in those three-plus hours he had been in my company. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been able to shut out the world so exclusively with another individual.

  But I could remember the first time.

  If I had to pick a defining moment in my courtship with Pete, the moment in time when I knew he was “the one,” I would have to rewind back to that first year. I can’t remember all the details of our date; I recall the coal oven pizza we shared at Arturo’s and escaping into the air-conditioning of the Angelika for a few hours. I remember sharing a lot of laughter, a lot of stories. Typical early date stuff. The excitement and anxiety of asking him in for the first time. Having him examine my CD collection, comment on my book collection, kiss me in front of the wall of grungy appliances that passed for a kitchen in that dimly lit, ground-floor sublet. Pulling him across the threshold into my closet of a bedroom. I rarely closed its door because it was far too claustrophobic. But that night, Pete and I shut ourselves in and closed off the world.

  We lay talking and touching into the small hours, when a presence right outside froze us both. Someone was just inches from the bars covering the window, and therefore only inches from us. We could hear him muttering and breathing, rummaging through the bins of garbage pushed up against the brick wall.

  I had been a city girl going on five years, but it had been a first for me. Pete could tell I was freaked out. “Shhh, he’s just looking for cans and bottles,” I remember him whispering, holding me tight. “He’ll go away in a minute.”

  People use that descriptor, “the one.” As in, “How did you know he was the one?” I had never been the kind of girl to read the happily-ever-after stories or practice bridal walks with a pillowcase on my head. Love at first sight had always sounded impractical, and soul mates didn’t seem possible. But I remember being in Pete’s arms that night, the thrill and the fear of it all, and I just knew.

  I thought again of the rainy morning dream, of being in Pete’s arms again. Having him remind me “there are all different kinds of love” and speak through my subconscious the unspeakable.

  ***

  Although Adrian hadn’t come out and asked me directly, I had promised him two things that afternoon: I wouldn’t reveal his identity to my friends—or God forbid, my brother—just yet, and I would let him finish telling me about his past without the aid of Alexander Floyd or what he called “unofficial, unauthorized, wildly inaccurate accounts published purely for monetary or shock value.” It was hard to stay composed, but I managed some level of normalcy as Marissa and I settled onto a bench outside to wait out the girls’ first dance class.

  “I can’t believe the ballet teacher is going to go through all five positions on the first day.” I accepted the smoothie she handed me and peeked over my shoulder into the dance school’s window.

  “Speaking of positions . . . what’s it really like, sleeping with the kiddy musician? I’m trying to imagine him talking dirty, and all I’m coming up with is ‘do me, my little sugared gumdrop of love!’”

  “Don’t be such a goofball, Ma
riss.” I bit my straw. “I’m done giving you gory details. The sex is great. I would go as far as to say mind-blowing.”

  “Yet he still won’t let you—”

  “I’m not so worried about that.”

  “Hi there!” A syrupy Southern accent oozed across the plaza parking lot. The mother of Grant’s son was lugging karate gear toward us. “Was that you I saw the other day, drivin’ on yer donut?”

  “What’s her name again?” Marissa asked under her breath, lips pasted into a ventriloquist dummy’s smile.

  “Not a friggin’ clue.” I smiled right along with her, shaking my head.

  “That’s what my daddy calls it, drivin’ on yer spare.”

  “Oh, Marone.” Marissa had zero tolerance for anyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and the blond hair and bouncy boobs on this woman probably didn’t help matters any.

  “Ya’ll could have Jake’s dad take a look at it, he’s real good at fixing flats.” She beamed at her son who, even dressed in his karate whites, couldn’t have looked less angelic. He was towheaded and snarky like his father, yet had his mother’s wide and slanted eyes, reminiscent of a fruit bat. “Fact, that’s how we met. Jacked up my car in the driving snow and fixed my flat tire better than any cob job I could do!”

  We knew the town gossip: Grant had hooked up with this girl as she passed through town, increasing the population of Lauder Lake by two. But hearing the origins from the source was particularly interesting, considering the recent attack on my Mini.

  “Thanks . . . it’s all good,” I assured her, and locked my lips to my straw so I wouldn’t have to converse with her further.

  “Bye now!” They continued on their way to the neighboring karate center.

  “Jacked her up, then knocked her up with the devil’s spawn,” Marissa murmured, her eyes mascara-ringed saucers. “Talk about a cob job!”