118. Reflections

Warning: language

Bridgeport, present day...

Krisis had a quick shower and a change of clothing before he went downstairs to his home studio to work on new material for the band.

He gave up though after an hour or so. He had a lot on his mind and the longer he stared at the instruments and the music sheets that once gave him joy, the quicker his love for music died.

 “Shit!” He pushed the music sheets away from him with an angry grunt, sending the papers flying in the air. He watched them float above his head for a nanosecond before they fell back on the table with a silent flutter, reminding him of his own life.

At that moment he felt like he was hanging by the thread, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He wasn’t stupid; he’d quickly added up a lot of things, like the Council’s judgment. He’d suspected someone had pulled strings and made sure he got away with killing Vladimir. He knew now who the puppeteer was. He was right from the start. He’d suspected it was Thornton, but he’d never imagined it was because they were related…

He had so many questions and no answers; the ones that nagged him the most were about his career.

How much of their success was due to their talent, and how much was Thornton’s doing? Did they sell records because they were good, or did Thornton have something to do with that too?  How far and wide did the man’s hand reach? What other small acts of kindness had he done for them in the past without their knowledge?

Krisis stared up at the ceiling and blew out a frustrated sigh.

At 216 years he’d never thought he’d go through an identity crisis. But lately, since his fight with Thornton, he’d started questioning everything. His whole life had been based on one truth, and finding out Thornton was his father had turned his world upside down...

Knowing he was a child of rape had always filled him with a shame and self loathing he could never explain to anyone. But, he’d learned to accept it and deal with it because he’d convinced himself his rapist father was long dead and he’d never have to confront him for his actions. Now it turned out the man was alive and well, didn’t even look like a rapist and may not even be one. But just because he wore nice suits and combed his hair didn’t mean that he wasn’t a rapist.

Margaret wouldn’t lie about that, about being raped. Or would she? And what did it say about him, having a rapist father, was he like Thornton in some ways?

Would his own son take after his grandfather, would he have some rapist gene; be predisposed to being a rapist and a killer since it seemingly ran in the family?

What kind of father would he be to his own kids when he had no frigging clue who he was anymore?

These were questions he would never ask out loud, especially to Leigh. They kept him awake at night and consumed his waking moments too.

“Fuck!” He kicked his drum set on his way out; he needed to get out of the house.

He was almost at the cliff when he changed his mind.

In the past he’d always gone up there to think and get close to Laura, but lately he felt guilty just thinking about her. He was with Leigh now, and Laura was in the past. He had to find another place to think, one that didn’t remind of him Laura.

He got on his motorcycle, and headed towards the city center. He was looking for trouble, anything really, just to get the edge off.

He found it in the form of Cameron at Waylon’s haunt, doing what he did best, feeling up one of his groupies in their usual corner booth.

Cameron’s beer and the girl’s colorful drink, some fruity cocktail, remained untouched on the table, along with the french-fries and hot wings.

The groupie was exactly Cameron’s type. Super tight leather hot pants and bleached hair, a barbwire tattoo slashed across her midriff.

The bangles on her left wrist jangled every time she caressed Cameron’s hand, egging him on, pleading for his touch and a whole lot more.

From her loud, impassioned whimpers, Krisis gathered his band mate was doing something right, touching her in all the right places. She was practically begging Cameron to fuck her right there on the booth in a room full of people.

Before Cameron could fulfill her fantasies, Krisis made his presence known. “Fix your clothes and leave,” he told the groupie, his lip curled distastefully.

Without saying a word, she jumped from Cameron’s lap, fixed her top and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster.

Krisis caught a whiff of her perfume as she brushed past him; it was flowery, sweet, and cheap too, like her.

He snorted, wondering what it was with Cameron and skanks.

“What’s up?” Cameron asked casually as soon as they were alone.

 “Lay off my niece.” Krisis dropped on the table and gave him a small smile, but his eyes remained frosty, letting the other man know, in no uncertain terms, he meant business. “She’s not legal and even if she was, I’ll kill you first and J.D. will finish you off!”

He saw the shocked, almost confused look in Cameron’s eyes, but he wasn’t swayed by it.

Cameron was a sly one, been around forever, and in the very long time he’d known him, he’d seen him toy with women and discard them as soon as he got bored or the next flavor of  the month rolled around. He wasn’t going to let him do the same to his niece.

Krisis got up from the booth, and stared at his friend, rubbing his chin contemplatively, as if trying to decide how to say the rest of his piece.

“I see the way she looks at you and the way you smile at her. She has a mad crush on you and you’re not doing anything to discourage it. Kill it now before it gets too far!” He told him just before he walked away, leaving his band mate with a lot to think about.

Long after Krisis was gone, Cameron was still at Waylon’s Haunt, drinking himself senseless.

There’s no truth in Krisis’ words. Not on my part at least. That’s what he kept telling himself.

Sure, lately they’d grown close.  He’d helped her through her breakup from that goofball, Leo, by being the friend she’d needed when her own parents were too caught up with finding Blake to notice she was hurting.

There were never any weird moments between them, he’d never wanted to cross a line with her, and so Krisis being all protective was a bit worrying.

He ordered the bartender to keep his drinks coming, and tried his damnedest to dismiss their talk. But Krisis’ accusations lingered, and they couldn’t be erased with a few drinks. They stuck with him, made him question his whole friendship with Michaela.

Had the other man seen something he hadn’t? Something he’d been too blind to see perhaps or too stubborn to acknowledge? Did he unknowingly lead her on, make her think there was more to their friendship? Was there more to their friendship? Did he want more?

His answer to all his questions was no. Except the last one. He couldn’t answer that one, didn’t even know how or why it had crossed his mind.

He needed to see her, talk to her, and set the record straight. Kill whatever crush she had on him. Yes, soon, they’d have to sit down and get everything out in the open.

“Closing time,” the bartender announced.

It was 4am already. Time definitely flies when you’re drunk and panicky.

He made his way outside, grateful to see the limo still there, along with the band’s security detail.

“To the penthouse?” George, the band’s driver, asked when Cameron slid inside.

Cameron faltered. In a few hours he had band practice, and it made sense to just head over to Krimsyn and J.D.’s place. But he was still rattled over his run in with Krisis.

“No, take me home.” He quickly decided against the penthouse. He’d deal with the band later; right then he needed sleep, and maybe when he woke up his head would be a little clearer and he could decide how to approach Michaela.

“Are you okay?” George asked, his eyebrows fused in a concerned frown.

“Yeah, I’m good!” Cameron replied and shut the glass panel between them. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, didn’t need or want a Dear Abby.

______

Fun stuff:

For a virtual tour of Krimsyn and J.D.'s place click here. And the band's official site can be found here.