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charincharge · 4 years

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Cruel Summer, Part 3

cruel summer masterlist

AN: I’m really sorry I like posting at 1AM, I guess? Same warnings apply. Drinking, swearing, sexual frustration. Excited to hear what you think about this one...

There are nice neighborhoods in Wendlyn. There are suburbs with sprawling lawns and white picket fences and wraparound porches and two car garages. But Rowan has never seen anything like the Ashryver’s Terrasen summer estate. It took him a full fifteen minutes just to walk up the driveway. He supposed he could have parked on the driveway – he sees most everyone else has, but he’s certain his loud clunker of a truck would have only marred the view.

The house is stunning. It sits on top of a stony cliff that overlooks the North Sea. He cranes his neck up, taking in the mansion. It looks as if it’s four stories tall, and each window has its own personal balcony. The front door is wide open, so he walks through, admiring the high ceilinged foyer. His flip flops clop across the beautiful black and white marble floor, echoing loudly with each step, making him feel more and more self-conscious.

He’s already running extremely late. It took him forever to decide what to wear. Stupid, he knows. But he’s fucking nervous. He’s never been to a party like this. With people like this. He ultimately decided on a t-shirt and board shorts and flip flops – it was a pool party, right? But as he looks around the back patio, at the caterers and full bar, Rowan’s not sure he made the right choice. He looks over his shoulder, desperate for some reassurance from the girl he brought with him for moral support, but can only gape, horrified.

His roommate Manon, has taken off her leather jacket and revealed her outfit underneath – an oversized band t-shirt she’s wearing like a dress, which… barely reaches the tops of her thighs. He knows the t-shirt well, and though it promotes the Beastie Boys innocently on the front, he knows when she turns around, in large yellow block letters it will read: GET OFF MY DICK.

“Fucking A, Man. Put your jacket back on. That is so not appropriate. We’re at my boss’s house.”

Manon flicks a piece of lint off her shirt with her long black polished nails and narrows her eyes at Rowan. “Maybe if we hadn’t just walked four hundred miles down the driveway I wouldn’t be so fucking hot.” She smiles, baring her white teeth from under her dark lipstick. “Anyway, no one’s going to care soon. It’s open bar.”

“I don’t know why I asked you to come to this,” Rowan sighs, running his fingers through his hair. This was a bad idea. Manon isn’t exactly… work friendly, he thinks, as he takes in the ferocious-looking dragon tattoo that wraps itself around her forearm and disappears up her shirtsleeve.

“You couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me alone,” Manon coos, batting her heavily lined eyes at him. “Despite my many protests.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Don’t fucking slander me like that, Whitethorn. You know I’m the best you’ve ever had.” Manon winks. It’s a joke between them. They’ve lived together now for two years. Manon saved him after a particularly terrible run of bad roommates, and they’ve been cohabitating since. He made the mistake of telling her she was the best roommate he’d ever had one night, and she’s been taunting him about it ever since. Manon loves being the best.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re the best I’ve ever had.” Rowan blows her a kiss, and she pretends to catch it and throw it back at him. He clutches his heart, wounded from her rejection. Though it’s par for the course with the two of them.

A throat clears loudly, and they both turn. Rowan’s boss stands with the one person he wanted to work himself up to seeing today. Aelin looks just as good as she did the last time Rowan saw her — if not better, all warm sun-kissed skin and long wavy hair in an ethereal white dress. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes glint with fire. Rowan’s beginning to think that’s just their natural state.

“Lorcan!” Rowan, stutters, unprepared.

Lorcan’s lips tug into a small smirk as his eyes slide over to Aelin. “Aelin, I wanted to introduce you to—”

“Rowan Whitethorn,” Aelin drawls his name and holds out her hand out to shake his.

“I guess your connections came through,” Rowan says with a smile, but it’s not returned, and Rowan feels self-conscious again as he pulls his hand back.

There’s an awkward pause as Rowan wonders what the hell to say next. Aelin doesn’t seem interested in continuing a conversation, and Lorcan isn’t exactly the most amicable guy in the world.

Aelin’s eyes narrow and turn to the girl on Rowan’s right. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“What?” Completely flustered, Rowan’s forgotten that Manon is beside him. Manon looks at him, annoyed. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” He shrugs. “Sorry. This is Manon.”

“I’ve just been standing here the whole time, you asshole,” Manon chides, and Rowan sends her a warning glare, but she smiles widely and ignores him, holding her hand out to shake hands with Aelin.

“Manon Blackbeak. Thank you so much for having me.” Though Manon sounds sincere, Rowan knows Manon is being anything but. She’s going to be mocking him about this party for days.

Aelin returns her handshake, and gasps upon seeing Manon’s nails — intricate black and white designs on long talon like shapes. Manon says they’re coffin shaped. Because that’s apparently a thing. Rowan shudders. Manon’s nails are the one thing about her that truly frighten him.

“Oh, I love your nails,” Aelin says, admiring them thoroughly. “But it’s such a shame you’ve broken two of them.”

Manon’s amber eyes flash with glee as she gives Aelin a practically feral grin. “Oh, sweetheart, those aren’t broken. I keep those two short on purpose, so I don’t hurt pretty things like you.”

“Jesus, Manon,” Rowan barks out, blushing for Aelin. Watching Manon flirt with the girl he’s had his eye on is enough to send him into an early grave. Rowan scans Aelin’s face for any signs of offense. He doesn’t see any, but feels the need to apologize for his roommate, regardless. “I’m so sorry for her. Honestly.”

Aelin looks confused, her eyes darting between Manon and Rowan at a rapid pace. “…I don’t get it,” Aelin admits, and Manon is about to explain when Rowan cuts her off.

“It’s better that way.”

Manon rolls her eyes and twists her long platinum hair over her shoulder. She preens, admiring her manicure and picks off a nonexistent hangnail before looking back at Aelin. “Something you should know about Rowan is that he’s absolutely no fun.”

“So it seems,” Aelin says, her brow furrowed. Aelin’s demeanor changes in an instant again, giving them a terse smile. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Manon. And to officially meet you, Rowan. Enjoy the party.” And with a flounce of her skirt, she’s gone.

As Rowan watches Aelin disappear back into her house —

“What’s the story there?” Manon asks. “You piss in her cereal or something?” Rowan quirks an eyebrow at Manon, and she laughs. “That girl does not like you.”

Rowan crosses his arms defensively. “Why would she not like me? I’m very likable.”

Manon poked a sharp talon into his arm. “That’s debateable. Regardless, I know you did something.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Rowan can feel the anger swirling around his stomach. There was some fundamental reflex to being disliked that always got the better of Rowan. It wasn’t that he had a compulsive need to be liked, but — okay, maybe it was that a little bit. But also, he hadn’t done anything wrong. And why was he so damn upset about being blown off by a person he’d spoken to just a handful of times?

Lorcan snorts as he finally pipes up. “Aelin’s a handful. Steer clear that drama.”

It’s the most candid Rowan has ever heard Lorcan ever be, so he nods, taking in his warning. Though he’s not a hundred percent sure he’s going to adhere to it.

“Let’s get drinks,” Rowan suggests and Manon follows him willingly. Drinks are definitely an idea she can get behind.

Rowan meets up at the bar with the rest of the Cadre — that’s what the group of his coworkers has named their text thread. He’s not exactly close with any of them yet, but it was nice to be added to the group chat. Fenrys and Gavriel are already wet from the pool and the twins, Connell and Vaughan, pass around beers to everyone.

Rowan’s taken his first swig of beer when he realizes he’s lost Manon along the way. He finds her mid-conversation with Elide, one of the other Playland managers. Rowan isn’t super familiar with the petite girl, and he’s shocked to see that his roommate is.

“You found a friend,” Rowan says, handing a beer to Manon.

“Manon was my Resident Advisor my freshman year at University of Terrasen. Can you believe that?” Elide squeals. “She was the absolute coolest. She always let me sleep on her couch when my roommate kicked me out for slutty sleepovers.” Elide leans into Manon’s side, and Rowan expects the cold, white-haired girl to shake her off, but she doesn’t. She shocks the hell out of Rowan and wraps her arm around Elide’s shoulders and squeezes her, looking down at her with a fond smile. A small pang of jealousy blooms in Rowan’s stomach. He didn’t expect Manon to have her own friends at this party. She was here to be his support. Which he obviously, desperately needs. He’s floundering here.

As Rowan tunes in and out of Elide and Manon’s conversation, giving the appropriate mhms and wows, his eyes wander the patio, searching for the blonde who disappeared on him earlier. He can’t shake her dismissal. He wants to talk to her. Know what’s behind those blue and gold eyes of hers. Know why the hell she walked away from him. He spots her by the pool. She’s reemerged from the house with her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing only a white bathing suit and freshly painted bright red lips. Rowan can’t help but stare as she slowly makes her way into the pool, the water rising until it hits right at her chest. It’d be indecent if the swimsuit weren’t so modes. The girl certainly knows how to command attention.

“Rowan.” Manon snaps her long claws in front of his face.

“Hm?” Rowan brings his attention back to his evilly grinning roommate.

“I asked if you wanted to get into the pool,” Manon says, her eyebrow raised.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Manon raises up onto her tiptoes and whispers into Rowan’s ear. “Think she’d be down for a threesome? She is fire.”

Rowan’s cheeks heat as he pushes Manon away. “Stop that.”

Manon grins. “But you’re so easy to rile up.”

Rowan finds a free chair for their things and strips off his t-shirt, and Manon does the same. He sighs upon seeing Manon’s black mesh strappy bikini, which looks more like lingerie than swimwear, showing off the artwork inked all over her body. Not that he can talk. He has his own tattoo, which runs up his chest and down his back.

As they make their way towards the pool, Rowan pauses. Aelin is in the pool with another man. He’s pale with floppy brown hair, and Rowan can tell he’s a rich kid just by looking at him. Their hands are all over each other. Aelin smiles and lets him kiss her cheek as she hoists herself onto his back.

“Uh ohhh,” Manon drawls. “Looks like Barbie’s already got herself a Ken.”

Rowan elbows her in the ribs. Perhaps a little harder than intended. Manon scowls at him. “I’m never taking you as a wingman anywhere ever again,” Rowan grits out.

“Ahah! So you admit it. I am here as a wingman because you have a crush on the boss’s daughter.”

Rowan flicks his pine green eyes at Manon. He doesn’t have to confirm anything. Manon has figured him out. So what? He thought Aelin was cute, and yeah, he thought maybe today would be a good opportunity to talk to her again. Get to know her a little better. Maybe start a friendship. Maybe more. Who knows? But it looks like that’s not in the cards. The dismissal was her way of letting him down easy. She’s already involved. Whatever. It’s better this way, Rowan thinks to himself. This way he won’t put his job at risk. Or his heart. It’s fine. He doesn’t know anything about the girl other than how good she looks in a bathing suit. He’ll get over it. He’s sure of it.

Except he doesn’t. The rest of the day is torture. Aelin avoids his gaze, shifting away from him at every opportunity. And it drives him absolutely insane. She splashes around the pool with her cohort, whose name he overhears is Dorian. He swears if he hears her shout out “Dor!” with unbridled affection one more time, he’s going to crack his teeth by how hard he’s grinding them. He tries to distract himself by racing with the Cadre, who’ve taken up the entire deep end, but he tires quickly.

Water-logged and exhausted from the sun, Rowan pulls himself out of the pool. He leaves Manon in Elide’s company and tells her he’s going for a walk. Rowan needs to clear his head. He grabs another beer and heads down the walkway to the beach. There’s something about the salt air and the sand that soothes him. Rowan walks a ways down, admiring the row of mega mansions that overlooks the water, though he can’t help but feel like even more of an outsider than he already is. He does not belong in this neighborhood. By the time Rowan makes his way back to the Ashryvers’ the sun is halfway dipped into the horizon, and dusk is upon them.

He finds a side gate to the house and makes his way through it, surprised that it leads to a beautiful rose garden. Vines crawl and wind themselves around arched trellises creating a magical canopy of flowers. His mom would love this garden. He sits to take a picture for her when the garden lights turn on, lighting the flowers with delicate twinkle lights, giving the garden an ethereal glow.

Rowan’s phone buzzes with a text from Manon. People are leaving. Where u at, bitch?

He laughs to himself and texts her back quickly. Be right there. Just paused to take a pic.

Loser.

Rowan ignores Manon’s reply and snaps another photo of the garden. He wishes he had his real camera and not just his camera phone to capture the light of the garden, but he thinks he manages to take an okay snap of the lit roses with the fading sun over the ocean in the background.

He’s about to head back to the patio when he hears a voice from overhead call out, “Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou, Romeo?”

He looks up, and sure enough, Aelin is dramatically leaning over her balcony, hand placed over her brow, as if she were searching through the crowds for her paramour.

Rowan is positive she doesn’t see him in the dusky twilight, so he chuckles somewhat loudly and gives her a short wave to get her attention.

Aelin straightens up immediately, her posture suddenly rigid with tension. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t see anyone out here.”

“I figured,” Rowan says, running his hands through his hair, a nervous habit of his. He spots a silhouetted shadow emerging from behind Aelin and smiles sadly. “By the way, I think your Romeo is behind you.”

Confused, Aelin turns, and sure enough Dorian appears next to her. He pulls her into his arms, and Rowan’s heart gives a small sad tug as he watches Dorian spin Aelin and lower her into a low dip. His footsteps feels heavy as he walks away and hears her peals of laughter ring out into the slowly encroaching darkness.

~*~*~*~*~

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everydaybrautigan · 7 years

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Winter Rug

My credentials? Of course. They are in my pocket. Here: I’ve had friends who have died in California and I mourn them in my own way. I’ve been to Forest Lawn and romped over the place like an eager child. I’ve read The Loved One, The American Way of Death, Wallets in Shrouds and my favorite After Many a Summer Dies the Swan.

I have watched men standing beside hearses in front of mortuaries directing funerals with walky-talkies as if they were officers in a metaphysical war.

Oh, yes: I was once walking with a friend past a skid row hotel in San Francisco and they were carrying a corpse out of the hotel. The corpse was done tastefully in a white sheet with four or five Chinese extras looking on, and there was a very slow-moving ambulance parked out front that was prohibited by law from having a siren or to go any faster than thirty-seven miles an hour and from showing any aggressive action in traffic.

My friend looked at the lady or gentleman corpse as it went by and said, “Being dead is one step up from living in that hotel.”

As you can see, I am an expert on death in California. My credentials stand up to the closest inspection. I am qualified to continue with another story told to-me by my friend who also works as a gardener for a very wealthy old woman in Marin County. She had a nineteen-year-old dog that she loved deeply and the dog responded to this love by dying very slowly from senility.

Every day my friend went to work the dog would be a little more dead. It was long past the proper time for the dog to die, but the dog had been dying for so long that it had lost the way to death.

This happens to a lot of old people in this country. They get so old and live with death so long that they lose the way when it comes time to actually die.

Sometimes they stay lost for years. It is horrible to watch them linger on. Finally the weight of their own blood crushes them.

Anyway, at last the woman could not stand to watch the senile suffering of her dog any longer and called up a veterinarian to come and put the dog to sleep.

She instructed my friend to build a coffin for the dog, which he did, figuring it was one of the fringe clauses of gardening in California.

The death doctor drove out to her estate and was soon in the house carrying a little black bag. That was a mistake. It should have been a large pastel bag. When the old woman saw the little black bag, she paled visibly. The unnecessary reality of it scared her, so she sent the veterinarian away with a generous check in his pocket.

Alas, having the veterinarian go away did not solve the dog’s basic problem: He was so senile that death had become a way of life and he was lost from the act of dying.

The next day the dog walked into the corner of a room and couldn’t get out of it. The dog stood there for hours until it collapsed from exhaustion, which conveniently happened to be just when the old woman came into the room, looking for the keys to her Rolls-Royce.

She started crying when she saw the dog lying there like a mutt puddle in the corner. Its face was still pressed against the wall and its eyes were watering in some human kind of way that dogs get when they live with people too long and pick up their worst characteristics.

She had her maid carry the dog to his rug. The dog had a Chinese rug that he had slept on since he was a puppy in China before the fall of Chiang Kai-shek. The rug had been worth a thousand American dollars, then, having survived a dynasty or two.

The rug was worth a lot more now, being in rather excellent shape with actually no more wear and tear than it would get being stored in a castle for a couple of centuries.

The old woman called the veterinarian again and he arrived with his little black bag of tricks and how to find the way back to death after having lost it for years, years that led oneself to being trapped in the corner of a room.

“Where is your pet?” he said.

“On his rug,” she said.

The dog lay exhausted and sprawled across beautiful Chinese flowers and things from a different world. “Please do it on his rug,” she said. “I think he would like that.”

“Certainly,” he said. “Don’t worry. He won’t feel a thing. It’s painless. Just like falling asleep.”

“Good-bye, Charlie,” the old woman said. The dog of course didn’t hear her. He had been deaf since 1959.

After bidding the dog farewell, the old woman took to bed. She left the room just as the veterinarian was opening his little black bag. The veterinarian needed PR help desperately.

Afterward my friend took the coffin in the house to pick up the dog. A maid had wrapped the body in the rug. The old woman insisted that the dog be buried with the rug and its head facing West in a grave near the rose garden, pointing toward China. My friend buried the dog with its head pointing toward Los Angeles.

As he carried the coffin outside he peeked in at the thousand-dollar rug. Beautiful design, he said to himself. All you would have to do would be to vacuum it a little and it would be as good as new.

My friend is not generally known as a sentimentalist. Stupid dead dog! he said to himself as he neared the grave, Damn dead dog!

“But I did it,” he told me. “I buried that dog with the rug and I don’t know why. It’s a question that I’ll ask myself forever. Sometimes when it rains at night in the winter, I think of that rug down there in the grave, wrapped around a dog.” -Richard Brautigan

#richard brautigan #brautigan #beat #poet #poem #short story #winter #rug #sf #sanfrancisco

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