She’s become an addiction, and something I obsess over. Living the life I have, living it hard, I’ve become an expert at both addiction and obsession. I know the difference. Rochelle is the first person I’ve felt both over.

Now that she’s let me in, I never want to go. I’ve waited so long for this chance. I have to pretend to act normal, but I feel anything but that when I’m around her. I don’t want to scare her. I want… I want… I want so much with her, from her, that it scares me. But I play it cool, keeping my deepest thoughts to myself. I’m good like that, the quiet one. I’ve been called moody, but it’s not that. That’s an emotion someone wears for show. My moods aren’t for show, but to hide, to protect what I don’t want any of them to see. If they know how I really feel, rejection can follow and I’ve had too much of that in my life to survive a rejection from her.

I lie on the couch in the middle of my dark house, letting her invade my thoughts and crawl under my skin, becoming a part of me. She’s the sun when it sets and my moon when it rises. My day begins and ends with her on my mind. She asks about me but all I want to do is hear about her. Her days are mundane to her, but are envious to me. Routine. She has this amazing life, her routine as she calls it, and I just want to be there, be a staple, a part of her daily routine. Too much.

Obsessed.

I’m obsessed.

This girl, this light, walked into my life and I just had to follow it. At nineteen, she was beautiful. She had brown hair with that just come from the beach look—chin length, a little wild, a little off. Her big brown eyes reminded me of the sun tea that would sit in the window sill when I was a kid. Rochelle didn’t belong in that bar, but she owned it the minute she walked in, under-aged and full of confidence.

From behind the drumkit, I watched her, changing my beat to match the rhythm of her vibe. She was unique in the middle of a crowd of trite. As she put her straw to her mouth, my gaze wrapped around her wrist and followed the floral tattoo that had been started but not yet finished. When the band took a break, she climbed right up on stage and said, “You’re good. You ever consider playing rock?”

“We play some rock covers sometimes.”

“What about rock music that you help create? Original stuff.”

Leaning back on my stool, I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t own my drums. It’s me and the sticks for now.”

She shrugs. “That’s cool. It’s your talent that caught my ear. Anyway, the bassist has a set of drums you can use if you want to join our band.”

Suddenly, she had my undivided attention. Well, she had it before, but now she’s talking drums and a real band. “Why does a bassist have a drum kit?”

“He used to think he wanted to be a drummer, but his talent lies in the guitar.”

“And what do you play?” I ask, so damn curious by this tenacious girl.

“Guitar. I’m not in the band, but two of the best guitarists around are. They’re gonna be big. This is your chance.”

I stand and notice the height difference. She’s short and really fucking cute. “Why aren’t you in the band if you play guitar?”

“If you wanna sit around here all night yapping, then I’ll let you get back to playing cover songs from the seventies that should have never been made in the first place. But if you want in on the next big thing, then come with me.”

“You want me to meet them tonight? Right now?”

With a smile, she says, “Yeah, right now. We have a gig in an hour and no drummer.”

“You want me to play a gig with them tonight?”

Nodding, she looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “Yep. I saw how you hit. You’re good. You’ve got natural skill. Not all drummers do.”

“You actually want me to leave before the end of this gig to go play your gig?”

“I sure do. Is that a yes?” She turns and looks around the club. “I mean, I understand how karaoke—”

“Covers.”

“I stand corrected. Covers. I totally get that playing covers can sometimes be cool and all, but I’m giving you the chance to be a part of something great.”

“Promise?” I smirk.

“Promise. C’mon. I hate being late.”

She hops off the stage and I follow right behind her, hoping that ‘something great’ will include hooking up with her later. Calling across the room to the old guys I was backing, I say, “Thanks guys. It’s been fun, but my work here is done.”

They don’t seem entirely surprised and raise a pint to me.

Out on the street, she takes a helmet off of a Honda Shadow motorcycle and hands it to me. I recognize it from when I worked as a mechanic last year for a few months. I helped rebuild one similar to this. “This is yours?” I ask.

“Sure is.”

“It’s in good condition. What year is it?”

“An ‘87. Ever ridden one before?”

She’s a feisty little thing, but I can handle her attitude. “Yeah, but I’ve never owned one.”

“You should. There’s nothing that feels more freeing than riding a motorcycle.” She tightens the strap under her chin, and adds, “There’s always a chance of death when you ride a bike. Makes you appreciate the life you have.”

Nodding, I try to relate to this girl. I tuck the drumsticks into my Martens and pull my jeans over them. We get on and she warns, “Hold on tight.”

I wrap my arms around her waist and we swerve into traffic. Holy shit! The girl’s a dare devil. Leaning forward, I ask, “So what’s the name of this soon to be big band anyway?”

She speeds up and yells into the wind, “The Resistance.”

* * *

Because of a last minute project Neil had due, Thursday turned into dinner at her place again. Rochelle apologized, but I didn’t mind. I actually liked it. I’m already attached to the boys, being around them is fun. And anytime I get to spend time with her is good.

“Whatever happened to that motorcycle you had?” I ask Rochelle as we lay on a blanket in the middle of the backyard. The sun has set, the kids are watching a cartoon, and we just finished a bottle of wine.

“I got rid of it a few years ago,” she replies. “It’s clear enough to see some stars tonight.”

I’ve learned when she changes the subject, not to push. She’s not as open as she used to be, but I understand that the harshness of life changes people. It’s changed her in ways I wish I could give back to her. I move to the new topic to keep her in the moment, here with me. “I once heard that only those who see the big picture can focus on the details.”

Looking tired, but amused, she turns to me. “What does that mean?”

Seeing the sparkle to her eyes, I give her a smile. “If we see things on a grander scale, we’re more likely to appreciate the little things that make it up.”

When I look at her, there’s a small smile on her face when she says, “Sometimes you say the most amazing things and I don’t even think you realize it.”

“If it makes you smile, my work here is done.”

With a giggle, her hand nudges mine between us. As if the thought just came to her, she comments, “You never ask for anything. Not even on your performer’s contract rider. No special requests whatsoever.”

I want to touch her, to kiss her again, and reinforce that it wasn’t a wet dream. We had sex once and the memory still haunts me. As casually as I can, I cover one finger over hers, and reply, “Nothing I want can be put on a tour rider.”

From the look in her eyes, she’s analyzing the meaning beneath my words, but she knows deep down what I really mean. Knowing we can’t quite go there yet, I add, “Anyway, the guys request enough shit for all of us on tour.”

“That’s true.” Moving closer, she uses my chest as a pillow. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and steal a peek at her boys inside. They look content with popcorn and big smiles on their faces, giggling at the kid’s movie playing. These two boys that I’ve watched grow from a distance might become my responsibility one day… and I’m not opposed to this. I see Cory in their faces. They have Rochelle’s heart and spunk.

I can give… What can I give them that matters? They have money. They have family. Any toy they could ever want for is easily bought. What role can I play in their lives that add value? How can I make their lives better by being in it?

Her voice is soft and cuts into my doubts. “If you could have anything, what would it be, Dex?”

I slip my hand down her back and rub while staring up at the sky again. “Time. I’d want time back.”

She sits up, leaning over me while looking down, her gaze soft but direct. “And what would you do if you got time back?”

“I wouldn’t waste a minute.” I sit up and kiss her, running my hand into her hair and holding her close.

“Ew! What are you doing?” Neil says with disgust in his tone.

We part like two teenagers busted by their parents. Rochelle is to her knees and then standing up in a flash. “I, uh, he was helping me look for my earring.” She tugs at her earlobe.

“It looked like kissing,” Neil adds.

“It was,” she starts again, her voice shaking. “It was kissing but like just a friendly goodnight kiss since Dex is leaving. Yeah, so—”

“Yeah, kiddo, I’m leaving.” I stand and look between the two of them. “Thanks for having me over.” Rochelle’s a mess and Neil seems a little protective of his mother in his stance. That’s my cue. When I approach, he opens the door nice and wide for me. I walk inside and he follows with Rochelle behind him. “I’m thinking you can come over this week, Neil, and we can play on my drums. I can teach you some beats, easy rhythms. What do you think about that?”

“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 fuck 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.

I finish my drink in three gulps and set the glass down on the table before going inside. Up the stairs to my room I go, opening the door, and closing it behind me. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, debating if it should be hot or cold; I have a good argument for each right now. I decide on hot, wanting to relieve some pressure. Stripping down, I then move under the water. My muscles not relaxing like I hoped.

My body is tense. I want to fuck. I want to fuck hard. I want to fuck and come and not wonder what the fuck I’m doing chasing Rochelle. I have a phone full of numbers I could call. I don’t want them. They are a thousand numbers that are meaningless to me. They aren’t her and my hand is a better option than a poor substitute.

Leaning my head against the slate wall, I close my eyes, remembering her body on top of mine, and how it was wrapped around my cock like a warm blanket. My grip tightens. She was so fucking wet, wet for me. Kisses to her neck became licks of ecstasy. I tasted her sweat, her sweetness before wanting her to come so I could taste all of her.

But Cory’s name shocks me back to reality just like it did that day and my dick goes soft. “Fuck!” I slam the shower off and get out, dripping across the floor while walking to the cabinet and retrieving a towel.

After drying off, I get into bed angry. I sit up and punch the fuck out the pillow next to me before throwing it across the room and hearing it hit the door with a thud when it falls. So fucking anticlimactic for how I’m feeling.

Getting out of bed, I grab boxer brief from my dresser and pull them on. I go outside onto my balcony and sit down. The lighter and pack of cigarettes are on the table. I light up, resisting the urge for another drink. I look out over the city of Los Angeles all lit up in the distance frustrated that the best thing that ever happened to me sometimes feels like the worst.