by Kyra Davis
I study him for a moment, taking in the words and expressions of extreme confidence. I place my hand on his chest, feel his heart beating against my palm. Its pace is fast, demanding, needing. “Are you happy?” I ask, my voice only just loud enough to be heard over the music. There are people who have begun to dance, little pockets of revelry by each bottle service table. “Do you like the life you’re about to claim?”
He gives me an odd look. “I don’t think you’d ask me that if you really understood the man that I am,” he says simply.
I flush; the words sting more than I believe he intended them to. “I know who you are,” I say, defensive.
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows; he’s taunting me, the glimmer of mischief in a subtle form of provocation. “Tell me then, who am I?”
I open my mouth to speak, but then close it. The things I want to say reveal too much. I look out at the crowd; more and more women are finding little patches of floor to claim as their own, dancing in place, seducing their partners. “You’re a man who has strong passions,” I say, a light laugh in my voice making it clear that all the implications one could draw from that are intended. “A man who likes risk, a man who likes life.”
“Go on,” he says as he leans closer into me, so that there’s almost no space between us now. With every breath my breasts brush his shirt, and from the way his eyes are traveling over me, I can tell that he’s noticed, that everything he’s doing is intentional.
“There are things you want to do,” I continue. “Things you want to try.” I pause as he looks past me to the bartender, wait as he orders us another round. “Others have tried to hold you back, but they can’t. You’re too determined for that. Too wild.”
“Hmm.” He brings his lips to my ear once more. “You know what else I am?” he asks.
I give a tiny shake of my head. I sense the bartender behind me, placing a drink on either side of me, too close, too intimate.
“I’m the man who is going to be inside you tonight,” he says.
I flush as I hear the giggle of the bartender, know that she heard. And yet as he gives her his money, as she steps away, I find that my entire body is tingling from the suggestion. Ash lifts one of the shots, presses the glass against my bottom lip. “You want that,” he says, his voice smooth, maybe a little amused. “Don’t you, Mercy?” Before I can answer, he tilts my chin back with the firm force of his hand, opens my lips with the pressure of the glass, lets the drink trickle over my tongue until all of it is gone. When he pulls it away he replaces it with his, so that now he’s fed me two shots in succession, bringing me to the level of intoxication that he wants for me. “I asked you a question, didn’t I?” He pulls the now-empty glass away, beckons the bartender to come back with yet another drink, this time for him. “Answer, please.”
“Yes,” I say as he receives his cocktail. “It’s what I want.”
He smiles, throws back his drink. “You’re with a celebrity now.”
I laugh, although I don’t know why. The music morphs from Puff Daddy’s “Satisfy You” to Eminem’s “Real Slim Shady.” “Oh I love this one,” I say, bunching his shirt up in both my fists before giving him a little shove, pushing him back as I move past him, and, while always facing him, backing into the center of the room, each step in perfect time with the deviant notes of the synthesizer and the thrum of the bass. My hips loosen as the room takes on that lovely fuzzy quality that comes with a perfect buzz. The crowd around me parts, clearing a path, bowing to my presence, my energy.
I place my hand flat against my exposed stomach as the rap begins, moving my body with quiet aggression and tantalizing persuasion, absorbing the essence of the music, enhancing it with my own desire, making it part of me. I bring my arms above my head before moving to lift my hair, piling it on top of my head, revealing the nape of my neck. The men in the room are turning from their friends, from their dates, from the strangers they were flirting with. Some of the women are shooting daggers in my direction, but most look on with grudging admiration as my moves prove to be as fluid and skillful as they are alluring. Ash’s wayward grin gives him a tantalizingly dangerous quality, bringing to mind images of the Big Bad Wolf from childhood fairy tales.
He moves toward me as I continue to dance, and now he’s right here, his body two inches from mine. Without so much as a touch, he joins me, maintaining those inches of space as he matches my movements with precision, simultaneously complementing and mocking me as he claims them as his own. We move like this from side to side, keeping with the rhythm. When he advances, I step back, but never so far as to extend the space between us. We move along the floor, not touching, but completely connected. And now everybody is watching. No one can say I’m a background dancer here.
We own this.
He breaks the invisible barrier with his hand, moving it to the small of my back, and I respond with a new kind of enthusiasm. My body jerks and writhes with the music, with him, all with an atypical grace that defies the traditional disciplines of dance. With his free hand he explores my body—his palm is on my hip, then the side of my breast, my stomach, my leg. He can touch me anywhere; I won’t resist, because when I’m dancing the rules don’t matter. Or maybe it’s that when I’m dancing I realize that they never really do. The music is irreverent, rebellious, combative, and for so many, discomforting. These are states of mind I’m intimately familiar with. Music and dancing as a form of anarchy; it’s irresistible.
I lower myself in front of him, letting the beat dictate my pace. My fingers hook into the waistband of his pants suggestively, playful as I look up at him, biting my lip. And then slowly I rise, allowing my body to move against his. There’s no shame, this is Ash after all. This is the man who will be inside me tonight.
He whips me around, pressing my back into him as we keep moving. “They all want you,” he says.
And I answer, “Yes.”
This is power, this is everything.
This is what Ash and I can be.
CHAPTER 19
THE NIGHT IS out of control, and I love every second of it. Ash and I get the party started. After that one dance the floor fills with couples as well as with several groups of women tearing it up on what serves as the VIP dance floor. But none of them outshine Ash and me. Halfway through the night he throws down for bottle service and we share Absolut with strangers as Ash regales them with stories of his upcoming pilot. At one point I actually get up on the bar and move to Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre. I can’t remember the last time I let loose like this. There is no order, no conventions that need to be adhered to. No thoughts of the future or the past. As the VIP room fills up, the small crowd becomes increasingly diverse. Black, Latino, Asian, white, gay, straight—the only commonality is youth. We are all here to live and be young.
When last call finally brings things to a close, Ash and I stumble out onto the street, an almost half-full bottle of vodka clutched in my hand. We get hot dogs from a street vendor and find a curb to sit on as we devour them, knowing that there is no way in hell that Ash is sober enough to get us home on his bike.
“This,” Ash says between bites, “is our town.”
I laugh and place the vodka between us. “You really going to be a star?”
“Damn right. You gonna cheer me on when I get the Emmy?”
“Depends. Do I get to walk the red carpet, stand by your side as the flashbulbs are going off and the paparazzi are shouting your name?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He pushes his hair from his face and glances in both directions, scanning for cops before bringing the vodka to his lips.
“Then yes, I’ll cheer you on!” I declare before biting down on my dog. I take a moment to chew before asking, “What about your music?”
A small scowl crosses his face. “What about it?”
“The first night we met you told me that music was the thing that fed your soul.”
“Yeah,” he agrees with a laugh, “and you told me that was a cliché. Some thin
gs don’t change.”
“Yeah, but the sentiment was true, I could see it. And I heard you sing. Remember that? Singing in the streets of Seattle? Or what about when we were in your motel room and you got out your guitar and sang Green Day’s ‘Time of Your Life’?”
“It’s called ‘Good Riddance,’ ” he mutters, his eyes now on the traffic moving down the street, the girls blasting tunes from their convertibles while guys in clunkers honk their horns for no apparent reason.
“I think the name depends on what kind of mood you’re in,” I say, laughing. “But you were seriously connected to that music. It was, like, part of you. You’re not just going to toss that for acting, right?”
For what seems like an eternity he doesn’t say a word, just stares straight ahead. I sense that I’ve said something wrong, but I have no idea what that could be. “You sound like Eva,” he says.
“Eva,” I repeat. Visions of pink velour pop up in my head before I can stop them.
“I spoke to her today,” he continues. “She doesn’t believe in me.”
I give my head a little shake. “Wait, how’s my asking about music equal not believin’ in you?” I ask, keeping my voice light. I know the mood has changed, but . . . God, how much have I had to drink? Everything around me is off-kilter and warped, albeit pleasantly so. Maybe he is making sense and I’m just missing it.
“Maybe you think like her,” he says coolly. “You think I’m wasting time trying to get my acting career going. You think I should be making my living operating cranes or pouring concrete, maybe even go back to school and get a contractor’s license since we all know I’m too dumb to graduate from anything more complicated than a trade school.”
I reel back to get a better look at him. Is he joking? “You’re really comin’ outta left field with all this . . . or is it right field?” I hesitate, and then rest my head against my knees. “Why does random shit always come out of fields?”
“No, no, I know what you think of me. I know what my parents think, what Eva thinks, I know what everybody thinks!” For the first time I catch the slight slur in his words, but then it’s entirely possible that I don’t sound much better. “And,” he continues, “I know how everything is gonna play out and how you all are gonna be proven wrong.” He grabs the depleted bottle of vodka and takes another swig.
“Whoa.” I grab the bottle from him and put it down on the pavement with a definitive thump. “Slow down there, Nostradamus. We might need your mental powers to predict where the next cab’s comin’ from.”
“You think I should be like you, right?” he asks. His scowl has now turned into a full-on glare and it’s directed at me. “I should do a bunch of conventional day jobs and then use music as a time-sucking hobby?”
“Conventional jobs?” I repeat. “You mean the dog-walking thing? They’re mixed breeds, Ash. Mixed breeds! Nothin’ conventional about my pooches.”
“Maybe you think that I should play at dive bars and the second-rate clubs you play at,” he continues. “Belt out a few original tunes and a ton of covers. Maybe make some extra pennies from selling CDs to drunks? Let me tell you somethin’, I’m not gonna live as a starving artist. I’m better than that. People are going to know me!”
I lift my head from my knees. “Did you really just say that?”
He lets the words hang there for several seconds as he continues to stare out at nothing. “Okay,” he finally says. “Maybe went a lil’ far with the truth telling—”
“Fuck. You.” I take the remainder of my hot dog and slam it against his shirt, mustard and all, then jump to my feet.
He reaches up, grabs my hand. “Melody, I’m sorry, really—”
“It’s Mercy, asshole,” I snap, yanking my hand away before storming down the sidewalk.
“Mel . . . Mercy, come on!” he calls after me as I turn the corner, walking past another closing club, squeezing through the crowd of people waiting for rides. “What’s going on?” I turn to the chick who asked the question, the woman I just bumped into, a model type with caramel skin and carefully constructed microbraids. I touch my cheek, feel that there are tears there. “My boyfriend called me by the wrong fucking name!” I yell.
A series of ooooohs rise up from the crowd as Ash appears around the corner in his attempt to get to me. As well as a few busteds. Three other girls burst out in the chorus of Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name.” Ash looks around, clearly bewildered by the response. I use the moment to grab the arm of the woman who initially addressed me as a cab pulls up. “Are you taking this? Can I share your ride? I gotta get out of here.”
“Course, honey, get in.”
In a matter of seconds I’m in the cab with her and two of her friends. Ash stands by numbly as we pull away. I look out the window and see him watching us as we leave.
As it turns out, the women live in West Hollywood, which, not surprisingly, is in a totally different part of the city from North Hollywood. We go to their drop-off spot first, spending most of that part of the ride talking about Ash and me and that ridiculous argument. Everyone agrees I’m in the right. Once my new friends are gone, I pay a fortune to be taken back to my studio on the opposite side of town. The silence of this part of the drive is infinitely worse than the bitch session during the first half. I just don’t understand what happened. Yes, I’m drunk; yes, he’s drunk; but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t mean the things he said. If anything, it means he’s been thinking them and not saying them for some time.
And that means that Ash thinks I’m pathetic. That my music, my band, all of it is beneath him. And if that’s true, then he must think that I’m beneath him, too.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s right. Obviously I’m not dead, no matter how much my father may wish otherwise. But maybe . . . maybe it’s worse than that.
Maybe I’m nothing.
When I get home I don’t go to sleep. Instead I take out a cheap bottle of white from the refrigerator and turn on the TV. I’m definitely not as drunk as I was when I made the scene in front of the club over an hour ago, but this wine will help with that. And the TV will help, too. I need the voices of other people, even if those people are trapped on a screen, completely unaware of my existence.
I settle on some X-Files reruns, but I don’t sit down. I stand there, pacing in front of the sofa, amped and angry, drinking from the bottle like a hobo with a habit. You know, for all the craziness that goes on in the X-Files, at least Mulder and Scully know what their purpose is. They know why they’re here, to fight shape-shifting criminal masterminds and find aliens. The world needs Mulder and Scully.
No one needs me.
I take another swig of wine. Why am I here? I mean, does anyone really want me to be? It was easy to dismiss Brad’s suggestion that rock ’n’ roll was some kind of rebellion for me. It’s not. But maybe living is. Maybe staying alive is literally the only way I have left to say fuck you to my parents.
But . . . is that really a good reason to live? Is that enough?
I stand still for a moment and stare at the TV. I’m just drunk enough to see the existential dilemma of the X-Files. Mulder and Scully’s search for answers has yielded nothing but questions. We still don’t know what the Smoking Man’s deal is, or why the aliens chose Earth, or why this secret, überpowerful shadow government that’s protecting the aliens hasn’t just killed Mulder off by now. I mean, just take a shotgun and blow the dude’s head off! This should not be hard! But they never do. So Mulder lives on, as does his quest for truth, even though the only things he seems to find are secrets and lies. He may act smart, but his real “truth” is that he’s as clueless as the rest of us.
And that’s the one part of the show that’s realistic. It’s why I love it. It’s a reminder that it’s not just me. We’re all clueless.
After all, the world is filled with scientists, theologians, and philosophers, who have clocked not just hours but years, collectively thousands of years of trying to figure out why we’re here, and
yet not one of them can prove that their hypotheses are correct. People, animals, insects of the past, trillions of dead things fill the ground, cover the trees, float in the ocean. Every time we move, we are stepping on a grave. And still, no one can prove that they know what happens to us after we die. Is there really an afterlife? When I die, will I still be me?
I start pacing again, now covering the entire expanse of the studio as I consider the question. God, what if the answer is yes? My parents couldn’t even handle me for the length of my childhood, and now some God is supposed to put up with me for all of eternity? That’s just not gonna work.
But then, what I’m doing now isn’t working, either. Nothing is fucking working! I take the bottle of wine and slam it, hard, against the counter dividing the kitchen from the so-called dining area.
The bottle breaks. White wine and shattered glass rain onto the floor. For the most part I remain unscathed, except for one cut, a small one, from a flying piece of glass that scratched the skin on the inside of the wrist that’s not holding the bottle. I crouch down and study the mess, lifting up one particularly large and pointy-edged shard. Then I look at my wrist. It’s bleeding, but not profusely. I didn’t hit the main vein. I look back at the shard and then gently place the flat surface of the glass against the inside of my wrist. If I turn this on its edge, if I press it hard against the skin, well, that could be it, couldn’t it? How is it possible that a life’s worth of blood can be contained within two blue veins? How can it be that all I have to do is make two little slashes and that’s it, I die. I get to leave. The ease of it seems positively mystical. I mean, that’s an X-Files episode.
I pull the glass away so I can see the scratch again. It doesn’t even hurt, not at all. How odd that I could cut myself so close to that life-or-death vein and feel no pain. As usual it’s all about figuring out where the line is. You can push just this hard and suffer very minimal consequences, but push a little harder and everything you ever knew and ever loved is gone.