Chapter 16: Drummer Boys Find A Reason

The song is Photograph, by Ed Sheeran. I think you will understand the reference about halfway through the chapter.

Bodie  Two Weeks Later Still In Thailand

Coffee. Check.

Cigarette. Check.

Running Shoes. Check.

Morning fix? Fuck that.

Not today.

Today, I have a plan. I'm gonna skip my medicinal breakfast today. And tomorrow. And the day after that, and so on.

I need to ration my drugs. Build up a reserve. I've got to get us out of this fucked up situation—being at Connor's mercy.

I realize now, that fucker is not just some small time douchey club promoter/pusher like I'm used to in LA. He's bigger than that.

He's a one-man drug cartel, that's what he is.

An exporter—I'm sure he's getting his product direct from poppy farmers and sending it to Ireland or wherever.

But he's not just an exporter.

He's just fucking greedy. He's not happy with his drug profits. He's probably got high overhead—a lot of mules to pay and a lot of officials to bribe. And I guess Bells and I are really making him some serious side money at this point, although when I ask him about our cut for the club appearances he says the clubs here are slow to pay their contracts and it could be months, but he'll definitely settle up with us.

Ha.

Right.

He's literally holding us hostage to our drug habit at this point.

I can't get a private jet of here because for some reason, my Amex card has gone missing. I'm pretty sure Connor took it, along with my phone, but of course I could have just lost them in a drug haze.

I can't even call for a fucking Grab to take me to the Iphone store. And no one at this resort that Connor said was a "much nicer place" than the other one will even attempt to communicate with me. They all just smile and say "Connor. You talk to Connor," if I ask for anything more than food, drinks towels, or sunscreen.

The manager won't help me arrange for a money transfer although they damn sure have my credit card number. He says he can't make that happen, but I'm not buying that. He's getting a kickback from Connor, I'm sure.

The only way I can get cash now is if I go to the bank. For which I need Connor to translate for me.

So, I've got to budget a little bit, not take all the cash to the clubs at night and not shoot all of my daily drug ration, either.

Because, of course, he only gives us enough smack to get through each day. He says that's for our protection against overdose. More like, for his. If one of us croaks from an overdose, he would lose revenue stream, wouldn't he?

I've got enough cash on me right now for a couple of commercial tickets, but the real problem is I don't have the stash to get us through. The trip could take up to 40 hours, maybe more if there's some kind of unexpected layover.

I figure to be safe, we need at least a four day supply, each. So that's at least a week of skipping fixes, for me.

I don't know if I can. I've been thinking about this plan, and half-ass trying it out for a few days, and within hours of skipping a fix, I give in and say, "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll start."

Today, however, I'm going to replace the restless jonesing with a run on the beach. This is gonna work. I'll get that runner's high and I'll be able to hold off.

I double tie my shoes with shaking hands and cross the hall to Bell's bedroom—we got a bigger villa with seperate rooms at this resort—easing down on the bed beside her.

"Bells. Hey. Wake up. Remember the plan? A run on the beach?"

She groans and rolls over, wrapping her head in her tangled long hair. My hands go automatically to gather it away for her, but I stop myself.

It's hard to break off an intimacy habit, too. But I meant what I said to her, about us being friends and just fronting for the camera, like we were supposed to be from the beginning.

I've mostly lost the lusty feels for her, but I'm only a man. If I keep touching her and being affectionate with her, she'll keep offering pity sex, and I'll eventually give in and we will just be right back where we started.

That wouldn't be good. Bells needs to figure out the difference between wanting somebody and wanting to be wanted.

"Bells? Come on. Just a jog. It will make you feel better."

"I hate to run," she mumbles. "You go, and then come wake me up and we will walk a little bit."

That's more hopeful than I expected. I thought she would tell me, "tomorrow."

"Okay, well, I'm going," I say, and rise without kissing her, without touching her. She reaches for my hand quickly, holding me in place.

"I will go for a walk," she promises, wiping her own hair from her face. "After my dose. But I need mine. Please."

"We talked about this. Just...try to hold off until this afternoon. Please? We can get out of here twice as fast," I remind her.

"I can't...Bodie. I tried yesterday. I...I can't."

I nod, and go for the kit. It reminds me of Leed's wooden stashbox in our old apartment. Except this one is not full of weed and papers and pipes, but needles and swabs and painted Asian soup spoons.

I dose her without any more words and she sighs in pleasure and stretches in the bed, running her hands over her face and neck.

"You wanna fuck?" she murmurs.

The thought of sex only brings one desire to mind, since Bells and I stopped overdosing on random chics.

"No." I tell her.

Yes.

The feel of Marley's skin beneath my hands is real to me, in this moment. The taste of her mouth. The colors of her jasmine tattoo.

I force her out of my mind, and distract myself by scolding Arabella.

"We talked about this, too, Bells. Just...stop offering pity fucks. Leave me a little pride, okay?"

She giggles. "Sorry. Poor rock star," she says in a sing song voice and rolls over.

I stomp out of the villa and hit the beach, but I pocket the syringe with my half of the morning hit, in case she gets any ideas of a second helping.

My body feels like lead as I lightly jog down the beach. I push myself with each leg lift, and before I even reach the tiki bar that I can see, my heart is racing like I've just taken a pounding from Adam in the boxing ring. Each breath I gasp cuts my lungs like knives.

I don't even make it a mile before I'm vomiting and my gut is cramping with violent need.

I try to keep going but I just can't. I fucking can't.

Every twenty feet I'm doubled over, pain stealing my breath.

Goddammit. My body is so fucking weak. A mockery of what it was a few months ago.

I stumble into a beach cabana that is not mine and collapse on a lounge.

My plan is to rest here just a little while, but before long the shakes start. Then I get scared that I will pass out here and get arrested, with heroin in my pocket.

Get thrown in jail. No id. No cash. No phone.

I have this secret irrational fear that I'm going to die here in Thailand, and no one will even care to send my body back home.

My mama will wonder what happened to me, just like maybe Cain Priestly's people are wondering what happened to him. At least Arabella doesn't wonder. She's too fucking high all the time to think about concerns back home.

My fault. I brought her here. I got her into this.

I don't know if its paranoia or chemical need or just depression and self-pity, but the sudden urge for the oblivion in my pocket overwhelms me.

I give in.

As the relief floods me, I tell myself. "Tomorrow. I'll run farther. I'll hold off longer."

—————

"Hey. Hey! Get up! This is a nice place. Not a place for trash! " A sharp voice tells me.

It's the cabana boy. He's popping at me with a towel, like I'm too disgusting to touch, as he gestures at the needle still stuck in my arm.

Shit. Not cool. I look like a fucking junkie, passing out with a needle in my arm.

Oh wait. I guess I am.

"This costs money!" he gestures at the cabana. "You no pay. Go away!" he tells me.

I laugh. He thinks I'm a homeless ex pat bum.

I guess I am that, too.

I toss my syringe in his trash bag as he screeches at me in Thai.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. No diseases!" I slap my chest and yell at him.

I mean, damn. It's not like I didn't cap the needle.

I pull some cash from my pocket and toss it toward him. He yells at me some more, but he scurries to retrieve the cash before it blows away in the wind.

"You want to rent for...month?" he points to the cabana as he counts the American hundreds.

"No. That's just your tip, dude. For your trouble." I stumble back down the beach.

———

Something's not right. I know it the second I step inside the cabana. A new smell. It smells like... expensive soap and even more expensive male cologne. It smells like Hollywood.

My eyes scan frantically but there's nothing amiss. Then I hear murmurs. Bells moans and a man's murmurs. The man's voice ain't Connor's Irish lilt.

There's somebody in this villa that doesn't belong, and he's in the back with Arabella.

My haze starts to clear as adrenaline floods me.

You can take the boy out of the hood, but you can't take the hood out of the boy. I reach for the baseball bat that stayed by my front door growing up.

It's not here, of course.

It's in the foyer of my LA mansion, disguised in a five hundred dollar umbrella stand.

I scan the room for a weapon. There's some heavy looking candlesticks on a side table.

A candlestick? Fuck that. I ain't no Professor Plum. I was a fucking gangster. If somebody is hurting my girl—ex-girl, fake girl, whatever the fuck she is— I'm gonna fuck them up, and it ain't gonna be with a candlestick.

I push thoughts of Cain Priestly away as I slip into the small kitchenette and get the biggest knife.

I tip toe down the short hall and ease open her bedroom door. The man—pefectly erect posture, muscles spilling out of his casual short sleeve button down—is sitting on the bed, slapping Bells lightly on the face.

On the nighstand, I can see he's rifled through my stashbox.

"I hate it has to be this way, Sweetheart" he says, and he slaps her a little harder, not a blow, but definitely enough to piss me off. He pulls the covers off her. She just whimpers and struggles to rebury herself in the covers.

I slip behind, intending to put the knife to his throat, but the dude must have killer peripheral vision, or I'm just so fucked up that I'm slower than reality, because before my arm is anywhere near the front of his throat, he turns— grabbing me, jerking me forward.

Next thing I know my ass is on the floor with his knee on my back. I've been relieved of the knife and my arm is twisted painfully.

"Bodie, I'm going to let you up. You're going to be cool, okay?"

"Who the fuck are you?" I growl. As I scramble to my feet, I quickly realize I've never seen this guy before, but he's got a familiar vibe. An LA power-broker vibe. He's mid-forties, good-looking, extremely fit, whitened smile, glossy dark undercut. His eyes though...they don't look LA. They don't have that look like they are taking everything in while pretending to be jaded look.

No.

They look fucking tragic.

Probably like mine.

"Who.The.Fuck?" I say again.

"My name is Von. Varrick Von."

I blink. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

He shakes his head. "Maybe not, but your manager knows me. Soundcrush uses my company to provide your security."

"You run Sentinel? Naw...bullshit. I met that dude. His name is...Raines? Gaines?" My skin is crawling with anxiety now. I claw restlessly at my neck, suddenly over this confrontation. I have a strong desire to crawl into bed with Bells and hide beneath the covers with her.

"Haynes. Tony Haynes. I was his silent partner. I bought him out months ago. Look," he points to the lump that is Arabella beneath the covers. "Her Uncle Randall sent me to find her. Your mother Ronna, too. I'm here to bring you home. Let's get your shit together and go. Now."

"Naw, I...I can't do that." My hand rifles the stash kit. "Dude, did you take my smack? Give it the fuck back."

"I'm not taking it from you. I'm bringing it with us," he pulls my lonely tiny clear from his pocket. "But it doesn't look like you have enough to make for a comfortable trip home. Fortunately, I do." he reaches in his other pocket, and draws out a regular ziplock filled with tiny baggies of white powder.

"Dude that's like, two bundles. Where the fuck did you get that? You didn't bring that into the country."

"Oh, I have lots of contacts ," he says. "It's high quality, and it's enough to get you home. And from the looks of the situation there," he gestures at my empty stash box, "I'd say this is your lucky day. Let's go."

"There's no way you are walking on a plane with that, man," I say nervously. "And I sure as shit ain't carrying like that. I ain't going to jail in a third world country..."

So okay, yeah, my plan to get myself home has some holes, I'll admit. Getting the drugs onto the flight back home was still a big concern for me. I was taking shit one day at a time. Build up the stash, then worrying about concealing it.

But this guy? He's just crazy if he thinks we won't get busted with that much heroin in his pocket.

Then he pulls a badge from his back pocket. It's got small type and emblems I don't recognize and it's meaningless to me, but he says, "I used to work for the State Department. I still have credentials. Nobody will search me. If a drug dog makes me, one flash of the badge and an explanation that I'm escorting a person of interest who needs it will take care of the situation. You can't carry these drugs, but I can. I'm your ticket home, Bodie. Let's go."

Now, here's the thing about me. I'm the kind of guy that fucking hates to be told what to do. Not by the label. Not by Riley. Not by Trace. Not by a prison guard. Not by my ex gang-leader. Not by my fucking pusher-pimp.

But also...not by some dude that my mother hired to bring me home like a wayward child.

Look, I know.

I fucking know how stupid I'm being in this moment. I'm practically a goddamn hostage. I should be shaking this guy's hand for the rescue and hauling Bells over my shoulder and into a taxi right this minute.

But we've already established I'm a major fuck-up.

So I shrug and say, "Pass. Sorry you came all this way, but you can turn around and tell my mom you saw me, I'm fine, and I'll be home when I get goddamn good and ready."

He chuckles. "I met Ronna. That's really the message you want to go with?"

"Get the hell out of my girlfriend's boudoir, asshole."

I stalk over to the door and gesture violently into the hall. He puts the drugs and his hands back in his pockets and strolls down the hall into the kitchen. He peruses the fridge and cracks a beer.

"I think you could use one," he says, sliding one down the counter to me.

"Are you fucking right now? This isn't some kind of game," I say calmly. "Get the fuck out before I call..."

"Who? Bodie? Who are you going to call? The Thai police? I doubt that. You're probably too paranoid for that. Resort security? I already paid them off to find out you are here and let me in. Who's left? Oh. Yeah. Connor Ryan. You want to call him? I'm sure he'll bring some bouncers. Enough of them could get rid of me. Then I'll be gone, and so will your best shot at getting out of this mess without any further damage to your body or your career. Connor Ryan will get busted, eventually. Word in my world is, the Thai government is building a case against him. Do you want to be associated with him here in Thailand when his crimes come to bear?"

"Fuck," I mutter, taking a long swig of the beer.

"Right. Go pack a bag. I've got a little speed, too...thought I might need it. I'll get Arabella on her feet," he says. Like shit has been decided.

"What? No. You're not pumping Bells full of crank. I need to think about this. How do I fucking know you are even who you say you are?" I reason. "You could be...some competitor of Connor's. I walk out this door with you, I could be in a worse situation. You don't give me a trustworthy vibe, dude."

He throws his phone on the counter. "Call your mother. She'll tell you. She trusts me to bring you home. So should you."

I'm shaking again. I slowly drink the beer, while staring at Von's phone.

Varrick sighs. "Okay. Let's get real. You know what happens if you go home. You have to face up to your situation. To your mother. To your band. You're a junkie, Bodie, and they all know it. That's a hard place you are in. Especially if you aren't ready to get clean."

"I don't need a lecture, man."

"No. You need a reason."

He pulls yet another surprise from his pocket—a photograph I haven't seen in years, but one I'm quite familiar with. My grandfather. My namesake.

"You know him?" he asks.

"I don't know him. But I know who he is."

Varrick nods, and slides another picture across the counter. "Do you know who he is?"

He puts his finger above the head of the boy I've never seen, but I know exactly who he is. He's standing in front of his mother, who's thrown her arms around him from behind for the photograph, her head resting slightly on his shoulder. Christ, Darius is almost as tall as Marley.

That surprises me more than the fact that he looks almost exactly like a slightly younger version of Clayton.

I think I already knew. I knew from the lie in TJ's eyes.

Darius is my son. I'm sure of it now.

I sit down on the bar stool, drawing the picture toward me.

He looks so much...bigger...older...than I imagined.

The hole in my chest—the despair—it only widens.

My son is practically grown. I've missed his whole life.

And this photograph, it doesn't change the situation. Nothing is different than it was when I let TJ lie to me. Daemon is still dangerous. The way things are right now, Darius and Marley are probably still better believing the lie.

Unless...unless Marley would let me take her and Darius out of that world. In LA, in my world, I could protect her. With my money, my security, my resources, I could give Marley and Darius a life far out of Daemon's league, far beyond his influence.

If I could get that damn gun with my prints on it, then all three of us could just bounce out of Atlanta and away from Daemon forever. They could get out, just like I did.

We could be a family. I would love my son. Looking at this picture, I somehow just know I would. And I could love his mother, too.

I think maybe I already do. There's a part of me that reasons that you can't love someone you hardly know, but there's another part of me that feels like once you see someone's heart, even for just a little while, you always know what matters about them.

Yeah, I could be with her. With them.

Ah, shit there's the flaw in this fantasy I'm building.

She won't be with me. Not like I am.

She already told me, and she meant it. And she should mean it, because our son deserves better than a junkie for a father.

But he also deserves better than Daemon.

Then, the realization that had escaped me comes blowing through me like a frigid wind.

My gaze snaps to Von. "My mother gave you these pictures?"

The bastard smirks at me. "Yeah. She had a message for you. She said to tell you to get your butt on a plane because you have responsibilities at home."

"Goddammit." I mutter. I love my mom, but the last thing this situation needs is her going down to Pat's to have a hollering match over the kid in the front yard.

Apparently Varrick reads people pretty well. I think he connects the dots to my worry. "Ronna is aware that the situation needs to be handled delicately. I think her exact words were, 'I know how things work down in the hood, I lived there my whole life.'

I snort. "That sounds like her."

"She told your manager to make discreet inquiries into the situation."

"Riley knows!??! Fuck," I don't know why I'm surprised. The dude is not exactly psychic but he's almost always on the front end of any situation that could cause static for us.

"Look. Forget about your mother and Riley for a minute," Varrick says reasonably. "They aren't what are most important here. What's most important is what you decide to do, right now."

"It's...it's complicated," I mutter. "There's...more to consider than just the who Darius' father is. The boy's had enough change and instability. His mother...she might not want him to know the truth. Then there's the man that thinks he's Darius' father. He's a bad guy. Not a guy Marley should have ever crossed like she did, being with me."

"You know what I learned being an intelligence operative? There are always complications. There is always instability. There is always a bad guy. And sometimes there is more than one, or the real bad guy is not the guy you suspect. You're hardly ever working with all the information. Your ordered objectives constantly change. Alliances shift all the time. Everyone has the potential to betray you. You can never strategize accurately more than three moves ahead. You can only do what you think is right with your next three moves. So in my experience, the only real question is—what are your next three moves, Bodie?"

I touch the picture...first Darius and then my finger lingers on Marley, tapping lightly where her heartbeat would be.

"I'm going to get on that plane with you. I'm going to see my son and his mother. Then, I'm going to detox."

Varrick grunts in approval. He clinks the beer he somehow acquired to mine and takes a long swallow. I decide to glug mine slowly, because who the fuck knows, it might possibly be my last one.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks for the beer. And the talk," I say casually. Varrick's approving demeanor changes suddenly. He stares at his empty bottle, and looks at mine. His expression is almost comical in its horror.

"What?" I say.

He swipes both bottles almost resentfully and tosses them in the trash. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Listen, your plan...it's a good start but it could be a much longer process to where you want to be. Think of it like a long-term op. Things might not go like you anticipate, but you have to keep your eye on the long goal. I think you should keep the codename I gave to my plan for getting Arabella home. I've been calling this little mission Reunion. It's even more fitting for your endeavor."

I squint at him. "You're a weird dude, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Why are you really here, anyway?"

He gives me an appraising glance and with a sigh he says.

"I've done a lot hard things in my life. Some of them have been...the wrong things to do. From what I know about you in your profile, I figure you maybe have a better idea than some people what that feels like."

He means my gang ties. My juvi record. "Yeah. I feel you."

"Well," he shrugs, "I try to balance my scales when I can." His head tilts almost unconsciously toward Arabella's bedroom. "I don't like missing children, and I don't like unhappy endings."

I stare down at Marley and Darius in the picture. Darius is staring straight into the camera with a look of exasperated tolerance at his mother's hug, but his long fingers curled around her arms that shield his chest.

There's love there. They are a family, but it's not complete. As long as lies stand in the way, something is missing.

Their happy ending.

"Yeah, me neither," I murmur.

"Good." he says as he rounds the bar toward Arabella's bedroom. "Get yourself together. I want to leave here within the hour. I'll revive the girl. I'm taking her home to her Uncle, by the way. At least for the short-term. Don't fight on me that, you will lose."

"No, I won't. That's a good idea, actually." I put my hand on the door, to her bedroom, stopping him. "Listen, Arabella and I sort of...broke up. But only privately. Publicly, we are going to maintain our relationship for a while. I guess you need to know that, being head of our security and all. Something else you should probably know: Bells is a fucking handful. You might not be that experienced in dealing with distraught, drugged-out, confused girls.."

Varrick's eyes are unreadable when he says, "Or you might be very wrong in assuming that."

"Oooooo—kay?" I say, but he doesn't elaborate.

"I'll handle Arabella. You focus on that," he taps the picture in my hand.

"Reunion, huh?" I look at the picture of Marley and Darius again. "Twelve years is a long time to be missing from their lives. In your strategic opinion...this kind of personal operation...what are the odds? I mean like...a real happy ending? Like the kind that ...erases all that time?"

Varrick wets his lips. "You want some bullshit pep talk or the truth?"

"Nah, I've had enough bullshit for awhile."

"In my personal experience, that much time, it will have left scars. Scars that make  happy  hard to come by." He slaps me hard on the back, so hard that it reverberates painfully through my toxic tissues. "But who knows? Seems like you've already your share of shitty luck. Maybe it's time for your scales to tip the other way. I give you a fifty-fifty shot at happy ever after."

I snort at him."Yeah, I see how you flipped that. Truth first, then bullshit pep talk..."

He grins. "You might be a junkie but for some reason, I like you, kid. I hope it rolls your way."

An hour later, we have Bells in the car.  I compose a "good-bye" note to Connor Ryan, who should be coming around to pimp us out for the night in a few hours.

Dear Con,

All Shitty Things Must End.

Vacation From Hell Over.

Fuck You Very Much For Your "Help"

I scrawl my indecipherable autograph signature except for the "B" and the "Jam" and then add,

PS Suck My Dick

I tape it to the door. I'm already wanting another fix--wanting it bad-- but I should wait until right before I board the plane. I crawl in the car and lay my head against the back seat. I pat Bell's leg with one hand and I press Marley and Darius' photograph to my chest with the other.

I can do this.

Three moves.

Get on a plane.

Meet my son.

Get clean.

Simple, right?

What do you think? It it going to be simple for Bodie to integrate into Darius' life and get clean? If you have a good memory, you probably already know parts of the answer to that from Tantric...