Need Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy Book Three)

by Dunning, Rachel

  “Blaze! That was...fuckin...incredible!”

  We had our single. I took my headphones off, laid them on the mixer, and walked around it to the door. Just before I left the studio, I turned back to Randy to thank him for his patience with me, but no words came out. He gave me a tight nod. I understand, it said. I tight-nodded in return. He patted me on the shoulder, and I walked out.

  After I reached the sidewalk outside, suffocating in the July heat, I leaned back onto the nearest wall. And I sobbed. I sobbed for an hour out there, staring at a palisade fence hiding a brick building across the street. I sat on the ground, back to the blistering wall, buried my head in my hands, and just let the water flow from me. Here I was, following my dream, finally making a living out of doing what I loved.

  And yet I was miserable. I was completely, and utterly, shattered.

  I had a man—a hot, mouth-watering, insanely sexy guy—who cared for and loved me, but I couldn’t see it back then. All I saw, the only the thing that clapped me and punched me and hit me day in, day out, morning, night, afternoon, in the shower, outside the shower, in bed, under the covers, in the dark, the light, the street, the car, the studio, in my dreams and nightmares, the only thing I saw all the time like a bright green billboard filling up the Brooklyn sky, was Xavier’s bloody pulped face.

  And that goddamned fucking smile! Savva.

  Now you tell me, what the hell is there to smile about when you’ve just killed yourself?

  I stretched my legs out on the sidewalk, my back pressed against the rough brick wall of Randy’s apartment building. I put my hands behind my head and looked up at the clear bright sky. I squinted. A waft of decaying trash smell eased around a corner and tickled my nose. I even fell asleep, maybe for thirty minutes or so. I must’ve looked like a bum. But no one commented. When I awoke, my underarms were soaking from sweat.

  But I felt better. The brief nap had made me feel better.

  Night had begun to fall, a cool breeze had formed, washing away some of the smothered air. I breathed in. Someone had moved the trash. I thought, for a second, that maybe things would get better now, maybe I’d turned over a new rock, maybe that...image...wasn’t going to bother me anymore.

  I got up, stretching my legs and back like someone who’s just spent a night at a five-star. I started walking home, light-footed and happy. Things were gonna be different now, I could feel it. Whatever I’d been stuck in was going to somehow never reappear.

  I smiled, jumped on the G train at Smith and then switched onto the L at Lorimer. I got off at Myrtle and started walking onto Bogart, to my loft, still smiling, still happy, still carefree. I got to Bogart and pulled my keys out, heard them rattling in my hand as the smile grew wider on my face, the smile of triumph, triumph over ghosts and nightmares. I got to the door of my building and startled when I saw the red tape covering it. Then it hit me with a dull thud. And I felt like an idiot. The keys shook in my hands, as if I’d just lost something fundamentally mine.

  You moved out yesterday, I reminded myself. My lease was up. I was staying at Vikki’s place now. I wasn’t staying at my loft anymore. “My” loft. See? I couldn’t even call it someone else’s loft. But it would never be anyone else’s loft. It might become someone’s Suite Royale or Suite a-la Brooklyn in a year or two, but nobody’s loft. Never again.

  Finality. Like a silver drawer being closed at a morgue...

  I shook my head sadly, felt the weight of the keys in my hand like a minor wrecking ball. It was dark now, even a little cold. I looked to my left and saw a crane, a bulldozer, some guys in hard-hats. My loft. No, that was also in the past, something I once had but now didn’t anymore.

  I took the loft’s key off my keychain and threw it on the floor. I looked down the street at where Patryk’s floating heads graffiti was currently. Patryk, Savva’s ex. The graffiti would be gone soon, along with the building as I now knew it. I took a photo of it, and pumped it onto Instagram with the hashtags #goodbye #home.

  I looked up at Savva’s apartment window, the building behind mine, on the same building on which Patryk’s graffiti stood. It suddenly dawned on me that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for them to tear the whole damn building down! But they wouldn’t. They’d decorate it and gild the bathrooms and put in canopy beds that smelled like roses. They’d put a “Brooklyn Feel” in there and make it look all hipster and then charge ten grand a night to stay in the penthouse or whatever. Would they ever tell people that someone once committed suicide in this very apartment, sir? Someone’s friend? Oh, you didn’t know? Yes, yes, it’s Brooklyn, you know? Crazy artists and things, but it’s OK, we’ve driven all of them out of here now, the riff-raff, they’re all gone. Now it’s just us city-folk here. Great, isn’t it?

  The thought crossed my mind that maybe they should put a painting up in Savva’s ex-apartment.

  Of a girl smiling.

  I was bitter about losing my place.

  I walked home.

  -3-

  August, Year Zero

  “Don’t you want me to get the tattoo, Deck? Don’t you think we’ll stay together?”

  He sighed out loud, frustrated. I’d brought it up again. It was now August, the month our relationship would end. “Blaze, you’re being irrational, I just think it’s safer not to do it. If something happened”—I saw blood in my mind and immediately got defensive—“you’d regret it.”

  “Happened? What the hell could happen!?” We were in his kitchen. He had a beer to his lips but now put it down. I was holding a knife. I know, dumb, but I’d been cooking earlier.

  “Blaze, just...”

  “Answer my question!” When I look at it with rearview mirrors, it’s clear what was happening. The mind plays tricks. I was fighting the threat of something “happening” to him. Just like it “happened” to Savva, and to Xavier, and to his father. But when I stood there in his kitchen, knife dangling dangerously from my fingers, I don’t know what was going through my mind. Maybe just irrational fear. At that stage, wanting the tat of his name on my waist was probably also Fear at work, as if putting his name on my skin forever would somehow prevent the cruel Universe from meddling in our lives anymore.

  “All I’m sayin is if something happens...”

  Every time he used that word “happens” I saw red spurting blood in my mind, and a smile. But it was all subconscious, all under my immediate awareness.

  Rearview mirrors.

  “Stop using that word! What, you wanna break up with me!?”

  That threw him over the edge. He dropped the beer in the sink and let it gulp-gulp-gulp and then he roared! “ENOUGH! Blaze, I’m sorry about all the shit that’s happened lately, and I’m sorry about your...friend. But that was two months ago! We need to move on! I moved on when my pops died. I need you to move on!”

  “This is not about Xavier! This is about you telling me something might happen between us!”

  “You’re taking my words out of context!”

  “No, I’m not! I’ve seen how you look at those girls you work for! I’ve seen—”

  “Oh, fucking CHRIST!” He stormed out the kitchen. One door slammed. Another. He strode back into the kitchen, huffing, glaring me down with red eyes, turned back out, grabbed a football, stormed back into the kitchen, pointed at me, opened his mouth to say something, said nothing, turned, slammed a door, and another. Then, from outside, muffled, I heard, “FUCK!

  Later that night, he slid into bed at about three in the morning, smelling of booze and cigarette smoke. I was lying in bed, terrorized that maybe something might have happened to him earlier, so I was awake when he arrived. He lay behind me, pushed himself against me. He whispered in my ear, “I’ll get one of your name as well. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re drunk.”

  “Yes, but I’ll do it anyway.”

  “Prove it to me in the morning.”

  In the morning, bleary eyed and squinting, he said, “Let’s d
o it today. You and me, let’s get our names emblazoned on each other’s skin.”

  “OK. It’s a deal.”

  Later that day, panic hit me. About what? I can’t tell you. We argued on the phone. I went over to Vikki’s place. We argued some more. She gave me some Imperial Vodka to soothe my nerves. I called him from the balcony, and then my phone fell on the ground and went Splat!

  But I’ve already told you about that.

  He never did get his tattoo.

  FOUR

  BLAZING BACK

  ~ TODAY - DECEMBER, YEAR FOUR ~

  -1-

  Blaze Ryleigh

  “The Giants are three and eighty-seven, Max. Eighty-seven! Can you believe that?”

  “I can’t believe it, Joe. We had Trev Perkins and Declan Cox out there looking like they were gonna turn this game around—”

  “And then that touchdown by Brown...”

  “Incredible. Best football we’ve seen in years and now—”

  “Eighty-seven!”

  “You said that already, Joe.”

  “I just can’t believe it, how a team can be so close to the greatest miracle on the gridiron since two-thousand-ten and...” Joe sighs frustratedly.

  “Well, maybe they can pull it around—”

  “You’re the eternal optimist, aren’t you? Eighty-seven yards? Seventeen seconds on the clock?”

  Max, the commentator, makes a raspberry sound, an incredulous bray at Joe Delagio’s comment. Tom’s restaurant is suddenly so quiet I can hear people breathe. A dude in front of me has a beer hanging by his lips, too afraid to take a sip. Mr. De Luca’s not even serving coffee. It’s like everyone’s standing vigil, as if they’re too worried the slightest sound will somehow transport itself all the way from Prospect Heights over to Jersey and drown out the already drowned-out roar at MetLife Stadium.

  “Eight-seven yards. That means they went back seventy-seven yards—”

  “We all know the football rules, Joe, and we’ve been watching the game.”

  “I just can’t believe it.”

  “You’ve said that already.”

  “Eight-seven!”

  Max laughs. “Yes, eighty-seven yards and...oh, yes, the time-out is over. They’re lining up.”

  “Their only hope is to go long, throw the Holiest Hail Mary ever thrown.”

  “I think Trev Perkins has used up all his Hail Maries for today, Joe.”

  “Never underestimate Perkins.”

  “Then why do you keep going on about eighty-seven yards?”

  Joe laughs. The perfect TV voice. “They’ve brought out the long snapper. But The Giants need more than a field goal to win this one.”

  “Four points down, that’s right. Maybe Perkins really is going for that Hail Mary.”

  “This is so impossible for them, Max. What could be going on in those players’ minds?”

  “Cox brushes past Perkins, old high-school buddies, those two.”

  “A lot of controversy surrounding Cox lately as well.”

  “But he’s played a helluva game tonight.”

  “One hell of a game, Max. I don’t think any manager’s gonna care about late night boozing with sexy blonds in the honky-tonks of the world tonight.”

  I could slap Joe Delagio right now.

  “They’re lining up, waiting for the snap, waiting....”

  “There’s the snap. They’re blitzing! Block! Perkins is stepping back, stepping back, sixteen seconds, fifteen. Brown is up front, lots of white shirts on his tail.”

  “He’s definitely going for the Hail Mary, Joe.”

  “He has no choice—”

  “No! Wait! Declan Cox just took the ball! Thirteen seconds and Perkins PASSED the ball to Cox.”

  “This is insane! But— Oh my God, Cox sidesteps one, two— He fumb—”

  “No! He caught it! He almost fumbled the ball and caught it mid-air! He’s made it twenty yards! Thirty! He’s on his own!”

  Tom’s Restaurant erupts into chaos! The chairs rock and shake and people’s roars almost shatter the glass! I can’t see. People are standing in front of me, arms in the air and hugging and “GO! JUST GO-GO-GO-GO-GOOOOOOOOO!”

  Vikki and Skate stand. People shout, howl. I find myself also roaring, “GO, GIANTS, GO!”

  Max: “Oh no! Travis has Cox’s jersey. Five yards from the end zone. Cox is still running! Still running! Oh my God, it’s ripping! The jersey is ripping!”

  “And now Cooper’s on him! TWO men are holding Declan Cox from the end zone. The entire team seems now focused on joining him but they can’t stop this powerhouse! Four yards out.”

  “Three seconds! He’s not gonna make it—”

  An eternal silence.

  And then it happens.

  “—OH NO IT’S A MIRACLE! The jersey ripped apart! He’s free— TOUCHDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWN! THE SECOND MIRACLE AT MEADOWLANDS, ladies and gentleman!”

  “I can’t believe it. I can’t—”

  “The stadium is in complete pandemonium. One second left on the clock! Giants win! Giants win even if they don’t get the dropkick! Fans are jumping on their chairs. The noise is ear-splitting. The crowd is going wild.”

  “New York is not gonna sleep tonight, Max.”

  “Even the Jets fans will be celebrating this. Respect. Respect. It’s all I can say.”

  “Perkins is charging to Declan Cox! They thump chests. Declan takes his helmet off, throws it on the ground. He rips his padding off. Oh, my, rips his undershirt off as well—”

  “Might as well.”

  “WOW, look at that INK, Max. If any ladies are watching this tonight—”

  “He is quite the ladies man.”

  “—then I’m sure they’re salivating.”

  “Knock it off, Joe! That’s a real misogynist thing to say!”

  “Heck, that’s a big word, Max.”

  “I think you’re salivating.”

  “But just look at that thing! What is that... Flames?”

  “Yes, it looks like bright orange flames, spanning the entirety of Declan Cox’s upper back.”

  “And there’s a word underneath it all, in big graffiti block letters. Massive. Huge.”

  “I can’t make it out, Joe. I’m sure we’ll get a close-up.”

  “Oh, look at that.” They laugh. “Real tough-guy, huh? Go on, Declan Cox, show off! He’s posing like a body-builder. Whoa! Look at that back!”

  “He’s big.” Silence. “And you’re definitely salivating, Joe.”

  “Wait, wait, we’re getting a close-up. I realize we’ve never seen Declan without a shirt on, probably the only NFL player we haven’t.”

  “And you keep track of how many NFL players we’ve seen without shirts?”

  “Maybe I do, Max. ... Yes, yes, we’re definitely getting a close-up. BLAZE, it says, in big block letters with flames coming out of it, like massive graffiti on a New York wall. Intense. Like BLAZING FLAMES or something.”

  “Must be, Joe.”

  “Hot! Blazing hot.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.”

  The noise at Tom’s restaurant settles down eerily. I make out a few mumbles, some shuffles of feet, but it feels like everyone’s mental eye is on me. I’m on center stage. Mr. De Luca stops cleaning a glass and looks over in my direction. Clarissa flicks her thick black hair and scans the room in an obvious effort to catch me as part of the scan. The dude who had the beer to his lips a few seconds ago is hunched over the table and I can see that he’s trying to glance over at me behind him.

  BLAZE. Across Declan’s entire upper back, the flames rippling like snakes as he flexed his lats and striated traps for the camera like a bodybuilder doing a posedown, each muscle jumping and flowing and making the flames seem alive.

  The TV plays it again, and again, and again. They play the posedown more than they play the touchdown. Tom’s is still silent, but Mr. De Luca finally says, “One round on da house! For our boys, Declan Cox and Trevor Perkins!”

&n
bsp; The crowd inside here cheers. Some people rush onto the streets outside and start throwing snowballs at each other. Small flakes of snow start falling at Met stadium as well. Max the Commentator makes a lame joke about the snow sizzling and melting on the BLAZE on Declan’s mighty back.

  Mr. De Luca pours everyone a beer—easily a hundred people. I decide I’ll cover that round for him. What good is making money if it can’t be spent on friends? And Mr. De Luca is definitely a friend. And he really saved my ass there. It had felt like I was being undressed slowly in front of a gawking crowd for a few seconds.

  BLAZE.

  The noise of the crowd simmers, then quiets to a dull roar of intermingled voices and sporadic cheers and glasses touching. I only realize I’m looking down at my hands clutching my own beer-glass when I feel Vikki’s warm hand on my shoulder from across the table. “Is good game, no?” she asks with her slightly Russian accent.

  I look up at her and smile back, but I can’t see her. My vision is blurry.

  I know Vikki doesn’t mean the “game” was good, she means the end of the game. The end where Deck showed the world his tat. She doesn’t mean the nail-gnawing middle of it when The Giants were losing and all hope had been lost.

  All hope had been lost, how ironic. How goddamned poetic.

  On his back: BLAZE!

  Then, out of nowhere, a soft manly voice under a rumble of cheers and laughter. “He still loves you, Blaze.” Skate’s gray-blue eyes simmer with worry and concern. He stretches his arm out to mine from across the table. “He’s never stopped loving you, Blaze. He never told you about the ink because he didn’t...want to embarrass himself. Because...” Skate stops.