by S. L. Scott
I was a fool for going to his place. The second he had a chance, he dropped the good guy act and slipped right back into his wolfish self. He’s probably breathing easier now that he’s taken off the sheep’s clothing.
Needing gas, I pull off to a gas station on La Cienega Boulevard. After it begins pumping, my thoughts drift back to the gathering at my house after the funeral. So vividly, I remember how he felt wrapped around me, and the smell of his breath against my neck as I cried, when he gave Neil the drumsticks, and how he replanted the lettuce knowing it was more about the metaphor than the vegetable.
Firenza invades the good—her arrogant smile, tearing me apart as she stood there mostly naked and called him by his first name like she has a right to. I almost prefer he fuck a nameless stranger, a groupie, instead of her. She knew I was a passing fancy and nothing more than a challenge he’d taken. Everything about her tone, words, and body language knew she would be with him again.
“Come here often?”
I look up and see Chad Spears standing on the other side of the pump getting gas. “Hi.” He repeats himself, “Hi. Sorry to interrupt the deep conversation you seem to be having with yourself.”
I laugh, suddenly embarrassed. “Yeah, deeps thoughts and all while getting gas. You know how that goes.”
“Sure. I always come up with my best ideas while waiting at the gas pump.” He smiles. “You’re causing quite the stir these days.”
Sighing, I ask, “Online?”
“Seems so. The girl who fought so hard to stay out of the headlines is now making them.”
Glancing at the meter, I have a few more gallons to go before it’s full. “LA sucks like that. I guess I’m not sure why there’s interest in me at all.”
“A beautiful widow, a tragic tale, and a bad boy. Makes for good gossip.”
“Tragic is right.”
“You still seeing Dex?”
My shoulders tense, my answer clipped. “Nope.”
His pump clicks off before mine. He locks up his tank, then comes around to my side and leans his back against my Escalade. “How about that raincheck?”
It’s the most sincere I’ve ever seen him. No guard or pretenses, no audience to perform for or like he’s trying to impress me. Just a genuine smile and a gentle tone. He reminds me of teenage guys who haven’t been defeated by rejection and not tasted enough success to have an attitude yet.
My pump clicks loudly and I reach for it, but he takes the handle before I can and puts it back in place. As I put the gas cap back on, I waiver, thinking I may have judged him because of Dex and maybe that’s not fair. “I do owe you a drink.”
Looking down at his watch, he says, “I’m late for a meeting, but how’s Friday around three for you?”
I’m tired of trying to please everyone else. Chad Spears is not my future, but he may be fun with no commitment, maybe exactly what I need. Wondering if I’m trading one bad boy for another, I decide I don’t care anymore. “That works.”
“Cool.” He hands me his phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you.”
“Here. I’ll do it.” I take the phone and program my number into it.
“So,” he says all flirty and looking better than he ever has on a red carpet. “Friday?”
“Yeah, Friday.”
With a little wave, he walks back to his sports car and I walk around mine to get in. One more glance in his direction and I smile before he drives off. I follow behind but turn the opposite way on Le Cienega. I immediately turn on music so I don’t have the quiet to over think what I just agreed to. It’s a drink at three, basically the same as a business meeting. The music gets louder, so I let the date and all the heavy thoughts stop and try to enjoy someone else’s rhythm for a while.
Spending time with my boys renews me. There are no other beings on earth that bring me more happiness or make me more proud. As Neil reads to his little brother, I hold them on either side of me, loving the sound of their voices and giggles. After ‘The End’ is read, I give them a bath, letting them play in my jetted tub, which they love. My mind occasionally wanders to Dex, wondering if he’s thinking of me, like I have him. Wondering if he cares how much he hurt me.
By eight o’clock, I’m wiped out just like the boys. My mind even more tired than my body. My heart still bruised. I crawl under my covers and check my phone on my nightstand. There’s a text from Tommy: We need to talk. Call me after the show.
Crap.
I look at the time again. The band is playing in Florida, so they’re on Eastern Standard. They should be halfway through the show if they started on time. I text back: I’ll call you in two hours.
I can only imagine what he needs to talk about at this time of night. I’m sure Dex has told his side of the tale by now and I’m probably the bad guy for breaking his heart. I cringe thinking I might have to talk about this, but they should hear my side before their judgments settle in.
Grabbing my files from the end of the bed, I open them wide, then spread out the contracts for the new offers that were sent over from the main office. Action figures. No. Wine… um, No. Not their style at all. Private jet company. Too flashy. Watches. Maybe. A tour book. Maybe. A documentary. Maybe. A line of athletic wear. No. I gather the maybes and stack the rest back up and place them in the No folder. I’m gonna have to present these in the next two weeks to the guys, which means traveling to see them. As much as I think I can be professional around Dex, I also know my heart isn’t ready to see him.
His betrayal has tainted our past and all of the things that made us special together. Everything has changed for the worse. We weren’t special. I wasn’t special. I was used like so many before me. He had no intention of love, but I believed his words. Now I believe his actions. They speak louder. I just hope I can bear to be in the same room as him.
Logging onto the tour schedule, I look at the dates and cities. Miami in nine days. Nine days to wean my heart away from him. Nine days to mentally prepare myself to see him after our fight. Nine days to forget the past and try to move forward like we never happened. Nine days.
Ready or not, I’ll go because I have to. I’m damn good at what I do and I’m not gonna let little things like broken hearts and hurt feelings get in my way.
My phone rings just after ten-thirty. “Hello?”
Tommy’s voice is gruff. “Hey Rochelle, I need talk to you about Dex.”
Bracing myself to the mattress the best I can, I wearily reply, “Okay, but I think it’s only fair that I get to share my side of it.”
“Your side of what?”
“What happened betw—Wait, what were you going to say?”
“His kit got damaged in transport. He got through the show by using a floor model from Guitar Center. It’s not gonna work for the tour. It’s not made for that kind of stress. I’m sending over the contact information for the set maker. Call them first thing in the morning and see if they can rush the frame, bass, tom-tom, and snare out overnight to the next city. Philly. Philly’s next.”
“What happened? And what about the rest of the equipment?”
“The hi-hat and other symbols are fine. A local stagehand put the set down on the dock and a backloader didn’t see it. Bent it to shit. Dex is pissed.”
“He should be pissed. Will the current set work if the other won’t make it?”
“For the next show, yeah. But he was hitting pretty hard tonight. I don’t know if it will make it for two shows. It’s not as heavy as his usual. Oh and maybe give him a call tomorrow. He seemed out of sorts today. Left his clothes because he was late for the plane. Said he didn’t have time to pack. Maybe you can send some clothes too.”
“Geez, Tommy, let me just drop everything and go shopping for Dex,” I reply sarcastically. “He forgot his clothes? What happened to you managing him during the tour?”
“C’mon, Ro. Do me the favors. I can only do so much from here and keeping a tight leash on the guys is doing me in already and it’s only the first s
how of this leg.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dex is wasted because he’s upset about the drums. Johnny left after the show. Derrick and Kaz are dragging me out with them. I’m thinking I need to go to keep an eye on them. You know how those two are when they party.”
“Partying with the guys sounds like real torture, Tommy,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But don’t worry. I’ll handle everything in the morning.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“No need to suck up. I already said yes. Don’t you have some bars to get to?”
He laughs. “Yup, getting right on that. Thanks for the help.”
As soon as the phone disconnects, I lay in bed and turn on the TV, trying to distract myself from the fact that I have to return to Dex’s house in the morning. Damn him. There’s just no escaping. As soon as I decide to get out, I’m dragged right back into the lion’s den… or tiger and lair in his case, according to Firenza.
I’m not happy about going back to the scene of the cheating crime, but I’ll do it for Tommy. Even though it’s really for Dex. I swallow my pain, blaming myself for getting involved with him in the first place, and go inside with a huff.
His house is quiet, the house manager only coming twice a week while he’s on tour to check on things, organize mail, and dust. I help pay the bills while the guys are gone, so I know all of this. I know too much these days. I shut the door behind me and stand there, smacked by the conversation I was caught in the last time I stood in this spot. The disappointment that he could give us up so easily, that he could move on so fast, weighs my feet to the spot, hesitant to go further. I steel myself and head upstairs not wanting to waste any more time than necessary here.
His bed is made this time. I’m sure with fresh sheets, but the memory still remains. My senses tormented by the memory. Firenza taints that same bed that I once had sex with him in. My stomach rolls, so I take a deep breath, gripping my arms around me and focus on the job at hand. I direct my gaze to his nightstand where his charger sits, no phone attached, and I wonder if I should pack it. I walk over, reaching behind the stand to unplug it, knowing the answer already. The corner of a photo tucked under a leather book catches my eye.
I reach for it and pull, sliding it out from under its hiding spot. My breath doesn’t catch, it stops altogether as I stare down at a photo of me.
I don’t remember when or where it was taken. There’s a light reflecting in my eyes, the area around me has a red glow, maybe an after party from eight or nine years ago judging by my hairstyle. Two corners are bent and finger prints cover the glossy surface. I don’t know why Dex has it, but all that strength I gathered to get through this task suddenly evaporates. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at it. It’s a smile I don’t recognize as one I usually have, not posed for the camera, exposing an inner happiness, one not manufactured for others but instead by others.
Tucking it back under the well-worn leather book, I’m tempted to open the book. It looks like a journal though so I don’t. My thoughts are still on why Dex has this picture of me and it raises questions. Too many to work through right now.
“Ms. Floros, hello?”
I turn around and see his house manager. “Hi, Marguerite. Um…” Suddenly I feel the need to explain why I’m here as she looks at me curiously. “Dex needs clothes overnighted to him. He was running late, so Tommy asked me to come here and pack a case.”
“I can help you. I know where everything is.”
Relieved, I say, “That would be great.”
She goes to his closet and pulls down a duffle bag and has an arm full of T-shirts when she walks back out. “These are his favorites. I keep them together. That way he can find them easily. Maybe three pairs of jeans?” She sets the stuff down on the bed.
“Yes, that will work.” I start to put the shirts in the bag as she goes back to the closet for more clothes. Peeking over at her, I say, “I saw a picture on his nightstand.”
She stills, her hands stopping on a stack of jeans. She recovers quickly though and says, “Yes,” and nothing else.
“It’s of me.”
“Yes,” she replies when she returns. She sets the jeans down, her eyes lowered as well, almost seeming to avoid my questioning ones.
Wanting to pursue it more, I ask, “Can you tell me about it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You clean his room. So you know it’s there. Has he ever mentioned it?”
“Ms. Floros—”
“Please call me Rochelle.”
Her kind smile reappears. “Rochelle, I’ve only ever had instructions, not explanations.”
“That sounds like Dex. He’s not the best at explaining his actions.” A dig I should have probably saved for him.
Walking to the dresser, she shuffles around and I continue packing the bag. She looks over at me and says, “It’s to remain there.”
I stop what I’m doing, and ask, “What is? The photo?”
“Yes, those are my instructions. He wants it there, except when he knows he’s going to be having company. Then I’m supposed to put it in the drawer.”
“Those are pretty specific instructions.”
With a small smile, she says, “Yes, they are.”
She doesn’t need to explain anymore, the drift is caught in her expression. After adding his boxer briefs into the bag, she puts two handfuls of socks, then disappears into the bathroom. She’s not gone long, but long enough for me to slip over to the nightstand and grab the picture. I tuck it into the bag, hidden from view just as she returns with a toiletry case and sets it inside the bag. It’s zipped closed. She grabs a little lock from the closet and fastens it. “Women steal his clothes. They all want a piece of him,” she says, protectively.
Grabbing it off the bed, I turn and head out of the bedroom. “I’ll ship it from the office address so they won’t know it’s his.”
Following me down the stairs, she says, “He cares about you.”
I stop with three steps to go and look over my shoulder. She seems like she might want to say more, but I don’t. “Thanks for helping me pack, Marguerite.”
“You’re welcome.”
Outside, I toss the bag in the back of my SUV and drive away feeling more confused than when I arrived, as if that was even possible. After I ship the duffle bag, I call the makers of his preferred drums. Cost is not a factor so they’ll hit the road themselves and have them delivered and setup for the show tomorrow. He’ll be happy. Tommy will be happy. And I can go back to dealing with my work.
Dear Cory,
I don’t want to talk to anyone else about this, so I hope you don’t mind my nonsense. I should be working. Should being the operative part of that sentence. But I have so much on my mind. I was just thinking the problem with plans, like working, is that your mind and heart don’t care about the day-to-day routines. They care about things that affect them and make them work harder, beat faster.
Today I had a fascinating conversation with Marguerite, Dex’s housekeeper. The conversation has played on repeat all afternoon and pretty much the entire next day.
I found this photo he had… I sigh. You know, I shouldn’t bother you with silly stuff like this. I miss you.
XO
I close the journal and think on the photo. A photo of me that he keeps on his nightstand only adds to the bewilderment I have over this whole situation. What Marguerite said about the photo makes me think that maybe there is something more to this story. But my more logical side cannot come to any solid conclusion to why he would lie to me. So I am stuck—do I believe what Marguerite said or do I believe what I saw?
I arrive at the café a few minutes early, but I’m impressed that Chad Spears has arrived even earlier. “Hello,” I say, approaching the table.
“Hi.” He stands and comes around to pull my chair out for me. We greet each other Hollywood style—a faux-kiss to the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he says.
“Thank you
.” I sit down as he takes his seat across the small table from me. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No, less than five minutes.” The waiter approaches and Chad asks, “Champagne, Rochelle?”
“Are we celebrating?”
“Yes.”
“Champagne will be great then.”
The waiter walks away in a hurry, eager to please. I’m sure everyone is eager to please Chad since he’s famous.
Chad leans his elbows on the table and says, “I’m glad you met me.”
“You mean met you as a person or here today? Ha!” I joke.
“Both.” He smiles. Holding the menu, he asks, “Have you been here before? It’s early, but I’m hungry. Are you?”
“I haven’t been here.” Looking around, I add, “I like it. And I can always eat.”
The bottle of champagne arrives and our glasses are filled as menus are set down in front of us and specials announced. When we’re alone, I lift my glass and ask, “So what are we celebrating?”
“Us. To us and finally cashing in that raincheck.” He’s a charmer all right. Our glasses tap together and we drink. As I’m setting mine down, he asks, “How have you been?”
“Good. Busy with life. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I head out next week—”
The waiter appears and asks, “Do you know what you’d like to order?”
Chad turns to him, but with a glance to me, he asks, “Rochelle?”
“I’ll have the Waldorf salad, light on the dressing.”
Chad orders plain grilled chicken and steamed veggies before turning his full attention back to me. “So as I was saying, I head out next week to start a project in Toronto.”
“Oh,” I remark, picking up my glass. I drink and listen as he talks about this movie for some indie director that he thinks could lead to an Oscar nomination for him. My mind wanders, remembering this is why I always got along with musicians better—they are less talk and more action.
