Page 5 of Brock
I lead the way, and pretty soon we’re walking up the handmade steps to my front door.
When I let her in, Layla walks around my living quarters as if she’s in a dream. She picks up the photo of my now-dead wife and looks at her. She doesn’t ask any questions. It’s like she can see into my heart.
I go into my kitchen and start to cook. Heating the oil in the pan. Cleaning and chopping the vegetables. I turn the radio on and lose myself in the music. In the familiar movements of my hands and the knife in my hands and the sound of the meat as it simmers gently in the oil.
When everything is ready, I put it all on two plates and carry it out into the main room of the cabin.
Layla’s sitting on my couch reading one of my books.
“You’re Brock Hampton?” she says.
“In the flesh.”
“God, I feel like such an idiot. Walking up to you like I did yesterday. You’re legit famous.”
“I’m just a guy who likes to write,” I say. “And people seem to like reading what I write. And that’s enough for me. Maybe once I was famous. Now I’m just a myth. Some guy who spends all his time by himself in the woods. Hiding from society.” I try to keep the emotion from my voice, but it’s not easy. Being with Layla has brought up a lot of old emotions. A lot of feelings I’d thought dealt with. Ghosts come back to haunt me.
She gets up off the sofa and sits down at the table. She squeezes my hand before we start to eat.
“I thought you were going to try and convince me to let you use my land,” I say.
“I was.” She takes her hand back and picks up her fork. When she takes the first bite of the steak I’ve cooked her, she closes her eyes and lets out a deep, sexual groan. I imagine what it would be like to make her make that noise with my cock. To feel her naked body beneath me as I slay her pussy. “But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Won’t your boss be pissed?”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “But I really don’t think I give a damn anymore.”
I sit back in my chair and watch her eat. There’s something different about her today. She’s more relaxed. More sure of herself. More calm. “You get it.”
“Get what?” she asks.
“The beauty of this place,” I say. “The way it makes you feel. Like, you look at this landscape, older than humanity itself, and you realize we’re just mere mortals passing through. That we can chop down trees and make pieces of paper and we can sign them and write things on them and swap them for other pieces of paper and say that we own the land and that it belongs to us, but at the end of the day, we’re just kidding ourselves. It’ll still be here long after we’re gone. You can’t own something this big. This beautiful. This old. All you can do is look upon it and feel lucky to be alive and to have seen it and to not have to fight against it every second of every day like they did when times were tougher.”
“I guess.” She dips a piece of meat in the yolk of her egg and puts it in her mouth. “I hadn’t really thought about it that deep. I know I like it, though.”
“You get it.” I take a sip of my water. It’s cold and pure and when it runs down my throat it fills me with energy. “I think I misjudged you.”
“Why? What’d you think? That I was just some dumb, annoying city girl, here to mess up your life?”
“Something like that,” I admit. “Although, that was probably my second thought.”
“And what was the first?”
“That you’re the most beautiful damn woman I’ve ever set eyes on.”
There’s a moment of silence. I’m not sure whether I’ve overstepped the mark. But, then Layla looks at me, and her cheeks are slightly flushed and the little smile that’s lighting up her face tells me she appreciated my words.
“Shut up. I’m fat.”
“You’re damn near perfect, Layla.” I take her hand and look her in the eyes. “And don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Near perfect?” she asks. “So, what’s wrong with me? My hips too wide? My tummy too large? My cheeks too chubby?”
“Hell no,” I growl. “None of that.
“It’s just… you don’t even know the songLayla. Your namesake. Eric Clapton on guitar. Ginger Baker on drums. Jack Bruce on bass. It’s a total frigging classic. I’m not sure I can be with a woman who doesn’t know it.”
“Well, big boy,” she purrs. “There’s one way we can change that. How about you play it for me?”
