The Redemption(2)
“I’ll be here,” he replies before taking a drink of his beer. Johnny Outlaw may be one of the most famous musicians in the world and the lead singer of The Resistance, but he’s also been a shoulder for me to cry on. He’s like the brother I never had. Along with that role, he’s become very protective of me in public settings and these types of situations. Holli, his wife, is usually here to keep me company, but she had a business trip and is out of town. So I’m here with the guys from the band. That’s a lot of testosterone to be around while drinking your sorrows away.
Remembering there’s a small balcony off the master bedroom, I head for the stairs. The balcony has a great vantage point overlooking the pool. Dex is the master of throwing awesome parties and he’s gone all out for his birthday. Everyone from Academy Award winning Directors to young starlets jumping at any casting couch opportunity that comes along is here. Current rock musicians are mingling with Pop Princesses, and I just spotted Tommy, the tour manager with some of our roadies at the bar. I used to be more of a free spirit, comfortable in social settings… when Cory was alive. But my happiness died when he did. I never imagined I would be expected to live in a world without my heart. I’d gotten good at hiding my sadness, but lately I’ve been struggling to put on a happy face for others.
Dex’s party is a sea of beautiful people and definitely intimidating. The heat and drinks making my mind blur into a mixture of emotions. I start walking faster, hoping to stave off the panic attack I feel coming on.
I pass some familiar faces, saying hi as I walk by. Seeing other people, the ones I don’t know, makes me want to lower my gaze to the floor and block out the stares. Sometimes the stares bother me. I was relatively unrecognizable before Cory’s death, but I made headlines as the ‘Poor Widow’ and my photo was everywhere. So I see the looks, the sideways glances, and feel the sympathy lying heavy from their curiosity. Nights like this usually help me escape the sadness of losing the only man I ever loved. Alcohol also helps, so I down a shot and slowly make my way upstairs, trying not to let the liquor knock me off-balance.
The double doors of the master bedroom are closed along with the other bedroom doors down the hall. Taking the knob in hand, I turn slowly. It opens and I’m greeted with darkness. I’m hoping no one is in here doing something I don’t want to see or hear, so I enter with caution. Although there is no light except for the moonlight coming in from the balcony doors, I walk in when I hear silence. Closing the door behind me, I don’t bother looking around. I just go to the French doors and open them wide. The night is clearer up here, the miles of LA lights laid out before me with a stunning view of the city. The area around the pool below is more crowded than I realized when I was in the mix of it.
A heavy exhale of smoke draws my gaze to the left. Dex sits forward resting his elbows on his knees and eyes me.
He doesn’t look bothered that I’m here, but I feel the need to explain anyway. “I wanted… I needed to get away.”
“From what?” he asks while stubbing his cigarette into an ashtray on the Spanish tile.
I lean against the doorframe, my head resting back, my eyes lulled closed by the voices carrying up from below. Over the last six months, we haven’t spent a lot of time together, but he’s stopped by a few times to talk, reminisce, or just sit with someone who knows what he’s going through, empathizing through moments of silent understanding. He makes it easy to just be, to be whatever I need to be. “Everything… from me.”
“It’s hard to escape yourself.”
“I know. I’ve tried.”
“Me too.” The ice in his glass shifts, clanging against the walls of the double old-fashioned. I look just as he sets it down, and asks, “Drink?”
“Sure,” I reply. “Why are you trying to escape?”
“Sometimes being the bad guy sucks.”
“You’re not a bad guy.”
“Everyone else thinks I am.”
“I like to think you just play one on TV… or in your case, on stage. The infamous bad boy drummer of The Resistance isn’t all that bad, you know.”
He hands me his glass and I hold it up to toast him. “Happy birthday, Dex.” The straight bourbon feels thick as it slides down my throat.
His expression changes and he stands, moving behind me, his chest against my back. “Do I get a birthday wish?”
I feel his every breath coming in and out, each one hot against my neck. My heart starts beating faster, the air that felt freer moments before now ripe with innuendoes. This tension between us is new, but I like it. The hesitation I thought I would feel drowned with the last gulp of his drink. I take one last breath before turning, my gaze now meeting his. “Make a wish.”
The warmth of his hand covers my cheek and his lips are pressed to mine and mine to his, connecting us like never before. I would have thought I’d get careful, gentle, tentative. I get pressure swarmed with confidence, a wanting that feels more lustful, caressed in need. My body reacts, moving closer, edging into the kiss, wanting it, needing it. I’m pulled inside, the doors shut behind and he whispers, “Too many people can see up here.”
I nod, though I’m not sure he can see as I stand in the shadows of the curtain. He’s seen clearly, the window panes reflecting an abstract design across his body. Taking a sip, his eyes find mine. There’s nothing hurried about his movements as he takes me in. While setting his glass down on the table nearby, he says, “I’ve wanted to kiss you longer than you’ll understand, longer than I had a right to.”