Undone, Volume 3

by Callie Harper

  “Vermont.” He nodded like they were the same place.

  “With your librarian?”

  “No. She left me.”

  He nodded, smoking as we walked. “Best for everyone.”

  “Is it?” I looked at him, wondering why he looked so damn happy. I was really not happy. That didn’t seem to cross his radar.

  “Listen, I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” I could see him tense up. “Ana said something, before she left. About you being the date-rape king. Do you know what she was talking about?”

  “Beats me.” He shrugged, nonchalant. But I could hear an edge to his voice. I’d known him too long.

  “You know she was drugged on New Year’s Eve?” I didn’t know exactly what I was getting at. I wasn’t 100 percent ready to accuse Connor, but I did feel like I needed to ask about it. She’d wanted me to.

  Connor ran a frustrated hand through his unruly red hair. “So, you disappear for a month. You show up looking like a fucking bear. And now you’re on me about drugging some girl?”

  “I didn’t say you drugged her—”

  “That girl’s a fucking tease, that’s what she is. She’s got a stick up her ass and she needs something to help her loosen up.”

  “Don’t talk like that about her!” Hot anger flooded through me and I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “When did you become such a fucking boy scout?”

  “Did you drug her?”

  The way he avoided my eyes told me everything I needed to know. Again, that was the good and the bad thing about knowing someone so well. You could read them easily. He had drugged her. With a sickening lurch, I remembered how I’d found them, Ana passed out cold and him about to slip out the door with her over his shoulder. I’d thought he’d found her like that and was bringing her to safety.

  “You’re an asshole,” I realized. I didn’t know if he always had been, but he sure was now.

  “You’re a nasty little prig. No one even likes being around you anymore, Ash. You’re a killjoy.”

  I punched him hard, so hard he fell down onto the sidewalk in a heap. I wanted to keep on going, beating him within an inch of my life, but after a few more choice words I pulled myself up and walked away. He belonged down in the gutter where I left him, but I didn’t belong down there, too. He’d dragged me down enough times in my life already.

  The makeup artist before the Super Bowl show did a great job of covering up the bruise along Connor’s jaw. For the TV cameras, he looked good to go under a heavy cake of foundation. But our friendship was going to take more than makeup to make it better. An apology from him would be a start, but it didn’t look like that was coming any time soon. He sulked and avoided me and after the show I took off again, not back to Vermont but to my home in S.F.

  I honestly had no idea how the Super Bowl halftime specular show went. I wasn’t interested. We didn’t make any official announcements, but The Blacklist was on hiatus. Indefinitely. I couldn’t imagine wanting to make music with Connor, or re-enter that whole crazy carnival any time soon if at all.

  My label got behind the idea once they heard my single “Undone.” I didn’t lie to them. That was the only song I had, no album to follow. But they felt it was strong enough they wanted to rush it to release. A few L.A. studio sessions later and the song started hitting the airwaves.

  I wasn’t even thinking about whether it would be a success. What I was wondering was whether Ana would hear it, and, if she did, what she’d think of it. I’d written it for her, after all.

  But she already knew every word. I’d written it all to her in my letter, my love for her, how her leaving me left me undone. I did wonder if people might call it melodramatic. If you’d never felt that low before, you might. The lyrics were the kinds of words I’d never written before. I’d never let myself feel that vulnerable, that raw. It was a big risk.

  But, it turned out, people loved it. It was a huge commercial hit, one of the biggest successes I’d ever had. Critics were calling it the best song of the 2000s, revealing a new depth to my maturation as a recording artist. Whatever that meant.

  I wasn’t what you’d call an introspective man, but even I realized a lot had changed for me over the past year. Ana had certainly been the catalyst, but right before I’d met her something else big had happened. My father had died. I’d spent so long defying him, proving my own worth in opposition to all of his values. In all that rebellion, I’d almost forgotten what I wanted. Now, he wasn’t there to fight with anymore. I wasn’t saying it was a good thing that my father had passed away. I was simply realizing that since he’d been gone, I’d felt a shift. I’d always had his brick wall to rail against. Now, without it, maybe I didn’t have to fight so hard? Maybe I could let go and admit what I really wanted?

  What I really wanted was Ana. I sent her a note along with the packet Lola put together. Honestly, songwriters didn’t get award party invites. There wasn’t even a BMA category for best songwriter. A lot of artists didn’t write their own songs and they didn’t exactly want to broadcast—literally—their lack of musical ability. But Ana deserved to be there. The song was hers. She’d heard the scratch of an idea from me and she’d blossomed it, grown it into the haunting tune that now played across the world. Lola knew everybody, so when I asked her to ask someone as a favor to Ash Black, not only had Ana received an invitation but I’d been able to slip my own note into the packet along with it.

  I got nothing back from her, though. I guessed I could have said more in my note. I’d kept it short. But I’d said it all in the letter I’d written her back in January, and then again in the song she had to have heard a million times by now. Another long, pleading note might seem like overkill.

  But what did Ana think of the song? Our song. I’d created the lyrics and I suppose a case could be made that I’d come up with the original melody. A whole team of lawyers from the label had tried to talk me out of giving Ana songwriting credit, or at least they advocated for co-credit. But my lawyer, Nelson, had stuck by me. He’d insisted. It was his client’s wish. And what Nelson insisted upon, Nelson got.

  I didn’t have anything to prove to anyone. I didn’t need to prove I could write a song like that. It was Ana’s song. Now I just needed to know what she thought of it. And, more importantly, what she thought of us.

  §

  The night of the awards show, I flew solo. It felt strange to be there without my band mates. Strange but good.

  Walking into the pre-party, I was completely sober. How’s that for crazy? Rock god Ash Black sober. At night. At a party. What were the chances?

  Stylists put me all in white. A little cheesy, I’ll admit, but sure, I went with it. I cut off most of my hair, too. It felt cleaner, like a fresh start.

  Pit Bull came over and gave me some shit about stealing his look. We both wore all white and rocked mirrored aviator shades. I wasn’t saying anything, but I had about a foot of height on the guy. He was pretty cool, though.

  I still didn’t know if Ana was coming or not. She’d RSVP’d yes, I got that out of Lola. But sometimes people said they’d show and then didn’t. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much.

  Even if I did see her, who knew if she’d want to talk to me? She’d closed up shop after that night in the cabin. I didn’t even know exactly what she’d overheard me and Connor talking about. I’d been pretty drunk. I remembered Connor telling me that his sister was in the hospital from an overdose. And I remembered giving him a lot of reassurances that nothing was going to change. Everything was going to stay the same.

  It must have been some of that talk she overhead. So, I honestly couldn’t deny whatever stupid things she’d heard me say. I could blame it on the alcohol, or blame it on my 14 years of friendship with Connor translating into pressure and guilt.

  But, really, I had to be honest. Back then, I’d had some doubts. I’d been recognizing my feelings for her, but I hadn’t been man enough to tell her. I’d let myself get spooked by it. Mayb
e a small part of me had wanted things to go back like they had been.

  Once she’d left me? All shadow of doubt vanished. I wanted Ana. I needed Ana. Nothing else mattered. And if she gave me an opening at this awards show, I’d take it and tell her myself.

  Nervous, I sipped some water and surveyed the room. People came over, said a word or two, but I was looking for one woman and one woman only. These parties were a lot easier when I’d been drunk, or had an easy lay at my side. One I was interested in, at least. I still had the easy lays all around. A woman standing eagerly in front of me gave me a sultry smile and not-so-subtly plumped up her ample breasts. It wasn’t her fault I didn’t find her attractive. Last year, I would have been all over that. Now? She wasn’t Ana and I wasn’t interested.

  I was talking with a guy I didn’t know too well when she arrived. He was about my age, a Brit, and I liked his music. He had an original voice and a down-to-earth way about him. He’d only just broken out in the past year or two and didn’t seem like he’d become much of a wanker. Yet. I hoped he stayed that way.

  Funny thing, we hadn’t spoken a word about Ana, not at the party or any time before then, but all of a sudden he leaned in and said under his breath, “She’s here.”

  I tensed up. How did he know I was waiting to see Ana? But I guessed it was common knowledge, our romance, every step recorded and broadcast.

  I turned and saw Ana across the room. I guessed she was wearing a shimmering dress, but she was what shone in the crowd. She looked amazing, radiant, and my breath caught in my throat.

  The guy I’d been talking to clapped me on the back. “Good luck.”

  Ana looked over at that moment and met my gaze. I guess maybe other people talked to me, maybe they didn’t. I couldn’t pay attention to anything or anyone else besides Ana until she finally made her way over to me. Her long legs in that dress, stretching down into high, high heels. The hemline barely hit her mid-thigh. I could reach my hand between those thighs and part her legs so easily.

  She stood in front of me and swallowed, licking her lips, nervously.

  “Ana.” My voice sounded husky.

  “Hi, Ash.” She had a hard time meeting my eyes now that we were standing close. It took all the willpower I had not to scoop her into my arms, sink my mouth to her neck, carry her off out of the room like a caveman. She was mine. We belonged together. Didn’t she feel it, too?

  Someone came up and started babbling to us about our song, congratulating us on our mega hit. There was talk of nominations for VMAs, the Grammies later in the year. I never took my eyes off of her.

  “Red carpet time, people!” Lola arrived, right on cue. “Oh, look. You’re here.” Lola didn’t sound happy about it, but she could kiss my ass. She probably considered Ana a liability. Loose lips sink ships and all that. But I considered Ana my future, if she’d give me a shot.

  “May I?” I extended my hand, hoping Ana would take it. In front of all those people, we hadn’t had even a second to talk. But she looked up into my eyes and with a soft smile, she put her hand in mine.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ana

  My parents and I arrived in L.A. two days before the awards show. I thought about calling Ash, of course I did. Especially since I’d found out that my crazy roommates had destroyed a letter he’d written me many months ago.

  I didn’t know what was in the letter, but a letter wasn’t usually what you sent when you didn’t care at all about someone. After a break up, if you were psyched about it, you tended to let communication die down. You might get back in touch if your ex had something of yours, a favorite shirt or a bag you’d left behind. But that you’d take care of with an awkward text, not a long letter.

  I didn’t have any of Ash’s stuff, and I figured if he’d somehow misplaced something he cared about but didn’t care about me, he had many minions to do his bidding. He could task any number of handlers to do his dirty work. No, I didn’t think he was missing his favorite pair of headphones or socks. He’d had something he wanted to say to me in that letter. Unfinished business.

  And then there was, of course, the song. The song of love and heartbreak and longing. In the airport, my parents and I had stopped to buy coffees. Not sandwiches, mind you, my mother insisted on packing those from home instead of—as she put it—paying through the nose for that sawdust and cardboard. While we were placing our orders, Ash’s voice came out from a speaker behind the cashier.

  “That’s your song, Anya,” my mother murmured.

  “That’s the song my daughter wrote.” My father lacked her subtly, announcing my accomplishment to the cashier. He proudly told anyone and everyone who’d listen about my song, bulldozing right through people’s confusion (I thought that was Ash Black?) and my protests (Dad, not everyone needs to know). I had to admit, after a lifetime of trying to live up to their high expectations, it did feel good to have done something that made them so proud. Even if they didn’t really seem to fully understand what was happening.

  “Our baby, a big time record producer in L.A.,” they’d sigh. I’d protest that that wasn’t what had happened, but they’d shush me with a, “we know what you’ve done.” It was pointless to argue.

  On the night of the awards ceremony, they accompanied me down to where the show would be held and televised, but they steadfastly refused to head into the pre-party or have anything to do with the red carpet arrivals. I didn’t think I’d be walking the red carpet, either. I was just a songwriter. And a part of me really wanted to go hide in the back row seating with them.

  But another part of me? That part of me said I was there for a reason. I wasn’t just Ash Black’s pretend sham of a girlfriend. I was a musician and a songwriter, and my song was receiving a hell of a lot of recognition that night. I also had an assigned seat, right up close to the stage. Front and center.

  I gave them a kiss good-bye, took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. I knew Ash would probably be at the pre-party. The number and size of the bouncers guarding the door and demanding to see invitations attested to the VIP nature of the event. And Ash was the most VIP of VIPs.

  With more strut than I truly felt, I walked into the party. I had no idea what would happen that night, but it felt good to be there on my own terms, for an honest reason. And who knew? I might get a moment to talk with Ash, find out what had been in that letter. My curiosity could have killed a room full of cats.

  For a moment, I thought I saw him across the room, dressed all in black and dripping with models. But that turned out to be John Mayer. I looked away quickly, tucking my hair behind my ear, hoping he hadn’t seen me checking him out.

  Then I found Ash. He stood facing away and talking to another guy. There were a few women with their eyes on him, but that described every waking moment of his life. No one hung from his arm.

  Then he looked up and right over at me. My breath caught in my throat. He was so impossibly handsome, clean-shaven in a white jacket. He still had that somewhat rumpled look, the casual sexiness that made him world-famous, but he looked older, somehow. Less posturing, more rugged. Impossible to resist. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to come after all.

  I thought about ducking away, but I didn’t. He drew me like metal to a magnet. I’m just glad I didn’t trip on anything as I made my way over to him in the room. I certainly wasn’t aware of my surroundings. He mesmerized me.

  I think he said my name. I might have managed to say his. We may have said hello, but maybe not. People talked around us, to us, but I couldn’t have told you a damn thing any of them said. I could tell you the color of Ash’s eyes, such a warm, deep brown they looked like melted dark chocolate. Then he held out his hand. I took it in mine.

  Ash. God, I’d missed him. The grasp of his warm, calloused hand, the warmth of his body, the feel of his tall, solid presence by my side. We didn’t have privacy, none at all, so we couldn’t exactly talk. But there with him, I wondered if we needed to. Standing with him, holding hands, that’s where I bel
onged. I could feel it with such certainty. You didn’t need to talk about the sky looking blue on a sunny day. It just was and everyone knew it.

  With camera flashes and hustling and bustling, we were ushered away and out onto the red carpet to make our official entrance. I was not red carpet ready. No stylists had groomed me, no makeup artists had had their way with me, but Ash wrapped his arm around my waist, hugged me to him, and it didn’t so much matter.

  He led me down to a seat next to his. I didn’t know if that was the one I’d been assigned to, but I figured no one would argue with Ash. What he got he wanted. He was nominated more than any other artist that night. He kept my hand wrapped in his, tight, as we sat down.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.” He spoke in hushed tones, almost reverent, and leaned into me.

  “I can’t believe it, either,” I admitted.

  “Did you think about not coming?”

  “A little.” I paused. It wasn’t the right time to have a serious conversation, not when we were surrounded by every famous singer I could think of and then a whole bunch more I didn’t recognize but could tell I would if I paid more attention to celebrities. But I couldn’t wait for exactly the right moment. It might never come.

  Leaning in closer, I whispered, “Ash, I never got your letter. Back in January.”

  “You never got it?” he asked, confused.

  I shook my head no. “I never knew you sent it. My roommates just told me a couple days ago that they burned it.”

  “Burned it?” He pulled back, looking at me as if to check if he’d heard correctly.

  “I know. It’s crazy.”

  “They burned it,” he repeated, clearly having trouble comprehending. I still didn’t fully understand it, either, but that wasn’t the point. The point was what had been in it?

  “So, I don’t know what you said in it.” I looked at him with probably too much eagerness showing in my face. How awkward would it be if he told me that the letter was about the fact that I still had his favorite pair of socks? And knowing my luck, a cameraman would probably swing his huge lens around and zoom in right when my eyes filled with tears. But I had to take the chance, right then in the front row of a live broadcast awards show. I didn’t know when or if I’d have the chance again.