Page 9 of Erik

“Get the fuck up”. I unshackle her from the bedframe. “And hit the road.”

She stretches her boney arms.

With a long moan, she whines, “I don’t want to go.”

“Don’t care.” I grab the rim of the covers and throw them away from her. “Shooting begins tomorrow. I’ve got to be on the set early.”

“You’re the damn executive producer. You don’t ‘gotta’ do nothing.”

I wince at her choice of words but refrain from correcting her. Not to spare her feelings. I just don’t care about her enough.

She stumbles out of bed, picks her minidress up from the floor, and wiggles her ass at me as she pulls the tight silk down her back. It clings to her like a second skin. With a sultry wink, she glances at me over her shoulder.

The whole scene does nothing to my libido.

“Just go,” I groan, dismissing her with a flick of my wrist.

Huffing, she hops around, collecting her high heels, and slipping them on.

When she stubs her toe on the metallic desk by the window, she growls, “Fuck! Try cracking the curtains open for a change, let light in.”

On her way out, she balks a step shy of the door. Flexing her fingers, gaze zeroing in on a tiny plastic bag on an oak dresser, she hesitates.

I growl, “Take the rest of the coke. I’ve got no use for it anyway.”

She glances at me. When I slump back on the pillows, she snatches her only reason for coming back, and leaves.

The distant sound of the hotel suite door clicking behind her reaches me and I sink further into the softness of the pillows, hoping a catnap will relax my corded muscles. Instead, the second I close my eyes, a litany of images parade behind my lids. Hateful memories have escaped the dungeons of my mind again to haunt me.

I sit up straight and throw my legs over the side of the bed in one movement. Standing up, I wait for a beat to recover my balance. Then, I lug myself to the bathroom, where I toss my clothes on the floor, and step inside the shower stall.

Closing the glass door, I get under the scalding stream of water, lather a loofah, and scrub my skin bloody red. It won’t wash away ancient demons. Still, I scour until I’m raw. It hurts less than my raw insides.

I cool my forehead on the tiled wall letting the loofah slip through deadened fingers. Struggling to return my breathing to its normal pace, I eyeball the glass shelves. Razor is gone. Overzealous band manager has been ransacking my hotel suite. Again.

“Whatever,” I mumble, rinse off the suds, and shut the water.

I wrap a white towel around myself. Harsh fibers rake my skin as I dry it.

Exquisite.

Stepping out of the shower stall, I abandon the rough cloth for my fingertips, kneading my chest down to my thighs.

Blissful.

Light-headed, I stagger until my back finds a wall. I slide to the floor. Warm liquid coats my thighs.

What the fuck?

With a frown, I cast my stare down, and squint. Under the blinding lights, my fingertips glisten red. Scraps of skin hang from my nails.

Who said I needed razors?

***

Weeks later

Inside my trailer, at the movie set, I lean against a desk, and sulk. I take the last swig from a bottle of beer to wash away another unproductive morning. A week past Memorial Day, we’ve accomplished very little, and fallen two weeks behind schedule.

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