by BB Easton
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was the best thing that ever happened to me…until I met you,” he added, snuggling his face into my neck and giving me a scruffy kiss on the clavicle. I purred and rubbed my cheek against his soft, wild hair. “While I was stuck in my room, recovering from surgery, I learned how to play all my favorite songs on the guitar. Then I moved on to the bass. Then drums. By the time I started eleventh grade, I could play every song on The Downward Spiral album on three different instruments. I healed up enough that I could have gone back to playing soccer, but the guys needed a bass player, so I joined Phantom Limb instead.”
“Phantom Limb!” Trip called out in his rock-star voice, stumbling down the stairs from the first-floor deck.
Hans and I turned our heads and watched his descent. Trip was shirtless, sunburned as fuck, and wearing a green silk kimono.
“Dude, why are you wearing my mom’s robe?” Hans laughed.
“First of all”—Trip held a hand up in Hans’s face as he breezed behind the armchair and grabbed a piece of cold pizza out of the box on the bar—“that’s sexist. Second”—he took a bite and continued with his mouth full—“shit got crazy after y’all left last night.”
“Oh shit. You didn’t let Victoria and Steven pull you in for a threesome, did you?” Hans asked, only partly joking.
“Let’s just say, I found out that I look damn good in pigtails.”
I squealed. Hans groaned. And Trip beamed with a mouthful of pizza.
“Pssh. I’m just kiddin’. I wouldn’t let Steven touch my ding-a-ling with Hans’s hand.” Trip’s deep brown eyes lit up. “Hey! Speaking of Hans and ding-a-lings, somebody here got the long dong last night! Am I right?” Trip pointed at me with his half-eaten pizza. “Girl, I bet you’re walkin’ with a limp today, huh?”
I laughed as Hans glared at Trip, trying to look mad. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” I said, giving Hans a teasing look before returning my attention to Trip. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m gonna make it. I think he might have ruptured my spleen.”
Trip shrugged and took another bite. “The dong’ll do that to ya. But you’ll be all right; I’m pretty sure you got two spleens. And, hey, if you don’t, LDH here’ll probably give you his. He’s sweet like that.”
I glanced back at Hans, who gave me that shy little smile I loved. The one where the corners of his mouth barely turned upward, but his dimples and sparkling eyes gave him away.
“You know,” I said just loud enough for him to hear, “I kinda have a thing for guys with tattoos who would die for me.”
Hans’s shy smile split into a grin as his eyes dropped to my lips. “Well, you found one,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “You already have my heart; why not take my spleen to match?”
As I swooned and kissed my big, tattooed teddy bear, Trip exclaimed, “Dude, that’s some good shit!” Drumming on the bar with his pizza crust, he sang, “You already have my heart, bitch. Why not take my spleen to maaaaaatch?”
Hans and I cracked up. I loved the sound of his laughter. The feel of his hard, warm body all around my small, cold one. His scruffy five o’clock shadow on my soft cheek. I loved the way he literally wore his heart on his sleeve, scrawling lyrics in ballpoint pen on the tender underbelly of his arm. I loved that Hans was strong enough and brave enough and confident enough to be vulnerable. To show me exactly how he felt without fear of ridicule or rejection. He might not have been as tough or aggressive as Knight and Harley, but to me, Hans was by far more fearless.
But mostly, I loved the way he loved me. The moment Hans appeared in my life, I felt as if a switch had been flipped. I suddenly had access to colors I’d never seen before. Feelings I’d never felt. Memories I’d lost a lifetime ago. And a level of connection I didn’t know was possible. I’d found my soul mate.
Now all I had to do was tell my parents.
“Ringo likes him,” I said, watching our golden retriever cock his head to the side as Hans scratched him behind the ear.
“So does your dad,” my mom replied, handing me another dish to dry. “They have so much in common.”
I peeked into the living room again. My father was sitting on the couch, where he spent most of his waking hours, tuning his favorite cherry-red Fender Stratocaster and regaling Hans about his glory days as a long-haired rocker in the late ’60s and ’70s. Hans was holding the Les Paul my dad had thrust into his arms but was clearly paying more attention to Ringo than my dad’s tales of stardom. Not that he would even notice. My dad was in monologue mode. All Hans had to do was nod every once in a while.
I walked back over to the kitchen counter where my mom had piled up a few more serving bowls for me to dry. “God, they do have a lot in common, don’t they?”
My mom didn’t look at me as she scrubbed spaghetti sauce from a pan, the water so hot, it steamed on contact. Her brow was creased, and her long red hair, usually loose and flowing, had been pulled over one tie-dye-covered shoulder in a tight braid.
“What’s wrong, Mom? You don’t like him?”
She smiled in a way that only touched the bottom half of her freckled face and turned, handing me the squeaky-clean hunk of metal to dry. “Oh no, he’s lovely. So handsome. And sweet. And you can tell he’s just crazy about you. You deserve to be treated like a princess, especially after…you know.”
You know was the term my mom used to refer to Knight, Harley, the car accident, my hospitalization for anorexia the year before, my birth control prescription—basically anything she didn’t want to talk about.
“So, you’re okay with me staying at his house for a couple of weeks?”
Or months.
“Honey, I learned a long time ago that telling you no is about as effective as putting a fire out with gasoline.” My mom gave me a sad smile. “I’m gonna miss you though. I can’t believe you’re already starting college and moving out. You’re only seventeen. Why do you have to be so damn smart and grown-up already?”
I set the pot and dish towel down and gave my favorite lady a hug. “I’ll be back, Mom. It’s just a few weeks.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but on the inside, my heart was breaking just as much as hers.
I’d never been away from my mom longer than a few days. She was my person. My mother, my sister, my best friend. She was the one who’d helped me pick up the pieces after Knight shattered my heart. After Harley shattered my body. She was the one who’d taken care of me when I was sick, encouraged me when I was well, and comforted me when I was sad. I didn’t want to leave her, but our time together had expired while we were busy just trying to get by.
I’d grown up too fast, and now, there was no going back.
“I know.” She sniffled. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. You know how musicians are.”
Our warm embrace turned into an icy prison the second the words left her mouth. I pulled away and looked into earthy green eyes the color of mine, creased in fine lines and wearing far less makeup.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
My mom sighed and shook her head.
“What about musicians?”
She frowned. “Honey, you know how your daddy is. Your uncle Chandler. They’re very sweet, but they can also be very selfish and…irresponsible.”
Irresponsible was her nicest way of saying drunk, full of shit, passed out all day, and incapable of keeping steady employment.
I folded my arms over my chest and glared out the window above the sink, throwing shade at the mildewed birdbath in the backyard.
“He’s not like that, Mom. He’s…generous. He’s levelheaded. He never even gets wasted at parties. If anything, he takes care of me.”
“Good. That’s good, honey. I hope it stays that way.”
When I didn’t look back at her, my mom cleared her throat. “Hey, do you know what you call a musician without a girlfriend?”
“What?” I asked, giving her a sideways glance.
“Homeless.”
I snorted out a little laugh. “Where’d you hear that one?”
“From your dad.” She laughed too.
“Nobody’s perfect, right?” I asked, offering a truce.
“No, I suppose not,” she said, accepting it. “Hans seems very nice, honey. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
I smiled as the first few bars of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” blared from an amplifier in the living room.
“I am, Mom. I really, really am.”
September 1999
“Hey, can you guys turn that down? I’m trying to study!” I shouted from the doorway of the master bedroom.
I’d been holed up in there for hours, burning off calories I hadn’t even consumed on the Oppenheimers’ top-of-the-line treadmill while simultaneously poring over grainy images of biblical paintings in my European Renaissance Art History textbook.
“What’s that?” Trip yelled back from the living room. “You want me to turn it up?” The volume on whatever first-person-shooter video game they were playing got louder, filling all five thousand square feet with the sounds of grunting and gunshots. It was better than the sound of grunting and cum shots, which usually filled the air whenever Trip was over and had control of the TV.
I was about to stomp out there and smack the remote out of his hand when I heard Hans do it for me.
“Hey!” Trip exclaimed as the volume finally decreased.
“Thank you, baby!” My voice echoed through the cavernous house.
“You’re welcome, baby,” he rumbled back.
“Blow me, baby!” Trip chimed in, followed by what sounded like a whack to the back of the head. “Ow! That’s not how you do it, fucker. Here, let me show you.”
I could hear Baker and Kevin laughing as Hans cursed and knocked over something heavy, trying to fight off Trip’s advances. Smiling to myself, I closed the door and turned back around.
The opulence of the room hit me like a solar flare, stopping me dead in my tracks. I wondered if I’d ever get used to it. The space. The splendor. The perfect triangular vacuum tracks left on the plush champagne-colored carpet by the housekeeper. I’d been living in that palace for over a month, and I still had to stop and physically pinch myself sometimes.
Standing in the Oppenheimers’ master bedroom with its twelve-foot-tall vaulted ceiling, exposed wooden beams, and billowy custom drapes pulled open to reveal a view of the sunset over Lake Lanier, I was definitely having one of those please don’t let this be a dream moments.
My feelings of awe and unworthiness only grew when I heard the door open behind me. Turning, I found the handsome prince who’d whisked me away to that castle filling the doorway. He casually reached up and grabbed the top of the doorframe with one hand, causing his black Motörhead T-shirt to ride up a few inches. A sliver of tan skin and rippled muscles peeked out from between the hem of his shirt and the studded belt holding up his low-slung black jeans, just enough to make my breath falter.
Hans and I didn’t speak at first. We just stood there, salivating over one another until our pupils finished dilating.
Eventually, Hans held up his cell phone with a smirk and said, “My mom wants to talk to you.”
Your mom? I mouthed, my heart rate kicking up a notch. Am I in trouble?
“No,” Hans whispered, cupping his free hand over the speaker. “But I think I am.”
Hans held out the phone again. That time, I took it. Hesitantly.
Holding the little black device up to my ear, I cringed and said, “Hi, Mrs. Oppenheimer,” in my cheeriest voice.
“Hi, BB. How are you, my dear?” Her voice was soft and warm, her accent definitely German. I liked her instantly.
“I’m great, thanks. How’s your trip so far?”
“Eet’s been vonderful. My husband is going a little—how do you say?—stir-crazy. But ve are having a very nice time. Ze Grand Canyon vas my favorite.”
“I’d love to see it sometime,” I replied, shrugging at Hans.
“BB, I need your help vid somezing. It seems as zough my son forgot to pay ze mortgage and utilities at ze end of ze month. Do you sink you could help him vid zat?”
I stifled a laugh and looked at Hans, who was smiling guiltily. “Sure, Mrs. Oppenheimer. What do I need to do?”
“Oh, please. Call me Helga.”
Helga walked me through where to find her checkbook, how to pay the mortgage, electricity, water, gas, cable, and phone bills, informed me about the food allowance, and even put me in charge of watering her plants. She did not tell me I could drive her brand-new BMW Z3 convertible, but she also didn’t tell me I couldn’t.
By the time I got off the phone, I was an honorary estate manager. But, more importantly, I was Helga Oppenheimer’s personal hero.
“Dude, your mom fucking loves me,” I bragged, pressing the End button and handing the phone back to Hans.
“I fucking love you,” he said, shoving the device into his pocket. “You done in here yet? I miss you.” Hans’s bottom lip poked out a little bit in a genuine pout.
“I miss you, too.” I wanted to grab his ears and kiss a smile back onto his pitiful face, but I had to stay strong. “I just have so much fucking homework tonight. I’m sorry, baby. I have to know the artist, year, and original location for, like, fifty paintings by tomorrow. And”—I walked over to the Oppenheimers’ solid cherry California-king sleigh bed and picked up the VHS tape that had tumbled out of my backpack—“I still have to watch this movie for my film class and somehow squeeze in a shower.”
I tossed the movie back onto the bed in exasperation as Hans crossed the room and pulled me into his arms.
“Can I help?” he asked, resting his chin on the top of my head.
“Really?” I spoke into his chest as he ran a firm hand down my back. Hans didn’t do it lightly anymore. Now, he knew I was ticklish. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“What if we do all of it at the same time?”
“What? How?” I grimaced up at his handsome, hopeful face.
Hans tipped his head toward the ostentatious mahogany entertainment console facing the foot of the bed. “What if I hook the TV up in the bathroom? Then we can study, in the tub, while we watch the movie.”
I beamed at his brilliance. “And I thought boys weren’t supposed to be able to multitask.”
Hans laughed. “I’m so ADD, all I do is multitask.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s just called getting distracted in the middle of what you were—”
“Shh.” Hans placed a callused fingertip over my lips and whispered, “Multitasking.”
Goddamn, he was adorable.
While Hans set up the TV, I went outside to smoke a much-needed study-break cigarette. When I got back, after having my retinas scarred by whatever sick Japanese porno Trip, Baker, and Kevin were watching in the living room, the scene in the bathroom rendered me speechless. This wasn’t a please don’t let this be a dream moment. This was an I’ve officially died and gone to heaven moment. I didn’t want to be dead, but if being dead meant I could climb into that candlelit garden tub with that tattooed, hard-bodied bass player, I would have tap-danced to the executioner’s block.
Hans pressed play on Everyone Says I Love You and turned toward me, his proud smile falling away as soon as he saw my face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
I pressed my lips together and shook my head, trying to tell him that nothing was wrong, but the tears threatening to spill from my eyes said otherwise.
“Come here, baby.” Hans’s voice sounded like leather, smooth and warm and strong, as he took a step toward me with his arms spread.
I folded into him on contact, trying to press my very cells into his pores. Much like his house, I wondered if I would ever get used to the beauty that was Hans himself. His thoughtful acts of kindness continually caught me off guard, reopening the poorly healed wounds of my past at every turn.
I hadn’t realized that no one had ever bought me flowers until I came home from wor
k and almost tripped over a dozen red roses waiting for me in the foyer. It hadn’t occurred to me that no one had ever bothered to take me on a real date until I saw Hans standing outside of a Georgia Dome restroom, holding a stuffed monster truck. And there, staring at a whirlpool tub illuminated by candles and a cozy Woody Allen movie, I realized that I’d never experienced romance at all.
I’d given myself away to assholes, and now Hans was left holding nothing but the wrapper.
“You okay?” he asked, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of my messy, bleach-blonde head.
I nodded into his chest.
“You wanna talk about it?”
I shook my head and sniffled.
Hans ran his hand—firm, not gentle—down my back. “You wanna get in the tub and tell me which one of the Ninja Turtles painted the Sistine Chapel?”
I snorted a little laugh and said, “Michelangelo.”
“He’s the one who’s always eating pizza, right?”
I nodded again.
“He’s my favorite.”
I squeezed Hans tighter. “Mine too.” I sniffled into his T-shirt. “Sorry I’m such a little bitch. I just…I fucking love you so much, it makes me cry, and I’m not even a crier.” I laughed in embarrassment, releasing him with one hand to wipe my eyes with the heel of my palm.
“I feel the exact same way.” Hans’s voice was choked with emotion. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down against the side of my head, and he took a steadying breath. “Last night, after we finished rehearsing in the basement, I came upstairs and found you asleep on my side of the bed. I don’t know why, but I…I just sat down and cried.”
“Oh my God, baby.” I looked up at Hans’s hard face, unable to hide all the softness inside. “You should have woken me up.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up slightly as he shook his head. “No. You looked so beautiful, so tiny in that huge bed. I couldn’t wake you up. I couldn’t even process it. You know? That something so perfect had been waiting up for me. I felt like the biggest piece of shit and the luckiest bastard on earth, all at the same time.”