Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1)

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Hey, AJ?” MJ’s mellow voice said.

  “Not a princess,” I told JC. “I think I’m going to add another degree or go to grad school.”

  “I can’t say I’m too surprised,” JC confessed. “You like books and to study, you should’ve gone into medicine. That’s like twelve years of your life behind a book.”

  I chuckle but don’t say anything back to him.

  “Other than continuing your professional education, are you okay?” MJ asked.

  “Yeah. I’m still upset about…” I washed away the thought. “Nothing I can’t fix by writing a few lyrics about how much I hate men.”

  The wave of sadness threatened to overtake me, and I fought hard not to let it.

  Strong.

  “I have just the singer in mind for that kind of music,” JC said. My brother sold songs to the perfect performers. “Amidala, have you heard of her? She’s the next Fiona Apple. Dad signed her a couple of months ago. We discovered her.”

  “I can’t say I have.” I wracked my brain trying to find out if I had heard of her at all. “But if you think she’ll do it justice, I’m all for it. Give me a week and I’ll get you a few songs. Now, I’ll make my guitar scream with rage if you two don’t mind. Any plans?”

  “Bar hopping,” JC said. “We’re trying to find fresh meat for Daddy.”

  I laughed because that sounded so wrong. Vampires finding new blood for the king, wolves with a tribute for the alpha… a new sub for the dom. When in truth they meant new musicians who had the talent and would work hard to make it big.

  “Does Daddy give you something special when you bring him offerings?” I asked him.

  “No, but our names will appear as producers on their songs and albums.”

  Ah, that made a lot of sense.

  “If our musical child makes money, we make money. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re hunting wabbits, so we have to be willy, willy quiet.”

  “I love you two,” I said between laughs.

  They had lightened my mood along with my night.

  “Likewise,” they both said and hung up.

  An angry song, hmmm. Should I sing about Porter, the asshole?

  Instead of strumming Breezy gently, as George Harrison sang, I wanted to smash it against the floor like Peter Townsend from The Who used to do after his concerts. But then Breezy would be dead, and I would cry even more.

  My parents gave me Breezy for my eighth birthday. It was a bigger guitar than what I should’ve gotten, but I fell in love with her when I went to pick one from the crafter. Handmade, one of a kind.

  Play, tell the world how much men suck, Breezy murmured.

  The sound of a sliding door opening interrupted my concentration but instead of stopping, I played the song again. It frustrated me that I was losing the privacy I thought I had, but I tried to work on ignoring the fact that someone else was listening.

  No, I can’t.

  I stopped singing and grasped the strings to silence the guitar.

  Changing the tune, so to speak, I scribbled some of the lyrics I came up with but before I finished the first line, a voice interrupted.

  “That’s some angry tune.”

  I lifted my gaze. There was only a dark balcony next to mine, but then as the man behind the wall took a couple of steps, I saw him.

  Porter.

  Mr. 4B?

  2012

  The shadow of the flames darkened his fair skin and his chocolate-brown eyes looked even darker. His blond hair was brighter and his form broader. My entire body stiffened. “What happened to angry lyrics, an upbeat tune?”

  “Why are you here?” I replied.

  “You know me, I’m everywhere,” he responded, disappearing into the shadows.

  Did I imagine him?

  Now I’m going crazy. Not too long after, he waltzed back out, turning on the light of his balcony and holding his guitar. “Can we mellow that down?”

  Frozen, I stared at him as he moved a chair closer to the rail that faced me. He began to strum his guitar.

  “Ainsley, we both know what’ll happen if you ignore me,” he strummed again.

  That cute scene from the past when he sang for hours until I came out and played with him, didn’t have the same effect so many years later.

  “I want to believe that the neighbors will complain and kick you out,” I retorted, hoping they did, then an idea came to mind. “I’m actually a neighbor who can complain to the concierge and have you kicked out. The joys of adulthood.”

  “Not as effective as your parents threatening to kill me if I continued howling,” he reminded me. My entire body shook as I recalled Dad, who banged on my door and pleaded with me to get out of my room before he killed him. “I think they would’ve buried me next to that old elm outside the doghouse.”

  “We didn’t have a dog or a doghouse,” I lifted my gaze and bit my lip.

  “Laughing at me?”

  I elevated my palm to the sky as if saying ‘What can you do?’

  “Dad’s desperate attempts to shut you down amused me.” I wiped my mouth and ordered myself to simmer down the friendly stance. “What are you doing here, Porter?”

  “I heard the guitar.”

  “Don’t play dumb,” I cut him off, “that apartment was empty—unleased—by the time I moved in here. At least be an adult and explain. Unless you can’t.”

  “I can.”

  His eyes focused on me, he lowered his guitar and set his forearms on his thighs as he took a deep breath.

  “Second chances.”

  Two words that slammed my chest and took all the oxygen away.

  “I’ve been a mess, AJ. Please, just listen to me.”

  No, run.

  My legs didn’t do anything. I stayed and listened.

  “My father contacted me,” Porter spoke, then pulled out a paper and unfolded it. “It began with a letter.”

  Dear Porter:

  It’s been years since I’ve heard from my family... what I have left of my family. My father, my mother and well, you. A couple of months ago, my father came to visit. My first visitor since they sentenced me to spend the next forty-five years in a cage. A couple of times I heard from my mother. The last time she sent me a picture of you at the age of twelve. You have your mother’s eyes and her brown hair.

  After that letter, I never heard from her again. When my father visited, he gave me the news that my mother died years ago and you ran away. Also, that he thought you were a singer. I laughed at him. A singer, you. My mother said you couldn’t read a full sentence by the age of twelve, and she feared you were retarded. A side effect from the accident we had years ago. How can a retarded child be a famous singer? I disregarded his comment and told him never to visit me again. I have lived without my family for more than twenty years, I can handle the rest of my sentence the same way.

  Yesterday I received the news that your grandfather died. I wished I could feel sad about his passing, but he was a hard person to live with. He wrote a letter, apologizing to me, to my mother, and to you. He told me to look for you, that you’re real and you’re famous. During my library time, I went to the computer and found you on the internet. It’s you, living large with those beautiful models and all you can eat and drink buffets. You’re lucky.

  In the back of the letter, I’m sending you the details to make a monetary deposit to my commissary account. You know boy, they sentenced me to forty-five years in jail.

  That’s a damn long time, don’t you think? After twenty years in jail and having spent a third of my life thinking about what I did wrong, it occurred to me that maybe it is time for me to get out. However, it isn’t as easy as it sounds. Waiting until my eighty-seventh birthday to get out of this place doesn’t seem fair. It occurred to me that you could pay a lawyer to help your father. I don�
�t think having a father in jail is good publicity.

  Waiting to hear from you,

  Steven Kendrick

  “Wait, when did that happen?” My brows raised as high as the stars.

  His father.

  No, poor Porter. My heart shrunk. That man was the boogeyman for him; his worst nightmare.

  I wasn’t there for him.

  “It doesn’t sound like a recent correspondence,” I pointed out.

  “Like a year ago, baby.”

  I tilted my head as he continued delivering some information that felt like the beginning of… hopefully forgiveness. “It arrived at the studio, sent my way while I was on tour. I went to see him.”

  “I went to see him,” he repeats, his eyes unmoving and his voice strong. I guessed in a way to block any interruption. “He’s not a nice person, AJ. Not like your parents. In fact, he’s everything I feared I’d become and more. No, I did become him for a couple of years. The same fear that crippled inside me as he bashed me for being a retard, to threatening me with bad publicity, losing everything I had… losing you, if you ever found out what I was capable of. That fear made me this paranoid person who couldn’t sleep well, who stressed out about the media, who… If he knew about you or about your parents, all those things went through my mind, day and night.”

  “Is he out?” I asked. I pulled my legs to my chest and hugged them tight.

  He shook his head.

  Oh, I wanted to hug him so bad and make him feel better. “What, what happened?”

  “I refused to bail him out.”

  I guess he meant hiring a lawyer.

  “The letters started to arrive weekly or twice a week sometimes. Threats, pleas, everything in between.”

  “Those were the secrets you hid, weren’t they?” He stopped trusting me, started hiding things.

  He hid this, and I became this needy girlfriend thinking he was cheating. I was… so insensitive.

  “But we were… when did we…?” I scratched my head searching for the answer I couldn’t find.

  “Not sure, AJ.”

  I took a deep breath, wondering if I should apologize.

  “I made sure to stay away from you, so you wouldn’t notice my mood changes, but then I needed you and resented that part. Does it make any sense?”

  “Sadly, yes.” I twisted my mouth remembering those days when he was home, but I had an assignment and get upset at myself, at him, or at both of us for not being able to split myself into tiny pieces who could do everything at the same time.

  “That’s the essence of my fall.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Why I became a jerk with you, my girl. One more chance, AJ baby, please?”

  Fear in the form of a sharp pain through my heart paralyzed me. Another chance?

  2012

  I moved my lips from side to side wondering what this new development meant.

  “You want to come in and talk?” His grin widened with my request.

  “AJ, are we okay?” He asked as he entered my home.

  When he came close, my body shivered. This was wrong, I was doing something wrong. I just… I couldn’t think much, but I needed to kick him out.

  James – Porter hadn’t wanted our baby.

  He walked away from us when we needed him—when our baby died. Nothing would erase the wrenching feeling or the hell I lived.

  “No, I’m not okay,” I paused, remembering the girl from those magazines, plus the ones I always suspected he had fucked. “I want you out of my life, forever.”

  He faked a smile, took my hand which I tried to tug away from his grasp, but he didn’t let it go.

  “Forever is a big word, AJ.” He cocked a brow and angled his head to the side. “Always, never… use them only when you mean them. You taught me that. Do you really want me gone forever?”

  My body heated up as a part of me battled with the other options: sending him to hell, or… I wasn’t sure, but forever was a long time. Porter’s stare didn’t help with the nerves that were eating me like termites to wood. It consumed me as he waited for an answer.

  “If I say, yes?”

  “I’m out, forever, but only if you mean it.”

  Why was he doing this? Acting like nothing happened between us that destroyed me—broke my relationship with my parents.

  Porter acted like we didn’t lose ourselves to a relationship that ended a life—my baby’s life—and our sanity.

  He placed his arm on top of my palm and showed me inside his wrist: JGK 02/03.

  “What’s the G for?” I fought the clump of tears forming in my throat.

  “James George Kendrick… I thought, since my mother’s name was Georgia that…” his voice quivered but I didn’t turn to look at him. I stared at the tattoo. That was our child’s due date.

  “How did you know the date?”

  Porter took his hand back.

  I fought with my neck, which wanted to straighten up so I could look at him. I refused to see his face right now as I was having trouble keeping myself together.

  He pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it, pulling a laminated picture of the ultrasound of the baby at fourteen weeks. Porter carried his picture as if he’s carrying the picture of his son… Our baby.

  My limbs lost strength and my eyes flood with sadness, but before my knees gave in, Porter caught me.

  Setting an arm under my knees and holding my back with the other, he carried me to the leather couch in the living room.

  I leaned against his chest and cried hard, sobbed and shook, as the memories of everything that happened returned.

  The wounds not able to be stitched, opened easily and I bled out all the sadness that had consumed me.

  “Make the pain go away, Porter,” I whispered, pressing my mouth to his. “Help me forget.”

  Porter complied as his tongue thrusted inside my mouth. He moved my body pressing my back against the couch and his hands didn’t wait for me to utter a word, they weren’t gentle. He pulled off my clothing like a starved man seeking out his first meal after years of fasting.

  He brutally plunged himself inside me, the pain he inflicted didn’t match the pain I concealed inside my heart. I matched his intensity as tears fell from my eyes.

  “Take it away,” I begged him.

  He pushed harder and harder not meeting my gaze.

  “Porter, make everything better, please.”

  There was no tenderness, only raw, hurried sex between us.

  “I can’t,” he said. “You did this to yourself, but we can start something new. I’ll forgive you.”

  I cried harder and tried to push him away. He pressed my arms against my body and didn’t let me escape his grasp. Each thrust was harsher. Our bodies continued slamming against each other, but I couldn’t find the release I craved. Not physically or emotionally. At some point, my body gave up and I fell asleep.

  The next day I found a note on my nightstand.

  Ainse,

  Before you freak, I stayed the night. Left early without waking you up because you needed your rest. I had a morning session at the recording studio that I couldn't postpone. Text me when you're free. I'd like to continue our talk.

  Porter

  He stayed all night. I knew because I woke up in bed and his pillow smelled like tobacco and spice. I texted him as he requested but received no response. Did he just want absolution, a one night stand and then planned to disappear just like before?

  During the afternoon, I knocked on Porter’s door several times and didn’t go back inside my house until I convinced myself that he was, in fact, out. That meant heading back to the parking lot and checking if his bike or his truck was missing—his truck was not parked in the parking lot—I checked all three underground levels. The idea that he was avoiding me, hit. It’s six o’clock and he w
asn’t home.

  I had no idea what I wanted. The night before didn’t sit well in my mind.

  I did it to myself…?

  My heart thumped like a drum in the middle of a heavy metal concert. My stomach could’ve used a bottle of Tums and someone to help me unknot the disaster inside. A knock sounded on the door and I headed to open it, trying not to pace a bigger dent between the kitchen and the living room.

  Porter stood in the hallway.

  He nodded at the paperback he held with one arm as if making inventory in his head. The other arm held a huge bouquet of blue and purple orchids.

  He turned his gaze to me and gave me a crooked smile, handing me the flowers.

  “Hey,” he greeted me, squeezing his way around and heading to the kitchen.

  “Thank you?” The last vowel left my mouth in the form of a ridiculous question. Before he made himself comfortable, I added, “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to have a conversation.” He tapped his note I placed on the fridge door.

  Now he wanted to talk, when he never returned a text?

  “That reminds me. Did I leave my cell here? I can’t find it.”

  I shook my head.

  “Weird, I checked everywhere, and I can’t find it.” He walked from the kitchen toward the hallway that lead to the bedrooms.

  He misplaced it?

  Impossible, he guarded that phone with his life. As he searched for it, I called him. The last thing I needed in my life was Porter pissed because he lost his beloved phone—his life, as he used to say.

  A low buzzing sound came from the couch and then his voicemail picked up. So I tried again and this time I got closer to the sofa. Under it I saw the light beaming, so I ducked to fish out the phone.

  “What are you doing down there, AJ?”

  I reached under the couch and pulled out the phone. Missed calls, texts… I scanned all of them.

  Lori: Missed you last night, are we still on for tonight, babe?

  AJ: Where are you?

  AJ: I thought you said to text.

  Kerri: Had fun, sex-lunch with you was great. Call me again.

  AJ: Everything okay with you?

  AJ: I’m free.