Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1) (5 page)

“I don’t like that heavy metal shit,” he whispers.

A fact of life. He doesn’t like it much but tolerates it. Gabe likes classical music, indie tunes, alternative pop, and loves the Beatles.

“We established that you perceived yourself as the black sheep of the house,” Gabe re-takes my story and my head slumps along with my shoulders.

“Let it go, old man,” I sound like my irreverent brothers.

“Nice try, AJ. I’m no spring chicken, but I’m not that old.”

He compresses his lips into a tight line and tilts his head several times.

“This can’t work if you don’t tell me your side,” he comes up with a pretty smart line.

I’m guessing he knows I’m trying to find a way to fix his marriage—my parent’s marriage. Not sure how I’m going to work this out, but if I can get his side of the story… maybe I can do something for them.

It’s an attempt to bring myself back to believing that anything is possible. Not with
him
though, the asshole who broke my heart. Things can’t be repaired—never. But maybe there’s someone out there. I shake my head knowing that for it to work, I need a heart. Mine is beyond repair.

“Who did it?” Dad asks. “Who broke your heart, sweetie?”

I close my eyes as the walls of the library close in on me. It’s… I don’t want to tell him. It’s amazing how after all these years, I still try to protect him—the guy who broke my heart.

2015

“AJ?” she doesn’t speak after I asked her who broke her heart.

Her eyes dimmed down and remained silent for some time.

“Who broke your heart?” I repeat the question.

“What happened with that cutie, Miss Ritz while filming, Dad?” AJ changes the subject, and I let her.

“I’ll skip your turn, but… you have to give me something.”

A light nod is all she grants me.

This is as painful for her as it is for me, extracting the past. If giving her my story will get hers out, I’ll abide by this information exchange.

1986

Miss Ritz liked to flirt, but the tight schedule and my own daily training didn’t let things go further than sharing a meal with her and the entire cast. Tara had been tricky about the setup because you can’t place a bunch of A-listers together and expect that they won’t suggest going to the best restaurant in town and paying for the meal themselves. In solidarity, each one took a turn to choose a place and each day we spent no more than six dollars per person on a meal.

Filming a low budget indie movie is different. We worked around the clock and no one had a moment alone to get to know each other on an intimate level but at the same time, I got to know the entire cast. We were like a family. I’m not saying that Abby and Lara ended up like best friends, but after the movie their feud died.

The last night, before we headed to LA, Abby gave me her number. I didn’t have a place to stay yet, but promised to contact her when I found an apartment.

“You want a ride to LA?” Chris asked as I packed my belongings.

We moved from strangers to friends within the past few weeks, but I wasn’t counting on hanging out with him after the movie was over.

“No, but thank you for offering.”

“Right, you’re driving,” his casual tone didn’t match his narrowing gaze. “So the polite chit-chat is gone?”

“Nah,” I lied. “We’re good, right? I wish I can give you my phone, but I don’t have a home as of yet.”

“You need a place to crash?” Chris asked.”

I shrugged, not giving it much importance.

“You’re welcome to stay at my house. It has enough rooms, a maid, and is far enough from the city, Santa Barbara.”

The invitation didn’t sound crazy, actually it sounded great. A few days or a couple of weeks in a place that wasn’t a hotel while I found something or decided to head back to Albany.

My concern lay in the amount of partying he’d be doing. Not that he had partied during filming. Other than playing his acoustic guitar at nights while he worked on some music, there wasn’t much indication that he was a musician, let alone a rock star who played heavy metal songs for a living.

“You can help me hire a trainer,” he added. “I want to continue those daily routines you taught me during our stay here. Maybe in a few years, I’ll be able to run a marathon. You should scratch going back to your hometown thing. You’re a good actor; find a good agent and keep working. It’s all about the doors you knock on. In showbiz’ it’s not only quality but quantity.”

I accepted his offer. If it didn’t work, at least I had a place to crash while I looked for a place of my own. An apartment that I could afford until I received any paychecks, another gig, or I was able to cash in a few of my stocks.

“It’ll only be for a few days or weeks,” I reassured him.

“Mi casa es su casa,” he declared. “No rush for you to find your own place.”

The spacious home with a ton of room, as Christian Decker described when we were in Omaha, was classified a mansion in my book. A gated house with an electric fence to keep out the undesired photographers with tall, bushy trees to make sure their camera lenses couldn’t reach inside of the house.

“A few rooms?”

“I was young when I bought it.” He tilted his head and walked towards the left hallway. The naked white walls were in need of some color or at least a frame. “Imagine the crazy events we organized here at first. It’s been a couple of years since the partying ceased.”

“What happened?” I asked, then felt stupid for it. None of my business.

“I woke up in the hospital,” he explained, rubbing his palm behind the nape of his neck. “They rescued me from the bottom of the pool… not sure who they were, exactly. I had no memory of the weekend, hell, I realized at that juncture, I had no memory of what had happened with my life for years. There were so many holes in much of my life, including concerts.”

Chris shrugged and stared at me before speaking, “I’m Christian Decker and I’m an alcoholic. One year without a drop of alcohol or a snort of cocaine.”

I froze after he dropped that bomb. It’s a well-known fact that some musicians and celebrities are alcoholics or drug addicts.

The fact that he confessed to it so lightly, impacted me. Not many trusted such a delicate matter to someone they only met a few weeks ago. He trusted me with that, and I began to look at him as more than a casual friend or a housemate for the time being.

Chris continued his grand tour and we entered a big room where the large window faced the ocean. An ominous view of the blue waters, the sun, and the sky.

“Pretty cool place, right?” he said.

A piano stood in the center of the room and caught my eye.

Chris noticed me gazing at it. “I use it to write my shit.”

The entire house spoke to me. “What if I pay some rent and become your roommate?”

My offer had only one of two answers, yes or no. I wouldn’t lose much if he said no. If he said yes, I had a pretty awesome eight bedroom house until he kicked me out—a sanctuary.

“Hmm, I guess we could do that.” He scratched his left eyebrow. “There’s one important thing for you to know. No, a must do. Please don’t make any noise before ten in the morning or talk to me before I have a cup of coffee. I’m not a morning person.”

A strange warning because I had no idea what would happen if I woke him before ten.

“Agreed, unless it’s an emergency. Then I’ll have to drag you out of bed.”

“Fine.” He sat on the bench of his piano and fidgeted with the keys. “You should buy the house, now that you’re going to be famous and all that. You and that chick Abby can create your nest here.”

I could see a family in this house. Growing up with one big family—two brothers and two sisters, made it easy for me to think about having one of my own. I wasn’t sure if Abby was part of the equation yet.

“I’ll buy it if I recover my investment or land a new role.”

Abby, or whomever I wound up with, could wait longer.

“The movie is going to be big,” Christian declared.

I envied his confidence. Hell, he didn’t have a reputation or money to lose. He was a musician; he’d be forgiven if the movie didn’t make it.

“You should let me introduce you to some of my friends, they’ll connect you to the right people.”

“This will sound ridiculous,” I confessed, “but if I decide to stay, I want to make it on my own.”

This contradicted my plan of giving up and going back home. My desire to stay and try to become a consolidated actor had been the combo between the quality of the movie I had just filmed and my new found passion for acting.

“I’m just introducing you, not helping you skip auditions,” he pressed. “I’ll invite you to a party or two and you can work your magic, whatever that is. You must have some shit because in this industry that’s what gets you to a door. If it works, great; if it doesn’t, at least you tried.”

He told me to choose any room I wanted, except the master room that belonged to him. I chose one that had an ocean view. It was a step up from Omaha and from any other home I’ve ever lived in.

1987

For three straight weeks, we continued filming the movie. By the fourth week, the cast thinned with only a few scenes left. Since most of the cast had lived in Los Angeles, they drifted away as they were doing their own thing. It was better than spending their free time watching the rest of the actors shoot their last lines. I did the same while I wasn’t filming; I started to hunt for an agent.

Several times I tried to catch up with Abby, but she was unavailable. Occasionally, I thought someone pulled a string to take her away each time I got close to her. From auditions to trips, we never found the time to have a meal during those last weeks filming.

One night, I arrived at Chris’s after a long day of shooting, training, and having dinner with a prospective agent. Yes, I was still on the search for an agent. The first thing I did was call Abby, as she told me she’d arrived from New York earlier that day. After the fourth ring, her answering machine picked up.

“You know what to do.” No name or greeting, only the beep after those five words.

“Abby, this is Gabe Colt.” I ran a hand through my hair, loosened my tie, and continued. “I wanted to make sure you made it back, and check if you wanted to grab a meal this weekend. Give me a call, I’ll be at home lounging and reading a few scripts.”

After I hung up, I headed to my room, the last one on the left facing the ocean. When the windows were open you could listen to the waves crash against each other and the shore. The scene made me want to land a part in any blockbuster movie, line up a few modeling gigs, and make enough money to pay for this house.

I’d eat ramen for the rest of my life if I could live here forever.

I changed into a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, and sat on a chair facing the window as I read through the scripts Tara had given me before I left the studio.

Half an hour later, I heard footsteps on the stairs and finally my door opened. I turned around facing a distraught Chris. His face was pale, his eyes dull, and his breathing short.

“I flew commercial from New York. Abby Ritz was there in first class,” he blurted out. “It was a quickie, clothes on and all that shit. Then my driver took us to her house where we watched a movie. I used protection both times. This time—”

“Save the details.” I rubbed my face.

“The thing is, we were in the middle of the third act when you called.” He pressed his head with both hands and shook it. “Not my intention. If I knew you still cared…”

“We haven’t done more than one kiss on the cheek,” I eased his mind. “It’s as if the entire universe is fighting against us. Or me. Look, you’re dating her, I’m good.”

“What?” he asked, eyes wide with surprise.

Chris appeared ready to wrap a rope around his neck and kill himself.

“No, no.” He waved his hands and shook his head simultaneously. “I don’t date. That shit with flowers and dinners and… not for me. I told her that before we hit the mile-high club. Perhaps in the future if I found her good enough for a repeat, I’d call her, but that’s all folks.”

My father would beat the shit out of him, no doubt.

Chris didn’t care about anyone, he barely cared about himself. After his confession about being an alcoholic, the rest of his life came out in fragments.

Christian was born in Los Angeles, raised in a group home which he ran away from at the age of fifteen and lived on the streets with his guitar and a bunch of other homeless kids. To survive he worked odd jobs, begged for money while he played his music in different street corners, and stole food.

At the age of seventeen he met some of his band mates and they formed The Metal Tacos, his original band. Of course with that name, they never made it. His second band, The Blue Storms had better luck but only played around LA and South California. It wasn’t until they switched their name to Dreadful Souls that the band’s popularity took off.

I couldn’t comprehend the entire magnitude of his situation because I hadn’t lived his life. But the sorrow of thinking that he didn’t have anyone weighed on my chest. He was a good guy and deserved more than quick fucks—as he called them.

“I don’t care about playing house with her or any other woman.” He shivered and rubbed both of his arms. “Then they’d want children and all that crap. No gracias.”

We were so different. My parents expected that I would at least follow the tradition of having a wife and children. A hard act to follow when you worked in a place where not many care for long relationships or to even have a steady relationship for that matter.

“Why did you buy a big house if you weren’t planning on having a family?”

“Didn’t you pay attention when you first moved in?” he asked. “I hope so, because I’m an alcoholic and that means, you have to keep your booze in the car, hidden from me.”

He traced a line as he pointed at the entire house.

“Two words,
party central
.” Since he hadn’t had one in years, it was now only a waste of such a great place. “Now that I don’t care about partying like I am a rock star, I have to sell it to the first sucker I find. That, my friend, would be you. I can see you filling this house with golden-haired children and that pretty girl, Abby. She needs some work in the bed department, but she’d do. I can train her for you.”

“You’re joking.” I was floored by what he said. “You
watched movies
with her; I’m not going to marry the girl, my friend…”

“Then you might want to move to another state to find a wife.” His straight face, crooked eyebrow, and crossed arms told me he was serious about it. “Or country… I’ve been with every single, available female I’ve met. Well, you can move to Russia, we haven’t played there. Yes, you should import a wife from there to be safe.”

I stared at him not knowing how to respond. Perhaps I should put Abby back in the running; Russia was too cold.