by Cassia Leo
His lip is bleeding and there’s a bloody scuff from where his cheek must have scraped the asphalt. I want to reach up and wipe the blood from his mouth, but a small part of me is afraid that if I try to touch him right now he’ll hit me. His chest is heaving and his hands are still balled up in fists as he glares at Tristan and Chris over my shoulder.
“Go!” I shout to break him out of his rage-trance.
Finally, he looks down at me, and the guilty look on his face kills me. “Fuck! I’m sorry.”
He kisses my forehead and takes off running toward where his car is parked down the street. I spin around and Tristan is laughing as he uses the front of his T-shirt to sop up the blood pouring out of his nostrils.
“You think that’s funny? What are you twelve?” I push him as hard as I can and he falls back against the Porsche.
He continues to laugh as he makes his way around the back of the Porsche to the driver’s side.
I round on Chris. “I never would have expected this from you.”
“I’m the one who stopped it!” he barks.
“After you started it!”
“I wasn’t driving the fucking car.”
I shake my head in disgust as I turn around and grab my purse off the top of my car. I’m shaking with rage as I pull my keys out of the purse and deactivate my car alarm. I look over my shoulder at Chris before I get inside.
“Don’t ever bring that asshole around me again.”
I take a few deep breaths as I drive down Wilmington. My phone rings as soon as I turn the corner.
“Adam? Where are you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m fine and I’m really fucking sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
Adam’s temper has always been simmering just below the surface. I’ve known this almost from the moment I met him. I’ve seen him trying so hard to keep it under control since all this stuff started happening with Chris. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t scare me.
“Claire?”
“You really scared me.”
The silence that follows is charged with all the implications behind these words. Is it what Adam did that scared me? Or is it him that had me so frightened I felt as if my heart was going to leap out of my chest? I’ve never seen him like that.
Yes, it was him that scared me.
“Man, I fucked up. I messed up our last day together.”
“Just call me when you get home tonight,” I say as I pull my car onto the highway.
“I will. And I am really, really fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Chapter Eleven
Chris
THE HARSH SOUND OF THE hotel phone ringing startles me awake. My hand fumbles over the cool surface of the beside table until I find the phone and pick up the receiver.
“Housekeeping. When can we come to clean your room?”
A crack of sunlight shining through the curtains hits my face as I open my eyes sending a sharp pain slicing through the left side of my head. I blink a few times until the spots disappear and glance at the alarm clock on the table: 1:17 p.m.
“Never,” I mutter into the phone and hang up.
I turn over in the bed and my arm hits someone next to me. Fuck. I almost don’t want to look.
I haven’t gotten drunk enough to have a hangover in months, but all this shit with Claire and Abigail is bringing up feelings I thought I’d long since buried. It seems all the women in my life are determined to make my life more difficult.
Claire hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts since the incident in Raleigh. I even sent her an arrangement of her favorite flowers, daisies, with an apology note, but she’s still ignoring me. I texted her last night before the show to tell her I have some news on the adoption, certain that this would elicit a response, but she still hasn’t responded.
I turn my head to glimpse my bed buddy and find Tristan Pollock, my bass guitarist and best friend since seventh grade, knocked out with his hair covering most of his face. Tristan and I had a falling out when I took the solo deal last year, but we quickly made up when I insisted to have him play bass on the West Coast tour we did in the Spring. Now, all the old resentments are gone and I’m relieved to be waking up next to him.
I turn my head again to get a look at the other bed in the hotel room and I glimpse the back of Rachel’s head. Rachel and Jake, my drummer, have been together longer than Claire and I have known each other. She goes to every show with Jake. If I didn’t know her I would think it was because she was possessive as fuck. But the truth is that after seven years together, they still can’t get enough of each other. They’re inseparable—the way Claire and I used to be.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and check to see if there are any new messages. I scroll through the nine new texts I’ve received, but none of them are from Claire. I stare at the text I sent her last night and shake my head.
Me: Tasha gave me some new info. Come to my jam session on Saturday, I’ll fill you in. I want to apologize for being the world’s biggest douchebag.
I sit up in bed and my head immediately starts pounding to the beat of my heart. It’s the same beat I’ve used to write a million songs about Claire, and this is where it’s gotten me. I should just fucking quit already. I could get used to playing local clubs to pay the bills. I’d even get a regular job if that’s what it took to get Claire back.
I sling my legs over the side of the bed and the first thing I want to do is text her. I went more than twelve months without sending her a single text and now it’s the first and last thing I want to do every day. It’s funny that when the one person you live for is ripped out of your life you can still find a way to convince yourself it’s for the best and that you will eventually get over it.
What a joke.
Xander, my manager, set up the show we played last night in D.C. as part of this surprise tour we’ve been on for the past five weeks and I’m starting to get really fucking annoyed. Last night’s show on the mall was insane and way more packed than I expected. I don’t remember how or when I got back to the hotel room, but I do remember feeling like my life, not just my vision, was spinning out of control.
I stand up and make my way to the restroom, but Jake calls my name before I make it there.
“What?” I call back.
“I have to go first. I’m gonna puke.”
He tumbles off the bed and rushes past me into the bathroom. I barely catch a glimpse of his dark scruffy hair and man-beard before he slams the door closed behind him. The door doesn’t do a good job of drowning out the sounds of his retching.
“God, what a fuckin’ lightweight.” Rachel’s voice is raspy. She’s probably parched as hell from whatever the fuck we did last night.
I haven’t lost time from too much alcohol in a long time. It’s a scary feeling, not knowing what—or who—you did the night before. It appears as if I didn’t do anything or anyone I’d regret, but I have enough regrets accumulated from all the things I have and haven’t done this past year. Waking up next to Tristan today can’t erase all the shit that’s happened since I left Claire.
I take a seat at the desk in the hotel room and grab the pen and pad of paper bearing the hotel logo. It’s a habit. Anytime I see a pen and paper I have to write something, lyrics or notes, or nonsense. I write what comes to mind and I’ve come up with the beginnings of some good songs that way. I pull the cap off the pen with my teeth, press the pen to the paper, and write.
Dear Claire,
Remember the time you caught me changing in my bedroom before we got together? Remember that embarrassment? That longing? I feel it every fucking day. Leaving you was the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made.
I tear the sheet of paper off the pad and I’m about to crumple it up when Rachel snatches it out of my hand.
“Don’t fuck with me right now. I’ve got the mother of all hangovers.”
She ig
nores me as she reads the note to herself then hands it back to me. “You’re an idiot. You can write a fucking song and a note, but you can’t actually do anything.”
“Of course I can’t do anything. She has a fucking boyfriend.”
“Do you expect her to just magically want to get back together with you? Earth to Chris, girls want to be pursued. Playing hard to get only works in new relationships. You’ve known Claire too long for those games to work on her.”
I roll my eyes as I lean back in the desk chair. “You don’t understand. Claire thinks she’s in love with this guy. If I try to, as you say, pursue her, she’ll think I’m trying to fuck things up for her.”
Rachel shakes her head as she leans against the dresser and pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “You’re right. I don’t fucking understand. How could she throw that away? You guys were perfect for each other. Give me her new number and I’ll talk some sense into her.”
“Hell no. I don’t need you fucking things up any more.”
“Hey, she used to be my friend. Don’t be selfish. Give me her fucking number.”
Jake finally comes out of the bathroom and I can smell the vomit on him as he passes between Rachel and me on his way to the bed. Rachel scrunches up her face in disgust and I wait for her to make a snide comment.
“Ever heard of toothpaste?” she says as Jake pulls the comforter over himself.
“I’ve got your toothpaste right here,” he mutters, and I’m positive he’s grabbing his dick under the covers.
Rachel rolls her eyes then turns back to me. She’s not going to let this go.
“Give me her number. I want to take her to lunch when we get back.”
“I’m not giving you her number. If she wanted you to have her number she would have told me to give it to you.”
“Whatever, Chris. I’m going to look her up in the directory and you’re going to be kissing my feet when she comes crawling back to you.”
I crumple up the note before I toss it into the waste bin. “She’s changed.”
“You’ve both changed,” she says as she walks toward the bathroom door. “But I’ll bet you Jake’s drum set that she’s just waiting for you to make your move. Trust me when I say that Claire worshipped you.”
I sigh as I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Well, she’s really fucking pissed at me right now. Besides, she just wants to move on. I have to let her do that or I won’t be able to forgive myself if I mess things up for her again.”
My phone vibrates and my stomach flips inside me. Taking a deep breath, I try to drown the hope that it’s her. I pull the phone out of my pocket and smile when I see the text message.
Claire: Are you seriously trying to bribe me to go see your jam session?
“Is that her?” Rachel asks, but I ignore her as I type my response.
Me: I want to apologize properly and I can’t do that in a text message.
Claire: I don’t want to hear your apologies. Just tell me what Tasha told you.
Me: I can’t. It’s too important.
Claire: You’re an asshole.
Me: I know, but I’m trying really hard to change that.
Claire: I don’t want to see Tristan.
Me: He never sticks around after the shows. You know that.
The thirty-eight minutes she makes me wait for her response are pure torture.
Claire: When and where is the jam session?
Chapter Twelve
Chris
“I’M TELLING YOU, THAT’S NOT my mic. That’s Jake’s. Mine is the 5200. Please get my mic.”
The new crewmember keeps mixing up my mic with Jake’s. This is the third time he’s done it this week and I’m about to lose my shit. Xander had the brilliant idea of hiring local sound and backline crews we’ve never worked with for this Home Sweet Home tour, to support the local economy, but I don’t need this kind of stress right now. I just want this tour over with.
I’m nervous as hell. Not only am I going to be jamming with the legendary Neil Hardaway, but Claire will be out there watching me. My palms are sweating and I haven’t even tuned up.
Keith brings the correct mic this time and I slide it into the mic stand. I sit down on my stool and rest Lucille, my Gibson SG electric guitar, in my lap. I only use the stool for acoustic sets, but I’m feeling a little unsteady on my feet today. Keith hands me the amp cable and I plug in.
I brush my fingers lightly over the strings and the sound echoes through the empty club. Nothing in this world is more soothing to me than holding a guitar in my hands, except being inside Claire or even lying next to her. The worst part of being apart from her this past year was the knowledge that I probably never would have gotten where I am if we’d stayed together. My songwriting improved by a million percent after we broke up. There really is nothing more inspiring to an artist than a shattered heart.
By the time I’m done tuning the guitar, Jake and Tristan are on stage and ready for a warm-up. We’re not performing any of my songs today. The studio put too hard of a pop spin on most of the songs on the Relentless album. Neil Hardaway is a local blues legend. He can’t play that shit. He actually called me himself last night, and I nearly pissed my pants, to tell me what we would be playing. We rehearsed last night in his home studio and I swear I had an out-of-body experience, as if I were watching someone else living their dream.
“Firefly,” I say over my shoulder and I immediately hear the clack of Jake’s drumsticks behind me and the shuffle of Tristan’s feet to my left as they prepare.
“Firefly” is one of the many songs I wrote about Claire where I changed a lot of the details so she wouldn’t know it was about her. This song is about a girl I call Firefly who writes me love notes and leaves them in random places for me to find. Of course, in the end, she leaves a note that’s not a love note at all. Claire used to send me random texts with random words—anagrams. I had to rearrange the letters to figure out what she was trying to tell me. It was one of our favorite games. She always tried to use the longest words to make it difficult for me to guess. The last text she sent me after we broke up was a one-word text, but it wasn’t an anagram: Sorry.
When we finish warming up, Neil Hardaway strolls in looking like a fucking pimp. He’s got more soul than any white man I’ve ever met. And, man, is he white! I don’t think Neil Hardaway’s face has seen a ray of sunshine in fifteen years. He’s wearing a midnight blue suit with a thin black tie, sunglasses, and black newsboy cap. I hope I’m that cool when I’m fifty-seven years old.
“What’s up, brother?” he says in that smooth, soulful twang. “You ready to turn these girls inside out?”
We shake hands then I nod at Keith for him to take my stool off the stage. Neil laughs, a raspy laugh, as another crewmember races up the steps onto the stage and hands him his guitar: a baby blue ES-345.
“Them girls waiting outside are about ready to tear the doors off this mother,” Neil continues.
I’m a little star struck, though not as bad as I was when I first met him yesterday. “Not interested,” I mutter as I pull a fresh pick out of my pocket and rub it between my fingertips to warm the plastic.
I’m not interested tonight, not when one of those girls waiting outside could possibly be Claire. I told her to come through the rear entrance, but she insisted on not getting special treatment. She probably doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about us, afraid it will get back to surfer boy.
“Chris?”
Keith is looking at me weird as if he’s been trying to get my attention.
“What’s up?”
“There’s a girl out back asking for you.”
I can’t help but smile as I toss the pick to Keith and he catches it in one hand. “Take me to her.”
I set Lucille down before we cross the empty space designated for general admission ticket holders then past the bar. He takes me through an adjacent lounge with a few pool tables and then through a corridor with some restrooms. At the en
d of the corridor, we arrive at an exit door and I push it open slowly in case she’s standing on the other side.
The cool night air blasts me in the face and I get a strong whiff of garbage and cotton candy. Claire is leaning with her back against the back wall of the club with her eyes closed. We haven’t had any long conversations since we got back in touch last month, but she did mention to me that she started meditating after we broke up. The way she dismissed me when I asked her about it made me think it wasn’t something she liked to talk about.
“Hey.”
She opens her eyes and turns to me. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and the light of the streetlamps paints an angelic glow over her skin.
She flashes me a tight smile. “Hey. Is it okay that I came back here? The sidewalk was packed out front and I started panicking that Joanie was gonna show up.”
“You can do whatever you want. No one here is going to mess with you. Come on.” I hold the door open for her and try not to be too obvious that I’m breathing in her scent as she passes me. “And Joanie’s not welcome here, so you don’t have to worry about her.”
She follows me through the corridor and into the lounge area.
“Have you seen some of the signs those girls are holding out front?”
“Nope. I’ve been warming up. We’re about to warm up with a few songs then they’ll open the doors.”
“You should really go see those signs. They’re kind of gross and fascinating all at once.”
“Like Jake’s sixth toe or worse?”
She laughs for a split second before she remembers she’s still pissed at me. We pass the bar where the bartenders are busy setting up. I grab her hand and she quickly yanks it back, throwing me a shocked look.
“Settle down. I wasn’t trying to hold your hand. I was just trying to stop you. Do you want anything to drink?” I ask, nodding toward the bar.
She shakes her head quickly. “I’m fine.”
