Zoe
On the road, 2003
For weeks, as the tour proceeded, watched Russell D’Angelo.
She’d watched him in the van, stretched out with his long legs forward and his head tipped back, as he listened to his CD player.
She’d watched him onstage, his eyes heavy-lidded, mouth a little open.
She’d watched the way he’d sway, or rock from heel to toe and back again, along with Cam’s bass, the way he’d rock his hips from side to side to the sounds of the drums, and clutch the microphone, singing into it like it was a lover’s mouth.
She had memorized the blue veins that traced along the pale skin of his neck, the way he hooked his thumbs in his pockets when he was nervous.
She knew the timbre of his voice, first thing in the morning, knew the smell of his hair, and she’d extracted as much of his personal history as he would tell her: mom, the manager of a health-food store in Boston; dad, an orthopedic surgeon.
Two older sisters, a dentist and an art gallery owner, both success stories compared to Russell, who, in spite of his talent, in spite of getting his first band signed, his parents and siblings all insisted on seeing as the family fuckup.
Russell related all of this with an easy smile—how his dad had said, “I wash my hands of this,”
when Russell had decided to go on the road with Sky King instead of to college, how his mom had, for a while, snuck him money from her own paycheck, so he wouldn’t have to live on ramen and rice and beans.
wanted him fiercely.
She wanted him because he was cute and sweet and talented.
Beyond that, could admit that she wanted him because, for the first time in her life, she sensed resistance.
Russell was the first guy she’d desired who hadn’t immediately wanted her back.
For the first time in her life, was feeling insecure about the dream she’d chased since she was old enough to hold a hairbrush and pretend it was a microphone.
Now that she’d gotten a record deal, now that she’d started performing, now that she had what she’d always wanted, she was starting to think that maybe her dreams had been ludicrous, and that she wasn’t the Griffin sister destined to be a star.
Cassie was.
The unfairness of it made sick.
Cassie hadn’t even wanted this.
Cassie was indifferent to attention.
She still got stage fright and claimed that crowds made her queasy.
The problem was, Cassie disliked audiences, but could see that audiences—at least, some of the people in them—liked Cassie just fine.
In Altoona, saw how a radio-station intern, a girl even fatter than Cassie, had stared at her sister like she was watching the Second Coming the minute Cassie had started to sing; how her mouth had fallen open and how she’d been almost crying by the end of the second song.
In Wisconsin, noticed one plain, plump girl, a girl who’d been watching her friends’ purses while they’d danced.
watched the girl edging closer and closer toward the stage as the set had gone on, like she’d been hypnotized by Cassie’s singing, like Cassie had called to her, summoning her in a register only other fat girls could hear.
By the end of the show, the girl was right up front, and her expression had been rapturous as she’d clapped and cheered.
When they’d left the club the girl had been waiting outside the stage door, her breath coming out of her mouth in a frosty white cloud, shivering in the cold, waiting for a chance to touch Cassie’s shoulder and whisper, “Thank you.”
wouldn’t have minded her sister getting her little fan club.
She would have, in fact, been happy to cede the attention of every fat girl in the world to her sister.
But Russell, too, seemed fascinated by Cassie.
He’d talk about Cassie’s talent with a dreamy look on his face.
Do you have any idea how rare it is? he would ask , talking about Cassie’s abilities, her perfect pitch, her innate sense of rhythm, her facility with language, and her gift for lyrics.
Do you know how amazing?
Rare, would repeat, trying to match Russell’s enthusiasm. Amazing.
It made her furious.
Why couldn’t she have been the musical prodigy? “Because you have other gifts,”
her mom said, during one of the weekly phone calls Janice had demanded.
“Not everyone gets to be good at every single thing.”
Which was sensible, but it didn’t make Cassie’s easy mastery of every song any easier for to accept.
Why couldn’t she have been the one with the gorgeous voice, the one who could pull songs and lyrics out of the air? And what other gifts did she, , have, other than just being pretty, in a world full of pretty girls?
By the Wisconsin show, she could see how things were going, could read the future as clearly as if someone had handed her a MapQuest printout.
Cassie was becoming a star.
was becoming extraneous.
Maybe, by the time Jerry called them back to New York City, he’d have decided that the band didn’t need her at all.
If Russell loved her, thought, none of that would matter.
Or, at least, it wouldn’t hurt as much.
If she spent her nights in his bed, if he thought she was amazing, beautiful, special, something rare, to be cherished, that would take some of the sting away.
So she’d watched, and she’d waited, and, eventually, she’d figured out a way to make Russell D’Angelo hers.
Her plan was simplicity itself.
It required just three components: booze, a movie, and a semi-willing guy with working eyes and a functioning libido.
In Dallas, another concert had ended in multiple ovations and, even better, a radio-station visit had concluded with the promise of airplay for “The Gift.”
Road-ragged as they were by the time they finally got back to the hotel, the members of the band were still glowing and buzzing, lit up with delight, and at the prospect of staying in place and doing their laundry the next day.
Even Cassie looked happy.
She’d been standing up straighter, and there’d been a bit of a bounce in her step, a little color in her cheeks.
Good for her, thought coolly.
Let Cassie enjoy her musical triumph.
was after something else: a victory on a different field of play.
After her sister had tucked herself into bed with a book in her hands and her headphones clamped to her ears, wiped off some (but not all) of her stage makeup, took a quick shower, and pulled on her softest pajama bottoms and a giant sweatshirt.
She spritzed herself with perfume, collected the bottle of vodka she’d gotten Cam to buy, and padded, barefoot, down the hotel hallway, until she’d reached Russell’s room.
Normally, they doubled up— sharing a room with Cassie; Cam sharing with Russell—but the label rep had gone to spend the night with his grandmother, who lived in nearby Highland Park, so Russell was all by himself.
It couldn’t have been more perfect.
knocked, and waited for Russell to open the door.
The clothes she’d chosen disguised her body, but thought that would work in her favor.
Let Russell think about whether she was wearing a bra under the sweatshirt.
Let him wonder, when he looked at the pajama bottoms, worn thin by a hundred trips through the dryer, how soft they would be under his fingers; let him consider how close he’d need to get to feel the warmth of her skin underneath them.
She held up the bottle and smiled brightly.
“I’m too wound up to sleep.
Want to watch a movie?”
“Um.
Sure.
Does Cassie want to come?”
“Cassie crashed,”
lied.
Cassie had been awake when she’d left, maybe hoping that Russell would come to her, as he sometimes would.
He’d show up at their room, and he and Cassie would spend hours working on music or talking about it, sharing favorite songs, playing each other bands or songs the other hadn’t heard, while either feigned interest or took herself to the hotel gym or to watch TV with Cam.
Not tonight, thought.
“Let me just see if Cam’s around.”
Before she could stop him, Russell had slipped past her, into the hall.
frowned, then located the remote and turned on the TV.
She’d play the long game, if she had to.
She’d waited four weeks already, all the time they’d been on the road.
She could wait a few hours more.
Russell came back with Cam in tow.
“What are we watching?”
asked.
After Russell’s suggestion of some independent film with subtitles had gotten him thoroughly razzed, they’d settled on The Cable Guy.
went to the ice machine to fill up the bucket, and pulled small bottles of orange juice and cranberry juice from the minibar.
“You know the label’s going to bill us for that,”
Russell had said with his familiar easy smile.
knew.
CJ had explained it to them, before the tour commenced: how the label would, eventually, bill them for everything—their meals and hotel rooms, their outfits and makeup, the gas for the reps’ cars.
Every penny spent on introducing the Griffin Sisters to the world would come out of the band’s eventual profits, assuming there were any.
But couldn’t let herself worry about the costs of a few bottles of juice.
Not with so much at stake.
She’d filled everyone’s glass, making sure to go heavy on the vodka for Russell.
Then she set herself up on the king-sized bed with her back against the headboard and a pillow in her lap, thinking that, if nothing else happened, at least she’d leave the sheets and blankets smelling like her perfume.
Russell watched the movie.
watched Russell, sneaking glances at his lips, the curls that brushed his collar, his faintly stubbled cheeks.
She kept his cup full, and she waited.
Waited until the movie ended and they’d moved on to There’s Something About Mary.
Waited, until Cam announced that he needed to call his girlfriend before she fell asleep, and went back to his room.
As soon as the door had closed, Russell got to his feet, yawning ostentatiously.
“Whew! I’m beat.
Maybe you should go.”
had smiled at him, leaning back ever so slightly.
Knowing how tuned in Russell was to sound, she made sure that he could hear her hair, moving gently against the pillow she’d tucked behind her head.
“Maybe I should stay.”
Russell looked at her for a moment, frowning faintly as he rubbed at his head.
remembered what he’d told her once, somewhere in ...
Florida? Georgia? She remembered a haze drifting off the blacktop and palm trees outside the SUV’s windows.
They’d been chatting, and had asked what he’d been like in high school.
He hadn’t looked at her; he had paused, staring at his lap, and finally, he’d said, “More like Cassie than you.”
hadn’t wanted to push him.
But later, she’d asked Cam, who’d known Russell since his Sky King days, and Cam had gotten his girlfriend to send a copy of the Rolling Stone magazine that had featured that band to show her.
remembered the picture of younger Russell: a chunky, block-shaped boy, draped in oversized black clothes, with curtains of dyed black hair obscuring his acne-studded cheeks.
He’d slimmed down since then.
His hair was no longer shoe-polish black, and all that remained of the acne were a few faint scars.
But his perception of himself had been shaped by those years, and suspected that not even his subsequent status as a musician had been enough to erase those ingrained insecurities.
Girls might have laughed at him ...
or, maybe, he’d never even approached them, so they’d never had the chance.
Russell had probably spent much of his life believing he’d never have a chance with someone like .
Now that she was giving him that chance, she was hopeful he’d take it—that he’d grab onto it, and onto her, with both hands, and be grateful.
And never let her go.
In the hotel room, smiled at him.
She sat up slowly, smoothing her hair over her shoulders with both hands, hoping it looked soft in the low light, that he’d want to feel it under his fingers.
She watched, pleased, as he licked his lips and shifted his weight.
“Look, .
I think you’re great.
But you and me ...
it’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
He shook his head, looking stubborn and befuddled, adorably owlish.
“We’re collies,”
he said, thick-tongued.
giggled.
“Coll-eagues,”
he said, saying the word precisely.
“We work together.
S’not a good idea.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything serious,”
told him.
“We can just fool around.
I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He stared at her, then shook his head.
“No ... I . . .”
let her lip quiver.
“Don’t you like me?”
she whispered.
“Of course I like you.
You’re great! But . . .”
This was a moment for actions, not words.
rose up and walked, on her knees, to the edge of the bed, so that her face was level with Russell’s face, her thighs and chest against his body.
“Come on,”
she whispered, so close that her sweatshirt rubbed against his tee shirt, so close that she knew he could feel her breath on his lips.
“Come on, I want you to.”
She waited.
When nothing happened, she leaned forward, closing the gap, pressing her mouth against Russell’s.
At first, the kiss was just as sweet as she’d thought it would be, warm and gentle and tender, almost chaste.
But didn’t want chaste.
She tilted her head, sighing into his mouth, tracing his lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
She could feel him struggling, trying to resist, until, with a groan that sounded almost pained, Russell yanked her against him, so that they were pressed together from shoulder to groin, and she could feel every inch of him.
A sweet, throbbing ache gathered between her legs, and her clothes felt too heavy, too hot.
“Is this what you want?”
Russell asked, his voice low and raspy.
He slid his hands underneath her sweatshirt, gliding them over the smooth skin of her back.
“Yes,”
whispered, biting at his neck, licking his earlobe, gripping his shoulders, then his upper arms.
Russell kissed her hard, gripping her shoulders, sounding almost angry as he asked, again, “Is this what you want?”
got off the bed and stood in front of him.
She slipped off her sweatshirt and stepped out of her pajama bottoms and underwear.
She watched his eyes get wide as he took her in: her body licked by the faint blue light of the screen; her nipples tightening in the cool air; the curves of her waist and her hips and her thighs.
She watched him raise one hand, slowly, looking at it like it wasn’t a part of him, like he didn’t know what it would do, and held her breath until it settled on her waist, pulling her tightly against him.
“Come on,”
she breathed in his ear.
“Come on, I want you to.”
She took his other hand in hers and drew it down between her legs, hearing him inhale sharply, knowing that, once he’d touched her, it was over.
She’d won.
When she’d made her plan, she’d imagined that everything would be gentle, sweet, and romantic.
Russell would undress her slowly, kissing every inch of her, worshipping her with his hands and his tongue, telling her that she was beautiful, maybe, even saying that he loved her.
The reality was Russell pressing his mouth to her neck, then her lips, then her chest, like there was a timer running somewhere and he had to get his lips against as much of her as possible as quickly as he could.
It was Russell mashing his body against her, so that felt the press of buttons and zippers, everything hard and fast and urgent, like he was desperate to be inside of her.
Or, maybe, would think later, like he was just desperate to have it be over.
He walked her back to the bed, urged her onto her back, then pulled his own pants down and knelt, rolling on the condom he’d produced from somewhere.
Yay, safe sex, thought , whose own brain had gone a little fuzzy.
When she took him inside her, she was completely naked, and Russell was still almost entirely clothed, and she wasn’t thinking of how good it felt, or how much she loved him.
I won, she was thinking, as Russell began to move, slowly at first, then faster, gripping her hard, sweating and panting, like his orgasm was something that was eluding him, something he had to hunt down and subdue.
Possibly with a club.
pushed her hips up to meet his.
She pinched his nipple and felt him shudder, bit his neck and heard him groan.
It went on and on, with Russell getting sweatier, sounding more desperate, until ’s legs were cramping and she’d started to feel sore.
Finally, he rolled off of her and lay on his back, panting.
“Whiskey dick,”
he said, when he’d gathered enough breath to speak.
“Or vodka, I guess. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
That ache was still there, heavy between her legs.
wanted to be alone, back in her own bed, so she could finish herself, quietly, holding her breath so she wouldn’t wake up her sister.
“I’ve wanted you for such a long time.”
“.”
He rolled onto his side.
“This—you and me—it’s not—we shouldn’t—”
“Shh,”
she said, and pressed her finger against his lips. “Shh,”
she said, and stroked his hair gently, and lay with him until he’d fallen asleep, her body still tense and tingling with arousal, her skin unpleasantly sticky, her brain buzzing with triumph.