Love Out Loud

by Aimee Salter

  DJ Mink hasn’t shown. I didn’t ask Turk why because I have a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer. He still blindly believes the man is coming.

  Tonight is the last night before the tour. I’ll be rehearsing until midnight, and I’m ready to throw up with nerves.

  I’m sitting on a stool similar to the one they’ll have for me on stage, strumming and singing my best. And I can hear that my voice is good, and the guitar’s fine. But when I strum the last chord and let my voice fade out on the final note, Bob barely claps.

  Instead, he looks grim and shares a look with Turk.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, that was great!” Bob says. But he walks forward to take the guitar from me, hands it to MacKenzie who’s made up like she’s about to walk a red carpet, yet totters off on a pair of ridiculous heels to put it in the case. My attention gets pulled back to Bob when he takes my hands. I brace for bad news.

  “Kelly, are you certain you want to do this? As a career, I mean? Playing music.”

  My pulse kicks up a notch. How does he know I’ve been questioning that? I have a moment of relief. I’ll tell him the truth: I really don’t know! But then Crash’s face, ecstatic under lights, flashes in my head. And Tommy’s intensity when he’s pounding drums or his lazy brilliance on the guitar at Crash’s house.

  I think about doing this with them. Not just sitting on a deck and playing with a song. But of sharing this experience they adore, and of being with Crash when he’s traveling.

  I am certain about that much, at least. “I’m sure.”

  Bob stares at me a second. “Because here’s the thing: there’ll be thousands of people at the stadium tomorrow. Thousands and thousands.”

  This isn’t helping my nerves, but I pretend I’m fine because I know no matter how many people are watching, I want to be with Crash. The thought of losing him for another year threatens my oxygen supply.

  “Okay, then, I have a suggestion. I didn’t want to make this the first option, but at this point, I think you need something to help you relax when you’ve got that crowd in front of you, so you can play in the stadium like you do right here.”

  He gestures at Turk, who places an orange pill bottle in his hand.

  Bob twists at the lid, grimacing. “I want you to take two of these. We need to make sure you don’t have a reaction. And that you’re still alert and able to sing. Can you do that for me?”

  “Try what?”

  Bob pops the lid off and shakes out a couple white pills. “Open your hand.”

  I do and he puts the pills on my palm. “What are these?”

  “They’ll relax you. They aren’t strong. But they work differently for different people. Don’t worry, they’re a prescription. From a doctor.” He flashes me the bottle and I see the prescription label with my name on it.

  “How—?”

  “I have friends in the right places.” Bob glances at Turk again. “Look, Kelly, I’m not suggesting you get high, or anything. These are anti-anxiety meds. They’ll help you relax and not feel scared. I want you to try them tonight—make sure they don’t hit you too hard or mess up your ability to sing. Assuming they don’t, we’ll use them to get you past tomorrow night’s performance, maybe the first couple. Then we’ll try one without them, okay?”

  I frown at the pills. “They won’t make me high?”

  “Shouldn’t. That’s what we want to test here. Safely. Find out if they definitely aren’t an option for tomorrow. You need to stay away from alcohol when you’ve taken them, though.”

  “That’s not a problem. But—”

  “Look, Kel, just try them, okay? If you don’t like them, we’re no worse off.”

  I’m still staring at the pills when Turk’s hand appears in front of me, holding a small glass of water.

  I hesitate. If they do what he says they do, maybe it really will help? I could use some help with my anxiety anyway. Crash and Tommy have been telling me to see a psychologist for years. But I never wanted to rely on pills to feel okay.

  “Okay,” I say, then before Bob can even respond, take the water from Turk and throw the pills to the back of my tongue and get them down.

  I shake my head and stick my tongue out against the bitterness.

  Bob puts a hand on my arm. “Let’s try the whole set before those kick in. Those don’t take too long to take effect. When they have, we’ll do it again. I’ll have Turk video it so you can watch the two performances and compare them. Make sure you’re comfortable with how you look and feel while you’re on them. Okay?”

  Like a well-oiled machine, Bob steps away to the couch in front of the wall. MacKenzie, avoiding my eyes, moves back into the space he left, holding out my guitar. Turk takes his place behind the camera, gaze piercing above its lens.

  I sing through the set, which takes about fifteen minutes. By the last song, the tension in my shoulders releases. I roll my head.

  “They kicking in?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you feel?”

  I think about it. “It’s relaxing my muscles. I don’t feel so tense.”

  “Any fuzziness in your head? Sickness?”

  I consider my body. “No.”

  “Good, good.” Bob’s phone rings. He looks at it and leaps up. “I have to take this. Kelly, you run the set again. Twice. Turk, keep recording so we can compare them.”

  There’s a bustle as Bob gives orders to MacKenzie and Turk until he’s out the door. MacKenzie crosses twice in front of me, still not looking at me. Turk presses a button on the video camera, then takes Bob’s director’s chair that he’s been using, and pulls out his phone too.

  “Okay, Kel,” he says, watching the screen. “From the top.”

  I feel like my arms would float up if I didn’t keep my hands busy on the guitar. But I can still remember all my lyrics and my heart’s beating rather than pumping. I’m not woozy. Not much of anything, actually. Just relaxed.

  Bob had to leave—an emergency with another client. But he assured me he’d view the files in the morning, and I can stay as long as I want to watch them in his viewing room tonight and see what I think.

  As I strum the guitar again and a little smile creeps onto my face because I finally don’t feel scared. Maybe we’re onto something here.

  My throat gets dry and my tongue tastes weird. Turk says it’s from the pills and darts into the kitchen, up the stairs. He comes back a couple minutes later and hands me a glass of something pink.

  “Lemonade,” he says. “The pills might make it taste weird, that’s okay. You just need a drink and some sugar in your system.”

  It takes too long to blink, but I can feel the condensating glass in my hand and it doesn’t feel like I’ll drop it. The room doesn’t spin. Just a touch surreal. As Turk settles himself back into his seat and pulls the phone up again, I drain the glass, make a face at the weird bitterness.

  But I do feel more relaxed.

  I’m singing. Turk makes a joke and I’m giggling. Then I’m singing again. There’s a phone in my face. A hand on my arm. A deep voice laughing—Turk? Everything sounds different.

  I feel weird, but not unpleasant.

  It’s probably not a good idea to use these pills every night. I definitely don’t feel normal. But I do feel relaxed. And it’s such a relief after the past year and a half.

  I try to tell Bob that maybe I should only take one pill next time, but someone else shushes me, laughing when I stumble getting off the stool.

  MacKenzie takes the guitar and disappears.

  The room seems darker than before.

  “It’s just the pills, don’t worry.”

  I don’t think I can worry right now.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

  I already told him I’m not worried. Didn’t I?

  I wake in the dark and it takes several seconds to remember where I am.

  My head’s pounding. Did I get drunk? Dumb, dumb thing to do. I’m performing today!


  But when I sit up and a blanket slides off me onto the floor, I realize it’s still late night.

  I pull up the sleeve on my top that’s twisted, sliding off my shoulder. But it doesn’t want to hang right. My head’s still fuzzy. I try to swallow the awful tang in my throat, but it won’t go down.

  My head beats like one of Tommy’s drums.

  I plan to get a drink from the kitchen, but when I try to stand, my jeans have twisted around my waist until the zip is almost at my hip. It’s terribly uncomfortable, but leaning down to figure out how to shift them makes my head spin so badly I gag.

  I sit back down. I shift and tug at my jeans until they’re more comfortable, then take a few slow breaths until the nausea fades.

  Tiny lights crackle in my vision as I scan the dark room. Where is everyone? Why did they leave me?

  The pills must have been too strong. I won’t take them again. I’ll tell Bob in the morning.

  I shift to the edge of the couch, then lever myself up to standing. I’m still a little woozy, but my head is clearing. Well, at least they wear off quickly, I guess.

  Dan will be so mad that I stayed out so late. But he doesn’t have any power anymore, right? I take a careful step forward.

  Which is when I realize there’s something damp and sticky in my underwear.

  Have I started my period early? All over Bob’s couch?

  Please no, please no, please no, please no.

  I shuffle as fast as I can to the wall and pat around until I find a light switch and flip it on. The glare sends a blade through my skull, but concentrating and breathing helps it pass before too long. With the light on I feel less dizzy and I can walk almost normally back to the couch. The blanket is crumpled on the floor at the foot of the brown, leather couch and, thank you, God, there’s nothing on it.

  I grab my purse which is in the corner of the couch, push my shoulders back and look for the bathroom just off this basement room.

  Except, when I get there I’m not bleeding.

  I’m not bleeding.

  That slickness—

  I fight a wave of nausea and pinch my temples.

  What happened after Bob left?

  On a loop, my brain shows me Bob leaving and waving Turk forward to film me. MacKenzie hands me my guitar. I play. I laugh. Turk laughs. Deep voice I thought was Bob laughs. But I can’t see him. MacKenzie takes the guitar again. Fade to black.

  I try again.

  Bob leaves. Turk films. I sing. I laugh. He laughs. Deep voice—Bob?—laughs MacKenzie takes the guitar. Nothing.

  Tears pinch my throat. This can’t be happening. It can’t be what I think. I wouldn’t do that.

  Would I?

  My phone beeps—a reminder there’s a notification I haven’t checked. Grateful for the distraction from my ever-more-terrifying thoughts, I fumble in my purse to find it and pull it out. But it’s just a stupid marketing text announcing the concert.

  I delete it, then see Crash’s name in the list of text threads and my finger hovers.

  I look down at myself.

  I couldn’t have. I didn’t.

  That’s not what’s going on here. It can’t be.

  Crash.

  The sob breaks through the layer in my throat that kept the nausea at bay. I heave, whirling to throw up in the toilet.

  I’m left shaky and tearful, gripping the seat, shaking my head against the conviction that something very, very bad has happened.

  I’m not sure how long I wait, kneeling on the tile floor. But eventually, the nausea subsides, to be replaced with a heaviness so black it coats my insides like oil.

  With trembling fingers, I pick up the phone and tap out a message to Crash.

  You still awake?

  But he doesn’t reply.

  I wait. He’ll wake up and I can tell him and he’ll come . . . but then, no . . . I can’t put this on Crash if it isn’t real. It would break him. I can’t make that accusation when I don’t even know who to accuse.

  Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I’m overreacting.

  It takes a few minutes of shaking to get the courage to open the door. But when I do, the house is silent and dark.

  I make two wrong turns before I find the front door, but when I do, I launch myself out of it whispering please, please, please, no. Please no. Please.

  It isn’t until I’m halfway across the driveway and scanning for my Toyota, that I remember: Merv gave me a driver for the next couple days. The car is bulletproof as a precaution.

  For a second I think I have no way home. Can’t remember how I’m supposed to get in touch with them. But then there’s a rumbling growl to my right and two yellow headlights pop to life, illuminating the bottom of the cobbled driveway and scaring me half to death.

  “Are you finally awake enough to head home, Kelly?” asks a voice I don’t recognize.

  I look back at the house over my shoulder. It looms over me, dark and foreboding in the early dark.

  The driver stands next to the back door, hand on the handle. “I’ve had the heater running. It’s warm in here.”

  I’m shaking. Goose-bumped from head to toe. My hands feel like ice.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He waits a moment, then quirks one brow. “I’ll open the door when you get over here, I don’t want to let all heat out.”

  “Right. Yes. Okay.”

  I trot across the driveway and, true to his word, he smoothly opens the door just before I reach it so I can slide in without breaking stride.

  Then he closes it and gets into the front seat.

  I swallow bile. “Home, please. Quickly.”

  He adjusts the rearview to meet my gaze. “Okay, okay. Sure. I’ll just let Merv know. He wanted details every time you move, okay?”

  “You t-touch that phone and I w-will g-get out of this car and walk,” I say through chattering teeth. “T-take me home. You c-can make whatever phone c-calls you need t-to w-when I’m home.”

  His lips go flat, but he puts the car in gear.

  I have to leave the privacy window down because I’m afraid he’ll call Merv if I don’t, and Merv will see me and know something’s wrong, and he’ll tell Crash, and I can’t have that conversation. I can’t even think straight. But I know that much.

  Crash can’t know unless I’m sure.

  Because when I tell him this, he’ll pull down the walls looking for the guy.

  And that would make it real.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Present Day

  Kelly

  I woke up at eleven the next morning, still wrapped in the towel I used after showering when I got home, my phone twitching with all the waiting notifications.

  MERV: Kel, I know you’re home.

  That’s not okay. We don’t have a

  perimeter. please let D take you

  to Crash’s

  CRASH: My phone’s off cos we’re

  at the Radio interview. Merv is

  pissed. I didn’t know he told you

  to stay at my house.

  You should have come!

  MERV: I’m not playing, Kelly.

  TOMMY: Kel call me. If you need

  to change tonight. its fine. Don’t let

  Crash push you if you’re not ready.

  MERV: Kelly, I’m serious. call me.

  Or I’m sending someone over.

  BOB: Sorry I had to leave last night.

  What time did you head out? Your

  film is great. you nailed it. See you

  at the arena at 1, Game face on. You’re

  going to kill it kid. And check your

  bank account. you’re welcome.

  I threw up again after I read the last one.

  A few minutes later, when I’m sure my stomach will stay in place, I force myself to stand in front of the mirror. I don’t recognize myself. My hair’s stringy, my skin gray, eyes bloodshot and swollen.

  I take off the towel, examining myself in the mirror. Can y
ou see what happened?

  My bedroom door thumps so hard I physically startle, leap to pick up my robe from the bed and twist it around my body as Dan shouts at me from the hallway.

  “Kelly, get out here. Bob’s calling me! What the hell did you do?”

  Despite our new tension, Dan’s still eager for me to launch. He has become increasingly intense the last few days, asking about the tiniest details of the process whenever we’re in the same room. The door shudders again. “Kelly?!”

  “Don’t come in!” I shriek. “I’m getting dressed.” The idea of being out there with so much open space, so many people . . . I sit on the edge of the bed until the nausea passes.

  But even when I’m sure my stomach will stay in place, it’s hard to move. Every muscle feels like water. When I close my eyes my imagination tries to fill the blanks in my memories.

  My door gives an almighty thump and something cracks. I startle, then force myself to move before he breaks down the door.

  “Kelly!”

  “I’m coming.” With shaking fingers I open the door a few inches to peer at Dan through the gap. He’s standing on the other side, freshly showered and looking thunderous. “S-sorry. I slept in.”

  “You call Bob. Now.” He takes me in, sneering. “Looks like you had a good time last night.”

  I slam the door on his disgusted sneer, my entire body trembling. But it’s not rage this time, it’s fear.

  Because, is he right?

  TO CRASH: Can you call me when

  you’re out of the interview?

  TO TOMMY: i’m fine. See you later.

  TO BOB: All fine. See you at 1.

  When I press send on that nothing of a text to Bob, a little voice in my head shrills that I need to ask him. Make him do something. Unless the deep voice was his? Was he there and just pretending he wasn’t?