“Goddamn it, Rick! You’re under contract with a touring company, you can’t fucking appear without — ”
“The tour’s over, Louis.”
“No, it’s not over. You were scheduled in Boston this coming Saturday.”
Until somebody got shot and they closed the club down. “You the one who called to tell me.”
“That didn’t change the dates on the tour agreement. And according to that agreement, ‘artist will not render any live musical performance services during the tour to any other party except for...’”
Rick groaned.
“You breached your contract, Rick.” Louis made it sound like a capital offense.
How did he know anyway? For a second, the idea that he’d made some buzz lifted Rick’s mood out of the gutter. Then he remembered. Louis’s new secretary. Jackie — or was it Tanya? — must be speaking to Terrance again. Then, obviously, speaking to her boss, too.
“Look,” Rick said. “Can we talk about this later? I just woke up.” With a bad taste in his mouth. Not that toothpaste would fix what was wrong with this day.
Louis sighed. “I want to see you, since you’re obviously still in New York. Today.”
Today. When he woke up yesterday, he was almost sure Carolyn would be in it.
Rick rubbed a hand over his face. “When?”
He heard paper rustling. “I’ll see what I can do to straighten this out … four o’clock.”
“A’ight, fine.”
“Don’t be late.”
Asshole. He bit his tongue and snapped the phone closed. The damned irony was that if he hadn’t breached that fucking contract, he’d have ended up breaching the one that said he had to deliver a full album’s worth of master recordings by June thirtieth.
Rick glanced to the corner. His head was throbbing, probably from Louis hollering in his ear. He hit the bathroom, went back for the notebook and headed for the living room. Empty, but coffee on the table, still half-warm. Terrance must have ordered it and left. Rick was glad on both counts. He settled into the couch, and a few slugs of coffee cleared the fuzziness in his brain. He wished he hadn’t, because the empty feeling he’d had before the phone rang came back.
He shook his head and flipped pages until he found where he’d started. It had been a while since he’d read words that spilled out so fast he didn’t remember them. He set the notebook on the coffee table. Some of it was crap, and he crossed it out immediately. He circled a few lines to come back to later. Every so often, he made a darker circle around a stretch of words. What he’d expected, some reasonably clever shit about the female race in general and how little difference it made what they looked like or how they acted because they were all going to screw you in the end.
If they screwed you at all.
Six pages in, Rick picked up the notebook and stared at it for a second before he felt that intense certainty that someone was watching. He jerked his head up, but the room was still empty.
Had he written this? There was no fucking way he would put these words on paper.
Musta been out of my mind, passing you my heart
So you could take it and break it and rip it apart.
Bad enough the lines were such crap, he was starting to sound like —
Cuz of what? Over what? A fucking misinterpretation?
Love ain’t s’posed to be that weak — where’d I get that information?
He relaxed some. At least the quality on the third line was better. That fourth one sucked, but he’d come up with something else. Interpretation … constipation. Master —
His gaze hit the next lines and he froze.
Oh, I remember now, it came direct from you
I must be a goddamn fool, cause I still believe it’s true.
He ripped the page in his hurry to turn it, to find what came after, the twist that would drop in some clarity and finish this whack shit off with the punch line.
Pale blue lines, red margin. All white space. That was the punch line.
He hadn’t been drunk, either.
The front door lock clicked, and Rick whipped the notebook closed.
Terrance walked in and raised his eyebrows. “’Sup?”
“Just chilling. Where you been?”
“Nowhere.”
Terrance tried to be clever sometimes, but he was never vague. Rick watched him cross to the table and drop a brown paper bag next to the coffee pot. It landed with a thud.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A book.”
“A book?” Rick smirked. “Since when do you … ” He shot a quick look at the brown paper. “What book?”
Terrance headed for his bedroom. He left the door open. Fucker. Rick glanced back to the table across the room. He sure as hell wasn’t giving him the satisfaction. That lasted ten seconds before he was off the couch, one eye on Terrance’s door.
The bag crinkled loudly, and Carolyn’s picture slid out into his hands. Waist up, her arms folded under her breasts as she leaned one shoulder against a column. Black and white. It had to be cheaper that way. Who would go for artistic on a woman with golden eyes?
He didn’t want a picture, he wanted her. Instead of soft skin under his palms he had the hard surface of her book. He flipped it over and read the title he’d heard on the radio, knowing damn well, despite everything he’d said, that what she wrote would tell him more about her. The handwriting on the title page made him choke.
Terrance —
I’m glad you won’t miss it.
Carolyn
That being-watched feeling hit full force. Rick spun to see Terrance in the doorway.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Got me an autograph.”
Rick slammed the book shut. He wanted to ask what the hell Terrance wasn’t missing, but after he forced that question back, all he could think was: You saw her.
“She’s kind of famous,” Terrance said. “Big-ass display in the store. That might be worth something someday.”
Rick dropped it on top of the bag. “It ain’t worth shit. She didn’t even sign her last name.”
“Better, maybe. More personal.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I was thinking ‘good thing I showed up.’ Girl needed some aspirin. Bad.”
Rick stared at him.
“Hangover,” Terrance said. “I don’t think she’s got the same kind of experience with them that say, you do.”
Not much of a surprise there, but something was wrong, even though Terrance grinned.
“Red wine and brandy — ” Rick couldn’t help making a face “ — she couldn’t hardly lift her head up for a minute.”
That was it. “You were in her hotel room?”
“She wasn’t really in any condition to leave. Like I said. Red wine and brandy.” He clicked the TV on and nodded to the notebook. “You get it back?”
“I never lost it,” Rick snapped. Then he realized the notebook was in reach of Terrance. He crossed the room to retrieve it, not that Terrance would think about opening it. He’d never thought he’d do this either, though. “What’d she say to you?”
Terrance kept his focus on the damn bleeping video game.
A worse thought occurred to him. “What’d you tell her?”
Terrance shot him a warning look.
“Oh, now I’m s’posed to trust you after you spend the whole goddamn morning with my — fuck!” Too late to stop his mind from dropping the girl. “The hell were you doing over there?”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me shit.” He paced the room once before he stopped and glared at Terrance. “Maybe you was giving her something besides aspirin.”
Terrance raised his eyebrows. “That what you think — ”
“Why not? You being so goddamn secretive.”
“About her?”
“Fuck her — fuck you, Terrance — and if you ever go behind my back again — ”
“What?” Te
rrance stood up. “What are you gonna do?”
Rick spun around and slammed the notebook against the wall. He was losing it again, over her, and he’d almost played that last card. Stone cold sober. He closed his eyes, dropped his head back, and felt the pain in the back of his neck as his shoulder muscles knotted.
“T … ” He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I … ”
“Ain’t the first dude to lose his shit over a woman.”
Rick shook his head. It was a first for him, and as usual, no way he could do anything half-assed. When he finally looked over to Terrance, he thought he saw his mouth twitch. Rick exhaled and made it to the other end of the couch before he collapsed with his head in his hands.
“I gotta get out of here, T. This city’s making me crazy.” Then he remembered his wake up call. “’Cept Louis wants me in his office at four. Apparently I breached a damn contract last night.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Rick turned his head enough to look at him. “For you.”
“What I meant.”
Rick almost laughed. His head was too heavy again, he dropped it back to his hands. “This has gotta be the worst week of my life.”
No response except more screeching tires from the video game. No way to argue with it, anyway. Then he felt a double tap on the knuckle of his right hand.
“Maybe not quite,” Terrance said.
Rick shifted his hands to his lap, rubbed the G on his right index finger between his left thumb and forefinger. Pressing the flesh down to the bone. It felt damn close. “Can you get our flight changed? For later tonight, after I get this shit over with Louis and find out how much money they’re gonna want me to pay for that.”
Terrance nodded.
“I just want to go home.”
Another nod.
“’Course I don’t actually have a home.”
Terrance grinned. “I still got a couch.”
Rick leaned back into the sofa and watched the cars circle the track on the screen. “Possible you might need a break from me.”
“For about thirteen years now.”
“Kale got a better couch anyway. And Trisha’s a better cook.” He ran his hands through his hair. He needed a shower. “On the other hand, Trisha’s the only damn woman on the whole fucking planet who don’t hate me. Be sad to lose that.”
Terrance laughed. Rick forced himself off the couch and headed for the bathroom. Wasn’t that funny. But it was true.
32: Getting on with It
Carolyn showered and washed her hair. She’d specifically left this Thursday and Friday open to spend with Peter, now the day stretched before her. She reached for the hair dryer but dropped it and rushed for the living room when her cell phone rang, only to find Eve’s name on the display. Carolyn threw the phone onto the couch, adding guilt into her emotional soup. She couldn’t handle hearing Eve say I told you so.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to hear it. Maybe …
But he hadn’t called yet, and it was almost three in the afternoon.
He could still be asleep.
“Oh, my God!” Her own voice in the silent room jerked her back to her senses. Damn it, she had a life before him, and she wasn’t going to stand here making the kind of excuses she’d heard every damn day for months. She had speeches to write about that, and now she had some free time to do it.
She swallowed another round of aspirin and sat down, but once she had a blank document on her laptop screen, she closed her eyes. This isn’t what I really wanted.
You should quit playing. If it’s what you really want.
Carolyn bit her lip and hit the keyboard commands to open a different document. Scanning the screen, she started reading the words she’d written more than a year ago. Before …
Before getting completely off track. She found it in the middle of page three, almost at the very beginning, a minor character saying something that led everyone — including his author — on a wild goose chase.
“You idiot.” Carolyn reached for a pen and paper. How had she missed it? But once she found it, the story took over, and her pen flew across the page. When the phone rang, she reached for it with her left hand, still scribbling with her right.
“Carolyn?”
Her name barely penetrated her thoughts. “I’m here.”
“It … it’s Peter.”
The type on the screen blurred. “Peter. I’m sorry, I was writing.”
“Working on your speeches?” He sounded enthusiastic.
Carolyn glanced at the notes on her desk. “Sort of.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Listen, Carolyn. I wanted to apologize. For last night.”
She held the receiver away and stared at it for a second. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I’m afraid I behaved rather badly and I — ”
“Peter, honestly, you didn’t do anything. It was … ” She stopped, unable and unwilling to explain. She waited through a moment of silence, but she didn’t know how to fill it.
He cleared his throat again. “Will you be seeing him again?”
“I don’t … ” What was the point in denying it? “I don’t think so.”
Peter made a slight hmmm. “Well, then, are you free for dinner tonight?”
Her stomach was better, but it twisted anyway. “Actually, I’m not feeling well. I think I’m coming down with something.” A severe case of regret. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing serious I hope?”
“I think I’ll stay in and get some work done.”
After a long pause, he said, “I understand.”
Because he was a nice guy — and she was a fool. “Thank you.”
Peter said good-bye, and she apologized again, which only made her feel worse, so she went back to her story before real life completely took over.
At least this escape wouldn’t cause a hangover.
* * *
Louis poured Rick a drink and one for himself, self-congratulations for straightening out everything with the touring company before Rick even showed up. He didn’t listen to Louis’s explanation, because he didn’t care. Thirty-five floors in an elevator for nothing. He twisted the glass and tried not to be bitter.
When Louis finished, Rick figured since he was here, he should ask the question he did care about. “What do you think it’ll take for Carnage to offer me another deal?”
Louis leaned back in his chair and stroked his van Dyke beard. “A lot.”
Rick considered that for a moment. “It ain’t gonna happen.”
Louis shook his head, and Rick gave him credit for that.
“Maybe if Guillotine releases that song as a single and your sales go up?” Louis said. Then he shook his head again. “But that’s his label’s call. That he got approved to perform it Monday was halfway to a miracle in itself.”
Halfway, not all the way. “I get a bump from that at least?”
“Not enough. I mean, the expectation isn’t as high as if you were on a big label, but they’re putting money into you, and they don’t see much return on it, except … ”
“Except when I’m touring.”
Louis didn’t bother to answer. They both knew the score.
“Then that’s what I’ll do. Six months, start after this record drops.”
Louis raised his eyebrows. “You’ve never wanted to be on the road that much.”
“I know.” Another mistake. Every stretch he was away from Cleveland turned into a big fight, and he’d tried to keep the dates as minimal as possible, just to make Mary believe … that he would have done both.
But you can’t prove it anymore.
She was right. This was his life, this was what he wanted to do with it, and if he had nothing left to prove, maybe he could finally get on with living it.
“What do you think?” he asked Louis. “Album drops in September, you think I can get booked through February?”
“That’s a long time.”
“I know guys who
do more.” He leaned forward and pushed the glass to the corner of Louis’s desk. “Look, I’m never going to get the radio play, the distribution ain’t bad, but Carnage ain’t pouring co-op money into the record store ads. But you know, and I know — and they know — that when I’m at the merchandise table after a show, I sell CDs.”
Thousands of them, he’d almost forgotten that. He’d been so consumed with who was headlining the show in the first place, that he’d almost forgotten that when the DJ killed the beat and he held his mic out, he heard his own lines coming back at him.
He’d really like to enjoy that for once.
Louis nodded again, still stroking his beard. “That could make a difference to Carnage.”
“Well, if it doesn’t, I’ll figure out a plan B.” Rick looked at the glass. Still full. “We done, then?”
“We could use a new publicity pack.”
“Sure, whatever.” He stood up. “Do what you want.”
“I want a new picture.”
“What’s wrong with the one you got?”
“It’s five years old.”
“I ain’t changed that much.” Facetious. Rick smiled.
“That’s the shot we could use.”
“Fuck off, Louis. I ain’t a pinup boy.”
Louis reached for his drink. “This song sounds old to me. I’d rather hear the new ones.”
Rick believed that. He couldn’t be doing it for the money. He stopped at the door and turned. “Thank you, Louis.”
He didn’t like the surprise on his manager’s face. He’d let his personal shit do too much damage to his professional life. It wasn’t too late to quit that.
Louis lifted his chin, pointed his van Dyke beard. “You know, Rick, for a while there, I was afraid you’d lost faith in yourself.”
I never heard anybody who deserves it more than you do.
“Maybe,” he told Louis. “But I got it back.”
The victory felt empty, but a win was a win. He left to hunt down Terrance, wishing like hell he could quit wanting more than he was ever going to get.
33: Anything’s Possible
Carolyn put a hand to her air-dried waves. She hadn’t returned to the hairdryer, she hadn’t put on any makeup, and she was wearing sweat pants. Somehow, despite her earlier refusal, Peter was on his way upstairs with what he swore was the best Chinese food in Manhattan. Why had she said yes when he called from the lobby?
Nobody's Hero Page 24
