A week following her painful confession, Gia sat in her apartment, full of anticipation for the upcoming tour. She picked up her sticks and her drum pad and practiced the new track she’d been working on, in collaboration with Dante.
“Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, and boom, boom, boom,” she vocalized, in sync with her sticks, imagining her drum kit in front of her.
Her phone blipped. She picked it up and scanned Dante’s latest text.
What about a woman sober-companion? She comes highly recommended.
Gia scoffed, her thumbs typing her response. Negative, D. She would be the 10th “highly recommended” companion you’ve found for me. The meetings are working. Give it a rest.
He typed back, Big sigh. You’re impossible.
Yeah, but you love me, she typed, grinning.
Kennedy loves you, too. We both do.
Her smile widened. That conversation with Kennedy proved truly healing, marking a turned corner on the friendship between them all.
She leaned back against the blue microfiber sofa and thought about what Kennedy had said about Marco. His heartbreak, coupled with her own, only reinforced her commitment to stay away from the booze.
“Maybe I should become a sober companion,” she muttered. “I could be a kick ass rock chick sober companion.” She guffawed. “Right.”
Her thoughts drifted to the night in the cave.
Being with Marco had made her feel safe and cared for while she suffered the DTs. He’d been like a rock, his presence calming, reassuring, and present. And then—the passion... She fanned herself.
“And the guy knows what to do with the tools he’s been given,” she said, a wistful pang twisting her heart. She tapped out one of her favorite old school collaborations between Prince and Sheila E—Erotic City. “Maybe that will be the theme song to our one encounter, big guy,” she said. “Followed by a classic Gwen Stefani song, Don’t Speak.”
When her phone started ringing, she scoffed, thinking, Christ Almighty, D. She scanned the caller ID and read, Carol, calling.
“Nope,” she said, tossing the phone on the coffee table. She picked up her sticks and resumed practice.
A few minutes later, her door buzzer sounded. She pitched the sticks on the sofa and huffed out a sigh. “Really, Dante? You’re just going to send this sober candidate over even though I told you no?”
He insisted she at least meet with them.
She pressed the brass button and said, “Sorry, I’m not home.”
“Gia.”
Marco. Her name shot through her like a bullet. Her heart began tippity-tapping as if auditioning for a dance performance. She stood, frozen, unable to think of a witty response.
“Can I come up?”
“Uh, sure,” she said. Her fingers shook as the pressed the door release. Her head whipped right and left as she appraised her surroundings.
“What the fuck? What’s he doing here? What does he want? He already apologized,” she whispered. She finger-combed her newly bleached hair, feeling like a frigging teenager.
When the knock landed on the solid door, her mouth turned dry.
“Come on, G, you can do this.” She tightened up her tough girl persona and swaggered to open the door. When she saw him, standing at ease, she became speechless once more, all the sauce and vinegar draining from her attitude. He looked soft, humble, beautiful, and hot as holy hell as if he’d channeled his frustrations into serious gym-time.
“Marco,” she said simply. “What can I do for you?”
“Can I come in?” he said.
“Sure,” she said, stepping aside for him to enter. “It’s simple, but it’s home,” she said, sweeping her arm in a half-circle, indicating the living room.
“You could be standing anywhere, and you’d still look beautiful,” he said.
She blushed. She rarely, if ever, felt outgunned when with a man. As usual, Marco made her feel vulnerable and a little crazy.
He stood, towering over her, uncertainty radiating from him.
“I like your hair,” he said, in the same way, a clueless teenager who didn’t know what to say might remark.
“What? This?” She patted her bleached blond locks. “It’s in its blank slate place. I’m waiting for inspiration. I always go blond when I’m between moods.”
“Is that what you are? Between moods?” He continued to stand in the hall, stiff and statue-like.
“Brutus,” she said, taking his hand. The electric heat humming between their skin made her want to press him against the wall, jump into his arms, and do what consenting adults do—fuck their brains out. “Here’s where you say, ‘Thanks, Gia, don’t mind if I do.’ You don’t stand in the hall like you’re afraid I’ll bite and ask me what kind of mood I’m in. Instead, you take these few steps toward my sofa,” she said, dragging him along. “And you turn,” she said, dropping his hand, placing her palms on his hips and guiding him around. “And you...” She paused, mouth gaping, as his gaze met hers.
His chocolate eyes appeared hooded and dark. Lips parted, he stared at her like he might devour her.
For a few tempting seconds, she wanted to peel off his jeans, drop her head, and take him into her mouth. Catching herself, she snatched her hands away.
“And then you sit.” She stepped backward, out of the vortex of his potent gaze. She banged into the coffee table and had to catch herself.
“Right.” He perched on the couch and leaned on his legs, clasping his hands together. “I came to apologize again. I crossed boundaries. I took advantage of you. I exploited you, Gia and I’m...”
“Stop right there, Brutus,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “I was a more than consenting adult. I wanted it. I wanted you. By the time we got around to that kiss, I might have come on the spot, I was so hot for you.”
“You didn’t let on you were interested,” he said, his eyes wide with surprise.
“I was a little busy dealing with a pretty harsh breakdown,” she said, scoffing. “DTs and all that, ya know?” Unwilling to move closer to him and risk jumping his bones, she folded into a cross-legged position on the floor, next to the shiny chrome and glass coffee table. Her hands tapped a rhythm against her legs. “And then when we, you know...” Her hands stilled, her eyelids dropped to half-mast, and she slowly ran her tongue along her upper lip.
Marco grinned, seductively. “Yeah. It was pretty sweet.”
“Sweet,” Gia said. “It was fucking awesome is what it was. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
His eyebrows flew high on his forehead. His cheeks puffed with a mouthful of air, which he slowly released.
“Yeah. So.” He looked fidgety like he might run from the room.
“Why’d you really come over, Brutus? To see if you still have a chance?” she said, all her stuff and swagger at her command once more.
“Gia, I...” he said, spreading his hands.
“You do,” she said, swallowing any lingering anxiety. “But I can see the thought makes you uncomfortable. Let’s go grab a bite to eat. I haven’t eaten all day.” She got to her feet, noting his expression of concern. “I know, I know. A recovering addict needs to be mindful of proper nourishment. I’ve been too busy working on some beats. I’ll play them for you when we get back, okay?”
His face brightened, no doubt relieved for a new topic. “Yeah, way cool. I’d love to hear.”
Across the street at the deli-coffee shop with its bold checkerboard tiles and pink and black checkered walls, they fell into an easy camaraderie.
Munching on pastrami and rye, she said, “I’ve been going to meetings like the devil’s chasing me and the only place he can’t find me is surrounded by other recovering alcoholics.” She smiled, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin.
Marco swallowed the last of his sandwich, noisily slurped the remnants of his soda through his straw, and nodded.
“Good girl. I’m proud of you. I knew you could do it. I worried...” He looked skyward as if carefully choosing his words. “I know each person’s actions are his or her own responsibility. But I worried by crossing boundaries with you, you’d relapse.”
“Oh,” Gia said, dragging the word out. “Like I can’t make a good decision on my own. You and everyone else seems to have tremendous faith in me.” Her lips pressed tight.
“Come on,” he said, dropping some of his polite veneers. “You were in a vulnerable place. I took advantage...”
“Would you stop saying that? I swear, Brutus if you say that one more time I’m going to flatten you. I get it. We all signed a contract for our assigned roles. But people do things all the time, finding loopholes in the fine print. Ask my father.” The last sentence slipped out before she had a chance to stuff it back into its hiding place. She thought about all the meetings she’d attended over the past few weeks. You’re only as sick as your secrets. This phrase was waved before them like the word of God. I shared with Kennedy, I may as well share with Brutus. “You know how when I was at Gray House I never talked about my dad? I’d be asked about my home life, and I’d say something like, oh, it was a normal childhood?”
“Yeah,” Marco said, leaning back in his chair.
“It wasn’t. My dad seemed pissed that he even had children. But he didn’t take it out on my mom, God rest her soul, he took it out on me and my little sister. He beat the shit out of us. Time and again I threw myself in front of the belt to protect my sister. And he’s some master psychologist in California.” This part of the story slid out so easily this time, she decided not to press her luck and share about her sister’s death.
Marco looked at her with his usual compassionate concern. “That’s harsh, Gia. Now I understand why you never wanted to talk about it.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Her phone, which she had set on the table, began to ring. She glanced at the caller ID. Carol calling.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Marco said. “I don’t mind.”
“Nope,” Gia said tersely.
Marco cocked his head. “Could be important, judging from your expression.”
“It isn’t. Carol is my dad’s new wife. My mom died, no doubt of heartbreak. She did nothing to stop the beatings, but maybe somewhere in her shriveled little heart, she felt bad about it. So dear old dad married a San Francisco socialite. She’s probably calling to tell me about dad’s failing heart or colitis or some new bullshit.”
Marco’s eyebrows stitched together. “You won’t know unless you answer it.”
Gia picked up the phone and deliberately disconnected the call. “That’s my answer. Dad’s been sick for months, or so I’m told. Each time it’s the end. Last call. His final encore. And yet each time he lives. I fell for it once. I won’t fall for it again. I don’t do encores,” she said, her mouth forming a line so crisp she thought her lips might shatter. “Are you finished?” she asked, indicating his empty plate.
“Yes,” he said, resting his palms on the table.
She loved the strength he held in his hands.
“Then let’s go for a walk. I’ll show you all the sites in my neighborhood. And then I’ll play my beats for you. And then...” She waggled her eyebrows up and down.
He grinned and shook his head. “And then I’ll be heading home, able to hold my head high for making amends so successfully.”
Gia threw back her head and groaned. “Wrong answer, Brutus. Wrong answer.”
She wanted nothing more than to roll around between the sheets with him for a long, delicious time. But in truth, she didn’t know if she could or would even allow herself the pleasure of letting someone in…strike that…of letting Marco in. I don’t do encores, and I definitely don’t do relationships.