Burn (4 page)

“I can’t.”

“Why?” His face found my neck. I recoiled, hating that I was so hungry to be touched but only by one person.

“I’m in love with someone. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

He clamped both sides of my face. “I’ll live with it.”

When he went to kiss me again, I scrunched up my eyes and lips, shaking my head. He held me fast. I did not like it. The sweetness of being touched was gone, replaced by a feeling of violation, like control of my body was being taken from me. I panicked.

“Kevin, no!”

“Do you need a safeword?”

“
What
?” When I tried to pull away, he clamped his arms around me and shoved his knee between my legs, spreading them.

“Monica,” he said with effort as I wiggled. “Calm down. What’s the—”

I bit his shoulder, hard. He screamed, and when he pulled away, my teeth still had him. Skin broke. Blood soaked through his shirt. Faster than an insult, I felt a hard impact on my face, and I lost my bearings from the slap.

He wore an expression both shocked and ferocious. I swung a full bottle of beer at it. The bottle didn’t break, but it hit his temple with a
thok
. I lost my grip, and inertia pulled the bottle out of my hand and onto the ground. It landed at my feet in a sunburst of suds.

Kevin was crouched, holding his bleeding head. I didn’t know whether to help him or run away. I was shocked into inaction until he came at me. Then I ran.

I ran into the studio, through the kitchen and his workroom, past the installation in its finished form, down the hall, and out the door. When I got to the front, where my car was parked, the metal front door didn’t slam right away. He was right behind me, his gorgeous face smeared with blood.

“Kevin. Stop!”

He didn’t stop. He grabbed my arm and threw me against my Honda.

Fuck.

My keys were in the studio.

I swung. He ducked. I had my opening. I ran down the block and didn’t stop until I heard music.

                                                   
CHAPTER 6.
 

MONICA

Like any self-respecting Angelino, I kept my phone in my pocket. The party I’d found was hopping with kegs and disorganized bottles on a paper-covered table. Art covered the warehouse walls, some of the silkscreens tilted from encounters with drunken partiers.

I called work when I found a quiet corner..

“Hi, Debbie? I can’t make it tonight. Something happened.”

“What’s ‘something’?”

“It’s personal.”

“If you’re screwing my girls over, I get to know why.”

I didn’t want to go through the whole thing. I’d already shown my manager enough unprofessional behavior. “I left my car keys behind a locked door. I’m trying to get my roommate on the phone, but he’s not picking up. I don’t think he’ll get here in time to get me to work.”

She sighed and covered the phone to talk to one of the staff. “Where are you? I’ll send Robert.”

Shit. I could feel my face throbbing where Kevin had hit me. I couldn’t go to work like that. “No, Debbie. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell the whole thing. I was in a fight. I’m not presentable.”

“Stop arguing and text me where you are.”

She hung up.

My face was throbbing with the bump of the music. The warehouse space had been coopted for the night by German Benefactors, an artist’s cooperative just starting to make waves. The place was huge, and packed, and smelling of piss where it was dark. Though two outstanding DJs had been hired, no one had thought to bring in a Port-a-Potty.

So I was forced out into the light, clutching some reddish drink, putting the cold plastic up to my face, avoiding people I might know.

Which didn’t work. Ute Graden, a struggling actress of German descent with naturally white hair, found me sitting on a cinderblock wall by the street, watching my phone and the road for Robert. She and her four friends milled around, sipping, laughing, and talking about their work and dreams. They were part of my crowd. My world, and I felt so out of it.

Ute and I made small talk about our careers, where I mentioned nothing about a song I had to pull from Carnival because I’d promised my ex-lover I would.

“What happened to your face?” she asked.

“Fell on some bad sidewalk. Fucking Frogtown’s falling apart.”

“Looks nasty.”

“Hurts, too. Hey, what ever happened with that indie film you were doing? About the prostitute with the kids?”

“Ran out of money, like, midway through. I’m ‘on call’ but...oh hel
lo
.”

She was looking over my shoulder. I followed her gaze, and once a crowd of boys in turned caps and low-slung skinny jeans passed, I saw Jonathan across the street, waiting for cars to pass.

“Oh, fucking fuckery,” I said.

“Yeah. Head to toe. That’s a man.”

“If nothing else.”
God damn you, Debbie. You are such a yenta
. What was her deal? Was she my boss or my mother? I was going to have to have an honest, respectful, non-job-losing conversation with her.

As he strode across the street, I saw what Ute saw. He had on simple trousers and a sweater with a leather jacket. In contrast to the rest of the men at the party, who spent hours looking as though they didn’t care what they wore, Jonathan looked neat and put together, as if he cared. He was tall and lean and straight, with his hair brushed back off his forehead. He owned the world and everything in it. The difficulty of staying away from him was so past his looks, so past any single physical attribute, and fell into a new, undefined category of “right.”

I set my back straighter and tilted my chin up. I thought Debbie would send Robert, but instead I’d have to pretend I was fine and my face wasn’t pounding.

“He’s coming over here,” said Ute, brushing her hair flat.

“He’s my ride,” I said.

Her eyebrows arched.

I paused. Jonathan liked blondes, if his wife was any indication. Ute was beautiful. She’d do well with him.

I thought about adding a short explanation. Maybe ‘I’m in love with him, but I left him’ or ‘he was my lover, boyfriend, master, king...’ None of it worked, and by the time I came up with ‘we were together for a while,’ he was upon us.

“Hey,” he said, and that voice went right into my gut and ripped stuff out.

I stood up. “Jonathan, this is my friend, Ute.” She had on a smile that wrapped around her face like a gag.

“Hi.” He looked at Ute briefly, then back to me. “What happened?”

“I fell. What are you doing here? Is Debbie being a yenta?”

“I happened to be at the bar, and she couldn’t spare anyone.”

“On Thanksgiving? You don’t have sisters to invite you to dinner?”

“Dinner ended at eight, and the kids went to bed. Where did you fall?”

“On my face.” I hadn’t seen a mirror yet, but his expression worried me. Was I going to the Vancouver opening with a big stinker on my cheek?

He turned to Ute. “It was nice meeting you.” Nothing about his voice was nice. He put his hand on my back, between the shoulder blades, and guided me toward the street. It was a possessive gesture, and he had no business making it. When we were far enough away from the party, I shrugged off his hand.

“Sorry, Jonathan. I wish she hadn’t sent you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me about your face now. And the truth this time.”

The party had street spillage, sending pockets of people onto the sidewalk and neighboring lots. The light industrial district thrived on those parties, but Jonathan and I were constantly getting bumped and shifted by gaggles of half-drunk hipsters.

“Can you just take me home?” I smelled his leather jacket, his cologne, the Jameson on his breath. He stood inches from me. If I just leaned forward, I could kiss him.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“Kevin’s.”

“What happened?” His voice was tight as a bowstring, and his posture matched.

I felt the pressure of a big fat cry push out my lower lip, squeeze tears from my eyes, and steal breath from my lungs. “I hate it that I break up with you twice, and both times you show up in a crisis and I get upset.”

“What happened?”

“I fell.” My voice cracked mid-sob.

“You look like you fell on someone’s fist.”

“It was actually more of a really hard slap, but you should see him. He looks really bad.”

Jonathan blinked. Slowly. “What happened?”

I didn’t answer. He put his hands on my shoulders and, as if by force of will, removed all anger and judgment from his expression. It only made me cry harder.

“Fuck you.”

“What happened?”

“He wanted...” I broke down. How could I tell Jonathan that I missed being touched by a man, by
him
, so I let something happen I should have stopped? Or why I was blaming myself when I hadn’t done anything? “He kissed me, and I bit him. Then he hit me. I hit him with a bottle and ran, and my car and keys are at his place. And you’re not supposed to be here witnessing this, so I do not feel guilty at all.”

I tried to read his expression, but it was hard to see through my tears. He slipped one of those freaking hankies out of his pocket, and I snapped it away before he could tell me to blow.

“It’s my fault,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. You said not to be alone with him, and I should have listened. You said he wanted to hurt me, and here I am. Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to go to Vancouver with him.”

“Where was Darren while you were getting beat up?”

“Parties. It’s the biggest night of the year.”

He put his arms around me, and I fell into him, putting my cheek to his shoulder, my face to his neck. He felt right. So right. So warm and gentle. That was the touch I’d wanted when I let Kevin near me. I’d gotten it so wrong. I felt a tightening on my ass, then a tickle. He’d slipped my phone from my pocket.

“What are you doing?” I grabbed for the phone, but he held it high, tapping and dragging until a map appeared. He’d found Kevin’s address.

He handed me the phone. “Stay here with your friends for a minute. I’m going to get your car.”

“Jonathan, just take me home. Don’t get in a fight.”

“A fight?” His voice was tense with control. “You think I’m going to take him behind the gym and punch him? Do I look like an adolescent?”

“No, but—”

“Stop.” He put his hands on my face and got close enough to kiss. “You’re mine, and I will defend you. But this isn’t a movie. You don’t destroy someone with a fight. And Monica, I know you walked away from me, but I am going to destroy him nonetheless.”

He kissed my forehead and walked toward the studio.

                                                   
CHAPTER 7.
 

JONATHAN

I couldn’t say exactly how much of the situation could have been avoided if Margie hadn’t pulled Will’s team, but at the very least, I would have gotten a call when Monica ran out. If I hadn’t been at the Stock, she’d probably be begging the bus driver for a free ride back to her hill or crossing Elysian Park to get home. Somalia was safer.

She had to come back to me. Soon. He’d had his lips on her, and I burned from the inside out. I didn’t want to get upset about it in front of her. Her lips were mine. Her face was mine. I’d let her go, secure in the knowledge that she’d come back to me. But in the interim, anything could happen with either of us. Though I knew the difference between what was fake and what was real, I couldn’t guarantee she made the distinction.

And also, her body was mine, regardless. Mine to kiss. Mine to fuck.

Mine to hit?

The contrast wasn’t lost on me. I’d spanked her ass pink with the intention of a harder, rawer fuck. And she wanted it, begged for it. He hit her in anger, on her face, and hard. But what was the difference? When and how did she become a punching bag for the men she was involved with?

Wainwright was two blocks away. I saw her car in the front lot before I saw the building. The poor street lighting left dozens of dark corners and blind turns, but it made it very easy to see that the front door was ajar. Music came from it. A stringed instrument over a hip-hop percussion line that seemed a little bit off. It was disconcerting, all raw nerves and tension.

I pushed open the door and slipped into a narrow hall with doors on either side. Music came from the big room at the end. A voice, layered over and over, with that single stringed instrument and hard percussion. Something was off about it, but it was definitely Monica. I saw her bag half falling off a table in the big room. I grabbed it, and when I turned, I saw the piece.

It stood complete. The sections had been labeled for transport, and the wood packing boxes stood next to it. Like the coalmine, it was a freestanding room with an inside and outside.

It was cut in two by a foot-wide horizontal wound around the circumference. Shingles covered the walls, and the windows, framed in the Craftsman style and broken where the wound intersected them, were painted in gold and silver. Curious, I went inside.

From the inside, the open jaw of wood and plaster in the horizontal cut looked more evil, more hazardous. Detritus spilled everywhere. Broken cinderblocks. Gum-stuck urbanite. Grassrooted clods of parkway. All of it was anonymous, generic, unwanted, ripped out, found but not rescued. On the walls was a huge screen print of an open wound. It could have been any body part, from some ravaging knife fight or a ten-hour surgery; that didn’t matter. It was three hundred sixty degrees around, and grotesque. On the other corner was an insect with a mandible and antennae that went around the walls.

Then the music made sense. Monica’s voice, her words layered so many times that their syllables and meanings were lost. The strings sounded a little off key and the bass riff was half a millisecond off time, then gradually more, until the core was a disconcerting cacophony that fell back into the correct beat, looping into a false sense of a more permanent rightness. Each corner of the piece accentuated a different vocal layer, and each speaker had a different tone.