5 - Key Play

Jon tore open the little zippered compartment on his bag that kept his most important possessions safe when they weren’t on his person.  As traffic on the freeway whizzed by in the opposite direction of Livermore, California, he rooted around for one of those possessions – his iPhone.  Swiping his finger impatiently across the screen and tapping repeatedly, he quickly found what he needed.

“The address is 480 Rembrandt Drive,” he tersely informed the driver, barely awaiting the other man’s acknowledgement as the privacy panel went up.  He was left in a tinted cocoon to slide the phone into his pants pocket and retrieve the rest of his vital belongings from the little compartment.

His watch snapped around his wrist with a heavy click before he delved back in for the scuffed wallet that went immediately into his back pocket.  Jon’s favorite designer sunglasses stayed put, deferring to the darkness outside.  That left only one thing.

The key to Rachel’s house. 

It was probably a pathetic attempt to hold onto the past.  No doubt about it, but when they’d split up, she didn’t ask him to return it and he selfishly hadn’t offered.  That thin little scrap of metal had become his guilty pleasure and Jon often found himself worrying it between his thumb and forefinger like his old Sicilian grandma’s rosary.  

Like he was now.

Jon frowned, scraping the pad of his thumb over the dulled and jagged edges that represented the secret combination to Rachel’s home.  It was one of those subtle head games that people played with themselves, he supposed.  If he had her house key, then they were still connected on some level – despite the fact that she rejected him and walked away. 

Despite the fact that she blew me off tonight, like some bum offering to clean her windshield.

Those jagged edges dug into his flesh as he fisted his hand around the little scrap of metal.

It pissed him off beyond all reason that she had refused to come to tonight’s show – effectively screwing it up for him, the band and the audience, if he were honest – but it was more than that.  Rachel had all but dismissed him, barely deigning to give him the time of day and treating him with all the warmth of a telemarketer.  With her “Please don’t keep doing this,” she’d toppled the playing board on his mind game, sending all the pieces flying and destroying any illusion of connection he’d entertained himself with during the past months.

Heal, she said. 

A mixture of frustrated growl and disbelieving snort gurgled together in the back of his throat as her favorite breakfast place came into view.  He was getting close now.  The hired car wound through the deserted streets with the stealth of a jungle cat stalking its prey.

Heal?  That’s bullshit, Rachel.  Complete and utter bullshit, and I intend to tell you that in no uncertain terms.

His fist tightened again. 

Seeing as she hadn’t been receptive to his attempts at contact so far, he had no reason to believe she was going to throw open the door and welcome him into her house at this hour of the night.  The little piece of metal scorching his palm would now provide a much more practical purpose than being the centerpiece of his little mind game.  It would keep him from having to kick down the door. 

Because he refused to be brushed off by her again. 

His knee bounced with impatient anger as the car rolled silently past the local grocery store and executed two left turns without interruption.  The subdivision she called home was dark and quiet as he approached Rembrandt. 

Heal, he snorted to himself again.  Un-fucking-believable.  I’m not a monster.  Je-sus!

The final turn brought her house into plain view and Jon’s knee stilled.  The granite scowl on his face softened and his fist relaxed around the key as he discerned the shadowy outline of the place where “Superman Tonight” had been born.

The house itself was like Rachel – it commanded your attention.  That wasn’t because it was ostentatious or flashy, though.  In fact, just the opposite was the case.   The classic brick trim was elegant in a subdued sort of way.  The timeless gray paint with its white trim was stylish and sophisticated just like the woman who owned it.    

Anger leaked out of him to be replaced by...  something else. 

Rachel was in there.  Just behind the massive doors that were edged by leaded glass, she was there.  Her face scrubbed free of makeup, her skin lotioned to within an inch of its life and likely asleep in the bed that they’d shared.  With the key clutched in his hand, it felt almost like he was coming home. 

Jon’s shoulder muscles went taut as strung steel with the realization that his girl was closer than she’d been in months. 

Except she’s not your girl, dumbass.

Jon grabbed his bag and accepted the driver’s explanation that payment and gratuity had already been taken care of as he stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.  He tucked the contact number for the driver in the front pocket of his jeans, slowly ambled up Rachel’s front walk and mounted the front porch. 

Now what? 

He stared at the lock that was waiting to welcome his key, but the next step was almost too much effort to make.  Whereas he’d been spoiling for a fight mere minutes ago, now all the fight in him was gone with a single puff of night air.   It was normal for him to be tired after a show, but what he felt now was a completely different kind of fatigue than the adrenaline crash after a performance.  Deeper.  More bone-weary.

The only thing he wanted was to walk through the door and up the stairs to crawl into bed with the woman he’d been missing for ages. 

The same woman who wouldn’t give you the time of day a couple hours ago.

Jon blew out a fatigued breath, watching it float away in the darkness that was broken only by a few rays of light on the porch from the street lamp down the block.

He couldn’t just walk in the door and crawl into bed, as appealing as that idea was.  She’d probably shoot his ass, thinking he was an unwanted intruder.  And maybe he was, in her mind. 

No point in taking unnecessary chances.

Instead, he pushed the doorbell and listened to the chimes as they rang through the inside of her house.  When there were no answering signs of life to acknowledge its peal, he rang again, holding the button longer.  This time, before it finished chiming, a single light flared to life in the master bedroom upstairs.  It was quickly followed by a second that shone down the staircase.

Jon stepped to the side, pressing closer against the glass panel to the left of the front door, impatiently waiting for her to appear on the landing.  He wasn’t disappointed.  It was only a few seconds before he could see the outline of her silhouette, her hand hovering uncertainly on the railing. 

His heart was pounding before she descended the first step.

She was wearing some kind of satiny pajama top, hair tousled from the pillow she’d obviously had her head nested into, while her legs were bare.  He could easily make out the sleek, smooth outline of her running-toned thighs and calves, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the light or his memory.  Those legs had been wrapped around his waist enough times to print an indelible image on his mind. 

Jesus.  She still takes my breath away.

Her head cocked gracefully to one side and her chin dipped into her chest as she peered toward the door in an effort to identify her late-night guest.  Her descent was slow, each step being taken with a sure caution as she approached the unknown with squinted eyes. 

Suddenly she stopped. 

Rachel was about halfway down when she recognized him through the leaded glass.  He knew the moment it happened, because she stopped dead in her tracks.  Her spine went stiff and straight at the same instant their eyes locked together.  

Jon had been right.  She wasn’t going to throw open the door and welcome him inside.   

“Open the door, Rachel,” he requested in a voice loud enough to be heard through the thick wood.

He didn’t yell – in fact, he was surprised to find his tone surprisingly calm – nor did he pound on the door in a demand to gain entrance.  Jon simply stood there, holding his breath, and watched a gamut of emotions chase one another across the plane of her face.  Shock, pain, sadness, anger took turns ravaging hard lines around her mouth while she remained firmly rooted to the same spot. 

Move, Rachel.  Open the door and let me in.

She either didn’t hear his mental urgings or chose to ignore them.  Tired of waiting, he held the key aloft so that he was sure she could see it and silently offered her one final opportunity.  Her eyes darted to his hand, acknowledging the key for only a scant millisecond before she fixed her gaze back to his eyes without moving.  The rest of her body was still frozen on the stairs. 

You had your chance, baby.

As he slipped the key in, Jon couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do if she’d changed the locks.   How embarrassing would it be to swoop in like a cocky, arrogant bastard and find himself still locked out in the chilly night? 

Unacceptable.  She didn’t change the locks.

The soft metallic snick of acceptance was music to his music-deafened ears. 

He’d been right.  She didn’t change them.

Pulling the lucky talisman free and dropping it into his pocket, he stepped into the foyer.  Jon’s trusty bag dropped to the hardwood with a soft thud as he closed the door behind him, never taking his eyes from hers. 

Honey, I’m home...

The incessant chirping of the alarm system demanded that it be deactivated or suffer the consequences.  He took the three quick steps toward the panel at the base of the stairs, knowing that a call to the cops was not going to make this visit go any more smoothly.  

His fingers hovered over the numeric pad.  She hadn’t changed the locks, so he assumed she hadn’t changed the access code, but he had to be sure. 

“Is the alarm code the same?”

Her eyes had tracked his every motion, but she still hadn’t moved and wasn’t making any effort to answer him.  The alarm began chirping faster, warning him that he only had a few seconds before the damn thing went off, waking the neighbors and automatically dialing the police. 

“IS THE ALARM CODE THE SAME?” 

His impatient snap penetrated her zombie-esque fog and, while she still didn’t speak, she nodded in the affirmative.   Jon quickly punched in the numbers that he’d committed to memory, successfully deactivating the alarm.

Affixing his gaze back on her, he asked himself again, Now what?

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she quietly stuttered her own question, making his irrelevant. 

Jon drew in a deep breath and blew it out.  His eyes went hard as a bit of his former anger returned and he rethought the purpose to his visit here.  “We’re going to talk.  Go put some clothes on and I’ll meet you in the family room.”

The direct order was apparently what she needed to bring her back to life.  She squinted into his harsh gaze and very nearly growled, “What makes you think you can walk into my home and start telling me what to do?  You have no right –“

With the first sentence, Jon took the stairs that separated them two at a time until he met her eye-to-eye, effectively interrupting her indignation.  He was close enough that the familiar scent of her hair tickled his nostrils and, if he wasn’t mistaken, it mingled with the distinctive smell of tequila. 

Tequila.  She always goes for tequila when she’s hurting.  Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had a rough night.

But beyond her scent, he knew under that red satin-y pajama top, she wore nothing.  Rachel couldn’t stand anything on her legs, even panties, when she slept, and her half-nakedness was distracting as hell.

“I wanna talk to you, but I can’t do it with you wearing that.  So you have two choices,” he continued tightly.  “Either go put something on that will let me concentrate, or...  Well, I’m gonna assume that your nipples are poking through that shirt from desire instead of cold, and I’ll just drag you up to bed.  Your call.”

It was all he could do not to run his fingers under the hem of that night shirt while she stared down at him and deliberated her answer.  Jon searched the depths of her eyes, re-familiarizing himself with the distinctive shade of green and trying to gain some type of clue as to what was going on behind them.  The desire he’d accused her of swirled in there, but it was nearly drowned out by a host of more unflattering emotions that he chose not to pinpoint.

Regardless, they were enough to let him know that he’d never be able to make good on the threat of dragging her upstairs.  He and Rachel needed to talk, not have sex.

It was a relief when her whispered answer finally came.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”