Exit Stage Six: A Contemporary New Adult Romance Novella

by A. J. Downey

  Exit Stage Six

  by A. J. Downey

  Text copyright ©2014 A.J. Downey

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  To my fiancé, the real rock star in our relationship who more often times ends up more like a roadie than in the spotlight. You are an incredible hardworking man and I love you. Keep on keepin’ on!

  “There are five stages go the grieving process. They don’t come in any particular order, they aren’t any of them pleasant… They just are what they are and you can’t go around them or skip any of them, you just have to go through them, feel them all and come out the other side. That’s his reality right now, and he needs people strong enough to hold him up through the worst parts. “ –London Greene

  Prologue

  The news report came back from commercial break with the loud and serious peal of music denoting an intense story.

  Breaking news! Flashed across the screen in bold gold letters on a blue and white background. The news station’s colors…

  “Singer songwriter Drake Tremaine of Elysium fame was found dead of an apparent suicide in his lake front home this morning. Friends and bandmates of the troubled rocker reported to Metro PD that they were concerned for Tremaine’s wellbeing after he missed several recording sessions with them this week.

  His body was found by his best friend and band mate Dorian Metzger, who is the lead guitarist for the band.

  A candle light vigil is being organized for fans of the late singer at City Center for tomorrow night. Stay tuned for more information as we receive it. I’m Alyssa Donning with MCTV news.”

  “Oh no…” I murmured, lowering my plate in the sink. Like a lot of people I was a fan of Elysium’s music…

  “What’s wrong sweetie?” my mom asked.

  “I like that band…” I said, “They’re really talented.”

  I had no idea how much the late breaking news story was going to change my life. So often when things like that happen, people have the same reaction that I did, a pang of sorrow, a moment of silence and then the moment passes and it’s life as usual.

  That was what I experienced in that moment. I felt a moment of empathetic sadness for the band, for the man’s family, and for the rest of his fans who would never enjoy another new song written by him. Then I turned off the sink, set my plate and fork in the drain board and went on with my evening…

  What else could I do?

  Stage 1

  Denial & Isolation

  Chapter 1

  I got off the bus, hands loaded with two reusable canvas grocery bags that were heavy, the straps cutting painfully across my palms as I lugged them down the block to my apartment. It was so late it was early and I was dog tired. I blinked and for a moment wondered if I was seeing things right.

  A small box truck was parked in front of my building, a young man, my age, maybe mid-twenties unloading it by himself.

  “Hi.” I murmured, passing him.

  “Hey.” He grunted in return, a cardboard box that had seen better days clutched between his hands.

  He followed me up the stairs and I felt the spot between my shoulder blades prickle. I reached the second landing and stopped in front of my apartment door. He kept going, putting his sneakered foot on the first step to continue up to the third and final floor when I heard rather than saw the bottom of his box give way.

  “Shit!” he swore with feeling as books, magazines and papers scattered on the landing.

  “Oh! Uh… Hang on.” I said and unlocked the door to my tiny studio. I dumped my groceries in a heap in my entry way.

  “You don’t have to do that…” he said but I was already on my knees, pulling magazines together to shove them into one of my reusable bags for him.

  “No, really… you don’t… unugh… Thanks.” He muttered, giving in and finally helping me when he realized I had no intentions of stopping. I thrust the first stack into one of the bags and bit my lip to keep myself from laughing.

  “This is really embarrassing.” He admitted and I nodded and quickly helped him get the last of what was apparently his porn collection off the landing. I handed him the bag and he reached out to take it.

  It was dim out here in the stairwell and I had yet to turn on a light in my apartment, I could see his lean arm was corded with muscle and covered from wrist to shoulder in brightly colored tattoos. I looked up into his face and my breath caught and I wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner.

  He was just masculine enough to keep him from being pretty. His face was clean shaven, but his hair hung lank, like he needed a shower. It was dark, dyed black rather than naturally colored that way. I could tell because rather than reflect any of the ambient light out here it absorbed it. His eyes were a light color, but I couldn’t tell which, and blinked at me as if he expected me to say something. His lashes were long and the type any woman would kill for and all I could think was my God how do I get him to agree to let me take some pictures? He continued to stare at me and I realized I must have missed something he’d said.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

  “I said thanks and asked what your name was.” He looked uneasy.

  “Sorry, yeah… long night. You’re welcome, I’m London, London Greene.” I held out my hand and he shook it.

  “Evan. Evan Lake.” He said. His palm was warm and dry against my own, his long fingers curving around the back of my hand.

  “London Greene?” he asked, “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I said and winced, my two names together sounded like they belonged in some novel or poem. People asked me all the time if it was from some quote or other. No, nope… my parents had simply named me after the city in which I was conceived. Yay me.

  “Sorry.” He said.

  “Taking the third floor?” I asked.

  “Yeah, looks like I’m above you…” he let go of my hand and palmed the back of his neck, the two grocery totes of porn hanging forgotten from his other hand.

  “Right, well, good night Evan. It was nice to meet you.” I smiled.

  “Uh yeah, thanks for letting me borrow these, you going to be up a minute?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m just getting home. The fabulous life of a bartender.” I sang the last out. He quirked half a smile.

  “I’ll uh be right back with your bags.” He said and took the stairs two at a time.

  I stepped over the pile of groceries in my entry way and began picking things up, walking them past my bed and into the kitchen. A studio was all I could afford. My mom doled out what I needed from what remained of my father’s life insurance. That and a partial scholarship took care of school, but I was on my own when it came to a place to live and the arts college I went to didn’t have dormitories. So I worked three nights a week, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights at one of the clubs as a bartender to afford my one room palace.

  Hey, at least the bathroom was big and had no windows. Made a great darkroom with a little creativity.

  A light rap came at my open apartment door. I went down the short hall passed my bathroom door and reached out for the two empty bags.

  “Thanks.” I said.

  “Thanks again.” He said and waved.

  “Sure, I’ll see you around.” I said cheerfully and he nodded absently, waving over his shoulder as he went back down the stairs. I closed the door on his retreating back and locked it at the doorknob, deadbolt and shot the chain.

  I sighed and finished putting away the groceries. Sundays to Mondays were the toughest for me, I had to be to class by nine am and right now it was four-thirty. I had just enough time for a three hour
nap but sleep was elusive tonight. My thoughts drifting to the new neighbor thumping up and down the stairs and then around above me.

  Who moves in at four-thirty in the freaking morning on a Monday morning!? It was totally bizarre.

  I didn’t have too much time to think about it. I put away my groceries quickly and got ready for bed.

  I had school in the morning.

  Chapter 2

  The next time I saw Evan was days later. I stepped out of my apartment and was locking it up behind me when I smelled it. I turned around. Evan was standing on the landing at the railing, looking out over the old brick building’s courtyard. A black cigarette clutched loosely between the index and middle finger of his hand. He stared vacantly out in the direction of the courtyard but I could tell he didn’t really see it. He was leaned back against the alcove, feet crossed at the ankle in front of him.

  He was a cutting figure, standing there like that, elbow propped on the railing, smoke curling lazily up before him. The thumb of his opposite hand hooked in the belt loop of his jeans which were torn out at the knee and even in a couple spots on one thigh, cuffs frayed and hanging sloppily over half laced worn out black combat boots.

  He wore a black wife beater and his tattoos radiated vibrant and alive from shoulder to wrist, his entire right arm covered with a sleeve depicting blue water, green lily pads, pink flowers and what appeared to be two giant golden fish at odds with each other.

  I raised my camera which I’d looped around my neck, oh so carefully and lined up the shot. His left side was perfectly in shadow and the natural light was perfect. Highlighting his angelic face with its vacant green eyed stare… Green, his eyes were green and the most brilliant shade too…

  Click!

  His head snapped in my direction and his expression darkened with a heat lightning flash of anger that swirled and diminished into surprise when he saw me standing there.

  “Did you just take my picture!?” he demanded. I lowered my vintage Canon AE-1, hitting the switch to advance the film.

  “Sorry,” I said, “The light was perfect and the way you were standing… I’m a photography student at…” I stumbled over my words as his expression grew darker and darker, he looked like he was going to yell at me but then his expression softened and he raked a hand through his hair, holding it back from his eyes which softened marginally.

  “I don’t like having my picture taken.” He ground out and looked down at his sweet smelling cigarette.

  “I’m sorry…” I said and he glared at nothing in particular, I swallowed. “I mean it’s really a shame, you’re kind of my idea of perfect…” his head snapped up and I felt like I simultaneously went a whiter shade of pale and flushed a brilliant shade of crimson.

  “Just don’t do it again.” He said and went back to his vacant staring.

  “Okay.” I agreed, feeling vaguely ill at my classless word vomit of a moment before.

  I started down the stairs.

  “Hey!” he called and I looked up through the slats of the flight above me.

  “Don’t show anyone the one you took either alright?” he asked and he looked troubled.

  “Evan are you all right?” I asked, brow wrinkling with concern. Paranoid much?

  “Yeah.” He said startled, “Yeah I’m fine.”

  Fine.

  Uh huh… and I was the living embodiment of the city I’d been named after. Queen of its country in fact.

  “Okay.” I nodded and continued down the stairs and out of sight. I turned and looked back up and he was still at the railing, staring sightlessly out over the courtyard which was just beginning to turn green with the first hints of spring. I ducked back into the alcove that would lead me out to the street and raised my camera. The naked branches of the tree stood out blurry in the bottom of the frame when I focused on my new mysterious neighbor. It too would have been an interesting shot.

  I hesitated.

  I had told him I wouldn’t take any more pictures but… but… ugh! I lowered my camera and huffed out a sigh. Telling me not to photograph Evan Lake was like telling the neighborhood fat kid not to touch that last piece of cake and then leaving him alone in the room with it.

  I went to raise my camera again but Evan saved me from my dilemma by stubbing out his clove cigarette on the sole of his boot before tromping up the stairs, disappearing behind the brick façade of our building.

  I felt a mixture of relief and regret.

  It really would have made a great shot.

  I sighed and moved out onto the street and began walking. I needed to shoot an entire roll, get it developed, choose three photos, scan them into my computer and manipulate them by adding color all by the end of the next week for my midterm.

  Didn’t seem like much when you thought about it buuuuut I still had work, a full class load of other assignments. Unlike most people who just shot digital, I still used film it made for quite a few extra steps in the process but it was worth it in the end to me. What can I say? I liked, no loved, old things.

  I made long strides up the cracked sidewalk and stopped every once in a while to contemplate this or that before choosing to go the direction of the park.

  It almost always had something good for the camera in it.

  I had a hell of a time, my thoughts constantly drifting back to Evan and his vacant stare into the nothing. Something was wrong. I could tell, but what I didn’t know was what. Maybe I would find out, maybe I wouldn’t.

  I finally decided that he looked hurt or sad about something. I’d been seeing the look a lot on the faces of Elysium fans in the last week. I paused at a memorial for Drake Tremaine in the park’s center and focused my camera on a lit candle. I leaned forward and tried to get the candle in perfect focus but the flowers, notes, letters and stuffed animals surrounding it just out of focus.

  I achieved what I was after and snapped the photo.

  Evan certainly dressed the part of an Elysium fan. His look screamed alternative rocker. Of course so did half my building’s inhabitants. It was cheap studio apartment housing off campus yet close to campus for an arts college. There were a lot of eclectic artsy folk that dressed one stereotype or another. Myself notwithstanding.

  Take today for instance. Today my long slim legs were encased in warm black leggings, a black turtleneck sweater over them that hit me mid-thigh. I had a wide black belt with a large silver buckle stylishly canted at my hips. I completed the look with knee high black leather riding boots.

  My camera around my neck on its strap, my small black purse crossways over my chest, my long straight chestnut hair in a chignon knot and out of my face… I screamed photographer even without the benefit of the camera. Of course I probably screamed fashion photog rather than photo journalist which is what I was actually in school for, but still, the stereotype was alive and well and embodied by me just the same.

  I raised my camera and lowered it, thoughts trailing back to Evan standing so still on the landing earlier… I huffed out a breath.

  God, obsessed much!?

  I looked at the frame count left on the camera. I had a roll of 24 in it and hadn’t even gotten half way through it. I looked at my watch and headed for home. I had to get ready for work.

  Chapter 3

  It was a week since the mysterious Evan Lake had moved in above me. I hadn’t heard or seen a single visitor in that time, and had caught him at least twice more on the landing, cigarette burning down between his fingers, eyes far away, staring and vacant. I would say hello and ask him how he was and the answer was always a variation of the same thing…

  I’m good, or fine… or I’m fine…

  He was fine all right but he wasn’t fine, or even close to okay. Dark circles ringed beneath his green eyes and I could hear him playing music through my ceiling, though not enough to make out the words or even what band he was playing. It was rock music though, which fit in line with his look.

  I had time today so I decided to try and really break the ice and s
o I baked cookies. I had a plate of warm and gooey, fresh from the oven, chocolate chip cookies balanced on one hand, a glass carafe of milk in the other. I was standing outside his apartment door contemplating how to knock without setting anything down when it opened. I smiled brightly, he looked up from shrugging on his leather biker jacket and blinked in surprise.

  “Oh, hey.” He said.

  “Sorry did I catch you going out?” I asked.

  “Uh, yeah, thought that was pretty obvious.” He said and I winced inwardly. He must think I am such a dork… I held out the plate of cookies and milk.

  “I wanted to say welcome to the building!” he stared down at the plate of cookies for a long couple of moments and stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

  “Thanks.” He said and walked past me without taking them.

  I blinked and tried not to let it hurt my feelings.

  I set the plate, covered in saran wrap as it was, by his door and took the milk back down to my apartment.

  Why did the beautiful ones always end up being jerks?

  Stage 2

  Anger

  Chapter 4

  “Persistent aren’t you?” I pulled my camera away from my face and looked over. Evan stood several feet away, hands jammed in his jean pockets.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I said you’re persistent.” The wind blew a lock of his hair against his forehead and into his eyes and I raised my camera without thinking and snapped the picture. He looked annoyed.

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t take anymore pictures.” He scowled.

  “Yeah well, that was for you being a jerk about the cookies.” I countered, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, about that. I had someplace I needed to be.” He grimaced.

  “I left them anyways.” I said.

  “I know, they were good. Needed milk though.” He pushed the hair out of his eyes.

  “I tried to bring that too.” I reminded him and again he looked annoyed.