by Cole, Kayley
Mr. Amberden sits down at a long dining room table. The table looks like it was cut from a massive tree, the growth rings becoming smaller and smaller until the final ring in the center of the table, which is cut out and has a glass flower settled inside it.
Jake pulls out a chair for me across from his father. I give him a quick smile as I sit down, but he's too busy looking around the house to notice.
"Mr. Amberden, do you know where Mrs. Amberden is?" I ask. He shakes his head.
"No. I never know where she is. She goes off and does her own thing. She's happier that way, and I'm happier that way too."
"Is she coming home tonight?"
He shrugs. "She hasn't for the past couple of nights, so it's completely possible that she will, and it's possible she won't. I'm not in charge of what she does. She's not the kind of woman you can set down rules for, Miss Rue."
Again, there's a slight tone in his voice that borders on condescension.
Jake pulls out the chair at the head of the table, sitting down.
"Dad, we just need to know if she's coming to the wedding. If she doesn't want to come, that's fine. But our wedding planner doesn't want to have an empty chair at the wedding table, so we need to know if she plans on showing up."
"I have no idea," Mr. Amberden says. "I imagine directing doesn't require the highest level of critical thinking, but I didn't think my statements of ignorance over your mother's whereabouts were difficult to understand."
Jake and Mr. Amberden stare at each other. For the most part, their expressions are unreadable, but the way Mr. Amberden's eyebrow twitches, along with the slight shift of Jake's jaw— they’re both making the air feel hotter in the room.
"When is the last time you talked to her?" I ask. Mr. Amberden glances back at me.
"I don't recall, Miss Rue. Perhaps…Thursday? I don't know. It's been four or five days. I've focused my thoughts on more consistent topics. This minimally invasive robotic surgery is going to make surgeons lazy and disinclined to be innovative. Progress always ends as soon as men give their power over to technology."
"I'm sure," I say. "Progress also ends when you stop looking for your wife. Four or five days is a long time for you to not know where she is."
"Perhaps it is for you LA yuppies, but for us, it's a drop in the bucket. All we have is time, and I've thoroughly enjoyed my time alone, so I'm not going to develop paranoia and trepidation over the fact that I get to continue being alone."
"She could be missing…”
"For her to be missing, I'd have to miss her," he cuts me off. He turns to Jake. "Didn't you explain to her that Karen goes off on her own all of the time? That her narcissism makes her incapable of empathizing with others and a constant sense of entitlement? That she has an inclination to determine that she is a victim to everyone else's lack of reverence for her? That she hopes that her absence will make other people realize we should have been more enthusiastic of her presence?"
"She knows," Jake says. "She's just concerned, Dad. Her family was a lot closer than ours."
Jake's lack of dominance is disconcerting. He's leaning back in the chair, his partial fist resting under his jaw. He's not subjugating himself to his father, but he's not asserting himself either. He's usually exerting such intensity, it's hard not to feel it like heat waves. Without it, there's only room for my anxiety.
I stand up. "I'm sorry, I need to go use the bathroom. Is it down this hallway?"
"Yes. At the end of the hall," Mr. Amberden says. I nod.
"Thank you."
I walk around the stairway that juts down into the center of the open floor plan. As I walk down the hallway, I can hear Jake and his father talking, but I can't see them because of the stairs.
The first room I pass by has a gray purse on the bed. I stop. I turn around and walk into the room.
There's the faintest scent of cinnamon apples. The room has a twin-size bed, a small nightstand with a glass lamp on it, a desk in the east corner, a dresser against the southern wall, and a closet to the right of the door. I open the closet doors.
All of the clothes are perfectly lined up. The hangers seem to all be a half-inch away from each other.
"My mother has always preferred everything to exist exactly in the right place."
I spin around to see Jake. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be snooping."
He shrugs. "You know I love your sense of justice and how much you care about things. But this is nothing. This is my mother. It's what she does. I'm sure any shrink would say she does it for attention, but I got sick of it by the time I was twelve. I know how easy it is to wear yourself out over someone who just wants to squeeze all of the concern out of you— it's a waste and I just don't want to see you tear yourself up over this. I'm certain she's fine."
"I just need to be certain too." I gesture to the purse. "You don't think it's weird that she just left out her purse like this?"
"She could have taken a different purse."
"It looks like all her clothes are here."
"I don't know her closet that well. She could have moved everything after she took some clothes out."
"If I disappeared like this, wouldn't you be so indifferent about it?"
"I'd track you down like my life depended on it," he says. "But you aren't the type to run away."
I want him to be angry. I want him to let out all his tension, pour it into me and I'll reciprocate. I need his dominance to chase away all of my anxiety. I need to know it's not just my emotions that are slamming in my chest.
I turn away from him. The desk has a shelf attached to it with several framed photos on it. The first one is old— the photo paper is beige and there are two creases— and shows a couple with Hawaiian leis in front of a beach. The woman— dark-haired with a willowy body— is wearing a white dress while the man is dressed in a suit.
In the second photo, the same woman is wearing a graduation cap and gown, holding up a diploma from University of Illinois College of Medicine. The third one shows the woman and the man with a small boy, all of them wearing hiking boots in the middle of the woods. The photos keep going, each showing various vacations— New York City, New Mexico, Italy, and Greece— but the most recent one still shows Jake before he's a teenager.
"You guys went on a lot of vacations," I say.
"Yes. Literal guilt trips," Jake says, stepping up beside me. "We're all smiling in them, but I don't think any of us actually liked them. My parents were required to take time off from their jobs and they wanted to appear like we were one big, happy family— they both believed that in order to be good surgeons, they should create empathy at home by pretending we deeply cared about each other. And they kept dragging me to historical places, which, as a child, was like requiring me to sit through a history class without my friends."
I nudge him with my shoulder. "You sound a bit spoiled."
"I am very, very spoiled," he agrees, his mouth moving closer to my ear and his voice slipping over me like a veil. "And that's why I expect so much of you. I might even want to see you in that corset again."
I lean against him and he wraps his arm around my waist. His fingertips brush against my inner thigh. Even with my jeans, it sends a thrill under my skin. He kisses my cheek, adding another kiss along my jaw, and a third one near the pulse in my neck. I close my eyes, imagining my body blooming open for him and his body crushed against me. He'd reassert himself as someone who would go to the ends of the earth to track me down and drag me back to where he wanted me to be— most likely, underneath him.
I jerk away from him as there's a loud knock on the door. I spin around. Mr. Amberden stands in the doorframe.
"The bathroom is still down the hall," he tells me. I force a smile.
"Thank you, sir."
As I move past him, his eyes follow my every movement. He doesn't move out of my way, so I have to squeeze past him.
"Dad," Jake's voice comes out like a warning shot. Mr. Amberden moves away from me, but I can
nearly hear the sound of a snake slithering in the grass. While Jake might not be affectionate of his father, his view is still biased.
I shiver as I walk to the bathroom. When I close the door, I lock it.
* * *
Jake
After I proposed to Ellie, I tried to make a film about love.
Not a romance or a love story. I wanted to make something gritty, something that was realistic without being depressing, too detailed, or too preachy. I tried to pour myself into it. I tried to give into the mania, to turn all those thoughts and emotions into captivating scenes, but I could only think in images— frenetic dancers, flashes of colors followed by dawn, lungs rapidly inflating and deflating, the tension of a bow that's been pulled back, only to realize it's not an arrow tucked against the cable, but a grenade.
I've heard love is like falling into bed after a long, hard day, but I've found it's more like sex with crescendos, and the comfort comes after the intensity breaks me into kaleidoscope fragments.
I grab onto the wall-mounted pull-up bar. I lift myself up slowly, focusing on the feeling of my muscles contracting and relaxing. I let out a slow breath every time my chin rises above the bar.
I spend most of my time not thinking about my parents. I've met enough people in Hollywood that attribute their issues to their parents, and I have no desire to be like them. My parents are, for all intents and purposes, dead to me, and I spent very little time grieving them. I'm not a fan of resurrecting them. I live my life through a camera lens because I spent a childhood drawing focus to something other than my slowly disintegrating life. I missed my mother whenever she left, but I eventually learned it was a blessing because all of my father's frustration was reallocated to my mother's flaws instead of mine.
After thirty reps, I lower myself back to the floor. I grab the barbell, positioning it on the back of my neck and on top of my shoulders. I start doing squats, trying to concentrate on the weight and the burning weakness in my legs over the overwhelming evidence that involving my parents in my wedding was an amateur move.
Ellie appears in the doorway, a genie in black silk pajama pants and a black silk bra. She leans against the door frame, her temple pressed against the wood and her round ass jutting out. She knows how to get my attention.
"Are you going to come to bed?" she asks.
"I needed to get some energy out," I say, lowering my upper body for another rep.
"I didn't mean to make you angry."
I lift myself back up, exhaling. "I'm not angry."
"You're sweating like the Hulk." She slips her hand into her pants pocket, pulling out her phone. She presses a button, and the screen creates a faint glow over her face. "It's 12:06. You told me you'd take me to your set tomorrow and I'd rather you not be grumpy when I'm there. One of your cameramen might tell the paparazzi that we're having marital problems."
I lift the barbell up over my head, setting it down in front of me.
"None of my cameramen would do that. They know I'd track them down and blackball them. I've worked with these guys for years. I trust them all."
"Too bad you don't trust me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I retort.
"You act like just because Robin's a man, I'm going to jump onto his dick."
"It's him that I don't trust," I say. "With your history, I don't see why you don't understand my concern."
"My history is just my brother," she says. Her phone rings. She glances down at it. "It's Robin."
I lie down on my back, propping my knees up. "Answer it."
I focus on my crunches, but Ellie's conversation still invades my thoughts.
…Cliche centerpieces…Small guitars….I love it…it's brilliant…dark chocolate…video cameras…white chocolate…I love it…it's so good.
I lose count of my crunches, though they changed into sit-ups at some point.
Yeah, no, it's fine…I was still wide awake…I get it. You have to travel…I'll see you soon. Good night.
I stand up, sweat streaking my skin. Ellie slides her phone back into her pocket. She's gained a few pounds since so much time has elapsed since her last tour, but it's made her breasts into perfect hemispheres, her hips swing with every movement, and her thighs exhibiting that soft sweetness that only a woman can convey.
In the back of my mind, I know another predator is sniffing around my mate and every instinct is telling me to keep her close, keep her satisfied, keep her running back toward me like a tributary to the ocean. I know that's why I want to circle around Ellie, coiling around her until I'm all she can see and she's all I can feel.
I don't notice my arm raising up, but as soon as my hand is on her shoulder— her skin dry and smooth compared to mine— an ache and an appetite radiate in my veins.
As she looks up at me, her blue eyes reminding me of those electric bug zappers, I dig my fingertips into her shoulder and jerk her closer toward me. When I kiss her, it's with the same vehemence that I used to push myself during my workout. My hands grip onto her head as my tongue slips between her teeth, and my mouth crashes against her, trying to use up all of the pressure in my chest.
Her tongue brushes up against mine. My hands move to the back of her bra. I unclip it, letting it fall to the floor before my hands cup her breasts, squeezing them a little tighter than usual, but Ellie continues to try to kiss me, a small moan snaking out of her mouth.
God, she is still flawless. When I used to think of marriage, I'd discredited it because I couldn't imagine fucking the same woman for the rest of my life, but now it's a goddamn honor. She's my heart and soul that I'm constantly trying to retreat to.
I slip my hands under the waistband of her underwear and pajama pants. The silk feels so evocative against my skin. I wish I could convey the feeling of silk on film, but for now, the only thing I want is to get it off her body.
I slide the pants down her legs, her skin feeling even better than the silk. When her pants are at her ankles, I stand back up. I whip off my shirt and take a few steps back.
"Tell me what you want," I order, dropping my shirt on the floor. She smiles. Everything in her expression is gone except the submissive vixen that comes to life every time her body starts to thrum.
"I want you," she says.
"Be more specific."
"I want you to fuck me."
The profanity trips out of her mouth.
"Good. Because that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to rip you apart." I gesture to my shorts. "But first, you'll get on your knees and undress me."
She falls onto her knees like she's in a Catholic church and when she grasps onto the elastic of my shorts, her arms are raised in worship. As she pulls them down, my erection nearly bumps against her face. There's a slight flush to her cheeks— arousal or embarrassment. It doesn't matter, they're tied together for her.
She raises herself back up and hooks her fingers around my boxer briefs. As she pulls them down, I can feel the slightest breath on my cock and it takes all of my self-restraint not to spin her around and fuck her straight into the ground.
"Good," I repeat, putting my hand on the crown of her head like I'm blessing her. I take a breath, letting the anticipation and anxiety build in her. Her breasts tremble with every exhale and seeing it turns my cock into a demanding little prick. All he wants is to feel her tight warmth, and I want the same thing for the rest of my life.
I lurch forward, grabbing her by the waist. Her feet are still locked together by her pajama pants, causing her to be unable to get her feet underneath her as I pull her toward the weight training bench. I pick her up, setting her head underneath the power rack.
I move back quickly to the barbell. I lift it, setting it on the lowest rail on the power rack. The bench is high enough that the bar is only an inch above her neck. She can't move without sliding forward or down, and I don't plan on letting her do much of either.
She grips onto the barbell as I pull her pants off the rest of the way. When I lie my body over hers
, we're a yin-yang of beautiful and brutish and all the tattoos and scars on my body versus her flawless skin. And just like the yin-yang, I'm going to leave my mark in her.
I can feel her breathing, her chest fluttering like the vibrations after a hammer slams a nail into a plank of wood. When I sink my fingers into her hip, her whole body seems to rise up like she's possessed, her throat hitting against the barbell. First, I nailed her in the coffin, and now I've brought the devil out of her.
I squeeze the curve of her hip harder as my other hand circles around her breast, my thumbnail scraping against her nipple. Her knees jerk upward, ramming up against my ribs.
I reach back, grabbing her calf. I raise it slowly, moving my hand up her leg. A small bubble of air escapes her lips as my fingers brush against the back of her knee. By the time I'm at the middle of her thigh, her leg is hovering near my shoulder.
Her lips are slightly parted, so I kiss them, shutting them, as I press my cock against her entrance. She's so wet, but her pussy is still tight around me. She has these perfect ridges inside her that send a shock of pleasure through me with every thrust.
Her ankle starts to slip from my hand, so I let it drop onto my shoulder. As I look down at her, I'm overcome by her arousal and her beauty. Her cheeks are flushed, complementing her red hair, her pupils are dilated, making her irises seem like an even lighter blue, and her lips are parted again, her breath coming out with every thrust.
I wish I could reserve this moment— this is why we record movies. Memories can become distorted, wither, or become scorched by bullshit that happens after the fact. I want to keep her face, in this moment, exactly as it is. I want to keep a film strip in my wallet of her inhaling and exhaling and that evolving pleasure on her face.