by T. I. Lowe
TEN
“Losing My Religion”
-R.E.M.
Five sets of determined eyes continued their showdown with one set of extremely unenthusiastic ones.
“No,” Max repeated. His eyes had had enough, relenting to look away first so he could go back to studying the pizza he’d been shoveling in before he was so rudely interrupted.
The rest of the crowd had already finished their late lunch and was back to playing in the pool. Max glanced out the large set of windows and watched the bronzed group splish and splash with no worries in the world. The summer had warmed their skins several shades and lightened their hair in contrast, looking refreshed and carefree. He wanted to abandon his troubles in the newly decorated aqua kitchen and join them, but his struggles kept him tethered to the barstool.
“We’re talking about one hot, leggy, blonde bombshell!” Trace nearly whined, his light-blue eyes wide to emphasize the point.
“Heard you the first time,” Max grouched out around a mouthful of savory goodness. “No.”
“It would help to get the hounds off of Mona’s heels. I think it’s the least you could do considering all she’s done for you in the last year.” Tate shot him a stern look. He pushed his phone across the island and pointed at the picture on display.
The cheesy, garlic ambrosia turned to sawdust on Max’s tongue as he glanced at the screen, seeing again how happy Mona looked on the arm of some New York bigwig. Her eyes no longer held the anxiety he’d placed there. With her head slightly angled back, laughing, she looked healthier, too. The picture should have only given him comfort that she was able to move on, but it only rolled a thick wave of nausea through him, knowing another man was able to accomplish where he had failed.
Tossing the half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box, Max huffed in defeat. “Fine. Set it up. Make it happen.”
Tate was the man for making it happen, and that’s exactly what he done before that afternoon had time to settle into the day. A few phone calls had the date lined up and a few photographers the privilege of knowing ahead of time where the date was happening that very night.
“Please tell me that’s not what you’re wearing?” Tate questioned from the doorway of Max’s room.
Max glanced down at the beat-up jeans with a few holes while trying to unsuccessfully rub the wrinkles from his blue V-neck. “What’s wrong with this?”
“You look worn out, but we need to present you looking fresh and happy.” Tate pushed his hand through his dark-red hair, clearly at his wits end with the indifferent guitarist.
“You know you just sounded like the biggest pansy,” Max shot back as he watched his manager storm over to the closet and sort through the wardrobe filled with more of what he was already wearing.
Shaking his head, Tate gave up and rushed back out. Max relaxed against the headboard and began restringing a beat-up acoustic he lucked up finding when he and Will snuck out the night before to wander around some pawnshops along the boardwalk. By the time he had the new strings tightened, Tate was back with an armful of clothing. He tossed them, covering the guitar resting in Max’s lap.
“Put them on and brush your hair and teeth.” His demand left no room for argument. Tate eyed his friend’s lower face. “Any chance of talking you into shaving.”
Max shook his head to dismiss that request. “And I already brushed my teeth.” He bared a set of perfectly white, straight teeth. He sorted through the clothes, finding a pair of black jeans, a crisp white T-shirt, and charcoal-grey vest. “How’s Mave’s clothes any better than what I’m already wearing?”
“They’re wrinkle and hole free. Get them on. Sonny will be here in ten to pick you up.” Tate headed for the door, but reiterated, “And don’t forget the hair. Some gel goes a long way.”
Hair freshly gelled into a manageable disarray and the borrowed outfit helped Max resurrect his chilled façade. Slouching in the back of the limo, he glanced out the tinted window as Sonny pulled up in front of a small condo. He remained in the limo, allowing his bodyguard to retrieve his blind date. The show wouldn’t begin until they reached the restaurant anyway, so Max felt no need to begin any earlier.
A blonde emerged, looking overly spray-tanned. Her tangerine dress not helping the effect. One glance and Max was completely unimpressed.
“Guess this’ll make one heck of a show,” he muttered as the door opened, revealing unnatural green eyes and a set of glaring veneer teeth. Fake. The word described his date to a T.
“Hi, I’m Keekee.” Her nasally voice grated him instantly. Without warning, she launched herself into his arms.
Max held his hands away from her, making it clear he would not be reciprocating the embrace as he gawked at Sonny. The bodyguard shrugged his thick shoulders before closing the door. Next thing he knew, the bubbly blonde whipped her phone out and snapped a selfie of them both.
“Umm… I’m Max—”
“I know who you are, silly!” Keekee reached over with a long acrylic nail and tapped the tip of his nose with the sharp point.
He gently pushed the overly affectionate woman off his lap and scooted over. There had been some pretty aggressive women over the years, so he knew how to handle them, but it held no appeal. While she reapplied a thick layer of gloss, he pulled his own phone out and sent a group message to the band and Tate that he would be bringing home a gun to deal with them later on. His phone chimed with several replies to his threat, but they went ignored.
Thankfully, the restaurant was close by so he only had to endure being trapped in the back with Miss Plastic for a short time. She carried on and on about her launching a fashion blog—how original—and how she was an extra in a music video for a band he had not recognized. When he admitted that, Max got another nose tap from her index claw.
“Out you go, darlin’,” Max drawled out while helping Keekee from the back of the limo. Flashes took off, reminding him of strobe lights, as the paparazzi descended upon them.
Keekee needed no guidance, wrapping her ultrathin body against his side as they walked to the door. She even delivered a sticky kiss to his bearded cheek. As the door closed behind them, he tried to discreetly wipe the mess off, feeling it gumming up his beard.
“Ooh. This place is so high class,” Keekee said on a squeal while snapping another selfie. Her fingers worked rapidly with captioning it to some social site.
“We can head somewhere a little more laidback—”
“No way!” She squeezed his arm, the tip of those daggers pinching his skin.
Everything was draped in white linen and crystal. It looked like he was going to pay dearly in the pocket for the exasperating date. Shoot, he’d triple the price tag to get out of the meal altogether if it were possible.
The host ushered them to a table in the middle of the dining area, placing them on full display. Max knew this was part of the show Tate set up, so he settled into the chair and got busy looking over the menu.
“Can we start you off with a beverage?” The waiter was there before the host finished placing Keekee in her chair.
“What’ll ya have, darlin’?” Max motioned for her to order.
“White wine. Your best!” Her giddiness barely registered on her tight face, but it coated that nasally voice.
“And for you, sir?” The young guy eyed Max, looking like he wanted to join the rock star for supper, but he was professionally holding it together.
“You got tea?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet?”
“No.” His voice quivered a bit with having to disappoint the famous musician.
“Of course not, but that’ll work.”
The waiter hurried off, and Max began looking over the menu. He glanced up when his date released an irritated snort.
“You’re not going to have a drink with me?”
“No, sweet thang, I am not. But you enjoy.” As if his words summoned her glass, it appeared along with his glass of tea.
Max took a
sip of the bland tea and set it back down dissatisfied. Before he could go back to searching the menu, another terse snort sounded.
“What is all over your arm?” Keekee’s nose held a few wrinkles of disgust as she eyed his arm, but her forehead remained unnaturally smooth. Before he could answer, she was snagging another picture of him and sending it on its social media way.
Max ignored the growing irritation of all things Keekee, choosing to grin down at the fading scribbles, instead. “My niece drew on me.” His shoulder shrugged a so-what, daring her to snort again. He reached for his glass and took another swig.
Keekee brushed her severely straight hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, those garishly green eyes gleaming. “I have edible paint. I’d love to paint you, and I’d let you paint me.” Her talons drew a line down her exposed cleavage.
Max choked on his tea. He was baffled and repulsed at the same time that she took him talking about his niece coloring as a segue into propositioning him.
Clearing his throat several times, he finally shot it down. “No thanks.”
Keekee exhaled another nasally huff.
“Do you need a tissue?” Max couldn’t refrain from asking. He wondered if the obvious nose job was the culprit or had the chick always been inflicted with that awful sounding vocal lilt. She sounded like someone was pinching her nostrils shut.
“Why no. I do need an explanation on why this isn’t appealing to you?” She motioned those long nails the length of her body in an offering. Without waiting for his response, she turned her phone on selfie mode and produced a ridiculous duck face—lips puckered and eyes psycho-wide.
He pulled his own phone out, snapping a picture of her posing for her camera. Disregarding several responses to the earlier message, he added the picture and—Where did Tate find this narcissistic freak? After pocketing the phone, he bowed his head and silently begged God to get him through the nightmare.
“Are you one of those religious people?” Revulsion fastened to the word religious as though it was a nasty term, and that was Max’s undoing.
Looking up, he saw red. Let the show begin…
“Actually, I am.” When she said nothing, he rattled off, “I’m Jehovamethaptist.”
“Oh gawd. Are you serious?” Her nose managed another scrunch, but the rest of her face remained frozen.
Max threw politeness out the window and went for full-blown maniacal, knowing it would be much more fun. “Sure, sure. We have these great tent revivals. There’s one this weekend. You should come with me. Lots of selfie opportunities.”
“I’d rather not.” Fear lit those fake green eyes.
He found the whole charade a bit too enjoyable and took it even further. His hands raised toward Miss Plastic as he allowed his eyes to close, giving the impression of reading her. “Oh no…”
“What?”
Panic in her voice had his eyes popping back open.
“The spirit is tellin’ me you’re possessed by a materialistic demon. That ain’t good.” Before the ditzy woman could process the underlying insult he just delivered, Max plowed on in the thickest southern drawl he could muster. “If we can get you to my priest and get ahold of a snake, we can fix you right up.”
Her eyes grew as big as saucers as she stuttered, “No. That’s okay.”
“No worries. We can take care of it right here.” Max dunked his fingers into his glass, and then flicked drops of tea on her as he shouted, “Flee demon!”
He had captured the attention of the entire restaurant by then and many camera phones were directed toward the show.
“Shouldn’t you use holy water,” she asked, trying to dodge the spray.
“Nah. Tea works just as good for vanity. It’d be even better if it was sweet,” he grouched out as the wary waiter sidled up to the table. With Max’s words, the guy ignored the russet splatters staining the pristine-white tablecloth and hurried back off.
Keekee was too wrapped up in trying to shield her hair from the tea shower to catch his jab. “That’s enough! You’re ruining my Brazilian blowout. It cost a fortune!”
Max dried his fingers, conceding to her demand. “I’m gonna light a candle for your soul.”
“Isn’t that the Catholic religion?” She glared at him, finally catching on to the ruse.
He held his palms up. “I ain’t got nothin’ against them folks. If any of ‘em wanna light a candle for me, I ain’t stoppin’ ‘em.” The twang of his dialect became even more pronounced the more riled up he became.
And there went another nasally snort, along with an eye roll.
“You wanna tweet something, how about this?” He didn’t even have to pause before she had the phone ready. “Nothing ticks me off worse than someone trying to label my faith in God. It’s not a religion. It’s a relationship. You’d be wise to work on one with Him before looking for one with a man.”
She looked up in confusion. “But that’s too many characters for Twitter.”
Max smacked himself in the forehead hard enough to leave a handprint. “I give up.” After tossing three hundred-dollar bills onto the table, he stood and pulled his phone out to call Sonny. “Hey. I’m out. Please give Kinky—”
“It’s Keekee!”
“—a ride home.” Max walked away without so much as a goodbye, ignoring her whiny protests that followed him all the way out the front door.
The blinding flashes were instant. Max rubbed his eyes to rid them of the floaters as the paparazzi circled him like a pack of lions going in for the kill.
“Where’s your hot date?” one shouted from the midst of chaos.
“Are you feeling ill, Max?”
“Something got you upset, man?”
Max produced a knowing smirk just to mess with them, not realizing it would come back to bite him in the butt. He walked down the sidewalk in a cocky swagger until almost tripping over one of the photographers blocking his way.
“Whoa, man.” Max held his hand out, grabbing the guy on the shoulder to help him from landing on his aggravating backside. After he had the guy secured in an upright position, Max continued on.
“Thanks, Max,” the guy called out like they were the best of pals.
Max kept strutting away and the pack kept persistently circling him. He pulled his phone out and shot Will a text. The kid had turned out to be his lifeline that summer with Mona’s exit. A tinge of foreboding struck him, knowing his lifeline would be heading to college too soon. How am I not going to sink?
He shook that discomforting thought off and focused on getting out of the current sticky situation. He typed quickly. Trapped in Beverly Hills. Rescue me with my truck.
Will replied quickly. Where?
Max scanned for a road sign and text his location to his rescuer and then added—Park in a nearby alley. Sit tight until I find you.
The paparazzi were still shouting out questions and comments, mostly inappropriate. Dizzying chaos was escalating, pushing the musician to a precipice of panic. A song bubbled through Max’s pursed lips from out of nowhere, giving the group an impromptu performance of his best Ray Charles impersonation.
“Georgia…” Max bellowed out the lyrics to “Georgia On My Mind” while the crowd halted in abrupt silence. He seemed to be full of spontaneous shows that night. Thankfully, this one seemed to put the frenzied mob into a trance.
His eyes swept over the swanky neighborhood. It sparkled in too much glam and pageantry, reminding him he was only a visitor. The charade of celebrity was not the real Maxim King and this egotistical part of California was not his home.
Homesick.
It struck so sharp against his heart as he screeched out the lyrics that his hand rushed to grasp his chest, begging the wound to hold together. The pain so violent, surely there would be no way to survive it.
“Keeps Georgia on my mind…”
Overwhelmed by the grief of missing home, the persistent threat of tears stung his eyes. Although it was well into the dark of night, Max grab
bed the shades dangling from the front of his borrowed vest and swiftly pulled them on to mask his emotions. Rapid flashes of cameras firing off indicated he wasn’t fast enough with his shield. Worry tickled his throat, but a harsh cough rid it, knowing it was futile to dwell on it.
“Max, man, are you okay?” the paparazzi feigned sincere concern over his state, hoping for an exclusive scoop. Others began spewing out their own inquiries with realizing the impromptu performance had concluded as hastily as it had begun.
With bleary eyes that were quite useless as a guide, Max entered the first door he pushed on. Oblivious to his surroundings, he stumbled through a dimly lit bar. Soft jazz music easily mingled with the languid chatter, along with a few gasps of recognition adding to the racket as he made his way to the back on a clear mission to escape.
“It’s Maxim King!” a woman squealed.
“Let me buy you a drink, man!” a man shouted toward his retreating back.
“That concert last week was amazing!” a breathless woman said.
Keeping his chin tucked down and shades concealing his eyes, Max threw a hand up in recognition, but rushed to a side exit without glancing back.
The heat of the night vanished in an odd vortex as the dark skies opened up to allow a sudden rain shower to meet him in the alleyway. Of course, this was not the one Will had found to hide down. Max was instantly soaked to the bone, feeling even more weighed down. His legs kept propelling him forward in a clipped pace, wanting to outrun the heavy clouds of dreadful defeat.
I’m going to drown…
ELEVEN
“Move (Keep Walkin’)
-tobyMac
Five sets of weary eyes continued their showdown with one set of extremely unenthusiastic ones. The same five sets from yesterday, except Ben was now in Tate’s place at the meeting. And the meeting table had moved from the kitchen to the back deck.
“No,” Max repeated. The breeze danced through his hair, but the clouds continued to stingily hide the sun. He severed his stare first, thinking he needed to focus on finding his own sunshine.
