The Redemption(32)

“That’d be cool,” he says, his tone lighthearted again.

At the front door, Rochelle says, “Thanks for coming over.”

I’m not sure what to say because everything I want to, I can’t with Neil between us, so I turn to leave instead. “Thanks again for dinner. Bye, CJ. Bye, Neil. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Bye-bye,” CJ yells.

Neil nods. “Bye.”

And when I see Rochelle, she mouths silently, “I’m sorry.” When I start walking away from the door, I hear her say, “C’mon, buddy, let’s get you guys to bed.” The door shuts and I’m left standing in the dark under a blanket of stars wondering what the f*ck I’m doing. I think I just got in trouble by a seven-year-old.





As soon as I walk into my house, I head for the bar. It’s stocked just the way I like it because although I don’t make requests on the road, I do in my own home. I pour bourbon over ice and watch as the ice begins to melt on contact. It’s the same burning that I usually feel, like an addiction reminding me how it has all the control. I give into it every time, realizing I don’t need the upper hand. I just need to feel the burn again.

And the sensation is euphoric much like Rochelle—a burning euphoria.

Outside, I sit in a chair, setting my drink down to replace it with a cigarette. Under the same stars, but separated by more than a few miles physically and emotionally. Deep drags calm my insides as I rest my hands on my thighs and close my eyes.

I need to loosen up.

Addiction.

Obsession.

Square One.

There are more cons than pros when it comes to Rochelle. Just when I thought it might be our time after all of these years, life has happened, making it more complicated. She’s a mother. Damn, that still blows my mind. She’s a good one, not like mine at all. Rochelle’s warm. My mother is cold. About the only thing they have in common is money, but my mother comes from undeserved, family funds. Money I’ve already started to inherit on a monthly basis from my grandfather’s estate since I turned thirty. Apparently thirty is the expected age to have one’s life figured out and in order.

I’ll take his money and try not to think about him too much. But memories are powerful and hard to force down.



Theodore Dexter the Fifth was a trip. The most formal man I’ve ever known. He wore suits to dinner and everyone was expected to follow the dress code when in his presence. My mother obliged him when we stayed there. She would stay for a few days before taking my brother on her escapades around the world. Gage was more presentable by nature, the chosen child to represent The Dexter’s. I would stay at my grandfathers for at least two weeks each summer without them. I actually liked the time alone, but when visiting, even my play clothes were discarded after one wearing for not being crisp in appearance. Breakfast was at 7 or you got none. Lunch at eleven. Tea at three. Dinner at six. Bed by eight. The name of the city always felt fitting. Expectations ran high in Diablo, California. They ran high back in LA too, but here I missed my friends.

At thirteen, I snuck out of my room after curfew with thoughts of running away, running back home. I figured no one would notice anyway. I cut through the property and passed the guest quarters when I heard some banging. I moved closer, feeling very stealthy at the time. When I got close enough to look in the window, I saw Tres, the handyman I had seen around the house playing drums. I didn’t even know he lived here. He was probably in his early twenties and was wearing a black Ramones shirt. A cigarette, or joint, hung from the corner of his mouth. It was dark outside, but he wore his sunglasses anyway. One of the newly hired maids, a blonde who looked like she was his age, danced around with her arms in the air. Her uniform was unbuttoned enough to see her bright pink bra and the skirt rose up as she moved.

My journey that night ended there. I sat down in a chair outside the window—watched and listened for over an hour. I was fixated on that kit and the power he put into hitting it as much as I was on seeing her slowly strip for him. They turned out the lights, but a purple lava lamp lit the room enough to see them as they hit the bed. I’d never seen two people having sex. I had magazines I stole from a convenience store down by the public school near us, but never seen a video, much less two people in real life having sex.

Tres blended into the darkness. But the blonde was hot and as much as I knew I shouldn’t watch, I stayed there until she yelled his name long enough to penetrate the walls. I got up after that and went back to my room.

I lied in bed that night, jerked off for the first time to visions of her before falling asleep. When I woke up, I was angry. I had taken piano for five years and I hated it. I hated practicing and the recitals. I hated the formality and having to perform at dinner parties like a chump. I knew it wasn’t frowned upon to play piano or any classical instrument, but the drums were, so it made them that much more intriguing

The next morning when I thought no one was around, busy at their jobs, I went back to the guest house and went inside. I spent three hours banging away on that drum kit and that was it. I saw how she reacted to him, turned on by the man behind the drums. That could be me. I could turn her on too. I knew I’d found my passion. The secrecy of it all, this crazy, loud, invasive music just clicked with me.



My legs are burning, causing me to open my eyes in a hurry. “Shit!” I jump up, the cigarette flung from my hand. I grab my drink and pour a little over my burned skin. The lit end had burned a small hole through my jeans and singed some hair on my leg.