CHAPTER NINE
He was moderately hungover and his mouth was hellaciously dry.
He felt off, almost feverish, but he knew he wasn’t getting sick.
It was the afterburn of last night, the lingering sting, the rearousal of a long-stifled desire.
Images and memories flashed in his mind every few seconds, accompanied by a queasy kind of horniness.
Carver had also done a physical number on him, and he felt this every time he moved — an aching bruise on his bitten shoulder, sore thigh muscles, raw nail marks down his back.
Scott found out while showering that Carver’s nails had in fact opened his skin, so he found some antibiotic ointment in his luggage and did his best to smear it on his own back.
Then he got out his noise-cancelling headphones and lay down on the couch so he could stare at the ceiling and listen to The Grass Roots’ seminal hit Midnight Confessions over and over again until it activated his tinnitus.
Scott generally preferred to leave a situation rather than torture himself from inside it, but that wasn’t an option here, so he got dressed and went down to the house.
When he walked into the kitchen, Carver wasn’t even there — it was just Chip and Maggie and their kids, plus Conway, Nora and Doug.
Everyone greeted him politely; Nora directed him to a buffet of pastries, orange juice and coffee on the island.
As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see Chip’s daughter Bailey.
“Mr. Scott,” she said, “do you like pirates?”
“Uh,” Scott said. “Yeah, for sure.”
“Do you want to hear some pirate facts?”
“Sure.”
Bailey opened the book in her hands and squinted at it. “Did you know some pirates were women?”
“I did, actually,” Scott said.
Bailey let out a thwarted sigh and flipped the page.
“Bailey,” Chip called from the breakfast nook. “Don’t bother people.”
“I’m not!”
“She’s not,” Scott assured Chip and Maggie, who looked unconvinced. He wasn’t great at guessing kids’ ages, but he figured Bailey was around seven, and should be encouraged by the adults around her to do shit like read books and speak freely.
“Did you know that we’re not sure what the origin of the name Jolly Roger is?” Bailey said.
“I didn’t know that one,” Scott said, sipping his coffee. “Interesting. Do we have, like, theories?”
Bailey opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Conway chirping, “Morning, guys.”
Scott looked up and saw Carver and Lillian walking in, already looking very put together in matching green Patagonia quarter zips. Lillian was alert and beaming; Carver looked strained and sullen.
“There’s coffee and breakfast on the island,” Nora said. She, Conway and Doug were squeezed beside Chip and Maggie in the booth, leaving little room for anyone else.
Carver looked up, and Scott accidentally made eye contact with him.
He felt an apologetic grimace flash on his face.
Carver dropped his gaze, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
Then he came over with his eyes lowered, like his need for coffee outweighed everything else.
Scott stepped out of his way, leaning against an ornate white shelf full of tasteful knickknacks.
He tried not to think of Carver’s naked body under his clothes — not his lovely stomach nor the dark hair of his armpits nor his pretty, chiseled legs and pert little ass.
Lillian didn’t come join her husband. She squeezed herself into the breakfast nook next to Conway, forcing everyone to scoot over a little. They all looked extra blonde in the hot morning light.
“Uncle Carver,” Bailey said, “did you know when pirates got scurvy, their old wounds would open up and their bodies would unravel?”
Carver pulled a face. “Bailey, honey,” he muttered as the Nespresso splurted into his mug, “it’s eight-thirty in the morning.”
“So?” Bailey said, like he was being a wuss.
Carver looked really good. Scott wanted him desperately, as crazy as that felt. He wanted to shove him up against the island.
“Unravel?” Maggie called. “That doesn’t sound right. The book uses the word unravel?”
“Yes, Mommy!”
Chip extended his hand. “Bring it here.”
Bailey trotted over to him.
“Did you two go for a run this morning?” Doug asked Lillian.
“Yep,” Lillian said. “Carver was up at like six, pacing. Sometimes he just needs to run.”
Scott looked at Carver and thought as hard as he could: this woman thinks you are her pet dog.
Carver stirred milk into his coffee and continued to avoid eye contact. His dark hair was damp, combed out and parted right down the middle — a classic high school boy look which was inexplicably really doing it for Scott. The front pieces hung straight, grazing the tops of his cheekbones.
“It actually does say unravel,” Chip said, squinting at the page as he held it a forty-year-old distance from his face.
“Gnarly,” Conway deadpanned.
Chip laughed, then slid out of the booth, came into the kitchen and jabbed Carver in the waist to get him to move away from the coffeemaker. Carver stepped back, expressionless, and Chip said, “Hey, Scotty.”
“Hey there,” Scott said.
“I feel like we haven’t talked at all.” Chip set a mug under the Nespresso’s dispenser. Today he had two mild black eyes and a thin bandage across his swollen nose. “How’s the biz?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah? That bad?”
“Nah, just has its ups and downs.”
“Well, you’re living the dream for most guys our age,” Chip said.
Scott vaguely remembered that Chip played guitar in his youth, but was never very good at it. “I do try to remember that,” he said with a grin.
Chip thumped a fist gently against Scott’s shoulder, then walked away.
Scott glanced over at Carver, who was surreptitiously digging around in a pill bottle. Carver felt his gaze, looked up at him and said, “It’s just a beta blocker.”
“None of my business.”
“Alright, then it’s a Xanax.”
Scott laughed, but Carver didn’t seem to get the humor in his own comment.
Finally he freed a pill and washed it down with a sip of coffee, then walked over to the breakfast nook where there was no seat for him.
Nora, who’d been focused on her phone, glanced up and said, “Doug, why don’t you go grab some extra chairs? ”
“I’m fine,” Carver said, holding up a hand which instantly stilled his father. “I don’t mind standing.”
He genuinely didn’t seem to. It was the rest of them (besides Lillian) who looked uncomfortable. Carver seemed to enjoy this on some level; he was standing at them.
Scott would have found this funny if it didn’t make him sad. He knew these little acts of passive aggression were raised from a deep well of anger.
He grabbed a Danish from the tray of pastries, then walked to the end of the island and cleared his throat. “What time are you guys heading over?”
“Not ‘til about three,” Nora said. “The ceremony starts at four.”
“Gotcha. I’m supposed to get there around one, I think.”
“Do you need a ride?” Nora said. “One of us could run you over and come back. Carver?”
“No,” Scott said too quickly, “I’m good, thanks, the bassist is gonna grab me on his way.”
“Oh, perfect.”
Scott shot one last glance at Carver. He was studiously not looking at anyone or anything, instead staring over everyone’s heads through the window which overlooked the backyard.
Scott wondered if the lust he felt was shared, or if Carver was over it and so deep in shame that he just hoped Scott would vanish.
It was impossible to tell by looking at him.
His face had the smooth, polished restraint of Neoclassical sculpture.
“Anyway,” Scott said, “I’m gonna go over the setlist one more time, get ready…”
“Sounds good,” Nora said. “I’m sure we’ll see you before the ceremony, but if not, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s ‘break a leg’ for performers, Mom,” Conway said as Scott walked away toward the patio door. “You gotta tell him to break his leg.”
“Break your leg, Scotty boy,” Chip shouted after him.
Scott gave him the hang loose sign without turning around. On his way out, the golden retriever got out of its bed to come nose his hand, and he stroked its head for a moment before continuing on.
Johnny picked Scott up in his Honda Accord at 12:55, rolling to a stop in the street outside the Novacks’ instead of pulling into their driveway, idling in a stretch of leaf-dappled light.
Scott took long strides over to him and tossed his gear in the back with the efficiency of an Uber driver, eager to get the hell off the property.
“What’s up, brother,” Johnny said, extending a hand as Scott slid into the passenger seat. “Nice monkey suit. I have mine in the back, I wasn’t gonna drive with all that on.”
Scott dapped him up, then moved his seat back so he could stretch his legs out. The rented tux was a little short on his thighs, and when he sat down he felt claustrophobia of the nuts. “Thanks again for doing this.”
“No problem. I owed you, and you said open bar and good-looking women… no problem at all.” Johnny yawned and turned down his music, which was a Soundgarden song Scott couldn’t remember the name of. “By the way, I can’t believe you’re from here. I was driving through, like, there’s no way.”
Scott laughed. “I feel the same way.”
“When I met you, I assumed you were from the city too. Jersey at the very least.”
“Yeah? Good.”
“Is it pretty white here?” Johnny said. “I felt like people were scoping me out while I was pumping gas.”
“There’s definitely Asian people, but yeah, not that many black people.”
Johnny grinned. “So I’m only half out of place.” Without taking his eyes off the road, he flicked open the car’s cigarette lighter and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “You want one?”
“I’m good, I need to rest my voice. I drank and smoked last night.”