Love Out Loud

by Aimee Salter

Dead and gone

  Just bury me

  Without you.

  Bury me.

  I’m all wrong

  ‘Cause you buried me

  Without you.

  It suddenly becomes very clear: I have a new song to write.

  Chapter Seven

  Three months ago

  Crash

  I’m hunched over my phone the next morning, embarrassed that they admitted me for nothing more than too much Scotch. But Amber says the press is on to the whole thing with Tommy being at Kelly’s house, and we need a distraction. “Besides, what the hell were you thinking, driving drunk to your ex-girlfriend’s house? Like the press wouldn’t get wind of that in a heartbeat? You stay here until we get this whole mess sorted out. We’ve told everyone you’re being treated for exhaustion. Deal with it.”

  Then, with a look of disgust that I actually earned this time, she stalked out the door on six-inch heels.

  I’ve sat here, wallowing in self-loathing, playing with my phone ever since. My fingers itch for a guitar, but no one thought to bring me one. There’s a quiet knock on my door. “Come in,” I say, expecting one of the nurses; they keep taking my vitals despite the fact that I’m nothing more than hungover.

  “Mr. Moretti, it’s time for your sponge-bath,” a high voice says.

  I jerk my head up to find Tommy smirking from behind the privacy curtain.

  “Good one.” I go back to the app that plays guitar chords for me.

  Unlike my best friend, I don’t have perfect pitch. I have to find my way through a song. Which is fine when I have a guitar in my hands and can flip back and forth between chords without thinking. Much more frustrating when I have to tap them into a metronome counter, play them, then make changes, play them again. Just thinking about it makes me want to smack something.

  “Still working on that song?” Tommy throws a bag from Darlings Doughnuts on my bed, then takes the chair next to the bed.

  “New one,” I say, tapping the last of the chords into the app and pressing play.

  The tinny strum of the synthesized guitar chimes out of my phone for a few seconds before Tommy and I both wince. Definitely not D there. Maybe go back to G?

  I flip through the chart, making the change, while Tommy bites his already-short nails and watches me.

  I press play on the app, then stop it in the same place. Nope, not G, either.

  “You want to resolve,” Tommy says. He means to take the music back to the E where I started. But I play dumb and launch into damage control.

  “I lied because I didn’t know how to tell you the truth, and she didn’t know the truth. And I was afraid if I told you, you’d tell her, and that would have been worse.”

  Tommy blinks. “You mean you told me Kelly broke up with you because she didn’t know the real reason you broke up with her and you didn’t want her to know?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  “And I stopped keeping your secrets when, exactly?”

  Giving up on the song, I pick up the bag which smells amazing and mentally cheer. He got three cinnamon rolls. “You don’t keep my secrets when you think you know better.”

  “Since when—”

  “Beginning of eighth grade,” I say around a mouthful of sweet, buttery cinnamon, “I told you my mom was doing meth and you told Principal Harrison.”

  Tommy scowls. “I won’t apologize for making sure your mom didn’t kill you in a meth rage.”

  “In ninth grade, you told my Dad about my rash.”

  “I thought you’d picked up crabs from that creepy goth chick at the SunDowner—”

  “Junior year, you told Kelly I was in love with her.”

  “You were.”

  “Not the point.” I go hard on the T sounds so I accidentally spit crumbs. Tommy brushes off his lap without even changing expression, then puts his boot up on the side of my bed.

  “Still waiting to hear about how I don’t keep your secrets.”

  “I just gave you three examples.”

  “Those weren’t secrets, they were you being stupid and me looking out for you.”

  I grunt because he’s not entirely wrong. But admitting that would be a mistake. I doubt he’d see this situation any differently. But that’s because despite having been her friend first, he doesn’t know her like I do. This would destroy her. I will not be responsible for that.

  I sit back against the pillows, punching random chords into the app and letting it play just to be an ass. But a few seconds later, Tommy grabs it and smacks the stop button on it.

  “Seriously, dude?”

  I don’t look at him.

  “What is going on with you?”

  “I believe Amber’s official line is being treated for exhaustion.”

  “On my mother’s life, Crash, if you don’t—”

  “I had your mother. She was great. Please pass on my compliments.”

  Tommy’s eyes bulge, but he can’t say anything because he’s the uncrowned king of Your Mother burns. He stares at me for an uncomfortable dozen seconds. I don’t crack.

  I should have known he had the trump card.

  “I’m calling in my chip.”

  I gape. When I was twelve and Tommy was thirteen, his dad went to the casino and won big—back when “big” was defined as “enough to keep the electricity on all year.” His dad gave us each a chip from the casino. They were only five dollars, but we didn’t know that. We didn’t even know what the chips were. We thought he gave us good luck charms.

  Then he disappeared. And never came back.

  After much discussion, we decided that we would hold each other’s chips. And when the day came that we needed something the other didn’t want to give, we could call it in.

  No matter what, if Tommy calls in his chip, I have to do what he asks.

  But over this?

  “I’m not calling in the chip on the lie,” he says, reading my mind. “I want you to admit the real reason you told it. Because if you won’t tell me then that means you haven’t told anybody. And I’m guessing that’s why you grew ladyballs and started PMSing last year.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “No, really,” he says darkly. “You think I haven’t noticed you stomping around like a two-year-old with sugar withdrawal? ’Cause I noticed. And that shit’s getting old. I thought it was because Kelly broke up with you. But she didn’t, right? So I’m calling in my chip and you’re telling me.”

  I just glare at him, until Dan’s voice booms from the adjoining room. “Crash? Is that you?”

  Tommy looks at the door like it just grew a face. “Who’s in there?”

  “Dan,” I mutter.

  Tommy rolls his eyes, but gets up and opens the door.

  “Tony!” Dan bellows at him.

  “It’s Tommy, actually.”

  I run my hand through my bed hair and have to pull the gown closed behind me, but I follow Tommy across the cold linoleum into the next room. Will Kelly be there?

  The room is a mirror image of mine, right down to the computer station next to the bed. Except for one distinct difference: Dan sits mostly upright, propped on pillows in the adjustable bed, beaming.

  “Crash! How are you?”

  The curtains are pulled, so everything’s a bit dark. But I can make out Kelly on the other side of the bed. “Dan, please,” she hisses.

  “Great to see you, boys! How are you feeling, Champ?” he asks, ignoring her. “I heard a pretty nurse in your room this morning, sounded like she was enjoying herself.”

  “What—?”

  “Tony! Sorry I didn’t recognize you yesterday. Grown up a little since middle school—bet the girls haven’t though, huh? Huh?”

  “It’s Tommy.”

  Kelly looks so horrified, normally I’d laugh my ass off. But Dan’s no joke.

  “Do we know you?” I ask innocently, just to piss him off.

  Dan’s face goes red. Kelly jumps in. “He’s, uh, on medication, Dan. So he doesn’t r
emember.”

  Dan’s smile creeps back up. “That why you threw up all over the place, son? Don’t worry about it. Just pay for my dry-cleaning.”

  In the five years I’ve known him, Dan has rarely smiled, and never laughed. And he never acted like I was anything but a snot-nosed, perverted kid who wanted to sully his precious stepdaughter.

  Dan smirks. “I’d forgotten what a smart-ass you are, Crash,” he says.

  Kelly and I look at each other in mutual shock. I’ve never met anyone more resistant to using my chosen name than Dan Berkstram. Kelly told him years ago that I hate my real name, Cassius. Even Mom calls me Crash.

  Dan never cared. Until now.

  I sniff. Rub my nose, and sniff again. I’m not even looking at Tommy, but he knows our signal for a fame-hound. He plays along.

  “You coming down with a cold, Crash?”

  In general terms, I’m no longer surprised by the ridiculous ways people give us special treatment or act strangely because we’re famous. But seeing Kelly’s notoriously sour and controlling stepfather fall prey to fame—and he has a particularly nasty case—is either surreal or terrifying. Probably both.

  “I’ll get you a tissue!” Kelly darts around the bed and out of the room.

  Dan waits until she closes the door, then leans in. “She didn’t want me to tell you boys this—you know how sensitive she is—but she’s sure been missing you. Doesn’t do anything but sit around with homework or playing that stupid guitar—no offense, obviously it isn’t stupid when you play it—so I’d be grateful if you boys wouldn’t disappear again. Maybe once we’re all back on our feet, you can come over for dinner? She’s an okay cook. It’ll fill you up anyway. Can’t imagine you get much good cooking when you’re on the road so much.”

  Tommy and I just stare. We have a private chef with us on tour.

  In the casual tone I recognize from yesterday before he showed me the video, Tommy asks, “What about her other friends?” I shoot him a look.

  Dan snorts. “Her friends all ditched her after you guys left. Guess they only liked her because of you—”

  “What?”

  Dan smiles like he’s eager to share. I feel sick to my stomach. “Yeah, once they found out you boys cut all ties, they all bailed.”

  “Even Lacie?”

  “Yup. You’re the first friends she’s had over since her mom died.”

  He makes it sound like he would have welcomed people if only there’d been people to welcome. But we know the truth. Dan rarely lets Kelly out from under his thumb. And never lets her have friends over when he’s not there.

  I wonder if my expression is as impassive as Tommy’s. I’m getting very, very nervous that I’ve hurt Kelly even worse than I thought. They all bailed on her? Why would they do that? Kelly was never one of the popular girls, but she always had friends. Lots of friends. Didn’t she?

  Or is Dan just saying they disappeared to get us to his house?

  “I’m sorry about that welcome yesterday,” he says, perhaps realizing we aren’t excited about his news. “I just didn’t recognize you, is all. Thought we had some trouble. But you boys are welcome anytime. Any time at all. If I’m not there, stick around. Always love to catch up with Kelly’s old friends! God knows she doesn’t have any new ones!”

  “Dan?” Standing in the doorway, a box of tissues in her hand, face bright red, Kelly looks from Dan to Tommy, to me, then runs into the hall.

  Tommy’s right on her heels, but Dan rolls his eyes at me.

  “Women, huh? Impossible to please. She’s been crying over you two for a year, and now you’re here, she doesn’t want you to know she cares?” He shakes his head, then seems to think better of making her sound clingy. “I mean crying figuratively, of course. Even though it doesn’t look that way right now. She’s just pissy. Gosh, you boys must have it so good—all the woman you want without the hassle of putting up with them in your space. Sounds like heaven.”

  I grip my hospital gown like I’d like to grip Dan’s throat. He beams at me again, as if this is an invitation to share stories of tomcatting my way around the United States. But I’m too busy debating the merits of putting Dan in his place (a word in the shift nurse’s ear and he’d be shuttled off to Three Rivers Public in under an hour) versus keeping him on-side and maybe gaining Kelly a little more freedom. Or at least, freedom with me and Tommy. I have a dark feeling I could tell Dan outright I’d enjoy some of that tomcatting with Kelly in the bathroom here, and he’d usher me in himself.

  Sicko.

  He’s Mr. Chuckles now, but when the pain meds wear off, he’ll make her life hell, blaming her for all this. He makes Kelly so anxious she gets nauseous.

  I need to help her. “You know, now that we’re alone, Mr. Berkstram, there is something I’d like to ask you.”

  “Do you need some advice about girls? You don’t have a dad, right? Are you having trouble—”

  “No. That’s not it.” Asshole. “But I would like your help with something.”

  “Anything. You tell me, it’s yours.”

  “Well, I’m writing a new album, and without Kelly’s help it’s been really hard. You know she helped us with this on the last album?”

  Dan blanks, but nods.

  “Well, um, the label is on my ass to get these songs finished before we record—the studio time is expensive and they don’t want it taken up with writing—so I’m wondering, would you let Kelly help us? Purely professionally.”

  Dan isn’t beaming anymore. He sits back. “Can’t one of your people help you like that? She’s not experienced like you guys.”

  I shake my head. “No. Most of them are too educated. They keep trying to put our stuff in a formula, and I don’t want that.” True. “Plus, Kelly’s voice blends really well with mine, and she has this ear for editing. She knows what’s working and what’s not. I haven’t found anyone better. I miss that input a lot.”

  “Tommy can’t help you?”

  “Tommy’s great, but he doesn’t have Kelly’s head for music.” I bite back a laugh. Tommy would be speechless if he heard that.

  Dan grins. “A little slow, huh?”

  “Well, we just like to say it’s a good thing he’s a drummer.”

  Tommy finished high school a year early, despite starting a year late because he was at the Parkvale Music Academy. When he was six.

  “Wouldn’t your people just send some professional—”

  “Oh, they would,” I say hastily. “But I write best at home, and you can never tell whether staff will keep your secrets, you know? Kelly’s had plenty of chances to sell her story, or make a buck off of knowing us for so long, and she hasn’t. So I feel safe working with her, you know?”

  Shit. Dan’s eyes have practically glazed over with the idea of all the millions Kelly could earn him.

  “So, if you wouldn’t mind letting her work with us after school for a few weeks, that’d be a huge help.”

  Dan stares at me. I gotta hand it to him, he’s got the evil bastard look nailed.

  Then again, so have I.

  “Well, you can come to our house anytime—”

  “See, that’s the thing, sir. Me being at your house is a recipe for some paparazzi to chase me down, and then your address shows up in a newspaper or a magazine and anyone could show up. You see that, right?”

  Dan may be enamored by fame, but he’s not stupid. He stares at me, having his own internal tug-of-war—let his precious, under-the-thumb stepdaughter loose on the streets with two musicians, or lose access to the potential stardust that might drift off their skin?

  “If Kelly could come to my house, it’s fully secure, completely monitored by CCTV, and we have a gated community. So she’d be totally safe.”

  For the first time since we entered the room, Dan drops the congenial uncle act. He sits back against his pillows. I keep my face innocent.

  “Seems like if she’s working for you, and she’s gotta drive across town every day, she should get som
e kind of compensation?”

  Give me a fucking break. “You’re probably right. Though, since she’s still a minor, it’d have to be at the youth rate.”

  “Well, sure, sure.”

  “Then I guess we have a deal! That sure does take a load off my mind. Thank you, Mr. Berkstram. I’ll talk to Kelly when she gets back and work out what days will suit—”

  “Just for a few weeks, while I’m getting better,” he says, low and flat.

  Damn. He’s good. But it gives me an idea. “Sure. I’ll talk to Kelly about which days—”

  “Oh, every day. I mean, you guys aren’t doing anything anyway, right?”

  Actually, Dan, yesterday was the first full day off I’ve had in almost a month. These three weeks vacation (in which I’m supposed to write a least a dozen songs) are the first I’ve had in over a year. And after that, we start rehearsal for the next tour, during which I’ll often work twenty days in a row without a break—on only three or four hours sleep a night. But, sure, there’s not much going on.

  “Sounds like we have a deal,” I say.

  Dan claps his hands once, loud enough to make my sore head ring, then returns to being Mr. Chuckles. “Well, that’s just great! Kelly will be happy to have friends to work for. She’s wanted another job. But I want her focused on school.”

  You wanted her home to cook dinner for you and do every menial task you could think up to make her life impossible, and keep her anxiety levels at nuclear.

  I crack a yawn that isn’t entirely faked and stretch my arms, wincing when it makes my jaw throb. “Well, I’m getting pretty tired, Dan. I’ll head back to my room and take a nap.”

  Dan’s face falls a little, but he rallies well. “Sure, sure. You go ahead and sleep. I’ll send Kelly over when she gets over her shit.”

  “That sounds great,” I say through my teeth. “Thanks for your help, sir.”

  “My pleasure, Crash. Anything I can do, anytime, it’s yours. You remember that, okay? When you’re in town, I’m your guy.” The words are innocent, but the razor edge in his gaze makes me cold.

  “Sweet,” I say, heading for the door.

  He calls me back twice but I finally get back to my own bed. My hangover is brutal. But that just means I want an Advil and my guitar. I don’t need the hospital.