Chapter 12
Harvey: what kinds of songs are his favorite?
I want to fuck Austin all the time.
I don’t want to do anything else. I want to put my dick inside him and keep it there. This could get unhealthy.
See, I knew it. I knew it would be different with him.
I knew there was no going back. I absolutely knew what this would do to me.
This isn’t normal. I don’t think other people crave each other like this.
I don’t think other people can’t go five seconds without touching.
I’m waiting for the day we drown in his pool because we fell in and couldn’t stop kissing to come up for air.
I start to wonder, what happens when the Bad Angel fucks the Good Angel? It sounds like the beginning of a joke you’d tell your buddies at the bar. Will he make me Good? Will I make him Bad? Or will I just make love to him all night until his red lashes flutter into the heavens?
Sadly, we can’t stay holed up in his house forever, fucking in every position, in every room, on every surface.
We have to acknowledge time again—day and night, the world.
It feels like a dam has collapsed, with the flood rushing in and covering everything in sight.
No one’s ever made me feel this way. The world is sharp and crisp.
Every dark corner holds light. Words start coming to me, phrases and fragments.
I write them in the notebook Jack gave me.
Another part of me doesn’t want to get used to this. What if he finds someone better? It wouldn’t be hard. He’s the Good Angel, and they get to ascend.
It’s as if I’m losing my footing in front of a steep drop off.
I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to fall.
I’m losing traction. I don’t know what I’ll find at the bottom. A soft cloud or jagged rocks. If only my Bad Angel wings were strong enough. I’d just fly away.
Tamar goes through a bout of morning sickness that lasts all day.
I leave Austin’s house in the wee hours of the morning to make sure I’m home when Sunny wakes up.
School starts in a month or so, and I’m not sure how Tamar will feel by then.
She hasn’t told Pete, and I’m sure as shit not going to be the one who tells him.
He doesn’t care anyway; he’s been too busy casino hopping in Long Beach with his entourage.
I guess that European tour isn’t happening.
One morning, I arrive at the house and find him in the kitchen, sitting at the table with coffee, reading the newspaper. He almost looks like a normal dad getting caught up on the news before he goes into the office.
We give each other indifferent glances in greeting. I open the fridge, looking for orange juice.
“Have you been giving Tamar any shit, Harv?” he asks out of the blue.
“What?” I pull a carton from the fridge and grab a glass.
“You don’t need to butt in on every little matter here, you know. Sometimes you just need to mind your own business.”
I take a sip of juice. “You mean like you do?”
“I guess rehab can’t cure a smart-ass.”
“So funny I forgot to laugh.”
He shoots me a look, and if looks could kill… “Where were you all night? Banging up some more police cars? Banging some other man’s broad?”
“I was banging another man, actually.” I drink my juice and stare at him over the glass. He’s trying to tell if I’m lying or if I just said that to shock him.
He gets up with his coffee. “I don’t care who you fuck, Harvey. Just don’t get anybody pregnant.”
“Right. Like you did.”
He walks past me without answering.
I’d leave this house in a second if it weren’t for Sunny.
Getting my own place has been on my mind for a long time.
I have the money Pete set aside for me when I was a minor, so it’s not like I can’t afford it.
Leaving Sunny is the hard part. Especially now with Tamar pregnant and sick, and Pete only interested in blackjack.
I don’t want her to grow up like I did. I don’t want her trying to sleep and having to shove balled up toilet paper in her ears to block out the loud partying.
I don’t want her accidentally seeing some guy with sickly gray skin shooting up downstairs.
That was my childhood. It doesn’t have to be hers too.
But I have sort of a secret I’m working on.
I get a hold of Judd, Hot Night’s lead singer, and ask when’s a good time to stop by.
He says he’s got time this afternoon, so I drive over.
His place is in Malibu, with a clear ocean view and access to a private beach.
I’ve only been there a couple of times. The last time was when I bought my Jaguar, which I no longer have.
When I arrive, I find Judd in his living room watching TV.
He’s older than Pete but looks younger. His long, fluffy hair is pulled back into a low ponytail.
I haven’t seen him in a while; it looks like he’s gained some weight.
Judd partied hard back in the day, but somehow it didn’t hit him as hard.
Maybe it’s the hatred and meanness that really ages you.
“Good to see you, my man,” he says, his voice gruff, and we bump fists. “You want a drink?” He gets up and moves to a mini bar.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
He fixes himself a highball and takes a seat, inviting me to sit too.
“What’s crackin’, buddy?” He settles into his chair.
“I wanted to talk to you. I’m not sure how to ask or how to put it.”
“Just shoot.”
I pull the folded paper from my pocket and hand it to him. He unfolds it and reads.
He glances up at me. “You write this?”
“I did.”
He gives me a snide grin. “You got somebody special in your life, stallion?”
“Yeah, I do actually.”
“You son of a gun.” He studies it again. “It’s good.”
“You think so?”
“Yes indeed.” He hands it back to me. “I’m guessing you want to make this into a song.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Were you wanting to record it yourself?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I can’t really sing or play the guitar.”
“You used to do it all the time.”
“It was all for show. For the magazines.”
“Ah, I see.” He nods, taking a sip of his drink.
“I really just wanted to see what you thought of it. If it had potential and if there’s anything I can do with it.”
“Well, you can either record it yourself or find someone else to record it.”
“I don’t have any talent, so it should probably be somebody else.”
“Bullshit.” He lights up a Marlboro. “You’re a Laden.”
“Yeah, well, I guess that gene skipped me.”
He looks out of the windows for a few moments. “I know some studio musicians out at Westlake. Maybe they could whip up a melody.”
“The backup singer that sang on my albums used to be out there. Doubt he still is.”
Judd squints at me while he smokes. “You really don’t want to record this yourself? Here.” He gestures for me to give him back the piece of paper. He skims it again. “It’s pretty solid. I think it would do well as a ballad.”
He sets the paper down, lays his cigarette in the ashtray, and grabs one of his guitars set up in the corner. He has six- and twelve-strings, which, in my opinion, makes him a better musician than Pete. Pete can’t play a twelve-string.
Judd sits back down, cigarette back between his lips, and tunes the guitar.
“Something like…” He plays a couple of chords. “That could be the melody.”
I nod. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
He takes a drag and exhales. “I can teach you the chords, if you want. You know your old man might flip his top, though.”
“Why? He’s not going to teach me shit.”
“I don’t know about that,” Judd says.
“Last time he tried to show me, it didn’t go well.”
“I see. He hasn’t fallen off the wagon again, has he?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I can tell. He’s just been pissing away his money at the casinos.”
“I’m not surprised.” Judd stands. “Here’s what we can do then. I can teach you a few chords. I’ve got an old Martin I can let you borrow to practice on. Because you’ll need to do a lot of that. See what sounds good.”
“Someone will have to sing it though. I can’t do it.”
Judd raises a brow, putting out his cigarette. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure.”
“Sing something right now.”
My face heats up. “What?”
He turns the paper around and points. “Sing this part right here. Like how it sounds in your head.”
I look down at it, then up at him. He nods. I clear my throat and sing a couple of lines, quietly, like I might wake up a baby.
“That wasn’t terrible.”
“It wasn’t good, though.”
“Good enough to improve. I know a voice coach. Kay Edwards. She’s one of the best in the biz.”
“I don’t know…”
“Just think about it.”
“Okay. I will.”
“In the meantime.” He gets another guitar and hands it to me. “Let me show you a couple of things.”
“Right now?”
“Sure. Unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”
It would be with Austin, but he has a wardrobe fitting today for his police uniform. “Nope.”
“Right on. Let’s get started.”
When I get to Austin’s place that evening, my fingers are sore from the frets.
But that doesn’t stop me from placing my hands around his face and kissing him as soon as he opens the door. We walk across the entry way without breaking apart. I unbuckle my belt and pull it off. We break the kiss so Austin can remove his shirt.
“I was thinking about you all day,” he says. He unbuttons my pants.
“Really? What were you thinking?” I say in between kisses.
“About your cock.” He kisses down my neck. I almost trip removing my pants and underwear. “About when you come.”
“Yeah?” I steer him backwards into the living room. We won’t make it up to the bedroom again. “What else?”
He drops to his hands and knees. “This.”
I fuck him from behind on his living room floor, in front of his floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. The idea that someone might be out there watching us turns me on. Watching me take him like this on his hands and knees, begging for my cock.
“Why do you feel so good?” he groans, sinking to his elbows.
I pound into him and feel heat coiling up inside me. “For the same reason you do.”