Chapter 13
___
Nate
Balmy air greets us on the sidewalk. The smell of French fries waft in from somewhere, and the stars twinkle overhead. It all barely registers though. All I can think of is her.
She links her hand in mine and pulls me close. “Please,” she whispers in my ear.
I wildly look around for somewhere we could go. Walking back to the motel seems impossibly long. I open Uber, and it’s a seven-minute wait for a car; a five-minute wait on Lyft. Far too long.
“Over there.” I spot a small wooden boardwalk, leading into the dunes. There’s a sign that reads, “Private.”
“This isn’t a public area,” she says, sounding adorably shocked at the prospect of breaking the rules.
“I know.”
“But we can’t be here.”
“I think it’ll be okay for a few minutes.”
“I don’t want to get arrested. ”
“Bev, how many private beaches are in Melody Bay?”
“A ton.”
“And how often do they get used? Especially when they’re owned by people with about ten other houses?”
She looks at me like, “Fair point.”
We pick up the pace, hurrying down the creaking boards, away from the sounds and smells and people.
“But what if someone comes?” she asks in a low voice, looking back over her shoulder.
“Oh, someone will come,” I say.
She looks momentarily worried and then seems to realize what I mean. Her sexy lips part and then break into a grin. I want to kiss her more than anything. I yearn for it. But she doesn’t want to kiss for some reason.
The wooden walkway comes to an end where it meets the sand. There’s a small area, still on the walkway, looking over the ocean. No one is around. We can’t even hear people at this point. Just the sound of the ocean crashing, and the slight rustle of the dune grass around us, blowing in the wind. The full moon provides the only light, casting everything in its pale glow, even the dark water.
I feel like we should admire the view or talk more, but I can’t wait any longer. I need her.
“Over here,” I command. I turn her body, so she’s looking out at the water, and I stand behind her. I trail my hands lazily down her neck, lingering on her tits, massaging her nipples into little points.
“Mm,” she moans.
I can feel her muscles begin to tighten beneath my touch, quivering like she won’t be able to hold out much longer. I use my knee to part her legs and trace my hand up her inner thighs .
I gasp when I realize she’s not wearing panties. My cock strains against my jeans, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life. It takes the self-control of a lifetime not to just whip my dick out and enter her then and there.
I press against her mound, and she groans louder. “Please, Nate,” she begs.
I kiss her neck for this, knowing it’ll only make her feel more delicious, more wound up. I want her to need me as much as I’ve needed her these past fifteen years. I want to show her what fifteen years of desire will do to you. How it’ll shape a mind; how it’ll wound a heart.
I drag a thumb against her clit, and she’s so wet for me, it glides. Her legs begin to quiver more, and I wrap my hands around her even tighter, so she has me to fall back on.
I enter her with my finger, pulling her close. I can feel her breath catch in her ribs. I enter her again, strumming her clit, as I do, playing her like a delicate, sexy song. My heart pounds harder and harder as she tenses.
She comes undone in my arms. “Ahhh,” she moans as her body collapses into me. I hold onto her as the aftershocks overtake her, and I hold onto her as the absolute calm washes over her.
After a minute, she turns to me, draping her arms on my shoulders. “How did you do that?” she whispers.
I shrug, taking in her body, and how much I want to bury my cock into her wet little pussy.
“How’d you know I’d collapse?” Her eyebrows knit together as if concerned.
I shrug again.
“Does that happen a lot?” she asks. “Girls just collapse after you make them come? ”
“When you do it right, there’s no other way.”
She seems to consider this, and worry flickers across her face.
I don’t want her worried. “Hey.” I cup my hand on her cheek. “I don’t want to talk about anyone except you.”
She closes her eyes, and I rest my forehead against hers.
“You’re my intern,” she whispers out of the blue.
“Yeah.”
“This is so wrong.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong,” I say, trying to comfort her.
“But you’re my intern. There’s a power differential with interns.”
“I mean this in the best possible way,” I say. “But I think the power differential works in my favor.”
She sighs, and I know she realizes I’m right, even if it annoys her. “Want to walk around?” she asks.
I nod, and we head back to main street. I already miss the sound of the ocean and the dune grass rustling in the breeze. But I have a suspicion it’s too much for her. She needs the distraction of other things. Just me and her—it’s intense. Maybe too intense. Especially after what just happened between us.
We hit main street, which hasn’t quieted much, even though it’s later. We pass a karaoke bar with offkey vocals wafting outside.
“What about karaoke?” she exclaims.
“Pass.”
“You can sing!”
“Hard pass.” I keep walking, hoping to signal that I don’t want to talk about it.
For a few blocks, we stroll in silence. We should be back at the motel soon. Alone. In a room. One bed. I grow increasingly aware of my heart pounding in my ears .
“What was up with the karaoke place?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
I stare ahead as I consider what to tell her.
“You don’t have to talk about it.” She reaches for my hand as if to show me that it’s okay.
I continue to stare ahead, as we walk, unable to look at her. “I haven’t told anyone,” I finally say.
“Listen, you don’t have to tell me anything. Not a word. But if you want to, I’m here for whatever you have to say.” She squeezes my hand.
Just when I think I’m not going to mention anything, I hear myself say, “I have stage fright.”
“Stage fright?” she asks, sounding surprised.
Once I get going, I can’t seem to stop. “I remember reading an interview where Bob Dylan said he feared losing his ability to create. It’s such a mystery….where does creativity come from? Could we lose it any moment? For me, so far, the creativity part has stayed. It’s the stage fright that came out of nowhere. One night, I didn’t have it, and the next night I did. I’ve had panic attacks after my last five shows, each time getting worse. After the most recent one, I hid in a broom closet to have a panic attack. Once I left, I threw up.”
“Oh Nate.” She wraps her arm around me and pulls me into a side-hug. “That sounds terrible.”
“It was. I feel like I can’t talk to my agent about it. I don’t want him to drop me, and I don’t want to tell my band members because stage fright can be this thing that spreads…you take for granted that you don’t have it, but then once you start thinking about it, it opens you up to it. I don’t want them to get it from me.”
“But if they had stage fright, wouldn’t you want them to tell you? ”
“Well, yeah.”
“I’m not saying you should tell them especially if you don’t want to. You know what’s best. But if you’re not telling them to protect them—then, maybe you should. Because, like you said, you’d want to know if it were the reverse.”
I nod, considering this.
“Was there something about the show where you got stage fright the first time?” she asks. “Was the crowd negative or something?”
“I just remember…staring out into the crowd. The stage lights made it impossible to see anyone even the people in the front row. When I looked out, I just saw a sea of darkness—and lit up cell phones, taking videos. In reality, it wasn’t much different than any other night. It just hit me different. It seemed like a void.”
“Do you know what you wanted to be in that void?” she asks. “When you looked out?”
“Anything other than that.”
___
We get back to the motel, and I pull out our keycard to unlock the door. A few moths beat at the outdoor light. I feel lighter than I have in months. It feels good to have told her.
“Want to watch some TV?” she asks, diving onto the bed .
I want to do about a million and one things to that body of hers, but I can tell that hooking up has been on her mind. She’s probably still processing it all, and I don’t want to push her. I want to fuck when she’s good and ready.
I climb into bed, and she nuzzles up against me, resting her head on my chest. Her breathing slows as we flip through stations. I run my hand through her hair and down her silky neck.
“I love listening to the sound of your…” she trails off, and I realize she’s asleep.
She didn’t have to finish. I knew she was going to say, “Heart.”
___
The alarm blares. I have it set to a song—not one of those sounds like “chimes” or “radar.” I fumble for my phone and groggily turn it off.
“What song is that?” Bev asks from across the room, sounding very morning-person and chipper.
“My least favorite song.” I stretch and try to shake the sleepiness off.
“Have you ever considered using a song you like as an alarm?”
“Not masochistic enough.” I get up, still in my jeans and shirt from the day before.
Bev watches me, holding a thick white motel mug with both hands. Her eyes are the color of tawny autumn leaves. Seeing her first thing in the day makes my blood whoosh in my ears.
She puts her mug down and goes back to folding her clothes very precisely.
I’m amazed at her energy. I feel sluggish, and she’s buzzing around the room like a worker bee.
“You seem like you slept well?” I say.
She zips up her bag with relish. “I’m focused on Cody.”
“I am too,” I say. “But I’m not moving around the room like I just freebased cocaine.”
“Cody energizes me,” she assures me.
It seems like something is on her mind. And I’m wondering if it’s us—what happened between us last night. But I don’t want to push if she’s not ready to talk about it.
I start getting ready myself, brushing my teeth, throwing my clothes in my bag. I leave a hundred-dollar bill for the maid on the table in the corner.
We’re walking toward the door to leave when she suddenly turns to me. “Can we talk real quick?” She plays with the yellow rubbery phone case, which I’ve noticed is something she does when she’s nervous. “Before we go outside?”
“Sure.”
She walks back to the bed and sits down. It seems like this is going to be a talk with a capital “T,” so I put the bags down. Is she going to want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Put a label on last night? My nerves rattle like shaking candy in a box. It occurs to me I’m nervous because I’m hopeful. Whatever happened last night, I want more of it. And I hope we can continue when we get back. I know I can’t stay in Melody Bay forever, but I want this while it lasts .
She takes a deep breath as if she’s about to say something very important. “I think we were drunk on ice cream last night.”
Maybe I’m just tired, but I’m pretty sure ice cream is non-alcoholic. “I don’t understand,” I say.
“I think it’s a type of sugar high.” She says the words, but by the sound of her voice, I can tell she’s not convinced.
“I don’t think people can get drunk on ice cream.”
She opens her phone, checks the screen, and then shows me as if she’s had this loaded for a while.
“What time did you wake up?” I ask, before looking.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“I think I woke up at 4.”
“You could have woken me up,” I say.
“Will you just look at the screen?”
I lean in and study a Buzzfeed Listicle article. “Ten Ways You Can Get Drunk Without Actually Getting Drunk.” And ice cream is listed as number one. “But it says, ‘Without getting drunk,’” I point out.
“Anyway, I found a few articles on it.”
“You can find articles supporting literally anything online,” I say exasperated. “I can find articles that we’re all Kevin Bacon or that aliens are vegans.”
Her expression closes in on itself, and I can see the walls being resurrected.
“Look, Bev. If you don’t want anything to happen between us, it doesn’t have to.” It kills me to say this, but it seems like what she wants.
For a split second, it seems as if she wavers. Her expression cracks, and she hesitates. I swear she’s about to reach for me, but she stops herself. “I think that’s a good idea,” she says.
I can’t quite put into words what happens to me here. My heart fucking cracks open. I taste bitterness on my tongue. I don’t want to make her feel bad about her decision, but it destroys me. “Okay,” I say.
___
I toss our bags in the trunk, and we prep the backseat by pulling out a few blankets and toys. I try not to treat her any differently. I try not to let my bitterness show or how disappointed I am. I choose to remember her enthusiasm over helping Cody, and I try to focus on Cody too.
Still, it stings.
Ice cream drunk?
I mean, seriously.
We continue on our journey, driving a few more hours, and finally, pull into the CVS parking lot on MacDowell Street.
In the corner of the parking lot, there’s a white van like the MBAS one. Bev doesn’t have to tell me. I head towards it.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“A little.” Nothing like my stage fright , I think. So at least that’s good. It’s funny how that works. When one thing gets so bad in your life, you can measure other things against it, and none of them will ever be that bad. An upside for everything, I guess .
We pull into the spot next to the van, and a woman with short blue hair and rectangular glasses climbs out of the car, waving to us. “I’m Kali,” she says through Bev’s open window.
We introduce ourselves, but we don’t even get into pleasantries before Kali interjects, “I should probably give you a heads up.” She looks at Bev when she speaks. “I’ve never seen a dog this bad. Level red neglect. We didn’t even give him meds because we weren’t sure his body could take it.”
Bev gasps. “Poor guy.”
“When he howls, he sounds like the saddest dog in the world,” Kali says.
Bev and I exchange looks.
“Ready to meet him?” Kali asks.
I want to say, “no,” because I’m allergic, and I don’t want to listen to howling for the next eight hours. But even I could never say that.
We head toward the van, and I admit I’m getting nervous now. My heartbeat is a low drum.
Kali pops open the back doors. And there in a crate, is a mangy lab-ish mix, with what should probably be black hair, if enough were still on his body. His huge eyes regard us woefully like we might kick him at any moment. He shuffles as far back in his crate as he can manage, his tail like an arrow between his back legs.
And he’s thin. Like dangerously thin. He’s so thin, you instantly want to feed him. It’s unbelievable he’s still alive, and probably a testament to his drive or something deep inside him. A part of me wonders if I could have hung on as long as he had. And maybe that’s inspiring a little. He’s a living, breathing—well, panting—testament on how things will get better if you can make it through the worst .
I decide the joke is on the asshole who named him Cody. C’mon And Die Already. Well, the joke is on you, dipshit. He’s still alive.
“He hasn’t eaten any breakfast,” Kali says. “We tried to feed him, but he wouldn’t eat.”
It makes me sad. He’s so close to getting out of a bad situation. But I don’t want him to die before he can experience the joys life can give too. So he’s got to eat. That’s goal number one.
“He’s been hydrated via IV, as well as given nutrients,” Kali says. “So he’s good on that front.”
Bev turns to me. “Lots of bathroom breaks then.”
It’s going to be a long trip.
“You brought puppy food?” Kali gestures at the van. “I brought extra if you need it.”
Bev nods and then explains to me, “Puppy food is easier for starving dogs to digest.”
My mouth feels suddenly dry.
“Want to help me move him into the car?” Kali asks Bev.
“I got it,” I assure them both.
Even though I say this, I’m a tad nervous I might lose one of my fingers in the process. I do love playing the guitar after all, and fingers are necessary for that.
Because he’s such a nervous dog, Kali brought gloves that look like they’re meant for rose gardening, which I know from my mom. I slip them on, take a deep breath, and grab the crate.
He doesn’t howl or scoot away. He just looks up at me; perhaps even a little curious. I grab the crate, and I scoot it in the backseat of my car, so he’s closer to us. I drape a blanket over top half of it, so he can have privacy and someplace den-like—Bev is always talking about making a place den-like for scared dogs—to retreat if he wants.
We say our goodbyes to Kali, thanking her.
“I have to confess,” Kali says. “I’m a huge fan. I barely slept last night because I was so nervous to meet you.”
I’m surprised by this. Maybe that’s why she barely looked at me—it was an anxiety thing. I reach into my car’s glove compartment and grab a guitar pick. “It’s my favorite,” I say as I give it to her.
She squeals in delight.
Bev glances at me—I can’t tell what she’s thinking by her expression—and then we climb in the car ready to go. We want to get Cody home as soon as possible, so he can start to destress.
We haven’t even pulled out of the parking lot when Cody starts howling. And let me tell you about this howl. It’s even more depressing than Kali described. He sounds like the saddest, loneliest old man to ever live. There is despair in that howl. A despair that seems far too old for a dog that’s only been in this world two whole years.
I hope it’ll stop once we get on the highway, but it just grows. And grows. He sounds increasingly panicked.
“I don’t know what to do,” Bev confesses, looking concerned.
“I’ll pull over.” I take the next exit.
We turn into a gas station, and we both get out of the car, opening the backseat.
Bev tries to give him a piece of veterinary-grade puppy kibble through the kennel’s bars, but he just looks down with his soulful eyes.
“I wish he’d eat something,” Bev says under her breath.
I haven’t tried to help on the feeding front because truthfully dog slobber grosses me out. Even so, I know it’s important to her, so I grab a piece of kibble from the bag. I dangle it by the bars a few inches from her hand. I look over at her. “Does he not like the taste of—”
I don’t finish my thought because something tickles my fingers. I look down, and the kibble is gone. Cody looks up at me, licking his lips.
Bev nudges me, grinning. “Look at you! You fed him!”
“I think he’s a very confused dog,” I say.
“At least, he’s not barking anymore.”
I reach for another piece of kibble, and he also takes it from my hand. He moves a few inches closer, so he’s not cowering in the corner anymore.
As Bev continues to hold out her kibble, I drop a few in the crate. But Cody howls at that and retreats back into his corner.
“Well, let’s get going,” I say. “We tried.”
“He’s in agony.”
“Aren’t we all?”
She frowns at me.
I shrug. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Try feeding him again.”
I sigh and pull out a few kibbles. He stops howling and takes them from my hand. The way he looks at me. It’s like I’m his savior.
I feed him a handful, one by one.
“We should hold off feeding him anymore for a few more hours,” Bev says. “We don’t want Refeeding Syndrome.”
I don’t even want to know what Refeeding Syndrome is, but it sounds bad. “Alright,” I say. I climb into the front seat, and we haven’t even begun to reverse before Cody starts howling again .
We play calming doggy music; we sing to him; we talk to him; we do little theatrical plays with his moose and alligator plush toys. I try fixing the blanket over his crate in different variations—covering it more, covering it less.
“Have you noticed he gets quiet when you’re close?” Bev asks, watching us.
“Nope.”
“Nate,” she begins.
But I know what she’s going to ask. “Absolutely not,” I say firmly.
And yet here I am, Bev driving and me with a frail, mangy dog in my lap. I can practically see the fleas jumping around on his skin, and now jumping all in my car. I grab a blanket from the back, which I wrap him up in. I expect him not to like it, but he sighs and then closes his eyes.
I wouldn’t say I’m an emotional guy. As a rock star, I’m proud to say I’ve never been called emo. But even I, the stoic musician, feel something holding this little bundle of mange on my lap. His bones are as delicate as porcelain, and there’s a fragileness to him that’s enough to break your heart.
If I had one.
Still, when I catch Bev side-glancing at us, I spy a glimmer of that pre-ice-cream-drunkenness.
And I like that. I like that very much.