Thanks and appreciation to my friend Terri, for taking the time to proofread and for thoughtful comments and suggestions. Of course, any remaining errors are my own.
Shout out to all of those on the other side who watch out for those of us on this one.
EARTH MAGIC
1
Brodie ran up the stairs, collapsed wearily onto his bed and ran a tired hand down his face. He was glad that his mother was working and that none of his brothers or sisters had plans to drop by. The last thing in the world he wanted or needed now was his brothers and sisters hovering and fussing over him. He hoped he didn’t look as drained and as fucked up as he felt.
Thank God, the first week was over. When he had reluctantly accepted the scholarship, he had no idea how drastically his life would be altered by transferring to another school. Weary and dispirited, he wished he could go back in time and decline the scholarship as he had initially planned to do.
He had attended the neighborhood Catholic school, St. Mary’s, all of his life. His brothers and sisters and even his mother had gone there too. Why did he have to be the one to get a scholarship to some bougie school he had never even heard of?
Three and a half weeks before the end of the previous school year, he had been summoned to Sister Mary Helen’s office. She had shaken her head with exasperation when he had entered her office, full of exuberance and awkward as a clumsy puppy.
Sister Mary Helen moved a few of the piles of papers on her desk closer towards her. Experience had taught her, that if something could be knocked over or broken, somehow, some way, Brodie would succeed in doing so. She hastily drank the last bit of coffee in her mug before it could be mysteriously overturned.
She sometimes surmised that Brodie had a force field of excess energy circulating around him. She never actually saw him knock anything over; things just seemed to move around him. He had a presence, this boy did.
Brodie sat on the other side of Sister Mary Helen’s desk, waiting to hear of his latest transgression. For once, nothing sprang immediately to mind. Sister Mary Helen gazed at him expectantly.
She didn’t have that, ‘you better tell me what you’ve done before I tell you,’ look on her face. Nor did she have that stern look of disapproval that seemed to be permanently etched upon her harsh features. She actually seemed to be happy about something.
She was all but twitching with whatever it was. After she told him, he could see that Sister Mary Helen had been taken aback and dismayed by his less than enthusiastic response.
“Brodie,” she had scolded, “this is an excellent opportunity for you. You must accept the scholarship. No one has ever declined since The Paris School started this program with us and you are NOT going to be the first,” she had finished sternly.
Expressionlessly, sapphire eyes veiled by long, copper lashes, Brodie had said, “Ok, sister.”
“I’m serious, Brodie. You’re not going to get away with agreeing like you usually do and then going ahead and doing what you want,” she said grumpily.
Old adversaries, the two stared at each other. The warning bell for the next class rang. Brodie’s aquamarine eyes held a stubborn defiance that had almost caused Sister Mary Helen to tear her hair out on multiple occasions over the years. She grit her teeth, counted to ten and waited until the bell announcing the start of the next class rang, before continuing to speak.
“You’re the smart one, Brodie,” she said. “None of your brothers and sisters earned scholarships.”
“My brothers and sisters are doing very well, Sister,” Brodie said defensively, eyes flashing. “Quinn is an accountant. Cullen and Niamh have their own businesses. Mary Katherine, Niall and Dyllan are working with Cullen.”
Sister Mary Helen made an impatient sound and waved her hand dismissively. “I am not maligning your family, Brodie. I am merely saying that this is an opportunity that must not be missed. You are intelligent and talented. The Paris School can provide you with contacts, equipment and more vastly skilled teachers than St. Mary’s can. I don’t want you to let this go.”
“I want to stay here,” Brodie said. “I have everything planned.”
Sister Mary Helen peered at him over her glasses. He glared back.
She was mean, ornery and cantankerous. She had been his first grade teacher. She had told bible stories with such vivid, joyous and passionate fervor that for months, he had wanted to be crucified upside down for Jesus Christ like St. Peter or to be a Christian facing the lions in the arena, bravely dying for his faith. She had short, gray, straggly hair, an old wrinkled face, and ugly brown spots on her hands. And he loved her.
“Look around you, Brodie,” she said gruffly. He glanced around her office obediently, not really seeing that the wooden floor, although spotless, was sagging and rotting in places. The paint was peeling from the walls and two of her file cabinet drawers wouldn’t even close all of the way. The rest of the school was in similar condition.
“Maybe I should discuss this with Cullen or your mother,” Sister Mary Helen said slyly.
As the daughter of a military man, she knew that she was unfairly bringing out the big guns for a small skirmish, when a little handgun would probably do. She mentally shrugged her shoulders. This was Brodie and this was the opportunity of a lifetime.
After graduating from the Paris School, all of the previous scholarship recipients had gone on to attend prestigious colleges and universities and develop successful careers in the field of their choice. She wanted no less for Brodie. She knew that his mother and oldest brother, Cullen, would be in complete agreement with her.
Sister Mary Helen could tell that Brodie was weakening. By the time he left her office, even though he hadn’t given in completely, he had promised to think it over. Tapping her thin lips with her forefinger, she said a quick prayer before mentally reviewing the Rolodex in her head.
She pounded the ancient desk with her fist, muttered a brief prayer of thanks and started dialing. Even if this didn’t work, she would keep trying until Brodie gave in. She could be just as obstinate as he.
************************************
Several days later, Brodie was called to Sister Mary Helen’s office again. When he arrived in her office, she waved him to a seat and continued talking with her visitors. Brodie sat there in stunned silence.
Unsuccessfully, Sister Mary Helen tried to hide a smile of satisfaction when she saw Brodie’s initial reaction. This wasn’t a big gun. This was a nuclear warhead. She had decided that there was nothing wrong with using all of the ammunition at her disposal.
Jake Valencia. Luke Owens. Shit. Brodie thought he was gonna explode. Jake and Luke were legends. Jake was some kind of baby genius. He and his partner had created a series of videos for Luke’s band that had won award after award for the incredible computer wizardry.
And Luke, Luke was the shit. Luke set the standard for what a musician should be as far as Brodie was concerned. He and his band, Lynx, were all about the music. They rarely did interviews. As a group, their one statement was that their music could speak for itself.
Brodie attempted to look them over casually like this was an everyday thing. The first thing he noticed was the silent communication between the two of them. Several times while they were talking to Sister Mary Helen, their eyes had met; they had smiled at each other and then resumed the conversation without missing a beat.
Brodie recognized that look. His brothers all had it when they looked at their partners. He wondered if he would ever find someone who would love him that much. Doubtful, he thought with a mental shrug. It didn’t matter anyway. He had already found his true love: music.
Brodie struggled to remember the name of Jake’s company. Dream Weavers or something like that. Jake’s partner, Grace, had done a spread in People magazine a couple of months ago. Jake, like Luke kept a low profile. Brodie remembered that Grace had been quoted poking fun at herself and saying that unlike her partner, she loved the attention.
Sister Mary Helen figured that she had given Brodie enough time to collect himself.
“Brodie, I want you to meet Jake Valencia and Luke Owens. They both attended The Paris School and I thought you might want to talk with them. Jake also grew up in the neighborhood and attended St. Mary’s.”
Jake stood up and stretched out his hand. Brodie towered over him. They both had the same thought as amber crystal eyes met aquamarine: ‘amazing eyes.’ Both felt a sense of recognition. Jake could see that like him, Brodie was of mixed heritage. He also knew that Brodie was the youngest of a very large family, just like he was.
“Hey, Brodie,” Jake said. “I knew your brother Cullen back in the day,” he added with a wide, reminiscent smile.
Luke snorted softly. Jake looked at him and grinned unrepentantly. They shared a look that made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room and then Jake turned back to Brodie. Brodie knew his brother Cullen and his reputation very well and wasn’t touching that one. He shook Jake’s hand, still shocked that he was meeting someone who was a legend in and out of the neighborhood.
Sister Mary Helen left the three of them alone to chat. Jake and Luke spent almost an hour talking with Brodie. According to Luke, the music program alone was good enough reason for Brodie to attend the Paris School. Luke said that the opportunities to intern with well-known musicians and connect with them were innumerable. According to Jake, the education Brodie would receive would be invaluable.
Jake, coming from the same background as Brodie, understood what the experience would be like for him. He warned Brodie that it would be a shock to his system but that it would be worth it.
“The four years will pass by in a blink of an eye,” he encouraged. “You won’t regret it. And you never know what will happen. I met Luke there,” he said softly.
Then he added, “I’m not saying you’ll meet the love of your life there, but life is full of wonderful surprises that you never imagine could happen to you.”
Jake and Luke left after securing a promise from Brodie that he would contact them if he needed anything.
When she returned to her office, Brodie and Sister Mary Helen once again eyed one another across from her desk.
Reluctantly, Brodie said, “I’ll go.”
Gracious in victory, Sister Mary Helen didn’t even smile. At least not on the surface.
Brodie sat there for a second and then said, “Sister?”
She raised bushy gray brows in inquiry.
“When I come back to visit, you’ll still be here, right?”
She had smiled then, looking at the youngest child of a family that she had loved and watched over for so long. “Yes,” she said gently, gravelly voice quavering. “I’ll be here.”
************************************
Now, having spent the past week feeling like he was in some sort of alternate universe, Brodie was wishing that he had refused to go. Besides the two other scholarship students who had come from St. Mary’s, he had nothing in common with anyone at the Paris School. He knew Cutter and Sinclair fairly well. They had been going to school together since kindergarten and he considered them friends.
The worst part of the week had been dodging all of the instructors who harassed him about putting his sax in his locker. They must be out of their fucking minds. He had carried that sax, in his every waking moment, since he was eight years old. His brother Cullen had busted ass to give it to him for Christmas.
He hadn’t even asked for it. Cullen knew that he had idolized Maceo Parker and always saw him walking around pretending like he was Maceo. Everybody else played air guitar. Brodie played air saxophone.
So, whenever an instructor had informed him that he needed to park his ‘instrument’ in his locker, he had looked at them expressionlessly, agreed with them and kept moving. Friday was the first day none of them had hassled him. Maybe they were getting it.
His mother didn’t call him dense, stubborn and hardheaded for nothing. She claimed that they were O’Brien traits and that he seemed to have gotten them in greater quantities than the rest of his brothers and sisters. She said it was probably because he was the youngest.
The second worst part of the week is that he had never seen people so… He couldn’t even find the words. The world they lived in was totally different from the world he came from. Although Brodie was very aware that life for him was much different than it had been for his brothers and sisters, until he arrived at the Paris School, he had never before realized what a big difference having money could make.
A few years had made a critical difference in the way he was able to live and the lifestyle the rest of his family was able to leave behind.
There was a lot more money available to the family as Brodie was growing up than there had been when his older siblings were younger. By the time he came along, his mother had completed college and had advanced in her job. By the time Brodie finished first grade, his oldest brother, Cullen was able to get a full-time job instead of doing the part-time work he had been doing under the table because he was underage.
They weren’t rich, but they had moved out of their old neighborhood and were pretty comfortable. His brothers and sisters made sure that Brodie wanted for nothing. He could have attended a different school, but he hadn’t wanted to leave St. Mary’s.
St. Mary’s was located in the heart of an impoverished area. Most of the students were there on a variety of scholarships and grants. Some were able to attend the school because they belonged to the church and received a discount on the tuition.
At St. Mary’s survival meant a day-to-day struggle for many of the students. At the Paris School, survival meant wearing the right clothes, driving the right car and being seen with the right people. After witnessing some of his classmates at St. Mary’s end up homeless, it was difficult for Brodie to see the value in the things that the students of the Paris School viewed as critically important.
The other thing was, as much as it embarrassed him to admit it, he missed St. Mary’s. He had grown up there. He had attended St. Mary’s since kindergarten. He knew all of the students in his class and most of the kids in the other classes as well.
He knew which of the cooks he could cajole into giving him a little extra at lunch. He knew which toilets to avoid because they overflowed on a regular basis. He knew which ones of the nuns he could persuade to let him leave class just a little bit early so that he could run to the music room and play his sax for a few minutes until next class started.
Although The Paris School was nominally a private Catholic school, in actuality it was more like a secular private school.
There were no more uniforms and there were no nuns here. The school was a beautiful, modern structure. It was cold and unfriendly. Not like St. Mary’s at all.
Sinclair hated it just as much as he did. Today, after school, she had been on a low simmer when the three of them had caught the bus back to their neighborhood. Her black eyes had flashed furiously as she related, “She said that I didn’t, ‘act black.’ What the mutha fuck does THAT mean? Does it mean I don’t roll my eyes and shake my head when I say something?”
Brodie couldn’t help it, he had looked at her brother Cutter and when their eyes met, they both snickered. Sinclair had looked at both of them with disdain and said, “Idiots.”
“Chill and live, baby girl,” Cutt had said. “Just give it a chance. That was one person. One broad out of…what…I don’t know how many, but that was one broad out of a whole bunch of people. Y’all know what? You two had your minds made up that you would hate it before you even started the first day.”
Brodie had been shocked into silence and he thought that Sinclair had been too. That was the most he had ever heard Cutt say at one time. Sinclair and Cutt were twins and she was usually the spokesperson.
It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed Cutt calming his volatile sister down though. Sinclair was the first to admit she had a big ‘ol chip on her shoulder. Cutt was the only one who had the nerve to call her on it though.
Brodie was extremely grateful that he didn’t have to endure attending the Paris School for the next four years by himself. Having Cutter and Sinclair there with him would at least make it tolerable. There was one more thing that would keep him going: his Music Composition class.
It was awesome, incredible, off the hook, bangin’. Every time he was reminded of yet another reason why he hated the school, he’d think about the Music Composition class as the one positive amongst the negative. The instructor was really cool too. The music program at the Paris School was world renown.
Brodie sighed and rolled his shoulders. Thank God, the week was over, he thought to himself again. He grabbed his sax, walked up to the attic and started playing.
Once the mouthpiece touched his lips, his entire body relaxed and he closed his eyes. He blew lightly and a sharp, lonely sound hung in the air. He blew into the mouthpiece again, harder this time and sustained the note, clear and achingly sweet.
His long, dexterous fingers lovingly manipulated the keys as he continued to expel air into the mouthpiece. Light and sound permeated every cell of his body and spilled over into the room. He was transported to another universe.
Bliss.
**************************************
2
The air was warm, humid and fragrant with the scent of freshly mown grass. The silver glitter of twinkling stars blanketed the night sky. Cricket song and the soft rustle of nocturnal creatures traveling through the night were the only sounds that interrupted the hushed calm of their surroundings.
Jackson and his grandmother were in the ‘backyard’ as his Granny called it. They were sitting in an old fashioned gazebo. His grandmother had claimed a very small corner of the several acres of land located behind Jackson’s parent’s large home. It was the only thing she had ever requested from her daughter.
There were wild, colorful, blooming flowers all around them, courtesy of his grandmother’s green thumb. His Granny had created an enchanted hideaway for the two of them. She lit a citronella candle and set the tray she had been carrying down on a small table next to the porch swing.
Her hands, small and sure, deftly rolled a cigarette as Jackson watched with his customary fascination. When she finished, she beckoned Jackson towards her. “C’mere old man,” she said.
Jackson moved into the comforting warmth of her petite frame. Even though she was in her sixties and he was six years old going on seven, they were just about the same size.
She placed an arm across his shoulders and pulled him even closer. For a few, serene, silent moments, they rocked on the porch swing. “This is our church,” she said in a low voice that remained dulcet as honey and crystal clear despite decades of smoking.
“You know why?” she asked, rubbing her cheek gently across the top of Jackson’s head. He shook his head no.
“Because, this is all God’s creation. Where we are, right now. This is what’s real and what’s important. Not that big house over there.
Or all them cars your Mama and Daddy got. The real important things in life can’t be bought with money, old man, and that’s a fact.”
She took a sip from the tumbler full of golden amber liquid resting on the table next to them then handed Jackson his glass. It held ice water with a minute dollop of J.D. that he coaxed from her each evening. She lit her cigarette and continued.
“You don’t need a preacher or even the Good Book to tell you what’s right or wrong, old man,” she said. She put a tiny hand over Jackson’s heart, “You will always know, right in here,” she said. “Always listen to your heart.”
She tugged his hair and gently pulled his head back so that she could look into his eyes.
“You hear me, old man?”
He nodded again, blue eyes solemn and earnest, absorbing her every word.
“Okay, let me find our place.” She turned the pages of the book in her lap rapidly. “Book of Ruth, right?” she asked.
She felt Jackson’s head nodding in agreement at against her side, found where they left off the previous evening, and started reading.
Jackson turned restlessly, tangling himself in the bed sheets and the film in his head fast-forwarded.
“Grandma, your eyes are yellow,” he had said.
She had looked at him and laughed skeptically, wondering what he was trying to pull on her now. They were best friends and partners in crime, always trying to get one over on each other. Her laughter had faded when he said urgently, “Granny, go look in the mirror.”
She had looked at the expression on his face and then walked silently into the bathroom. When she came back out, identical blue eyes held similar expressions of fear, which each had tried to conceal from the other. ‘Death comes in threes,’ she had said to him two weeks before when his father’s uncle had died of a heart attack. A cousin of hers in South Carolina had died two months prior to that. Jackson recalled her words with a sense of foreboding.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said. “I’ll pray on it.”
“What about the doctor? Shouldn’t you call him?” Jackson asked.
She snorted rudely. “Old man, doctors are for sick people. Your granny ain’t sick.”
It had taken several weeks, but finally Jackson had persuaded her to go to the doctor. He had stayed home from school so that he could accompany her. She had driven them. So slowly that Jackson had teased her that he might as well be driving.
She was admitted to the hospital directly from the doctor’s office. Jackson had whitened with fear when the nurse came out and asked him for his parents’ work numbers. Once he had given them to her, he had been too stunned to ask the nurse what was going on before she quickly walked away.
He turned restlessly again. The bed sheets were damp with his perspiration. He was beginning to cry in his sleep. When he awakened, he had no awareness of his dreams, but felt hung over and like he hadn’t slept at all.
***********************************
The Ice Queen was in rare form when Jax entered the kitchen the next morning. Her slanted, artic blue eyes surveyed Jax with disgust.
“I hate that outfit. Do I need to increase your allowance again? You look like you’ve been shopping at Wal-Mart.”
Jackson stood there without comment, knowing that if he let her get whatever it was out of her system, she would leave him the fuck alone over the next several weeks. He had known she was home the instant he had come downstairs. The house felt different when she was there.
She had a face that would have been cute on someone else. Her hair was black and iridescent as a crow’s wing, cut ruthlessly short, her nose was tilted slightly, she had perky, warm dimples that were rarely seen, and a small pointed chin. Her ears were small and the tips formed a barely noticeable point. On her, the face was harsh and scary.
The Good Fairy’s evil twin. He hated that face. The worse part was, he looked at it in the mirror every day, as infrequently as he possibly could.
He absently noted that his father was sitting at the table. He was hunched behind his newspaper. Hiding as usual.
Jackson tuned back in just as his mother was winding down. Still silent, he walked to the second floor to gather his books for school. He had about ninety minutes before he needed to leave.
If he had known they were home and up so early, he would have stayed in his room and grabbed something to eat at McDonald’s later. He expelled a sigh of relief as he closed his bedroom door and kissed the picture of his grandmother that was resting on top of his dresser, as he always did whenever he entered the room. He flicked a switch and the CD player came on.
Linkin Park, good, that’s exactly what he was in the mood for right now. He walked over to his closet, pulled out a bottle and a glass, opened the mini refrigerator in the corner, grabbed some ice and fixed himself a drink. J.D.
He sipped slowly, savoring the taste and the burn as it went down.
This is it. Life. He snorted softly. He pulled out his journal and read what he had written yesterday.
Let it go
I used
to think
that there was
a logic
to this thing
but now I know
I was wrong
hurt
hurt
is the only logical thing
it exists
and therefore it is
for no reason
without end
He laughed to himself. He was no Shakespeare, that’s for sure. He flipped through the pages, skimming over previous entries, and a few moments later, picked up a pen and started to write. As he listened to his favorite song play, he doodled in his journal.
When it was over, there was a noisy burst of chaotic sound as he picked up the stereo remote and flicked from one CD to the next to find something that could fill the quiet, lonely room. He threw the remote onto the floor next to him.
He jumped up and paced the length of his room back and forth, edgy with nerves. Glancing at his watch and seeing that only a few minutes had passed; he grabbed his portable CD player and put his headphones on. Ignoring the drink he had prepared, he took a couple of fiery swigs directly from the bottle. He left the house without saying anything to his parents. They didn’t notice.
Impatiently, Jackson circled the busy downtown Baltimore streets searching for a parking space. After several unsuccessful attempts, he gave up and parked at a garage. His stomach roiled and twisted with a sick feeling of anticipation as he made his way towards the bus station. When he arrived there, he walked swiftly towards the bathroom, like he had every right to be there, not allowing himself to think about what he was doing.
He stood at the urinal farthest away from the door so that he could eye newcomers as they arrived. Eventually, an attractive, rumpled guy about ten years older than he came into the room. Jackson surveyed him casually but thoroughly. He met the guy’s eyes and gave him an unsmiling look of approval.
Without checking to see if he was being followed, Jackson entered the nearest stall. He waited anxiously, pants unzipped, cock primed and ready. A finger appeared through one of several different size holes in the wall and gestured at him.
Immediately, he stuffed his erect penis through the hole and inhaled sharply when he felt warmth and heat surrounding the head. He held still, permitting the guy to control the pace, enjoying the feel of the soft mouth working so gently on him.
As the guy sucked him hungrily, making barely audible slurping sounds, Jackson flipped through the catalogue of guys in his head and settled on a new face he had seen in school this week. He was tall with a narrow face and wide shoulders. Jackson wondered what kind of body was hidden beneath his baggy clothes.
He had lustrous, copper colored hair; pulled away from his face into a long, fat braid that hung down his back. He had the most amazing, incredible, beautiful eyes Jackson had ever seen. A clear, Caribbean Sea, blue green.
Jackson’s cock hardened further as he imagined that face on the other side of the wall, pleasuring him. He felt his balls tighten and draw up. So close.
His breathing quickened and his hands clenched at his sides. He panted, harsh, rapid, noisy gusts of air as the rush of pleasure engulfed him. He came fast and hard. The guy swallowed eagerly, not letting go until he had consumed every drop of the salty, gooey fluid.
Jackson backed away from the wall, stuffed his penis back into his pants and zipped up. As always, he returned to his surroundings consumed with a mixture of guilt and shame. He looked around, suddenly aware of the filthy, sticky floor, graffiti laden walls and the pungent odor of stale urine.
He wondered if the few, sparse moments of pleasure and forgetfulness were worth how he always felt afterwards. Sad. Lonely. Dirty. He tugged on the sleeves of his shirt, glanced down at both wrists, and then left as quickly as he arrived.
Now that he had found what he had been looking for, the walk back to his car seemed to take forever. He felt conspicuous, as though everyone he passed by knew what he had been doing. He put his headphones on, allowing the cleansing, crystalline voice of Bjork to wash over him. When he reached his car, he retrieved a bottle from beneath the seat and took a couple of quick sips before he started off for school.
**************************************
That night, once more, Jackson slept restlessly. He woke up around two am, looked at the clock and noticed the date. Four years to the day. He turned over and fell back into restless slumber. In the morning, he had no memory of awakening.
When he awoke, Jackson had an inexplicable feeling of apprehension. Both of his parents were sitting at the table in a frigid silence when he entered the kitchen. Shit.
He hated it when they were home. They both traveled frequently for business and very often, he had the entire house to himself. He didn’t miss either one of them when they were gone.
When his grandmother was alive, she had loved to tell Jackson the romantic story of how his parents had met. As he grew older, Jackson had realized that she never told the story in front of his mother. As he grew older, he had realized why.
His mother would have hated his grandmother’s version of events.
Hearing Granny talk about how his mother had met his father in law school and how the poor girl had fallen in love with the rich boy and married him would have really pissed her off. His grandmother made it sound like a Cinderella story. Jackson later understood that to Granny, it was.
Unfortunately, the story his grandmother told had no basis in reality as far as he could tell. His parents seemed to hate one another. He often wondered why they bothered to stay together.
When he arrived at the school parking lot, Jackson took another quick sip from his flask, put his headphones on and entered the school with the rest of the students. He was digging around in his locker; searching for the books he needed for his first few classes, when his headphones were abruptly snatched from his head. Fuck.
Jackson turned around, already knowing what he would see. And there they were. Assholes. Skip, Marcus, Tracey and Danny. They had been tormenting him off and on since first grade.
“Jacqueline, oh Jacqueline,” Marcus sang in a saccharine falsetto.
“How’s our girl doing today?” Danny asked.
Jackson regarded them coolly. He didn’t respond, just looked on with weary resignation as Tracey put his headphones on.
“What the hell are you listening to?” Tracey asked.
Jackson didn’t answer. He stood there, quiet and insubstantial as a ghost, watching dispassionately as they passed the headphones from one to the other while ridiculing his choice in music. He knew they would only go so far.
Since eighth grade, he had had one or the other of their cocks in his mouth. He was pretty sure none of them knew about the others. He was also pretty sure that they all wanted to keep it that way. Sooner or later, he knew they would get tired of playing with him and move on to their next victim.
“Hey, Jackson, what’s up?”
Startled, Jackson turned to see the new boy speaking to him. They had never spoken before. Although he had made a point of finding out who Brodie was, he didn’t think Brodie knew he was alive, much less knew his name.
Scenting fresh meat, the other four boys turned in unison to face Brodie.
“Well, if it isn’t….” Marcus started to say, still speaking in falsetto tones.
The look in Brodie’s eyes stopped him mid-sentence.
Instantaneously, Brodie turned from prey into predator. His quiet demeanor transformed into menace so quickly that even Marcus was taken aback. Brodie’s eyes were flat, hard and cold as a winter sea.
Taking in the scene at a glance, he snatched the headset off Skip’s head and the CD player out of his hands so rapidly that they were back in Jackson’s hands before Skip could utter a protest. The four boys slunk away quietly and didn’t start mumbling low threats until they were about ten feet away.
Slightly bemused, Jackson smiled gratefully at Brodie. “Thanks.”
Brodie nodded. He looked Jackson over quickly, fascinated. To Brodie, Jackson looked like something out one of the children’s books his mother used to read to him when he was a little kid: a creature of Fairy. He was small, with delicate, elfin features.
His eyes were a clear, pale blue surrounded by a dense fringe of long, silky black lashes. His shoulder length hair and eyebrows were a thick, dark, gleaming onyx. He held his body tensely, as though he was constantly on the defense and prepared for danger to strike at any moment.
Equally fascinated, Jackson looked up at Brodie. They were so close together that Jackson could see the sprinkling of small dark freckles across Brodie’s golden apricot skin. Brodie’s eyes held a fierce, concentrated intensity that belied the low-key profile he kept around school. If he hadn’t seen Brodie in action, he would have been as intimidated by him as the four assholes who had just left.
Jackson was an observer. All last week his eyes had followed Brodie’s every movement.
He had noticed how Brodie always had a quiet word with people he saw sitting alone and away from anyone else. He had noticed how Brodie had casually rescued other people from Skip, Marcus, Danny and Tracey without anyone really being aware of what he was doing.
“Where’s your first class?” Brodie asked.
When Jackson told him, Brodie said, “I’m headed in that way too. C’mon.”
They started walking together. Jackson pulled up his sleeves and looked down at both his wrists, somewhat anxiously, Brodie thought.
“We’re not late,” Brodie said reassuringly.
Jackson looked up at him and did not correct Brodie’s assumption that he had been checking the time. “Okay,” he said.
When they parted ways, Brodie said, “I’ll see you later.”
“Okay,” Jackson said.
In the few minutes that he had remaining before his class started, Jackson listened to Linkin Park again; the volume on his headphones was turned up as loud as he could get it. The music penetrated the wounded layers of his soul, settled into all of the hurting places and took him away from there until he could bear to return.
He kept thinking about Brodie all day. There was something about Brodie that intrigued him and made him want to get to know Brodie better. He laughed sardonically to himself. That was highly unlikely. The habits of solitude were hard to break.
By the time he saw Brodie again, at the end of the day in their Music Composition class, Jackson had concluded that Brodie was the kind of person who felt sorry for people. Every person he had observed Brodie talking to or rescuing were people that were considered losers. Is that how Brodie saw him? Probably. He grimaced.
When he saw Jax enter the classroom, Brodie called out, “Hey Jax, what up?”
Jackson almost looked behind him. Jax?? Well, it was better than Jacqueline. When Brodie motioned him over, Jax noticed the two people sitting next to him. They were identical in feature except for gender.
They had to be twins. Even sitting down, it was obvious that they were almost as tall if not taller than Brodie’s six feet plus inches. They were both the color of bittersweet chocolate with black, shining, almond shaped eyes.
The girl’s braided hair was parted on the side with a streak of gray in the front. The guy had short dreads; the ones in the front were all gray. They both had high, sharply carved cheekbones.
“This man here is, “Big Noise”, also known as Cutt or Cutter. And this lady here is “Sinful”, also known as Sinclair.”
Brodie flinched as Sinclair popped him on the arm with a fist. Jackson looked at the three of them curiously. He hadn’t known any of them for more than a week, but even he could tell that Cutter was a man of few words.
Jax was pretty sure he had never heard Cutter speak more than three or four words at a time. In Music Composition class, he made himself understood with brief, succinct answers. Jax wasn’t sure how someone like that ended up being called “Big Noise.”
“Alright, Dirty,” Cutter said to Brodie, nodding his head in a manner that was slightly threatening.
“Yeah, Dirty,” Sinclair added. “This is Brodie,” she said to Jackson with a wicked grin that lit up her face and made it even more beautiful if that were possible. “Also known as “Dirty Harry,” she continued with a laugh.
Jackson looked at Brodie speculatively, ‘Dirty Harry’, he mused. Couldn’t figure that one out either. But Sinful was easy, he thought. Even he could tell that Sinclair would be just about anyone’s idea of a wet dream.
“Since we’re conducting introductions,” a voice behind Jackson said, “I’m Christian.”
Christian Jensen, compact, sturdy and as short as Jackson, walked up to them and held his hand out to Sinclair. She looked at his hand as though it held something poisonous. When she realized he was being sincere, she shook his hand and gave him a reserved smile.
His round, hazel eyes stared into hers, entranced. Surprisingly, without making comment, Sinclair tugged gently at their clasped hands. Christian’s fair skin revealed his embarrassed flush as he let her hand go.
Brodie and Cutt exchanged an amused glance. Guys reacted to Sinclair like that all of the time. Sinclair hated it. She was not impressed with herself or with the reaction. “They just want to fuck me,” she’d say. “If they ever had that reaction after they get to know me, then we got something to talk about.”
“You don’t let them get to know you,” Cutt had muttered once when he heard her say that for the thousandth time. Sinclair had given him a withering look and not said anything else.
Christian held out his hand to Brodie and Cutter. Mr. Baird walked into the room as they were completing introductions.
“Glad to see that you’re all getting acquainted,” he said. “Because this is it.”
They looked at him with questioning expressions on their faces.
“I’ve just come from the office. Apparently, there has been some type of misunderstanding. Did you all sign up for Music Composition or for Music Comprehension?”
When they each stated that they were there for Music Composition, Mr. Baird sighed with relief and grinned widely. “This may not be a bad thing,” he said. “We can get a lot more accomplished with a smaller class and there’s a couple of things I’d like to experiment with if you are all agreeable.”
They nodded their heads in agreement. Mr. Baird rubbed his hands together and said, “Okay, let’s get started.”
************************************
3
Later that day, Jax became consciously aware of the date. Since the first anniversary, he tried not to notice. Four years to the day. His nonexistent heart shattered all over again. Five weeks, two days, six hours and seventeen minutes. He had painstakingly calculated the time it had taken for him to lose everything in his life that mattered.
The day his grandmother had been diagnosed with the cancer that had ended her life so abruptly was burned with brutal accuracy in his memory. His mother had come to pick him up from the doctor’s office, angry that she had to pick him up and take him to school. When he had protested that he wanted to go to the hospital with his grandmother, his mother had said, “You are going to school. No arguments.”
He had subsided with bitter fury. How could this… person have come from his grandmother? Her mother was sick and all she was concerned about was returning to work in time for a meeting.
The only time his grandmother had ever become upset with Jackson was when he had made a disparaging comment about his mother. She had erupted furiously, tiny body quivering with rage, “Ah don’ evah wanna hear you disrespectin’ your mama like that again, Jackson,” she had said.
“Nevah. I’m ‘shamed of you.” Her southern accent was more evident than usual, thickened with anger.
Her eyes had welled with tears the instant his did. Her anger evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.
“C’mere, old man,” she said.
He had walked to her side hesitantly, hurt and embarrassed.
She guided him over to one of the many potted plants in her bedroom and said, “Me and you is like these plants here. These ‘ol plants, why, if I was to forget to water them for a couple of days, maybe even a week, they might not like it, but soon as they got some water, they’d be fine. That’s how me and you is, old man.”
Taking his hand gently in hers, she walked him over to a small, fragile plant with tiny pink blossoms. “Now your Mama, your mama is like this plant. If I don’t water this plant, if I don’t take care of it right, it’s gonna wither up and never be the same. Probably die, most like.”
She stopped speaking and stared down at the plant for a long time. Jackson waited, serious blue eyes wide and trying to understand, until she began to speak again.
Her pale blue eyes had darkened to midnight with painful memories. “Old man, when me and your Mama lived in Tennessee, it wasn’t like this life you have here. There was times when we was hungry, times we did without.”
His grandma’s lips trembled and she pressed them together firmly. “And your mama ain’t never been the same.” She stared into Jackson’s eyes intently. “You understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he had said, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he did.
So, that terrible day, instead of expressing resentment, knowing that it would upset his grandmother if he did so, he settled back into the seat and didn’t utter a word throughout the drive to school. He had spent the day distracted, confused and attempting to conceal his sorrow.
Throughout that day, he had released his heartache in quick, unobtrusive trips to the bathroom where he’d lean against the stall and sob into his hands, stricken with anguish and fear. When he was able to regain control, he’d splash his face with cold water and return to class. He shared his grief with no one, and no one noticed the always quiet, small, twelve year old boy whose world was caving in around him.
Today, over four years later, it had started all over again. He wasn’t twelve years old anymore, and a significant amount of time had elapsed. Still, the pain was as raw and as fresh as if it had all just happened.
***********************************
Brodie was glad that they were given ninety minutes for lunch. That was one of the few things he liked about this school. The ninety minutes was considered free time but they could not leave the school campus. He was cool with that.
While exploring during his first week at the Paris School, Brodie had found a small, dense grove of trees on the edge of the school grounds. It was isolated and as far as he knew, no one came out here. This was one of the ways he made it through each day. After three weeks, he still hated it here but he was handling it; he could see no other choice.
Jake hadn’t pulled any punches. He had been honest when he described how he felt when he transferred from St. Mary’s to The Paris School. Somehow, knowing that Jake had been through what he was experiencing made it a little easier for him to handle.
Brodie had felt so close to Jake. Even so, he would never take Jake up on the offer of calling him and letting him know how things were going. Brodie assumed that Jake had probably said that just to be nice.
Having Sinclair and Cutter there was pretty cool too. But they were so close that even though he knew they didn’t mean to, he felt excluded from their little circle. He also would never complain to anyone in his family. They had all been so excited when he had told them about the scholarship. There was no way that he would do anything to disappoint them or to have them worried about him.
He put the mouthpiece of the sax to his lips. With a soft exhalation of air, he created a series of dark, moody tones that drifted into the air, fell like teardrops and floated mistily away. Jax, sitting outside having a forbidden smoke, heard and was compelled to follow the haunting, melancholy sounds. He sat outside the thick wall of tall, green trees and listened.
Brodie was talking and Jax could understand the language. Here was someone who was as alone as he. Jax finished another cigarette and left before Brodie could find him there.
************************************
Brodie was pissed off with himself. He had missed the damn bus. He had remained after class talking with Mr. Baird. They were over two months into the first semester. Brodie had questions about the next assignment. It would be a major portion of their grade.
Before they left, Cutter and Sinclair had reminded him that he had only minutes to spare. When Mr. Baird mentioned Ronnie Laws and Donald Byrd, Brodie had become more deeply engrossed in the conversation and lost track of time. When he suddenly realized how late it was, he ran to the bus stop, only to see the tail end of it as it rolled away.
He waited at the bus stop for awhile then decided to walk back to the music room, hoping Mr. Baird would let him stay in there to wait the hour or so until the next bus arrived. There was a small listening room in the back that Mr. Baird said they were free to use whenever they liked. He just wanted them to keep it clean and to remember to lock it when they were done.
A faint whisper of sound had Brodie straining his ears the closer he got to the classroom. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end when he reached the door. There was an eerie, beautiful, unearthly sound: a pure, very high, almost shrill note. It was so penetratingly clear that he could hear it through the closed door. The note was held so long that it couldn’t be voice but he didn’t recognize the instrument.
Brodie looked through the window. It was Jax. He had his headphones on, his eyes were closed and his small, lithe body was fluidly dancing around the room. He leapt and twirled as he sang, arms and legs moving in an intricate, complex dance, like a shaman conducting a healing ritual.
His voice went so low and then so high that Brodie listened open mouthed, stunned at his range. As far as he knew, Jax played the guitar. He had never mentioned that he sang too.
Brodie walked into the room and put his sax to his lips. He played a few notes softly, following unerringly along with the wordless melody Jax was singing. Jax’s eyes flew open. He whirled around and ripped his headphones off, startled and a little scared until he realized it was Brodie.
Brodie nodded at him, too caught up in the music to stop playing. He jerked his head again, insistently this time and Jackson sang a few, low, tentative notes then louder as he saw Brodie smile around the mouthpiece of his sax.
Jax closed his eyes and blew. Icy chills crawled across Brodie’s skin as he heard the desolate, soul-piercing wail. He followed Jax’s lead, with the lustrous, golden tones of the sax, sunshine in the meadow to Jax’s glorious wildflowers, in complete harmony.
They played together until Jax stopped singing and said to Brodie. “C’mere, I wanna show you something.” He stopped and tilted his head.
“You ever been back here?” he asked.
When Brodie shook his head no, Jax surprised both Brodie and himself by grabbing Brodie by the hand and pulling him into the listening room.
“Dayum,” Brodie said, looking around in amazement.
“Some awesome shit, right?” Jax asked.
The walls of the room were lined with CD’s. All types of music: classical, hip-hop, R&B, rock, alternative, country; it was all there. There was also a wall covered with pictures of Mr. Baird with various well-known musicians.
“Dayum, son, this is off the Richter,” Brodie said.
“You know The Music Company?” Jax asked, naming a group that had been extremely popular back in the day before they both had born but was still well remembered and respected in the music industry.
Brodie nodded his head again.
“Mr. Baird was a founding member,” Jax said. “He doesn’t really talk about it. Probably doesn’t want to brag,” Jax said.
That’s probably why Jake told him he should check out Mr. Baird, Brodie thought.
Brodie and Jax sat in the listening room for hours, talking about their favorite music and playing songs for each other. Brodie looked at his watch and said, “Shit.”
“What?” Jax asked.
“I missed the fuckin bus AGAIN, the last bus,” Brodie said.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Jax offered.
“Nah, man,” Brodie said. “But thanks anyway. I’ll call one of my brothers and ask them to come get me.”
Though Jax’s face didn’t show it, Brodie could tell he had hurt his feelings a little bit.
“It’s too far, man. I can’t jam you up like that. I live in West Baltimore. That’s at least thirty-five minutes away.”
“It’s cool,” Jax said, the tight band around his heart loosening. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
“Okay,” Brodie said, accepting reluctantly. “I hate to ask you to drive me that far but I appreciate the hell out of it.”
On the way to Brodie’s house, Jax confessed to listening to him play at lunchtime. Brodie said, “Oh yeah? I’m glad you told me. I thought there was maybe a ghost or something there. I could feel a presence but I didn’t see anybody.”
Jax smiled and said, “No, it was just me.”
He gave Brodie a curious, sidelong glance. “Do you believe in ghosts and stuff like that?”
“Yeah, I do,” Brodie said. “One of my sisters has dreams that come true sometimes. And my mother has worked in a nursing home for twenty something years. She said sometimes she feels her patients who have died watching over her.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Jax said softly. “My grandmother died around four years ago. We were very close.”
“She’s watchin’ out for you, man,” Brodie said. “You can believe that.”
Surprisingly comfortable discussing his beloved grandmother with someone else, especially someone he really didn’t know that well, Jax continued, “Sometimes I think I hear her voice or feel her around me, then I think its just my imagination. Or that I’m crazy.”
Brodie laughed and said, “Well, my mother would be the first to admit to being a little crazy, but I believe her. She said that the veil between this world and the next is very thin. But then again, my mother believes in fairies and brownies and I do too.”
Jax gave Brodie another sidelong glance, not sure whether or not he was serious and then decided it didn’t matter. He kind of liked knowing someone who wasn’t afraid to say that they believed in fairies and brownies. And he wanted to meet this woman who would be the first to admit to being a little crazy.
When they arrived at Brodie’s house, Jax was torn between hope and fear. When Brodie invited him in, he ignored the fear and accepted eagerly. Jax was not sure of what exactly was going on and he hated that. But a voice he had thought sounded like his grandmother had told him once that, ‘life was a great adventure,’ and he desperately wanted to believe that.
He was lonely and he had no friends. He had halfway convinced himself that he didn’t want or need friends. When he met Brodie, he had to acknowledge to himself that it was not true. He hoped that he was not one of Brodie’s charity cases. Some loser Brodie thought he had to take care of or something. He really wanted to be Brodie’s friend.
When they entered Brodie’s house, Jax immediately fell in love with the layout. “My brother Cullen hooked this up. He and his partner live on the other side. My mother works nights so he put this side entrance in for me so I won’t wake her up. He set it up so she has everything she needs on the first floor and I have like an apartment on the second floor.”
Brodie’s mother wasn’t home so he showed Jackson around her apartment. It was spotless, and had a warm, homey feel. Brodie said that his brother Cullen had knocked down a wall and created a huge kitchen. His mother had wanted to make sure that there was enough room for the entire family to fit in comfortably.
Brodie showed Jax around his apartment and then into the attic. Jax looked around in wonder; the walls were paneled and soundproofed, Brodie explained. The attic was a combination music room and studio. Brodie had a keyboard in there, a tenor sax, a flute and a violin.
“Do you play all of these?” Jax asked with amazement.
“Yeah,” Brodie admitted, flushing as Jax gave him an admiring glance.
“Where did you get all of this stuff?” Jax asked.
“My brothers and sisters,” Brodie said. “If I just look at something or they even think I want something, they get it for me.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Jax asked.
“Four brothers and two sisters,” Brodie answered. “I’m the youngest.”
He took Jax downstairs to his bedroom and they sat down side by side as Brodie flipped through the pages of a photo album and showed Jax pictures of his family. As Brodie pointed out various members by name, Jax was reminded of the closeness he had shared with his grandmother. In just about every photo, Brodie was cradled protectively in the arms of one of his brothers or sisters and surrounded by the rest.
Gradually, Jax became aware of how close together they were sitting. Brodie’s jeans clad thigh was rubbing against his khakis and he felt the warmth from Brodie’s body heat. He looked down at Brodie’s large hands, long fingers and muscular arms. The hair on his arms was golden red and so fine that Jax was aching to touch it to see if it was as soft as it appeared to be.
As Brodie turned the pages of the photo album, his hands and arms held Jax mesmerized. His skin was golden apricot and lightly freckled.
Jax wondered if Brodie had those cute freckles all over the rest of his body. He wondered if Brodie’s skin tasted as smooth and as creamy as it looked.
He felt himself hardening and gave Brodie a guilty sidelong look. God, please don’t let him see. His feelings of arousal were so strong, almost overpowering; he was certain that Brodie could somehow detect how turned on he was.
Brodie turned his head, distracted by Jax’s quick movement. Their faces were so close their noses brushed. Disconcerted, Jax leaned backward a little. Could Brodie tell? Was he mad?
He searched Brodie’s aquamarine eyes. They were guileless and innocent. Jax sighed, relieved and disappointed. Brodie was soooo oblivious. Brodie grinned at him and unable to resist, Jax smiled back.
Jax wondered if Brodie lived in the real world. He was such a combination of tough guy and innocence. At the start of the school year, Jax had chuckled to himself a couple of times when he first noticed the reactions Brodie would get when he went to the rescue of people he thought were lonely or picked on. The other kids were stunned; nothing like that had ever happened in the Paris School. The school was so small that everybody knew everybody.
The school held grades one through twelve. Most of the kids had been going to school together since first grade. They were divided into groups that had been in existence since first grade and those boundaries were never crossed. At least not until Brodie arrived.
Once they realized he wasn’t mocking them, the kids Brodie approached welcomed his overtures. He moved in and out of the different groups with ease. Doing his own thing.
The only ones he really couldn’t tolerate was the four person jackal pack that had been harassing Jax. They seemed to pick on any vulnerable person they could find and they had obviously been doing it and getting away with it for years. They gave Brodie a wide berth. After tangling with him a couple of times and walking away with bruises, they opted to leave him the hell alone.
Brodie leaned forward and gently pushed a lock of hair that had fallen into Jax’s face, behind his ear. Jax tried to hide a shiver of desire mixed with discomfort. He wasn’t accustomed to being touched so casually.
He noticed that Brodie’s personal space was a lot smaller than his. He most definitely would not have allowed someone else to get so close. He didn’t understand why he was so comfortable with Brodie’s proximity.
To distract himself, Jax looked back down at the photo album. “How many brothers and sisters did you say you have?”
Jax was looking at a picture of a boy Brodie had previously identified as his brother Dyllan, holding a toddler Brodie on his lap, surrounded by two other very young children. One was a girl with a smile as wide and as bright as the sun and the other a cute Asian boy with a kitten face.
Brodie chuckled and said, “I have four brothers and two sisters but you may as well say that Lacey and Kai are my sister and brother too. Not by blood, by the heart.”
As they continued to look through the photo album, Jax experienced a renewed sense of loss. It had been several weeks since the fourth anniversary of his grandmother’s death. He still missed her so much.
She was the only family he had ever had. His grandmother had come to live with his family right after he was born and she had raised him. He and his grandmother had lived an existence separate from his parents, even though they all lived in the same house.
Jax got up, walked over to his backpack and removed a silver flask. He offered it to Brodie, “Want some?”
Brodie looked from the flask to Jax.
“You drink?” he asked.
Jax thought he heard disappointment in Brodie’s voice.
“Just a little,” he said. “You don’t?”
“Nah, man. I don’t mess around. Too many alcoholics in my family.”
Jax didn’t know what to say in response to that so he didn’t say anything. The mood in the room had changed. After another thirty minutes or so Jax decided to go home.
For the couple of hours that he had been with Brodie, the constant heaviness in his chest, that ever-present, uneasy feeling in his stomach, had abated. The feelings returned as he shrugged into his coat and prepared to leave.
Jax’s raised sad blue eyes to Brodie’s face and there was another brief, awkward silence. Once again, he didn’t know what to say. Brodie was the first person he had met in a long time that he thought could possibly be a friend.
Brodie smiled at him, a friendly, lazy grin, as he drew Jax forward and buttoned his coat. He straightened the collar and very carefully brushed back a lock of Jax’s hair that had fallen forward onto his face. Jax didn’t move, feeling a mixture of wonder, uneasiness and relief beneath Brodie’s ministrations.
Since his grandmother had died, he had become very unused to being touched. Maybe he hadn’t fucked up after all. Maybe Brodie wasn’t mad at him.
Jax didn’t know it, but Brodie didn’t see anything unusual in what he was doing at all. He was only doing to Jax what his brothers and sisters did to him all the time. He was treating Jax like a little brother. Even though Jax was older, that was how he was beginning to feel about him.
“Ok, now you’re straight,” he told Jax and stepped away from him.
“Be real careful driving,” Brodie said at the door. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”
“ ‘Kay,” Jax said. When he reached his car, he leaned back in the seat. His heart was suddenly lighter in his chest as he relived the feelings he had experienced as Brodie had handled him so solicitously. He felt something that he hadn’t felt for a very long time: like there was someone in the world who might care whether he lived or died.
***********************************
4
Over the next few months, Jax and Brodie began to spend most of their free time together, drawn together by their love of music and a similarity in viewpoint, despite their disparate backgrounds. Jax didn’t have the all-consuming love of music that Brodie did. For Jax, the music was something he liked, another escape. For Brodie, it was his life. He had to make music or die.
At lunchtime, they would go to the grove of trees on school grounds. Jax would listen to Brodie play his sax while writing in his journal. Most of the time, he was pretending to write in the journal while he watched Brodie instead.
Unblinkingly, he’d stare at Brodie’s long fingers lovingly polishing his sax and wonder what it would be like to have those fingers caressing his body as carefully as Brodie cared for his instrument. Brodie had owned it for just about half of his life but he took such good care of it that it appeared to be brand new.
He’d watch Brodie’s full, finely molded lips form an oval around the mouthpiece and imagine those lips on his, kissing their way down his body and engulfing his cock. And Brodie’s hair, that glorious hair, a thick, shiny, plaited rope, hanging almost to his waist, gleaming like red gold in the autumn sunlight. He envisioned himself, unbraiding all of that hair, strand by strand, taking his time, rubbing its softness across his body, burying his face in it.
Jax would look at Brodie, observing his fierce, controlled intensity, his sensuality and focus, totally submerged into his music, and wonder what would it be like to see that heat and sensuality released in physical desire. What it would be like to have Brodie’s long, muscular, naked body rubbing against him skin to skin. Brodie inside of him fucking him slowly, thoroughly, just like he did everything else. Brodie was a perfectionist in all things; Jax knew that he would be an expert lover.
He’d speculate about Brodie and some of the girls that seemed to be pursuing him. Brodie was nice and friendly to them all.
He loved to dance and would attend the school mixers, sometimes by himself and sometimes with Jax. But he showed no particular interest in anyone.
Jax swore to himself everyday that he would not torment himself with this impossible desire and endless speculation but every day he would end up looking Brodie over hungrily, starving for him. Every day, by the end of lunch period his cock would be hard, aching and dripping. It took tremendous, impossible force of will to make it subside before it was time to go back to class and to keep Brodie from noticing.
By the end of each day, Jax would be in agony. On the days he didn’t give Brodie a ride home, he would rush home and jerk off. Some days, he didn’t even remove his pants; all it took was a couple of hard squeezes to get him off. At night, he would lay naked in his bed, penis stiff with need, caressing and stroking himself slowly. He’d turn over and grind into the mattress, rubbing his turgid length against the sheets repeatedly until he’d cum frantically, groaning Brodie’s name.
The fall weather had been unseasonably warm. Eventually, the cold forced them inside to the school cafeteria for their lunch breaks. Cutter, Sinclair and Christian joined them and it became routine for the five of them to hang out together. By the time the first semester had ended, the five of them were a close-knit group. Brodie started teasing Christian about being the ‘lost triplet.’
One of the special projects Mr. Baird had assigned them was due at the close of the second semester. He had instructed them to compose a piece, play it during class and to explain the thought process behind the development of the piece.
They had anxiously played fragments of their compositions for each other and as the due date approached, they were all nervous. Brodie was unnerved by his feelings of trepidation. He had been playing musical instruments all of his life. He had been in the band at St. Mary’s, such as it was.
This was the first time he had worked with a musician of Mr. Baird’s caliber. This was the first time he had performed in front of people that he now considered his best friends and whose opinion he valued and respected.
He played for his family but they were supposed to say complimentary things. He was the baby. Even if he had played like shit they would have told him he sounded good.
Today was the day. Sinclair was startled and dismayed when Mr. Baird selected her to go first. Then she shrugged and said, “Cool.”
As she walked to the front of the room, Christian’s hazel eyes followed her, full of longing, admiring each confident, graceful sway of her supple hips. She sat down, pulled the congas between her thighs, closed her eyes and took a long, deep, cleansing breath. Her strong, calloused hands stroked the drum with a tender caress. She made a couple of movements with her hands that created a sound like trees, rustled by a gentle wind.
Then there was a rapid pounding, like running feet. As Sinclair played, her hands told a story of heightening tension, fear and devastating loss. The haunting, primal rhythm she ruthlessly pounded out seemed to be bursting with horror and rage.
One by one, those listening closed their eyes, lost in the story she was telling. Sinclair ended the story with a blazing fury of sound, her hands moving faster than seemed possible. Perspiration gave her exotic face a slight sheen that glistened against her deep, chocolate skin. The abrupt silence, when she suddenly ceased playing, was disquieting.
Sinclair’s voice was huskier than usual when she started speaking. “This is Papa,” she said, gesturing towards the congas. “I call him that because his voice is deep and mellow but can be hard and stern when necessary.”
She smiled faintly as they quietly laughed.
Sinclair swallowed and continued nervously, “I wrote part of this piece a while ago. I had just read this book called Beloved. Oprah Winfrey made a movie out of it, years after the book came out.
I was real disappointed that people didn’t get the movie, because I had this burning desire to talk to someone about the book. Cutt started it but didn’t finish because he said it was too dark. I guess the movie was too.”
Her voice was trembling slightly as she said, “The book tells the story of a runaway slave. She’s captured running off with her children.
When she realizes that they’re about to get caught, she kills one of the children, a little girl. She probably would’ve killed them all if she had time. The story tells of how the slave and the remaining children are haunted by the death.”
Sinclair blinked rapidly. “Sorry, if I’m rambling. I couldn’t figure out a way to summarize the book that would give it justice. That would show the power and beauty of it. I’m a mother….”
Her voice trailed off and she struggled not to wince at the identically shocked expressions on Jax and Christian’s faces.
“I’m a mother and I could understand how this insane act of madness and murder was an act of love and sanity.”
Sinclair lost the battle with her tears. They overflowed and trickled down her face. “I guess I’m like those people who feel like the Civil War happened yesterday. Because every day of my life I remember that I come from a people who were enslaved. It’s like the memory of it is embedded into my bones or something. Anyway, that’s why I wrote the piece.”
Mr. Baird was silent for a moment and then said, “Thank you, Sinclair. That was a beautiful piece of work.”
Sinclair flushed with pleasure and then sat down.