Cinnamon and Rust

I survived until the tour made it to Chicago. Knowing that I was going to see Skye again was the only thing holding me together at that point. Hearing her voice on the phone was incredible, but I longed for the gentleness of her hands, the warmth of her breath, and the way her eyes penetrated me.

We’d been apart for entire summers before, but my dependance on her was more intense than ever. I knew I was unraveling. She was the accomplice to all of my sins, and without her, my guilt was heavier than ever:

I needed her to hold me accountable while enabling me.

I sat in my hotel room the morning before our show at Soldier Field. Skye had texted letting me know she was on her way from the airport. I was anxious, my hands trembled as I texted Ariel’s manager, ensuring I’d have my uppers in time for the show.

Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The late nights, drug use, and self doubt had taken their toll on me in a short time. Skye loved me but I wasn’t sure if I was still me. I’d lost the self awareness I was so proud of. I only had negative opinions of myself at this point.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, I heard a knock at my door, and a faint, but instantly recognizable voice say, “Wes?”

My jaw clenched. I was terrified.

I stood up from the bed and opened the door.

God, Skye was perfect.

I wrapped my arms around her, lifting her a foot off the ground, making sure she felt all of my longing.

I put her down, but our embrace lasted several minutes. I realized I was crying.

“I missed you too,” she said, giggling.

I smiled through my tears.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you…” I let out.

“It’s alright,” she grabbed my hands. “I could hear the pain in your voice on the phone…this was hard for both of us. I’m just elated to see you.”

I gave an empty smirk, “Sorry that I look so bad.”

She tilted her head with a loving smile, “You don’t look nearly as bad as I expected…based on how you’ve sounded on the phone, I was prepared for worse.”

I didn’t know how to take that.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry so much.”

“Wes, I was going to worry no matter what. We both knew you weren’t in a good place when you left,” she paused. “You have a bad habit of thinking that pain stays in the past as soon as you experience it, but then you end up letting it weigh on you without realizing it…”

“Do I?”

That didn’t sound right to me. I used my pain from my youth as my primary motivator, so this didn’t make much sense.

“Wes, you’ve never properly hashed out anything that happened since we started dating. Not with Julia, Scott, Kenny, or Courtney. You’ve written songs like Darker Days and Wicked Dream, but you’ve never addressed the pain,” her tone was polite, she was trying to avoid ruining the moment.

“I guess, but writing is my outlet…just like it’s yours.”

She was right, I didn’t confront how I felt about any of these things. I just did the next right thing.

“Luckily, we have a lot of downtime over the rest of the tour to figure it out, as long as you don’t get sick of me,” she said, pulling in for a kiss.

The familiar scent of her hair and the taste of her cinnamon gum stirred something in me.

We made out. All of my ambivalence had been flooded by the passion she ignited in me. She really was a natural disaster in human form, able to alter the landscape of my mind in mere moments.

She pulled my shirt off and ran her index finger down the center of my ribcage before our lips met again.

We found our rhythm again, as we alternated removing articles of clothing from each other. By the time we were naked I was chewing her gum.

She pushed me down onto the bed, straddling her knees at my hips.

I’d never seen her smile so wide as my hands found her waist.

Instinctively, she reached for the knife that I kept on the night stand.

I forgot it was there. At this point it was an unconscious habit that I always left it there, whether at home or in a hotel.

She licked her lips, deciding on and fantasizing about her next move.

She made a shallow incision in her lower abdomen, the warm, sticky liquid slowly dripped onto my stomach.

Every primal urge stirred in my body, mind, and soul. I was a famous rock star, playing shows for 40,000 plus people every night, and turning down advances from the country’s biggest pop star. Yet, here I was: a crumpled puppet, helpless at the hands of his master; a short girl with a pixie cut from Nowhere, Massachusetts.

She flashed her usual, beautiful smile as she dragged the knife across my abdomen.

After not doing this for months, I realized just how sick we both were: Neither of us could explain why we obsessed over this sensation. The stinging pain meant nothing to either of us in the face of mutual arousal.

We pressed our bodies together, the stickiness spreading.

As we made love, the spillage of liquid quickened as our blood pressure increased, intensifying the lucidity, and the pure lust between us.

“Housekeeping will be horrified when they come by later,” flashed into my head as the white sheets were being painted in that familiar rust color.

We kissed deeper than ever as we released the tension between us.

She finished before me, and seeing how pale she was, her climax must have been otherworldly as her body trembled in my arms.

After we were done, I noticed the clock above the bed read 2:09.

“I love you,” I whispered, running my hands through her hair.

She smiled, “I love you too.”

“We should try to shower before we leave.”

“I don’t know, I think the dried blood looks hot on both of us,” she laughed. “Most people would think it’s fake anyway.”

She was tracing her finger along her newest wound.

“Besides, the bleeding has stopped, and a quick soap rub will disinfect. I’m more concerned about you eating something before you play.”

I chuckled, “There’s catering at the shows, that’s the least of my concerns.”

“Maybe I also want to be selfish,” she said, playing coy, making me ask what she meant.

“Selfish?” I played along.

“Maybe I want everyone to be able to smell me on you. I want everyone, especially Ariel, to know you’re mine,” her voice was sultry, stirring something in me.

I kissed her.

“Be careful, or we’ll be late,” I said, gazing deep into her eyes.

She responded with a devilish smile.

I didn’t expect to be so turned on by that.

We didn’t take a shower.

We got dressed instead.

I pulled on my usual show attire, knowing I would do my make-up at the venue.

Skye matched it with boots and black jeans, but she chose a black crop top and vest, making sure the dried blood and part of her newest cut were visible.

She was always confident, but this was new for her.

Noticing my judging eyes, she turned, ready to explain.

“Wes,” her voice was confident, “You’re famous now, and women like Ariel Sanchez invite you to their hotel rooms. Your partner has to look the part.”

Her smile matched her tone.

I wasn’t going to need the Modas tonight. I’d never felt this confident, or this energized before playing a show before. This is the version of myself I’d been searching for, struggling to find. Wes Reau was at his best when Wes Rondeau was at his worst.