Clawing
The day after I had my ill fated appointment with the doctor, I dumped the bottle of tequila down the toilet.
It was probably one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. It took literally all the willpower I had to upturn that damn bottle over the bowl and dump it. The smell of it nearly sent me to my knees, and if I hadn’t flushed it as soon as the last drop fell, well, I was afraid of what shameful action I’d have done. I watched it swirl down the drain and I consoled myself automatically with the thought that many more bottles waited downstairs. I had to shake that thought off, and immediately the buzzing started in my ears. I put on my earphones and blasted them at top volume.
Chris called me the next morning (well…eleven or so, since that’s morning to Chris) and wanted me to come over, so even though I was withdrawing and felt horrible, I could not resist him. It was raining, so I drove over, and when I got there, Chris was in the kitchen, making toaster strudel. The second I entered the room and the smell hit my nose, I almost retched. Chris noticed me and smiled. The sight of him made my heart catch.
THIS was the reason I dumped out the bottle, I thought, making myself walk forward and give him a hug. Whichever way I felt, no matter how badly, he was worth it.
“How goes Nigels 11?” I asked, hopping up on the counter, strategically positioning myself as far away from the food as I could.
Chris’s eyes lit up as they always did when he talked about music, and he immediately put aside his plate. “Aw, babe, things are finally shaping up. I mean, a few more months and we’ll be putting the finishing touches on the album. I can’t wait, I really can’t.” He looked so excited that I could not help feeling happy myself. Chris’s good moods were always infectious.
“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about, by the way. I’m glad you brought it up.” Chris said thoughtfully, crossing his arms across his chest. Oh, shit. I tensed.
“I’m going to be in the studio a lot more now that things are getting down to the line. Sometimes all night, sometimes all day. I get sort of obsessed, to tell you the truth.” Chris admitted, and I immediately felt a cool wave of relief wash over me. That was it?
I waved him away. “Chris, I’m not going to get psycho on you because of it. You do what you do, babe. If you have to spend a week sleeping on the studio floor, you knock yourself out. Get that album out there. I am a big girl. I’m not going to bitch.”
Chris looked relieved too, and I chuckled at the expression on his face. “What, did you think I’d get all weird or something?”
He shrugged. “No, but sometimes girls are like that. We used to have to have this ironclad NO GIRLFRIENDS rule while we were recording. Johnny was, forgive the expression, anal when it came to recording and girls and stuff like that.”
I reached over and tousled his hair, which was already sticking up in every direction from his pillow. “Well, I’m not going to give you a hard time. I’m sure I can amuse myself somehow. Is Justin free?”
Chris threw a dishtowel at me, scowling a little, and I dodged it, giggling. He shook his head.
“Thanks for being so cool about it, babe.” He reached over and pressed his lips to my forehead and I closed my eyes at the contact. “I am a cool girlfriend, what can I say?” I joked, and he grinned and resumed eating his strudel-thingy. “Yes you are.”
“That looks absolutely disgusting.” I commented, watching him chow down.
“This stuff is the shit!” Chris exclaimed with his mouth full, and I made a face. “Eww, it looks like you’re menstruating from the mouth.”
He started choking and I had to slap him on the back, so it was a few minutes before he had composed himself enough to chase me around the living room, screeching, “That’s not something you talk about when a guy is eating!”
I let him tackle me onto the sofa , which was a big mistake because he started huffing his nasty strawberry breath all over my neck and face. I tried to fight him off, but Chris just pinned my arms above my head and started nibbling my neck, which makes me squirm and squeak like a crazy fifteen year old Asian girl.
“Gahh! Chris, you’re a prick!” I gasped, and Chris laughed and stopped torturing me.
“Yeah, but you love it.” He gave me a very loud and smacking kiss on the cheek and let me sit up.
“If you say so, Baio.” But I winked at him and he slung his arm around my shoulders.
“You have to work today?” He asked, and I shook my head.
“Not till tomorrow. Rich people do not like the rain, sha.”
“I resent that comment. I happen to enjoy the rain.” Chris said dryly, and I patted him on the head. “Yeah, and if you keep going outside naked to run in it the paparazzi will get your ass one day. No pun intended.”
“But I love being naked!” Chris faked a pout and I snickered. “Present company agrees, but do you really want your naughty bits in Star magazine?”
Chris considered this for a minute and his face lit up.
“Will it get me strippers?”
I gave him a scathing look and he laughed, holding his hands up in defense. “Strippers like me. They find me cute.”
“Strippers will also find themselves dead.” I remarked, closing my eyes and leaning my head into the crook of his arm. I felt nauseous and lightheaded and prayed Chris would not suggest a round of strip Twister or some insanely physical activity, as he was apt to do on a rainy day.
“You alright? You feel clammy.” Chris peered anxiously down at me, squeezing my arm.
I waved away his concern. “Don’t you start, Baio.”
“Don’t you start, woman. You look like you haven’t slept.” He tipped my face up towards him and studied me. The way he was looking at me made my skin crawl-Chris could be way too perceptive at times. He knew when I was angry or when
I was sad or frustrated, and I was excellent at fooling everyone around me. I didn’t know whether to love or hate this particular ability of his, but I had long since adapted ‘playing cool’ as a deterrent. It hardly ever worked, but I wasn’t about to abandon the practice.
I snickered. “That’s because I have a boyfriend who does nothing but eat sugar and suck down Red Bull.”
Chris snorted. “Yeah, let’s just blame it all on the old guy.”
I shrugged. “You said old, sugar, not me.”
“Seriously, Nyx. How long has it been since you slept?” Chris wanted to know.
Since I fell in love with you, I wanted to say. Since I stay up all night sometimes thinking about you and how much better you’d be without me in your life. How you will never know the real me, how you’re falling in love with an act. Since my doctor told me I’ll die, and I want to tell you all the time, but I can’t. Since I’ve had to consider selling. Since my first snort, my first shot. Take your pick. Ages. Days. Years.
Instead, I just sighed. “I slept the other day. It’s just one of those blah days, you know?”
Chris nodded, but something in those dark muddy eyes told me he didn’t believe me, and I didn’t want to give him a chance to interrogate me further.
“Anyway, how do you want me to handle this paparazzi deal?” I asked, hoping to deter him. Chris sighed.
“I’m hoping that they get interested in something else, babe. I really do. I had no idea that they’d actually waste their time taking pictures of me, I haven’t had to worry about it in awhile. But if Nigels 11 gets big, well, I have to warn you-it gets crazy.”
Chris pulled his arm from around me and rested his elbows on his knees, not looking at me.
“So if it gets to be too much, I get if you want to cool it for awhile.”
My heart. My heart felt like Tyson sucker punched it into the ground.
“Do you want to cool it?” I was surprised at how casual my
voice sounded, considering it felt like I had rocks in my throat.
He shook his head, still not looking at me. “No chance. But they’ll come at you from all angles, Nyx. If Nigels 11 works out, they’ll be everywhere looking for you. We won’t be able to go to Lagers’ or go to dinner or to the movies. They’ll find out where you live and stay outside. Fans might come after you, though I’d hope they were old enough by now to not play that shit. It’s scary and it’s frustrating and it’s a lot to ask a person to go through.”
The image of paparazzi knocking on Alan’s door and encountering Christobel made my breath catch. The girl would sell all my secrets to the highest bidder, she had no scruples and would ruin me while my back was turned. They’d start focusing in on Alan, and since he was leaving late every night when everyone was ‘asleep’ to go and see Lance, well, that would be disaster. They might go to Louisiana, talk to my parents, talk to people who knew the real me. And when everyone figured that out, well, Chris might be ruined. He had worked too hard for this for it to be destroyed by me. Stupid me. Stupid fucking me.
“Do you want me to leave, Chris?” I asked quietly, hoping he could not hear the tears in my voice.
Chris started and spun towards me. His eyes were wide and he looked shocked.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I swallowed. “I don’t want to ruin Nigels 11. You’ve slaved over this. You deserve it. I don’t want to get in the way. I don’t want the press to converge on us and make things hard on you. I’d rather leave then see you go through that.”
Chris started shaking his head even before I had finished my sentence, and he reached over and grabbed my hands.
“Nyx, I never thought what would happen if I had a girlfriend while Nigels 11 was taking off. I didn’t think
I’d ever have one, to be honest. I don’t know what will happen and I don’t know how you or I will handle it, but I know that I don’t want you to go. I can’t stop you, and I can’t blame you if you do, but I don’t want us to stop seeing each other.”
I thought I’d go catatonic with relief, but I didn’t allow
myself to show it. I just looked evenly back at him.
“Are you sure?”
Chris exhaled loudly. “Jesus Christ, I am more sure of that then anything. If people love Nigels, if they hate it, if they call me a has-been or if they sell out the records, I can deal with either one, but I don’t think I could deal without you being there to tell me that everyone can go fuck themselves. I don’t think I could take it if you weren’t around to tell me that you have my back and that I still kick ass, for being an old guy.”
I cracked a smile, even though I wanted to bawl all over his leather sofa. “You do. You’re the coolest old fucker I know.”
Chris smiled and squeezed my hands. “See, there? I can’t do without that.”
“You have tons of friends that tell you that all the time, Chris.” I said gently, and he smirked.
“True, but they won’t wear a sexy Batgirl costume when I’m depressed and I think I suck.”
I flushed bright red. “It was on sale. I thought you’d laugh.”
Chris reached over and tugged gently on my hair. “It was a nice thought, but laughing was definitely not the first
option that crossed my mind.”
I scoffed, though I wanted to dissolve into the couch.
“Yeah, I know, I still have rug burn. Thanks.”
Chris raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.”
I felt my face color again. Damn him. “Yeah, well.” I muttered, looking anywhere but at him.
Chris let go of my hand and leaned back against the sofa, exhaling deeply. “Man, was I afraid of having this conversation with you.”
I turned around and raised my eyebrow at him. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I can’t exactly expect you to put up with all the shit that they pull.”
I leaned back into his arm and looked up at him, taking a chance, lacing our fingers together.
“If you can deal with it, I can.” I said softly, but a little voice in the back of my mind leered at me. Can you, it whispered, when he finds out? When they come sniffing around wanting the story, when they camp outside Alan’s house, when you put everyone’s lives at stake? Can you deal with that kind of chance? Are you that selfish?
Chris grinned down at me, making my heart stutter. “I can deal with it. Besides,” he laughed, “what can they tell the world about you that I don’t already know?”
Yes, conscience. I am that selfish.
*****************************
The first alcoholic beverage I ever drank was a Zima. I was 12.
A fucking Zima got me into this, can you believe the fucking irony!? Cough medicine will fuck you up more then a Zima will. They don’t even make those anymore.
But at that point anything with liquor fucked me up. A Zima had the same affect on me back then as three shots of tequila will now. You might think I was way too young to be drinking, but it was the normal drinking age of where I lived, and so I drank one. Big deal.
A Zima turned into Skyy Blues, which turned into Pucker. Pucker got too weak, so I tried vodka. The first time I ever tried vodka, I didn’t do one shot-I did seventeen, in a row. And we were teenagers, so we weren’t drinking Grey Goose-it was $4 Skol in a plastic jug. I will remember the taste of that cheap nasty shit till the day I die.
The night I did the shots, I was at a party at my friend Angie’s. I was challenging my best friend Tee to a drinking contest. They all watched me and cheered me on and pounded me on the back as I finished, 17-10. That night, I passed out on the floor and puked everywhere. I woke up without a hangover, and I did it all over again.
Vodka turns into rum, and later, tequila, which is my poison. Two shots is too weak, give me four. Four is for pussies, give me seven. And seven only made me puke once before I moved onto thirteen in a row. From a Zima, my addictive personality had been born. I never had hangovers, which allowed me to drink with abandon without having to dread the next morning. When I grew older and attended parties with my boyfriend at the time, I’d get so drunk within an hour of the party starting that I’d pass out all night, giving me the reputation of a lightweight. I didn’t give a fuck. It felt good to be drunk.
At first.
I started realizing before long that I wasn’t drinking because it was fun anymore. The days of fun were over and I was starting to get to the point of sitting in front of a toilet and wishing that I’d be sober. I didn’t know why I drank the way I did. Was I running? If so, from what? I had everything. I had nothing. And I could not stop.
I love the feeling of the world rocking, of everything feeling soft and warm. I love how it blurs out pain with one gulp. I even adore the harsh burn, pulling off the top, tasting the bouquet, as they say. I was a goner. I never had a chance. Christ, it’s so fucking ridiculous.
Christobel used to watch me down ouza. She would laugh as I danced and made fun of our family, all good natured of
course. After three shots of ouza I’d be fucking gone, and
I vaguely remember Christobel watching me with this odd look of admiration mixed with pity. Pity. Christobel pities me. When I realized that, I knew I was going too far, but I could not stop.
My friends were getting older, getting married, having children. They weren’t interested in drinking. They weren’t laughing at my antics anymore. The parties lessened, then died off completely. I was on my own now. I drank all day, all night. Hangovers started coming. Didn’t matter. I still drank. Nightmares came. I drank to conquer them and when I didn’t conquer them, I drank more. And here I am, years later.
A Zima.
That’s all it takes to fuck up your life.
********************************
Captain Morgan Spiced Rum.
Liver disease.
They go hand in hand.
Friday night and I’m at Chris’s house. I have a bag upstairs and I am on my tenth shot of the night. We are in Chris’s fun room, the one with an actual bar. He has a collection of bobbleheads. They watch over us as we down the liquor, frozen smiles. Tons of them.
I look around me and I see parties of years past. I see fun, I see acceptance, I see admiration. Chris’s friends like me. They really like me. They smile at me and hug me and tell me how awesome I am and how hardcore I am. How pretty I am. Chris wraps his arms around me. Yes, he says, and she’s all mine, motherfuckers. All mine. How lovely are those words? Almost as lovely as ‘here’s another shot, Nyx.’
Chris is amazing. Dark hair. Mischievous grin. He smells like expensive cologne and he’s wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and hat. He has those blinding white teeth, the short stature. The voice. Christ, I have read so many scathing comments about his voice sounding too young, but I love it. It’s innocence. It’s awesome. It’s the voice in my ear when I go to sleep, the one that makes my heart jump when I hear it over the phone. I love him. I love him. I wish I could tell him. I love him so fucking much.
Not really.
If I love him, why am I taking his reputation and breaking it over my knee? Why am I putting him in this position? All he loves is a lie. All this guy deserves is a good woman who won’t lie to him, who won’t pretend to be all together when she’s falling apart. But I can’t stop. He’s like my addictions-they grab ahold of me and they don’t let go. They make a fool out of me. I can’t stop.
I love the way how he goes from joking, funny, party guy Chris to loving, tender, affectionate Chris. It’s like he flips a switch. I make him that way. It amazes me.
Chris is drinking a Heineken. He’s taken four shots and he’s pretty silly. He doesn’t leave my side. His hand is warm on my waist, he keeps me close as he talks to his friends. There are girls there who eye him, but he treats them like he treats the guys. They look at me with disdain, but I do not care.
I hold a shot of Captain Morgan rum in my hand. I’m scrambled and warm and beautiful. Liver disease does not matter. Christobel does not matter. All that matters is Chris’s lips on my cheek, his fingers on my waist, the look in his eyes when they fall on me. The teasing of his friends. This lovely warm feeling cannot possibly kill me. Life is beautiful this way.
Chris watches me take a shot and he follows suit, but afterwards he takes the shotglass out of my hand.
“No more, babe.” He whispers in my ear, and I nod. Sometimes I have the feeling he sees more then I want him to. He always knows right when I’ve had too much. Little does he know that one shot is way too many.
This is a routine we have gone through many times. Chris loves hosting parties. He loves people around. He has a big house and people to fill it, he has a pool and a studio and a huge bar. People like him because he’s a funny, easygoing guy. Fans love him because he’s always kind to them. I love him because he leaves me no choice. Loving Chris Kirkpatrick is going to kill me, but hell, what a way to go.
I’m going to die, I realize, as Chris steers me past the crowd in the living room. I’m going to die and Chris won’t even know why until I’m in my urn. He doesn’t know me, all he loves is an illusion. The thought makes me cold. The happiness leaves, and I want a shot, I want a bottle, I want a line. Chris doesn’t know that I’m going to die. I will. Didn’t Marina or what’s her face predict it? Don’t I
know it, in my heart of hearts?
We go up the white stairs. I don’t realize that we’re leaving the party. I don’t see the knowing looks that his friends exchange, their little smiles. I just go wherever Chris tells me to-I am putty in his hands.
Christ almighty, we’re in his bedroom now, and his hands are everywhere. My back, my stomach, my face. I love it when they’re on my face. He tastes like beer and lemon, but I don’t care, I like it. He’s clutching at me, he’s desperate.
“Company, Chris. We have company.” I breathe, but he just ignores me. His mouth is on mine and I love it, I need him. I’m usually the docile one when it comes to sex, if you can believe it, but I need him. I need him to make me forget how fucked up I am, that I am still worth all this love. His tongue is rubbing against mine and I just grab at his shirt, letting him do whatever he wants. This is amazing. I feel like I could seep through the floorboards, that’s how liquid he makes me feel. Fuck Justin. People underestimate Christopher Kirkpatrick. He’s got more passion in his little finger then Justin does in his entire fucking body.
His lips are at the neck of my shirt and we’re on the bed and I can hear him breathing, hard. I hear him say my name as I reach down and yank at his jeans. My assertiveness stuns me, but I’m too far gone. I feel wild, I feel scrambled, I feel every touch, every kiss, every word-amplified.
My shirt is off and my bra follows it and Chris’s mouth is following the curve of my breast and my fingers are tangled in his dark hair. It’s cold and it’s making me shiver and fuck this liquor isn’t the cause anymore, this is him. This is me and this is Chris and it is fucking real.
I hear voices yelling downstairs and the sound of far away rock music. Maybe Buckcherry. Maybe Avenged. Who knows, who cares? The door is locked. We are alone. Pants are off, breathing loud in my ear. Chris says my name, and it sounds like he’s saying it from another room. I close my eyes and I yank him closer and I rake my nails against his back. He arches and curses, and I feel him inside me.
This feeling is everything.
I am so drunk that I can’t focus on him. All I see is a dark blur and all I feel is rubbing and kissing and licking. My body is like a live wire. And it’s not fucking anymore, I realize. We’re not fucking, Chris and I. We may be drunk and we’ll probably wake up and have only a vague recollection of tonight, but it doesn’t matter. When Chris and I are like this, I am someone else. Someone else who I can actually like and respect. He makes me better.
“Fucking shit, Nyx.” Chris groans in my ear, and I wrap my legs around him in answer and fuse my mouth to his. Fingers in my hair. Tongue against mine. Friction. A loud bang from downstairs. Chris pulls my head back and for a second I can see his eyes in the dark. They’re shining and they’re staring down at me and something in my brain is telling me to run. Get the fuck out. It’s happening.
I hear splashing-the guests are in the pool. The outside lights come on and shine through the balcony doors. I can see Chris fully now. Goddammit. His body on top of mine is slowing down and I can see his lips moving, but I cannot hear the words.
Nothing matters, and if this is death, bring it on.
**********************************
It’s 8am, and I have a hangover.
I sit up and the light is streaming in and I’m naked.
Chris lays beside me, sprawled out, snoring softly. My head aches and there’s stubble burn on my neck and on my breasts and my stomach. A bird chirps. My stomach aches. Reality sucks.
I slide slowly out of bed, wincing the whole way. I fight the urge to puke. I fight the cicadas, the doctor’s remainder in my ear. Closer every day. Nobody knows, it’s my cross to bear.
I slowly pull on my panties and Chris’s Ed Hardy t-shirt. My mouth feels dry and disgusting. My hair is a mess. My mind is made up.
I step out of the room, phone in hand. Downstairs, Chris’s friends are passed out everywhere. The house is a mess. Chris will have to pay the maid over time.
I quietly steal down the steps and carefully pick my way over the comatose bodies on the floor. I tiptoe to the back door and open it slowly, hoping I won’t wake anybody up.
Outside, the air is foggy and thick and the waterfall gurgles softly from the corner of the pool. A pool raft bobs gently in the water. I want to puke.
I close the door behind me and walk over to stand behind the waterfall. The cement is cool beneath my feet, and it feels good to breathe fresh air.
I sit down on the stone steps of the waterfall and dial the number. It rings. A voice picks up, groggy. I gather all my nerve. You only get one chance to save yourself.
“Is this Cole?”
“Yeah, who the fuck is this?”
I bite my lip and look up at the window that belongs to Chris’s bedroom.
“Someone who wants everything.”
Carpe diem, motherfuckers.
******************************
The world was on fire
No one could save me but you.
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you
No, I don't want to fall in love
[This love is only gonna break your heart]
No, I don't want to fall in love
[This love is only gonna break your heart]
With you
With you
Author's Note
I was wrecked to the fifth power when I wrote this chapter. I better stop channeling Nyx this way, or I'll end up in the Betty.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Life is a slippery slope. Any ledge could be faulty.
Chapter End Notes:
"Wicked Game" by Chris Isaac
Story Tags: drugssex darkc chris
