On the Rocks

by Jade C. Jamison

  But CJ was still CJ. He didn’t act any differently and, at first, he didn’t seem to fit into this house. The house seemed almost pretentious.

  But no way was I gonna say it.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe a glass of water—in case you make me sing.”

  He smiled. “If it’s an option, I will.” I followed him into the kitchen. It was triangular shaped, and there was no table—just the space to get any cooking job done as fast and effectively as possible. He pulled a glass out of one of the oak cabinets and walked to the stainless steel fridge, pushing the glass against first one knob and then another, so it dispensed ice and water efficiently. “I’ll carry it for you. Follow me.”

  “You’re not getting something to drink?”

  “Already have it.”

  After walking through the dining room, we walked down a half-flight of stairs and then turned to walk down another. I hadn’t realized from the front of the house that there was a downstairs because it wasn’t visible. I could tell the land sloped behind the house, but I hadn’t known it had afforded more space. Jesus. This place was taking my breath away. The whole house had huge windows that looked upon the forest that surrounded his home. The house itself was beautiful, but the surroundings were breathtaking. They reminded me of when I’d lived with Liz in Manitou Springs, and it made me miss living in a peaceful place that felt like it was away from the hustle and bustle of humanity.

  The room down there was even larger than the living space upstairs, and I assumed it had been designed to be either a living room or a family room. There was a bar with a polished wooden counter (and, through the glass cabinets, I could tell CJ had stocked it—one cabinet had every possible glass, flute, beer mug, and snifter I could imagine, while the other side had several bottles of various beverages). I considered asking CJ why he hadn’t just gotten my drink down here, but I couldn’t see a fridge, although I had no doubt there was probably a small one where my eye couldn’t see, and there was probably ice in it too, but CJ wouldn’t have been able to command my water with a touch of a button.

  I looked past the bar to the spacious living area. It had giant windows looking out upon the forest that sloped first down and then up again, affording CJ a view of nothing but nature. There was another fireplace down here that looked almost identical to the one upstairs, except it was in a corner of the room, jutting out.

  But, for CJ, this was no family room. It was all about music. He had a black grand piano down there eating up most of the space, along with a modest drum kit and his drum machine, a few small amps, several of his practice bass guitars in stands, along with what looked like—from where I stood—a regular guitar. There were mikes and cables, pedals and cords, a couple of chairs, and all kinds of music shit all strewn together.

  This…this looked like CJ.

  I felt a hell of a lot more comfortable down here than I had upstairs. The top story hadn’t felt lived in like the space down here. I suspected CJ spent most of his days down in this space. Not only could he create music, but he could look out on the forest whenever he chose.

  He might have found a little piece of heaven.

  “This is where I work,” he said, as if I wouldn’t have been able to figure it out. “I was hoping to spend all day with you to get this done, but Janice has a flight landing at DIA around four this afternoon.”

  “Janice?”

  He nodded, but he was walking toward the piano, not looking at me. “Yeah. The woman I’m dating.”

  It didn’t escape my notice that he called her the woman he was dating and not his girlfriend. But who the hell was she? Why hadn’t I heard of her before? It took a few seconds for me to make the connection. The last I’d known, he was dating a film actress, a stacked blonde by the name of Natalia. “Stage name?”

  He nodded, still not making eye contact. “Yeah.” He ran an index finger lightly over the piano keys, not depressing them but just touching them like a feather. Then he turned around, all smiles, and said, “Let’s get started.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll set your glass over here.” There was a small, short table next to the wall that I hadn’t noticed before because it had been overpowered by everything else in the room, and he set the water on top.

  I let everything settle. First, I let myself get okay with the fact that I wasn’t going to see CJ for as long as we’d planned—but that was okay because, second, I now knew his relationship was going well. If his girlfriend, whether he wanted to call her that or not (big surprise, considering how he’d treated me all those years), was flying to Colorado to spend a few days with CJ, then they were probably pretty serious.

  I had to make myself not care—or at least appear not to—so I forced my voice to sound light. “So…whatcha got?”

  He shook his head. “Like I said, not much. I’ve got the words. I was just thinking about you and started writing this song.”

  I slammed on the brakes. Or at least that was what it felt like. It seemed like I’d been driving down a windy mountain road one minute, like the last one I’d turned on to get to his house, and then, all of a sudden, a semi appeared right in front of me and I was getting ready to collide. I felt confused and emotional suddenly and I was full of questions, questions I would never ask. I wanted to know why he’d been thinking about me…and how. What exactly had he been thinking? Would the lyrics reveal anything to me? Did CJ still fucking care?

  But I clenched my teeth together, willing myself to the present and to CJ’s voice. He wasn’t even looking at me, was flipping through a spiral notebook and paying no attention to me. That was good, because I was in shock and I was sure my face would show it. A few more seconds to compose myself and he’d never know.

  If I hadn’t been in that strange state of mind, I might have laughed. CJ and I (and a lot of other musicians I knew) were so much alike. There were all kinds of fancy computer programs and apps, both inexpensive and top of the line, that would help with music composition, and yet we still just jotted everything down on paper first. For me (and I was sure CJ felt the same), it was easier to just grab a piece of paper and scribble it down before it was lost. Later, both music and lyrics could be transposed into easier-to-share and -read formats.

  But I was still reeling from his earlier words and trying to focus on what he was saying so I could bring myself back down to earth. “I think it embodies the essence of who Kyle Summers is.” The lyrics—he must have been talking about the lyrics.

  Best to be my usual smart ass self. “Oh, Jesus. Do I dare even read them?”

  It was then that he actually looked at me. “I think you’ll like them.” He paused. “But…”

  Oh, CJ. Yeah, I’d forgotten what a tease he was. “But?”

  “But, first, I should give you the tour.”

  “Of your house? You mean there’s more?”

  “Thousands of square feet. It’s a nice place.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I could tell.”

  “You wanna?”

  “Why not?” I got the feeling he was trying to prolong the process. Whether our time together was shortened or not, I didn’t think it would take us more than an hour or so to compose a rudimentary tune. I had to admit, though, that spending time with CJ—whether he was someone else’s boyfriend or not—was nice and something that I’d missed. So I took him up on the offer.

  And the tour was slow as he gave me a running commentary on each room of the house. The master bedroom and bath were huge—a giant comfy king-size bed in the midst of that vast space, and the bath had a huge tub separate from an equally impressive shower encased in glass. Two sinks.

  I realized I was fantasizing the whole time, as he took me out on the deck that afforded me a better view of the hill just behind the house, through the garage that held both his sweet black Ferrari and a more practical white Corolla that I couldn’t even picture him driving. I also saw a Harley just past it and almost asked.

&n
bsp; Instead, I followed him around, smiling and nodding but keeping my mouth shut. I couldn’t trust myself to say another word because all this visit had done was make me realize one thing: I still loved CJ Slavin to the depths of my soul…and I always would.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  CJ AND I were finally seated back in his downstairs room—what other owners would have used as a family room, he used the only way he knew how. He kept putting off showing me the notebook and I finally said, “CJ, am I going to get to read the lyrics someday?”

  He gave me a small smile. “I have to admit I’m a little nervous about it, Kyle.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “You might hate it.”

  “Why the hell would I hate it?”

  He let out a breath and turned around, grabbing the notebook off the top of the piano. It was already turned to the page. “Here.” He started to walk past me and said, “Actually, no. I was gonna get a beer but I gotta hit the road later. Bad idea.”

  First…holy shit. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but when he walked past me, I caught a tiny whiff, and he was wearing that cologne he always had. He’d never dumped it on, and I’d only ever noticed it when I was close—and we hadn’t been close in a long time—but I caught the faintest hint as he breezed past me and it almost made me salivate.

  Second, the title of the song jumped up at me: Bad Ass Bitch. Was that what CJ thought of me?

  If it was, I was more than okay with that.

  I glanced up at him and saw that he really was nervous. I smiled and looked down, sitting on the piano bench as I read the song written down by CJ’s hand.

  You think you know me, but you don’t know shit.

  I tell you I’m a sinner, and you can’t deal with it.

  You say you hate me, but how can that be?

  I don’t know you and you sure as hell don’t know me.

  I’ll make you regret every single word.

  This bad ass bitch gonna bring you down.

  Yeah, I’m a bad ass bitch,

  A bad ass bitch.

  Don’t cross my path.

  Gonna bring you down.

  Know this.

  I’ll live the way I want and you don’t have to watch.

  I’ll sin the way I wanna sin; you don’t need to give a fuck.

  I’ve done more in my youth than you’ll do in your sorry life,

  But you still rip me apart, cut me with your jagged knife.

  I’ll make you regret crossing the line.

  This bad ass bitch gonna bring you down.

  Yeah, I’m a bad ass bitch,

  A bad ass bitch.

  Don’t cross my path.

  A bad ass bitch,

  A bad ass bitch,

  Get out of my way.

  Gonna bring you down.

  Solo

  Hear this.

  I’m not your lover, not a pinup girl or your whore,

  So don’t come to me begging and asking for more.

  I won’t repent for my sins. I don’t need to be saved.

  Just give me the music, ‘cause it’s all I crave.

  I’ll make you regret the day you were born.

  This bad ass bitch gonna bring you down.

  Yeah, I’m a bad ass bitch,

  A bad ass bitch.

  Don’t cross my path.

  A bad ass bitch,

  A bad ass bitch,

  Get out of my way.

  Gonna bring you down.

  In tiny letters at the bottom, he had written this note: Repeat chorus?

  I felt tears well in my eyes. Yeah, CJ really did know and understand me, probably better than anyone else. Even better than Brian. That knowledge was a revelation to me and left me breathless. I tried to imagine myself singing it, but I couldn’t hear a tune in my head. CJ had said he had a riff.

  As I lifted my head to meet CJ’s eyes, he asked, “Well?”

  I smiled again, “The line that sold me was ‘I won’t repent for my sins. I don’t need to be saved’.”

  “So you’re saying you like it?”

  “I love it.” I wanted to run over to him, take him in my arms and kiss him, but he was off limits. Instead, I said, “Thank you for thinking of me.”

  “It had to be written.”

  “So you said you had a riff in mind?”

  “Yeah.” He walked over to the piano, a bottle of cold water in hand, and he sat down. In a moment, he began playing a tune. The problem was I couldn’t conjure up the way the guitar would sound, and CJ could tell that. You’d think I could, but I was in a daze. It had promise, though. So I walked over to my guitar case, strapped it on, and began playing the notes he’d played.

  Yes, it had promise but I knew now why he’d been stuck. The riff didn’t quite work. So he grabbed his one guitar and we sat in chairs facing each other, trying different tunes. He also had a metronome and we tried different beats as well, trying to find the best tune for the song.

  It was elusive.

  Two hours later, CJ finally said, “Well, I guess we can work on this more next week if that’s okay with you. I have to leave in a few minutes.”

  “One second. What about this?” I asked as I played a different set of chords that demanded I play them.

  He nodded. “Do that again.”

  I did and we both smiled at each other. Sure, it still didn’t solve the mystery of the melody for the lyrics, but we had something to work with musically. He grabbed his notebook and started jotting it down, while I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and made an audio recording. I could work on this at home.

  After another few minutes, I stood and, pointing to his notebook, asked, “Do you mind if I take a copy of that home? Or could you send it to me?”

  “I could scan it and email it to you.”

  “Or I could take a picture right now if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  So I walked over to the piano, taking a picture of one side of the paper and then I flipped it over to capture the other side. I didn’t know if I’d work on more than just the instrument part of the music, but in case I was inspired, I wanted to have the words at my disposal. I felt CJ standing next to me and he asked, “You sure you like it?”

  “I love it,” I said, wanting to reassure him, and I turned my head to look. He was right there, way too close, and our eyes locked. I was overcome with the urge to jump him right then and there and tell him to fuck the flight landing in Denver.

  But that would be wrong. That was what my dad had done to my mom years earlier, and he’d wrecked her. I couldn’t do that to someone else.

  And, yet, I felt my lower lip pull away from my upper one ever so slightly, and I registered CJ’s head getting closer.

  So I blinked and cleared my throat and looked back down at my phone, breaking off any chance of our lips connecting. “Thanks again, CJ,” I said and started moving toward my guitar so I could put it back in its case.

  “My pleasure,” he said, and his voice sounded normal.

  I must have imagined the whole damn thing…but why the hell was my heart thudding in my chest and why were my ears ringing?

  Maybe I just needed to get laid…because it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen here and now. No way in hell.

  And when I got in my car and backed out of his driveway, I waved at CJ, convinced that had definitely been my imagination. But at least I had a good song and a renewed friendship. What more could I ask for?

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  SO I WAS driving home in a bit of a daze. I was still shocked and happy about the song and knew there was room for it on the album. I was sure the guys would like it too. The words were almost like something that could become an anthem, and aside from the idea that CJ had been thinking about me which had led him to write those words for me, I knew that fans would love that song. I was honored and humbled.

  But I was still pondering CJ’s intentions aside from friendship. I could feel a phantom sting from his lips
from years gone by and knew I was still craving him, still wanted him. I was still addicted to him, much as I imagined Vicki felt about smack. Right now I was considering another taste, but I knew it would be all over if I did. I’d be full-on hooked all over again.

  He was the flame and he was burning bright; I was the moth, dancing a little too near.

  I turned up the radio, intending to drown it all out. CJ and I had next week and then I could get back to the music, just the music, where I felt most alive and free, and I could almost forget about the guy who got away.

  I was playing my favorite station on the radio and they returned from a commercial break. I wasn’t listening to the DJ, but he was talking up a storm. And, when I finally did tune in, I was pretty sure he’d said something about Liz Mayer and the Vipers.

  Why the fuck would they play Liz on my favorite metal station?

  As I drove down the road, I switched my focus from the pavement to the radio. “Liz and her band are hometown natives and they’ll be playing at The Black Sheep this Friday night. We’ll have Liz and the Vipers on air next hour for an interview and I think we’ve talked them into playing a couple of their songs here in the studio unplugged. For now, though, we’re going to listen to their hit ‘Born Bad’.” The guitar riff that started out the song—one I’d heard many times now—grated on my nerves. This particular song had been Liz’s first hit and I’d always been unimpressed. It sounded like, musically, she’d taken a step backwards. There was nothing fresh about the song. Nothing.

  And I didn’t want to hear it.

  I realized how childish and stupid it was for me to be so damned jealous of Liz, but right now at this moment, I was wallowing already. I pressed the Scan button on the radio. Almost anything was better than that insipid song. Even the words were contrived and I just couldn’t stomach it—not now when I was already feeling weak.

  The radio paused a couple of times, one country station after another. Oh, hell, no, but I was fortunate that I only had to wait a few seconds before the radio started scanning again. Then it landed on a classic rock station, and I recognized the piano as the opening to an old Journey song my mom and dad used to listen to when I was a kid—a tune called “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.” I didn’t start paying attention to the words until the second half of the second verse—I’d heard the lyrics dozens of times before, but they just hadn’t registered with me.