For someone you’d think lives alone, you might be surprised to know I live in a house with four other people and about twenty more who seem to think they live here too and rarely leave. No, it’s not the Play Boy mansion, but I assure you I see about as much pussy as Hugh does.
On any given night at the Sawyer mansion, it’s filled with people I don’t know. Tonight’s not any different. Everywhere you look, there are soulless people drinking, smoking, and some fucking.
Do you see me there? I’m the one on the couch, green Mohawk, twirling my cell phone in one hand, a half-empty beer in the other, and a blunt hanging from my lips. In front of me on the coffee table littered with empty beer cans, a line of coke I haven’t touched yet. I might not. Sometimes I don’t. Most of the time I do.
“Why’s your hair green?” the chick next to me asks, massaging my thighs, but I don’t touch her.
I arch one eyebrow, exhaling smoke through my nose, my eyes hooded with boredom. “Does it matter?”
Why is my hair green? I have no clue. Seemed like the thing to do at the time.
Her tits are in my face and she smells like coconut. “No, baby. I love it.”
“I didn’t do it for you, but. . .” Letting my phone drop to my lap, I press my hand to the left side of my chest, mocking her with a fake smile. “I’m fucking touched.”
She sneers at me, rising from her place. “You’re an ass.”
I laugh and stand up myself. Taking a hit off the blunt, I then toss it aside, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. Outside, the moonlight reflects off the pool where about a dozen people are naked. My eyes roam, searching for something. What, I don’t know. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I stare, slicing through the throngs until I move to the outside bar and reach for the vodka.
I want escape, and I don’t know if I want the high of the cocaine, or maybe just the numb of the vodka.
Ricky’s over there. He looks at the vodka in my hand, then my face. “You okay, man?”
“What kind of question is that?”
He shrugs.
Ricky’s my uncle. He raised me and my brothers after my dad died when I was five. Mom split a few years before that, so it’s been just us and Ricky. Raised by a bachelor, I can’t say I have any complaints about the way I was brought up.
Ricky took us in after the death of our dad during a motocross race in Baha. He died of a brain aneurysm while racing a supermoto. Dawson Sawyer, our dad, was a legend in motocross.
Mom? Bipolar drug-addict alcoholic, who couldn’t chose between her kids and the man she left my dad for. She’s dead now and I have no remorse for the last words I said to her when I was eleven. “I hate you. I hope you overdose.”
Harsh? You don’t know me very well if you think that’s harsh. Just wait.
This house, we hadn’t always lived here. Grew up couple miles away at Ricky’s house. He rents it out now. Couple years back, we built the twelve-bedroom mansion we’re in now on the fifteen-acre land our grandparents left us when they died. This place, this land, the motocross track behind the house, it’s our playground, and we do what we want here. We don’t have rules here, nor do we have to put on a show for anyone to judge us.
Ricky leans into the bar, his wavy brown hair standing on end. “What happened to After Dark?”
Unscrewing the cap to the vodka, I scowl at him. “I told you in the beginning I wasn’t doing that shit.”
“You signed a contract. You have to do it, or they’ll sue you.”
I drag my eyes from him, sighing. I’m so fucking done with this conversation. I had to have been high when I signed it because I don’t recall doing it. “Where’s your kid tonight?” My gaze is lazy, but my jaw’s tight. I can’t help it because I know I shouldn’t be an ass to my uncle. “Shouldn’t you be playing daddy?”
Ricky shakes his head, dark laughter blown out in a sigh. He knows what I’m doing. I twist any conversation I don’t want to have by being sarcastically bitter. “She’s with Willa tonight.”
There’s a story there. Ricky fucked around with our PR assistant and Scarlet’s boss, Willa, who’s been in our lives since we were kids. He knocked her up and now he has a one-year-old daughter running around. And he still hasn’t married her.
My phone vibrates in my shorts. I hadn’t realized I put it in there.
Amberly calls. Constantly. I don’t answer and I’m not entirely sure I can tell you why.
Amberly is everything I’m not. Loving, sweet, innocent. . . virgin. Maybe that’s why I can’t let her go. I know damn well she doesn’t need me. Her pussy owns me, and I haven’t even tasted it yet. All I know is I want it for myself, and I’ll kill any motherfucker who takes it before me. I know, I’m rude, arrogant, and there’s nothing you can say that I haven’t heard before.
Amberly still calls obsessively. One call after another. It fucking pisses me off to the point that I turn my phone off, but then, like a goddamn idiot, I turn it back on because I want to know she needs me. That’s why she keeps calling, isn’t it? Since I was five, this girl has kept me hanging on by a thread and I cling to it, waiting to see what she’ll do next.
I’m not sure why, but this time I slide my finger across the screen. “Blowing up my phone isn’t going to entice me to answer it. If anything, that’s why I haven’t answered.”
She says nothing, and sniffs.
Tension knots in my shoulders. “What the fuck do you want?”
The line goes dead.
All right, so not the best way to answer the phone. Are you mad? Are you thinking, what the fuck is wrong with this guy? Sweetheart, you certainly ain’t the only one.
A naked girl touches my shoulder, sliding her arm inside of mine. “Hey, baby, wanna get in the pool with me?”
I look at her, my eyes drifting over her tight tanned body. Both her nipples are pierced. That’s what I notice about her, and pretty much only that. “No.”
I’m an idiot, but she’s not what I want tonight.
The girl looks offended, much like the one from earlier. “What’s your problem tonight?”
I laugh. Kind of manically. “Honey, everything is my fuckin’ problem.”
She leaves.
Do you notice me there? Standing next to the pool, glaring at the carefree people who use our place as an outlet? I’m shaking with anger, my body vibrating with years of uncontrolled misery. I’m impulsive, my chest tight with resentment fueling rage I don’t care to control.
Looking around, all these fucking people, they’re here to see us. The Sawyer brothers. Three crazy, delusional motherfuckers who don’t even know themselves let alone who they are. This place is supposed to be our sanctuary, but now it’s theirs.
“Fuck this bullshit,” I say to no one in particular. Tossing the phone aside, I find the coke and do a line off a nameless chick’s tits and let her suck my dick in the bathroom.
Predictably, and feeling anxious and wired, I take off on my dirt bike to the track. When you’re already somewhat hyperactive and intense by nature, you don’t need drugs and adrenaline. It’s a descent into madness and usually a place I find the most comfort in.
I think you know where the night goes from here, don’t you?
What happens when you take that same hyperactive asshole with the destructive tendencies high on cocaine? Add a lingering adrenaline rush, a pool, lots of naked girls and a birthday cake from someone.
Add more alcohol.
And more nakedness.
It goes something like this, I get off the dirt bike and dive fully dressed into the pool. Then a cake arrives, a naked woman inside of it, a food fight on the pool deck. I strip naked.
Reasoning? Clothes are dirty. Not lying.
Still high, I became convinced that a monster that looked like the Predator was chasing me with machine guns and harpoons. It was a nightmare I’ve had a time or two and now it plays out before me. Scariest shit since I was in Peru and convinced myself, while high on mushrooms, that a witch doctor had transplanted a little Mexican man’s face on mine through invasive surgery I swore for two months I had. I haven’t touched mushrooms since.
Essentially, tonight—while high on cocaine and running from the Predator—I somehow fall in the fire pit. Or maybe I jumped in it? You can never be sure when it comes to me. Knowing myself, I probably thought I was fire-resistant and decided to test the theory. I’m going with the latter. It’s more believable than me falling because I have impeccable balance even when high.
“If you remember correctly, I picked cactus spines out of your ass,” I point out to Scarlet when she refuses to apply burn cream on my ass cheek.
She doesn’t look amused. Maybe because I woke her up at four in the morning, still naked, and insist she help me. “No way.”
Scrubbing her hands over her face, Scarlet stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, if you know me by now, isn’t surprising. Or maybe you don’t know me. Maybe you haven’t listened to a goddamn thing I’ve told you, but I suppose even then I can’t blame you for that. Just like I can’t blame Scarlet for looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I have. A long time ago.
“Have you even slept at all?”
I shrug and walk away from her, still completely naked. I think about what she asked. When did I sleep last? I don’t remember the last time. Three days? Or has it been four already?
I’m afraid to sleep. Not because of nightmares or the burns on my fucking ass. I’m afraid my mind won’t let me.
As I expected, I lie awake, wishing for sleep, but usually it never comes.
This happens every night and after a while, I’ll do anything to close my eyes and keep them closed long enough I can get at least a few hours.
Well into my pack of smokes, I sit in a lounge chair outside, bodies of those who passed out last night all around me. While they sleep off their hangovers, I smoke, wondering what the point of all this is, high on cocaine, drunk on vodka.
And I have questions. Many.
Why do I do this to myself? That’s the obvious one, isn’t it?
Beleaguered with fear I don’t understand, sleep gnaws at me, and I want it, but I don’t get it. The wind picks up, just a breeze over the Pasadena hills, rustling through the palm trees and gradually ebbing away through the crags to silence.
Instinctively, like I can’t bear not to look, I check my phone. No calls from Amberly since she hung up on me. I want to call her back, ask why she called, but I don’t. I have no reason for not doing so either. Maybe because if I don’t, if I distance myself from her, I’ll be stronger?
Have you ever seen that movie with Will Smith where he’s a superhero? An alcoholic one at best and is constantly fucking up? I think it’s called Hancock. Anyway, he meets another superhero like him, but she’s good and pure. Until they’re near one another. Together they’re weak.
Maybe that’s why I distance myself? Maybe I’ll be stronger and less likely to destroy her life completely. But then again, I’m not a superhero and I haven’t slept in three or four days, so who even knows if I make sense at this point. I probably don’t.
Sighing, I blow smoke out my nose, shaking my head and drop my phone between my legs and stare up at the sky. Warm Santa Ana winds pick up, swirling plastic cups off nearby tables and into the pool. They float and collect near the filter and some dude sleeping on a flamingo. I wonder, briefly, if he falls off, if he’ll drown.
Scarlet comes outside. She hands me a black cup of coffee. “Sober up.”
I take it, though I don’t know if I want to be sober. For anything.
Cupping her hands around a red and white Honda coffee mug, Scarlet snickers. “Did you really burn your ass?” she finally asks, curiosity getting the better of her.
I nod, but don’t answer with words.
By my lack of words, she knows this is me not wanting to talk, so she sits in silence beside me, drinking her own coffee.
Just before dawn, the sky fills with blended tones of rosy pinks and purples. The sun breaches the horizon, and the sky explodes with colors, and everything around me bleeds purple like a saturated sunrise.
Scarlet’s staring at me and sighs. “You have freckles on your nose.”
“So?”
“I never noticed them. My grandma used to tell me that freckles are like seasoning for your face. They make you spicy.”
I don’t say anything.
She settles into her chair, drawing her legs up to her chest and then staring at the sky. “My granny used to tell me the most beautiful thing about a sunrise is that it doesn’t define the sunset.”
Drawing in a heavy breath, I look over at her, finally. “Nyctophobia.”
Curls tangle around her face as she frowns. “What is that?”
“Finding comfort in darkness.”
Settling her mug between her legs, she lies back and looks at the sky. “Do you ever look at the stars and think there’s more to life than this?”
“Like life after death?”
She nods. “Yeah, like that.”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
I want her to stop talking. “Nope. Go away.”
She doesn’t. “What do you think happens then?”
“Go away, Northwest.”
Still, she doesn’t. “Seriously, what do you think happens?”
Shaking my head, I light another cigarette. “It’s lights out, motherfucker.” Taking a deep inhale, I hold the smoke in, my head throbbing.
“You’re so jaded.”
I’ve had enough of her talking so I stand, but I pause, because I’m so fucking sick of everyone saying I’m the jaded one when they’re just naïve. “Fairy tales are bullshit, sweetheart.”