Pink Shades of Words: Walk 2016 Page 2

  With a parched throat and shaky fingers, I could barely hold my head up as he undressed me. Smoothly sliding his long fingers under the edge of my panties before slowly pulling them down.

  His fingers eased between my legs as the corners of his lips turn up. “You really want me, don’t you, baby?”

  “God, yes,” I groaned. “Please. Please. Stop torturing me.”

  He got that cocky look again as I laid back across the sheets. When he pushed his jeans off it was as if he was waiting for me to appraise him. My gaze was fixed on where he was hard, and of course bigger than Matt. Everything about this man felt bigger than Matt and I was desperate to know how bigger would feel.

  I rocked my hips up, legs spread wide, and after he rolled on the condom he took me. It wasn’t tender like with Matt, nor as attentive. He groaned hard, mumbling something about how tight I was, and it made me feel dirty, like my dress was stained with cum. Yet he was so stunning naked, a chiseled God filling me, and I wantonly begged for more.

  Being dirty was new in my world and disturbingly hot, but while he fucked me, an emptiness lingered from the pretense of sophistication that felt like it’d been bought from a Vegas vending machine. I pushed the thought away that this was about Brett, and for Brett, because if I accepted that, then I truly was a whore.

  He redeemed himself somewhat with his kisses so passionate and deep that I turned inside out. He fucked me hard at that point and I could tell he wouldn’t last much longer but there was something about how his pelvis rubbed against me with each thrust that made me crash into a climax that was like a heart attack. I was shaking uncontrollably as I clenched hard around him and he joined me with a loud groan.

  After, we both laid stunned, catching our breaths until we were coherent enough to sit up. He got up to fetch a bottle of wine and glasses. I hurried to the bathroom to clean up, leaning close to the mirror as my fingers grazed my cheeks, trying desperately to recognize the girl who stared back at me.

  When he returned to bed, I noticed that his bronze skin was flushed, lips swollen and red. He was mesmerizing to watch as we sipped our wine...perhaps the most beautiful man I’d ever known and that beauty teased shallow me into thinking we mattered. I trailed my finger around his nipple and across the ridges of his chest. He gave me a dark look as he slid his large hand up my inner thighs, spread me open and fucked me again.

  When he finished I laid next to him silently, recovering from the shock of all of it. I finally glanced over at the clock. Damn it. I should’ve been home already.

  After an awkward parting I headed out, and back in our apartment I took a long hot shower attempting to wash my shame away. I was disgusted with myself for my weakness and betraying Matt. How would I face him? I made sure that I was in bed pretending to be asleep when an exhausted Matt crawled into bed just past midnight.

  When deep in sleep he reached out for me, I slid away like a traitor.

  My state of denial and betrayal continued. I was relieved yet hurt by the radio silence from Brett the next day, but the day after he started leaving me poetry again, but this time it was lines he seemed to have written. My heart soared and then crashed in guilt over and over with each gesture he made. I wondered how much longer I could do this before the shame crushed me completely. I knew I needed to somehow face the consequences of my choices and tell Matt what I’d done, but every time I tried to imagine the conversation I felt sick. I knew it would be the end of us. How could I break his heart? I knew not telling him would only make the inevitable worse, but I was a coward. Besides what if I just had to get this out of my system and then Matt and I could go on? Lust had rendered me a fool.

  The night of the Alec Lowell concert I stayed too long after class with Brett kissing me against the back of the Classics building. “Come to my place. I want you so fucking bad.”

  “I can’t, I have a concert tonight. It’s important.”

  He pulled back with his lips in a straight angry line. “I’m not going to share you.”

  I slipped my hand down to grasp him over his jeans where he was rock hard, and huge in my grasp, and it made me ache between my legs. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

  He narrowed his eyes but nodded as he stepped away. “I’ll be waiting.”

  I half ran, half walked back to the apartment, the guilt growing as I got closer. Tonight should’ve been special for Matt and I, and now I’m late getting home because I was kissing and wanting to fuck another man. My disgust with myself was becoming unbearable.

  I burst into the apartment and threw my shit on the couch and it scattered everywhere. As I began pulling off my T-shirt I notice Matt staring at me, his face flushed.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you. We’re going to be late.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Just give me five minutes to shower and I’ll be ready in a flash.” I ran to the bathroom before he could respond, but I couldn’t help but notice the suspicious look in his eyes.

  I took the fastest shower of my life and ran a comb through my hair before pulling on my best jeans and boots.

  “Okay, ready to go!” I exclaimed as I rejoined Matt in the living room. But instead of being poised by the front door with his keys in his hands, he was sitting on the couch with his jacket carelessly dumped on the floor.

  I leaned down to pick up the jacket. “Your good jacket? Can you be more careful?” I asked.

  He looked up at me and the only way I can describe his expression is that it was full of rage. I felt like all the blood and air had rushed out of my body and my knees went weak. It was that moment that I realized he was holding my notepad in his hands.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  He looked up at me with a steely gaze. “Getting to know the real you.”

  “Matt,” I whispered.

  “He’s quite a poet, this Brett fellow. He’s the one from the coffee house, isn’t he? You must be pretty pleased with yourself.”

  “No, please give me that back.”

  He held his hand up to silence me. “I can’t wait to have you back in my bed tomorrow. I’m going to fuck you to the moon and back.”

  I grabbed the edge of the couch to keep from falling over.

  “Matt, I never met to hurt...”

  “Shut up,” he snapped. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “When were you going to tell me about this? Were you going to shatter my heart after the concert...on this night that I though meant so much to us?”

  “It does mean a lot,” I said between tears, sounding false and pitiful.

  He stood up and reached into his pocket and pulled out the tickets. “This is what it means now.” And with barely contained rage he tore the tickets into pieces and let them fall to the floor like dirty snow.

  “I’m sorry,” I chanted over and over between sobs.

  He walked over to the front door and opened it. “Go down to Mel’s for at least an hour so I can get my shit out of here. I’ll come for what I can’t carry tonight when you’re in class tomorrow. I don’t want to see your face again.”

  The reality of my world turning upside down finally hit me and I started to sob uncontrollably. How could I have hurt him like this?

  “Go!” he yelled.

  I cowered as I walked out the door, pausing in front of him. I saw that his eyes were glazed with tears.

  “Matt...”

  “What an idiot I was. I thought I wanted to marry you ...”

  My head dropped, I had no words ... he wouldn’t listen to them even if I did. As soon as I took the first step into the hall, the door slammed shut behind me.

  It took many years and a lot of heartache for me to realize that Matt was one of a kind, a man who would have always loved me with his whole heart. I gave that up for something empty, yes exciting and sexy, but stunningly short-lived. If I’d known then what I know now I never would have let my first love go. It still hurts when I remember a mutual frien
d telling me that Matt was a wreck for at least a year after our breakup, refusing to get out of bed some days, drinking too much and angry at the world.

  If I’d never betrayed him we would’ve seen Alec Lowell that fateful night, holding hands as we swayed to our favorite songs. We also would’ve gotten married and lived what I’m sure would’ve been a good life.

  I lift up the page for the LA Weekly once again before sliding open the screen on my phone to input the website address from the concert ad page. It only takes a minute to secure my ticket, but I have to wonder—how long will it take for me to get over my regret from that night long ago. Maybe I never will.

  Two and half weeks later I wind my way through an up-and-coming area of downtown L.A. until I find a parking lot a block from the theater. I clutch my purse to my chest as I walk toward the gathering crowd. What was I thinking coming by myself to this area of the city that’s still very rough around the edges? You can almost smell the desperation in the air.

  Yet when I approach the venue, most of the people surrounding me are young and hip, many looking like they have a buzz on and are ready to have a good time. As I line up I turn to a woman, and a young man that looks like he could be her son, standing behind me.

  “I’m so excited,” I can’t help but share.

  She smiles widely. “I know! Can you believe it? This is his first tour in forever. Last time I saw him Sam wasn’t even born yet.”

  “He hasn’t been to L.A. in over ten years,” her son reports like someone who’s spent a lot of time on Alec Lowell fan pages.

  I smile. “I feel so lucky I got a ticket.”

  As I scan the rest of the line I’m fascinated how this musician has attracted not just fans like me, but a new generation of followers. Maybe his quirky avant-garde approach is timeless. My heart flutters as I pull my ticket out of my bag for the attendant letting us in.

  Once inside the theater I walk to the center of the lobby and look up at the stunning architectural details of this vintage theater. There’s intricately carved surfaces from floor to the high ceilings, all finished in a burnished gold. The Spanish Gothic design has arches, balconies, elaborate metal work, and ornate light fixtures. It’s a temple of the arts in the grand decadent Hollywood style. There’s something special to observe everywhere I look. I slowly ascend one of the grand staircases to the second floor and I stop at the bar to buy a glass of wine. I’ve arrived early so there’s at least thirty minutes before the show starts.

  I take the merlot and stroll over to one of the arched shallow balconies to take in the view of the lower level. Below people are huddled in pairs and groups, buzzing with excitement. I love people watching, the young girls donning vintage 50’s dresses with cinched waists and full skirts paired with young men sporting full beards and elaborate tattoos. The trends these days are so different than when I was their age. I smile at the swirl of colorful characters.

  My gaze travels upwards and I notice a lone man, half-cast in shadow, standing in the Juliet balcony directly across from me. He also appears to be fixated on the crowd on the first level. I’m drawn to him for some reason I can’t pinpoint, other than his smart dress and long lanky build. When he steps closer to the balcony rail and into the light I gasp, every muscle in my body frozen. I blink several times as I study him in the distance. I swear it’s either Matthew Richardson, or his doppelganger with the same auburn hair and dark eyes. If only he was a bit closer so I could tell for sure.

  The man’s gaze moves up and before I can step back and hide out of view, he sees me. My heart is pounding as my fingers tighten around my wine glass. Is it him? Judging from the hard, long stare he gives me I have to think it is. His expression remains neutral, his only movement lifting his beer to his lips and taking a sip, all the while his gaze never wavering.

  What is he doing here anyway? The last I’d heard from mutual friends he was living in Northern California with a big development job at NextWave. I was secretly proud of him that he had achieved his dream, but now, seeing him in the flesh makes me realize that he has aged even better than I’d imagined. His lanky frame has filled out, his looks enhanced by the sheer confidence in his stance.

  I’m just about to give him a feeble wave when his gaze drops back to the crowd below. He must be waiting for someone.

  My mind is twirling in a complete conflict on what to do. I tell myself I have to go say hello to him. Once his guest arrives and the concert starts there may not be another chance. This is fate, not just that we’re both here, but that there’s this quiet moment with only a handful of people on this level of the theater with us.

  I slowly walk toward him, the entire time keeping my focus on his position through glances from each arch opening I pass. I can’t tell if he’s aware of me coming closer, but he doesn’t move. I’m about eight feet away from him before I stop.

  “Matthew?”

  He turns toward me and I give him a soft smile.

  From this distance I can see the surprise in his eyes as if he can’t believe both that I’m here, and that I had the courage to approach him.

  “It’s been a long time,” I say.

  He lips are pressed in a straight line. “It has. What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I’m still a fan. So how could I resist? And how about you? I heard you were living up North.”

  “I am, but I have business in L.A. fairly often.”

  I nod and then there’s an awkward pause.

  “So you’re still a fan?” I ask him, desperately trying to make conversation when he isn’t making it easy.

  “I am,” he says as he glances on either side of me. “Who’d you come with?”

  Out of pride part of me wants to lie, but I can’t. “I came alone,” I say.

  He gives me a long look as if he’s trying to figure out an appropriate response when his phone rings. He reaches into his jacket and glances at his phone’s screen.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. I have to take this.”

  I’m swept up in disappointment to be dismissed, but I accept it because isn’t that what I deserve? I shattered his heart as a young man, and the fact that decades have passed doesn’t mean he owes me anything.

  I gaze at him one last time. “Good to see you, Matt.” And I turn and walk away.

  With one hand on my wine glass and the other tightly gripping the railing, I make my way down the stairs and retreat to one of the reception rooms. I’m fighting back a feeling of panic making me want to rush out of the theater and head to my car. Somehow in my big idea to come to this concert and make peace with the past, I didn’t anticipate the past slapping me square in the face.

  “Are you okay?”

  I look up and recognize the woman who I spoke with briefly in line.

  I give her a weak smile. “Not really. I just ran into an old boyfriend who things ended badly with. It was really awkward, and honestly I’m not sure I still want to stay.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “But you can’t leave! You were so excited to be here.”

  “I know. Maybe I just need to calm down.”

  She gives me an encouraging smile. “Besides, this show is sold out and this place is packed. The odds are in your favor that you won’t even run into him again.”

  I sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Although they haven’t flashed the lights indicating that it’s time to take our seats I decide to go find my seat early. It seems like the perfect place to hide out until the concert starts. I’m disappointed to see that I’m in one of the last rows in the corner with some obstructed view, but knowing I was lucky to get a ticket at all, I decide to set aside my disappointment. I settle into my seat, sip my wine and scroll through Instagram and Pinterest to keep myself occupied. Anything to keep my mind off Matt and all the feelings seeing him again stirred up.

  A few minutes to eight, people start filing into the theater of their own accord knowing the posted start time is approaching. I do my best to avoid looking for Mat
t and whomever he is meeting up with, but I fail when he steps into the aisle to the left of where I’m sitting and scans the theater with his gaze. I sink further down into my seat hoping to disappear right as he looks my way.

  When our eyes connect he quickly looks away like it didn’t happen, and continues down the aisle. This second slight doesn’t sting as much as the first. I suppose that’s progress.

  As Matt moves closer to the stage I can’t help wondering where his date is. They must really be running late. He pulls his tickets out of his pocket, rechecks them and then finds his seat and sits down.

  I finish my wine as I watch him from afar. He periodically checks his phone, but continues to remain alone. The theater is almost full now and abuzz with anticipation when a man takes the stage and makes an adjustment to the microphone.

  “Excuse me folks, but I’ve got an announcement. There’s a delay with the show due to an accident in the car transporting Alec to the theater. Alec is fine and insists on carrying on with the show, but it may be another twenty or thirty minutes until he arrives. We apologize for this delay. Feel free to mill about and visit the bar until then.”

  A minute later I see Matt working his way back up the aisle. He stops at the edge of my row and looks over at me with a neutral expression. “I’m going to get another beer. You want another glass of wine?”

  I try to keep my mouth from falling open. “Sure, that’d be great thanks. Merlot please.”

  He nods and moves on.

  I twist my hands together as I wait, trying to imagine what his gesture of offering to bring me a drink means. It’s doubtful that he’d offer that if he hated me. Back in the day one of his friend’s warned me never to contact him again or he’d unleash a firestorm of fury on me. I remember my heart shriveling at that warning, but I followed the advice. My deeply rooted self-loathing for treating him with so little regard was already more than I could handle. Matt’s hate had the potential to break me.

  Several minutes later when I notice him stepping back into the aisle, I stand and move toward him. I smile warmly as I reach for the wine.