Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended.
Veracity
The smell of her perfume is cloying. Perhaps it's just that it reminds me of things I'd rather not think about, the fact that it took more than a day for it to fade away completely. She smiles nervously at me as we take our seats, and the tension between us is tangible to both of us, if not to the hordes held at bay behind the velvet rope. We don't even have a chance for conversation between us to get the uneasiness out of the air before they start pouring forward. And so we both pretend that there's nothing awkward between us.
The vibration of the cell against my hip startles me, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair. She spares me a look. My fingers are becoming black with the errant tips of markers. As surreptitiously as I can I slide the phone from the clip on my belt and open it to find a text message.
c u in the bar after
She looks at me again, eyebrow arched in question, curiosity evident as yet another adolescent boy shoves a picture in front of her. I turn away and pick out the response as quickly as I can, my thumbs feeling the size of baseball bats.
what?
I can't imagine what Chris is doing here in Massapequa. Last I heard he was up in Toronto, what would have brought him here? Yet another breathless fan enters my line of vision, yet another mark on my finger, and the phone vibrates again.
r u austin now?
That makes me chuckle and she casts a look askance in my direction. The handlers are giving us the sign that the line has been cut off, just a few more fans and then we're free. The phone vibrates again, but I ignore it. Chris knows how much I hate texting.
Melina and I bid each other a stilted good-bye. If it had been anyone else I'd have suggested a drink, or a late dinner, but she seems hell-bent on getting away from me. I let her take the limo, and as I hail a cab I press the bud into my ear and scroll through to find Chris's number.
"What happened, did your service drop out on you?"
"You know I have a bitch of a time with the keys on the phone," I say as I duck down into the back of the cab. "Where the fuck are you?"
"I told you to get a bigger phone," he says with a chuckle. "I'm in the bar at your hotel."
"I figured that much out Einstein," I say. "But what are you doing here? I thought you were hard at work rehearsing your play."
"A man's got to take a break sometimes," he says, his voice breaking up with interference.
"Look," I say, sitting forward as the cab pulls up into the entrance ramp to the hotel. "I've just spent 2 uncomfortable hours in public, let me get a bottle of wine sent up to my room."
"I thought you'd never ask," he says and the line goes dead.
"So," I say, "You never said what the fuck you're doing here?" I'm sprawled back against the headboard of the bed, watching him sip his wine delicately. He always preferred whiskey to wine, but when I play host he drinks what I give him. He raises his socked feet to rest on the foot of the bed.
"I came to see you if you must know," he says softly.
"You came all the way to New York to see me when I'll be home in Tampa tomorrow," I take a sip of the wine. It's not a good vintage, but it warms just the same.
He shrugs. "But I won't be in Tampa tomorrow. It's kind of ironic, you moving to Tampa, us thinking we'd be closer together, and me spending more time in Los Angeles than anywhere else."
"Cut to the chase Chris," I say with a slight leftover tinge of irritability that manages to rear its ugly head more often than not.
He looks at me for a moment, then sets his glass down on the table beside him. "I think you just answered your own question."
"Fuck," I say, and take a swallow of wine, I can feel the frown deepen. "I'm not in the mood for this cryptic bullshit."
"Dave," he says as he slides lower in his chair, "I came because I want to talk to you, get the straight shit from you without you hiding behind a rehab schedule, or four hungry mouths to feed, or a waiting flight to Europe."
I snort in disgust, but before I can say anything he goes on.
"I wanted to see you just like I used to see you. On the road, in some non-descript hotel room. A place where you let your defenses down and tell me the straight shit. You've burned yourself down to the wick again. I can hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes. You don't have your stop-gap anymore."
"What stop-gap?" I ask, sighing in frustration because I already know what he means. He does see through me the way other people can't. "I'm fine Chris."
"No, you're not. You fell asleep on those Germans, you're wearing your tension over this thing with Melina like you wear a pair of pants, and those lines around your mouth and your eyes aren't getting any smaller."
"Can't fucking help it that Kish kept me talking all the way to Germany. And there's no tension," I say, rolling my shoulders again.
"Bullshit."
"Well what do you want then," I say, already feeling the pieces shift into place the way they always used to when he'd call me out for keeping things to myself. "You want me to smile and say I'm pleased as punch to be sitting out of yet another Wrestlemania? What a track record, I've only managed to make it to fifty percent of the ones I've been eligible for. Want me to tell you I'm thrilled every time it comes up that I forgot I was supposed to lie about my age to protect Paul at every turn, and now it's a thorn in my side that I have to lie about it even more than I ever did? Or should I tell you how happy it makes me to read Pro Wrestling Illustrated and see them say I'll be gone from the business in five years because I've never had the passion."
I push up from the bed, pace away from him angrily, the loose ends of my shirt floating out behind me. I feel my muscles flex the way they always do when I'm angry.
"Or maybe I should just tell you that your interference cost me a night with Melina, sharing unadulterated bliss in one another's arms all because you tracked me down to hook up for a drink."
I pace back toward him now, lips pulled back in a snarl, hands clenched in fists at my sides.
"Are you done now?" he asks calmly.
"Fucking typical," I say and turn to flop down on the bed again.
He stands, walks over beside me and pours me another glass of wine, then shoves me out of the way and flops down beside me.
"You carry all this shit inside you, and you can't even hit the gym to work it out. No more four nights a week with the pressure relief of matches. And when I call you there's always some excuse why you can't take the time to find a quiet nook to settle down and unleash it all on me the way you always used to."
My fingers itch to take his hand in mine, I drink the wine instead, and when I speak my voice is gravelly hoarse. "I can't unleash it on you over the phone Chris, and you know it."
He raises up, straddles over me, his hands on either side of my head. "Talk to me David. Talk to me and I'll listen to you."
"I don't want," my eyes meet his, "To talk right now."
He slides back, straightens up, and plucks my undershirt out of my waistband. His hands are warm as they slide beneath, push the shirt up. I sit up, let him strip the dress shirt and the undershirt from me, then lay back and feel the tension draining from me.
"Talk," he says, "And then we'll see. I can't fix you if you don't let me."
I close my eyes when he reaches up and rubs the backs of his fingers gently across my cheek. I'm putty in his hands when he treats me this way, and before I know it all the pain and despair that I've collected in my heart over the past three months begins to pour out. He listens, he strokes my brow, and he makes the appropriate observations. And when I'm done I see no reprisals in his eyes, only an offer.
Here, in this non-descript hotel room as he put it, it's just he and I. He bends forward, lips touch lips, and another emotion coils out of me.
Here, in this secret world, I feel whole again.
Distribution: TwoIntoOne only.