Chapter Six

The night is filled with raging continual nightmares. I’ve tossed and turned, trapped inside my rampant imagination. I’m always just a moment’s reach from pulling Chelsea’s body out of the wreckage, her screams echoing through the night.

The fire blazing in front of my eyes is wild, out of control, and incinerating everything in its path.

I’m paralyzed with terror.

Chelsea!

I scream, but my voice can’t be heard. My cries are silent pleas, and with force, I try, but it’s as if my vocal cords don’t exist.

A loud noise awakens me, my body is drenched in a cold sweat as I sit up, unable to breathe from the horror of the nightmare returning.

Burying my face into my hands, I try to erase the memories, bringing myself back to reality. With the sheets twisted around my limbs, I untangle myself willing the freedom to move around. My heart continues to beat erratically, and with exhaustion playing into the mix of emotions, I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.

Everything about me is overly complicated. The voices need to stop—the ones continually taunting me. I battle with my good angel. We have a love-hate relationship but mostly hate. It constantly whispers in my ear telling me to fucking fix my life with reminders that once upon a time I had the world at my feet.

That was until the world decided to crush me.

I must try again to get back on track. I’m not stupid, my intelligence gives me opportunities others would kill for, and then to some. I apparently have the ‘entire package,’ the perfect mating partner, at least, on the outside. On the inside, I’m a train wreck on fucking crack.

I’m not going to take Lex’s warning lightly. If Charlie were mine, I’d do the exact same thing. Maybe that’s why I battle with this decision so much. Yeah, I know he wants the best for her, but who fucking said he’s best? Then again, am I? What can I possibly offer her now?

It’s too much thought for four in the morning, and the only clear decision I can make is that I need to get through the next eight weeks without seeing Charlie and definitely no coke.

***

I start out on a roll with a fresh attitude, the writing flowing perfectly. Every night I sit in my apartment and pour my words onto the screen. It’s a different type of high—a positive high. I even position my Harvard pictures near my desk, reminding me of how hard I have worked to get to this point in my life.

Life’s coming together.

I can win this battle.

I was doing well until all hell broke loose in my head. Tristan is annoying the fuck out of me, and I need my space. Okay, to be fair, he isn’t around as much. Eric’s taking this tour guide thing to a whole new level. I’ve even seen a physical change in the kid. I had to bring it up fearing he was taking steroids.

“Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but since when did you get so big?”

“If you weren’t my uncle, I’d be extremely paranoid right now.” He continues to rapidly press the buttons on his control while whatever war game he’s currently playing is occupying his attention.

And that’s another thing—the fucking PlayStation.

I only have one television in my apartment, and forgive me for wanting to watch the news to catch up on what’s happening in the world. I’m this close to throwing it out the window and claiming the apartment was burglarized.

“Just want to make sure you’re not mixing with the wrong crowd.” Who the fuck am I to talk about wrong crowds?

“I’ve been hanging out with some bangin’ babes. If you mean wrong as in double-D hunnies, well…”

I raise my brow. “Eric hooked you up with double-D hunnies?

He pauses his game and turns to face me. “I don’t always hang out with Eric. I have a life outside of him. Besides, he prefers men.”

“Yes, he does. Okay, just making sure you aren’t stocking up on the ‘roids. Okay, kid?”

He presses play on the control. “I’m not a kid. In fact, I got a date with double-D hunny, Claudia, tonight, and considering it’s at her place, I’m pretty certain you won’t be cooking me breakfast.”

“When have I ever cooked you breakfast?”

It’s laughable. The kid eats Captain Crunch every morning.

“It’s an expression. You know because I’ll be busy motorboating all night—”

There’s a knock on the door, interrupting Tristan’s motor-boating comment. Staring into the peephole, I see Eric’s perfectly styled hair looking right back at me. Oh, dear God, seriously, here comes a tidal wave of drama.

I open the door, and Eric walks right in and stands beside me. He’s dressed in gym gear—the tights hugging his thin frame and other parts prompting me to look away.

“Make yourself at home, Eric,” I comment sarcastically.

“Hey, Batman. Is Robin, ready to hit the gym?” He notices Tristan playing on the sofa. With a look of disgust, he turns off the television.

“Eric, what the fuck?” An annoyed Tristan glares at Eric.

“Uh, hello, Flubber! Gym time. I messaged you!”

Flubber! Tristan is scrawny. The irony and reference to the movie make me laugh out loud.

“No, you didn’t,” Tristan argues back.

Eric searches the coffee table until he locates Tristan’s cell. “Here, let me prove it.” He scrolls through with a confused look on his face. “Who’s Claudia?”

Tristan snatches the phone but doesn’t speak so I interject, “Double-D hunny who Tristan plans to motorboat tonight.”

“I didn’t say that!”

Eric is quiet, which is very out of character. “A date, huh? So, tell me, what do you plan to wear?”

Tristan shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Maybe that blue shirt and my jeans.”

“And shoes?” Uh-oh, Tim Gunn has entered the building.

“My chucks… I think.”

“Tristan, no girl wants her beaver pounded by a guy wearing chucks. Rule number one,” Eric points out.

“I do plan on removing my chucks before I bang anyone,” Tristan shouts, heading toward the kitchen.

“I’ll argue that… I have chucks. I pound beavers,” I correct him.

Eric plasters on a fake smile. “But you, my dear, are Batman. You can wear a pink tutu, and women will still want the full buffet breakfast.”

Tristan walks back into the room with a bottle of water. “Buffet breakfast? As in eggs, bacon—”

Eric cuts Tristan off. “No, sweet pea, as in they want an Aussie kiss. The same as a French one but down under.”

“Eric…” I burst out laughing at his pathetic analogy.

“Oh, wait! I’ve got a good joke I heard the other day.” Eric straightens his face to tell the joke, Tristan cringing already as I suspect Eric tells him crude jokes all the time.

“How is a pussy like a grapefruit?” He waits for our response.

“How?” I indulge him.

“The best ones squirt when you eat them.” He slaps his hand on his thigh and lets out a huge roar of laughter which I can’t help but join in with.

“I don’t get it.” Tristan scratches his head.

“Go take a shower,” I tell him. “Perhaps Eric can give you a lesson on it another time.”

“Unfortunately, I’m more educated in that department than I should be. Rocky has an unhealthy obsession with them and isn’t afraid to send me links. Once I watched a squirting contest. I swear it was like the squirting Olympics!”

I’ve seen the exact video, but now isn’t the time to bring that up. “Give Tristan a break. It’s not that easy to get laid. I think he’s just trying to find his feet.”

“How is it not easy? I’ve seen women swarm around you. In fact, it used to drive Charlie insane. Although she’d never say so since she’s as stubborn as a mule.” He continues to ramble on, but I’m taken back and distracted by his comment about Charlie.

Her name. Her jealousy. No, don’t succumb.

There’s silence in the room. Fuck, think of something, anything!

Eric places his hand over his mouth like a five-year-old caught saying a swear word. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up Charlie. I realize it might be a sore spot.”

Sore spot? More like an open wound with a bullet still sitting in it. “It’s fine. How is she doing, anyway?”

“I, um… do you really want to know?”

“It’s fine, Eric. She’s moved on… I get it.”

“But have you?”

I turn to look at him, and I know he’s trying to read me. I don’t answer. I can’t muster the courage to lie right now, so I don’t say anything at all.

Eric breaks the silence. “She’s doing well considering…”

“Considering what?”

What the fuck is wrong with her?

“Nothing alarming, considering she’s up the duff again. Her cravings are making me gag. Last night it was bread dipped in ice cream.” He does that fake dry heaving for a moment.

“Oh, well, yeah, that has to suck, right? My sister, Josie, was the same and look what she gave birth to.”

There’s more silence, and I’m gathering the feeling there is more to this than Eric cares to share.

“Am I missing something here, Eric?” I question.

His eyebrows perk up. “What are you talking about?”

“Charlie?”

Pursing his lips, he shakes his head. “No… that’s it.”

I decide to drop the conversation, not wanting him to conjure up thoughts in his head regarding my feelings toward her.

“So, what do you and Tristan do? I don’t get to speak to him much despite him living here.”

I’m on parental duty. Odd, I know. It isn’t that I don’t trust Eric, I just know there are some bad crowds in LA, and I don’t want Tristan near them. My sister will crucify me.

“Been showing him all the hot spots in LA. Taking him to the gym… I don’t know, just stuff us young ones do.”

I ask the question directly. “Look, is he using anything to bulk up?”

Eric laughs. “Tristan? O.M.G., no, he just enjoys the weights. So do I… well, not to do them, but there’s this trainer, Mitchell, and wow! You should see his pecs. First class. I could eat a five-course meal off them.”

“Too much info, Eric.”

Tristan walks out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. He’s dripping wet. I notice that he has formed a six-pack. Shit, the kid is becoming a man. It isn’t that which catches my attention, but the fact that Eric’s mouth is gaping.

Oh shit.

This is heartbreak waiting to happen. I don’t have the heart to remind Eric that Tristan is straight, but I’m fairly certain Tristan is a big enough boy to tell him on his own.

Eric straightens up and walks over to Tristan. “Okay, show me this damn shirt.”

I decide to leave them alone as I need to clear my head. Grabbing my keys, I head out of the apartment with Eric’s voice on high volume. “This shirt belongs in the clearance rack at Wal-Mart! If you want a crack at this bird, you need to show off your body.”

I can hear the muffled voices and decide to leave the divas to their own. I have more important things to worry about. And Eric’s namedrop has become one of them.

I haven’t seen her in two weeks, the urge still fighting for top position. All I have to do is make it through another night, one step at a time.

And ignore the fact that her husband is in Manhattan, according to the media.

She’s all alone.

A temptation too hard to stay away from.