by Susan Ward
“I want you.”
He moves deeper in me and stops. No! Jesus what does he want? His hands and his lips are moving across me and my flesh is all sensation and his touch is all consuming. I try to move again and he won’t let me. Peeking over my shoulder, I find him watching me. He looks so serious, his breathing is ragged and his perfect white teeth parted. I don’t know why he’s looking at me that way. I don’t know what he wants.
He moves and I moan into the pillow, feeling my body melt away into the feel of him. He starts to move faster and faster, holding my hips, and it’s so unexpected, so wonderfully filling to be taken like this. I am close. I am starting to understand the delicious signals of my body.
Oh god, I am completely absorbed with Alan: with his body; his meanness; his tenderness; his mess; his unpredictability.
“You are here, Chrissie,” he breathes, “because I’m in love with you,” and I have a startled moment of reaction before his arms tighten around my middle as he releases himself into me.
* * *
I curl on the edge of the bed, facing away from Alan, naked, awake and not talking.
“There are clubs open. Do you want to go out?” Alan asks. I ignore the question. He refills his cocktail glass, lights a cigarette and waits. “Do you want to sleep?”
Into my silence he just stares, beautiful, enigmatic, and frustrating.
“Nope. I’m not tired.” My voiced is clipped. “I want to talk.”
“OK. About what?”
I turn in bed to face him. “You being an asshole.”
He grins. “Not my favorite topic, but nothing new.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He watches me, unruffled. “Are we finished?”
“Not exactly.”
“There’s more?”
“I was referring to you saying that you love me. Don’t mess with my head, Alan. Like you said, I’m already a pretty fucked up girl. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
Those black eyes swivel and fix on me. “Don’t ever tell me how I feel.”
“You can’t love me. You don’t even know me.”
He closes his eyes and starts to laugh. “Oh, Chrissie. I know you. I know you better than you know yourself.” He reaches up and gently wipes away a tear with his thumb that I didn’t know had fallen. “We are so alike it’s scary.”
I push his hand away. “I’m not like you at all.”
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Fuck, I’m playing the honesty card first. I’m not messing with your head, Chrissie. Cut me some slack if I haven’t done it well. I’ve never done it before. It seems necessary with you.”
“It is totally unnecessary. I don’t want anything from you other than what we’re doing.”
Now his eyes are burning. “And what exactly is that, Chrissie?”
The words clog in my throat, my thoughts jumble in my head, and I can feel her, the little girl inside of me who can spout meanness on a moment’s notice.
“Fucking until I go home.”
He closes his eyes and exhales. Then in a flash I am wrapped in a sheet and scooped from the bed. He is carrying me toward the door, but he keeps his eyes on me, unblinking. I can feel the tension in his body, and while nothing is showing on the surface, the anger is jolting through him.
Jesus Christ, we’re in the hallway. “What are you doing?” I scream in panic.
“I don’t think you’re worth the effort,” he whispers calmly.
“Then I’ll go, but if you put me in the elevator naked in a sheet I swear to god…” I grab hold of the doorway and try to stop him. “Put me down.”
“What the fuck do you want, Chrissie?” he growls.
Oh no. There is something in his face that warns me that I could blow this very easily. Fuck—truth or dare? Would he really dump me on the streets of New York undressed?
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper haltingly.
“I don’t want you to go either,” he counters, his voice raw. “Tell me why I should let you stay. You’re a fucking pain in the ass most of the time.”
And now I know. I know why he’s angry. I know why I am here. “Because I’m a messed up girl and you care about me.”
We stand together like this by the door for ages. He just holds me and very gradually relaxes, and I relax.
He lets out a shuddering breath. “You can trust me, you know. I saw it on your face. The uncertainty. I would never have put you out naked in a sheet.”
I nod. “I know.”
He kisses my forehead. “You don’t trust anyone, Chrissie, and that’s not a good thing. I want you to trust me. Not for me, Chrissie. For yourself. I think you really need to start trusting someone very soon.”
Everything in my body goes cold and numb. The way he said that, the look in his eyes. I’ve never had anyone stare at me with such knowing worry in their eyes. Not Rene. Not Jack. Not anyone.
* * *
I am alone in Alan’s bed when I wake. I roll over to check the clock. Holy crap, it’s two in the afternoon.
I settle back against my pillow and lift his pillow to my face. The smell of him is there. The smell of us. And the smell of sex. How funny that I can smell that now. The smell of sex.
I turn onto my side and stare at the closed door. Alan never closes the door when he leaves the room. He also never leaves me when I’m asleep. He is always here watching me when I wake.
I go into his bathroom to pee. I finger his things on the counter. It is all so neat and organized. My bathroom doesn’t look anything like this. My bathroom is a wreck, but there is a precision to everything in his world.
Alan is not your typical musician, not by a long shot.
Strange, but I haven’t heard any music since I’ve been here. I see the instruments. They are all throughout the apartment. He never picks them up. One of the world’s greatest guitarists and he never touches an instrument. I have never seen him play.
Weirdly, he is pathologically tidy. It isn’t just the apartment that is in perfect order. Alan is a creature of perfect order. If he cooks, he cleans. If we toss our clothes on the floor, he later takes them to the hamper. If he pulls something from a drawer or a shelf, he returns it to its exact place.
Unexpectedly, he is like a symphony in bed: at times quiet and slow; then passionate and building; then haunting and intense; then gentle and peaceful, but totally, all consuming. Every emotion can be unfurled in a single event.
I didn’t expect that. Not with his reputation. I expected a hard fuck and a harder goodbye. And I definitely never expected him to say he loves me. I’m still blown away by that and unable to get my head around it. If it is nothing more than typical Alan theatrics, I definitely don’t want to find out. I already have enough emotional overload without trying to navigate that one.
After about ten minutes of staring at the bedroom door, I make a face and then open it. I can hear people. I peek into the kitchen. Thank god it’s empty. I pad across the room, grab a cup and make a beeline for the coffeemaker.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
I whirl and the coffee sloshes from the pot and cup all over the floor. Shit! I anxiously put both on the counter and bend to wipe up my mess.
The woman crosses the room. “I’ll do that, Miss. Was there something you needed? Breakfast perhaps?”
I stop my stupid movements with the towel and drop the soaked cloth into her outstretched hand. Her expression is neither kind nor critical, she is not surprised to find me, and for a domestic she is far too young and beautiful.
“Would you care for breakfast?” she asks, rising slowly until she is towering above me.
I shake my head. “Where’s Alan?”
She raises a brow above an intense stare. She walks over to the counter, and in aggravation flips open a day planner. She skims the pages with a long, red manicured nail. “Manny has been gone since seven. He has fourteen interviews, a photo shoot and a meeting at the label.”
I take
a sip of coffee. He left without a goodbye and he’ll be gone all day. I look up to see the girl staring expectantly.
“Breakfast, or would you like me just to ring for a car?”
Ring for a car? Why did she ask me that? Has everything changed without me knowing it?
I flush. “I’ll just take the coffee.”
The cup is only half full because half went onto the tile, but I don’t refill it, I don’t add the cream and sugar, and I quickly leave the kitchen. I go back to the bedroom and shut the door. I sink on the floor. Would Alan really sick that dreadful girl on me to get rid of me without bothering with a goodbye? I stare at the phone.
I haven’t spoken to Rene in days and she would know the right move here.
I pull from my bag Mr. Thompson’s DC number and punch it into the phone.
I hardly get a word in before Rene says, “Chrissie, what the hell is going on? I’ve been calling you for four days. You haven’t called back. I’ve been worried sick. Where the fuck are you?”
That does it. The tears start. I’ve been fighting the tears since the kitchen, Alan is intense, and Rene is yelling and I never handle that well.
A long pause. A frustrated groan from Rene. “Why are you crying, Chrissie?”
“Would you please stop yelling at me?”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. You worried me. OK. What’s going on? Are you OK?”
I run the back of my hand up my dripping nose. “What question do you want me to answer first?”
“Where are you?”
I take a gulp of air. “I’ve been in Alan’s apartment for three days.”
“Oh my god. You finally did it. And you are telling me your first time was with Alan Manzone and its lasted three days.”
She starts to laugh.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” I say quietly.
Her laughter stops at once. “Why are you crying, Chrissie? Was it awful?”
“I don’t have anything to compare it with, but it wasn’t awful.” My lower lip quivers. “He’s just really intense and I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, so if you could be a good friend it would be a good thing.”
“Why overwhelmed?”
For some reason, that question unleashes a blow by blow news update of everything that has happened in the past four days, from CBGBs to being offered a car to leave in by that dreadful woman in the kitchen. Now that I’ve finally told someone, I feel calmer inside, less frantic, and it is all less scary.
“Oh shit! I forgot about Jimmy Stallworth,” Rene says cavalierly. “Completely forgot about him. Is he still pissed about the weed?”
“God, Rene. Who cares?”
“Jeez, you don’t have to be a bitch.”
“I need you to help me figure out what I should do. Do I leave? Do you think that’s how he gets rid of the girls when he’s tired of them?”
“Fuck no. You don’t leave. If he is going to be a bastard you make him be a bastard to your face.”
I point my feet until my big toes touch. “OK, I won’t leave.”
“Did you come?”
“Why do you have to be so personally invasive?” I can’t hide my exasperation. She’s just being Rene, but it’s irritating me today. “How are things in DC?”
Rene sighs in exasperation. “Less exciting than with you in New York. Who would have thought that?”
That gibe pricks me. “Definitely not you,” I say a touch more prickly than I want to.
“Chrissie, what did he say when he saw your body?” she continues. “What did he say when he saw the burns?”
I tense head to toe, now hugging my legs until I’m in a tight ball. I never let her see me nude and we’ve never talked about my burns. Until now I’ve never been really sure she knew.
“He kissed every scar,” I say quietly, trying to keep the emotion from my voice.
“Do you think he knew what they were? Guys are stupid. They don’t always get everything.”
“Yes.” My voice hitches up several octaves. “He knew. Besides I told him the truth.”
“You did?” Rene sounds astonished. “I’m glad you lost it to a guy who was kind. I would have never expected that to be Alan Manzone. When are you going back to the apartment?”
“I’m not. He wants me to stay with him while I’m in New York.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
I feel the tears and I fight them.
“Chrissie? What is it?”
“I feel different. There is something going on with me.”
“It’s the sex, Chrissie. It fucks up all your emotions. It passes. It’s just the sex.”
“No. It’s something else.”
“I can be in New York in two hours. Fuck the wedding, Chrissie. Do you need me there?”
The offer stuns me. It’s not like Rene to be generous and willing to drop everything for me.
“No. Don’t bother. I’m OK.”
“You sure?”
It’s strange, but I don’t want Rene. Whatever this is with Alan and me, I need to see it through on my own. “I’ll call you in a couple days,” I say quickly and hang up.
I climb into Alan’s bed and curl around his pillow. I stare at the door. A day alone. I don’t want to be alone, but at least in Alan’s apartment the air still feels of him. But the time alone is a very good thing. A few moments to be calm and think.
* * *
By 11 p.m. I am angry and climbing the walls of Alan’s bedroom. The noise from the apartment hasn’t ceased, and I am trapped here without even a phone call to tell me what’s up. Wouldn’t a phone call be a reasonable expectation? He left without a word, but at least he could let me know if he plans to return anytime soon.
I flick on the TV. There’s never anything worth watching, even though Alan has everything from BBC to some really awful porn stations. I stare at the cabinet where Alan said there were Polaroids of other girls if I want to burn them. I don’t know why I remember that, except it reminds me how little I really know about him.
The cabinet is a magnificent eighteenth or maybe nineteenth century armoire, deep, with a mirrored front, and graceful lines. It’s full of highly personal stuff and this is just plain wrong. Messed up.
There are letters from Linda, whoever Linda is, and family photos from when he was young. Such a cute little boy, but why does he look so sad? So very sad, even as a child. And older. Like a harsh, stressed forty-year-old and he can’t be more than ten.
Jeez, this must be a photo of Lillian, the terrible mother and magnificent agent. OK, not such a mystery why he’s sad. She intimidates the shit out of me pressed only on photo paper. Severe. No other word for her. Severe.
I rummage through the type of keepsakes that everyone keeps, little bits of this and that which only have significance to the person who retains them.
I pick up a small ceramic bowl that looks handmade by a child. It is lopsided and the colors don’t match and it makes me smile. What do they do to children? Teach them deliberately how to make awful pottery? I gave Jack a small bowl that looks almost exactly like this. I turn it over. Molly. I wonder who Molly is. Maybe Alan has a sister.
What I don’t find is a treasure trove of Polaroids. There are pictures, but none seem of a particular girl, and the collection has the feel of a friendship stack like Rene and I keep.
I’m lifting the pictures one by one, when suddenly I freeze. Why would Alan have a picture of me? God, and when was it taken? Maybe last year? I don’t remember the picture, I definitely don’t know how he got it, and I sure don’t know why he would have it.
I sink to the floor on my knees and turn the photo over. It’s a note from me to Jack. My freshman year photo, the one I gave to Jack to carry with him. But why would Alan have it?
Frowning, I tuck it back in its resting place on the shelf and then notice the cello case. Why would Alan have a cello? Does he play the cello? There is a note taped on it, and I open the note:
“Dear Chrissie, Please accept my
apologies for ruining your Christmas Holiday. Regards, Alan Manzone.”
I set the cello case on the floor, open it, and my mouth drops. Oh my god. I’ve never seen one except in a book, and I can’t even imagine what it cost. This is Alan’s idea of an apology gift for ruining Christmas for a girl he doesn’t even know?
It is a Domenico Montagnana, from the seventeen hundreds. Yo-Yo Ma has one. They are extremely sought-after by collectors and musicians, but no one can afford them and you don’t ever see one unless it’s being played by a virtuoso or in a museum.
I lightly finger the wood and then quickly pull back my hand. I shut the case and carefully return it to its resting place. I tuck the note back in the envelope, and then slip it beneath the tape.
Why would Alan buy me a Domenico Montagnana cello before he even knew me? I haven’t called Jack in days. I’ve been avoiding the emotional confusion of that experience, the weirdness of calling my dad from the apartment of a guy I’m sleeping with.
I crawl onto Alan’s bed and reach for the phone. What time is it in California? I check the clock. Eleven here means eight California time, right? Good, Jack should be home.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Dammit, Maria, answer the phone. Don’t send me to the service. A call back number would be a crummy thing at present.
“Hello?”
Finally, Jack.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Baby girl, I was just getting ready to call you…”
I tense.
“…I wanted to see how you were getting along without Rene and if you changed your mind about flying back early.”
I relax. “I’m doing well. Catching up on my reading. Seeing the sights.”
“So long as you are doing well.”
“I’m doing well.” A pause. We’ve run out of chitchat. You are not going to learn anything unless you ask, so here goes nothing. “Can I ask you something, Daddy?”
Jack laughs. “Sure, baby girl. You can ask me anything. No boundaries. No limits. You know that.”
He always says that, but I’ve never felt that, so this is going to be one of those trial-balloon moments.
“It’s just…” I run my tongue along my lips to wet them and take a deep breath. “Why would Alan Manzone give me a Domenico Montagnana cello as an apology for ruining my Christmas?”