September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  My hands were numbed by nerves as I climbed up the steps of the bus. My gaze wandered down the single aisle while a commotion rumbled behind me, reminding me that I should move along as other people were trying to get on, too. I sipped at my can of Diet Coke, aiming to down it before the constant summer air warmed it. The line pressed in as I made my way into the aisle. The bus driver kept the radio on the classic rock station. The speakers pumped an old power ballad by a band whose name reminded me of breakfast cereal.

  Quickly scanning for an opening, I snatched up the last empty bench seat, two spaces behind the forgettable driver and set my backpack in the spot beside me. The bus kept filling, the way it always did. Single file, with bland passing faces, just not the ones I was used to seeing. Some looked around unsure while others went directly to a particular spot. Thankfully, hardly anyone took notice of me and the ones who did didn’t look hostile. The ever present tension in my shoulders gave way.

  The day had dragged on, relentless, but only because I was looking forward to seeing Jake. I smiled into my hand, cupping my chin as I looked out the window into the school parking lot.

  It was going to be a long ride, so I settled in, and let my mind wander.

  I spent as much time as I could with Jake, but he worked full-time and had the band, so that mostly left the nights and weekends. If Analog Controller wasn’t playing a gig somewhere. Even then, I usually had to contend with my foster, Deanna, to let me go over to see him. That’s why it was easier to simply take the bus straight from school without saying anything. If the Foster ever asked, I made up a random classmate, saying I had to work with them on a school project. Or said I was at the school library, which was the most convenient place and she never asked on Fridays, because I had to go see my shrink on Fridays. But my appointment wasn’t until five-thirty, which left me a small window of time to spend with Jake.

  The school bus was nearly empty by the time it hit Jakes street. After the driver pulled over and opened the door I hopped out, only a half block away from his house—at the corner that opened up into his cul-de-sac. The plain suburban area was filled with older track homes and dead lawns that were as familiar as my own bedroom.

  All of Carlisle was brown year-round. What little spring green there was usually dried out by March. Before May was over, the only living green left was cactus. I don’t think there is a type of grass that can survive an Arizona summer. Maybe Astroturf?

  My feet swept over the hardscaped lawn that made up Jakes front yard. It was all decorative stones and gravel. In the very center, there was a great big cactus with a large, broken wagon wheel resting at the base.

  I knocked on the door as my stomach went into flip-flops. My constant anxiety was morphing into hope, because there was no van in the driveway, which meant someone was gone. Hopefully, two someone’s.

  He didn’t answer the door. Jake never did. His voice drifted from unseen places, “Get’ch your ass inside,” over Black Sabbath.

  That was a constant—Jake and music—indivisible like those jars of peanut butter mixed with jelly. Couldn’t have one without the other. He breathed it: in the nose and out every pore on his body. It made everything around him come alive.

  The humming air conditioner cooled me as I stepped into the dark entry. I dropped my bag at the front door and rounded the corner into the hall that met the kitchen. I made my way slowly, as my eyes adjusted.

  My face heated the way it always did—only for Jake. I could see the side of his face as he stood, his mouth puckered in a look of concentration as he bent over the scratched up dining table that held his favorite guitar, a black, curvy Fender with the sunburst design. I could tell from the wiry mess surrounding it, that I had interrupted him polishing and changing the strings.

  The music oozed from the living room stereo into the sparsely furnished, open kitchen.

  Jake looked up and his pucker stretched to a welcoming grin. “She’s here, my girl, Friday.” He met me half way, greeting me with a sweet peck on my forehead, then one on my nose, and the corner of my mouth.

  “Drink?” He held out a sweaty twenty-ounce of Coke he’d been drinking on. Jake always shared.

  “Water.” I veered to the left, towards the sink.

  “You’ll probably have to wash a glass.”

  While waiting for the tap water to run cool, I plucked up a nearby sponge and sniffed. Seems safe, I thought and set it under the running water, soaped it, and began washing. Three plates and four glasses later, I decided the water was as cool as it was going to get and filled a special edition jelly jar that doubled as a tea mug.

  While I gulped, his arms crept around my waist from behind. His lips fell to my neck, ticklishly pecking at the nape. I moved my head, squeezing him out of the tickle zone and giggled.

  He turned me around in his arms, turning the full power of his worshipful gaze on me. “You look sleepy, baby.” His fingertips grazed the hollow under my eye. Before I answered, his lips met mine for a wonderful, long-awaited kiss that sent scorching shivers through me.

  “Good mood?” Jake whispered against my lips. He loved to talk through kisses.

  “The best.” I answered, setting my cup on the counter behind me to embrace him with both hands. “Are we alone?”

  As much I liked Max and Andrew, I was really glad when he told me they were gone.

  I felt Jakes’ lips stretch into a smile. “We got thirty minutes—tops.” His hands swept up my back, gaining momentum as he tangled his fingers into my hair, holding me to him. “I missed you.”

  My heated heart completely melted. “Me, too.”

  Jakes hands disappeared from my hair, resurfacing on my waist. “Alley-oop.” He murmured, lifting me onto the kitchen counter. Droplets of water soaked into my shorts.

  I gasped, in faux-horror. “What if they walk in?”

  His hazel eyes glowed dangerously. “We won’t give’m any.”

  My responding laugh was interrupted by him plundering my mouth. Jake lifted me again, pressing my legs to his stomach in a way that made me wrap them around his waist. The gentle breeze of controlled air brushed against my back as he carried me to his bedroom—one of the three in the house he’d been sharing with the guys in the band.

  I squealed as he hurled me onto his bed. My fingers spread out to caress the smooth, black and green comforter as I watched Jake remove his Dead Milk Men t-shirt. He could undress faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. One fluid move and he was half way there.

  One more kiss and so was I.

  +++

  Jake jumped off the bed at the sound of tires screeching into the driveway. “They’re back.” He announced and tossed me my clothes.

  My heart sank a little, watching Jake get dressed in one, smooth swoop. Jeans and flip-flops—he was done.

  Sated and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, I maneuvered into my panties, quickly followed by my shorts. I heard the front door open as I fastened my bra. Jake moved in front of his bedroom door, staring at me as he leaned against it.

  The second my shirt was back on, Max tossed the door open, not caring that he clipped Jakes shoulder, and looked around with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I’ve got the fuse for the amp!” He brandished the small tube between two fingers as if it were a trophy. “Practice commences in five, assholes.”

  “Get the fuck out.” Jakes’ jaw was tight as he shoved Max back into the hall. Turning back to me, he acknowledged, “I gotta fix that knob.”

  I took his arms and set them around my waist. Jake leaned down and gave me what I wanted—one more, long kiss—before heading out to the garage for band practice.

  +++

  At any moment, Jake would start humping his microphone stand. His hips already swayed back, sexily making ready. Making me want to keel over.

  For eleven months we’d been exclusive and he still made my chest want to break wide open when he moved like that. Especially when his shirt was off. Forget about coherent thoughts all together when the band was pe
rforming. Jake was sex on fire when he hit the stage.

  He leaned forward, grasping the long neck of his sunburst Fender; his chest glistened as he opened his mouth wide. Jagger had nothing on him. His neck tensed, vocal chords tightening as he unleashed the vibrant sounds of pain and thunder. Behind him, Andrew slapped at the bass, wobbling his head as he focused. Max wailed on the skins, cymbals, and double-kicked the bass drums in perfect time.

  Nosey Max.

  Analog Controller was on point. Having the guys share a house was Jakes idea and even though it meant suffering Max trying to catch us in the throes of passion and string-bean Andrew eating everything he could get his paws on, it had paid off. All three of them together were more Slob than I could take, but with so much rehearsal time, they were sounding fantastic. Really, rhythmically, tight. Better than they sounded on the tracks they’d laid down at a studio in Phoenix for their third EP. Jake always said the greatest bands sound better live.

  When Analog Controller found their groove, it was as if they weaved their own world. A place composed entirely of music. Notes like air, melody like water rushing down a cliff side. It crashed everywhere and everything. All at once, created and destroyed in a beautiful flood that washed away my problems. I soaked it in, never wanting to come up for air.

  I went to rehearsals as often as I could, which was never enough. I lived in the next town over, and sure Carlisle were small, but all that really meant to me was that I had to walk everywhere because the only public transportation that passed through my speck in the desert was on its’ way to somewhere better.

  I slammed my neck, rocking to the beat of the familiar melody—a sound as passionate as my name on Jakes lips. The breakdown was building; all thrumming bass lines and drums playing in time with my heart.

  Right one cue, Andrew stepped forward, slapping the thick strings of the bass and Jake straddled the metal mic stand and shifted his hips. His guitar hung over his sculpted shoulders, out of the way for a breathless moment before his rasping wails carried off into the bridge.

  Sitting atop a blown out half-stack amp in the corner of the garage where the greatest band ever practiced, I crossed my feet and laughed at seeing my humping prediction play out.

  “You gotta make love to that mic.” Jake would say and he did.

  I covered my mouth when he looked my direction. Jake never liked it like when I laughed during rehearsals. He said he didn’t care what anyone else did when he was playing, but when I laughed, it made him feel like a joke.

  “Any other time,” he’d told me, “laugh yourself silly. I don’t care if I’m naked when you do it. But not when I’m playing for you. Please.” He was so very serious about his music, and for some unknown reason, about me, too.

  Jake started singing again; pulling his Fender up as he tapped the neck, playing the interlude of a song they’d been working on, Falling Start.

  Avert your eyes. Don’t ask why. Just forget our name and I’ll forget it, too

  Cutting the ties. You know why. Forget you knew me. I’ll forget you, too

  Instead of a perfectly timed pick-up in the melody, Jakes fingers banged out an off-tempo fumbling. With obvious frustration, Jake stopped playing, waved his hands to the other two band members, and the music ground to a halt.

  He cursed his apology before turning to me with a familiar look. One eyebrow slightly raised, hazel eyes a little wider than normal. A look that said, ‘see, Angel, I told you.’

  “I thought it sounded really good.” My standard argument made him turn away.

  But it was true. And anyone who had never heard the song before would never know he messed up if he hadn’t stopped. But rehearsal wasn’t about showmanship, it was about perfecting the tune so when showtime came, they wouldn’t have to worry about mistakes.

  Jake signaled the band. Max began the tally, tapping his drumsticks together in countdown. Then, the chaos of notes began to swirl again. All at once, it was Max with his big drums, Jake nimbly fingering the frets of his guitar, and Andrew deepening the melody. Jake, who lived to play and whose main complaint was that the band seriously needed another guitar player to perfectly capture the sound he wanted, began flawlessly singing and playing the way he always had. It was an amazing thing to behold: one man playing both leads. Jake did it so well.

  I glanced at the clock mounted on the back wall of the garage above the Greatest Quotes poster and signaled to Jake. “I have to leave.” I screamed over the music, “I’ll be late.”

  Jake kept playing as he stepped away from the microphone. “I’ll take you.”

  I shook my head, moving towards him. I’d get to stay longer if I let him drop me off, but I didn’t want to interrupt rehearsal. “It’s not far.”

  “Tonight?” He asked, with a loaded smirk.

  “Yes, please,” I nodded.

  One, quick kiss was all he could afford, but he still managed to send my stomach fluttering. He eyed me up and down, mouthing the word, ‘sexy,’ as if accusing me. I grinned, feeling his eyes on me as I waived to all of them and hunched my way out of the half-open garage.

  Outside, the heat was just as intense, but there was a light breeze. I turned my face to the warm sky and strolled a few feet with my eyes closed, knowing there was nothing in my path and it was thirty strides to the corner.

  I hated leaving in the middle of rehearsals when my opportunities to watch felt so few and far between. Especially because, Jake was always in a great mood afterwards. Good was Jakes’ signature move—his way of life—he was always good, in every way. But the most relaxed and happy time of his day was after he played for a while. After shows, he was on another level.

  But it was Friday and that meant I had to pay a visit to Doctor Williams. It also meant that it was Jakes’ night off from work and the Foster would be working, too. I loved Fridays.

  11

  —Angel

  I kicked at the gravel on the sidewalk, dreading my appointment. I didn’t want to meet with Doctor Elena Williams. Her office smelled like bleach and floor polish, and when I was inside it, I’d spend most of my time pretending to be somewhere else.

  She seemed nice and all, but I don’t know that she ever helped me. Maybe it was her technique that didn’t jive. She was always asking questions about how my problems made me feel instead of telling me how to fix them. Kind of made me feel like she was full of shit, to be honest.

  She had a very snug space on the second floor at the county clinic. It was an all-purpose type of building with an emergency room and small hospital. There was a cancer clinic held one weekend a month, but the wing I visited was very small; used mainly for psychiatric care.

  Walking inside the small lobby, I headed straight for the elevator and waited.

  It was going to be bad.

  The sweat beading on my neck didn’t stop even though I was out of the heat. A rivulet slid down my back as I walked into her office and took my seat.

  “Hello, Miss Patel.”

  Her fingers clicked on a small, gray remote and the sounds of the ocean filled the room. Doctor Williams smiled cheerily while recorded seagulls called. She opened her notepad while running through the customary pleasantries. The ‘hi-how-are-you’s.

  Freaking therapist. No one addressed me by my last name, except her and my gym teacher.

  My last name is supposed to be Asian, but I’m not sure what kind—Middle Eastern or Oriental. I don’t look like either one. My eyes are all round and brown. Not thin and black. And my hair . . . well, it’s nearly the same color as my eyes and thin. Not thick and black. But I love the dry heat and can get a wicked tan when I want.

  When I was little, I would obsess over not knowing. I used to wish I’d been born in Ancient China. So much so, that inside my head, I built a hazy world set on a mystical mountain top, up so high the only scenery was shrouded in purple, magic clouds. There wasn’t a soul in sight to witness my birth. Not even my mother. (My shrink said it had something to do with abandonment issues, but wha
tever.) I was a daughter of the sky, sheltered by ancient trees and fed by lotus blossoms. Long, lush vines dressed me in flower petals and velvety green leaves.

  I could imagine that place so vividly, that I sometimes wondered if it was real, if I was reincarnated and remembering things I wasn’t supposed to, from past lives. That made me wonder if reincarnation was an actual thing, because sometimes I felt ancient. Well, stretched beyond my years, anyways.

  My birth certificate was a contradictory piece of evidence to those ideas. It said that I was born in a hospital in Flagstaff during the month of September to a mother who was only twenty when she had me. The bracket labeled ‘Father’ was left blank. So, the part-mystery-Asian-thing was a much more likely possibility than being birthed by nature on a misty mountain top.

  +++

  “Angel, you’re drifting, again,” Doctor Williams said.

  “No, I am attempting to ignore you.” I sighed and tried to let go of the associated stress.

  The ocean sounds dissipated as she turned the boom box volume down to background noise and gave a good-natured chuckle.

  “You said you’d tell me about her. You have to try.”

  “Hm, let’s see . . .” I tried not to sound sarcastic. “She’s dead,” I announced with an eye roll, because that was what we’d always come back to. Every problem I ever had was born of my dead mother.

  For three months, we had been building up to it, to me telling her what I remembered about my mother. She used the months to prime me with a trigger phrase, “that day,” which she said in very a particular way, in a slow, relaxed voice. But I fought her every time. I didn’t want to remember. Half the time, the anxiety that memory triggered made my head hurt—just knowing she was going to use it soon did, too. The other half of the time, I’d imagine my ears melting off my head, sliding into a puddle on the floor. Then, I’d wrap my arms tight across my chest and stuff my fingers into the creases at my elbows and pinch. Not hard enough to leave a mark. If I let myself do what I really wanted—curl up and drift away—she would have had a field day.