by DeSalvo, Kim
“Oh Lexi, thank God you’re OK.”
“Is everything alright, Miss?” a policeman said.
Now Lexi just sounded agitated. “Of course everything’s alright. What is all this?”
“Oh honey, Tia’s been trying to call you for days, and you weren’t answering. I came by to check on you and saw your car, but you didn’t come to the door, and she got worried and asked me to call.”
“Wait a minute,” another male voice said. “Would that be Tia Hastings, Dylan Miller’s fiancée? I thought I recognize you—you were on After Dark a while back, right?”
“Oh God,” Lexi groaned, “does it never end?”
“Thanks so much, officers,” Tia heard her mom say, “I’ll take it from here.” She came back on the line and said, “I guess you probably heard. She’s fine, but she looks like she’s been on a three-day bender. Let me help her get cleaned up, and I’ll call you back.”
“Tell her to call me,” Tia answered. “She may be fine right now, but I’m not so sure she will be when I get a hold of her.”
It was almost 45 minutes before Lexi’s number popped up on her screen. “What the hell was that? You don’t call back for days, don’t answer your phone or your door until the police show up?”
“What the hell was that,” Lexi replied snidely, “that you didn’t notice for four freaking days?”
Tia felt like she’d been slapped. Lexi was right; she should have realized it right away, and been more diligent about getting someone to check in on her sooner. She mentally kicked herself for being so selfish; she’d been so caught up in seeing Dylan, exploring her new home, getting to know Denny and Alicia and the animals; that she’d let Lexi’s problems slip to the back of her mind. “You’re absolutely right,” she said softly, “and I’m so sorry. It was really shitty of me, and I feel horrible.”
“You should feel horrible,” Lexi bellowed, and then softened her voice. “Oh, damn it,” she said, “it was shitty of me, too. I really thought at first that I’d be able to pick myself up, brush myself off, and get on with it, but it’s all hitting me harder than I thought it would. I’m sitting here like a zombie, drinking way too much wine, eating nothing, and shutting out the world.” She paused and took a deep breath. “How did you ever get through it? How did you learn to smile again? It hurts so much…”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I wish I could tell you that it’ll be alright tomorrow, but it takes time. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”
“It sucks,” she sobbed. “I lost my job.”
“I heard. I called the office. How in the world did that happen?”
“Long story, but basically, I finally had it out with Candy, and Bryce took her side, of course. Helps that she’s sleeping with him, I’m sure.” She left out the part about the previous meetings with her boss when they’d discussed the distractions her new status brought to the firm; the phone calls from non-clients, people who set up meetings just so they could narrow their connection to a celebrity down a few degrees, calls from media types hoping to get a comment about the celebrity love triangle; things had been bad for a couple months, and she had to admit that she was having a hard time keeping her head in the game.
“But he just fired you on the spot? He can’t do that! Doesn’t there have to be a process, or something? You can probably fight it.”
“Yeah, I could; but considering Bryce’s wife heard the whole thing and is going to shut him down—her father owns the building—there won’t be a firm for much longer. She’s making sure I get a decent severance package, and I’ve got all the money I had saved up for the wedding and the honeymoon…so I’m OK for a while. Believe it or not, I actually did do some soul searching over the past few days, and decided that I could use a change; maybe it’s a chance to start over.”
“It still sucks. Why didn’t you answer when my mom came by?”
“Honestly? I was kind of passed out—I didn’t even hear the door.”
“Oh honey,” Tia said, feeling the guilt punch her in the gut.
“I’m better. Really. I’m sorry I had you worried. I did see the pictures—the place looks amazing. I can’t wait to hear all about it. It’s great to hear your voice, but you should get back to Dylan and enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you won’t ignore my calls?”
“Cross my heart.”
“I was really worried, Lex. I love you, you know.”
“You too.” She cut the connection.
Dylan wasn’t happy about her leaving early, but he was understanding. He even offered to come with her, but she declined. “She’s kind of hating men right now; she just needs to have someone to vent to. Trust me, it wouldn’t be any fun.”
She said her goodbyes to Alicia and Denny, and nuzzled with the dogs and horses in turn, promising them that she’d be back soon to stay. She left with very little; much of what she’d brought with her had found a place in her new home.
“Oh, God, are you serious?” Lexi moaned when Tia opened the door to her apartment and walked in with Chinese carry-out bags hanging from her arms. “What are you doing here, Tia?”
“I had to come and make sure you were really OK,” she answered, “plus, I felt really guilty for leaving you when you needed me.”
“Damn it, all I needed was a few days to wallow in self-pity and cry myself out. I didn’t mean for you to miss out on your trip….now I feel guilty.”
“Well then, we can feel guilty together.” She looked Lexi up and down and nodded. “You look better. You’re clean, at least.”
“Yeah, nothing like the police showing up at your door when you’re at your absolute worst and then having them recognizing you as someone they saw on TV to put things in perspective.” She lifted her nose in the air and gave an appreciative sniff. “Do I smell pot stickers?”
“Of course,” Tia answered, pushing aside a half dozen empty wine bottles to make room for the bags on the kitchen table. “You weren’t kidding when you said you went on a bender. You drank all these yourself?”
“All by my lonesome,” she said, “and believe me, I paid the price. Don’t want to do that again.”
“I would hope not,” Tia scolded, scooping some fried rice onto two plates and bringing them to the coffee table in the living room. Lexi quickly picked up the mountain of tissues and chip bags that littered the table so Tia could put them down. “Are you all cried out, then? Looks like I should’ve bought some stock in Kleenex.”
“Not only that, but I’m actually on a reinvention mission. I think I’m going to move—a change of scenery might be just the ticket.” The changes were coming anyway, she’d decided, and she figured she could at least be the master of her own destiny. Her days of hanging with the boys were over; she didn’t begrudge Bo his happiness—he of all people deserved it—but now that he’d forged a relationship with Joi, they’d never again have the same relationship and it would just be awkward.
“Reinvention is good,” Tia agreed, and they dug into their meal while Tia filled her in on her adventures in her new home.
Chapter 38
“I really wish you were here.”
“Me too. It’s below zero outside, and no matter how high I turn up the heat, the bed is still cold when I climb in it.”
“Actually, if you want to know the truth, I’d rather be there. Or back in Colorado. It’s going to be an interesting night, that’s for sure.”
“I can’t wait to go back to the ranch and stay. I could really go for Alicia’s fried chicken right about now. So who’s going to be at the party tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan sighed. “It’s Skip’s deal, and he has a tendency to go overboard at times. I kind of wish I could bug out, but I’m going to have to hang for a bit, anyway.”
“Sounds like it’s a big accomplishment for him, though,” Tia said, curling up against the arm of the couch
under a blanket. “How many albums that he produced have sold?”
“A hundred million. And you’re right, it is a big deal. He’s a great guy and a fantastic producer, too; he’s just a little over the top. It’ll be fine—I’ll text you some pictures.”
“Looking forward to it. Have fun. Miss you, baby.”
“Love you, baby girl.”
“Day-yam,” Bo said when they walked into the the studio. “Are we in the right place?”
Dylan handed his coat to a woman in the lobby who looked as if she’d been dipped in latex while two ethereal brunettes in red and black bustiers and fishnet stockings rushed up to offer them a colorful concoction in a test tube. “Ah, so it’s going to be this kind of party,” he said to Bo from the corner of his mouth and immediately knew which persona he was going to need to get through the evening. A fair number of people mingled in the small lobby dressed in everything from evening gowns to lingerie; torn jeans to tuxes; sipping from glasses that were lit from below with neon rings.
Angelo whistled between his teeth. “Hard to believe we were making a record in here just yesterday,” he said as they entered the studio from the hallway, his eyes roaming around the transformed room. Big enough for an entire orchestra complete with chairs, music stands, and a conductor, the room now housed a makeshift DJ booth, a long table full of food featuring a gigantic record album-shaped cake with the number 100,000,000 sprawled across it in neon blue icing, two portable bars, and a couple dozen tall round tables where people could stand and mingle. The can lights were dimmed, but there were strings of tiny twinkling LEDs draped around the ceiling panels and spilling from corners. Candlelight flickered through a wide variety of funky glass votives on the tables and from artistic pieces around the room. “Check this out,” Angelo said, drawn to a stand where four saxophones were mounted to a stand. Huge pillar candles were jammed into the bells and blue flame licked from the ligatures.
The boys walked around the room, taking in the artwork and stopping to chat with some of the other guests along the way. There were some people that they knew from the business, some people they knew of, a few celebrities from genres other than music, and enough model-types to round out the mix. Skip spotted them and broke away from a small group to greet them. “A hundred fucking million,” Ty said, shaking his hand, “quite a number, my friend.”
“And I’m counting on you guys to get me to a billion,” he winked, greeting the rest of them and motioning to a scantily clad waitress who sidled her way over to take their drink orders.
“We’d like nothing better than to make that happen for you,” Bo agreed.
Dylan ordered a Maker’s and Coke and had the waitress take a picture of the group with Skip so he could send it to Tia. They chatted for just a couple minutes before a high-pitched voice called out Skip’s name from across the room. “Oh, I need to take this,” he said with a sly grin, and he left the boys to go and greet an attractive woman who’d just entered the studio.
Not what I expected, Tia texted in response to the photo and Dylan couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Skip did more than neglect his appearance—it seemed like he actually put effort into looking like a homeless man who’d been on the streets for a fair amount of time. His hair was long, shaggy, and unkempt, and he had a full reddish beard with streaks of premature gray. He wore faded jeans with an assortment of holes, Chuck Taylors, and faded flannel shirts that gapped between the buttons over his ample middle. Beneath that modest exterior, however, lay the mind of a musical genius. InHap had hooked up with him after Bruce, their original producer, had met his untimely death at the age of forty- two under mysterious circumstances that involved a call girl, a poodle, and large amounts of blow. Skip was still an apprentice at the time, but there was something about him that all the InHap boys liked right away—and they paired up with him to do a single based on a recommendation from one of Ty’s friends. The rest, as they say, was history. Skip worked only with a select few, but those bands had taken him to the top in just a few short years.
“Looks can be deceiving, especially in this case,” Dylan texted back.
Ty waved to someone across the room and tapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Hey, Mike Wilmont’s here.” Tommy looked over and raised his hand in greeting and the two of them disappeared into the crowd.
Dylan, Bo, and Angelo wove their way through the horde of attendees, but it was slow going. They hadn’t moved more than a few feet when Dylan heard a familiar voice. “I was hoping I’d see you here, Dylan,” Susannah Atwald said.
Dylan turned and smiled. It was a lifetime ago that he last saw her—he’d been a completely different person when he worked with her in one of his early films and dated her for a few months. She had been one of his hard lessons about the ugly side of celebrity and the way it blurs the edges of any relationship. Much as Gina had dumped him early in his musical career for the guitarist of a group perched to hit the big time, Susannah had gotten stars in her eyes as well. Dylan had thought she was different, and liked the way the relationship was going—until he was confronted with a tabloid picture, ironically enough, of her cozying up to a star whose “name in lights” was considerably taller than his was at the time. But that was ages ago, and he harbored no ill will—not when he was currently in the best place life had ever taken him. “Great to see you, Susannah,” he said, lightly kissing both her cheeks and taking her hands in his. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes indeed,” she said. “Best wishes on your engagement. She’s a lucky girl.”
“I’m the lucky one,” he said with a smile, “but thank you. I’m very excited.”
“You deserve to be happy. You’re a good person, Dylan; too rare a thing in our line of work.” Like so many other Hollywood romances, hers and Dirk Sanders’ had ended in disaster, and he was currently in rehab somewhere, trying to get his life back on track.
“I appreciate the kind words, and I am incredibly happy,” he smiled, shaking hands with her friends and moving on. Once they’d made their way to the back of the studio, Dylan, Bo and Angelo finally parked at a table and wordlessly tipped their glasses toward each other.
“So, how about those Broncos,” Angelo said smiling, purposefully starting a seemingly normal conversation in the surreal atmosphere of the transformed studio. There had never really been a time when this sort of bash was in Dylan’s comfort zone, but Angelo had once kept the party scene as a fickle mistress— seeking out the limelight and partying so much that the boys had been forced to give him an ultimatum about changing his ways or leaving the band. Thankfully he’d seen the light; and often hung with the other guys making light conversation when the scene got too crazy.
“Tia’s trying to convert me into a Bears fan,” Dylan moaned, waving non-committally at a trio of girls who sashayed by their table and blew kisses in their direction.
“Oh, the horror!” Bo exclaimed sarcastically, lifting his beer for a toast. “Here’s to the mundane, normal, everyday things that keep us from turning into that,” he offered, pointing at an up and coming singer wearing hot pink skinny jeans and sporting a dyed blue mohawk and chains hanging from multiple piercings in his face and ears. Angelo and Dylan raised their glasses and tapped their rims against his. “Oh, hell yeah,” they agreed simultaneously.
“Son of a bitch, wha ‘appen?” Dylan turned to see a figure cloaked in shadow sporting long dreads, shredded bell-bottoms, and a Bob Marley t-shirt.
“Bloody hell,” Dylan smiled, “Dozer Cane.” They exchanged a series of greetings that included a variety of handshakes and chest bumps. The Jamaican shook hands with Bo and Angelo and bellied up to their table. “What rock have you been hiding under?” Dylan asked him. “I haven’t heard your name in a while.”
“Ya mon, but I be ‘earing yours a lot. Dey say you’re no gallis no more—dat you’re gettin’ marry,” Dozer grinned, showing off a few gaps in his smile. “Dat sick, mon.”
“It is, and thanks, mate. It’s put quite a different p
erspective on things, that’s for sure.”
“Ya mon. I know what you mean. I got hitched last year…”
“Hey, that’s great--congratulations!”
“Ya, everyting irie. She straighten me out. We started a name bran together—Rasta wear, mostly; like hemp sandals, tie-dye…shit made out of bamboo. All eco-friendly. She da artist and I run tings.”
“We’ll just give you two a chance to catch up,” Bo said, motioning to Angelo with a slight shake of his head. Dozer was from Dylan’s pre-InHap days, and neither of them knew him all that well. “Let’s go check out the buffet.” The two of them grabbed their glasses and headed off through the crowd.
“That’s great mate, really,” Dylan said after the boys wandered off. “You still making music?”
“Just at the local wells mostly. Selina—dat my main squeeze—is going pop me out a bwoy in a few weeks. Can you believe it? I’m going to be someone’s fadda, mon.”
Dylan grinned and hugged him. “Fucking brilliant, mate. You’ll be great at it, I’m sure.” He surprised himself by feeling a passing twinge of jealousy, and thought, not for the first time, about what it might be like to a father. “Is she here?”
“Nah, she home. I ‘ave business here and wanted to get it done before he’s born. You be makin’ a new album, den?”
Dylan nodded. “We’re recording here, actually. This just kind of popped up in the middle of it all…”
They passed about an hour standing at the small table; shooting the shit and reliving old memories. Lots of folks stopped by; expecting them to follow the standard protocol of greeting everyone who approached their table like long lost friends; and Dozer couldn’t help but notice that a lot of them were women. “You still got da ladies fallin’ at your feet mon,” Dozer said. “I was always a bit jealous of dat, but it could be a curse too, ya?”
“More often than not,” Dylan said as two blondes who’d been eyeing them for quite a while grabbed the boys’ drinks off a waitress’s tray, turned away for a moment and whispered to each other, and glided up to their table. They were practically carbon copies of each other—big blonde hair, huge fake tits, legs that went all the way up to their chins, unbelievably high heels, and micro-dresses that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Dylan rolled his eyes slightly and tipped his fresh Maker’s and Coke in Dozer’s direction to punctuate the statement.
