True North

by Liora Blake

  The producer escorts me down a short hallway and around to the stage entrance area. As we wait for my entrance, I lower my voice and ask him what the famous one’s name is. The producer gawks for a second, then answers as if I just asked him who the current president happens to be.

  “That’s Trax.”

  I let out a pent-up breath and toss my head back. “Trax! Yes. I can’t believe I couldn’t remember that! Thank you, that was going to drive me crazy.”

  Even I fall victim to reading a gossip rag now and then. Whether it’s because the dentist’s office only has that or Sports Illustrated to choose from, or because I’m stuck waiting for Lacey to finish curling her hair and she doesn’t have anything but trashy magazines in her living room, I’ve read just enough about Trax to know he’s a golden goose in the entertainment world. His brand of overplayed rap-rock-punk music makes him both a publicist’s dream and nightmare. Because if he isn’t selling a gazillion copies of a new record, he’s mixing it up in a bar fight or trashing the requisite hotel room.

  The producer continues to look at me as if I just emerged from a decades-long nap in a hyperbaric chamber. While Hal Abrahms begins my intro, I offer something that sounds like an apology.

  “I’m from Montana.”

  With that, I wander out onstage to an audience filled with people who have absolutely no idea who I am, and probably don’t care. My best hope is to look good on camera and come off as clever and charming. I shake hands with Hal, nodding at the politely clapping audience, which appears to be disproportionately comprised of women, and try to sit down gracefully while keeping my knees together.

  “Kate, it’s a pleasure to have you here. Your book, The Last Rancher, has torn up bestseller lists, and yet it isn’t about vampires or zombies, so how did you manage to build such major buzz?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it has torn up the bestseller lists, but I’m sure my publisher is giddy that a little book about Montana is actually selling.” There is a small ripple of laughter. I can only assume it’s a pity laugh, but at least they’re giving me that. “As for the buzz, I got lucky. Plain and simple. How my ass got here, I still don’t know.”

  Using the word “ass” suddenly seems all sorts of wrong. When the crowd chuckles almost awkwardly, I realize exactly how out of my depth I am here. All I can do is silently resolve to clean up my act for the rest of the show.

  “Tell us about the book. My wife read it and she wanted to tell me all about it, but all I heard was a droning noise in my ears.”

  The crowd laughs at this, not in that pity way, but in the way that means all those women in the audience are in on a stupid old joke about men who don’t listen when you talk. I smile with all my teeth, reconsidering my previous resolution, but let a restrained fake laugh emerge instead.

  “It’s the story of a Montana ranching family in the 1960s, narrated by three generations of matriarchs. The struggles each woman goes through, the roles they play, the decisions about the future of the land, the question of whether a woman can be a true rancher in a man’s world.”

  “I think we can safely say you have been the first to use the word ‘matriarch’ on our show. You know, we don’t normally have . . . how can I say this . . .”

  Hal searches for a word that won’t offend a slew of previous guests—or the one currently sitting opposite him.

  “Obscure literary geeks?” I offer, one side of my mouth curling up just a bit. The crowd laughs again, waiting for Hal’s response. He mumbles something about my large vocabulary and moves on to other idle questions, mostly about life in Montana.

  Then finally, it’s over. When Hal extends an arm across his fake desk to shake my hand, a hiss of relief seeps into every space in my lungs. From this space in time, I can envision the finish line, the moment when I will walk offstage, head out the studio door, and hole up in my hotel room with something sugar-laden as a reward for surviving it all.

  “Great to have you here, Kate. Everybody, my wife says the book is great. It’s called The Last Rancher, and it’s in bookstores now. We will be right back with a performance from Trax!”

  As the fade-out music cues up, a producer shoos me over to the adjacent love seat, prepping me for what will happen after Trax’s performance. There will be some gabbing, which Hal may or may not involve me in, then they will cut for a commercial, after which I will be done. The crew preps for the megastar’s performance, running from backstage to the set, scurrying to check everyone’s makeup, and finally, escorting Trax out.

  “Here to perform the latest single off of his number one album, please welcome Trax!”

  A roar surges from the crowd, making it clear this is the reason they came, and I suddenly feel lucky they didn’t run me out of the building. He’s an amazing performer, although different from the man who was biting his lip and grinning at me backstage. This guy is what I had heard about: pissed off and raging. The song seems to be about setting a cheating girlfriend out by the curb on trash day, or more specifically, putting her in a trash bag out by the curb. Jesus. Some good old misogyny, anyone?

  The song ends quickly, and the applause and hollering turn almost deafening in the small space as Trax acknowledges the crowd and moves away from the performance area. Before sitting down, he offers his hand to me, and when his fingers trail against the inside of my palm, it feels like heated silk on my skin. I swallow tightly and pull my hand back a bit more quickly than necessary.

  When he finally takes his seat, it feels like we’re all meeting at a surreal cocktail party. The crowd settles down to a murmur, waiting for Trax to speak, like devoted followers in his musical cult. Hal lets out a loud exhale.

  “Trax, great to have you here. You really are a hell of a performer!” The crowd noise kicks in again, yelling and hollering in agreement. “I know that you’ve been busy, getting ready for your tour. Are you ready to hit the road again or is it going to be all work and no play?”

  The women in the audience let out high-pitched squeals at the mention of him “playing,” and I have to restrain myself from another perfunctory eye roll. I sit stock-straight instead, like a good guest, listening intently to the dialogue, hoping they won’t ask me about my taste in music or, frankly, anything about pop culture. Talk about looking like an übergeek in 3.2 seconds.

  Trax waits for the giddy shrieks of the audience to subside before answering. “The road is always work. But, yeah, I’m ready. I mean, I’m not packed or anything.”

  Why a reference to packing would elicit another round of hollering, I really can’t understand. He probably doesn’t even pack his own suitcases. I picture a slew of sexy blondes in French maid costumes sauntering around his house doing mundane things like packing for him and looking sultry while they unload the dishwasher.

  “There’s been a lot of press lately about that, you not wanting to live at the pace you have been for the past few years. Why the change?”

  “I just got tired of living out of a damn suitcase. I finally bought a house, so now I have somewhere to go home to. I can write from there and my family is nearby. I haven’t had a real home for five years, and now that I have one, I’d like to actually be there, you know?”

  Propping his arm up on the side of the chair, Trax rests his chin on his fist. Oh God. Forearms. His arms are toned without being bulky, and I can see some of the smaller muscles flexing as he talks.

  “Do you worry about losing your edge? Getting too comfortable, not being at the top of the charts anymore?”

  Trax shrugs his shoulders. “I think about it, but I’m starting to figure out there’s more to life than selling records.”

  “I admire that, I really do. But you still have your critics, calling you a poor role model. What about that?” Hal turns his tone toward seriousness, bordering on intense. As intense as it gets on a show with a laugh track and a house band.

  “I stopped trying to explain myself a long time ago.” Trax shakes his head. “I figure people like that need to have s
omeone to hate on, and right now it’s me.”

  Before the conversation turns even deeper, or we stray into something ghastly like politics or world affairs, Hal angles his head to face me, taking me away from ogling those arms.

  “Kate, you two seem about as opposite as people can get. Are you a fan?”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was just sitting here politely, laughing on cue, minding my own business. Should I mention the fact that I couldn’t remember his name? Before I can fully decide my next move, Trax looks straight at me with a sly smile, which makes it even harder to think clearly. Since I don’t have much to lose anyway—the people in the audience have probably forgotten that I’m even here—I blurt out the first thing I can think of.

  “Honestly, I knew he was someone superfamous when he walked into the greenroom, but I couldn’t remember his name to save my soul. I had to ask your producer who he was.” I smile apologetically and Trax grabs his chest in an exasperated fashion, pretending to be aghast at my stupidity.

  “Get out! I know Montana is quiet, but you do have television, right? Stan, did she really ask you what his name is? Really?” Hal leans back in his chair to see the producer. Stan nods his head and smiles. “So, well, what’s your impression of this guy?”

  I know he’s baiting me because he wants some sort of a sound bite. I hesitate, trying to decide quickly whether to say what I’m really thinking.

  “Well . . .”

  “What? I’m dying to know what a woman who uses the word ‘matriarch’ thinks of this guy.” Hal juts his thumb in Trax’s direction and presses on with a grin.

  Trax turns to face me again, cocking his head to the side and waiting intently. Calculating my answer, I consider and deliberate over the next few seconds, then just say it.

  “I mean, it’s pretty obvious, but he’s terribly attractive.” The crowd goes nuts, the women squealing again, the men whistling and hollering. I look out at them, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly, and grin. When I turn back, Trax is looking at me, and that’s when it happens.

  Everything goes eerily quiet in my head, except a high-pitched buzzing sound in my ears. Trax locks his eyes with mine, mischief dancing there, then pulls his mouth into a delicious smirk. His lips, which are suddenly the center of my focus, pucker a bit together, just enough to taunt me. My heart starts to beat too fast and a long forgotten kind of tension begins brewing deep in my belly. I catch my breath, but remain completely incapable of anything beyond staring back at him like an idiot.

  “Well!” The sharp sound of Hal’s bemused voice breaks the heavy weight of our illicit staring contest and he leans back into his chair with a shit-eating grin covering his face, surely imagining how spectacularly entertaining my quote will sound on the promo teasers they will inevitably broadcast. “Trax, looks like you have a new fan.”

  Trax finally shifts his gaze from mine, then turns toward Hal and shrugs his shoulders with a small grin.

  “Hold on!” Hal beams. “Could it be? Is Trax blushing? You have to be kidding me! Women throw themselves at you all the time; they flash you, propose to you, and you’re blushing now?”

  The crowd begins hollering again, louder it seems. I lean forward to see for myself, and sure enough, his cheeks are rosy. I can’t help wondering what Stephen will think when he watches it. If he thought I was good on cable access, he will be wetting himself over this. He loves this kind of shit.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Trax gestures in my direction. “But I think she could give me a run for my money, you know?” He looks down at his hands for a split second, grinning, and then shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Well, Kate, you may need security to escort you out!” The crowd yells, and Hal continues, “Enough of that, we’ve got to go to commercial. We will be right back with another performance from Trax!”

  Thankfully, I’m dragged quickly from the stage while they set up the next performance segment. But I’m exhilarated, feeling like I actually lived up to Stephen’s expectations for once. I even enjoyed watching a real star squirm for a while, instead of looking polished and perfect with his canned answers and smooth hair. And, yes, I’ll admit it, the guy who was sitting next to me is crazy sexy. In an angry, intimidating, eat-you-alive-with-those-eyes kind of way. I shake my head at the acknowledgment of it, feeling like a traitor to my feminist ideals, finding a man of his reputation attractive.

  Before I can make an inspired dash for the nearest exit, the production team grabs me and sits me down to autograph a pile of books for giveaways. I finish them as quickly as possible, employing a hurried scrawl technique that makes my signature look more like a series of indecipherable loops than anything else. Perhaps I’m being dramatic, but I want to clear the room before Trax comes back. To avoid him, his pretty eyes, Simon, or anyone else that might make me uncomfortable. While I’m certain that Trax engages in sexy stares and banter with women every day and probably isn’t one bit rattled by our brief interaction, as my postshow high begins wearing off I’m starting to second-guess my boldness onstage, and would prefer to scurry away before looking too foolish.

  Bent over at the waist in the corner, I’m trying to shove my things into my bag quickly without forgetting anything when the familiar bellows of Simon and company roll through the room. I immediately stand up straight, fully aware that my ass was just on prominent display when they walked in, and then smooth my skirt, facing the wall to compose myself before turning around. Once I tame my breathing and commit to looking cool and collected, I turn to walk determinedly toward the door. Inconveniently, they are blocking the doorway, clustering in the way of my only exit.

  Trax is in the center, of course, blatantly watching me walk toward them. His chin tilts downward a bit, so he’s forced to look up through his eyelashes at me, which makes his gaze almost predatory. I’m suddenly self-conscious, and every sensation against my skin as I walk is nearly unbearable. The way my nipples harden under my sweater, the skin on my belly rubbing against the cashmere, and even the way my skirt grazes against the backs of my thighs, are all too much.

  When I get to the doorway, I have to stop and clear my throat so someone will make a path for me to leave. Simon and another guy back away to make room, both silent, and avert their eyes for a second. I have the distinct feeling our little onstage display has tagged me as Trax’s plaything and I’m now off-limits to the rest of them. Trax remains right next to the doorjamb, leaning against it, still staring at me.

  “It was nice to meet you.” I smile, but can’t fully return his gaze. It was easier onstage, when my head was buzzing, drowning out everything but the two of us.

  “Yeah. See ya later.” He gives a tiny head nod, puckers his tasty lips together again, and smirks. I turn my body away just slightly so I can edge through the doorway without the slightest chance of brushing against any part of him. As I make my way out, I swear I can feel him eyeing my ass as I walk down the hall.

  Of course, I can’t look back to be sure. Either way, it would ruin it. If he is looking, it will be a dead giveaway that I want him to stare at my ass. If he isn’t, I’ll be completely disappointed.

  I find my breath again in the elevator, although my heart is still beating too hard and all I want to do is ride back up to the green room, grab his hand, and find an empty closet somewhere so that he can put those lips on me.

  Shit. It’s official. I’m completely hard up.

  Instead, I wander back to the hotel, draw a bath, and soak in jasmine-scented bubbles until my fingers turn pruney. Later, wrapped in a hotel robe, I order chocolate cake from room service for dinner and watch Roman Holiday on TV. I polish off the cake and finish watching the movie in the darkened room, nestling under the covers. Warm, sleepy, and alone.

  4

  In the morning I wake completely rested, the kind that comes from falling soundly asleep with your limbs stretched every which way in a bed far too big for one person. The fact that I’m a day closer to going home doesn’t hurt, either. I crave the
quiet of my house, the clean air of rural Montana, and a sunrise unobscured by skyscrapers. Once there, I may even crack open my laptop to start drafting something new. Maybe it’s the ever-present ambition of all the aspiring creative types in LA getting to me, but just before I fell asleep last night, there were new characters talking to me. And as every writer knows, when characters start talking, you start listening. I don’t know where they belong yet, or what they need from me to tell their story, but it’s enough to listen for now.

  In the apparent spirit of eavesdropping on conversations in my head, my phone rings and seeing on the display that it’s Stephen, I consider the possibility the man has somehow tapped my brain like the NSA. Perhaps he can hear my creative side brewing and, God love him, he probably already has plans to exploit it.

  “Good morning, Stephen.”

  With zero effort put toward the opening pleasantries most of us rely on, Stephen launches in. “How did the show go? Did you do anything redneck or regrettable?”

  “I’m deeply offended. It was fine, nothing interesting to report. You know, same old, same old. Smile, laugh, act interested. Blah, blah, blah.”

  Gleefully, I wait for Stephen’s inevitable freak-out, trying to act smooth and wanting him to believe I had been a disaster. While trying not to think about Trax, who is the only interesting thing to report, but who also possibly qualifies under the regrettable column.

  “Oh God, you didn’t act all intellectual, did you?”

  “I did use the word ‘matriarch.’ Is that bad?”

  “Great. Fucking great. Instead of sexing it up a little, while acting witty but provocatively coy, you’re telling me that my angst-ridden, country-fried little client did a brainy belly flop on national television.”