Fall Of The Rock Girl: A Lesbian Romance (Revolving Record Book 2)

by Nicolette Dane

  “But most people don’t have to perform like I do,” I said.

  “Get to,” Dr. Murphy corrected. “Most people don’t get to perform like you do.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you obviously have a difficult and stressful job,” she said. “But you make a lot of people happy. You get to go up on stage and make people smile. To them, you’re not an imposter. You’re a beacon. They might have to save money for weeks so that they can afford to come watch you perform for an hour and a half. And they do that because you make them happy.”

  “Yeah,” I said through a sigh, considering Dr. Murphy’s words.

  “You know what’s hard?” she asked rhetorically. “I have clients who are aging sports stars. Their self-worth is predicated on a body that operates at peak physical condition. Once that body begins to falter, naturally with age, their self-worth tumbles with it. They find it difficult to keep up with the younger players. They begin to feel like imposters, as well, because their skill level just can’t keep up.”

  “That’s not my problem,” I mused.

  “Right,” she said. “They have a biological concern. Someone in your position, Layla, you might have not even hit your peak yet. You could be doing what you do for another 40 years. If you were still singing at 75, do you think you’d even want to be some punk girl up there on stage?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Musicians like you evolve,” she said. “You might be feeling ennui if you—“

  “On-wee?”

  “Existential dissatisfaction,” said Dr. Murphy. “You might feel that now through these growing pains, but imagine how you could feel if you did the exact same thing throughout your entire career.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding as I considered her advice.

  “Bored, maybe?” she asked. “Stuck?”

  “Right,” I affirmed.

  “If you’re such a fake, Layla,” Dr. Murphy continued. “Why do so many people love your work?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they’re dumb. Maybe they don’t have any taste.”

  “That’s such a cop out,” she said. “You can do better than that.”

  “Maybe they…” I said, trailing off.

  “Maybe they’re right,” Dr Murphy interjected. “And maybe it’s scary to have to live up to that kind of pressure?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Do you think that maybe your peers look up to you and think, ‘Gosh, I’ll never be as good as her?’” she posited. “‘I feel like such a phony when I compare myself with Layla Bean.’”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged.

  “It’s possible, though. Right?”

  “Right,” I said. “People could think that. It’s possible.”

  “You won a Grammy,” said Dr. Murphy. “That’s the pinnacle award in your field, right? You think they just give those away to people who don’t deserve them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe there are some politics to it,” she said. “But I’m fairly confident in assuming that they are indeed prestigious and they go to the most deserving.”

  “Yeah,” I said absently.

  “I can tell you’re starting to ruminate on some of this,” said Dr. Murphy. “I want you to think about something else, as well. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who would take your place if you disappeared?” she said. “Who among your peers could do what you do, how you do it, with the same passion, professionalism, talent. I don’t want a list. I just want you to think about it. Will you do that?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Yeah, I will.”

  “Hello?” I said into my phone, rolling over in bed. I knew I would have to answer it sooner or later.

  “Why have you been avoiding my calls?” asked Daisy.

  I thought about her question before I answered. It was a little immature to avoid all contact with that part of my life, the LA part of my life, my reality. Trish had been calling me, Jack called a few times, and Daisy had been calling daily. But I just let them all go to voicemail. I just wanted some distance.

  “I’m trying to get my head on straight,” I said.

  “I understand,” said Daisy. “But you get that this is hurtful, too… right? I feel very left out right now.”

  “I started seeing a therapist here,” I said. “She’s pretty good. She’s used to dealing with higher profile people like me.”

  “That’s good to hear,” she said. “Are you figuring anything out?”

  “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it.”

  “Layla,” began Daisy. I could hear her voice choking up a little. “Is this… are we… coming to an end?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Do you still love me?”

  “I do,” I said. “I love you a lot.”

  My bedroom was still and silent. The only movement was the vibration of my cell phone against my ear whenever Daisy spoke.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked. “You’ve got to let me help.”

  “I’m on a quest,” I said. “It’s a very personal quest.”

  “What’s the purpose of this quest?”

  “I guess the purpose is to find out how I got to where I am,” I admitted. “Because right now, I feel like I’ve been lead astray.”

  “All right,” said Daisy after a moment. Her hesitance made me feel like she wanted to protest, but that she stopped herself.

  “Do you remember…” I began. “It was years ago. A decade. When Cast Party was first beginning with Municipal, around the time Audition came out. We had a meeting at the label, I had signed the contract for my first solo album.”

  “Layla, we had a lot of meetings,” Daisy said.

  “It was the first time we met with Mr. Rams,” I said.

  “I’m hazy on it,” she said. “But go on.”

  “After the meeting was over, and we were on our way out,” I continued. “Mr. Rams said something to you and Arnie, and I think Micah was there, too… he said to you guys that it was ‘all for her.’ All for me,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Daisy hummed. “Yes, I remember that.”

  “It felt, even back then, that the plan all along was to have me ditch Cast Party,” I said. “I remember asking you about it, and feeling sort of blown off by your response.”

  “Layla,” she said tenderly.

  “Was that the plan, Daisy?” I asked. “To use Cast Party as a stepping stone for me to gain popularity, and then launch me off from them?”

  “I’m not sure how productive this would be to—“

  “I just need to know,” I said. “Was it always Municipal’s plan to dump Cast Party and take me away?”

  There was silence.

  “You know those were my friends, right?” I said. I could feel tears beginning to roll down my cheeks. “And now I don’t even talk to them.”

  “It’s a tricky business,” Daisy mourned.

  “James was my best friend,” I said. I was full on crying now, but I tried to stay strong, tried to keep my voice sturdy. “He was always there for me, he protected me, and I screwed him over.”

  “Layla—” protested Daisy.

  “Just let me finish,” I interrupted. “You guys lead me astray. You all told me what I should do, and I trusted you, and yes… I’m very successful and you were right. But I paid a really high cost for this. And I’m not sure I’d do it again if I had the choice. I wouldn’t do it again.”

  “Layla,” said Daisy. “I’ve always loved you. This is for real. I just wanted to help you reach the top, to be the best.”

  “I know,” I said, wiping the tears from my cheek. I was beginning to feel weak. “So I just need some time, okay?”

  “I’m awful,” groaned Daisy. I could tell she was crying, too. “I’m really sorry, Layla. I love you.”

  “I know,” I said again. “I believe you.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “I don’t know yet,�
�� I said. “This feels really complicated.”

  “Okay,” Daisy acquiesced.

  “Has Trish been calling you?” I asked, changing the subject and trying to lighten the mood.

  “Yes,” said Daisy with a sniffle.

  “If you talk to her again,” I said. “Will you tell her I’m okay and that she’s doing a good job of diversion. I just want people off my back. If the media finds out where I am, I’ll be hounded. I know it’s inevitable, but I need some more time.”

  “Okay, Layla,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m gonna go.”

  “All right,” said Daisy. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said. “Goodbye, Daisy.”

  “Goodbye.”

  My room returned to pure silence, and I let my phone slide out of my hand and hit the carpet. There were still tears coming from my eyes. I felt as though I’d just been beaten up, but I’d felt like that for a long time. I just needed to figure out how to not feel like that. I needed a solution.

  Climbing the stairs and feeling a wall of sound permeate my ears, I entered the Mystic, the rock club of my youth. I was immediately hit with a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, something that had become foreign to me since living in New York and LA. I knew Michigan had a smoking ban on the horizon, but it hadn’t yet taken effect and the Mystic was a prime example of that. With my hood up, leather jacket over my hoodie, sunglasses on — even though it was dark outside and I was now indoors — I pushed a cigarette into my mouth and lit up.

  The club was absolutely packed, and not much had changed since my days of attending. The bar area had been renovated, and it looked as though they’d put in some new pool tables, but it all felt very reminiscent of my past. The band on stage was loud, playing fast and crunchy guitar rock. It was wild, and a lot of fun. The music put a smile on my face. The crowd was all focused on the band, and I used this to my advantage as I pushed through them, trying to get as close to the stage as I could while keeping relatively anonymous.

  A couple faces did indeed light up as they saw me pass, those people immediately turning to whoever they were with to alert them to the fact that I was there. I couldn’t do anything about it. It was just part of my life. All I could was hope that the number of people who recognized me were few, and that I could get out of this without too much attention.

  Nearing the stage, I looked over the band. They were a four piece, the guitarists and the bassist all having a very similar hipster rocker look. Long hair, scraggly beards. But in the back, thrashing the drums as hard as she could, was Renee. She was as pretty as ever. Creamy brown skin, that awesome afro. She was always such a cool chick. And she hadn’t really changed a bit in her style. Tight black t-shirt, nice rack. All the good times came rushing back. I couldn’t stop staring at her.

  It had probably been five or six years since I’d seen Renee. She had moved to New York when Cast Party was at the height of our popularity, but after everything went down she decided to return home to Michigan to leverage her accomplishments to help her family, and to help the Detroit music scene. Here she was, in her mid-thirties like me, playing in a rock band with a bunch of twenty-somethings.

  After the band’s set ended, the crowd exploding in applause, I squirmed my way around the PA speakers at one end of the stage to try to catch Renee as she came down. Most of the crowd had turned away, opting to head up to the bar for their next drink, and it was thinning out up front near the stage.

  First, one of Renee’s bandmates came off the stage, his guitar still around his body, and when he saw me waiting off to the side his eyes immediately went wide.

  “Holy shit,” he said, pushing a thick wad of hair behind his ear. “You’re Layla Bean.”

  “I’m just her twin sister,” I said.

  “Dude,” he said, looking at me, and then looking back on stage. I knew he was searching for Renee.

  “C’mon, man,” I said, sparking up another smoke, trying to usher him along. “It’s obvious who I’m here to see.”

  “Sorry,” he said, looking down now, obviously feeling embarrassed. He slinked off and into the backstage door, securing his guitar so it didn’t bump into the frame as he left.

  With drumsticks in her hands, Renee approached the stage stairs, and as she looked down them, the first thing she saw was me.

  “Layla,” she said with confusion. Her face grew concerned, lips flat, eyes wide. Renee slowly descended the stairs and made her way for me.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to give her a smile.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “You guys are really good,” I said, exhaling smoke. “I enjoyed the show.”

  “Yeah,” she mused. I could tell her confusion hadn’t subsided.

  “Do you want to step out back?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Outside the Mystic, near the dumpster, the city was warm, lightly breezy, and lit up. The rear of the club was hidden away, quite private, and a spot only musicians and venue staff knew about. Renee and I had spent a lot of time back there together. It was were I’d often go before a show if I was feeling particularly anxious and needed my space.

  Renee took one of my cigarettes and I lit it for her.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” said Renee as she puffed. She released a nervous laugh. Behind her face, I could sense she wanted to cry.

  “Yeah,” I said again. I couldn’t believe I was there either.

  “Someone die or something?” she asked. I laughed softly.

  “No,” I said. “Come on.”

  “I know you’re probably going through some shit,” said Renee. “I saw the Grammys. That was fucked up. I was so scared for you.”

  “It was fucked,” I said through a smoky sigh. “I’m beginning to feel better. A little, anyway.”

  “When I watched you fall,” she said. “It just brought back so much. You weren’t the Layla Bean that everybody knows. You were the Layla Bean that I knew, standing back here,” Renee said, drawing a circle with her finger. “Feeling like you were gonna throw up all over your boots.” Her hand was shaking a bit as she pressed the butt of her smoke to her lips.

  “That’s how I felt, too,” I said.

  “Why’d you leave us, Layla?” Renee asked through a broken voice, her brown eyes welled up with tears.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling my own eyes water. I wanted to sob, but I kept it together. Renee’s feelings were more important than mine.

  “I hated you so much,” she said, sniffling, smoking. “We all felt so tossed aside. Cast Party,” Renee said, looking away, thinking. “Cast Offs.”

  “I know,” I said. “I deserved to be hated.”

  “I never really hated you,” Renee corrected. “I couldn’t. But I just felt so betrayed. Layla… it was bad.”

  “I know it doesn’t change anything,” I said. “But I’m sorry. Really sorry. I got caught up in it all. I was taking advice that went against what I felt in my gut.”

  “Was it the money?” she asked.

  “I think it was the fame,” I said. “Acceptance. I just wanted more and more of it. To feel good about myself. I was addicted.”

  “So what changed?”

  “I found out that it wasn’t the answer,” I said. “It didn’t solve my problems.”

  “I missed you,” said Renee, butting up against me, wrapping one arm around me while she held her cigarette aloft. I put my arm around her and we hugged, side to side, both of us teared up and emotional.

  “I was an awful friend,” I said. “I let other people make decisions for me because I thought it would be good. And while, yes, I achieved something really great… it wasn’t the right choice for me. I hope you can forgive me, Renee.”

  “I do,” she said, enthusiastically nodding, taking a quick puff of her cigarette. “I forgive you, Layla.”

  “That means so much to m
e,” I said.

  “Have you talked to anybody else?” Renee asked. “Paul? Have you talked to James?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re the first I’ve talked to. I don’t even know where Paul is.”

  “He’s in Nashville,” she said. “He does studio work. He’s on a shit ton of records.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s good,” she said. “He kinda just shrugged the band off and did his own thing. That’s how he rolls.”

  “I know.”

  “You haven’t talked to James yet?” Renee asked again. She was well aware of the relationship James and I had once had.

  “I haven’t,” I said.

  “He lives around here,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to see him?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not sure if he’ll see me.”

  “His band is doing pretty good,” said Renee. “That new record is a lot of fun. They’re getting a ton of airplay.”

  “It’s really good,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Renee. “I should really get back inside. My band is probably pissed at me for not breaking down my drums.”

  “Oh, right,” I said.

  “Do you want to go in and, after I take care of my stuff, maybe we could have a beer?” she asked, hope in her eyes.

  “Totally,” I said with a smile. “But I probably can’t stay long without too many people recognizing me.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “Well, I’ll protect you.” With that, Renee gave me a knowing grin.

  “Okay,” I said, hugging her tightly. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “But I’m just feeling a bit nervous about going in there. I’ve got a bad feeling.” Audrey and I stood in the wide, airy stairwell in Lovett Hall, once a school on the Henry Ford campus, and now an event center. We were just off from the entrance to the ballroom. We had come from her brother Mark’s wedding ceremony, outside in the garden, and were heading into the reception.

  “C’mon Layla,” said Audrey with a ferocious smile. She looked so pretty done up for the wedding. Her brown hair was woven around her head in knitted braids, she wore a strapless grey satin dress, and matching heels. Her black eyeglasses were absent from her outfit, opting for contacts instead. I was in a black dress, hugging me tightly, with black flats on my feet.