Blazed (25 page)

We walk into the kitchen, and she pulls two cans of Coca-Cola from the fridge.

“Where are your brothers?” I ask her.

Handing me one of the sodas, she says, “My oldest brother, Malcolm, just moved to Santa Clara. He got a scholarship to play college ball there.”

“That's cool,” I say.

“It is. He worked his ass off, ya know. He was getting looked at by Duke and UCLA and Kentucky until he tore his knee up really, really bad his sophomore year and didn't play his junior year. But he rehabbed and came back and when he got the Santa Clara offer, he jumped at it. He deserves it too. He's so good and he's so nice and sweet. I miss him a lot.”

“What about Jamal?” I ask.

Dominique sighs, still smiling, and she goes, “Jamal's working out all day. He gets up at, like, six every morning in the summer and goes and works out until, like, three and then he goes to work till eleven washing dishes at the restaurant in Hayes Valley. But he'll be at the show tomorrow night. Malcolm might even be able to drive back and be there. I'd love it if you met them. They're so sweet, ya know. They were my protectors growing up. They really helped my mom raise me.”

I take a sip from the Coke. Like, it's still just really fucking hard for me to hear how awesome my father is again, from all these people. So what if he's changed? So what if he's gotten his act together finally and done some rad shit for people out here? Does that excuse what he did to my mother? Does that make it okay that it took my mother's lame suicide attempt for him to finally claim a small part of his son? His only child?

I take a sip of my Coca-Cola. And I say, “You guys are really fucking ambitious. You're so driven.”

“We are,” she says. “Driven by the ghost of our daddy.”

“Where is he?” I ask.

She looks away from me. “You don't have to tell me anything,” I say. “You can tell me to shut the fuck up if you'd like. It's really not my business.”

“He's dead,” she says. “I never even knew him. He died from an overdose when I was seven, but my mother had cut all ties with him before I was born.”

It all makes sense now. Last night when we were walking from Dolores Park and she snapped at me about my father.

“Jesus,” I say. “I'm sorry, Dominique.”

“No,” she says. “No. Don't be. He was a fucking asshole, I guess. Just a piece of shit at the end.”

“Did he ever try to reach out to you?”

“No,” she says. “He never even wanted us. He was too busy being a rapper and a hustler in Oakland. It's so pathetic. Like, why the fuck do you keep making babies with your wife if you despise everything that comes with it?”

“Is that why you don't drink or get high anymore? Cos of him?”

Shaking her head, she says, “Not because of him. He's one of the reasons I stay sober now, but I decided not to drink or drug anymore because of Ricky.”

“Your ex.”

“That's him,” she says.

She drops her face in her hand and squeezes her forehead. She looks so stressed out right now. Upset. Worn out just from her ex being mentioned.

“It's okay,” I tell her. “Like, I don't need to know shit. I'm leaving in less than a week now.”

“Don't say that,” she says, looking up.

“Huh.”

“Just don't say it like that. You're just leaving.”

“But I am. And then I'm gone, and if talking about some
dark shit in your life makes you sick or uncomfortable, then don't do it.”

Dominique rolls her eyes. She says, “Have you considered for a second that I do wanna tell you this stuff? I want to talk about it. I think it's fucking clear how much I like you, Jaime. And I wanna share myself with you. Think about that instead of jumping on me and telling me I don't have to and that you're leaving.”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Don't be. Just relax.”

“Okay.”

It's about time for some blue,
I'm thinking. Like, I'm getting short with my patience. It's clear. Instead of listening, I'm telling her not to talk. It's awful and she's right. She's so fucking right.

And she says, “Ya know what, man? Fuck this conversation right now, actually. You wanna see my room?”

“Sure.”

She takes my hand and goes, “Come on then. We're going this way.”

• • •

Dominique's room is like a teenage girl's room, I guess. Except she has a keyboard synth set up against the wall on the right side of the room, there's a sampler on a small table next to the synth, and she's got, like, two microphones and an acoustic guitar and a bass set up next to the table.

This is the dream right here. I'm drooling just looking at the gear and thinking about how I'm gonna shred on all of it.

Her floor is covered with clothes. I mean, I don't even see more than a few inches of the actual hardwood floor when I look it over.

Her walls are painted bright pink. There's a walk-in closet to the left of the door. A desk and a computer is next to another closet on that right wall with all the cool gear. And her bed is straight ahead. It's huge and there's, like, six pillows on it and it looks so soft and comfy.

Ghostface Killah, the Knife, Kendrick Lamar, Thee Oh Sees, the Growlers, Beach House, Purity Ring, and Big Black posters are pinned all over the wall along with posters from all these Vicious Lips shows.

It almost feels like validation. All this time and energy I've spent seeking out amazing music and learning how to play instruments. Giving my fucking life to this stuff and not settling on being young as an excuse to not get into good shit or make amazing stuff.

This is the payoff.

Kicking it with Dominique and meeting someone who's been doing the same thing as me.

“I love this,” I tell her.

“Sorry about the mess.”

“Why? Just gives this place some more character, I guess.”

She goes over to her computer and plays some music. That M83 song “Midnight City” comes on.

“One of my favorites,” I say, and start dancing around a little bit.

“Of course it is,” she says, then starts dancing too.

The smile on her face is priceless. She looks so happy, and I feel so happy as we dance to this song. It's like one of those moments that you wish could be looped so it never ends. These four minutes on repeat for the rest of your life. Cos part of you knows this might be the happiest you'll ever feel or even be capable of feeling. Part of you is scared that you'll hold this moment to such a high standard that everything going forward will suck and you'll find yourself living in the past all the time, letting the nostalgia dictate you and manipulate the way you feel about everything else.

“Midnight City” fades into “Gila” by Beach House, and Dominique pushes me onto the bed now.

My dick gets hard right away.

And then she crawls on top of me and stops when her face is directly over mine.

“What do you think?” she says.

“I think I really like you and that this is fucking perfect right now.”

“Me too,” she says, and then I lean up and we start making out.

Putting my hands around her neck, I gently push her onto her back, then run a hand down her body. It's so tight and nice and when my hand touches her jeans, I unbutton them.

“Oh yeah,” she goes.

I pull back. “Is that cool?” I say.

“Duh,” she says. “Keep doing what you're doing.”

I pull her jeans down past her ass and then slide my fingers beneath her underwear. Her pussy is wet. I slide two fingers in and she moans and bites down hard on my bottom lip.

Just back and forth I go, finger-banging her as Beach House sings . . .

“Give a little more than you like, pick apart the past, you're not going back . . .”

Putting her hands on my shoulders, Dominique pushes me on my back now and crawls on top of me again.

“Your turn,” she says, and then unbuttons my jeans and pulls them all the way off, laughing as she does it.

“Damn,” she goes. “Look at you so hard.”

She slides my underwear down but right when she touches my dick, I just explode all over.

“Fuck,” I say, while shaking from the orgasm. “Fuck.”

I turn away from her and sit up and pull my underwear back up.

“Fuck.”

“What's wrong?” she says.

“I'm sorry,” I go.

“Why?”

“You know why,” I say. “Fuck. This is embarrassing.”

Dominique looks hurt and sad.

“I'm sorry,” I say one more time.

She doesn't say anything. She just lies back down as “Gila” fades into “Helicopter” by Deerhunter.

Me, I stand up and put my jeans back on and tell her I'm going to the bathroom.

“Jaime,” she says.

I stop walking but don't turn around. “Yeah.”

“Nothing,” she says.

“I'll be right back,” I say, and leave the room.

“WHY ARE YOU SO MAD
at me?” She asked. “You only get mad at me anymore when I see you.”

“Are you serious?” I shot back.

“I'm curious,” she said.

“You've blown me off twice in the last three days. I text you and you don't text back. What gives?”

“I've been busy,” she said.

“Is it about what happened the other night? Me coming like that when you touched my dick?”

She paused.

I already knew the answer.

I already knew she was going to lie.

“No,” she went. “You know me, Jaime. I'm not that shallow. I've been busy.”

“Right.”

“Hey,” she went, and put her hand on my leg. “We moved really fast at first. It was a lot.”

“That's what you wanted to do. Not me.”

“I know,” she said. “But I was wrong.”

“So what are you saying?”

“It's been too much too soon.”

“What?”

“But I still wanna see you and do this.”

I felt sick and dizzy.

Numb.

“Is there another dude?”

“No,” she said, after hesitating for a second. “No, no, no, no.”

I didn't believe her. How can you believe someone who just admitted lying to you about how serious they wanted to be with you in the first place?

“I just need some time in between the days we kick it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

We kissed and then I played her the new Death Grips record that she'd been begging to hear, but she made me turn it off, like, two songs in.

That's when I began to really understand what was happening.

We kissed again before I left her house and walked home.

I felt like shit.

I just wanted to be happy again.

Happy.

My mother.

What made her always smile.

Blues.

Oxy.

And that's the night I tried that shit for the first time.

And it worked.

I'd just manufactured happiness.

I found out there was a way to be happy whenever I wanted.

I LIE NEXT TO DOMINIQUE
now. In the bathroom, I swallowed a blue, and I'm back in the castle. We don't talk about what happened. I never wanna talk about that ever.

That Beach House song “Better Times” is playing.

Dominique rolls over and drapes her arm over my body, her face against my neck, and goes, “I was with Ricky for about eight months. He knew Malcolm and I'd see him hanging out sometimes and I thought I was in love right away. He's a rapper, he's from Oakland, ya know. He was handsome, he had a nice car, always had weed and beers. It's so dumb thinking about that now.”

“Why?”

“Just the way we all think we're so fucking different sometimes. You listen to different kinds of music than everyone else, you get piercings, tattoos, wear clothes that—”

“That make you stand out,” I say.

“No,” she goes. “That make you different. Standing out terrifies me, but being the same as other people terrifies me too.”

“That makes sense.”

“It has to. It's the truth,” she goes. “And the truth
always makes sense no matter how fucking gnarly or amazing it is.”

“Sure.”

She kisses my neck and goes, “Anyway, when it comes down to feelings and relationships and boys and what attracts you to them a lot of times, it ain't no different than anyone else. It's not. All these people you're trying not to be like, they go through exactly the same things too when it comes to that bullshit.”

The way her breath feels on my neck right now is comforting and safe and intimate.

And she says, “Things were really good at first. He'd always smoke me out and get me drunk and take me for rides in his car. He showed me how to record music, how to produce it. Everything was so fucking great.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Her body tenses up now, and her breathing gets heavier.

She says, “We'd been together for a while and we still hadn't fucked yet. I was scared to. Ricky had always had so many girls around before we started dating. His raps are all about how he fucked all these girls and shit and there I was, his girlfriend, and he couldn't fuck that. So he cheated on me and when I found out, I was devastated. It crushed me bad, man. So fucking bad. And I blamed myself cos I wasn't fucking him cos I was scared. It was brutal. So one night I was at this party in the city and I got so drunk and out of control. . . .”

Her voice trails off. Her heart is pounding through her chest. I can feel it. Reaching over, I put my hand on her face and tell her it's okay.

And she says, “I ended up fucking this skinny hipster kid. I can remember thinking how fucking disgusting it was while he was on top of me, sweating all over me, how awful his breath smelled, and him saying all this shit to me. I couldn't wait for it to be over, but he was on cocaine and took a Viagra and it just lasted for so long.”