“I’ve been writing songs,” he said.
“Well? How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
“So they’ll be done for the tour in three days?”
He rubbed his forehead. The fucking tour. He was not looking forward to being cramped on a bus for months, traveling like a zombie. As much as he loved music, he hated touring. Not to mention, live performances made him physically sick.
Twice, he’d asked her to cancel it, but she’d reiterated that almost all of his income came from concerts.
“If you don’t tour, people will forget you. And I’ve got fifteen other bands ready to take your place.”
He hated to admit it, but she was right. Gail was right about a lot of things. She knew the music business better than anyone. No one could deny she’d helped Urban get to the top. And even though sometimes it felt like he’d sold his soul to the lowest bidder, the salary made up for it.
It was shameful, but lately the money meant more than the music. Bands didn’t last for more than a decade. Music tastes change. People change. Then what would he do for a living? Get a desk job?
With Urban’s eventual demise ever-present, he’d socked away every last penny of his earnings. Except for his loft, the studio, and his basic living expenses, he lived like a pauper. He couldn’t risk burning up his savings.
St. James made fun of him all the time. “Why don’t you buy yourself an adult toy or travel or something? Spend some of your fortune, for Christ’s sake.”
Elias wasn’t the only one in the band concerned about money. They’d all grown up poor on the lower-east side and had no desire to go back to that life.
For that reason, they didn’t roll like rich rock stars. They didn’t spend money on drugs and parties. They didn’t trash hotels. Most of the time they didn’t even stay in hotels. They rented cheap houses and ate in. They spent money on what mattered—their crew. They paid their roadies what they deserved, and because of that, their tours were always a success.
Making millions doing what he loved—it was what he’d always dreamed about. So why wasn’t he happier?
“Who’s the latest fuck?” Gail sniped.
“Who are you talking about?” He prayed it wasn’t Effie.
“The blonde Pocahontas? There are pictures of you plastered all over TMM from last night.”
Mierda. TMM—Total Music Magazine. Or as he referred to them, Total Music Motherfuckers.
The main reporter was this guy named Len Neal. He had a network of spies all over the world sending him trash. He hated Len so bad he couldn’t even come up with a metaphor.
But a bad review from Len could ruin the band. In fact, he’d singlehandedly ruined Nickelsmacked. And lately, Len’s shitty reviews had them dangerously teetering off the same cliff.
“Who is she?” his manager asked again.
“Nobody.”
“You better not be fucking someone without a signed NDA. You don’t want a repeat of that little groupie situation.”
No, he sure didn’t. Tina’s fake pregnancy almost cost him his career.
“Make sure the label knows about the new songs before you leave,” she said. “We’ll need to update our royalty agreement.”
He tugged at his collar, feeling suffocated all of a sudden. “Gail, I gotta blaze. Talk to you later.” He hung up and loped up front.
Effie was peering down into a glass case. “Can I see it?”
Paul gave her a sly squint. “I don’t know. Esmeralda’s pretty special.”
She clasped her hands. “Pretty please!”
Paul chuckled and pulled out what appeared to be a violin bow.
She gasped. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Elias kissed the back of her neck.
She spun around and kissed him back. “Look!” She showed him the bow. “It’s made from mammoth tusk. And it’s inscribed.”
He examined the tiny lettering. “What does it say?”
“Ton amour est ma musique,” Paul said. “‘Your love is my music.’ The maker was in love with the violinist. Try it out.” He passed her an old violin.
It wasn’t a song she played—it was more like an emotion. He felt it in his bones.
Paul seemed just as riveted. “Where’d you say you guys met?”
“Behind a dumpster.” She winked at him.
Elias winked back. “What was that song you just played?”
“It wasn’t a song—it was chaos.” She turned to Paul. “How much for the bow?”
“For you?” He scratched his chin. “Three grand.”
She coughed and handed it back. “Goodbye, Esmeralda. I’m afraid I can’t afford magical bows.”
Knowing full well he could afford to buy it for her, Paul shot him a questioning look over the rim of his glasses.
He tugged his earlobe. “We better get going. Later, man. I’ll send Annie to pick up the guitar.”
“Come back and visit me soon, Effie.” Paul waved. “Next time, leave your boyfriend at home.”
She beamed. “That would be great. I mean, visiting you again, not leaving my boyfriend.”
My boyfriend. Why did those words sound so sweet?
“Adios, man. Don’t let that one get away.”
It was the second time that day someone had said that. And once again, the statement hollowed out his insides.
He had to let her get away. Life on the road made him piss-poor boyfriend material. And she didn’t deserve that.
Outside the store, she hugged him and pressed her ear to his chest. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“But your heartbeat. It’s in sad mode.”
This woman. He didn’t even have to say anything. All he had to do was breathe and she understood everything.
With the end drawing near and the weight of the tour bearing down on him, he barely noticed the thing he tripped over.
She bent down and picked up the object. “Aw, it’s a tiny nest. Must have fallen from up there. Poor birdies. Maybe you can put it back.” She handed it to him.
He tucked it high up in the branches.
“My hero!” She batted her eyelashes and pretended to swoon.
She was so silly and cute. And so not his. “Effie, I need to tell you something.”
She pressed her finger to his mouth. “Shh. The pitch in your voice is off. Whatever you’re about to tell me, I don’t want to hear it.” She let out a shaky breath and gave him a weak smile. “Can you spend the night again?”
One more night. Just one more. Then he’d leave her alone. “Thought you’d never ask.”
13
Coda
“‘How long is forever?’ asked Alice.
‘Sometimes, just one second,’ said the White Rabbit.”
Soundtrack “Signal,” SOHN
Elias’s heavy mood crowded the cab on the way back to her place. She wrung her sore wrists and watched the Brooklyn Bridge pass by in a blur. Something was wrong.
The two flights of stairs to her apartment felt like climbing Mt. Everest. Inside the loft, he took off his jacket and hung it over a chair.
“Should we order take-out?” she asked.
“I’m not hungry.” He sat on the windowsill and stared out at the streetlight.
She sat next to him and took his hand. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
She rubbed her cheek on his scruff and breathed him in. “Elvis?”
“Yes, F-bomb?”
“Wanna play around?”
His smile flickered then dimmed.
She sat back and examined him. There was sorrow and regret in his gaze. He was about to tell her it was over. “That’s not the way you’re supposed to look when a girl asks you to make out.”
“How do I look?”
“Like a sad pickle.”
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly then flattened. “I’m leaving.”
And there it was. “When?”
“In th
ree days.”
“For how long?”
“The summer.”
“I can wait.”
“Effie, I can’t be your boyfriend.”
She placed her hand over his Adam’s apple, feeling his masculinity for the last time. It bobbed under her touch.
He turned his gaze back out the window. “I don’t want to go.”
“Don’t.”
He responded with a quiet exhale.
“Can we still make out?” Her question came out sounding desperate. She laughed as if it were no big deal.
A crease appeared between his brows.
“Might as well live it up while you’re here.”
That time he answered her with a kiss. A tender kiss. A chaste kiss.
But if this was their last night together then, dammit, she was going balls-out. She grabbed his face and turned that kiss into a frenzy of tongues and bites and moans and hair pulls. She made that kiss a metaphor for how she felt.
His mouth roamed down her neck to her breast. He raised her shirt and licked her nipple.
She pulled away. That’s not what she wanted from him. Not another one-night stand. He was more than that, and if she slept with him, he’d never have a reason to come back.
“I’m sorry, but you’re leaving. And I—”
He squished his cheeks together and nodded. “How ‘bout we write music instead?”
“That I can do.”
The song they wrote told the story of their short time together in perfect harmony. And in a way, it was like making love.
At the end, they collapsed into bed together and kissed until the sun came up, until their lips were swollen and raw, until they finally crashed with their mouths still molded together.
The next morning, Elias quietly rose from her bed. It hurt to watch him put on his jacket. He opened his mouth to say something.
“Don’t—” she said. “Don’t say goodbye. Just tell me you’ll see me later.”
He smiled but his eyes didn’t. “Chau, F-bomb.”
“Hasta la vista, Elvis.”
For a full twenty minutes she watched her door, thinking he’d change his mind and come back.
He didn’t.
14
Intermezzo
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
Soundtrack “Eating Hooks,” Moderat
The next day, a cold front blew freezing rain over the city. Ice encased the cherry blossoms outside Effie’s window like glass boxes. Inside her apartment the radiator banged as if it were alive. She shivered next to it in the cotton sundress she hadn’t removed from the day before.
The weekend flickered in her memory like a dream. The only sign it was real was the beard rash on her chin and the two dirty bowls in the sink with ramen stuck to the edges.
Now what?
This wasn’t just a bad day. This was her life.
You don’t have to feel this way, said her addiction, clawing at her.
But drugs wouldn’t fill the void. Nothing would.
“There will be bad days,” her therapist had told her, “when it feels like the world’s against you.”
“What do you do then?” Effie asked.
“Get up, dress up, show up, and never give up.”
So that’s exactly what she did. She got up, dressed up, and went out to find a job.
New York was saturated with violinists, as it turned out. Even a job playing at Sachs had fifty applicants ahead of her.
That meant she had to wait tables, which also meant working in an industry filled with drugs.
Quick cash, night hours, and rote tasks—the perfect job for an addict. She filled out applications at twenty-five restaurants to no avail.
At the twenty-sixth place, a greasy spoon near her loft, the owner took her to a booth in back and interviewed her on the spot.
It wasn’t really an interview per se—it was more like a visual assault.
A dirty toothpick bobbed between the owner’s lips as he violated every inch of her body with his snake-like eyes. He shifted the stick to the side of his mouth. “There’s an apron and a pair of shorts in back. You can start now.” His rubbery turkey neck jiggled as he spoke.
“Shorts? Really? It’s cold outside.”
“Want the job or not?” He pulled the toothpick out and pointed it at her like a weapon.
No lie, if he touched her with that thing, she’d probably shrivel up and die. “I wasn’t prepared to work today. I’m not wearing the right shoes.” She held up a heeled boot. “Sucks, because I could really use the cash.”
“There’s something else you could suck for cash.” His cheeks coiled into red balls.
Was he smiling? Did he find that funny? A buried memory crawled out from the depths of her mind. Once, she’d smoked crack with a middle-aged married man for the price of a blowjob. Afterward, she threw up in his lap, and the guy tossed her out on the street.
That was the last time she’d prostituted her body. She would never be that hard up again.
She gave him a sweet smile and swept everything off the table into his lap—the ketchup, mustard, relish, sweet-n-low packets, creamer, napkins, silverware, and water glasses—all of it.
He squealed like a woman and jumped out of the booth.
“Whoops,” she said dryly then marched out with her chin high and her wallet even emptier. Life may suck dick, but I don’t.
Outside, she blew fog on the window and drew a giant penis with her middle finger. The act wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she’d thought it would be. She frowned at her reflection. Well, that was fun. Where to next?
Bed seemed like the only option at that point. So she huffed it back to her apartment. For the rest of the afternoon, she stared at the crack in her ceiling, praying for money to fall out of it.
And then someone knocked.
Elias.
She flung open the door and found major disappointment on the other side.
A skinny guy with a bike helmet held out a clipboard. “Sign this.” He handed her a long box.
“What’s is it?” She ripped it open and found the engraved bow inside. The card read: A rare beauty for a rare beauty. Stay wild, F-bomb. Fondly, Elvis.
She set down the package and threw her arms around the deliveryman.
He didn’t hug her back. “Get off me, lady.”
She squeezed him tighter. “Hug me. Please.”
He patted her back. “You done yet?”
“A minute longer, please.”
He peeled her off him.
“I don’t have money for a tip.”
He rolled his eyes then clacked down the stairs, mumbling about the “crazy bitches in New York.”
The urge to get high hit again. She started to text Skip then decided against it. And her judgie sister didn’t have the right shoulder to cry on.
No job. No boyfriend. No one to talk to.
But she had a violin and a magic bow. And that was something.
15
Dissonance
Total Music Magazine
URBAN’S DUBLIN SHOW: A TOTAL BUZZKILL
By Len Neal
Last night, Urban kicked off their sold-out tour in Ireland. Hungry for the music that’s inspired a generation, fans were sorely disappointed to hear the “same old shit.”
I’d say El Love was basically “going through the motions,” but that would be too generous.
With all the technical failures last night, El Love’s voice came out sounding like the cry of a cloistered and isolated soul, which is more or less what he’s become.
Guess the woman spotted with him in New York didn’t inspire any new music.
Bassist Cato Lawson didn’t seem half as thrilled to be onstage as he was coming out of that gay bar last month.
Griffin Macchio played to the beat of a different drum last night. Or should I say he played the drum to a different beat—his timing was so off, the other musicians had to slow do
wn to match his meter.
Another low point was when Indie rock diva, Missy Reed, had a fan thrown out for bringing a selfie stick.
The highlight of the night wasn’t the music, but the little person next to me, wearing a unicorn horn glued to his forehead.
Rich (the unicorn dwarf) had this brilliant thing to say about the concert: “What happened to balls-out rock-n-roll? Now it’s just artless fucking gobshites and bloviating flesh bags. My mammy would have fallen asleep at that show. What happened to crazy? I want somebody with a fucking drug habit.”
Good point. Maybe Love should pick up a drug habit. Maybe then he’d write some new music.
In the meantime, if you’ve spent 150 Euros on a ticket, get your money back.
Belfast, Ireland
Soundtrack “No Woman,” Whitney
Cato read Len’s review as if he were Morgan Freeman narrating The Shawshank Redemption. “Bet after Len finishes trashing musicians, he punishes himself with his mother’s dildo.” Cato slammed his laptop closed.
Missy chimed in. “At what age do music critics die?”
“They don’t,” Cato said. “They turn back into the primordial ooze from whence they came.”
Hal, the band’s hulkish bodyguard, added, “How does he live with himself? I have a good friend who’s a little person. Great guy. Don’t people have a sense of honor and dignity?” He wiped a tear from his eye.
Cato got up and patted the bodyguard’s bald head. “Aw, big guy, wanna hug?”
Hal smacked his hand away. “Touch me again and I’ll take out your teeth.”
Cato, ever the shit-starter, poked Hal with his pinky finger. The bodyguard grabbed his wrist and flung him to the ground.
“Oh, it’s on now!” Cato jumped to his feet. “Come on, motherfucker. Game on.”
Head-Tripped: A Sexy Rock Star Romance (Ad Agency Series Book 2) Page 7
