Resist (Songs of Submission #6) (19 page)

She turned around to face me. “You ever going to forgive yourself for that?”

“I’ll get around to it.”

“You’re going to give yourself ulcers.”

I didn’t answer. Talking about my irrational emotional issues wouldn’t get either one of us to sleep, and we both needed it. I stroked her eyebrows as I’d done before, getting her eyes to flutter closed. She sighed and let me touch her, relaxing. Our legs got heavy together as she released the spring of tension binding them. She seemed on the edge of sleep, breathing regularly and softly. Her eyes stayed closed when I stroked her hair. Then she opened them.

“You’re wide awake,” she said.

“It’s all right.”

She sat up. “No, it’s not.”

I tried to sit up with her, but she pushed me down. I was stronger, of course, but I let her press my shoulders to the mattress.

“Stay here,” she said.

She rolled off the bed and padded away. I didn’t know where she was going or what she intended, but I hoped it didn’t involve Xanax or alcohol. I didn’t want to fight about that or anything. She came back with a viola and bow slung over her shoulder like a batter coming off the on-deck circle. If I’d ever seen anything as sexy as Monica Faulkner in a stretched-out T-shirt and wielding a stringed instrument, I’d be at pains to remember it.

“You going to knock me unconscious with that thing?”

“One way or the other.” She crawled on the bed, leaving one foot on the floor and stretching her body so the instrument fit under her chin. She drew the bow across, making it hum, then turned a knob at the top of the neck. I slipped closer until my lips touched her thigh. “Any requests?”

“Something bombastic. With percussion.”

She laughed and played a measure. I recognized it right away as Mendelssohn’s “Evening Song.” She was all right, my woman. What she was trying wouldn’t work, but the honest attempt wouldn’t go unappreciated. I stroked her knee with my thumb as she played and rocked her body with the slow rhythm of the song. The piece was short, and when it ended, she riffed on the melody, smoothing it further. Her hips rocked the mattress like waves on the ocean. I stroked her knee, then stopped, placing my hand on her leg.

I listened with my eyes closed, feeling her sway, hearing her music, as it got farther and farther away. The sounds of the ocean outside the window grew louder, and the water rose, coming over the sill and flowing onto her floor. She must not have noticed the flood or care about the fact that her house would probably float right down the hill, because she kept playing and rocking. I was too heavy, too weak, too contented, to stop her.

The rain got louder and harder, dropping into my eyes, blinding me. My stomach was in complete upheaval, and my head swam as the waves pulled me out to sea. I had a dead weight dragging down my right arm. It was a person. A woman. Monica? I’d let her face go under while I fought the tide. I pulled her up, the effort twisting my stomach. Her mouth was full of water, and her eyes were glassed over.

The scene was mine. I’d been blacked out from half a bottle of whiskey, but things had happened, and my brain had stored them deep.

“Rachel, baby, come on!” But even saying the words took more energy than I had.

I looked upward, to safety, and saw only sheer cliffs between us and the street above. The beach had drowned under forty nights of rain, and we were about to as well. No one knew we were there. Most of the population of Palos Verdes was away for Christmas.

So it was on me. All I had to do was keep our heads over the water and not drift too far out, a simple task that became more difficult as the minutes wore on. The car drifted away, the headlights getting dimmer as it drifted out to sea. I’d been thrown clear, saved by inertia and a body limber and pain free from conspicuous alcohol consumption. Rachel was sober and stuck, but somehow, I’d jumped in and pulled her from the car.

I looked up the cliff again, the rain dropping in my eyes. It was a black edge, cutting the starry sky in half. Hopeless. Going down had been as easy as a running jump. Getting back up would be impossible. I tried to keep our heads above water, and failed, and tried again, and failed again.

A light.

Two lights.

A car parked right at the edge of the cliff. I tried to cry out, but I had nothing left. The noise of the ocean and the rain would have drowned out even the most powerful scream. All I had was my body and my last bits of strength. I swam toward the lights, pushing against the current, and saw that the driver had found a way to crawl down.

The driver was my father.

He wore the khaki trench coat I’d looked for at Sheila’s house. I’d wanted his keys so I could chase Rachel. I’d seen him out the window, going after her, and run out. That’s how he knew we were there. Thank God for him. I’d never been grateful for my father before. I looked at Rachel. She’d become a dead weight in my arms, but I pulled her up. A wave caught us. A lucky break. I smacked against the rocks, managing to put myself between them and Rachel. My father got thigh deep in the water, grabbed my collar, and pulled me onto the ledge. I climbed with him, pulling Rachel. Dad grabbed her and helped us up. I collapsed at the top.

“This is going to cost me, son.” My father’s voice. “It’s going to
cost
.”

The world swam as if I was riding the teacups at Disney. I opened my eyes. In front of me, so close I had no context but a few blades of grass, the dark, rainy night, and my own nausea, was Rachel’s face. She too had her cheek to the grass. Her eyes glazed over. Her mouth hung open. Her hair stuck to her face. She blinked, and a tear fell over the bridge of her nose.

She faded, like a movie going to black, and the sound of the rain in Echo Park replaced the sixteen-year-old remembrance. Monica breathed in my ear in the rhythms of sleep. Outside, I heard traffic, a bus on Echo Park Avenue, and the children playing in the Montessori school yard. I opened my eyes, as if waking not from a dream but a resurrected memory.

It was morning, and finally, Rachel was free.

Chapter 37.

MONICA

I wore one of the dresses he’d bought me in Vancouver, sleeveless black one with a skirt that fell half an inch from the floor. The neckline so low it required a special bra that had been hanging with it. He requested I wear it, and it was magnificent.

I covered the yellowing bruises with a little makeup, draping hair, and whatever accessories I could gather. I wouldn’t stand up to a forensics team, but at night, in a dark party, maybe I wouldn’t have to crack a joke or tell a lie.

I’d wanted to take my own car, but Jonathan insisted on letting Lil drive, so I waited on my porch for the Bentley. It was exactly on time. Lil let Jonathan out the back. He wore a navy suit and a tie of darkest pink. His shirt was white and pressed, and he was perfect. I started down the porch steps, and he held up his hand.

“Come on, Monica. Give a guy a chance to get you at the door.”

I stopped and waited. He opened the chain-link fence that seemed cheap and worn next to his cleanly pressed self. He walked up the short, cracked concrete that led to my broken wooden steps.

“Are you ready?” he asked, taking my hand.

“It’s just a party.”

“No, it’s going to be ugly.”

I kissed him once on the lips. “I’ve been to high school.”

“The stakes are higher.”

“I’m not staying home. I got all dressed up.”

“Ah, speaking of...” He removed a long, thin box from his pocket. I recognized the Harry Winston dark blue.

“Jesus, Jonathan, you’re going overboard.”

“Yes. I am. I don’t have a viola.” I took the box. Cursing him out while I was smiling would be hard. I undid the ribbon. He took it and rolled it around his fingers. When I looked at him quizzically, he said, “Might need this later.”

“If the ribbon is the real gift, you could save a ton of money by just getting me empty boxes.”

I lifted the top. Inside the box, a flat platinum chain curled around itself. I pulled it out. It wasn’t a loop connected at the end but a long strand. It had to be five feet long, with jewel-encrusted drops the size of blackberries. One sparkled with sapphires, the other, emeralds.

“A lariat,” I said. “My God, it’s beautiful. Can you put it on me?”

He looped the strand around my neck once, draping it so the jeweled drops fell just below my breasts. “Green emeralds for sea. Blue sapphires for sky.”

“Thank you.” I kissed him. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“You’re going to make it tough for me at Christmas.”

“We’ll figure out some kind of trade.”

“And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.” I pulled the strand on one side, looped it around my neck a second time, and pulled tight. The smooth, flat links clicked against one another, easily tightening around my throat. “Makes a lovely collar.”

He laughed. Taking the blue drop, he unlooped it and rearranged the necklace until it was loose. “Let’s not rush.” He took my hand, and we went to the car.

Chapter 38.

MONICA

He got a call on the way. He mumbled a few syllables and relaxed visibly. When he hung up, he squeezed my hand.

“What?” I asked.

“My mother isn’t
feeling well
,” he said, the last two words emphasized as if it was some sort of code. “We may actually have a good time if I keep you away from the harpies.”

“I can handle harpies and your family.”

“I’m not keeping any secrets about my parents that you don’t already know. But I’d like you to be unsullied as long as possible.”

“I won’t think less of you because of them.”

“Give me some time.”

He didn’t try to fuck me on the way, though our lips met so often that I had to reapply lipstick when we arrived. We stood in the parking lot as Lil drove away. Other sleek cars discharged people in expensive shoes and suits. The lights glared as I used the valet window as a mirror, lipstick hovering. Jonathan snapped the tube from my hand before it touched my face and kissed me again.

“‘Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.’” He kissed me, then put his mouth to my cheek, and back to my ear. “Except when wax and pigment come between them.”

“Barrett Browning?”

“Percy Shelley.”

“And the second part?”

He turned my lipstick tube until the brand was visible. “Lancome, apparently.” He fondled the emerald end of my lariat as if it was part of my body. “I can’t wait for this circus to be over.” He shifted closer and whispered, “I’m taking you home, and I’m going to tie your wrists to the banister. I’m going to blindfold you, then I’m going to undress you slowly. I’ll put my lips all over you until you beg me to take you, which I may or may not do.”

“Jonathan,” I whispered, his name a white flag of surrender.

“Did you just shudder, or is it cold in this parking lot?”

“Was there anyone before you?”

“You might have thought so at the time.”

“I feel like no one’s ever loved me before.”

“I’m sure they did their best, but you always belonged to me.”

The parking lot’s lights were fluorescent and cold, but his gaze was more than warm—it was hot and fixed. I did indeed feel as though I’d never been loved before. At least not correctly. Not with purpose.

He broke our connection to glance over my shoulder, then back to my face. “Vipers descending.”

I looked back. Jessica, wearing purple and cream, walked with a crowd, her hand clutching the arm of a man with an athletic build. I nodded at her. She did not nod back. She looked away to make conversation with a ruddy-cheeked man rather than engage me at all. A face I knew stood out from the crowd.

“Geraldine,” I said. “Wow. Hi.”

Trompe l’oeil street artist Geraldine Stark looked at me, then Jonathan, and smiled. She’d let her curly brown hair go wild and wove sparkled strands through it. Her dress was a macramé shift of a thousand colors over a black satin slip. She gave me a Los Angeles hug, but I felt her eyes on Jonathan, who kept his hand on my back.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Did you hear about Kevin?”

“No, I—”

To my side, Jonathan greeted Mr. Athletic. They shared words I couldn’t concentrate on. As the crowd moved toward the elevators, I heard Jessica laugh behind me. Her voice was caught in the lilt of small talk and joyful greetings.

“He’s stuck in Boise,” Geraldine hissed. “Three years.”

“What? Why?”

“His parole is real strict. He gets actual jail time. They’re
pissed.
So…” She glanced at Jonathan, then back at me as we stepped into the elevator. She thought I didn’t know she’d been with him. She thought she would surprise me for dramatic effect. She thought wrong. Looking meaningfully at me, then at Jonathan, who spoke to the blond guy, she muttered, “Have you heard about your date? It’s all over town.”

“The thing about Kevin is terrible. Honestly.” The news shook me. I didn’t care if she’d fucked Jonathan a couple of nights back when I didn’t know he existed. I didn’t care if she wanted to rub my face in it for fun. Jesus Christ, I knew the guy wasn’t a virgin. A hundred women in the city could commiserate on my lover’s prowess if I were the commiserating type. Which I wasn’t. I was the type who got upset when her ex-boyfriend went to jail. “It’s awful.”