Burning Tracks (Book Two: Spotlight Series)

by Lilah Suzanne

  Gwen unearths her tangled earbuds from a corner of her carry-on, and puts on a little relaxation music. After spilling her guts to Kevin, maybe she can sleep. He’s such a good listener. She’s halfway through the third song when one earbud is forcibly popped out of her ear.

  “Whatcha listening to?”

  “‘Suck My Left One.’”

  Clementine narrows her eyes and tips up her pointed chin. “Sorry?” Gwen laughs, nods to the earbud in her hand so Clementine can listen, and starts the song over.

  “It’s Bikini Kill,” Gwen explains as Clementine slides the earbud in.

  She bobs her head. “Okay, like a girl punk band.”

  “More like the girl punk band,” Gwen clarifies. She takes the earbud back and is just settling in to listen and relax when Grady pipes up, eyes still closed, still turned on his side toward the window.

  “That’s debatable.”

  Gwen blinks at him. “Uh. I don’t think it is.”

  He cracks open one eye; the whites are shot through with snaking rivulets of red. He looks comfy in a soft blue Henley and wool slacks, his hair in a chaos of curls and several days’ worth of sandy blond facial hair just on the edge of becoming a fully realized beard. He also looks as though he hasn’t slept well in days.

  “Patti Smith. I mean—” The eyebrow over his one open eye lifts. “I mean, really.”

  “Okay, but we’re talking bands,” Gwen argues. “Bands exclusively made up of women.”

  Grady shrugs and opens both eyes, but turns to look out the window. This is what he’s been like, Clementine had told her when they first boarded and Grady hit the bathroom before takeoff: manic highs and deep, drowning lows; and she’s afraid that one of these times he’s either going to soar so high no one will be able to reach him, or drop so low that it will be impossible to drag him up again.

  “Who would you pick, Grady?” Clementine closes her laptop, shifting to set her chin on her fist. “Battle of the girl bands, go.”

  Of course. Pick something Grady loves to talk about, something that he uses as a salve on his tender, easily fractured heart, something that’s always there for him: music. Gwen slides her a quick smile. Clementine winks and presses her ankle to Gwen’s. Gwen sits frozen at the contact. It’s friendly. Friendly ankle touching, which is completely fine and normal and friendly.

  Grady is silent, looking blankly out of the dark window. Gwen sets one of her trusty Doc Martens on his seat and shoves him into a sitting position. That snaps him to attention, and casually puts Gwen’s ankle out of Clementine’s reach.

  “Okay, okay. Well, The Runways were a pretty early contender, but whether or not they really fit in with the punk movement musically—”

  “Debatable,” Gwen fills in. She spends a moment enjoying the thought of a young, defiant, leather-decked Joan Jett. If they’re naming 70s punk bands, though—“Siouxsie and The Banshees.”

  “Oh yeah.” Grady perks up, just a little, eyes brighter and mouth nudging into a smile. “How about X-Ray Spex or The Slits?”

  Gwen lifts her eyebrows. “All right, I’m impressed. You get street cred points for that, Grady.”

  He smiles crookedly, that charming, self-assured, not-quite-but-almost cocky grin he usually wears, and drawls, “Darlin’, I had street cred. Finely honed in my years as a juvenile delinquent.” The smile goes full-on cocky then. “And a not-so juvenile delinquent.”

  Gwen hasn’t heard much about his wilder past, just what the tabloids claim and the little bits Nico has mentioned. It doesn’t make sense to Gwen, why everyone tiptoes around Grady’s life before he turned it around. Part of what makes him so great is that he overcame it, used his mistakes and pain to be a better person and make art that inspires other people. And anyway, she’s curious, why not, it’s late at night, and they’re stuck in long flight on a private plane and the more engaged they keep Grady, maybe the less likely he is to slip away again.

  “You name something crazy you did when you were younger, and I will, too.”

  Clementine lifts her laptop and opens it again. “Oh, I’m staying out of this. My misspent youth was performing at state fairs and talent shows.”

  Gwen pushes up in her chair to get her legs crossed beneath her and rubs her hands together. “Okay, I’ll go. Snuck out to see a concert when I was fourteen.”

  Grady shakes his head. “I snuck out so often my Memaw was shocked when I didn’t sneak out.”

  Oh, it’s like that then? “I can do better,” Gwen says. “Spray-painted an abandoned house.”

  Grady leans in, smirks. “Spray-painted a church.”

  Clementine, who is working again but apparently listening in, gasps. “Grady. You did not.” Her face is the picture of scandalized.

  “Oh yeah.” Grady laughs, then shakes his head again, at himself this time. “It was uh, I believe, a very tasteful rendering of…” He looks at Gwen and wiggles his eyebrows. “A giant pair of boobies.”

  Gwen bursts out in laughter, then glances over at Clementine and tries to get it under control. “I’m sorry, that’s—” She chokes on a laugh and finishes, “terrible. Just awful,” in an entirely unconvincing way. “Okay, I... shoplifted a bunch of stupid shit.”

  Grady leans back, crosses one leg at the knee and waves a hand in dismissal. “I was stealing in elementary school. Come on now.”

  Gwen wiggles in her chair and thinks. It’s exciting, in a stupid, immature way, reliving the times she was a rebellious punk, not tamping it down and expressing it only through fashion and being kick-ass at her job, but admitting how fun it was being stupid and carefree and untamed.

  “My senior year, some friends and I would take off at lunch, go to my house and smoke weed and break into the liquor cabinet, and just do the dumbest shit. Jump off the roof and prank call people. Once we found some fireworks in the basement. It’s a wonder I still have all of my fingers and both eyebrows.” Gwen laughs and looks around, waiting for Grady to one-up that anecdote.

  But his face has turned somber again, and he looks away to the window. “If we’re gonna talk about the terrible things I did when I was drunk or stoned, that’s a whole ’nother game, darlin’.”

  Gwen’s body goes cold all over. “I’m sorry, Grady, I didn’t—”

  Grady doesn’t respond, and when Gwen looks over at Clementine, she gives Gwen’s hand a pat. She leaves her hand on Gwen’s hand for a little too long, then goes back to working.

  It’s very late now, and if Gwen wants to get any sleep before they arrive in Vegas she should probably try soon. Clementine shuts down her computer, calls the attendant over, and asks her to bring blankets and pillows and turn off most of the lights. The chair is comfortable and leans back far enough to feel like a bed, and with the white noise of the plane slicing through the sky, Gwen starts to drift quickly.

  Then from the dark, Grady’s voice comes, slow and sleep-slurred. “Breaking into the liquor cabinet, though. That’s cute.”

  Gwen glares at him, though it’s too dark to see. Her totally justified, fury-fueled rebellion was not cute. “I had really strict parents,” she defends. “Nothing I did was ever good enough and their love was conditional on me being who they wanted me to be.”

  Grady’s voice is thick with sympathy. “Sorry, Gwen. I was just teasing.” He yawns and adds offhandedly, “I guess there’s more than one way to mess up your kid.”

  Gwen huddles in her seat and lifts the window shade to stare out at the black sky. “I guess so.”

  17

  Seven years ago…

  Gwen’s hair went through many different looks after Flora started hanging out with her regularly: blue to pink, then a short purple Mohawk; green spikes, orange spikes, black spikes; a bright red, old Hollywood heartthrob style, sleek and slicked in a severe part; a shaggy, messy purple always falling into her eyes. Then she shaved it all off and start
ed over. Her natural hair color was a dark dirty blonde, Flora learned only after several months and countless hookups.

  “I like this,” Flora said on one of the last nights in her dorm, when all of her stuff was packed to move in a few days, after graduation. Gwen had changed her hair again, to a short, stark platinum blonde that framed her angled face and round eyes.

  “Yeah?” Gwen smirked, flipped over in the small bed, neck and ears and cheeks blotchy pink as they always were after sex. “You into blondes?”

  Flora ignored the response on the tip of her tongue, the part that wanted to define this, whatever it was, but she smiled tightly instead. “I guess.” What she was into was Gwen. Gwen no matter what her hair looked like: red, black, purple, rainbow. Blonde. But she didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to push until Gwen felt smothered by her and disappeared.

  Flora could be laid-back about it all; she was too busy to fret much anyway, what with finishing school and preparing for grad school and finding an apartment near Pepperdine. And when she did see Gwen it was fun. Easy. They saw shows: Gwen’s punk bands, where people slammed into each other, and the band spit on the audience, and someone always wound up with bloody nose or in a fight. Gwen took her shopping, to the beach. Flora took Gwen on hikes, to the farmer’s market, to swap meets, to botanical gardens and art exhibits. Later, they wrapped up in each other, drinking red wine and laughing until their sides hurt on Gwen’s lumpy mattress. It was as if they were expanding each other’s worlds, breathing new joy into everything they did, together or apart.

  It didn’t need to be defined. Flora knew what they were, where they could go, what they could be, even if Gwen never would.

  Flora didn’t see her on graduation day; Gwen was working. She was full-time at the salon now as a hair stylist, and she also had a part-time gig at a department store as an assistant buyer. Flora’s parents and sister flew in from Virginia and Maryland. She was glad she’d left home for college, glad for the people and experiences she never would have had back there, but she missed her family desperately.

  “So proud of you, honey.” Flora’s mom engulfed her in the comfort of her soft, squeezing hug so tightly, Flora’s graduation cap flopped off.

  “Cecilia, Flora, let me take a picture,” her dad called, snapping a photo of them together outside of the pavilion where crowds of graduates and their loved ones were still streaming out.

  Her sister Selene jumped in for a few pictures, and then they hugged, and then her dad couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “With honors!” Flora’s dad joined in the hug and said in a quivering voice, thick with emotion, “That’s my girl. So, so proud.”

  The sunlight beamed so hot Flora sweltered in her gown, the crowd was loud and pushy, and Flora soaked up her family’s love and support and belief in her. She was lucky and she knew it.

  “Okay, Gabriel, if you cry, I’ll cry, and the girls will cry, and we’ll all be a mess.” Her mom wiped at her eyes when she pulled away, though, fooling no one.

  More pictures, until Flora couldn’t see through the floating orbs in her vision; then they went out for dinner until her parents called it a night. “We’re heading back to the hotel before your mom turns into a pumpkin.”

  One more hug, with her mom’s short, plump frame on one side, her dad long and lanky on the other. Her sister stayed, moved to the other side of the booth, ordered more drinks, spun her wedding ring and gave Flora a significant look.

  “I love the dress.” They’d moved on to cocktails now that their parents were gone. Selene poked her straw into her Long Island iced tea. The crowd in the restaurant was giving way to younger, louder patrons.

  “Gwen picked it out.” It was seafoam green and came to mid-thigh, with bell sleeves and crochet accents. “Upscale boho,” Gwen had called it. “Fits in with your overall aesthetic.” Flora didn’t even know she had an overall aesthetic. She tugged the skirt toward her knees beneath the booth she and Selene shared in a dim corner and smiled at the memory of trying it on, at how Gwen had insisted she needed an accent belt and the sleeves needed hemming, so Flora took it off and then—

  She kept her head ducked as her face burned hot.

  “You make the dumbest face when you talk about her,” Selene said.

  Flora tipped her head up. “Gee, thanks.” Selene, tall and thin, long-faced and handsome, took after their dad. Flora had their mother’s zaftig shape, her round and friendly features. Flora frowned. What weird face did she make about Gwen?

  “No, like. A good dumb face,” Selene tried to explain. Flora sipped her drink with her eyebrows raised. Selene went on, “Like you’re really into her.”

  She was, but it just wasn’t that simple. “We’re keeping things casual.”

  “Oh, please,” Selene burst out. Usually Flora loved having a sister she was so close to, a best friend but even better, someone who knew her better than herself sometimes and wasn’t afraid to call her out. This was not one of those moments. Selene poked her straw in Flora’s face, and sticky drops of liquid fell to the tabletop. “Nothing about that dumb face says casual.”

  Flora looked at her drink: a frozen strawberry daiquiri, now more a puddle of pink than a festive cocktail. She sighed. “I just don’t know what Gwen wants.” She couldn’t insist on some kind of commitment only for Gwen to feel suffocated or trapped; then Flora would risk losing her entirely.

  Gwen made her feel... as if she had been coasting. Gwen kissed her and she felt a rush of excitement and energy, Gwen smiled at her and her heart soared, Gwen— Gwen fucked her because what else could she call that, the things they did that made Flora squirm and pulse just thinking about it. She couldn’t go back to coasting; she couldn’t take that chance.

  Selene stabbed the straw back in her drink with a rattle of ice. “And what about what you want? I know you Flora; you aren’t happy with casual. Don’t be afraid to stand up for what you want just because you’re easygoing.”

  Flora swallowed a knot in her throat. “What if she doesn’t want the same things?”

  A group of students at the bar cheered loudly at the hockey game on the huge flat-screen TV. Selene waited out the noise, then gave Flora a no-nonsense look. “I guess you have to decide if you want to be with someone who isn’t willing to meet you halfway. I mean, is ‘my way or the highway’ really the type of relationship you want?”

  Flora stared at the scuffed tabletop and stirred her melting drink while the crowd groaned at the game. Of course she didn’t want that kind of relationship, but up until right now she’d considered it the better of the two options: that or nothing.

  “Anyway,” Selene said, smacking her palms flat on the table. “Subject change. So Kahlil and I have decided to start trying for a baby next year. Don’t tell mom and dad. I don’t need that kind of pressure and meddling.”

  “Oh my god!” Flora had to move to the other side of the booth to squish against her sister and squeal. “Selene, that’s amazing!”

  She didn’t really expect to see Gwen until well after she’d moved, but there she was, bright and early the next morning, moving day, with a bag of muffins and two chai teas in travel mugs. “Thought we could use some energy before loading the truck.”

  “Oh.” Flora said, taking a cup and muffin. She sipped the tea: a touch of sugar and cream, just the way she always took it. “I thought you were working.”

  Gwen shrugged. Her hair was still peroxide blonde. “I told them my girlfriend was moving, and I needed the morning off. They were cool with it.”

  Flora watched Gwen as she tested different boxes, hefting a small one full of books against her chest. Girlfriend. “That okay?” Gwen said, giving Flora a concerned, suddenly unsure look. “I mean, did you just want your friends to help or...”

  “No.” Flora shook her head, giddy happiness or caffeine or excitement or all of them rushing inside her. “No that’s—this is wh
at I want.”

  18

  Even after a mere four hours of restless sleep on the plane, Gwen rushes into the room, drops her bags, twirls, and takes off to check out the place before it disappears like the mirage it seems to be.

  Clementine’s hotel room is astounding. Hotel room isn’t even the right name for it, it’s… a fucking palace. Taking up the top two floors of one of Vegas’s most extravagant hotels, it is not just huge, not just luxurious: it has a full living room equipped with a sectional sofa so large it takes up an entire wall, a marble fireplace, and floor to ceiling windows with an incredible view of The Strip and beyond. The dining table is made of petrified wood and bronze in swirls and whorls and variegated natural edges, and is so beautiful Gwen can’t imagine doing something as barbaric as eating on it.

  There are three full bedrooms with three full baths, and walk-in closets big enough to drive a car into. Nico would lose his mind over such closets. There’s even a golden spiral staircase, winding up to the loft where two of the bedrooms are located. There is a butler.

  And she thought the drive from the airport in a Rolls Royce and the private check-in with complimentary champagne was swanky.

  Oh, Gwen wishes Flora were here, especially when she wanders out to the private pool deck and spots the hot tub with colored flashing lights and massage jets. They could put bathtub sex to shame out here.

  The morning is already crackling with dry heat; the sun, unhindered by a single cloud, shimmers on the pool. Gwen sinks into one of the many outdoor couches under an awning, props her feet on a table, and stretches her hands back behind her head.

  “You look comfy.” Clementine saunters out of the glass door in a bikini with her hair up in a messy topknot.

  Gwen glances over, then looks away; a flash of heat prickles across her skin. “Just enjoying a moment of hedonism.” She sighs. “I’m sure my room is fine and everything.”