Re-post
I wrote some more on this Taylor story that I started. I'll repost the first part along with the new part. If you've read it before, just pick up where you left off.
Enjoy this Jor. ;)
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Empty Spaces
By Ree Warfle :: March 26, 2003
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One: It Shouldn't Be This Difficult to Breathe
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A touch was all it took to send him over. Frantic whispers, words spoken in the heat of the moment. Clothes ripping; fingers brushing over soft skin, lips swollen with desire. He felt him deep inside him, bumping deeper with each thrust, nails faking against skin, moans escalating in pitch and tone ... He loved him to distraction; his heart ached every moment they were apart with the need to hear his voice, touch his skin, kiss his bee-stung lips, feel his arms around him -- he licked his lips. A memory. He blinked rapidly, looking around . He was alone. Sitting up, he ran his hands over his face. I miss him. He sighed softly, the breath passing his pouty lips in a mimic of the softest touch; he rolled his blue eyes towards the window in an aspirated gesture, taking notice of the sun shining in, a bright yellow path of warmth upon the white of his carpet.
But he wants you to forget. He doesn't love you, he never loved you.
He stretched, arms reaching out above his head, fingers spread as though to touch the ceiling. He dropped his arms to his sides; palms resting down upon the silky red sheet underneath him. He turned to look at the clock all the while reaching up to brush a few blonde strands of hair out of his eyes and behind his ears. 11:07 a.m. He let out a low whistle, swinging his legs off the side of the bed; right, then left coming to sit with his feet planted firmly on the floor. He noticed the red answering machine light blinking slowly like a downtown stop light on the fritz. Reaching over with a sleepy disposition, he hit the play button.
Tay. Its Zac. Where have you been man? I haven't talked to you in so long. Are you all right? Well. Give me a call as soon as you get this. Later.
He snickered and reached over to grab his cigarettes next to the phone; smacking the bottom lightly of the pack as the time and date of Zac's message echoed through the room. He opened the pack and took one out, placing it between his lips, while leaning over to grab his lighter which had somehow become lodged between the answering machine and the lamp. Taking a long drag of the cigarette, he tapped the side of the answering machine with a finger to get it to play again. "Damn worthless piece of shit," he muttered, plucking the cigarette from his lips and flicking ashes into the ashtray as the next message played.
Are you ever home, bitch? Getting ahold of you is like getting lunch at Starbucks. Where are you? I need to talk to you. Its important.
"Yeah, I'm sure it is, Ike," he muttered to himself, leaning back against one hand, taking another drag from his cigarette. He listened as the machine went through its customary date and time routine while he again flicked ashes into the ashtray. Grumbling at the next message, he reached over and erased it without giving the caller a chance to get their third word to get out. "Next," he said aloud, leaning back again as the forth message caught his attention.
Yo, Tay. I know its really fucking late, but ... he's back in town. I know you said you didn't care, but I heard he's been asking around about you. "Oh, really?" Taylor whispered, seemingly talking to the machine, leaning in close. "Do go on." Geena even said she saw him downtown at the Blue. And shit man, I saw him down at Studebakers tonight playing with his band. He mentioned having concerts all around this area for about a week, week and a half. Regular bragging shit ... "Studebakers ... " he tried to make a mental map in his head of where that was in relation to his apartment. ... Anyway, the show is tomorrow night at 9. If you want to see him after all those months bitching you wanted to, I suggest you show up. Give him a real surprise. He smirked. "Of course I'll be there," he whispered to himself, putting the cigarette out. I don't know why you'd want to though ... Tay rolled his eyes. All right man, give me a call if you're going or something so I can meet you there. Later, Tator. He grumbled. "I fucking hate that nickname, Ronnie, and you know it," he whispered, reaching for the phone after turning the machine off.
He listened to the line ringing; resting his chin on his hand, tapping his fingers against the side of his face. After about 8 rings -- he must be hung over or getting laid, Taylor thought -- Ronnie finally answered the phone. "'Lo?" came the sleepy tone on the other end.
"I got your message," Taylor said, quietly, twirling the cigarette around the ashtray, making sure it was really out. He wasn't really sure why he was whispering; he was the only one in the apartment.
"Oh .... yeah. Hi, Tator."
"Hi. And I hate that name, Ronnie."
He laughed after a long drawn out yawn on the other end. "I know man, I know."
Taylor twirled a strand of his hair around a finger. "I'm going."
Ronnie paused on the other end. "I thought you would," he replied, seemingly bored with the conversation already. Tay rolled his eyes towards the window again. "I don't know why you'd want to go though."
"I've pointed that out to you, fucktard," Taylor remarked, standing slowly and walking towards the window.
"Yeah, fucking, yeah, Tay. You love him. What the shit? He left you not the other way around. He's not worth it," Ronnie remarked, voice raising a pitch to emphasize the needed words to make his rather useless point. Again.
Tay folded one leg under him as he sat down in the cushioned window seat and sighed. "Ronnie, again, I didn't ask for your fucking opinion," he paused, leaning his temple against the window and looking down at the street. "God, why'd you leave a message on the dinosaur if you didn't think I should see him, you asshole." He paused, not giving Ronnie a chance to respond. "You said you were going. You are gonna go with me, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll go," Ronnie remarked, bored. Tay wondered sometimes why he was still friends with this yo-yo. "But I can't promise I'll be nice to him."
"I'm warning you, Ronnie," Taylor replied, sitting up straight. "I'm not having this shit again, Christ. If you aren't going to at least fucking pretend then you can stay the fuck home -- "
"Bur Taylor! He cheated on you with your wife --"
"Ex-wife, Ronnie. Ex."
"Well ... what the fuck ever. The publicity stunt from hell. Whatever. He cheated. The end." He paused and Taylor sighed. "Besides, he cheated countless times, told you that he didn't love you, left you at the altar. He's the one ... "
"Ronnie. I get the fucking point man." Tay whispered, closing his eyes as he felt tears welling behind his lashes again. "Christ, you just had to bring that all back, didn't you? Every fucking time we talk about this you always do that. Can you fucking shut up for once in your life? Goddamn."
"You aren't crying over him are you? Because if you are I'm going to come over there and kick your -- "
"Ron if you don't fucking shut up, I'm hanging up." Ronnie continued on his tirade, seemingly not hearing Taylor. Tay rolled his eyes, listening, tears falling down his cheeks; he wasn't sure why he was crying. Maybe because he was right and he didn't want to hear it now. Maybe he wanted to forget it and cling on to the memory & the hope that things could be explained and solved ... He groaned, finally annoyed at the conversation he brought the phone away from his ear, holding it out in front of him and yelled into it: "I'm hanging up now Ronnie! ... BITCH I SAID I'M HANGING UP NOW!!" And hit the talk button to cut Ronnie off in mid-sentence. He groaned, pulling his knees up and hugging them as he tossed the cordless onto his bed.
He rested his cheek against his knees, linking his fingers around his shins, rolling his eyes back and closing his eyes to try and prevent more tears from escaping. He groaned in frustration at his own stupidity for crying; God how he missed him. He was starting to rethink going to that show; the memories would be too strong ... He shook his head. You're going Taylor.
"Yeah. I'm going."
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Taylor finally crawled out of the window seat at about 2:30 p.m., his thoughts draining. He checked the time on the wall clock as he walked into the living room. Groaning, he realized he forgot his anxiety pill. "Great, don't start doing that shit again," he muttered, back-tracking towards the kitchen, where his three pill bottles were lined up in front of a tack board where all his messages hung. They all screamed at him everytime he took his pills and he always promised himself he'd get to doing whatever the note said, but he never really did. He grabbed himself a glass of Dr. Pepper from the fridge and stood against the counter in front of his pills, turning his eyes towards the tack board. Without a word, he opened the first pill bottle and took a pill out. Picking up a pen, he wrote down the time on a paper that kept track of each dose he took. Because he often forgot.
He sighed, setting the pen down and turned back to the counter. He picked up the pill and his glass. As he walked out to the living room, he placed the tiny pill on his tongue and washed it down with his soda. Once accomplished, he leaned down to pet his cat, Tink as he turned on the television. His motions seemed slow as he plopped down on the sofa after grabbing the remote. He flipped through the channels until he found Cartoon Network and settled to watch Tom & Jerry.
Taylor turned his eyes a bit to see Tink struggling to climb onto the couch. He smiled some as she finally made it and scrambled over to climb into his lap. "You're getting to be a big girl, arentcha baby?" he grinned down at her, listening to her purr in response as he gently scratched behind her ears. He petted her as his eyes slowly turned back up to the television with a sigh. He was nervous. How was he going to approach him if the time arose? You'll think of something, don't fret. "Easy for you to say," Taylor whispered, with a heavy sigh. This is going to be a test.
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Later On That Evening: 8:45 p.m. - Studebakers
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I don't even know why I'm here, he thought, walking in the bar wearing his favorite blue jeans; and his white Led Zeppelin shirt hidden beneath his black leather coat. He surveyed the place, spotting a seat near the bar. He sighed heavily, walking over to it, his eyes drifting to the stage, his breath catching in his throat. There he is ... After all this time, there .... He sat down slowly, his back rested against the bar. He found himself staring at Scott for the first time since he left almost 2 years before; and his heart leapt. He watched his every move; from the way he talked to the drummer, adjusted the strings on his guitar ... took a drink from his beer that stood on top of the organ set up behind him. A voice behind him startled him.
"Can I get you anything?"
Tay almost fell off his stool, and turning his head first, looked at the bartender, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. How embarrassing. "Yes, I'm sorry ... a Vodka on the rocks please." The bartender nodded and turned to tend to his order. Taylor returned his eyes to the stage as Scotts voice echoed out of the speakers; his eyes scanning the now near darkness. The place was more packed than Taylor would've thought, so he was happily concealed at the bar. He chewed on his lip, his back returning to lean against the bar. Taylor looked over at a table set up where people were frequently looking at merchandise -- or so he believed thats what it was. Looking back at the bartender, who set his drink before him on a napkin. He smiled a bit and thanked him, picking it up. He took a drink, again turning his eyes back up to the stage as Scott's famous stage presence came out -- eyes closed, fingers making love to the guitar as he sang.
Taylor licked his lips, standing and walking over to the merch table, picking up one of two CD's there. The Boston Post, he read to himself. He turned it over and looked at the back of the cover, his drink still in hand. He set that CD aside and picked up the other. After examining it, he set it on top of the first. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a twenty and handed it to the girl. He held up a hand. "Keep the change if there is any," he whispered, picking up the CD's. He turned and walked back to his seat, shoving the two discs in the hidden pocket inside his coat. Returning to his seat, he listened to the music; leaving the CD's unopened in his pocket. He leaned his back against the bar, taking sips from his drink as he watched the show. Watching Scott on the stage, the other members of the band started to disappear from his vision and it was almost like there was no one else on that stage but him. Scott always had a magnetic stage presence; it didn't matter what he was singing. Taylor couldn't look at him anymore -- he closed his eyes and listened to the words floating through his ears. Without a warning, the music stopped. Time had passed so quickly, Taylor hadn't realized.
Snapping his eyes open, he saw people filing out of the bar; seemingly unimpressed with the antics of the band that had so quaintly named themselves the Boston Post. Taylor wondered about Scott's frame of mind in naming his band; he canted his head and sighed some. At least its more original than Hanson. No kidding. Taylor remained rooted to his bar stool as the band filed off stage and Scott came to stand right beside him. Taylor's heart thumped so loud he was surprised that Scott couldn't hear it. He listened without a word to the banter of the band as they laughed loudly going back to the stage, Scott not having seen him standing there. Taylor exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. A moment later, Scott turned to him; a frown etched upon those sculpted features.
"And what're you doing here?"
His voice was scornful, accusing. Taylor narrowed his eyes some, stared him straight in the face. "I'm a paying customer. Have a problem with it?"
"I'm amazed you found your way here," Scott remarked with a smirk, turning to look back at the band who could barely contain their laughter.
"Unlike you, Scott, who couldn't find your asshole in the dark."
That was it. The band hooted in laughter; uproarous laughter that echoed in the halls of the bar. Scotts features darkened and he turned to the band, who didn't pay him a bit of mind and continued laughing. Scott returned his face towards Taylor. He seemed unamused by him. Good. Score one for me. "What the fuck do you want?"
"You to be made a fool," Taylor responded, quietly. "Like the one you took me for on the day you left me."
Scott scoffed at that. "I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."
Taylor then pushed himself off the bar and walked over to face him, voice low. "I don't know what kind of game you're running or what bullshit you're trying to prove in front of your friends, but you know me. You fucking left me standing in front of our friends and family for what? For fucking what? And now you stand here denying your mistake and I'll be damned if I'm going to let that stand," he growled, voice getting louder with each word. It was hard for Taylor not to cry in front of Scott and his bandmates; he bit clean through his lip until he tasted the copper of his own blood and he mustered all the strength he could to continue.
"Look. I don't know you. I have never known you. I have no idea what you want. I mean, I think you've been smoking too much happy root," Scott was standing there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his buddies laughing behind him. Every few seconds or so, Scott would look back to them as if seeking their approval, or perhaps he was putting on a show for them. Taylor refused to be made a fool out of twice. When Scott turned to face him, Taylor sucked up all his stength and sucker-punched him in the face. Taylor winced and took a few steps back, holding his hand as Scott stumbled backwards over a chair. Taylor watched him fall to the floor, holding his face, staring up at him shocked; his features darkened over by anger. The band of his buddies fell silent, coming to his aide.
On his heel, Taylor turned and started towards the door. With his back to Scott, he fought hard not to let the tears that had seemingly sprung into his eyes fall down his cheeks. He held his injured hand close to his chest, like a bird whose wing had been broken. As he receeded, he heard the voices of Scott's bandmates behind him and Scott's angry voice. Once outside in the cold Canadian air, Taylor leaned against the wall and started to cry. Loud, heavy sobs that made it difficult for him to breathe.
How could he do this to me? How could he just pretend ...
He never heard the door open nor did he feel the presence of anyone standing beside him, until he heard a soft voice. "I'm sorry for him."
Taylor jumped a bit, startled at the voice, opening his eyes and looking to the direction of the voice ...
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More coming. Promise.