In the Absence of You (25 page)

Troy plunges deeper than any man has been. I see stars, shutting my eyes with the onslaught of desire. “Shit.”

“I’ll be over here in your corner, babe, waiting with a towel.” I can’t reply to Emil’s teasing. He sounds far away. I’m deep inside myself, all sensation and burning desire.

“Shut up, Emil,” Troy demands, voice husky with pleasure. “Stop harassing her. I’m going to make you forget that asshole, okay?” His jab makes Emil snicker, and I bite my lip beneath him as he joins us, withdraws languidly, then dives deep inside me once more.

He’s slow and so sure of what he’s doing, mouth wet at my throat, licking, sucking, and driving me crazy.

With each sinuous thrust, I swell around him until I ache, and little sounds I don’t recognize erupt from me. I need him deep. Deep, deeper.

Emil disappears from my mind. He might be watching, but now it’s just Troy and me joined on Emil’s bed, our limbs entwined, touching and sweating.

I’ve never been this intimate with anyone
.

He reads my thoughts and unconscious wishes. He gives me everything he has, rotating unhurriedly, finding pleasure points inside of me and rocking my body from within so we’re melded in the most delicious of ways.

When I’m on the verge of coming, he changes our rhythm, making me shudder with longing beneath him. He kisses me so deeply I think he has a love fire somewhere too that he projects onto me.

My body is stiff with pent-up need by the time Emil breaks in with a demand. “Troy. You’re wearing her out. Let her come already, man.”

“Yeah?” Troy puffs, plunging deep within me and making me cry out as he does. “Am I wearing you out? Can you not take it any longer?”

“I—yes, please,” I say, agreeing with Emil for once.

“So… you want to orgasm on my cock? Shudder a bit for me?” he whispers hotly against my ear. His voice must not be low enough, because Emil laughs softly from the recliner he’s watching us from.

“That’d be good.” I try to sound flippant, but really, I’m about to cry. I hook my heels into his ass and drag his big body as far into me as I can. I’m so full of him, so full of this crazy pleasure I don’t know what to do to ease it.

Troy does.

He cups my face between his hands and lowers his forehead to mine, eyes glinting above me in the semi-darkness. His movements become faster over me, urging me along, digging into me, hooking so far upward that he rubs my clit with his groin. I let out a small sob with relief as the climax builds in me and he doesn’t slow down.

“More?” he whispers.

“More…” I say.

“You’re tightening, baby. You feel so good.”

I shatter into tiny pieces, the pleasure bowing me off the bed and into him. It’s so intense I scream out. Troy keeps working me, working, working me, until my inner thighs are moist with my orgasm.

“You’re a goddess,” he mumbles. He separates us, making me whine with discomfort. I only feel empty for a few seconds. I’m flipped around, carried to the office desk and set down in front of it. With a foot, he pushes Emil’s recliner out of reach and bends me over the desk, face toward the mirror and back against him.

Troy leans his big body over me, staring deep into my eyes in the mirror while he caresses my crack down to my pussy. “I’m going to finish this now, okay?” he says. I meet his gaze, mouth slack with agreement, because I’m still weak from the orgasm that just wracked my body.

Troy enters me in one hard shove, never breaking eye contact in the mirror. His pupils widen with pleasure, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. He’s serious, focused, and as he works me quicker, faster, harder from behind, a sheen of moisture appears on his smooth forehead. God, the man is stunning, and I…

Wow, it’s
my
body making him squint his eyes shut and groan right now. He’s swelling. He’s too big in me. I almost back away, but then again it won’t last long.

“God, you feel amazing,” he praises. I lean my chin against the desktop, flat and submissive to him as I reach back to dig into his buttocks with my hands. I know what I want now. Even if the pleasure is laced with pain, for these last seconds, I want as much of him as I can.

I lift my head so I can watch him in the mirror again when he jerks erratically.
So pretty,
I think.

Afterward, he leans against my back. It’s an uncomfortable position now that we’re not
doing it
anymore. His arms go around me, holding me tight against him, and I rise slowly and watch our reflection. His arms half-cover my breasts. It’s haphazard, like he isn’t thinking about them as sexual anymore.

He opens his eyes and meets mine again. They’re calm now, smooth, a safari green that glimmers with satisfaction. He turns me so my butt hits the edge of the desk behind us. Embraces me again and enters my mouth with his tongue. Another deep, soft kiss even though we’re all finished. He got sex. I got sex. Emil got to watch—we both complied and executed Emil’s perverted plan.

The recliner squeaks behind me, and we both swing our heads to look at Emil. Naked as the day we were born, we stand there watching the puppeteer, the small smile on his face and the way his hands thread at the back of his head while he relaxes in the chair.

“Told ya,” is all he says. “Told ya.”

AISHE

T
he writing’s on the wall,
is that what they call it? If Emil hasn’t been clear with me before, what would I call this?

Jesus, I’m stupid.

But love makes you stupid. Ask Aunt Jolanka, my great-grandpa, my little sister. Just, I wasn’t going to
become
them.

Now I am.

The tender expression on Troy’s face dissipated as soon as I landed from my high and began throwing stuff at him. Now, I’m shoving Emil out the door of his own room. He lifts his hands, palms toward me in surrender. He’s not the puppeteer anymore, and there are apologies and explanations on his lips I’ll never listen to.

“Do you have
any idea
what a despicable human being you are? Do you
see
what you just did? You. Just.
Raped.
Me!” I yell at Emil, not Troy.

Emil pushes back inside, eyes narrowing at my tone. “Aishe, calm down. That was seduction and you know it. You wanted it so bad you almost came before he entered you.”

“Get out of my room, asshole!” I’m so mad, so sad. I want to kill him with my bare hands. “I realize you don’t give a
shit
about me, but guess what? I thought you at least were a decent person. There is nothing decent about you.
You!
Deserve that Zoe left you. She was smart and took off before you could destroy her the way you’ve destroyed me.”

My hands form claws then fists in front of his face, as if I’m crushing his heart like he’s crushed mine. “I hate you!”

Troy’s eyes are big and sad from the hallway, as if he really believed he could make things better by taking me on Emil’s bed. How twisted are these guys? I thought I
knew
them.

Troy was always there, picking up Emil’s slack, helping, saving me in the nick of time. He was a major part of what made my days go by with a sheen of optimism.

We were friends.

“Stop yelling,” Emil pleads. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have to.”

“You had to make your friend sleep with me? Do you hear yourself? You need to get lobotomized, because there’s nothing right about you.”

I laugh-cry, thinking back at him watching me climax with my friend, with
his
friend. It’s not natural, not how people are. No one does what he did to me.

“You know what?” I say but letting him lead me back inside the room; I’m not done sputtering hate at him. “I’m going to call the cops on you. And guess what? I’m going to tell them
you
raped me, because that’s exactly what you did: you offered me up like some animal in heat to whomever was close by.”

“No, Aishe, get it together! You like him. He likes you. It’s—”

“—only right to make us copulate for your entertainment?” I scream.

Emil turns to Troy for help. Troy is brave. He hasn’t left the doorway. Troy’s head slumps forward in regret, in—I don’t know. Does he realize? “Troy, do you see what the
fuck
you guys just did?”

Corn tresses bob up and down in front of me. Long and dark, I somehow fixate on how they touch the doorjamb while he nods. “Yeah,” he grates out. “I get it. I’m sorry. It was a sick idea.” Troy raises his face, golden and apologetic in front of me. Then he slides the door closed behind him.

They’re both inside again, Emil reaching out to stroke my arm, like he’s consoling me, like he’s someone who’d protect me.

Against whom would he protect me? Men like
him?

I jerk my arm free, the first time ever since he decided I was worthy of his attention. The stupid terrycloth bathrobe doesn’t cut it for me after what I just did, so I’m fully dressed again. I’m even wearing my shoes, that and a blanket over my shoulders to hide my torn-asunder, skimpy top. I’d wield a sword if I had one.

I should have listened to Shandor. We’d be far from this man who isn’t content with making my heart bleed. No, tonight he stuffed it in a blender with a few ounces of water and hit “
High Power.”

I straighten. Tilt my chin up as if I have any say if these tall, strong men want to fold me back into the sheets again. From the remorse in their looks, their physical superiority doesn’t cross their minds.

“Just get out.” Though I’m not yelling anymore, I say it with simmering conviction.

“Aishe, let’s cool down and talk—” Emil starts.

“I said: Get. Out.” My blood’s at the boiling point. They better obey right the fuck now.

Emil’s blues meet Troy’s light greens in question. Troy nods, supporting my demand. “We owe it to her if she wants to be left alone. It’s the least we can do.”

And as the door closes after them, I look forward to making the rest of the tour a living hell for Emil. Because—

It’s the least I can do.

AISHE

A
t breakfast, I stomp into the restaurant
and whack Emil straight in the face. Besides standing up, Emil has no response. He doesn’t even touch his face where I hit him. Silent, he just walks off.

Who does react is my cousin. Shandor gets up so fast his chair tips over. He doesn’t exchange a single word with me before he lunges after Emil and chases him down in the corridor. “You want to talk?” I hear him shout.

“Hell yeah,” Emil roars back.

I’m beyond caring about anything but my slushie heart. Irene tries to calm me down. Troll approaches, wanting a word. But the one who gets me out and into a dark corner of the hotel lobby is Troy.

I jerk away when he tries to take my hands. Troy’s palms flatten, erect in the air, showing me that today he won’t
make
me.

“Why?” I manage, chin quivering with the disrespect of last night.

“Because we wanted you to move on. We were miserably wrong about the way we handled it, and I’ve learned the lesson of a lifetime. What we did was coercion, and it should never have gone down. I— It’s not an excuse, but
you
, to
me
…” Troy shakes his head, cutting himself off. Elbows on his thighs, his head drops. “I’ll never be that impulsive again.”

“No, you
should
be more impulsive,” I hear myself say. “You’re too measured. You never do stuff without thinking it through a million times first—but
to make love to someone
has got to be a mutual agreement from the very fucking beginning.”

My friend. My friend.

Slight wrinkles form a horizontal message of surprise as Troy’s stare lifts to mine. “You got that, huh?”

“What?”

“That I was making love to you.”

“Obviously.” I want to scoff it out, but then I understand even before he continues.

“I wasn’t just fucking you.”

It’s my fault
that I can’t stick around to make Emil’s life miserable during the last days of the tour. I shouldn’t have hit him. Thanks to my actions, Shandor handed in our resignations and only let me know after the fact.

I got on the band bus to pick up my last paycheck, and there he was, Emil, with both eyes swelling shut after his “talk” with my cousin. Once Emil revealed what had happened, Shandor punched him repeatedly, and all Emil did was close his eyes and let him take his fury out on his face. I look at Shandor now, across from me on the business class flight Troll booked for us with destination Minneapolis. Shandor doesn’t have a scratch.

Fuming, Shandor told me that Emil had smiled, proud of what he’d made me do. I’ve cooled down enough to know Shandor is wrong; a serious beating was probably what Emil wanted. That was him relieved about paying his dues. It was Emil not giving a shit where life takes him next.

In Minneapolis, Ashton, the tour manager of The Thalias picks us up at the airport. He’s efficient, fast, his brain going a million miles per minute.

“Deliver it to Luxury Greens Hotel,” he demands when the airline has displaced my suitcase. “As long as it’s in before five p.m., Wednesday, we’re good.” He turns to me. “What do you need that’s not in your hand luggage? Clothes? Toiletries?” I nod to him over the missing items. I smile too, but my mind isn’t in Minneapolis.

I need time to absorb how things escalated by the time we left Clown Irruption. Shandor would never understand the dynamics between Emil and me, so I won’t try to explain. It’s just me and my mind.

On day two,
I wake up in my own hotel room; I’m the only girl on the tour that isn’t one of The Thalias. After thirty-six hours away from Emil, I expect the plague to roar at me full force, but instead there’s a void in my chest.

Below the covers, I touch the area where my heart is. I swallow and realize it’s not wringing with longing. At first, it beats out a smooth, calm rhythm. Then it speeds up. When I focus, my chest isn’t empty either. It’s chock-full of regret.

I inhale deeply. Let the air out through my nose in a long sigh. I click the TV on and blink against the glaring screen. As I do, I realize it’s not just regret I feel. There’s guilt in there too. Idly, I wonder if my great-aunt ever felt guilty while she fought for a love that was never hers.

I count the days.
The Thalias’ shows are clean, small, and in clubs prepared for their act. Middle-aged, wealthy patrons relax in dinner theater seating, drinking expensive wine and ducking heads as they nod over the talented singers.

My job isn’t to sell merchandise. It’s to prepare stagewear ahead of each show and provide aftercare to it. Their opera-worthy costumes come in suitcases as tall as me. They’re tilted on their sides and wheeled into the dressing rooms. During each show, the girls change four to five times each. It’s my job to be there for the shifts, gowns held open and ready to lace them in.

I don’t count the days with The Thalias. The girls are fine to work for, and this is an easy gig. What I count is the last days of Clown Irruption’s tour, keeping an eye on the entertainment websites. We’re hitting the middle of December. Tomorrow, they’re in New York, and it’s their last day on tour.

Now that I’m away from Emil, I shouldn’t be healing. Depression should be drowning me. Since we landed in The Thalias’ midst, Shandor has kept close tabs on my mood, knowing this too. Even if Emil’s last salute to me was jarring, the plague of my people should hold me in its claws, making it impossible to focus on anything but my love fire.

But things are happening to me, things I didn’t expect; my heart is relaxing, and my mind is brightening. Does it mean there’s a cure for the plague?

Maybe its recipient has to treat you so badly you lose all taste for him? My need for revenge lasted only for twenty-four hours, and once it seeped off, relief set in. If this were a cure, shouldn’t I at least have craved retaliation?

I think of arsenic, to back when it was a go-to poison for slowly getting rid of regents so the heir could take the throne. The king would fall ill. With each increased portion, he would get sicker, until one day he died in horrible pain. But if he were removed from the source of his illness, he would slowly regain his health. Was Emil my arsenic?

I still care for Emil. He’s a complicated, flawed, loving man despite his shortcomings. I worry about his well-being, enough to text the band to see how he’s doing. Nadia and Bo are tight-lipped, giving me diplomatic answers, while Troll is up front, warning me to stay out of Emil’s life.

I pull up a YouTube video of him from last night’s show. I watch it between dress changes at The Thalias’ second dinner show of the night, and it’s the same rendition of “The Entertainer” he’s done lately, only this time he doesn’t look pleased when Elias helps him to his feet.

On the band’s website, there’s a post about a new song called “I’m Sorry.” The notification has been formulated so as to warn the audience and hype them at the same time. It’s going to be played tomorrow.

On impulse, I send Emil a text message.

Hi, it’s me. Good luck in NY. Your fans will post your new song on YouTube, I’m sure. I’ll be looking for it.

I don’t expect an answer, but he ticks one out quickly. He doesn’t greet me back. Instead he texts, simply,
I wish someone else would too.

Zoe.

Emil and Zoe.

I don’t have the plague. Maybe there isn’t such a thing. Or if there is, maybe it’s a strain a few of us contract depending on our personalities? Perhaps the love fire isn’t restricted to families, to cultures, to clans like mine. Maybe Emil, from up there in cold, composed Scandinavia has it, while I, with my fire-blooded origin, am somehow destined for sweet, smooth, and calm?

This new hypothesis is a pang to my carefully constructed world.

Arsenic. An obsession.

I return to Emil’s text, to the brevity of it, and consider how much emotion hides within each letter. He can’t live without her. He enacts his own death on stage every night without her, because it is all he has left to do. Me, it seems, all I needed was to get away from the root of my obsession.

“For the one I let go,”
Emil states on their website about “I’m Sorry.” If he has written an apology to Zoe, then she should hear it.

I call Troy first. He’s surprised when he picks up, voice breathy and sexy from some relaxed position he must be in. I keep track, and Clown Irruption’s is a travel day. I bet they’re killing time with videos and board games on the bus.

I hear Troy get up and move around. He doesn’t say my name out loud. I understand; Troll might have told them not to speak with me in case I make good on my hotheaded threat of suing someone
.

“I’m sorry—” he begins, and I know he’s not referring to the song.

“It’s not why I’m calling,” I say. “Now that I’m away, I see things in more perspective, and it wasn’t just the two of you overstepping boundaries. The last days leading up to…” I trail off, needing to breathe. “Anyway. I saw the video of last night’s ‘The Entertainer.’”

“Shit. Yeah, it wasn’t good. He threw up afterward.”

“Drunk?”

“No. We’ll get him help in L.A. in two days.”

I scrunch my eyes shut. “Has anyone heard from Zoe?” I ask.

“Well, Nadia and she speak all the time.”

“Okay, so if Zoe isn’t reaching out to Emil, someone needs to step in. She needs to give Emil closure at least, or this won’t end well. I care about him—”

“You do.”

“—and I have this…
feeling
. Do you have her number?”

He’s quiet on the phone, maybe trying to guess my strategy.

“Troy, I get it. You don’t think you can trust me. But I see signs in Emil that I saw in relatives of mine, and all I want is to help him. I wish I’d done it earlier.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. Suddenly, I feel far away from my family. Chavali and Kennick will be in Los Angeles for Christmas. I’ll join them there. But deep down, maybe for the first time since I left, I
feel like being with my clan again.

“Ah Troy. So many of my people have taken on death instead of finding new reasons to live after a love gone wrong. I… I’m afraid you might not have a singer for long if you don’t act.”