Page 40 of Erik

I grab the notepad and pen I’d chosen earlier for the assignment. “Shoot.”

“Always the A plus student. Keep it up.” She guffaws before sobering up. “I want you to list the times a man snuck up on you, under the dark of night, to sexually assault you. Next time, we’ll discuss how these events affect your reactions to kinky sex.”

***

Crossed leg, I kick my foot, checking the time on my phone. Again.

“Just another five minutes, ma’am,” the young woman behind the oak front desk of M.o.D. offices informs me, which she’s been doing for the last half hour. “I’m not supposed to interrupt them, when they’re locked up in the studio.”

“I understand. I do, but I’ve run out of time.” I tuck the helmet under an arm, sling the strap of my purse over the opposite shoulder, and raise from the leather and chrome chair. I grin at the receptionist. “Is there a restroom I can use before I leave?”

“Through there,” she replies, pointing to a corridor to the right. “First door on the left.”

“Thanks.”

I follow her instructions, then walk past the restroom, looking for signs of a studio. Peering through the glass walls, I discover the other doors lead to offices. I glance toward the front desk. The woman is on the phone. She returns the phone to its cradle. I take a step toward the restroom door to pretend I’m coming from there.

Erik emerges from the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor. My heart cartwheels, stealing my breath. I cover my mouth with a hand afraid the silly organ will fly out of it and land at his feet.

A genuine smile brightens up his face like the northern lights, warmth beams from his eyes as he rushes toward me, hands outstretched. As he gets closer, his grin fades away, replaced by concern.

He slants his head, as he stops a foot from me. “You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

I glance around us. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

He furrows his brow. “My office is on the third floor. Come with me.”

When we get to the staircase, Logan, Wes, and Nick come up from the lower level.

I greet them in a whisper, “Hello.”

None of them act surprised at seeing me.

Logan asks me as we climb the steps. “Have you listened to the new album yet? Erik’s been quite inspired lately.”

“I thought you guys were still recording it. Also, Erik’s a great lyricist.” I frown.

Logan’s smirk is my only reply. A sidelong glance from Erik gets a shrug from his band mate.

What are these two driving at?

Wes replies. “The album dropped a couple of days ago. We’ve been preparing for the tour, which kicks off in early September.”

I grimace. “Ouch. Two weeks from now.”

When we reach the third floor, Nick elbows Erik, before opening a door. “Glad you’ve found your muse again, bro.” He winks at me, clicking his tongue. “She’s going to earn us a few more Grammys,” he singsongs, closing the door, laughing his head off.

As we approach the end of the hall, blood rushes down my body, leaving me lightheaded, out of breath. Thoughts of the band, the album, or the tour fly out of the window as I remember why I’ve come here today.

“Thanks,” I grunt as Erik holds the door open.

I take a seat on the couch he indicates with a flick of his wrist, while pressing a button on a dashboard on his desk, darkening the glass walls to give us privacy.

Instead of the speech I had committed to memory, my mind gives me a blank slate. I stare at the tip of my biker boots, grasping at syllables and feelings, trying to reconstruct my original ideas. Nothing makes sense. Awkwardness hangs between us, thick as the fog floating up from San Francisco Bay.

Erik clears his throat, dips his head. I avoid his gaze.

He sits on the coffee table in front of me, speaking in his hoarse baritone, “There’s so much I want to say.” He pauses. “Sorry is a good start. I don’t understand what triggered you that night, but I know I’m the one to blame.” I groan, darting my eyes up, then focusing on the intricate design of the Persian rug. He stretches his hands toward mine, but recoils, resting them on his knees. He adds, “You’ve inspired me, among other things, to start seeing a therapist.”

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