Something To Dream On (11 page)

“Like, seriously? Why would you care about a dog?”

Wow. I've known Laura quite a while, but clearly we don't know each other at all. It's not like we have ever been masters of deep conversation, but I’ve heard her stories, time and time again, about all the bad things that happened and the marks left both on her body and her soul—stories that make my heart bleed. Has she never listened to me? Maybe I neglected to share what I want out of life, because I knew someday I’d have to leave her behind. “Yes, like seriously. A lot has changed. I need you to respect that.” I open the door and step aside. I hate being a total dick, but if I don’t, she’ll keep ambushing me and eventually I’ll cave. This girl is capable of taking me places I can’t allow myself to go. The zipper between us is the only thing stopping her from making my head spin.

With a shrug, she heads out, and then slips in a quick kiss on the cheek. I feel like a prick as I start to close the door, but that feeling disappears when she spins around, grabs me, and slips her tongue into my mouth. God, this girl can kiss! Her hands grip my back and pull me in tightly against her tits, reminding me of a damsel clinging for rescue. My dick twitches in response as I remember the talent of that tongue when it's in other places. She goes for my zipper. “Come on, Jensen. Let me have another taste of that long, wide—”

The last of my compassion disappears. I resist the urge to shove her off of me with my hands by doing it with my voice. “If you want something long and wide, there's a produce stand down the street. Go grab yourself a cucumber. I said, no!”

The amount of force must have been good because her eyes have gone wide and are locked that way. Gauging from her bark and attempt at standing, Etta is taking it pretty seriously, too. “It isn't a game this time?” Laura asks.

“No, I'm serious. Please, go.”

Laura gives a demure nod and finally leaves. I close the door and slide my ass down to the ground. Etta looks like she is asking what the hell that was all about, but something tells me she already knows. “Do you hate me now?” She nuzzles her face into mine. “Why are you being so nice? I’ve been a dick, and I fear my past may someday blow up in my face, and I’ll lose Lizetta.”

Etta’s bark is a soft rumble that threatens if I pull any shit, she’ll kick my ass.

“I won't. Believe me, I won’t.” Lizetta’s smile crosses my mind’s eye. I let out a happy sigh as my head slams back into the door. I am seriously smitten.

I brace myself for the sound of the door slamming. It’ll be just like a kick to the head as yet another person tells me to go to hell.

Go to hell?
Hmph!
The joke’s on all of you. The keys to the kingdom have been fused into my backbone.

The door shuts with a respectful click that turns my attitude solemn. I turn back to stare at the barrier. The fact that he was kind enough not to slam it deepens my hurt. Jensen really isn’t like those other guys. He never was, though for a while he sure played the part well. I just wish the real him could see the real me. Shoot,
I
can’t see the real me any more. How long has it been? A couple of decades?

I stare at my boots as I hit the bottom step. I hate wearing combat boots with a skirt and Jensen knows it. He’s no idiot. Of course he’s figured out I’m hiding track marks. I need to go back and tell him what else is going on—how I’ve become smelly cheese in my brother’s sick game of cat and mouse. He will help me then. He has to.

I want to head up, but my feet flee to my car so I can hide from the truth. He doesn’t want me. He abandoned me. The dirty bastard! Why am I not worthy?

Screw you, Jensen! This is me leaving something behind for once, even though we both know I’ll be back—because I’m not strong enough to stay away—because you are my only friend.

What the hell am I going to tell Larry? How can I walk back into that house a washed up old bitch that can’t turn a free trick? I need to stop off at the liquor store and load up. I’m gonna need something a lot more blissful to get me through this night, but at least that will get me started. Lord knows what I am going to have to do now to get what I really need.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, May 17

Moby freaking Dick! Why did I choose to be an English major? Is helping kids worth having to read this book? Dare I even call it a book? This thing is like the world's most glorified paperweight. Never before have I rooted for mankind to lose. The only good thing to come out of this book is a Zeppelin song.

I dig out
Zeppelin II
, skip to the eighth track, and crank that baby. The drums hit, and all is right with the world. With my axe in hand, I wail along with Page. Sometimes I forget how good I am.

The drum solo kicks in, and I kill the Zeppelin in exchange for doing finger exercises. My foot starts tapping, and I’m basically jamming with myself, creating my own beat.

Ah! Finally, I'm able to get somewhere. I go to the song that I've been working on for the last few weeks. It flows along, but the moment I get to where I left off writing, I feel like I’ve jumped off a cliff and smacked into an ocean of boulders. I back up a few bars, give it another go, and manage to add on a few notes before stopping. “That sounds stupid.”

Sounds stupid? How old am I? I haven't said something that I've written sounded stupid since I was twelve and about two months into learning how to play.

I give it a repeat and then jam on it a bit. The flow starts off heavenly before something smacks it down. What the hell is wrong with me?

My back goes to the floor, and I stare at the ceiling. Why am I so stuck? I can't say it’s never happened before—although it's pretty rare. In the past, I just called Larry and we worked it out.

We would also get wasted.

Maybe I'm just expecting everything to come too easily. Maybe I just need the right inspiration. I used to go for long walks and would come back with a song. That’s probably all that’s necessary.

With the intent of borrowing the neighbor’s wagon to take out Etta, I head for the door. A glimpse of the picture of Mom and the painting she did stops me. I touch my hand to the glass, caressing where the photo of the painting lies underneath. The patches of dried grass remind me of how I once shriveled and withered. Slowly I am turning green again.

My eyes gaze upward, to the stars on the top. I want them to gaze to the image of Mom, but the thought of doing so brings pain to my brow.

The actual painting should be here, just like it hung in my room for years. I need to call Mom and make amends. Only a person who fears himself would hide from his own mom like this.

Inside the green field sits a little dot next to a tree that reminds me of the one I planted in memory of Granddad. That area was once barren. Since I planted that tree it has sprung to life. That is where I need to be.

I pet Etta. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I really need some me time.”
 

With my guitar on my back, I head out for greener pastures. I can’t still be this pissy when Lizetta gets here.

My toes press into the cool tile of the kitchen floor, raising my body so that my lips can get closer to Jensen’s. Our eyes stare into each other’s, and the sparkle they share coats me in happiness. A simple kiss leads to another, then another, then more gazing. Then I ruin it with a giggle, making Jensen laugh. Oh dear God, that was awesome! Can I do only this for the rest of my life?

This is how it’s been since our first date at Bert’s. For weeks we have fixed dinner at Jensen’s on Wednesdays and had Saturday night adventures at movies and pinball arcades. He’s already become a fixture at my house for Sunday night family dinner. It’s barely been a month, and we’ve got a routine down.

You’d think with being so young we’d rebel against this sort of thing, but it’s the life I’ve always wanted. As for Jensen, at the end of one date, he’s already planning the next. From date to date he brings me the feeling of stability. It’s still surprising, because with all the gear around here, it’s hard to get the rock star—a gig here, a date there—image out of my head. I’ve yet to find notches in his bedpost though.

Actually, I’ve yet to make it into the bedroom much at all, which I’m fine with, for now. Becoming the occasional domestic couple is something that I am ready for with him, but revealing the physical aspects of my glory can take a little longer. Jensen doesn’t seem to have a single hang-up with my body, and while that is comforting, I can’t say that I share those feelings about my curves. It’s unfair, because the hormone rushes he gives me make me want to spread him all over me like salted caramel on ice cream.

Jensen finishes tossing the salad while I grab some juice out of the fridge. The same four bottles of beer that have stared at me every time I’ve opened this door grab my attention. I know they are the same ones, because someone wrote a date on them in Sharpie. It’s about five months ago—around the time Jensen quit the band. Celebratory beer left in memory? “Hey, what’s the deal with the dates on the beer?”

When I turn back around, Jensen has paused his tossing.

Crap!

Then again, I’m surprised it’s taken her this long to ask. Can I brush off the truth a little longer? How can I ever tell an angel of a woman, whose dad was an alcoholic, that I’m basically a recovering junkie who used to womanize, all so he could hide from reality? The thought of hurting her makes my heart ache. I want to do right by her though. Not telling her is probably worse.