All Strung Out (4 page)

"Are you sure that'll be enough?" I say. "If we order now, I'm sure the next one will be ready by the time you finish that one."

"Nice. Go ahead. Pick on the skinny, starving girl."

She drains her water glass to wash down the pie and puts it on the edge of the table for the waitress to refill.

"I think we jumped into the tech business too fast," I say. "We should have hit the eating contest circuit first."

"Keep it coming, my friend," she says. "My retribution will be well-timed and swift."

While we wait for the check, I look away, suddenly at a loss for words. Since we met, I've never had trouble talking to Jen. We started working at our old graphics firm within a week of one another. And almost from the beginning, we had this idea for You4D. The stars and planets and moons aligned for us, and here we are, eating dinner for thirty dollars a plate, knowing that this break is the only one we'll get for a long, long while.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up in front of Jen's apartment building. She hops out of my car and grabs her bag from the backseat before I can even open my door. When she comes around to the drivers side, I open the door and get out.

"I'm glad we took a break," she says. "See you tomorrow."

She leans in and steals a kiss before she heads for the building stairs.

As I watch her climb the stairs. I wonder why she would go out of her way to do that. I then realize that I'm warm. Way too warm. I take off my jacket.

That's when I realize I have an erection. A full-on, let's-get-to-it-now erection that feels like static electricity all over my body. All I can do is stare down at myself. This does not happen to me. The only erections I get are of the morning wood variety. I even saw a doctor once to make sure I was all right physically, but they didn't find anything wrong. As we left the exam room, the doctor told me to try porn. It didn't work. Nothing worked. I finally accepted that I'm different.

I look up at Jen's window, knowing that I must now question everything I thought I knew about myself as a man.

Scene 9 ~ Mark

When I wake up on Saturday morning, I realize I'm stuck. Being with Sophie doesn't help. Sitting in Lang's studio, surrounded by his incredible guitars, doesn't help. I can't afford to be stuck. I have to write songs. Without songs, I don't have a solo career. It has never been so damned hard for me to write.

My phone rings. Braun. God dammit, what's he doing up so early on a Saturday? I answer the call while I walk to the laundry room in search of jeans.

"Dude, you have to turn yourself in," he says. "You fucked up. Don't be such a douche about it."

"You think I'm going to jail over a stupid assault charge? Hell, no," I say. "I'll just be a fucking fugitive for the rest of my life. All I did was knock out an idiot who was begging for it."

"Everyone is giving the band a hard time about it. You can run from the cops all you want, but leave us the hell out of it. Sign the fucking papers, and go away."

"Give all the shit to my lawyer. He'll get it to me."

"You need serious help, man. You should go back to rehab," Braun says, suddenly all holier than thou. I think about all the times I pulled his sorry ass out of the gutter.

"Yeah, fuck you, too, you goddamned ingrate. Call me when you're sober."

I end the call and toss my phone on top of the washing machine. I'm standing here in my boxers, but I'm too furious to do anything at the moment. This is why I can't move on. I'm still dragging the shitheads around with me everywhere I go. I have to forget about what's going on in L.A. and focus on my new work.

And forgetting is going to require something a little stronger.

When I pick up my phone, I see Trent's name at the top of my favorites list. I put it first on purpose. At the time, I reasoned that just because I didn't want or need to be in rehab any longer didn't mean I didn't want to be sober. Trent would remind me how much detox sucked before. He would try every trick he has to pull me back into the AA fold. He's been a pretty cool sponsor. I should call him now. I really should. But I won't. It would be a waste of his time and mine.

I scroll past Trent's name and tap the number of my dealer. I just need a little—a couple of lines—to get me on track with my music.

I go for a walk in Deep Ellum to meet my girl. At the World in a Day Cafe, I order their #3 breakfast. A few minutes later, the waitress brings me a plate that could feed a family of four. I jump into my eggs with fervor.
 

My girl shows up when I'm halfway through the plate of protein in front of me. She looks like she just came out of Sunday school, complete with a baby blue cashmere sweater and a little gold cross dangling around her neck. She's the smoothest dealer I've ever met, and she makes damn good money. She treats it like a business, not a lifestyle, and she hasn't been busted once. It's all about appearances.

She orders a coffee and gives my breakfast a look of disgust. "I'm vegetarian," she says. "It's much healthier."

"You're kidding, right?" I say.

"No, why would I be kidding?"

I shake my head in wonder. "There is not a single person like you."

She gives me a patient smile and slides the coke to me across the table in a plain envelope. No cash exchange. I already paid her online. It's the new reality of the drug business.

She sips her coffee and watches people in the cafe as I finish my breakfast. We don't talk. We really have nothing to talk about. When I'm done eating, I throw down a twenty, and we leave the cafe, walking in two different directions. It's that easy.

At home, I go to my bathroom and pour the coke on a hand mirror. It looks like enough for four lines. I arrange the powder into neat rows with a credit card. Then, I stare at it. Is this really what I want to do? I've only had a bump since I left rehab, but it was fine. It was better than fine. Why am I being such a scared little bitch about this?

I decide to do two lines now, and save the other two for tomorrow. Once I start snorting the rows, though, I don't stop. Within two minutes, it's all gone. Shit. I never could save it for later. I rinse off the mirror and shove it back in the drawer.

Within seconds, I have energy, more energy than I could possibly ever use at one time. As I watch myself in the mirror, I can see the change. The confidence in my face is unmistakable. I look stronger and more intimidating. My tattoos are not just ink; they are symbols of my tribal heritage, my hard-core ancestry. I dare anyone to fuck with me. I will take him down and trample on his pathetic, bloody carcass.

Scene 10 ~ Sophie

Saturday morning. I have a crying hangover and nothing productive planned for the day. I sit up in bed and hold my head for a minute, trying to decide which painkiller to take. If I can medicate myself, I should be able to make it through the day. I don't want to spend all day half-conscious in bed.

I tie my kimono around me and walk into the kitchen. It's strange not to see Nicole sitting at the kitchen island. I'm so used to her being there. Today isn't a Cole day, either, so I go to the fridge to look for breakfast. Half of our refrigerator has been taken over by small, labelled plastic boxes. I've never seen someone as neat and precise as Cole. Forget chef. He'd probably be a great husband. The containers with my name on them are stacked on one of the middle shelves. I smile when I see the label on today's: Sophie's Super Special Saturday Sustenance.

I warm up the three-egg omelet with red and green peppers and bacon in the microwave. I know I should avoid this kind of food for my future heart health, but eggs are the food of the gods. I'm willing to trade in a few years for them.

After I heat up the omelet, I sit in Nicole's spot at the kitchen island. The food makes me feel more awake. Halfway through, though, I hear Mark yelling at someone on the phone. I stop chewing to see if I can make out what he's saying. He must be in the laundry room for me to hear him from the kitchen.

"You think I'm going to jail over a stupid assault charge? Hell, no," he says. "I'll just be a fucking fugitive for the rest of my life. All I did was knock out an idiot who was begging for it."

I wait, my fork poised above my plate.

"Give all the shit to my lawyer. He'll get it to me."

Another few seconds pass.

"Yeah, fuck you, too, you goddamned ingrate. Call me when you're sober."

I keep eating and playing on my phone so Mark won't suspect I was eavesdropping. He storms into the kitchen and almost yanks the handle off the fridge. I hear thick glass clank together inside.

"Everything all right?" I say, knowing it's a useless question.

He turns to look at me. "Peachy fuckin' keen," he says. "Where'd you get that omelet?"

"You have to ask Cole for one when he's here."

Mark sticks his head back in the fridge and comes out with an energy drink. That's probably the last thing he needs right now, but I'm not going to be the one to tell him. His temper seems to be on a hair-trigger.

As he passes me, he pulls me over roughly to kiss the top of my head. "Later," he says.

He leaves me with an uneasy feeling in his wake. I've never seen him quite that amped up. His every movement was sharp and jerky, like gravity suddenly released some of its grip on him.

I go up to my studio after I finish breakfast. The last time I tried to get in the creative mood, Mark distracted me. Once he wraps himself around me, my brain goes offline. I'm physically incapable of resisting him. I try to remind myself that I barely know this guy, but my body refuses to listen when he's next to me, touching me in all the right places and whispering everything he wants to do with me.

Today, though, I want time to myself. Even if it's no longer my house, I still have a right to my privacy. I lock both doors to the room.

I warm up my fingers and brain at the piano for a few minutes before going back to the keyboards. As I find my flow, everything seems to open up in my mind, and I can breathe better. It doesn't take me long to find a short melody that will be perfect in a dance song. The phrase "one of these days" keeps popping into my head, too, so I lay down a simple vocals track to mix. I'm not the best singer, but I can do the simple stuff pretty well. When I need a real singer, I bring in my friend Lisa, who can belt it out like her lungs are three sizes larger than her body.

Within half an hour, I have a working mix that sounds decent. As I listen to it, I can't help smiling. This is the first thing I've created since my father died. I'd forgotten about the high I get when I bring something into the world that wasn't there before. I never could understand people who don't create anything at all in their lives. For me, it's the essence of being human. It's as important as breathing.

I keep tweaking the song for the next hour. Around eleven, I see the light come on in Lang's studio. Mark walks in quickly, like he's looking for something. His face is unusually red. He goes from guitar to guitar, checking something on the back of each one. He sets some of them down roughly, sometimes missing the stand altogether. I stand up to protest, but at that second, he comes to my studio door. I have trouble hearing him through the thick glass of the door, so I go over to open it. As I get closer, though, I can see that something is wrong. He's sweating and fidgeting, unable to stand still. He's rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. His fists are clenched, and the expression on his face reads pure fury. Every warning bell in my brain goes off. I don't know what the hell's going on, but Mark is not himself.

I back away from the door without unlocking it, trying to decide what to do. Maybe I'm overreacting. He can't really be dangerous. That would be absurd. But as I think back to yesterday's rough parting kiss, doubt creeps in.

"Unlock the door, Sophie," he says. "Let me in. Unlock the fucking door."

He rattles the lock and keeps yelling for me to unlock the door. When I don't respond, he pounds on the glass with his fist as if he's trying to break it down to get to me.

I take a few more steps backward as fear climbs up my spine. Now, I'm not sure at all that he's harmless. I've never seen this side of him before. Angry, sure, but not furious.

I have no idea what to do. I can't stay locked in this room indefinitely. How long can he keep this shit up? Should I call someone?

He's glaring at me and shaking the door like he's not going to stop. Whatever is going on, it has to end soon. This isn't his nature. At least, I don't think it is.

After another few more minutes of watching him stalk back and worth, I walk to the corner and pull the thick drape across the glass of the booth and door. Behind the curtain, he bangs with both fists. I flinch with every strike, hoping the door holds. I don't know what else to do, so I sit down on the floor and call Hondo.

Scene 11 ~ Hondo

I've been sleeping on a friend's couch until I can find a new place to live. Sitting at my desk on Saturday morning, I realize I have no time to look. Every spare minute has to go to You4D. Finding an apartment takes time.

Then, it hits me: I can live here in the office for a while. There's plenty of space. Hell, it's more space than not space. It wouldn't be hard to build out a little place to sleep. We're planning on putting in a shower, anyway, for people who exercise on the way to work. Problem solved.

When Jen walks in, she brings the memory of last night with her. I feel as awkward as a thirteen-year-old boy going to his first school dance. I can't decide whether to look at her right away or not. Should I say something? What is she thinking? Does she realize what she did to me last night? I groan to myself. All of this drama is inside me. It doesn't mean anything to Jen. She's just coming to work as usual, like I should be doing. Nothing has changed between us. It's only changed in me.

Jen's not much of a morning person, so she usually doesn't talk for the first hour of work. She goes straight to her desk, slaps on the headphones, and starts coding. I'm relieved that I don't have to interact with her right away. I also feel like a huge coward.