In the Absence of You (4 page)

“Sorry,” I say when I do it anyway. I need to get a head start on my apologies. Aishe isn’t mine, and I’m not for her. This is the stupidest thing I’ve done since losing Zoe. I can’t say I wish I’d chosen a groupie instead, because that would be a lie. Aishe is exactly whom I wanted.

She arches off the bed, colliding with my thrusts, rolling with me, smooth and instinctive. She’s delicious and flowing with my flow. When I speed up, she bridges her body below me, meeting my insistence as I dig into her with all my force. There’s deep-set fire in her eyes, and suddenly her breath shudders in climax.

I want to kick myself once it’s over. It was spectacular, but ah. She’s not just a groupie, neither is she Zoe, my love, my love.

Talk about letting my schlong take over at the expense of everything else. It’s simple: if Aishe bears no grudge, then Shandor sure as hell will bear it for her.

I shake my head at myself in the bathroom mirror as I clean up and toss the condom away. Any girl but her.

I’m not heartless enough to throw Aishe out of my room. She smells like flowers and lotion, a mouthwatering mix. I suppress my sigh as I cover us both with the comforter and accept her thin, naked body over me.

Yeah. I’m not heartless.

We fall asleep, her contented sigh the last thing I hear.

I wake up earlier than usual in the morning. My limbs protest. Despite her bird-like build, Aishe is heavy over me. One of her legs has slid between my thighs, and my dick is engorging with the contact and the early hour.

I untangle us carefully and head for the bathroom. According to my phone, it’s eight in the morning. I’m often the black sheep on Troll’s wake-up list, but today I’ll be beating most of the guys to breakfast. That should make Troll’s day.

The shower’s soothing, washing away the feeling of guilt at taking advantage of Aishe. For weeks now, she’s been following me with soft eyes whenever we’re in the same room. Does she realize how obvious she is?

Either way, she’s seen me with the groupies. I bet she understands that last night was just pent-up energy being released after an awesome concert.

AISHE

I
n the months I’ve been with Clown Irruption,
I haven’t seen Emil be with the same woman twice. Clearly, he isn’t on a mission to find a girlfriend. After we slept together, he started avoiding me. I took the hint, and I’ve been keeping a low profile since.

That night, I went with Emil because I saw him as my potential option number three. What if a relationship with someone as mild as Emil could stop me from becoming my aunt, our neighbor, my grandfather on my father’s side?

But I’m new to this. All I know is fleeing, so to take it easy makes sense. A slow approach will leave me with time to ease into things and see if he’s right for me. If I can melt his ice gradually, enough to cool my scorching heritage, then he is.

I think a lot about my family. They all moved so quickly. Jumped into love heart first and without thinking, and then the plague raged in, stopping them, rattling them, until their pain brought them past the point of madness.

The first step is always flesh. Flesh I’ve done, and sex with Emil was extraordinary. He was needy, his eyes all over my body, shaming me and making me wet at the same time. Then he entered me and made me combust. His remorse only came later.

At first, he apologized with words, but later it was in his touch, in the soothing way he embraced me afterward. It was in how he rose before I opened my eyes even though his morning hardness told me he’d rather stay with me.

Yes, so I keep a low profile. I’m always close. If there’s a need for a soda, a beer, a glass, I’m the one handing it to him. I don’t lure him away from his random groupies. I’ve got others’ experience to lean on, and the more you smother someone, the harder it is to win your prize.

I’m biding my time.

It’s been five days. Emil didn’t pick a girl after tonight’s show, probably due to our overnight drive to another state. At the moment, my burst of easy joy is drunk, and he’s fighting with Bo.

The bus has been packed for a while. Everyone has left the venue except Troll, who’s in the director’s office settling the show and collecting our money. Clown Irruption played a new song tonight with some incredibly sad lyrics courtesy of Emil, and I think it’s why he downed half a bottle of Jameson and is now ranting at Bo in the dressing room.

“You’ll
never
understand!” he snivels, mucus and saliva garbling his voice.

“Emil,
I
, of everyone, understand, but I’m telling you it’s time to give up.”

I jump when Emil shouts, “Did
you
give up? Huh?”

“No, but Nadia’s withdrawal didn’t make any sense. I knew something was up with her situation.”

“And Zoe’s
does
make sense?” Emil’s question rises at first, then it cracks on the last word like he knows the answer. Bo doesn’t reply.

Thirty minutes ago, the bus and the loading dock behind the arena was a flurry of movement and sound. People shuffled back and forth, shouting commands and hauling gear out of the venue. Now, Emil’s drunken sobs are all that interrupt the silence backstage.

I peek through the crack in the door. Watch as Bo takes his friend in his arms and cups his head against his shoulder. He mutters soothing words in a language I don’t understand. They don’t stop Emil’s shoulders from shaking, and I want to help, so bad.

I’ve laid low for days, but tonight I wonder if he needs me. So I show myself in the doorway, finding Emil still in Bo’s arms. He doesn’t see me, but Bo’s frosty greys zoom in on me at once. I don’t say anything. I want Bo to judge if I can be of help.

“Aishe?” Shandor’s voice echoes down the main hallway. I leap into the dressing room and lean into the corner behind the door. My cousin suspected that I hadn’t used my room the night I snuck off with Emil, and since then he’s been more in my business than ever.

“Aishe, are you here?” Shandor is almost at our door. I hold my breath in my sad excuse for a hiding place.

“We’re about to leave,” Bo says loud enough for my cousin to hear. Through the crack, I hear Shandor breathe, and my heart skips. I bite my lip, eyes on Bo to see if he’ll give me away.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt. All good?” Shandor sounds concerned from behind the wooden panel.

“Yeah, s’all good. Jameson took a toll on him tonight,” Bo says, voice neutral. Emil frees himself from his friend and turns, showing Shandor his back. “Aishe is probably on the bus already,” Bo finishes.

“I didn’t see her there, but…” Shandor chuckles apologetically, because it’s not Bo’s problem that he’s searching for me. “She knows when we’re leaving. Half hour, right?”

“Yeah. Half hour,” Bo says.

“She’ll be there. No worries,” Shandor murmurs, assuring himself more than anyone else. “Aishe would never delay departure for the band,” he tells Bo, who crosses his arms, waiting for him to leave. Emil rummages through the deli trays, head bobbing with inebriation. I have the urge to embrace him and comfort him with low hushes
against his ear.

“No worries, Shandor. We know that.”

“Good. Yeah, because—”

Emil spins and sets his eyes on Shandor. “Don’t you
get
it? Just go!”

His outburst is what my cousin needed to leave us alone. Bo doesn’t berate his friend. Instead his gaze locks on me.

Emil sinks down on his haunches in front of the deli table, fingers latched around its corners like it’s a life raft. He’s sobbing.

Emil, the happiest, sunniest person—if an incarnation of joy were a possibility, Emil would be it, and if I hadn’t seen this firsthand, I could never imagine him sobbing.

Zoe. She’s a girl I’ve never met. Whatever happened was before I came on tour, so it’s at least a few months since their relationship ended. I haven’t probed Shandor for information. I don’t want him to catch on to my interest in Emil more than he already has.

All I know is she must be a horrible person. Or did he do something so awful it merited a complete disappearance from his life?

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a grown man actually cry before. But Emil will heal. He’s just a regular little white boy, and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be over his regular little white girl. I don’t worry about that. What I do worry about is how he feels right now. I hate that he’s in pain, and I, above some groupie he doesn’t know, could probably provide more oblivion than his half-bottle of whiskey has delivered.

“It’s Nadia’s last night with us on tour, Emil,” Bo murmurs.

“Go,” Emil whispers. “I’ll be there in a few.”

Bo doesn’t reply. Instead, he slaps a hand on Emil’s shoulder and walks toward me. “Are you up for it?” He jerks his head in Emil’s direction.

“Yeah,” I answer, understanding what he wants of me. We’re not being secretive about our conversation, but Emil doesn’t react. It must be the alcohol.

“I’ll make sure he gets on the bus,” I say. Because maybe I can heal his harmless, little heart and save my own in the process.

It wasn’t as
hard as I thought to convince Irene, the light designer, to swap bunks with me. I blamed the need for a tallying of our merchandise before bedtime. Since the band keeps the tees on their bus, she just shrugged and shifted over.

Shandor was pissed. He hated watching me move off the crew bus, but Troll backed me up so he couldn’t openly object. “Good call, Aishe. You’re right. The business manager would ride my ass if we ran out of the broken heart ones. If the T-shirt provider gets the numbers tonight, they can start on them first thing tomorrow and we’ll rush-order to Seattle.”

Emil is propped up in a captain’s chair in the front lounge. Pain radiates off him in an almost palpable way. He’s deadly white, his eyes are closed, and he’s got a hand covering his forehead.

Everyone else is settling in for the night, discussing details from the concert and what they’d like different for the next one. Troy has a beer in his hand, safari green irises halting on me before he heads to the back lounge.

Nadia stoops to brush a hand over Emil’s head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

He grunts, not answering. She rakes a few strands of hair from his face. He looks dirty now that the sweat has dried on him. I wring one of my washcloths in the kitchen sink and rub in some pine-scented body wash I find on the windowsill.

“Does he have a clean shirt somewhere?” I ask. Nadia nods and walks to the bunk area. She rummages in a big duffel bag on Emil’s bed and brings back a red cotton shirt.

“Here you go. It smells laundered.”

“I’ll clean him up and get him to bed,” I tell her.

By the time I’ve steadied Emil to his bunk, Elias is already snoring behind his curtain. The others are playing games or hanging in front of the TV. I guess the back lounge will convert into Nadia and Bo’s bedroom once Troll is ready to give up his office nook.

For now, I’ve perched myself on the edge of Emil’s bunk, watching the wrinkle deepen between his eyebrows. It doesn’t suit him. It doesn’t
look
like him. A small puff of air makes it over his lips. He seems about to fall asleep, but then his eyes slide open and he acknowledges me in a way he hasn’t all night.

“Aishe.”

“Emil. You’ll be okay.” I run the back of my hand over golden stubble but stop when a tired hand grasps mine.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He slurs the words out, but I have no problem discerning them. “Shandor’s right in watching over you. You’re too good for my bullshit. I’m sorry I fucked you the other night.”

He hums drunkenly when I loosen his grip to stroke his cheek. “Don’t worry about me,” I whisper. “I’m a big girl. I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.” That makes him chuckle without sound. Sloshed out of his mind and ghostly pale, he still manages to make my heart palpitate.

I’m less guarded around Emil now that he’s intoxicated—he won’t register my affection in the same way. I only want his best; he was sad, and I can make him happier than he was.

Emil threw me a curveball tonight with these new layers to his personality. I send a quick warning to my heart. Romani women never shy away from deep, complicated emotions, but it doesn’t mean we survive them.

Could this man be the beginning of the end for me? If I fall into love fire with Emil and he remains forever attached to the girlfriend he lost, does that not mean the plague has claimed me? Does it not turn me into Lyuba, my great-aunt on my mother’s side? Oh Lord, her heartache…

“I need the bathroom,” Emil manages. “Pee-pee.” His bunk is at the top, and he crawls past me and thumps ungracefully to the floor. The bus does a turn that’s not sharp, but it’s enough for Emil to take a hit from the metal doorway. He lets out a muffled
ouch
.

“Shh,” I say, linking my arms around his middle and guiding him forward. Troy sees me, stare questioning.

“Bathroom?”

“Yes,” I reply for Emil, who lets out a sigh, hand fumbling along the wall like we’re walking in the dark. Troy stands from his chair and comes over. Without a word, he grabs Emil under his arms and helps him into the airplane-sized bathroom.

“Give us a minute.” He spends a few seconds studying my expression, and it makes me wonder what he knows about Emil and me.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” I’m not needed, so I set up my own bunk with my colorful sheets and Scandinavian-style, one-person duvet, and then I tuck my suitcase in under my first-tier bed.

The venue didn’t provide showers, but I’m not the one who’s been working up a sweat. I’ve passed my sales numbers on to Troll, counted up the remaining shirts, and once Emil drifts off in his bunk, I’ll head to the bathroom and clean up.

I’ve got one more set of fresh of pajamas before I need a Laundromat. It’s my Valentine’s combo, white with red hearts and hot pants I’ve never worn around anyone. I guess the Clown Irruption boys will be the first to see me in them if anyone’s still awake when I sneak out.

My duvet is what makes home
home
. It’s how I can sleep soundly in different parts of the world three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. That and my single, mushy pillow. I tuck it under my head and pull my rustling down cover over me. The sound is comforting in ways nothing else is.