Aubrey (Revolving With Axis)

002:

A drum rap clap of thunder on the trunk of my car scared the crap out of me, and caused me to sit up too fast, wiping my eyes, and smearing make up. I glanced all around the car, expecting one of my sibs. It did happen occasionally that one or more showed up on a fine afternoon like this one for some beach time or surfing with their youngsters in tow. Better surfing in Malibu or something.

I saw no one. I opened the car door and reached for my brief case and my purse wondering fleetingly if I was up for surfing or beach play--maybe a fine distraction-- maybe not.

"Hey-y." I called, noting the wary and weary catch in my voice. Well, why not? I had held several dying or dead babies today already. Possibly more tomorrow.

"Uh huh. Uh huh. Ba da da da da duh, uh huh." Came a completely unfamiliar and very melodic male voice.

I shook myself looking behind the car, squinting into the late afternoon/ evening reflection off the bright adobe homes across the way. It was completely characteristic of my sibs to want to scare me. This was beyond normal. It was also completely characteristic of them to rap, sing, hum and make any other melodic noise.

"'Bout time you got home, uh huh, uh huh, ooooweee, now how's that for a fine looking high heeled well-muscled calf? Uh huh?"

He came into sight as I righted myself and shut the car door with a beep from the key sensor, locking it automatically. I pulled the sunglasses to a higher perch atop my head, pushing my blonde hair back behind my ears. My eyes were now greeted by a fairly tall man, hair close-cropped military style, facial hair trimmed neatly. His lips were puckered out as he made the beat box noises, and his eyes darted around the garage with interest, finally lighting back on me.

He was dressed in slinky dark blue sweats, over basketball shorts, those kind that snapped up the sides, and they were not snapped, that's how I knew about the basketball shorts underneath. He sported a thin tight white t-shirt, and tattoos that covered his arms from under the tops of the shirt sleeves to his wrists, ending in a straight line across where a long sleeved button down shirt might end, excluding his very long knobby white fingers. It took a split second to realize he wasn't related to me. His grin was infectious, but I could barely offer a congenial smile. He had perfect teeth, though.

"Rafe Stryker." He held out one of those knobby fingered hands and before I could think to move the straps of my purse and briefcase, he had grabbed my hand and was shaking it up and down enthusiastically.

I don't know what I was expecting, certainly not the cool, but extremely firm grip of the palm that completely encompassed mine. Hard, like-- like-- I blinked, analyzing it. Like Uncle Jules' hand. A hand that was very strong and very compact from playing hours and hours of guitar and piano. There was a special and unique signature handshake of a guitar player and this guy's was definitely it.

I had to analyze the name quickly to see if it was familiar as well. And I had to say something. He hadn't let go of my hand. Those eyes were quick, darting eyes, seeking eyes. Gees, I was too slow this afternoon, too wiped out.

"Aubrey Mann." Both straps plummeted to my elbow, catching and then falling the rest of the way to my captured wrist. They were heavy too. Our other hands collided as we both reached for the straps to stabilize them once again on my shoulder.

"Uh huh, uh huh." He hummed, or started a little vocal percussion with his humming, as his eyes darted from my face to my garage within seconds flat. He finally dropped my hand. "You okay, sister?"

His body was relaxed, in a hip-hop sort of way. You could call it relaxed, but the energy of it crackled in the air around us. I felt like his hands were about to cross in front of his waist holding imaginary drumsticks, and flick them rhythmically. He obviously had a song going in his head.