“Otto, no fucking way.”
It’s my third call of the day with my lawyer about the album agreement. All this time, I thought Jared would be the holdout, the one stalling or causing problems, but he’s not.
Surprisingly, he’s agreed to everything. It’s the record company. They want not only our last album but a full tour. Like we haven’t already given them a pound of flesh and then some over the past decade.
Trojan made them a fucking shit ton of money, and always delivered on our commitments. Even with that, it doesn’t seem to be enough. If we were tanking on the charts and not selling songs, we would be history. Fuckers.
“Otto, I don’t care what you have to do, I’m not doing a world tour,” I yell, clenching the phone so tightly I feel it give. “Fucking fix it,” I shout, tossing the phone across the room, where it hits the wall and shatters into pieces. There’s a gasp from the doorway. Turning, Pansy stands wide-eyed, gaping at me.
“Silas, you okay?”
“Fuck, no, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
While my irate tone has nothing to do with her, she steps back out of the room as Lucia rounds the corner, bumping into her.
“Oh, sorry,” Pansy says, clasping her chest with one hand and the other steadying Lucia.
“It’s all right, mija.” Lucia waves it away, looking from Pansy to the smashed phone on the floor, then to me. “I’ll call Bianca to get you a new cellphone. Your mother is on the phone.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I grind out and Lucia tsks disapprovingly.
“No, Silas, I no joke. Here.” She hands the portable house phone to him while using her feet to sweep the electronic bits into a pile. Pansy readies to follow Lucia out the room, but I say, “Please stay.”
With one hand on the doorframe, she hesitates, but it’s only for a second before she nods and steps back into the room.
A heavy, dark tension slides down my spine, and I close my eyes to find some peace before hearing my mother’s voice. I already feel my blood boiling from my call with Otto, and I have selfishly asked Pansy to stay in hope of her being a calming influence on me.
I feel the heat of Pansy’s stare, and I can’t blame her for being wary of me. A part of me wishes that she hadn’t witnessed my outburst or what’s about to come. This is going to be unpleasant. A call from my parents always is, and Pansy’s about to get a front row seat to this crap.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Silas, why haven’t you called?” Her tone is accusing and whiny. “Bianca told us you had some trouble with the band. Is everything okay?”
Gritting my teeth, I mentally remind myself to speak to Bianca, again, about not sharing shit with my parents. No matter how many times I tell her to not divulge information, she does. She has a soft spot for them, but I haven’t shared the full truth about them.
“I’ve been busy. We’re going in a new direction with the band, and it’s taken up a lot of my time.”
As I’ve learned over the years, it’s best to be vague when it comes to my career. My relationship with my parents is tenuous, at best. I don’t know how I went from having a great childhood and loving parents to this. If I think too much about it, my anger consumes me.
While I was a struggling artist, they didn’t support my career choice and cut me off. But once I became rich and famous, my parents wanted to patch things up. At first, I was ecstatic, but it soon became clear that I was a meal ticket, no longer a son.
Over the years, I kept my loss and disappointment bottled up inside where it morphed and grew into rage, only adding to my desire to leave this life. When I told Pansy I was working on my anger, it wasn’t a joke. I’ve done group therapy and hated every fucking second of it.
Sharing my feelings and my triggers was bad enough, but listening to others’ problems didn’t work for me. Then there was individual therapy, but the doctor was too good, got too close to the wound, so I quit.
Looking back, that wasn’t smart. If I’d continued, I most probably wouldn’t still be struggling with how to tell my parents what I feel.
“What direction?” she asks.
I could fluff this off, but I’m tired of avoiding confrontation with them. It inevitably comes to a head. I’m thirty, and it’s my life. They’ll support me, or they won’t. I slump back onto my desk.
“We’re doing one more album, and then I’m out of Trojan.” I’m matter-of-fact.
“What?” she shrieks. “You can’t do that!”
I laugh, but it’s not jovial. It’s dark and pointy, every chuckle cutting like glass at my insides. This is what I expected. I’m just an ATM.
“I can, and I am.” I bang my fist on the piano keys, the sharp sounds causing Pansy to jump.
“Silas, this makes no sense. I’m getting your father so he can talk some sense into you.”
“Mom…” She’s no longer on the phone, but I hear her shrill tone as she fills in my father.
“Silas, why are you throwing away your dream?”
My father’s voice is authoritative. He thinks he calls the shots. No hello? Or please explain to me why you want to do this?
Pansy furtively glances my way as she wanders around the room. She’s distressed from my outburst and the acrimony in my tone. When we make eye contact, she motions as if she should leave. I shake my head. No way.
While I’m not enjoying the talk, and don’t want to subject her to this, I also don’t want her to leave. Having her here is keeping my anger in check. I shudder to think what state I’d be in if she wasn’t here.
“Dad, this is my decision. It’s happening. I don’t need to give you an explanation.”
“Silas.” His tone is terse and frustrated. “You can’t do this.”
“This conversation is done.” Ending the call, I hang my head, my jaw so tight that a headache’s coming on.
“Are you okay?” Pansy asks.
“No. I need to get out of here.”
I want to beat the shit out of something. Having Pansy close helped but given my track record with her, I don’t want to take this out on her.
“I’m going for a swim.”
“Do you want me to come?”
Any other circumstance and I’d jump at the chance to have her in the water. But I’m not in the right headspace.
“Nah, gotta go.”
“Okay. Come find me if you need me.” Pansy has no clue how much that means to me.
I don’t even bother to change my jeans and shirt. The need to run is overwhelming. Slipping on my running shoes, I hit the beach, and every step along the wet, hard sand is one less punch I want to deliver. I don’t know how long I run, and once done, it’s better, but there’s still rage within me.
Without a care for who is around, I whip off my clothes, leaving only my boxers on, and dive into the ocean. After minutes of swimming, I feel better. More tired and less angry, although not completely over it.
With a damp matted mess for hair and a towel slung over my shoulder, I search until I find Pansy in the kitchen.
She’s with Lucia, and their backs are to me, and it looks like Lucia’s teaching her how to make something.
“I used to do this with Silas,” Lucia says as she pulls the sugar out of the cupboard.
“Really? When was this?”
“I’ve known him since he was eighteen. He moved in with us not too long after he started the band.”
“He lived with you?”
“Sí. He was on his own, him and Jared, but things were hard. The boys were just starting out. Jorge and I were friends of Bianca’s parents, that is how we met him.”
“Bianca?”
“Sí, I’ve known Bianca since she was in diapers.” Lucia twists the long strips of dough and Pansy follows her every move. “While the boys were on their own, we wanted to help them. They stayed with us for a while.”
“I thought it was the other way around,” Pansy says. “I thought Silas met you and hired you to take care of his house.”
“No, mija, we took care of him first. He’s always been a good boy, a sweet one. He’s a son to me. His parents…”
Lucia shakes her head and pauses. Pansy stands still, as if she dares not move for fear of breaking the moment. I too am transfixed -- even though I know how the story ends.
“Things are hard with his parents. When we met him, he was not on good terms with them, but then he was. Now it has turned again. I don’t know what it’s all about, and I don’t push, but it’s eating at him.”
“How so?”
My stomach twists, the acid bubbling and churning with the truth. I should interrupt, but Lucia is doing me a favor. She’s explaining things to Pansy that I intended to, but can’t seem to bring myself to do.
“He’s having a hard time with them. He is quick to temper and very angry,” Lucia says, rushing to add, “And he has every right to be. I don’t understand it all, but… Mija, I should not be saying this all to you. It is not my place. I try not to push Silas, but let him know we are here for him if ever he needs us.”
“I’m glad he has you.”
“Mija, I’m glad he has you, too.” Lucia smiles and pats Pansy’s hand.
“I don’t know how I can help. I don’t even know what’s wrong.”
“Ah, but you do help. Silas has a lot of loss, and he struggles to find those he can trust. He trusts you.”
“He does?” I hear the smile in her voice.
“Sí, mija, you are good people and Silas sees that.”
Pansy laughs, and that’s my cue to join them.
“Hey, what’s cooking?”
My eyes lock on Pansy’s warm ones while slipping my hand around Lucia’s waist to plant a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
“Silas, you are wet!” Lucia pushes out of my arms, rubbing her cheek as if my affection bothers her, but her eyes shine with a tender gaze for me. “Go and get some clothes on.”
I’m still only in my boxers, and wet. Pansy notices too, blushing with her gaze anywhere but on me.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” Lucia and Jorge are very important to me. They are family.
“Everything okay?” Pansy asks, cautiously.
“Yeah, better now. First, it was crap about the album, the label wants more, and then… the call from my parents.”
“It’s a lot for one person to deal with.”
“It’ll work out,” I say, wanting to believe. Turning to Lucia, I ask, “What can I do to help?”
“Go wash your hands and put some clothes on first. Then you can help Pansy with these.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say in a playful tone.
Pansy giggles, and this time she roams my body, and my cock twitches at the desire in her eyes. It’s definitely time for me to take a cold shower.