The Last JoyRide

Part 42

Monday 11:52 PM

Sasha had climbed into a wide comfortable chair sitting across Mystic, who was quietly smoking what could have been a stylishly small cigar and admiring the Peart. Two similar chairs and an oval table between them were set up as if to purposefully admire the English gentleman's car. Joy and I took the vacant chair. She sat tightly next to me with her legs crossed over mine and her right arm comfortably around my neck. I couldn't resist the urge to run my hand under her and hold her tight by the hip. She looked at me and smiled warmly.

Sasha was whispering to Mystic and kissing him all over his face, head, and neck. He didn't seem to mind but was amazingly composed for someone in his position. He and I made eye contact. I was the first to break the silence.

"How the hell did you get this thing in here?"

Mystic chuckled. His face was hopelessly boyish, narrow thin, much like his build. His hair was a mushroom of tousled dirty blond that hung down a little past his neck. He wasn't a bad-looking fellow but had one of those faces that would appear perpetually youthful. Even in that, though, he looked a little sad, forlorn, I daresay broken.

Sasha nestled her nose into his neck and settled down. He leaned over and sweetly kissed her temple.

"It wasn't too bad, really," he answered. That wall behind the curtains, the French doors, open onto the pool patio. One afternoon me, well, some of my boys moved everything, then pushed down the end of the driveway, down that rock path, and pushed it around the pool. It fit too because these doors are wide. There was no way I was letting anybody mess with this."

"You like James Bond?" Joy pipped in.

"James Bond? Sure," he smiled.

"But?" Joy prodded, pushing herself further into my lap to get a better face-to-face view.

I slid her more comfortably into place and put my arm around her waist, feeling the fabric of her dress and, for a split second losing myself in the thought of what it would feel like to peel it off her.

"But this was Neil Peart's car."

Joy wiggled in my lap as she patted my arm.

"See, I told you! He knew! He knew all along."

Mystic looked surprised by her reaction.

"That guy is the greatest, Rush man; that's next-level stuff."

"It is," I agreed.

"Your fan base probably has no idea who Rush is," I quipped.

"Maybe not, but I'm trying to change all that. There are a ton of good samples out there to work with, sick back beats and tempos that'd turn anybody on with an ear to listen. It's all a matter of putting it into a package they don't mind opening."

Sasha lifted her head and kissed his jaw, and snuggled even closer. He snuffed out his cigar, left it on the ashtray between us, and caressed Sasha's face and shoulder.

I looked at Joy, who shrugged.

"I," she stopped, "We never took you for a deep thinker." She said matter of factly.

"He is, he is," Sasha whispered.

"It's just that, well, this is such a shit-show now," Joy continued.

I could tell by the change in tone that she felt bad for the fellow. He was only hours away from losing it all, save Sasha.

"You know what?" Mystic said, standing, moving Sasha out of the way.

"I don't want to talk about any of that shit, okay? I fucked up. I know I fucked up. This life, man," he smiled and distant smile, looking around the room, taking in the constant and droning noise of the music and light penetrating even the heavy wall curtains blocking all the windows to the pool deck.