Alone Together

It was seven in the morning. The California sun had risen, highlighting the tops of the sequoia trees with its radiant gleam. The crystalline-blue sky was dotted with cottony clumps of clouds. Tom was bent down by the entrance of his jogging path, double-knotting the laces of his Adidas tennis shoes.

Tom marveled at the serene atmosphere of the Aurora gated community. Its residents were protected from the prying eyes of the paparazzi and press hounds that would have been permitted anywhere else. Tom was aware that he was not exactly a prominent figure in Hollywood, but if he ever obtained the status that Scarlett held, he would certainly consider settling in Aurora.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back to take a swig from his water bottle. Somebody whizzed past him, gravel crunching beneath a pair of sneakers. He opened his eyes to see a nimble Elliott a few paces ahead of him, bouncing on the soles of her feet.

Her dark hair was secured in a hastily-tied bun. A few strands had escaped from the jumble of pins, now hanging in front of her flushed face. An old pair of track shorts were slung low on her hips and the strap of a loose tank top was threatening to slip down her arm. An aluminum water bottle was clasped tightly in her right hand.

Tom blinked, puzzled by her presence. This was the first he had seen of her since the morning before. After their heated conversation, Elliott had vanished without a trace. Not that Tom had been at home: he and Scarlett had scoured Los Angeles to find him a nice apartment. After an afternoon of no success, they gave up and went out to a dinner that had turned into a night on the town.

When they had finally made it back home, Elliott was still nowhere to be found. “It’s no big deal. She’s always doing that,” Scarlett had assured. She would disappear to some unspecified location for hours on end and provide a vague description of her whereabouts if she was questioned about it. Tom and Scarlett had been fast asleep by the time she had creeped back into the house.

Elliott snapped her fingers, wrenching Tom from his thoughts. “You coming?” she asked, her eyes narrowing into glittering green slits.

Tom, struck by her evident impatience, nodded and sped up his pace. The two quickly fell into step with each other, their footsteps sounding in sync. They didn’t speak.

The silent tension between them was almost palpable to Tom. He couldn't determine whether Elliott was angry at him or not; the neutral expression she wore gave absolutely nothing away. She would keep her eyes trained forward whenever he shot a sidelong glance her way. In such close proximity, Tom could see dark circles beneath her wispy lashes.

"So how's Maja?" she asked all of a sudden. The nonchalance in her voice sounded forced.

Tom bit his lip. Maja had called around eleven P.M. the night before, right after he had finally managed to drift off. In a groggy stupor, he had listened to Maja apologize profusely for the inappropriate behavior she had displayed when she had been over at the house.

Desperate for sleep, Tom had immediately forgiven her. Still, he subconsciously hoped that she wouldn’t get a part in the film they had auditioned for so wouldn’t have to see her again. He had no legitimate reason to feel ashamed, but that didn’t stop him from blushing everytime he recalled their drunken escapades.

"She's fine," Tom muttered apathetically.

“That’s good.”

Awkward pause.

Tom took a deep breath.

“Look" -- Tom took the fleeting glance he received from Elliott as his cue to continue -- "I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. What I said to you was unacceptable. I’m very sorry.”

Another excruciating pause followed his words. The silence was near deafening.

Just when Tom had accepted the fact that he was probably never going to get an answer, Elliott softly sighed out:

“You were right.”

Tom’s stomach clenched and he felt a forceful tug in his chest. He hoped the surprise he felt didn’t show. “What do you mean?” he asked, cringing at the obvious urgency in his words. He had the feeling that he already knew the answer to his own question.

A frustrated huff left Elliott’s mouth. In a meek voice, she said, “I think maybe I was jealous.” And that was all Tom needed to hear.

Despite his efforts, Tom failed to stop a victorious grin from spreading across his face. Elliott stared ahead pointedly, refusing to meet his insistent gaze.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the run.

Kyle, Elliott's boyfriend (?), was an enigma to Tom, almost more so than Elliott was. The man was only ever mentioned briefly in conversation. He never made any appearances at the house, nor did he ever call on the phone. Tom had begun to think -- and, deep down, maybe even hope -- that Kyle didn't actually exist. He soon found that he was sadly mistaken.

“Kyle just opened a new club.” Out of the blue, Elliott had mentioned this one day, interrupting a discussion Scarlett and Tom were sharing. “He’d love it we could all go visit.”

Tom’s heart had sunk deep into his stomach. There had been something of an attraction growing between he and Elliott since she admitted to having feeling for him. Recently, all of their encounters had been filled with lingering glances, “accidental” brushes, and timid smiles. For fear of doing something that might get him trouble, Tom had been training himself not to act on impulse.

Tom tried his hardest to keep these impulses under control as he, Scarlett, and Elliott stood outside of Catalyst, Kyle’s new nightclub. It was nearly midnight and they still hadn't seen anything but the outside of the brick-lined building. The burly bouncer at the end of the queue was sending people away by the cluster.

"I hate to complain, but my feet are killing me and we haven't even started dancing yet," Scarlett whined, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

"He should be out soon," Elliott reassured her. Tom noticed the way she nervously fiddled with the belt of her trench coat and fought the urge to rub the small of her back comfortingly.

Just then, a man in a worn Ramones t-shirt and a hand-knit grey beanie stepped out of the club. He was sporting an impressive beard and a mop of long, dark curls. His appearance vaguely reminded Tom of Jesus --- if Jesus was a fan of punk rock and had a shitload of tattoos decorated his body. The man scanned the line before locking eyes with Elliott. His face split into a wide smile.

"Hey, babe," he exclaimed, pulling Elliott in for a brief kiss. She smiled softly as he snaked an arm around her narrow hips. "Sorry I didn't get here sooner. I’m short-staffed, so I’ve been tending bar," he apologized, "Have you guys been out here long?"

Tom forced himself to be civil. "Not at all," he fibbed, shaking his head. He thrust a hand forward. "I'm Tom."

The guy took Tom's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Nice to meet you," he replied cheerfully, "I'm Kyle." He acknowledged Scarlett with a smirk, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Kyle approached the bouncer and quickly whispered something into his ear. The enormous man nodded, unclipping the velvet rope and allowing them to step inside. The club-hoppers in line behind them groaned as the bouncer barred the entrance right before they could make it in.

The space was pretty small, but it had a friendly, intimate atmosphere; B-list celebrities and other disarmingly attractive people were shimmying on the dancefloor and chatting over drinks. A band up front was starting a new set, their cheeks red from jumping around. The fog machine on stage emitted a smoky haze that swirled around their feet.

Scarlett, Tom, and Elliott followed Kyle to the bar. "So what can I get you?" he asked, elbows on the counter.

Soon after, everyone had drinks in their hands, feeling relaxed and warm. Tom and Elliott sat beside each other on their barstools, thighs nearly touching. Elliott could feel Tom's heat emanating off of him. The sensation sent shivers down her spine.

Tom sipped on his Jack and Coke, inconspicuously studying Kyle. He had never felt so inferior to any one person before; second place was not a position he was very familiar with. He didn’t like it. Tom suddenly wished that Elliott had seen something he’d been in, anything to make him more impressive to her.

"Elliott! Scarlett!" A voice called out behind them. Tom turned to see a petite, pixie-like girl with hot pink curls and several facial piercings. She smiled brightly, bouncing on her Doc-Martens-clad heels. The seemingly boundless energy she possessed was exhausting.

Elliott set down her ginger ale, eyebrows spiking. "Mabel...Hi!" she stammered, clearly surprised. Scarlett jumped from her barstool and gave the girl a tiny embrace. Tom gave Scarlett a questioning look.

"Tom, this is Mabel Monroe," Scarlett explained, hand on her shoulder. "She’s the one who introduced me to Elliott, back in New York." Mabel wrapped Tom in an overenthusiastic hug. His arms went limp at his sides, caught off-guard.

"What are you doing here?" Elliott finally asked. The corners of her mouth had turned up in delight.

Kyle cleared his throat from behind the bar. "She's the bassist of the in-house band," he interjected, juggling a martini shaker in his hands. "She's fantastic." Mabel gave a dismissive wave, shaking her head humbly.

She began to enthrall everyone with the story of how she and Elliott had been in a band that played all over New York, and how she had invited Scarlett to come to one of their shows. Scarlett chattered along happily, expressing how their set had been "an experience.”

"You're a musician?" Tom shifted his attention to Elliott, stunned. This was all news to him. Elliott opened her mouth to give a reply, but Mabel beat her to the punch.

"Omigod, she's incredible," Mabel enthused, "She plays, like, every instrument in existence and her voice is heavenly. She's a total badass."

By this point, Elliott's entire body was flushing with heat. She bashfully stared into her lap as Kyle laughed, squeezing her shoulder. Elliott looked as if she wanted to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West and drain into a sewer grate. Tom stared at her with a newfound fascination.

Mabel suddenly began flapping her hands excitedly. "Omigod, you should totally come perform with us!"

Elliott paled, horrified by the very suggestion. She protested profusely, spouting weak excuses left and right. "Nobody wants to hear me sing," she babbled nervously. The looks on the faces around her seemed to suggest otherwise.

Mabel scoffed and wrenched Elliott away from the bar. "Don't be silly. It’ll be fun, you’ll see," she insisted. Next thing Elliott knew, she was up on stage in front of an expectant (and slightly drunk) crowd. Mabel pulled the band members into a tiny huddle for a hasty assembly.

Tom downed the last few dregs of his drink, watching Elliott through his glass. She was stripping away her jacket and replacing it with the electric guitar Mabel handed her. She curiously ran her fingers along the frets of the instrument, like it had been a while since she had last played.

"How come you didn't tell me that she’s a musician?" Tom demanded, nudging Scarlett gently. He felt so in the dark when it came to Elliott; the fact that he knew so little about her frustrated him to no end.

Scarlett simply shrugged. "I haven't seen her on stage since New York," she confessed, swishing her cocktail around in its glass.

Kyle nodded in agreement. “If she’s been playing, I wouldn’t know.” Tom’s eyes followed Elliott as she freed her hair from its binding, allowing the inky locks to puddle around her slender neck. He looked away only when he realized that Kyle was peering at him searchingly. He glanced at his empty glass, flushing crimson.

The dissonant plinking of piano keys sounded in the front, coaxing all attention to the stage. Mabel tapped lightly on her microphone and smiled, lighting up the room. “How is everyone tonight?”

The crowd whooped and cheered in response, and Mabel took this as encouragement. “I’d like to introduce an old friend of mine,” she continued, sauntering across the stage to throw an arm around Elliott’s neck. “This is Elliott Lowell, but you guys can call her Lee.” More shouts came from the crowd, probably fueled by tequila and jelly shots.

“She’s about to rock the house with us, so you might want to hold on to your hats,” Mabel declared confidently. Elliott rolled her eyes affectionately, staring down at her feet.

Tom gnawed on a piece of ice, eager and a little impatient. The Elliott he knew (or didn’t know) was very guarded; her MO was frosty detachment. In such a vulnerable position --- under the harsh glare of spotlight --- her soul would truly be exposed. Tom couldn’t decide whether to be excited or anxious.

“Uh, I wrote this song when me and Mabel were still playing together,” Elliott said, gripping the cold, steely stem of her microphone with a clammy palm. “It’s called Black Sheep.” The performers stepped into their places, waiting for their cue.

The drummer smacked his sticks together and launched into the song, thrashing around wildly. Elliott’s fingertips deftly moved along the neck of her instrument, sending loud, distorted sounds all the way to the back of the room. The song switched between intervals of short, aggressive bass thumps and roaring blasts of guitar. Elliott opened her mouth to sing the first verse, her mouth just barely pressed to the mic:

“Hello again, friend of a friend, I knew you when

Our common goal was waiting for. The World. TO END!”

Now that the truth is just a rule that you can bend

You crack the whip, shape-shift and trick. The Past. AGAIN!”

The soft, adamant purr of Elliott’s voice nearly made Tom’s heart stop. It was innocent and sexy at the same time, and it felt like she was whispering directly into his ear. He could practically feel her soft lips on the tender skin…

Elliott had put the spectators under her spell. They were captivated by the swing of her narrow hips and the way she bobbed her head from side to side, lost in the beat of the music. Everyone was singing along by the time the chorus came around again:

“I’ll send you my love on a wire, lift you up every time

Everyone, oooh, pulls away, oooh, FROM YOU!”

Elliott’s muddy green eyes flicked to Tom’s crystal blues, boring into him. She looked like she had completely forgotten that there was anyone else in the room besides she and him. And then she did something he never would have expected: she smiled.

It wasn’t one of those disappointing, lukewarm smirks that Elliott seemed to have trademarked. It was a real smile: her eyes turned emerald, a hidden pair of dimples showed, her nose scrunched. It was simple and pure and it made Tom want to rush up on stage and snog her.

“What do you think?” Tom’s head snapped away from the stage and he refocused his attention on Kyle. The man stared at him with a vague expression on his face, eyes narrowed. Was he suspicious? He had good reason to be. Tom had been gawking at his girlfriend throughout the entire performance.

“Of Elliott?” Tom asked dumbly. He silently berated himself for how guilty he sounded.

“Yes, of Elliott,” Kyle chuckled, crossing his over-tattooed arms. “She’s good, right?” The song was coming to an end, the last few chords fading out into the night. The crush of people at the edge of the stage were already applauding wildly. Elliott was strangling her guitar with a death grip, incredulous of her own skill. The afterglow of a fantastic performance looked good on her; it brought out the color in her cheeks and made her stand a bit taller. She was beautiful.

“She’s brilliant,” Tom found himself saying, breathless.