Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  Now the dawn sifted in through a gap in the curtain, motes of dust sparkling in a lone spotlight leading to the newest tattoo on my lover’s body. So there it was. On his side with his arm thrown over his head in slumber, Adrian provided me a luxurious full view of a beautiful flowering desert cactus that ran from his hipbone to his armpit. The stem was various shades of green and rose up to mid-rib, with spiny clusters—some curving, some straight, projecting out in every direction; some black fading into gray, others yellow into white. Smaller ribs of the plant undulated from the body, and it was then I noticed a slim smooth snake, brown and gray, coiling carefully between the spikes on its mission upward. Its reward was apparent: A lush funnel-shaped bloom fanned up toward his armpit, the colors flaming orange bleeding into dark red. The lower buds harbored a few remaining spikes near its base before changing to smooth and waxy petals. The detail inside was incredible, complete with a thick nectar chamber and dozens of thready pink stamens at the center.

  Adrian had once likened me to a desert flower, soon after my Memorial Day purge and clam-up. “You bristle to keep people at bay,” he had commented. “But your blooms keep them coming back.” I hadn’t taken offense; I knew the quality had mutated in me during those dry and barren years after Pete. Perhaps Adrian saw himself as the snake, an unlikely suitor stereotypically unequipped to bring solace but determined to do so. Who was more likely to injure the other? I didn’t want to currently contemplate it, not on our first real morning together.

  Like a film in reverse mode, I slipped naked out of bed and into one of my new negligees. Marissa and Leanna had tried to sway me away from my choice, saying it was too bordello red with too much black lace, but I had insisted. The bathroom mirror agreed with my choice; I smiled at the way the bottom hem graced my legs, how tiny my waist looked as the red silk ruched up tastefully over my chest, and how the black lace straps flattered as they widened over my ivory shoulders. I brushed my teeth and completed my loop back into bed.

  “Oh my . . . my, my, my,” Adrian murmured; he was just stretching and blinking as I eased back down next to him. “Let me drink you in . . . wow.”

  I straddled his sheet-swathed midsection and let him admire the view. “I match your flower,” I whispered, leaning to kiss the complex corolla of the fresh tattoo.

  “You are my flower,” he whispered back, fingers moving along the lacey hem as if to memorize where it met my flesh. “My Echinocereus triglochidiatus. Yes, big word . . . I know. Trying to impress you.”

  I pressed my chest to his bare one, allowing my hands to run over his smooth, strong shoulders. “Oh yeah? Tell me more.”

  “The desert flower takes five to ten years after sowing to bloom.” He ran his fingers around the lacy straps and down the neckline. “Then the flower only opens for a few days at a time.”

  “Sounds like beauty worth waiting for,” I breathed, kissing his cheek and sliding toward his ear. “Like you and me.” I felt him squirm under me. I knew the combination of my whisper and just the slightest pressure of my lips and tongue was delicious torture to that particular erogenous zone.

  “Kat,” he groaned. “Come ’ere, love.” He pulled my face gently to his. “I was an utter prat last night. You must think me some fool drama queen. I’m sorry.”

  “Shhh, no.” My lips found his neck, and the silky barrier between us aided me as I shimmied slowly lower, my mouth never breaking contact with his skin. When I licked the spot where the misericorde ended and his scars began, I heard a sharp intake of breath, felt his frame stiffen. For once he didn’t attempt to stop me as I dipped my head farther. I felt his fingers through my hair, lifting it off my face from where it was blocking his view. He wanted to watch me. I flicked my eyes up for a moment and saw his flutter in conflicted rapture.

  Somewhere deep within the house, his landline phone began to ring. I didn’t slow my pace or break my rhythm, and he uttered a strangled groan of approval. I felt his toes curl under the sheets. “Kat, baby . . . you’re amazing . . . please, not yet . . .” I acquiesced, rising only to lower myself upon him. Silk and lace pooled across his tight tattooed torso. “We’re not using anything . . . are we okay?”

  “It’s a safe time.” My words were lost to his mouth as he leaned up to press it tightly to mine. Our slow movements kept him so close and deep, all we could do was stare at each other in wonder. The landline began to ring again. “Maybe you should—” He thrust my breath wordlessly out of me, and I began to shake as my climax rained down from deep within.

  I could tell Adrian was ready; he had been holding off and waiting for me. His cell phone began to peal on the nightstand as I felt him buck under me, rear up as I rode him harder toward the edge, and then I felt his release.

  “Robyn!”

  Battle Call

  My ear was pressed against his neck, but I clearly heard him utter his ex-wife’s name. My mouth froze midkiss against his shoulder, and I felt him steadily shrink within me.

  It took me a moment to realize he was acknowledging her call and not, as I had ridiculously assumed, calling out her name in the throes of passion. I awkwardly attempted to disengage myself from him and not eavesdrop as the verbal sparring began.

  “No, I wasn’t screening my calls . . . because last I checked, New York is five fecking hours behind London. You do the math,” he snapped. “All right, you have my attention now, so what—What? When?” Whatever Robyn was relaying, Adrian’s face took it in and boomeranged it back out with a hurt grimace. “Can you not play the blame game, just tell me what the doctors . . . Can they stop it without surgery? Do they know . . . Robyn . . . Okay. Well, what is the success rate of that? When will they start?” He was up and rummaging through his bureau, raking a pair of boxers up his slim frame with one hand. “I’m not going to wait here while . . . Honestly, I could give a fuck what Leopold recommends . . . Yes, well, I prefer to call him that, thank you . . . I don’t know, I’ll ring you when it’s sorted.”

  I stared at the compass rose that spanned my lover’s back, watched as his shoulders shook slightly. “Adrian . . .”

  “It’s Natalie.” He paced toward his laptop, wrenching it open and firing it up. “She had an accident. Horseback riding. Robyn waits half a bloody day to tell me, and then has the nerve to tell me not to come? That it’s my fault for buying her a horse in the first place?” His laugh came out as a bitter bark. “I may be five hours behind, but who’s the one living in the past?” He paced back to the dresser drawers and began plucking items out. “That notion is so ridiculous, I’d laugh . . . if it wasn’t so damn dire. The swelling is putting pressure on her brain. They’ve medically induced a coma, pending surgery.”

  I scrambled off the bed. “You pack. I’ll find a flight.” My hands shook across the keyboard, and I willed my mind to stay on task. “Here’s one, nonstop from Newark. It leaves at 6:25 p.m. and gets into Heathrow at 6:40 a.m.”

  “Nothing earlier? Gatwick?” He leaned over my shoulder.

  “No, nothing nonstop. We’ve missed the morning flights.”

  “Book it.” He tossed a credit card onto the desk and fled from the room.

  I stood bent over the laptop, mouse arrow hovering near the “ticket quantity” dropdown box. The result of our unprotected union trickled slowly down my thigh. “One . . . ?”

  “Yes, one way.” He was back, leather shaving case in hand. “Robyn and Leopold will no doubt loathe my indefinite existence, but I don’t give a flying monkey’s.”

  “Abbey and I have passports. If you need . . . We could . . .”

  “Not necessary.” He began to fatten up his rucksack with shirts and sock rolls. “It will be enough of a mad scene without having to explain you.”

  I knew Natalie was the focus, but his words stung. I continued booking his flight, biting my lip in feigned concentration.

  “Come on, love. You know I don’t talk to them much, they’re so wrap
ped up in themselves.” He sidled up to me, kissing my shoulder as I clicked through the confirmation process. “I need to get some cash, dollars and pounds. And I’ve got nothing here to speak of in the way of food. My bank is on Fifth; we can stop there and then go to the Naked Bagel. Ah wait, but Liz . . .”

  “She’s never there on weekends.”

  “Still on the outs?”

  “Yeah. I miss her. And her damn bagels.”

  Adrian’s master bathroom shower put the facilities I had regrettably passed up at the Plaza Hotel to shame. Not only did he have a luxury showerhead about as big as a Seattle rain cloud, but there were several other sprayers at various angles and pressures as well that worked to invigorate and calm. I wished we could’ve stayed in there until we drained the borough dry, but Adrian’s boarding time was creeping closer.

  On our way through the lobby, we passed by the dentist whose office was on the ground floor of the building. His face was a familiar one, and pleasantries were often exchanged when we passed in the hall. But today he was eying Adrian with wary respect. “That was you, wasn’t it? At the Hammerstein last night?” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment before stammering excitedly, “I had no clue . . . you! And you live here?” He shook his head. “How cool is that? Wow!”

  Adrian gave a smile and a nod as he took my arm and didn’t break his stride on his way out the door.

  “Metalhead dentist . . . Maybe he has a musician discount?” I laughed as Adrian gave my comment a dismissive yet modest roll of the eyes.

  We swept into the cold confines of the bank right before its noon closing time. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Adrian muttered, his hand shaking as he penned his withdrawal request. “Do you hear that?” The piped-in Muzak filtering down was unmistakably a light instrumental version of “Simone.” “Goddamn Wren . . .”

  “Try to ignore it,” I said, pulling him through the velvet ropes to the waiting teller. The Muzak droned on ridiculously, Adrian’s blistering guitar solo replaced by the pan flute.

  “Yes, can’t you see I’m laughing . . . all the way to the bank? Ho ho ho,” Adrian remarked sardonically, pocketing the many pounds sterling, dollar bills, and traveler’s cheques.

  ***

  “Call me when you arrive? No matter what time?” I had escorted Adrian as far as security would let me.

  “And I will call you every day after that. Promise. Kiss Abbey for me?” I nodded my head close to his, allowing the peppery comfort of him to sink into my skin. “Sorry I’m going to miss your parents’ visit.”

  Tears were brimming, but I laughed. “No you’re not.” I had forewarned him the moment my parents had announced their plans to stop en route to Kevin’s annual Independence Day cook-off.

  “Okay, admittedly I was terrified.” He pressed his lips into a tiny smile. “But still.”

  “But still.” I squeezed his fingers in mine. “Love you . . . God, I love you. Hoping for the best for Natalie.”

  “That means . . . that means the world to me. Thank you. I want her to meet you. And Abbey . . . my world.”

  I felt his kiss long after it broke; I needed to.

  There’s something heartbreakingly intimate about watching your lover carefully remove his shoes and offer them up to strangers for inspection, along with his cache of toiletries. His eyes caught mine right before he crossed the last security checkpoint; his lips formed clear, legible words of love, and then he moved swiftly through to the other side.

  Parental Controls

  Adrian’s calls weren’t daily, as promised. He was having trouble with his phone and putting in long hours at the hospital, but his news regarding Natalie was heartening. The doctors had placed shunts and were expecting a full recovery, pending physical therapy. One silver lining, he relayed via e-mail, was the postponement of her wedding.

  My parents arrived in their usual fashion, fussing over Abbey and hijacking my bedroom for a week. Secretly, I didn’t mind moving into the boogeymen room. I slept under Digger’s watchful eye, his secrets safe with me. On occasion, I would scan the various metal forums and news sites online for reactions to his brief Hammerstein appearance. It had already become the stuff of legend among the die-hard fans and had piqued the curiosity of the newer, younger Corroded Corpse fans who had missed seeing the band play live in their heyday. Rumors raced through the threads, and speculation as to an eventual reunion racked up the post counts and started many a heated discussion. New York fans had the bragging rights, and several claimed to have seen their elusive hero on the streets of the East Village or drinking in local haunts. Blurry photos, captured with phone cameras during the brief window of opportunity Adrian’s cameo had allowed, began popping up one by one on blogs and social networking sites. Unseen by the public for nearly two decades, he had become the metal world’s bigfoot, their Loch Ness monster. And here was proof. He still existed.

  I reasoned it was conveniently best for him to be out of the country now, of all times, although there was no way to convince my mother of the same. She took it as a personal affront upon arrival, and subsequently made daily barbs, bringing into question his actual existence.

  “Abbey darling,” I overheard her ask, “tell me what you like about mommy’s new friend Adrian.”

  “I like that he lives in the park.”

  “He lives in a park?” Great. Now she’d have him pegged for a homeless man. Or a woodland sprite.

  “Not a park, Grandma. The park. Central Park! He lives above it.” She paused to pull Adrian’s quip from the stores of her young mind. “Twenty-six hundred square feet of the Manhattan sky. But not quite in the stars. That’s where Daddy is.”

  Grandma was very interested now, but remained cautiously skeptical.

  “I can’t believe we’re missing him by mere days,” she moaned. “Phil, should we change our flights? We can change our flights.”

  “Mom, no . . . there’s no sense. He’ll be jetlagged, and you need to get to Kev’s for the big showdown.”

  My parents took great pride in watching their son’s restaurant go head-to-head against several of Portland’s finest every July Fourth. Although to this day, my dad just shakes his head at the commercial success my brother has eked out for himself with BITE ME. “I don’t get it,” my dad would say of the restaurant, which specializes exclusively in hors d’oeuvre–sized portions. Thimble-size flights of soups, dollhouse hamburgers. He was once served a miniature replica of fish and chips. “It was a flake of fish on top of a French fry. Jesus Christ, for five dollars?”

  “Do you at least have a picture of him to show me?”

  I rolled my eyes, thinking ironically of the entire top floor of her house and its decades-old shrine devoted to him.

  “I’ve got one!” Abbey galloped a loop from kitchen to bedroom and back, clutching a picture Miss Carly had snapped at the pancake brunch.

  “Handsome,” my mother allowed. “He’s quite gray, isn’t he?”

  “And purple. And red and black and blue and green!” Abbey crowed. She was fascinated with Adrian’s indelible ink and loved to add to his landscape with her own washable marker doodles; he patiently allowed her to use the available bare spots on his arms like a live-action coloring book.

  I stared at the photo. Debonair in his suit, with his hands on Abbey’s shoulders and his cheek pressed close to hers, Adrian grinned as if he knew the picture would eventually fall into my hands. Abbey’s eyes sparkled up at me, tiny pearls of teeth displayed in a sweet smile. Nothing about the photo indicated the mug-breaking incident that had preceded it, nor the single-round sparring match that was next to come. Just another beautiful blip of time, caught frozen on film.

  ***

  The attic room was like a sauna, but it was the one place guaranteed to give me privacy. A week in my parents’ company had me crawling the walls, but the knowledge they were departing within the next twenty-four hours kept me sane.
As the over-sixty and under-thirty crowd were taking afternoon siestas downstairs before dinner, I relished the opportunity to laze around, daydreaming of their departure and Adrian’s eventual return.

  A portable fan spread relief across my bare skin as I lay on the bed in just my bra and panties. Its oscillating current breathed life into the flat photos of Adrian and his bandmates, and I watched, entranced, as some billowed and others rattled against their sticky restraints. A small, poorly taped poster fluttered down and plastered itself to my stomach, having lost its battle against the wrath of the fan. Peeling it off, I saw it was my lover, captured in grainy black-and-white. Shirtless. Sweating. I held the cool damp scrap to my chest and felt the tears, hot and humbling, roll down my cheeks and back behind my ears. I missed him so goddamned much.

  I reached for the phone and dialed, if only to make some connection. His recorded voice was at least preferable to silence.

  “Mobile of the indefatigable Digger Graves!”

  “Uh . . . um . . .” I scrambled to sit up at the sound of a real live human voice. Female voice. British. “Is he . . . um, there?” I could hear raucous pub din, laughter, and the scraps of jukebox melodies.

  “Sure, ’ang on. He’s up buying the next round.”

  I waited, suddenly feeling exposed. As if this disembodied Englishwoman could see me in my underwear, right through the phone.

  “Shite phone is working, then?” I faintly heard, then a more audible, “Hello?”

  “I guess it only works when girls answer it.” I swallowed hard.

  “Kat! Gawblimy, it’s good to hear your voice. Blasted phone’s been useless. Especially in hospital.”