by JB Salsbury
“The label isn’t sold on you making a comeback. Whatever you come up with, it’ll have to be good enough to win them over as well.”
My gaze darts to my guitar that is starting to collect a sheen of dust. “I can do that. And what about Nathan?”
He sighs. “Nathan’s out for good.”
I run a hand through my hair. “That can’t be right. He loves the music—”
“He loved Kayla.”
Fuck, I have nothing to say to that, so I don’t. What kind of man gives up his entire career for a chick? He clearly isn’t the type of man who would die for his music, so we’re better off without him.
“There’s a drummer I’ve been keeping an eye on out in Las Vegas. If, and I mean if, you come up with a single that’s reminiscent of the early Jesse Lee stuff, I’ll see if I can get him to replace Nathan.”
“If? Where’s your faith in me?”
“Honestly? It died during your second rehab stay.”
“I’ve been to rehab three times.”
“I know. I gotta run. Get me those songs.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the leather-bound notebook and black Bic on the bedside table, then my gaze slides to a photo of Maggie, her hands on her swollen belly and her eyes dancing with joy while looking at me.
“How am I gonna do this in here? There is zero inspiration.” I decide I need some fresh air and a cigarette, so I snag my Marlboros and a lighter and head to the kitchen to grab a coffee.
At nine thirty in the morning, I expect to find the nanny and the kid somewhere, taking up space and making too much noise, but the house is empty. Good. Maybe with them gone I can think—what the…?
I squint through the sliding glass door and into the backyard. There’s one of those plastic kiddie pools, and the midget and the nanny are sitting inside it.
“She looks ridiculous.” I slide open the door, and both sets of eyes come to me. “Don’t you think you’re a little too big for that?”
“Good morning to you too,” she says as she bobs a plastic fish in and out of the water.
I don’t know why the visual frustrates me so much. Maybe it’s my conversation with Dave. Maybe it’s the sheer idiocy of a grown woman in a baby pool. Maybe it’s the fact that in a swimsuit, she’s wearing less clothes than I’ve ever seen her in and I’m fucking horny and grumpy as shit, but she continues to reject me for sex.
“I need you to take me to the church gym.”
“Oh, awesome! Are you taking Holy Yoga? Or Weights-n-Soul? I think they’re starting a Zumba to Zion class. I bet you’d be good at that.” She laughs and a little snort comes out, which is so fucking annoying.
“After my meeting, I’ll go to the gym, so just pick me up an hour later.”
“I can’t. I have to be to work at two, except for every other Friday and—”
“That’s not gonna work. Change it.”
She glares at me. “If you don’t like it, then drive yourself. My only job is to get you to your meetings.”
God, this woman is impossibly stubborn. I drop into a chair a few feet away from the pool and light up my smoke.
“You can’t smoke that here.” Her big brown eyes dart toward the kid, who seems completely oblivious to my smoking.
“It’s outdoors, it’s not hurting anyone.”
“You’re setting a bad example.”
“Says the woman in the baby pool.” I squint at her breasts. “Is that a unicorn on your suit?”
“It’s a Pegasus.”
I take a long drag from my smoke and blow it in her direction.
With a growl, she stands up from the water, and I’m momentarily knocked off guard by her body. Her suit is far from sexy—it’s a full piece that covers all her modest curves—but something about it makes me desperate to peel it off and discover what’s underneath. She’s not tall, but what height she does have is in long, toned legs and her hips are soft and round, something she hid well under her clothes.
She plucks the cigarette from my hand and water from her body drops onto my lap. “I’ll take that.”
She turns, and I watch her hips sway back to the pool, where she dunks my smoke in the water then tosses it into a bush. Apparently satisfied, she slaps her hands together and plops back into the water.
“You shouldn’t smoke anyway. Amazing with all the smoking-related deaths every year that people still smoke. It’s like the tobacco companies are saying, here’s a gun with a bullet in it. Give me money and I’ll let you put it to your head.”
“Oh, but it’s okay to say that in front of the kid?”
She frowns then looks at the little girl, who seems to be completely ignoring us anyway. “Elliot, never smoke. It’s bad for you.”
“I know,” she says then kicks around, splashing me with more water. “I’m a mermaid!”
Flying horses, fish girls—I pretended I was a fire-breathing dragon when I was a kid. The world is filled with normal people who dream of lives of myth and legend. Simple on the outside and fire-breathing on the inside. Rock-n-roll superstardom is no different. I became what they wanted to see.
No argument. No fight. No resistance from me…
My pulse pounds in my throat. “Oh fuck…”
“Jesse!” the nanny scolds. “What is your problem?”
I blink at her. “I gotta go.”
I think I just wrote a song.
Bethany
Jesse jumps up from the lounge chair and bolts inside, clearly forgetting to close the door.
I sigh and get out of the pool to go shut the door. While I’m up, I keep an eye on Elliot, even though she can swim and it’s only a couple feet of water, and grab two sugar-free popsicles from the freezer. My gaze darts down the hallway. Jesse’s door is closed. I wonder if he’s okay. I check the clock and see we have another couple hours before we have to leave, so I head back out to Elliot.
We hang out in the pool until our shoulders are pink and our hands are wrinkled. I dump the pool water and put her in a bath, then I get her dressed and leave her with her Barbies while I take a quick shower.
Finished and dressed, I realize we have ten minutes until we have to get Jesse to his meeting. I get our things together, hoping Jesse didn’t fall asleep or something, and finally go knock on his door. “We gotta go!”
He swings open the door, and he’s still in his sleeping shorts. “I can’t. I’m writing.”
“What? No. You have to go. You can’t miss a meeting.”
He seems a little dazed, as if he just woke from the best dream ever and wants to get back to sleep to pick up where he left off. “No, call them, tell them I’m sick.”
“You can’t do that. Dave said—”
“I need to write a song and I’m on to something amazing, so just call them and tell them I’m sick.” He turns around, and I follow his gaze to find a notebook on the floor, words and musical notes scribbled all over the open page. “Please, Bethany.” He’s never called me by my name before. “I need you.”
I don’t know why I’m nodding, but I am. “I…”
“Thanks so much. I owe you.”
He closes the door in my face, and I stand there for a few seconds, wondering how I’m going to get Jesse out of his AA meeting without getting either of us in trouble.
“You told them I had diarrhea!” Jesse’s eyes are wide as he stares at me from the mouth of the hallway.
I don’t know why he looks so upset. I did what he asked and got him out of his AA meeting. I hide my secret smile. “You told me to tell them you were sick.”
“Yeah, like a fever or pink eye, not the runs!”
“Elliot, hurry up!” We had been making our way out the door for school when she realized she forgot to grab something for show-and-tell. That was when Mr. Rock God thought to ask me what illness I’d given him. I zip up Elliot’s My Little Pony backpack and glare at the furious superstar. “A little gratitude would go a long way.”
His glare is all the t
hank you I get. Ungrateful, spoiled celebrity! “Diarrhea was the best I could do. Besides, no one ever questions diarrhea.”
He rakes his hands through his hair, and although he finally has a shirt on, when he lifts his arms like that, it exposes that awesome part of his stomach that tapers and disappears beneath his—“Are you staring at my dick, nanny?”
My eyes snap to his that dance with humor.
“No, you disgusting pervert. I was not.” I lean around him. “Elliot! Come on!”
“I’m still looking for my beagle puppy!”
I swerve around Jesse and down the hallway to help search for the stuffed animal. “Did you check under your bed?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jesse rumbles from the doorway.
I spin around to find him glaring at a poster on Elliot’s wall. “You have something against Justin Timberlake?”
He looks at me, eyes wide, jaw slack. “Do you ever watch entertainment news? He beat me for an MTV music award last year.”
I stare adoringly at the image of J.Tim in a black leather jacket and a pair of jeans that fit him beautifully. “He’s amazing. Just to be nominated alongside JT is an honor.”
“Nope. Not even close to accurate.”
Elliot pops her head up from behind the bed. “He’s a good dancer. Can you dance?”
“I don’t dance, kid.”
She shrugs. “That’s probaly why you lost.” She ducks down to search for her stuffed animal.
Jesse’s jaw drops open, and he glares at me. “She’s been brainwashed. I can’t believe my brother’s kid doesn’t have a single poster of me on her wall.” He shoves a finger toward the poster. “I’m her freakin’ uncle!”
Silence fills the room, and he looks stunned as he apparently processes what he said. His eyebrows drop low and he shakes his head, backing out of the room.
“I found it!” Elliot’s arm pops up with the stuffed animal in hand.
“Let’s go, we’re going to be late.” I usher her out and past a confused-looking Jesse. “You’re right.” I squeeze his shoulder, pulling him from his temporary daze. “You are her freakin’ uncle.” Now act like it. “Good luck with your song and there’s some Pepto in the medicine cabinet.”
I can’t help but giggle at his answering growl.
Does it make me a horrible person that I got an insane amount of satisfaction from telling Jesse’s AA leader, Paul, that he had a horrible case of diarrhea? I can’t help it that I want the guy to be human for, like, one second. It’s not natural to be good-looking and flawless all the time.
Maybe it was mean to give him fictional diarrhea.
But the look on his face when I told him… I grin. Why does being bad feel so good?
10
Jesse
“Jesiah, you got a minute?”
I peer up from my position on the floor, my back to the bed, guitar in hand and a pencil between my teeth.
“If this is a bad time…”
I pop the pencil out of my mouth. “Come in.”
Ben opens the door with a plate of food in hand. He doesn’t see me sitting on the floor right away, but when he does, he seems surprised. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He crosses to a small end table by that fucking chair that I shoved into the corner and puts down the food. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to take a break to eat.” He clicks on the floor lamp.
I blink blurry eyes at the time. It’s almost eight o’clock. The room managed to get darker without me even noticing.
Ben stands across the room from me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “I heard a little of what you were playing. Sounds good.”
Feeling vulnerable and uneasy, I close my notebook and lean my guitar on the bed. “It’s rough, but I’ll get there.”
Tension-filled silence stretches between us, and I wonder how much of this he’ll put us through before he puts us both out of our misery and leaves. He rocks back on his feet and looks around the room. His gaze settles on a photo of Maggie with longing and sadness in his eyes. I wonder if he misses staring at her pictures at night now that I’m taking up his room.
I spot the food he brought me. Steak, potatoes, some kind of green vegetable. My chest twinges. “You can have your room back. I’ll take the couch.”
His gaze slides to mine. “No. I think you should have your own space, and I get up early anyway. Elliot too. This way we won’t wake you.” He goes back to the photo. “I can get these pictures out of here—”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“They make you uncomfortable, I get it—”
“No.”
He seems confused.
I stand. “It’s cool. I don’t mind them. But if you insist on staying on the couch, you should take a few out there.”
He smiles sadly and grabs the closest photo of his dead wife. He doesn’t press the frame to his chest or kiss it like his expression led me to believe he would. Instead, he holds it at his side. I get the sense he doesn’t want me to know how much it means to him. “Right, well… I’m going to shower and get to bed.”
“Ben.”
He stops at the doorway and turns around.
“Do you miss it? Playing.” I lift a chin toward his dusty guitar. “Writing.”
“A little, yeah.”
“You ever think of going back to it?”
He shrugs, and I don’t miss the way he holds the photo frame tighter to his side. “Not really.”
“Too bad.” I snag my food off the table and sit back on the floor to eat. “You were good at it.”
He drops his chin for a few breaths then looks at me. “You comfortable on the floor?”
I eye the antique chair for the maximum amount of time I’m able to—which is all of two seconds. “You can’t expect me to sit on that fucking thing.”
The moment my words register, Ben’s face drains of color.
“G’night.”
His gaze darts to the chair then back to me, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. He nods and backs out of the room with a quiet, “Good night.”
“I’m happy to hear you’re writing music.” Doc Ulrich seems genuinely excited about my news and seems as stoked as I am that we’re down to two-a-week visits. “Writing music is no different than journaling—”
“I beg to differ, doc.”
He motions to my guitar with a flick of his pen. “Would you like to share what you’ve written?
“No can do. You’ll have to wait for the single to release like everyone else.”
“Fair enough.” He cracks a smile and jots something on his legal pad. “Any breakthroughs at AA yesterday?”
My expression sours. “I missed my meeting yesterday because I wasn’t feeling good.”
He fakes concern well, but I can tell he’s mostly skeptical. “Are you sick?”
I scratch my jaw as irritation crawls up my neck. “Yeah, just a… some stomach stuff.”
“I see.” He writes something. What could possibly be note-worthy about me being sick—well, fake-sick? “Do you need to see a doctor?”
“Nah, man. I’m good.”
“You’ll be attending your meeting today though, correct?”
“Yeah, and I’m going to start working out today. I’m excited about that.”
He goes on and on, trying to dig out any dirt from my childhood, but I just nod or shake my head. If he’s that curious about my upbringing, why doesn’t he ask Ben? I’m sure he’d be an open fucking book for the doctor.
Our time finally ends and he excuses himself. I throw on a pair of athletic pants and a black T-shirt, slip on my Under Armor running shoes, and head out to hunt down my ride.
She’s in the kitchen at the sink, rinsing dishes.
“Where are the keys?”
She jumps and drops a mug into the sink, where it shatters into a million pieces. “Shit!”
“Um, pardon me, Ms. Prim and Proper, but did you just drop an s-bomb?”
“
You scared me.” She glares at me, and this close, her eyes look more caramel-colored. Huh, I always thought they were just brown. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
I rest back against the counter beside her. “Nanny, I’m six-foot-one. It’s impossible for me to ‘sneak up’ on anyone. Maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings.”
“Whatever.” She picks up the ceramic pieces and tosses them in the garbage.
As often as she’s here—and whenever I see her, she’s always playing with the kid or cleaning—what would Benjamin do if she quit? He’d be fucked.
“Elliot, let’s get a move on!” she calls down the hallway.
The little girl comes barreling into the kitchen, a big gap-toothed grin pulled tightly between her cheeks.
I’m at the door, slipping on my ball cap, while the nanny gathers the kid’s crap so we can go. I snag the key fob from the kitchen table. “I’m driving.”
She’s in a squat, tying the kid’s shoes, and peers up at me. “You can’t drive. Dave said—”
“Dave doesn’t want me to drive because he doesn’t want me to get into trouble. I’m not going to get into trouble, so I’m driving.”
“I don’t think—”
I snap my fingers. “Up. Let’s go.”
She glares at me in that way that makes me horny, then she frowns because now I can’t stop smiling. “Fine. The church is only a few miles from here. Surely you can handle that.” She struts past me with a smirk.
Keep it up, nanny, and I’ll have you naked and spread open underneath me by the end of the week.
She does the shit with the car seat while I get behind the wheel, adjust the seat to accommodate my much longer legs, and fix the mirrors.
She climbs into the front seat and eyes me as she clicks her own seat belt. “Aren’t people like you taken everywhere in limos? When was the last time you drove?”
I reverse out of the driveway and throw the transmission in drive, peeling out just for fun.
She stiffens and braces herself in her seat. “Slow down!”
The kid laughs and squeals for me to go faster.
