Jenson

 

Upon swinging the door open, we’re met by the sounds of gunshots and shrieking. The latter only stops when whoever it is doing it realizes Lindsey’s not alone.

“Jenson, this is Yan and Sebastian,” Lindsey says unceremoniously, her keys clinking against a piece of pottery she drops them into.

I squint through the glare of the television in the darkness, lifting a few fingers in a wave to the two lumps on the couch who I assume are her roommates. They barely take their eyes off their video game to nod at me. I go to catch up to Lindsey, following her around the corner and into a nook that houses the kitchen. The lights buzz to life overhead, and she frowns at whatever she finds in the pantry.

“Those your roommates?” I ask.

“Two of them. I have three more.”

“Six people? Is that even legal?”

She flaps her hand as if to fend off my pesky questions. “Flight attendants do it all the time.”

“Are you also a flight attendant?”

“No.”

She emerges from the pantry with one of those bags of organic, fancy-pants popcorn and a bottle of wine, tossing them onto the counter. “Are you trying to romance me?” I tease, bracing my hands on the laminate.

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Popcorn and wine will get you everywhere.” Glancing around, I notice the absence of a dining set. A few stuffed trash bags occupy a slice of vinyl flooring where a small table and chairs would go if they’d had them.

“No table, unfortunately. We’re classy like that.” Then she’s hoisting herself onto the counter top the way she did at my place, little dress and all. Rubbing the space beside her, she raises her eyebrows at me.

“Bottle opener?” I ask.

“Twist off. Like I said, classy.” Unscrewing the lid on the bottle of wine, she takes a swig and hands me the popcorn. I hoist myself up beside her, taking a handful and munching on it.

“So why haven’t you been able to write, Jenson King?” she finally asks, dropping her head back against the cabinets. When she hands over the wine, I take a measured gulp. Probably not the best idea to get wine-drunk and embarrass myself. Then I grab another handful of popcorn to stall my answer.

“I’ve been able to write, but after . . . the past year, it’s all been doom and gloom. Everything comes out through your art, you know? I’m sick of marinating in it.”

She doesn’t seem to have a response to that. “You were married less than a year ago,” she says, her tone even, non-judgmental.

The kernels stick in my throat. Meeting someone new, you wonder when your baggage will come up. I didn’t even have time to wonder that with her, I didn’t think I’d have the chance.

I swallow roughly. “You learn that from Google?”

She gives me a look. “I don’t have time to stalk you. It’s common knowledge.”

“While you’re at it, can you give me my social security number as well? I can never remember it.”

“Stop.”

“No, seriously, what all do you know? Fill me in.” I feel caught off balance, as if she, along with the rest of the world, has leverage against me. I remember that this is the reason I’ve resisted seeing the same girl multiple times. Hookups work for me because I don’t have to answer to anyone. I can stay detached. Lindsey and I haven’t even kissed, and yet I’ve spoken more truthfully to her than any female since my wife.

Lindsey holds up her hands, eyes apologetic. “Look, defensive, all I know is you got a divorce not too long ago, your wife’s name was Raven, and there was something about a fire you started on accident . . . allegedly.”

My head jerks back. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That pause. You said allegedly.”

She avoids my eyes. “I don’t know. I just thought maybe . . . you were tired of everything.”

And then it dawns on me. “You don’t think. . . Look, if I were going to kill myself, I wouldn’t risk possibly surviving third-degree burns.”

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“I may not like my life sometimes, but I do like living. Just so you know.” I catch her eye. “And I’m not suicidal.”

Shaking her head, she starts to giggle. It’s a throaty little noise deep in her throat that makes me wonder what a full-on, uninhibited laugh would sound like.

“What?”

“It’s so wrong to laugh right now. We’re a disaster,” she says once she’s caught her breath.

“No. We’re magic.” I say it as a joke, but the words ring in my head. Magic. Like love, I once believed in such things. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask her. She seems young, maybe a little jaded, but I can’t tell why. Open, but not at all predictable.

“I’ve loved, but I’ve never been in love,” she answers, taking another pull directly from the bottle.

“Are they not the same thing?”

“No. I mean, I haven’t lived a lot of life, but I think true love is when your head and your heart fall together. Love is just one or the other; you either feel that it’s good or you know that it’s good, not both.”

I stare at her full lips while I mull that over. How can someone so goddamn mysterious say something that makes so much sense? “I guess I can see that. And you’ve not had both?”

“Nope. I dated Pierce Perkins and loved him with my mind. He made sense on paper. He was going to be an accountant, his daddy was a banker and his mom was a homemaker. I could’ve had a Golden Retriever and a picket fence, and two-point-five kids. It would’ve been a good life, but my heart didn’t want that. Then I fell head over heels for Kinser Williams. My heart was a goner, but I knew in my mind we weren’t right. He cared too much about pussy and weed to care about me. When someone consumes both, then I’ll know I’m really in love.” There’s a drop of blood-red wine on her bottom lip, and she sucks it into her mouth to lick it off. My insides burn. Before I consider the consequences, I set down the bag of popcorn and wipe my hands on my jeans, before sliding my hand around the back of her neck and pulling her to me.

The first taste of her is cabernet-flavored, rich with smoke and cherry. Then I catch the salt from the popcorn as I run my tongue along hers. A rare groan rips from her throat, and she returns my movements with one of her own, biting down on my lip and dragging her teeth across it. We’re twisted toward each other, the angle limiting access to her body. So I hop down off the counter and rotate so I’m in between her legs, one hand in her hair and the other sliding across the velvet of her dress to wrap around her waist and pull her to me. I’ve had plenty of whiskey tonight, but it’s the taste of her that’s going straight to my head. And somewhere else. But I can’t think too hard about that, or else this is going to end soon, and badly.

Then she’s wrapping her legs around me and pulling me as close to her as I can get, her feet digging into my ass, so I take that as my cue. I tug her to the edge of the counter so the heat of her is right up against me and hoist her up, keeping one hand on her thigh while my other arm supports her body. I’m walking blindly, my face in her neck, and she guides me vaguely through her apartment. The sound of explosions emanates from the living area without pause, so I assume her roommates have no idea what’s occurring just down the hall.

“No. Next one. Yeah, there,” she says as I approach the last door, her hands in my hair, clutching my face to her. Then we’re through the door and I’m backing her against it to close it, pinning her between me and the wood. The dress I’ve been imagining as a pool of fabric on the floor all night is bunched around her hips, giving me easy access to the soft skin of her thighs and her ass. I grind into her and her head falls back against the door with a thump.

“What are the chances of your roommate coming home?” I ask, catching sight of not one bed but two when I come up for breath.

“Not great enough for me to stop.”

It’s all she needs to say for it to be game on. My eyes adjust enough to where I can navigate the room in the darkness, and I go for one of the beds, dropping her onto the covers before grabbing the hem of my shirt to take it off.

“Let me, I love this part,” she says, coming up onto her knees. I drop my hands and grin, stepping closer so she can strip me herself. My view is obstructed by fabric for what I think is only going to be a moment, only realizing something’s gone awry when she wraps my shirt around and around my head until I’m stuck, rendering me blind and useless.

“Really?” Without sight, I struggle to free myself so I can at least see, only knowing where she is because of her relentless giggling.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she says breathlessly. Finally ripping my shirt off my head, I catch sight of her against the headboard, clutching her belly with one hand and covering a grin with the other. I fumble for the string on the blinds, wrenching them up so I can get a better look at her. Silver moonlight bathes her skin and hair.

I lean closer and run my fingers from her thigh down her calf, lowering my voice and giving her my most seductive look. “And I’ve always wanted to do this,” I say, wrapping my fingers around her ankle and yanking her toward me. She squeals and giggles softly, only sobering when she realizes her dress is hiked up around her waist and her thighs are parted. Then she’s reaching up and hooking her finger in my necklace, pulling me down to her. It’s all the encouragement I need.

And to think that all of this started with a song.

I cover her body with mine and explore her with my hands and my mouth. She tastes a little like wine and little like sweat from her solo dance marathon earlier. When I drag her dress over her head, she wiggles a little to get out of it, and I suppress a laugh. It’s a change of pace from the way we’ve been going. Uninhibited, as well as honest. I kiss my way from her ankle up to her inner thigh, sucking the skin between my teeth and biting softly. She sighs and writhes against me, and when I look up at her, her expression is expectant.

Then I’m dragging her panties down her legs, and she points her toe to get out of them too.

Everything about her, her smell, her taste, her sound, directs more songs in my head. Music. The soundtrack of us. It’s a strange thought, knowing we’re not anything and feeling things deeper than I should. Things I can’t tell her about because she will run. I know that while hardly knowing her. Instead, I keep the words inside. I let every lick and tug and moan orchestrate the melody in my mind, and our bodies create the music I haven’t been able to capture in almost a year.

 

 

Lindsey

 

Jenson stirs, putting space between us and slipping out of me. Then I feel his fingers on my spine as he brushes my hair aside. He took it out of the elastic at some point mid-romp.

“What does your tattoo mean?” His husky, post-sex voice awakens something. A sleeping beast I thought was sated for the night.

I rub my pillowcase between two fingers, thinking. I’ve fended off his questions to keep him at a distance, but it’s not easy always pushing people away. It doesn’t come naturally. There was a time when I wasn’t afraid of anything.

“Growing up, I didn’t have to work for much. My parents are both pretty successful, and I wanted for nothing. I grew into this mindset that good things just happened to decent people. Like I deserved opportunities. When I said something to that effect out loud, my high school English teacher all but laughed in my face. He was blunt like that. He said that no dream worth having will just fall into your lap, you have to go out there and get it. He told me it was up to me to decide what to believe, but to come back to him in a few years and tell him which made me happier—thinking I deserved it, or truly earning it. That stuck with me. Ever since, I’ve been working to earn it.”

“Ahh. Dream catcher.”

“Exactly. It probably sounds stupid to you after seeing my shitty apartment, not knowing my name when everyone knows yours.”

He pushes gently on my shoulder until I’m on my back looking up at him. “More stupid than a guy who had it all and shot every opportunity he was given to hell?”

I examine his expression, gauging his feelings on the subject. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bitter about people like him—the ones entitled enough to take once-in-a-lifetime opportunities for granted. And I’m not entirely convinced he’s regretful about the whole situation. He seems sincere, but he’s probably as schooled in charm as he is in music. Before I can push him on the subject, he asks for the bathroom.

“Across the hall.”

I’m given an uninterrupted view of Jenson’s backside before he drags on his jeans and slips out the door. Ink decorates almost the entire right side of his torso, in addition to what’s visible on his arms. I wonder if every piece means something to him, or if there are some that were done on a whim, maybe in a moment of weakness or extreme stupidity.

I shimmy beneath the sheets and turn over, tracing my eyes over the Polaroid photos strung across my wall—reminders of my adventures, both cities and people alike. Twenty-three years old and my wanderlust isn’t even close to being satisfied. I can’t imagine being so unhappy with something I was once passionate about. And then the sheets are being drawn back, and I feel the dip of the bed when Jenson returns.

“If this isn’t what you want to be doing, why don’t you quit?” It’s not pillow talk by any means, but I can’t stop myself from asking it. There has to be a reason why he’s become the man who drinks alone, and I want to understand him, even if it’s only because he’s someone I’ve yet to fully explore.

A careful pause transpires before he responds. “It’s not that simple. There are people to think about besides me.”

Turning to face him fully, I prop myself up on my elbow. In that moment, a selfless answer was the last thing I expected. “Okay, but what happens when you forget about the expectations and the people you’ll let down? Yeah, they’ll be disappointed, but disappointment is temporary. Selfishly speaking, this is your life. The only thing you owe it is to live it as best as you can.”

His eyes narrow. “This is awfully deep for something that was just supposed to be a fun night out. Did Carter put you up to this?”

“What?”

“If not, this is one hell of a coincidence.” When my confusion remains, he goes on. “My band ambushed me earlier this week as part of some intervention. Then I got my ass handed to me by the VP of my label. I could stand to be dropped, lose the last thing I love. Now I get to hear it from you.” He slides out of the sheets and starts rooting around for his shirt.

“This coming from the person who wanted to pry into my life and ask me about my hair and my tattoo. I guess it’s true that nothing’s harder to swallow than your own medicine.”

Jenson doesn’t stop to look at me, just buttons his jeans and wedges his feet into his boots. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

“Whatever.” I flop down on my back and try not to watch him as he leaves. I resist saying anything else despite the pressing urge to be petty. There are already years that separate us, I don’t want to emphasize that age gap further.

So, I listen to him go, and I try not to wonder why I have the sudden urge to stop him.