All Shook Up (7 page)

Hondo takes off his shoes and climbs into bed next to me. He's wearing an outfit that almost looks like a basketball uniform. He curls around me like a giant spoon. I relax into his familiar body and close my eyes.

When I wake up, he's still there, but he has turned onto his back. He snores softly as I watch him. Like countless other times, I steal a look below his waist. His erection is half-hard and pressing against the front of his loose shorts. My body responds with a wave of desire. I feel so juvenile studying him like this, but I can't help it. Hondo has a gorgeous body, one that many people have tried to claim. It's hard to comprehend that nature gave him so much to work with, but then stopped short of giving him the pleasurable sensations of sex.

I think about our almost-kiss. My body certainly had no problem responding to him, but it shocked me. He's never done anything like that with me. Sure, he will kiss me all over my head and hands and arms—but never on the mouth.

Hondo suddenly rolls over toward me and opens his eyes. "Is it morning yet?"

"No, we have about twelve hours to go."

"Good." He threads his fingers together behind his head on the pillow. A quick sideways glance tells me that his semi-erection has already gone down. I wonder if he even noticed it.

"Thank you for taking care of me," I say, nestling my head into his shoulder.

"Of course," he says.

"No, not 'of course.' You didn't have to do that. You don't have to do a lot of the things you do for me."

"It's only because I love you."

"Hondo?"

"Still here."

"Remember when you told me about your, um, dating past?"

Hondo's muscles tense a little under my cheek. "Yes."

"Do you still, I mean, are you still asexual?"

The next minute stretches into an hour as I wait for his answer. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

He speaks to the ceiling. "I don't know. It's kind of hard to define the absence of something."

"Yeah, I know," I say. "But do you still
not
feel the same way as before?"

"Sweetness, I couldn't even follow that sentence."

We laugh together, and then let a few more minutes pass in silence. I move my head onto his chest and listen to the rhythm of his heart. People like deep bass in their music because it sounds like this: a low, powerful, continuous sound that can be felt as much as heard. I use a lot of bass and percussion, and it makes my music feel more alive. It's sad, though, that I can't remember the last song I wrote. With Lang gone, I'd put my life in suspend mode, without really meaning to. Now, with my brain dried out, I could see it clearly. I took a six-month cruise in a bottle of vodka. And somehow, I survived the ship wreck.

"I think about sex," Hondo says, interrupting my thoughts. "But it seems like a function more than a desire. I have no particular need for the function."

I nod awkwardly against his chest. His heart speeds up a few beats under my ear.

"I see people rather than their bodies. I want to share space with them without the pressure of making each other feel good physically."

"Do you think something happened?"

"What, to make me this way?" Hondo says, sliding up to a sitting position. He has a frustrated, wounded look on his face. "Can't it just be who I am? Does it have to be a trauma or disease?"

I sit up, too, crossing my legs. "Of course, but the other day …" I trail off, unable to say it out loud.

"Uh, yeah. I have no idea where that came from. I'm sorry. Maybe I was wondering a little, too."

I look up into his eyes. "And?"

"You know, I could force myself to do it." He breaks my gaze to look down at his hands. "The equipment works, right? But when I think of having sex with someone, it makes me feel more alone. If it's supposed to be a connection, but it actually puts more space between you, what's the point?"

I nod, even though he isn't looking at me to see it.

"It's not you, Sophie. If there was anyone on the planet that I would force myself to sleep with, it would be you."

"Wow, there might actually be a compliment somewhere in that sentence," I say.

Hondo grins and tickles me in the ribs. I scream and laugh until he takes pity on me and lets me go. We face each other, now, on the bed we share.

"I love you, Ho," I say.

"I love you, too, sweetness, even if you're one of those weird sexual creatures."

I give him a half-hearted slap on the ass. But that night, as I listen to his even, constant breath beside me, and I think about Mark on the other side of the house, I feel a little more alone than I did before.

Scene 20 ~ Mark

I do nothing the rest of the day. I heard Sophie and Hondo come home, but I didn't bother to say hello to them. It seems like a fake, meaningless thing to do under the circumstances. Instead, I sit in the middle of the floor in the bedroom and try to write something—anything—on my acoustic. My dull, grey brain is giving me total shit. Asshole.

I toss the guitar on a chair and walk down the hall to see if anyone is in the living room. I hired a chef, but he isn't starting until tomorrow. I also scheduled pool cleaning. Housecleaning would begin at the end of the week.

The living room is empty, except for Nicole, so I quietly walk through it to reach the staircase without bringing attention to myself. It's fucking ridiculous, tiptoeing around, given that this is my house now. Nevertheless, I pad up the stairs in my bare feet and lock myself in Lang's studio.

Being in the same room with so many incredible guitars wakes me up a little. I walked around the room, trying to identify each one. Some were signed with black marker by famous guitarists. Others were custom-made for Lang by the big names in guitar design. I pick up one and wipe the dust off the shiny red and white finish with my hand. Maybe it's magical thinking to believe that being in the same space that Lang occupied will help me. Touching the strings he touched, feeling the vibrations he felt. It has to mean something, even though at this moment, I can't force myself to put a single finger on the strings.

I'm starting to think leaving rehab early wasn't such a great idea.

I put the guitar back on its stand before I can do something with it I'd regret. I don't need any more damaged things around me. Instead, I use the sound-proof room to scream at the band, the fans, the cocaine, Sophie, Hondo, Lang, my family, myself—everything that has brought me to this point.

Then, I pull my broken phone put of my pocket and choose a number from my favorites list.

"Hey, Trent, call me back. I need to talk to you about something I did."

Scene 21 ~ Sophie

The next morning, I go into the kitchen and find another stranger in the house: our new cook. He and Nicole already seem tight, so engrossed in conversation that neither one realizes that I'm there.

"Hi," I say. They look up at me in tandem, and he extends his hand. I shake it. "Sophie."

"Chef Cole Jansen."

Ah, not a cook. I'm glad I didn't say it out loud. I made that mistake when I was a kid, and I learned you really don't want to piss off the person in charge of your meals. A good life lesson, in general.

I sit on one of the stools around the kitchen island and watch Cole chop vegetables for an omelet. I sneak a few red and green chunks to chew on as he works. For the first time in a really long time, I'm hungry. Ravenous.

"So, let's go ahead and get this over with," I say. "Are you a Lang Winter fan?"

Cole pauses and looks at me with a wary expression before responding. "Well, my tastes run more on the classical side of the spectrum."

I grin. "Welcome! We're going to get along just great."

The three-egg omelet is unbelievable. I come very close to asking for another one. Mark must have great connections in Dallas to land Cole here.

We talk for a while as he preps ingredients for the week. He would be here for four hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of each week. In addition to the meals he will cook in person, he'll prepare meals to freeze for us. It all sounds heavenly to me. I sit back on the stool with my belly full and happy and look out the over the pool area.

The eggs turn to stone in my stomach. A man I've never seen before is outside talking to Mark. It's clear they are discussing the state of the pea soup pool. I practically run from the kitchen, out the doors, and to the side of the pool.

"Sophie," Mark says. "This is Rick. He's going to clean up the pool and get it working again before summer."

"No," I say.

"No, what?" Mark says.

"No, we're not going to clean up the pool."

An impatient look crosses Mark's face. Rick the pool guy has a tiny grin on his face. Celebrity drama is the best kind of drama.

"Sophie, can we talk over here for a minute?" He grabs my arm and pulls me to a corner of the patio. "What the hell is going on?"

"I might have forgotten to mention it, but the pool stays the way it is."

"For how long?"

"Forever."

"Fuck." Mark runs a hand through his hair. "This is crazy, you know."

"I know."

"And you realize I can have the pool cleaned whenever I want because it's my house, and I'm paying, right?"

I blink at him, trying to find words that will persuade him to leave the water alone. "You know the story," I say, almost pleading. "Everyone knows the story about Lang and that pool."

"I understand what happened. I know this pool has the biggest ghost of all for you," Mark says. "But don't you think it's time to let it go? It's been six months."

"I don't care how long it's been. No one touches the fucking pool," I say as my voice grows louder.

The anxiety starts at my toes and follows my nerves all the way up to my scalp. I'm shaking, and my nose is running. Not exactly crying, but close. And I feel like an idiot. A pathetic, snotty-nosed idiot.

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. I stand my ground and wait. Rick can't contain his smile. I wonder how quickly he would sell this little story to the tabloids. "Guitarist Mark Dillon and Lang Winter's daughter fight over green pool."

Mark and I stand there, just looking at each other. I can't stop the tears from streaming down my face. I hate crying in front of people, and that's all I seem to do lately. I especially hate crying in front of people when I want to look strong.

Mark's expression softens, but it doesn't feel at all like a victory.

"Rick, can you come back tomorrow?" he says, not taking is eyes off me.

Scene 22 ~ Mark

I couldn't push her any further. She has to know, though, that this house won't be a Lang Winter museum. Yes, I have an incredible amount of respect for the man. Yes, I bought this house to feel closer to him. But I can't leave a green, insect-infested pool in the backyard. At some point, Sophie will have to deal with that fact and get over it.

She goes back inside without another word. I give her half an hour to get control before I search for her. She isn't difficult to find, sitting on the floor in her closet. I push some clothes aside and sit on the floor a few feet in front of her. Her face is still pink from crying, but it seems like the tears are over for now.

"I'm not an asshole," I say. "At least, I try not to be an asshole. If you feel strongly about something related to the house or your father, I can respect that. But you can't expect me to leave things alone indefinitely."

"I know," she says quietly.

"Hell, I'm the one who wanted you to live here. I get that."

"It's OK," she says. "I was being stupid. I know we can't leave the pool like that. It just hurts."

She touches her chest as if the pain is physically inside her heart. Tears well up in her eyes again.

"Come here," I say. She won't budge, so I move closer and put my arm around her shoulders. She immediately turns her face into my shoulder and let the sobs out of her chest. We sit like that, her tears soaking my shirt, for a long time. I know she's dealt with a lot over the past six months, but something tells me that her issues began years ago. I'm beginning to see that while Lang was a guitar phenomenon, he might not have been dad of the year.

When her sobs calm down again, Sophie pulls away from my arm. She grabs a t-shirt from the floor to clean her face. Somehow, that seems funny, and I can't help laughing a little. Sophie joins in, flashing me a genuine smile for a few seconds before her expression goes serious again.

"Before Lang drowned," she says in almost a whisper. "I was having some problems."

I nod to encourage her to continue.

"College wasn't going my way, and I was questioning majoring in music. Every time I tried to talk to Lang about it, he would give me some platitude that was of no help at all. He never went to college, he'd say. Just find your passion, and that's what you'll do."

She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, like she's retreating into a shell.

"It was easy for him. He had the talent, he had the luck, and he had a network of people around him to keep him afloat. Imagine being the child of a legend. No matter what I do, I will always be compared to him. And the way the gossip mill works, when I screw up, I screw up in front of everyone, and my screw-up is ten times worse than anyone else's."

My parents are average, middle-class people. They're the ones who struggled with the new reality of having a famous son, as Never More Alone got big. I watched their privacy shrink and shrink, until my mother refused to leave the house. I had to relocate them outside of Los Angeles.

"I felt awful. I couldn't make myself go to class. The profs dropped me from several courses. I couldn't eat. I went days without a shower. I stopped answering my phone and email," she said. "I thought that I'd failed, and my life was over."

She rests her forehead on her knees but continues speaking in a low voice. "One night, I decided I'd had enough. I turned the pool lights off and walked into the deep end. But I had no idea how violent drowning is. I made so much commotion, I set off the motion lights in the backyard."

Her shoulders go up like she's hiding between them. "It's all right," I say. "Go ahead."