Body of Lies

Four

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I imagine they are rose colored. The thought of blushing about it causes me to blush even further. For whatever reason, I cannot face him like this—sober. Quite frankly, it's embarrassing. Getting high is not embarrassing; our mentor is always under the influence of a drug. No, it is not the "doing drugs" that is embarrassing. It's the needing them.... the fact that being dependent on something for survival made me utterly weak... and that he could see that. That's the source of my shame. I'm supposed to be stronger than that.

"It's not a big deal," I say, trying to convince us both.

Wasn't it a big deal when your dad did them?

"It is. I was scared for you. You had a high fever and I didn't know what to do. I almost took you to the hospital. I would have, if you hadn't cooled down after the shower." He says with a look of worry.

"I see," was all I could manage to get out.

"That's all you have to say?"

"What else do you want me to say?"

"Ho-how the fuck is this okay to you? The hotel staff sent me over the tape from last night. You were about to jump off of the balcony!? I mean....Do you want to commit suicide?" He asked, whispering softly and carefully over the word as it scorched his tongue.

"I mean, I don't know where you're at in your head," he stated sounding disappointed.

"It's just something I do," I say insouciantly.

"You were over heated and I thought something was seriously wrong," he says, distressed, placing his head into the palms of each hand—elbows resting on his thighs.

"I was dehydrated, that's all," I say, forcing a smile.

He stares back at me with no hint of amusement or allowance for me to evade this topic.

"I usually drink a lot of water you know, I try to be careful," I say, trying to pull an excuse together. I have to convince him and convince him well because I never want to have this conversation with him again. The look on his face, though I can hardly read it, is making me want to curl up in the fetal position. It's some mixture of hurt and disappointment. My mom always looked at my dad like that. That look makes me feel like I'm six years old with the stomach flu and instead of taking care of me, my she's out looking for him.

"Why?" he inquires, harshly.

Is he hard of hearing now?

"Because I don't want to get dehydrated," I say sarcastically.

"You know what I mean. Why do you feel like you...have to do drugs?" he says in a much softer tone and I feel like he's himself again. The sweet guy that adored me before he got hurt.

"I don't really know."

"Bullshit."

"They just help me relax. Same way alcohol does for you."

Incomparable. I've been drunk and I've been high. The feelings do not compare. Sober thoughts become drunk words. However, when I am high, I have much more control over my actions.

"Then why not just drink?"

"Because I don't want to become and alcoholic!"

"Which is worse than being a drug addict?" he asks angrily.

"Look I do not have to explain myself to you."

My addiction is exactly that: mine. It's all I have to myself anymore and I don't want to share it—especially with him all judging me.

"But you do actually."

Oh, really Aubrey? Why is that?

"You just said that one of the reasons you let our friendship go was because of your drug use."

"I don't know what you want me to say Aubrey. I do not know what you want me to say. I get high because I want to....because I can. It makes me feel good. That's it," I say—clicking my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

"That's all."

He says nothing. He just stares at me intensely and I cannot meet his gaze.

"There's got to be more to it than that...and besides you're clearly losing control of your...habit."

"I'm in complete control. When did you become Dr. Phil?" I shoot back. He is now personally attacking me and I am not going to just sit here and allow it.

"Okay, we've been away from each other for a while so you don't know this, but I don't tolerate disrespect. All the shit you used to do, the little snag remarks, the sneak insults—that's dead. I'm not for that shit anymore. Talk to me right."

I just stare in silence. Well isn't this interesting.

"Do you understand," He states more than asks in a condescending tone.

Well he certainly has me fucked up.

"Drake you-" I start with a laughy-warning tone.

"Do you understand?"

"What I understand is...." I ponder my next works carefully.

"...that you must have fell and bumped you head. Because you definitely cannot talk to me like that. I don't care how much anabolic steroids your pumping into your inflatable muscles. I'm still me. Drugs or not and I don't take disrespect either—especially from men."

And I don't and I never have.

Perhaps fame is going to his head—or his body; I cannot tell which is bigger at this point. Old Drake would not treat me like this and I know that I am in no position to judge the way money and power have changed people, but he really needs to check himself.

Again, silence. He glares at me like he can see beyond the pigments of my irises, behind my eyes, into my brain. I know this look. You give this look to someone when they tell you they're leaving you. After you've both cheated, you wonder how things have gotten this far....But I must have misread his expression because his look of brokenness soon turns into a smirk. The smuggest, most powerful smirk I've ever seen—and its' not even very wide. Now I know he has changed. And I think I have miscalculated my own moves. I feel like my bishop has been captured.

"You know," he starts and then pauses to take a sip of his drink.

"If I were you, I would be a lot nicer to me," he says suggestively and swallows and I see his Adam's apple bulge out from his thick neck.

I cannot let him get away with this. I am on the defense despite all the signs that suggest I should back down. But I'm already so far gone.

"Oh? And why is that?" I scoff.

He sighs deeply and tilts his head to the side. A predator and prey and now I cannot tell who is who.

"Because," he begins with squinty eyes.

"I do, hear me carefully, control the future of your music career."

Millions of brain signals and neurotransmitters traveling per second.

What?

"What?"

"Just what I said. I bought Wayne out of Young Money—this including your masters guarantees my control over your music. And as all third-party participation contractually comes to an end, I am the only party left."

Prey. Definitely prey.

Check mate.