by Karina Halle
“Hey Baby, Baby,” I coo to the screen and he automatically starts looking around trying to figure out where my voice is coming from. Suddenly it seems kind of cruel to have such a disembodied sign of his owner around but at least his tail is wagging. “I miss you so much.”
“Well he misses you too,” she says. “I’ve been letting him snuggle at the foot of the bed every night and every morning I wake up with his butt practically in my face.”
“Yeah that sounds about right.”
“So, don’t change the subject. Who are you waking up with every morning?”
“Actually, no one.”
“Not Brad?”
My heart can’t help but skip a beat. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I saw that show. And I saw the way he kept looking at you while you were performing. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else in his band, his eyes were all for you.”
I swallow hard. “Oh. Well.”
“Come on, I know you’re calling me because you have something juicy to say.”
I sigh. “Okay. Well. Nothing has really happened between us yet…we just kissed.”
She closes her eyes and squeals, dancing in her seat which makes Baby Groot jump off of her. “I knew it!”
“It just happened.”
“What, tonight?”
“Like ten minutes ago. Just outside his door.”
“So what the hell are you doing here?”
“I don’t know. Arnie, the manager, he interrupted us. I didn’t want to push it. I didn’t want to get Brad into any more trouble.”
“Why would he get in trouble? He’s a grown man, ain’t he?”
“He is but…my father.”
Christy exhales, rolling her eyes. “What now?”
“Well you know how it was pretty much all him that got me this gig…”
“No, Lael. You got yourself this gig because you’re one talented mofo. Fuck your father. Sorry but…”
“No, don’t apologize. Most people would say that. But Brad can’t. He owes everything he has to my father. When he was fourteen he had nothing, was just bounced from foster home to foster home. Music was his only stability. And then Ronald Ramsey stepped in and gave him the world. Brad wouldn’t dare mess that up.”
“Yeah but why would your father know? And why would he care?”
“Because he does. There’s a reason why he tried to get me to travel behind in that other damn bus.”
“And he knows you’re not the type to travel in your own bus.”
“I don’t think my father knows me at all, honestly. But he definitely doesn’t want Brad touching me, that much is for certain.”
“So your father doesn’t have to know.”
“There are snitches everywhere,” I tell her, lowering my voice as if my hotel room is bugged. “Besides Arnie just caught us.”
“Aren’t you kinda friendly with Arnie? You had told me before you left he was the only one really on your side of things.”
“Yeah. I don’t think he’ll say anything but this industry, man, you never know where allegiances lie. Everyone is either lying or blowing smoke up your ass and everyone is trying to get the last dollar out of you. I don’t trust a single soul here. Not Arnie, definitely not the other guys in the band. Brad is the only guy I trust.”
“Are the other guys treating you fairly?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I guess. I can tell they don’t like me though. It’s just subtle things. Switch is okay, though he seems to have small-man complex, as I guess all drummers do. Calvi definitely isn’t my fan. He’s always glaring at me.”
“Is that the Italian dude? He looks like he’s glaring on every album cover I’ve seen.”
“Nah, it’s more than that. He’s judging me. He thinks I’m not cut out for it.”
“Well you know it’s bullshit. Take it from Christy here, you fucking wail on that bass. If anything those dudes are just jealous because you’re a young woman and you’re holding your own with them. No, not even holding your own, you’re blowing them out of the water.”
“Right. Well I guess that reminds me that I should probably tone it down a bit.”
“Fuck that. Don’t tone it down. Why, cuz you play bass? So what? Who says that bassists have to keep their head down? Don’t sell yourself short, that’s not like you. Think of what Brad would say if he heard you speak that way.”
I find myself smiling dreamily. “He would say I’m being silly. Oh man. What am I even doing, Christy?”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. I like him. I really do.”
“Everyone knows that.” She laughs softly.
“No, I mean…I think I might be falling for him.”
“Everyone knows that too.”
“In a real way.”
“Well that happens. It’s either you find out that your idol isn’t the man you thought they were or they turn out to be exactly what you thought.”
“Or better. Brad is better than I thought. He’s caring, you know. He’s so quiet and yet when he’s with me, his attention is only on me. It’s like he never has to say a word for me to know what he’s feeling. And he’s like…he just wants what’s best for the band. He doesn’t drink much, doesn’t do drugs, he believes in the music and being the best version of his best self. I don’t know, I guess before I knew him, I figured with his tragic upbringing, that he would be a bit of a downer and secretly doing drugs or some shit like that. It would make sense. But he’s not like that at all. He’s just…”
“Perfect?”
“Perfectly imperfect. And every moment we have, we end up spending it together. Like gravity is pulling us into each other’s orbit and there’s no choice but to either collide or keep rotating around each other.”
“That’s some deep shit, Lael,” she says dryly.
“I know.” I run my hand over my face. “It’s late too. I should let you go.”
“So tell me what you’re going to do? Just pretend that the kiss never happened?”
“No. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. It’s seared in my brain, in my soul. His kiss branded me as his. For now. Forever. Who knows.” I hear her laugh because I’m being so dramatic. “But I can’t just move on from that. And I don’t want to.”
“So go back in his room and continue where you left off. Go get some hot rock star ass.”
I chuckle. “I think he’s probably sleeping by now. We had a long crazy day. At one point he was running around with two rattlesnakes in his hand. Man, it was the scariest, funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Dude. Rock stars really do know how to party.”
“Then we stole a souped-up dune buggy and took it into town. The police ended up towing it away, luckily they didn’t know it belonged to us. Well, technically it belonged to this crazy Viking guy call Roar.”
“See, this is what I’m talking about. This is the part where I get to live vicariously through you.” She pauses. “Just promise me one thing before you go, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Next time you get an opportunity to be alone with him? To kiss him? You take that damn opportunity, you hear? You use it. You do the crazy shit you’ve always wanted to do. Be brave and bold and jump his bones.”
I burst into giggles. “I’ll see.”
“No, I’m telling you. Doesn’t mean you have to broadcast it to the world, but this is a dream come true for you and very few people are lucky enough to have this happen. You need to exploit it. Make it worth your while. These are the memories that you’ll reflect on one day and tell your children.”
“I’m going to tell my future children about the time I screwed a rock star?”
“I dunno,” she says with a tired shrug. “Maybe that rock star ends up being your future husband. Just gotta play your cards right. Seize this all by the horns.”
“I’ll seize it by something,” I mutter under my breath. “Okay I better go. I’m starting to fa
de.”
“Me too. Please text me when you’ve gotten somewhere.”
“Will do, miss nosy.”
“Hey. You called me.”
“And I’m glad I did.”
I hang up and slide the phone over onto the nightstand. I’m too damn tired now to wash up and get undressed.
I lie back and stare up at the ceiling for a few moments, going over what Christy said about Brad being my husband one day. It was a totally glib remark, meant to be a joke, but it has me wondering – if what I’m feeling for Brad is true, then what really is next? And where can it go?
There’s no doubt that it could stall and go nowhere, even if I do end up grabbing the situation by the horns, so to speak.
But what if it doesn’t?
What if there’s so much more to this, to us?
What if…
My eyes close.
I fall asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Brad
“Your old pal is on the bill tonight,” Arnie says with a taunting smile.
“My old pal?” I question.
“Jean Maaaaaaarc,” Arnie says in a long, drawn-out French accent.
The whole crew begins to laugh at Arnie’s little performance. When he sees I don’t find it as funny as everyone else, he pats me on the back.
“I’m just having fun with ya,” Arnie says with a chuckle, drinking what’s left of his morning Bloody Mary.
Switch, Calvi, Arnie, Lael, and I are all having breakfast at Café Du Monde. The humid air is warm and the sounds of tourists letting loose are all around us. There is something carefree about how they walk, how they sit in their chairs, how they smile. Music filled with horns, drums, and guitar is coming from a block away, and the thick air carries the sounds and smooths the edges, making the perfect soundtrack for my morning coffee in New Orleans.
There’s a scruffy dog under the table next to me that I’m having a stare down with as I sip my strong coffee. I put my mug back on the table, and my eyes meet Lael’s. She’s been watching my pleasant exchange with the little mutt, and we share an easy smile. There must be something in the way we look at each another because the rest of the table shifts uncomfortably in their seats, looking away like they’ve witnessed an intimate moment.
“Who is Jean Marc?” Lael does her best French accent to match Arnie’s.
“He’s the lead singer of Satellite of Mars,” Calvi says with his mouth full of food.
“I love that band!” Lael exclaims.
I know my bandmates love that she said that. But I hate it. Jean Marc is one of those oversexed, cliché rock stars. He never seems to turn off the act, and he sees me as his American counterpart. He’s constantly belittling in this bizarre French mojo kind of way. His Parisian crew seem to love it when he talks down to me, and my crew are often too bowled over with laughter that they can’t stand up for me. To be fair, my mates are usually laughing at how ridiculous Jean Marc is, his cartoonish delivery, and at his lack of humility. The fact that he doesn’t realize how silly he comes across makes for a hilarious situation.
There’s also a cultural difference between us that makes everything dreadfully awkward. He’s constantly trying to dominate me and I’m constantly trying to get away from him. My bandmates and manager have a habit of inviting him to my trailer for shits and giggles.
Lael starts singing a Satellite of Mars song quietly to herself, just loud enough for us to hear, and the boys exchange looks of sheer joy in response. Arnie chokes back some laughter and tries to shift gears.
“All right all right, it’s only for one show. It’s not like we’re touring with them,” Arnie says as he stands up and puts money on the table, his rather large belly sticking out as he puts his rather large wallet into his back pocket. Arnie always makes it seem like he’s paying with his hard-earned money when he takes care of the bill, which is definitely not the case.
“Don’t be late for sound check, boys. We are one of four bands playing tonight so it’ll be a tight schedule.” Arnie notices the little dog and gives him a wave on his way out.
Calvi and Switch also stand up. Switch pulls out a comb and pushes his hair back while Calvi somehow contorts and puts his blazer on without looking away from his phone.
“What are you guys up to?” I ask.
“We’re meeting up with some people from our Facebook group,” Calvi absently answers, still looking at his phone.
“Who is she?” I tease.
Calvi finally looks up at me. “I’m doing this for us, Brad. You have to stay connected. I’m almost offended.”
Switch is still shamelessly combing back his hair, looking at his reflection in an ornamental mirror on the restaurant wall.
“Who is she?” I ask again.
Calvi puts his phone in his pocket and walks toward the exit.
“Not she. There’s more than one. Courtney and Karen, and they happen to be twins,” Calvi says smugly over his shoulder.
Switch reluctantly puts his comb away and follows Calvi out the door.
Lael and I share a laugh. I sit back in my chair feeling more relaxed now that I’m solely in Lael’s company. A smartly-dressed server refills my empty coffee cup and I thank her.
“Are you going to eat that?” Lael refers to the bacon on my plate. I was, but I lie and tell her no. She stabs it with her fork and relocates it to her plate.
It’s refreshing how she doesn’t seem to show any signs of awkwardness or regret about last night.
I carefully sip my scalding coffee and watch her devour what’s left on her plate. I want to spend the day with her, naked on a hotel bed, with an open window letting in the warm New Orleans air and the sounds of the French Quarter.
Lael looks up and seems startled by my primal gaze.
I make an attempt at a joke to lighten the moment.
“Have you ever noticed eating a Caesar salad is like a game called find the bacon?”
She chuckles and sits back in her chair. With a deep breath she pans the restaurant and peers out the large French doors that open to a courtyard.
“I love it here,” she says, half to herself and half to me. Her eyes are thoughtful as she takes in her surroundings.
It’s interesting, beauty, how often times people are beautiful because of how they see the world rather than how the world sees them. I watch her take in the morning air and I can almost feel the calmness in her heart. With Lael, it’s like she can pick and choose the smallest, most beautiful things in a room, gather them all, and hold them inside her. She finds the beauty in everything, and in turn she becomes beautiful. From where I sit, I can’t see what she’s looking at but I can feel what she feels. Through her eyes, the French Quarter has never been so perfect.
“I love it too. You know, my father was born here. He made a living playing the trumpet and working odd jobs,” I tell her.
“Really? Very cool,” she says, shifting her attention to me. “I don’t think you’ve ever spoken about your dad.”
“Well, I can barely remember him. I was quite young when he went to prison.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“No, don’t be. It is what it is.”
We sit in silence, and her sympathetic eyes stay on me as she leans forward and delicately puts her elbows on the table. Her movements are slow and feminine—everything about her seems caring and thoughtful. She covers my hands with hers, her eyes narrowing conspiratorially.
“Let’s make a deal,” Lael suggests.
“A deal?” I question with a suspicious smile.
“I won’t talk about your father and you won’t talk about mine.”
“Your father wouldn’t be happy if he knew what was happening between us.”
“And what is happening between us, Brad Snyder?” Lael asks with a raised eyebrow.
I feel heat build in my chest like I just took a perfect drug. I boldly hold her gaze, neither of us looking away.
Lael doesn’t wait for my answer and breaks the brief silenc
e. “You know…I hate to be so blunt and presumptuous but…whatever you want, I want. If it’s just a physical thing, then that’s fine. But if it’s deeper…”
“It’s deeper,” I tell her and my confession sends endorphins from deep in my heart to the surface of my skin making the hairs on my arm stand on end.
Lael’s intense gaze softens into a smile.
I can’t help it. I lean over the table and kiss her.
Her hands are still on mine and I can feel them tighten as our kiss deepens. Our mouths are closed, but there is an easy passion. I feel her smile and breathe in the subtle smell of her shampoo.
Lael eases back into her chair and pans the room, her body language says she likes it here but she’s ready to move on. I silently agree.
“I think I prefer it during the day, the French Quarter,” Lael says as we walk down the iconic Bourbon Street.
“Too many drunk tourists at night?” I ask.
“Something like that.”
I don’t get recognized everywhere I go. I try to dress down and blend in and learned long ago not to invite attention when I am in public. Today I have Lael by my side; she does not blend in.
Lael is wearing skintight black jeans that stretch around her curves with rough tears and rips that contrast with the smooth skin on her thighs. Her thick wavy teal hair falls over her bare shoulders, and her mirror aviator sunglasses leave only her mouth to convey any expression. This would be enough to steal the attention of passerbys, but it’s how she’s strutting that demands attention. I notice a middle-aged lady elbow her cigar-smoking husband when she catches him staring.
“I can’t believe we have sound check in two hours,” she laments.
“You’re not burning out already are ya?” I ask.
“Oh, come on.”
“Well, what do ya want to do?”
“I know a great way to burn an hour,” she teases. “Your room or mine?”
I know it’s a joke but I consider the question. She is particularly radiant today.
“No! I am kidding,” Lael says as she puts hand under my shirt in a playful way, I flex my muscles and hope she doesn’t notice.
“Ha ha, you flexed.”
