In the Absence of You (23 page)

The playlist takes me to one of Luminessence’s songs. Everything reminds me of Zoe, and this tune transports me to a library trip she insisted on. The guys were waiting for me at practice, but my bossy girl decided we needed to pick up books first—of course I humored my girl.

“Here. This is the best section,” she whispered, exaggerating because people were speaking with normal voices around us. Zee crooked her finger and hunched her back as if we were being sneaky by entering the anatomy section.

“Oh the human body! Let’s see if there are encyclopedias solely dedicated to the female body,” I suggested. “There should be, because that’d be fascinating.”

She snorted, locked her hands around my stomach, and play-pulled me into a remote part. “I wanna see if it’s still here. It’s such a crazy book. Wait.” She sank to her haunches, and I instantly scooted down behind her, nibbling at her ear. Whatever she found wouldn’t be as interesting as her anyway.

“Emil,” she hissed, biting her lip while I bit her neck.

“You know I love you?” I murmured.

“Yep. Wait… looky, here ’tis. So eerie.” She whipped open some unassuming book. That was filled with photos of dead people and skeletons and body parts. They all said stuff in Latin beneath them.

“What the flip is this?” I asked.

“Right? It’s old-timey science. See how they pickled that guy’s head?”

“Jesus, what’s with his forehead? It’s double the size of mine. You’re nuts, you know that? Of all the books, this is what you wanted to show me?” I felt my grin spread wide. My Zee, she was an expert at making me grin.

“It cracks me up.” She grinned back. “Aren’t we just so lucky not to be deformed and living a few hundred years back? If that happened, the mad scientists would be at the ready to put us in jars of formaldehyde or whatever for their little museums. This book’s from Italy.”

“Well,” I said, humming a few bars of Luminessence’s ballad against her ear as she settled in against me on the floor, book in her lap. “You’re certainly not deformed.”

“No?” She leaned the back of her head against my chest, waiting for more.

“No, because you’re delicious. All of you, every single part is delicious. Actually, if this were before, maybe they’d hunt you down anyway. Not for their freak-show museums, but for their man-candy stores.”

“Man-candy stores? Sounds like a store for women.” She turned enough to waggle her brows at me.

“Nope, it’s where they candied especially delectable females, and the men would buy little bags of you to suck on.”

“Eww!” Her stomach rippled with laughter under my hand. It made me want to kiss her mouth, which I did. “In that case, I hope you were there and came in and bought my vagina to suck on.”

“Oh hell yeah, I would. First your clitty-clit.”

“Dork!”

“Then I’d buy the rest of you and assemble you into one big piece of candied ass.” I took her hand and wedged it in between our bodies. She formed it around my cock.

“I don’t have a big ass.” She tried to scoff between our kisses.

“Dude, not your
actual
ass. You’re
a piece of ass, all of you,” I explained patiently, making sure I puffed way too much air into her ear canal, causing her to shudder.

“Weirdo,” she laughed. “In that century you speak of, I’d rather not be candied and scattered into all these jars. I’d still hunt you down and make you follow me around like a puppy.”

“Puppy? You want puppy love?”

“Of course…” She trailed off when I slid a hand up and covered her breast.

“I’ll puppy-love you. Doggy-love you. From behind. See what I did there?”

“Cheapest joke ever, Emil—omigod.”

“No, I’m serious. Do they have nowhere to hide in this place? I need you naked. At least from the waist and down. I’m not picky when it comes to undress as long as it’s that: ‘undress.’”

My Zee found us a place, all right. It wasn’t private, but at least it was out of the way, behind the last shelf and a copy machine. We added some flair to the section. Or you could say we christened it.

AISHE

M
y access to Emil has become too limited.
Travel days are long, and being on separate buses makes it so that I rarely see him. In Chicago, we have another hotel night though, which lifts my hopes. We’ll be at the Hard Rock hotel, and I pray to God he books himself another single.

I realize that Emil won’t let me near him unless he’s drunk, and here I am, stooping to a level where I hope he hits the bottle tonight too.

In the midst of my Emil-haze, I’m thankful for the solidarity of the group I travel with. When people live in such close quarters, there are always disagreements, but the Clown Irruption staff doesn’t gossip. Even when Bo wanted to quit the band to take care of Nadia after her miscarriage they didn’t.

Now there must be a secret understanding; I’m not the only one keeping details from Shandor. Maybe to maintain peace on the bus, no one talks about Emil and me, and I’m grateful over Irene keeping quiet about how I didn’t sleep in our last hotel room.

It’s after the show, and Paul McCartney is singing “Maybe I’m Amazed” from one of the dressing rooms. The door is closed, there’s no music accompanying it, and the song cuts off after the first verse.

I open the door and find Emil there, sweat still dripping from his forehead and eyes on his phone.

“I brought you popcorn,” I say, my voice low. It’s true. The promoter brought it in from the movie theater across the street.

Emil raises dull eyes to me. Nods. Points at the vanity in front of him. It proffers bright, bare bulbs that frame a square mirror. A thin streak of blood stains Emil’s skin from his ear down to his lip, a remainder of “The Entertainer.” It has become every fan’s favorite performance.

Cautiously, I put the popcorn down. I turn without making sudden movements—he needs to trust me—then I extend my hand to wipe the blood off his face. Emil tenses at first, eyes light with an alarm I’d rather not register. “You’ve got blood on you. I’ll get it off before the after-party.”

He sighs. Lets me touch him. I step in closer, so close I almost brush against him with my body. It’s on purpose when my breast touches his chest while I rub. He watches me lick my finger and rub against his cheek again.

“Do you have a fresh shirt in your bag?” I ask, looking him over. He’s wearing another white button-up splattered with fake blood. “I can get this one washed for you at the hotel tonight.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I need more whites for my round of laundry anyway.”

He clears his throat. Places his phone in his pocket before he shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I gotta go through my clothes on the bus. I need to do laundry. Most of my shit’s got blood on it now.” He laughs, the sound hollow to me.

“Fake blood.” I needed to say that.

I could get on his bus and grab whatever he needs washed. I’d be so happy to help him, but I know better than to be intrusive. “Fender left some shirts for the band in the other dressing room. I’ll get you one if you strip that thing off.”

I leave before he can object.

Troy’s next door, watching me enter, grab a shirt, and retreat. “That for Emil?” he asks, making Troll look up from the deli tray.

“Yeah. He’s bloody.” I lift a shoulder, cool, before I head back to my plague.

Emil has shed his shirt when I come in.

If you care, it’s crazy how well you get to know someone’s body in a few weeks. I’ve touched the skin stretching over each of Emil’s muscles. The sensation of him sits in my digits. I know how every slope feels as my gaze travels from section to section.

I turn away as soon as he looks up. He’s got a hand deep in the ice bucket, grabbing and dropping cubes into a tumbler. “You want some?” He chin-ups the Jameson.

“No, I’m good,” I say. “Thank you though.”

I move closer, less careful this time. A path of dried blood travels over a nipple and down to his stomach. I reach for it. Rub with my whole hand. He sucks in his stomach, and I think it means he enjoys my touch.

“I’ll wash it off in the shower afterward,” he tells me. “Don’t worry.”

“I don’t mind.”
I don’t. I don’t.

I ease closer, steadying myself on his back as I make small circles over his chest. The blood comes off easily, but Emil’s eyes are closed, a small furrow between his brows. I think he’s struggling. Still, he takes pleasure in the light massage and how I align my body with his.

I don’t understand why he does this to himself. He’s better off with me than he is alone. I dip my head so my hair trails over his skin too. Taut beneath my fingertips, he seems ready to bolt. He doesn’t though, and I exhale my relief quietly; he’s choosing to stay with me, and he isn’t even intoxicated.

My hand glides off his chest and below his arm, curving over ribs and muscle that twitch under my caresses. I’m so near, so in his space, smelling the mix of fresh sweat and his perfume, that new one in a blue bottle.

His breathing stutters. “Aishe.”

Should I?

I lean in and place a small, chaste kiss above a nipple. My heart thunders. I’m either sealing or breaking my chance for tonight.

“You get the T-shirt, man?” Troy asks from the door.

Emil jumps back. Draws a hand through his hair and shakes his head in disbelief. “I… don’t even.” He doesn’t say anything else, just looks at me like he doesn’t know me.

I smile, because what else can I do? The shirt is on the floor. I don’t recall dropping it, but my focus wasn’t on a piece of fabric. I snap forward. Fish it off the ground and hold it up for him like we weren’t just in an almost-embrace.

So close.

“No meet-n-greet?” I ask Troy who stares at me too. I don’t like the disappointment in his eyes. Am I a disappointment to Troy now?

If he knew that I’m fighting for my life, his features would be more understanding.

“No, the promoter wants us to head straight to the Hard Rock. He’s holding an after-party there for a few hundred people in one of the ballrooms.” Troy crosses his arms, holding my stare until I break away. In my peripheral, Emil pulls the green Fender shirt over his head. I could have helped him.

“Troll wants you, Aishe. Something about those broken-heart tees. He thought there were more of them than there are.”

I bob my head. Throw a last glance at my plague, and walk out of the room. I didn’t ruin my chances. He needs me. Emil’s signals before Troy entered the room showed that; he tried but he couldn’t pull away from me. The realization gives me a small taste of triumph. Now I just need to play my cards right at the after-party, and the night will be Emil’s and mine.

We check into
our rooms. Emil shares with Troy, which makes me have to readjust my plans. By now I’m an expert at catching room numbers, so that part is easy. Just, the only way I can see this work is if I get Emil upstairs before the after-party is over, before Troy arrives.

Oh I’ll treat him so well. Pull out all the stops, use every trick. And once I’ve blown his mind, making him reach the highest of highs, he’ll let me sleep in his arms again.

I don’t mind if Troy’s there when we wake up in the morning. I’ve slept in Emil’s bunk often enough with Troy beneath us on the bus.

My success depends on so much. Emil’s resistance might have weakened after our dressing room run-in, but I need to look prettier than ever. And Emil needs to be drunk. Not
too
drunk, but drunk.

I look at my watch. Ten thirty. “You sure you don’t want to come along?” Irene asks, peaking her head into our bathroom. She’s so polite. Why would I want to crash her get-together with her best friends from high school?

“Oh no. You enjoy, Irene. It’ll be a blast for you. How long since the last time you saw them again?” I ask, polite too. Because I still have it in me.

“Four years.” Her smile tips so high she’s beaming.

“Yeah, I’m definitely not going. You enjoy. I’ll probably hit up the after-party for a sec and then go to bed,” I say. “I’m exhausted anyway.”

I finish curling my hair in long, thick coils that hang down my back all the way to my butt. I know Emil likes “my mane” as he calls it.

I’ve got some shimmering lotion in my beauty bag. I haven’t used it while I’ve been on tour. It’s for emergencies, like this one. If I mix it with regular lotion, it makes my skin look lush and golden and edible.

I want to be edible.

This time, I’ve brought my suitcase instead of an overnight bag to the hotel room. I spread it wide on my bed and start lining up skirts, pants, and hot pants. I have plenty of sexy clothes I never use. The hot pants look great with fishnets but aren’t practical. They’d be effective in terms of getting attention, but I don’t want it to be complicated for him to undress me.

Jeans, my tightest pair in a washed blue color, make my butt and thighs curvier than they are. Emil has complimented me on those before. Then my attention darts to my three Gypsy skirts. They flare out like bright flowers on the comforter, and I know that’s where my real choices lie.

My newest skirt I found in a village of a town out west. The colors teeter between aquamarine and jade, and it’s beautiful with erratic layers of gradually fading fabric. There are drawstrings at the bottom so I can hike the hem up on the sides. The result is a skirt that fills in, a slimmer hippie version of a ball gown, which gives my waist a taut, narrow appearance. The top is easy—a black, silky singlet that molds over my strapless balcony bra.

Tonight, I pile on Romani jewelry the way Chavali would have done, the way my mother would. I picture my plague-ridden ancestors heaping their jewelry on like I do. For centuries, we’ve stared into mirrors, preparing to fight for our man. I’m just another Gypsy woman caught in the web, repeating, following the dark trails of the plague to save myself.

My makeup is black and causes my irises to glisten. In the mirror, I look unstoppable.

The shoes I select aren’t the sexiest ones. These are back to my roots, wine-red pumps, high-heeled with a laced-up band across the arc. They could double as flamenco shoes.

In the full-length mirror, I look like my ancestors. I look like a woman on the warpath.

I suck in a breath and mouth the truth to my reflection:

It’s for the good of the both of us.

I have never looked better.

Rustic walls, a
high ceiling, and a discretely patterned carpet welcome me as I glide into the ballroom. The venue is packed with guests who aren’t our typical fans. Business suits mingle with designer cocktail dresses that are elegant in a quiet fashion. The women are coiffed with flawless up-dos, their makeup as discrete and sophisticated as their outfits.

I locate Bo by the bar. More formal than usual, he wears a black dress shirt open at the collar and dark slacks. Nadia’s on his arm. She looks pretty as always with a small smile on her face, nodding at a gesticulating businessman. He ends up pulling a grin from Bo, which isn’t the easiest thing to do.

The band is spread across the locale, mingling politely in more formal wear than I’ve ever seen on them. I stand out. I might even look like the entertainment.

Between hundreds of decked-out guests, Emil is the only one who doesn’t give a damn. He’s still wearing the green Fender T-shirt and hasn’t changed out of his bloody jeans. When he notices me, I lift my head high, because for a second, his gaze flashes out approval.