by Amiee Smith
“Sorry for coming on your shirt,” she says, handing me another check to put in an envelope.
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t know it could happen with just your fingers and mouth.”
I offer a grunt. I don’t feel like talking. Fucking would be better, but Brit has a show to do. I have a schedule to keep everyone on. And we don’t have a condom. The latter, my main concern.
I shift in my chair, trying to lessen the discomfort in my groin.
“I could go down on you... well, do we have time?”
“No. I’ll be fine. We should have gotten condoms when we went to Lakeshore.”
Brit was right earlier today. I don’t trust my pull-out game. It’s been a while.
“We have some. I ordered them with the Gatorade and snacks earlier. SKYN. Large. 24-pack. Are you pleased, daddy?”
“So much.”
I can’t look at her. I love us without a no-sex clause. I love us working together. I love...
I focus on the general ledger in front of me.
“This is the last one. All I have to do is enter them in the expense column,” she says.
“Where did you learn bookkeeping by hand?”
“From working for you. Mrs. Maple taught me QuickBooks, but also to do the books by hand.”
“I forgot she kept two sets of books. If she were still my bookkeeper, I know she would have thought something was awry with the Russians. She just had that sense. God rest her soul.”
Mrs. Maple died last October at 83. We attended her funeral services at Forest Lawn in L.A., a week before Brit bounced on me and went to Oakland to make her album. We sent flowers with a card signed Mr. and Mrs. Willingham.
“She had been in the business for years. And seen it all. She once told me that one third of the stockbrokers and finance professionals she worked for were investigated by the FBI at one point.”
“That confirms a fucked-up stereotype about people in my industry.”
“Dragon, it wasn’t your fault. I know in my heart you are one of the good guys.”
“Thank you. I needed to know you still think I’m a good guy.”
“Always. But I was pissed you didn’t tell me you suspected those clients had laundered money until after the FBI got involved. I get it. My divorce attorney said it was better I didn’t know. Did you tell your parents?”
“No. Hell, no. My dad would be mortified if any of his friends at The Pasadena Club knew. Things are finally good with him. He didn’t even trip when I told them I was married. He thinks we were young and got caught up.”
I watch Brit pen entries into the ledger with a blue fine point pen. Every line is perfectly printed, symmetrical. Meticulous. It’s the way she plays music.
I notice the credits column. Each amount is five times what she made doing gigs in L.A.
“Is this industry standard?” I ask, pointing to the amount listed.
“Oh, God no. The guys who run this venue believe in paying artists a fair wage.”
“How did you get this gig?”
“I met one of the owners on Tinder.”
She closes the ledger and returns it to the black Prada nylon and leather duffle she refers to as her “gig bag.” She retrieves her panties and bra from the floor, along with my soaked dress shirt, and tosses them inside. Grabbing a Neutrogena wipe, she blots the area around my mouth and mumbles something about smelling like her.
“A date?” I ask.
“More Netflix and chill. Don’t freak out. He wasn’t feelin’ me. I had sent him a few tracks before our date to impress him, but he was more interested in my music than hooking up. Instead of a second date, he offered me this gig.”
“I don’t believe he wasn’t feelin’ you. What’s his name?”
“You don’t need to know. But you do need to stop Roy before he finishes all that gin. Talk to the lighting guy. Pass out checks. Check with Jameson & Dixon. Get going. Oh, and put this on, so everyone knows you’re with my band.”
Brit tosses me a T-shirt from a merchandise box. Black, with “Brit Palmer” in her signature white cursive font, a white life-like sketch of a seahorse sits in the center below her name. Rising, I slip it on and tuck it into my pants before putting on my blazer.
“Wow. You still look like a suit even in a T-shirt, fly kicks, and sex hair. Alex, this is show business. Your only job for the next two hours is to make sure I give the best show possible. Problems will inevitably come up. Most of which cannot be solved with money. Get to work.”
In a space of a few minutes, my weirdo wife transforms into a focused, professional bandleader. And I want nothing more than to be a part of the team. Her team.
I grab my clipboard, the checks, and leave her dressing room.
***
“Hello, everyone,” I say, entering the band’s dressing room.
I find all the band members, Malachi, Alisha and Luce sitting around a long folding table, eating pizza.
“Suit!” Mal calls to me, pointing at an empty chair next to him.
“Come in, Alex. Join us,” Alisha says.
Both are dressed in jeans and the black Brit Palmer seahorse concert tee.
Sitting, I notice the fifth of gin in front of Roy.
“You look out of sorts. Is Brit riding you?” Luce asks.
“Don’t worry. This is the witching hour. Once she gets on stage, she’ll return to being her fun-loving self,” Nico offers, before biting into a piece of pizza.
“No, she’s good. We’re good. I’ve got checks for all of you,” I say handing out envelopes.
“I do love how Brit pays us beforehand. Doesn’t make us wait around afterwards. She’s good peoples,” Roy says.
I extend his check to him, and his dark, long, fingers retrieve it. I don’t let go.
“Listen, man. I’m going to need the rest of that gin. I’ll trade you.”
“Oh, hell nah. You gave it to me, and it is mine, mine, mine. All the time, time, time. Like this check, check, check,” he says, with a demented chuckle, yanking the envelope from my hand.
Shit. This is the chatty version of Roy my wife-boss doesn’t want to deal with.
“Come on. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.”
“No. No. No. I just got paid, paid, paid. Don’t need no mo’ mo’ mo’.”
I should know better. I’ve spent eight years married to a musician. Money only matters to a certain point. Soul is everything in their world. Soul spends like currency.
I take a breath and sit back in my chair, dropping my soul on the table.
“What do you know about me, Roy?”
“Yous some money guy from Pasadena.”
“I haven’t lived in Pasadena for years. I am a money guy, but I was an MMA fighter before that. I own a wealth management company and a two-million-dollar condo in Downtown L.A. My living room is filled with records. Mostly jazz. I collect vinyl the way Brit collects shoes and coats. I’ve been a fan of the music since I was a kid. I took a jazz history class in college for elective credit. That’s how I met Brit. She was my TA. The minute I walked into her office I knew I wanted to be around her. Explore her soul. I just knew I’d be a better human if I could be close to her. I mean, I wanted to hit it too, but after a while that didn’t matter. Because what I discovered, on the other side of her immeasurable beauty, rants about the patriarchy, and her unfathomable ability to eat everything with hot sauce, is a woman who lives in the space between the notes. A world I will never fully have access to, but I will protect with my life. If you finish the rest of that gin, you’ll be messing with my wife’s space. And if you’re messing with my wife, you’re messing with me. Don’t let the suit and glasses fool you. I will lay you out with one punch and then drag you on stage so you can give the best show of your life. For her.”
“Ah, man. Yous legit,” Roy says quietly, sliding the bottle across the table.
“Thank you. Now, does anyone know where I can find the lighting guy?”
; A silence looms in the room for a second and then everyone starts speaking.
“Front of the house.”
“He’s probably smoking a cigarette.”
“No. I saw him go into the bathroom.”
“I bet he’s up in the booth.”
I stand, retrieving the bottle and heading toward the door.
“Yo, Suit!” Malachi calls.
“Yeah.”
“Welcome to the team.”
***
Talking to the lighting guy was easy. He understood Brit’s notes and agreed to make the needed changes. I also tipped him a hundred bucks (and a bottle of gin) to tell me where I could find Jameson & Dixon.
I arrive at their open dressing room filled with cannabis vapors. The male/female bluegrass duo are holding balloon-like bags. I know what they are. I know that skunky fragrance. After 5:00 p.m., my brother and his wife can be found inhaling vapes from their bags.
“The Volcano. That’s a nice piece of equipment,” I say, entering without knocking.
“Wanna bag?” the brunette woman asks.
She wears a vintage white dress and Mary Jane Doc Marten shoes. A violin rests on her lap.
“No, thank you. I’m Brit’s manager. Do you want her to join you on stage tonight?”
“Yes. Definitely. It wouldn’t be a show without her,” the woman says.
Glancing down at the clipboard, Troy has a note scribbled: Ask them what song. What key. Be persistent. They get distracted easily.
“What happened to the little guy? He always brought candy,” says the man with a long beard in overalls and a plaid shirt.
“I don’t have any candy, but there’s pizza in our band’s room.”
“Disgusting! Do we look like we consume dairy?” the woman balks.
They both turn away, dismissing me.
“I’ll be on my way. I just need to know what song and what key.”
They talk among themselves as if I’m not in the room. I scan the space and my mind for a talking point. On the floor, next to the woman is an army green canvas bag. This is probably her “gig bag.” Inside, a hardback copy of “Lowlight” by Lynn Scott.
“I recently took time off. My sister-in-law, Lynn Scott, gifted me with all her audiobooks. I listened to “Lowlight” in one day. I even bought the book and listened to it again while reading along. I’m not a very good reader, I’m... ah... dyslexic... but she’s such a good writer, you know, it made reading fun. Every word kind of leads into the next word. You can tell she loves to write the way Brit loves to play music.”
Silence.
Shit. I gotta get vegan candy. I turn to leave.
“We’d like her to play on a cover of Prince’s ‘When Doves Cry’ for the encore. A-minor. Willow on bass,” the man says.
I jot it down.
“Ah... I’m dyslexic too. Lynn’s books are the only thing I can get through. Tell her I’m a fan,” the woman says.
“I’ll tell her.”
I hustle down the hall to Brit’s dressing room. I find her sitting cross-legged, wearing a pink kimono, her feet bare. Luce stands behind her curling her hair.
Brit immediately starts yelling, her face scrunched. “Where have you been?! I forgot to bring seamless panties to wear with my jumpsuit. You gotta go buy me a pair. Preferably black. Get them in a 5, 6, and 7. Go!”
“Good luck. This is the deep Mission. There is no place around here to buy seamless panties. And there is no way you can go to Union Square and get back in time. Troy would have sent his assistant,” Luce says, quietly.
“I’ll make it happen. Jameson & Dixon. Encore. You and Willow. ‘When Doves Cry.’ A minor,” I rattle off to Brit.
“Have you talked to Willow?!” she snaps.
“No. Can you talk to her? While I go?”
“No! That’s your job, Manager! And you need to be back ASAP, so we can pick a shoe!”
(Hi. My name is Alex. I am a Willingham. We have fucking tempers.)
I breathe in and out through my nose. I can handle the witching hour. I can handle the witching hour.
“Why don’t we pick a shoe now, just in case it takes a while for me to find your panties?” I ask, calmly.
“Ugh! I don’t pick a shoe until I’m dressed! It’s my pre-show ritual. But I can’t get ready without seamless panties. GO! Be back now! And make sure my banjo is tuned to A-minor!” Brit shouts.
Luce offers me a sympathetic glance as I exit the room.
My wife-boss is proving she is every bit a Willingham.
(And she’s still the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.)
CHAPTER 20
BRIT PALMER
After three encores, I enter my dressing room, kicking off my gold glitter Manolos with a 105mm heel. I shut the door behind me.
My feet ache. My fingers are sore. My voice is too. My black Christian Siriano one-shoulder jumpsuit with crisp pintucks is drenched in sweat.
Tonight, I sang, and played, and danced until I am certain my energy merged with the energy of the venue, changing its molecular structure, and forever leaving my mark on the space. I may never play here again, but I will always be a part of The Open Source House in San Francisco.
I plop down on a folding chair, resting my elbows against my knees. This time between a performance and returning to life is my space between the notes. An elusive little place, it only comes around so often. And here, everything is quiet.
Stillness reigns from my toes to the top of my head. My insides hang on the outside of my body, but I pay no mind. I know I am safe. Whole. Fully realized. This space between the notes is why I came to the planet. It’s why I chose to be born.
I glance around the room. It’s clean. I left it a fury mess. My shit was everywhere. But now, it’s clean: the cream Chanel jacket I wore for my performance with Jameson & Dixon hangs on the clothing rack next to my garment bag, the clothes I wore to the venue folded inside my gig bag, my shoe boxes stacked on the table, next to my purse, and Troy’s clipboard.
Luce packs up her gear during the last encore, but she doesn’t clean the room. It’s no one’s job to clean up after me. I didn’t assign the task to anyone. Not even Troy would have done it.
The only person who would do this... without having to be told or paid... is Alex.
And telepathically on cue, he enters the room. Shuts the door. And sits. No words. No “good show” chatter. No critique. He just sits. Respecting the stillness. Honoring the quiet. Protecting the tranquility.
He is the only person who has ever shared the space between the notes with me.
***
“Oh my, Alex.”
His cock crosses the threshold of my pussy for the third time tonight... this morning.
After loading my Cherokee with gear and having a post-show meal and drinks with my band and team, we arrived back at my apartment a little after one in the morning. We took Miz Pepper out to use the bathroom. And then fell into bed.
We’ve been up all night.
Beyoncé’s “Drunk in Love” plays through my mind on a continuous loop. The track is so audible I could sing along. I can almost feel my vocal cords hit each note.
Flat on my back, I spread my legs wider to receive my husband. When did he get so big? So strong? So steadfast?
My cunt is so full. My heart is so full. My bed is so full. Alex.
He rocks his pelvis like an erratic drumbeat, pounding my center. Constant. Binding. Affirming.
I can’t see; my eyes blurred with lust and arousal.
Up all night.
Digging my nails into his back, I ache for him to be closer. Alex stretches his arms above my head, letting his elbows rest on either side of my face. He grunts and groans. His pleasure illuminates all the dark nooks and crannies inside me.
His wide chest connects with my taut nipples. I receive his full weight and his thrusts get faster and more insistent. We’re both slick with sweat. I love the feel of his warm skin. His warm breath. Closing my eyes, I accept a
ll he is giving me.
Pressing my palms into his shoulder blades, I draw him even closer. His dick charms my center. Claiming my body. Confirming what is his. Always.
“Brit.”
Alex’s voice, hoarse and ragged.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” I whisper.
My yoni clinches his shaft. I’m not ready for this to end. It took us so long to get here. My antique Ralph Lauren bed squeaks in harmony with the motion of our bodies. And we could stay at this pace until death does us part.
Alex takes my bottom lip into his mouth, sucking it. My tongue grazes his top lip. I never knew his lips were so soft. So full. I’ve stared at his mouth thousands of times and I never imagined his smooth lips would feel this good... this right. Or that he’d taste like the greatest man. In every way.
His tongue tangles with mine. Our kisses, still clumsy and learning. I haven’t been kissed in so long. And it was never like this. Intimate. Entrancing. Soulful. Wrapping my hands around the back of his head, I stretch my tongue deeper into his mouth. His dick stretches my sex. Kissing and fucking. Fucking and kissing.
We’re so drunk.
Alex slows. He dips the tip of his hard cock in and out. Deliberately. Powerfully. Wonderfully. Stroking. Each ridge. Each spot.
His muscular body presses into my soft frame. Being under my husband feels like belonging.
Who am I without him? Who is he without me? Who are we together?
My climax stirs and blends with the rhythm of Alex’s thrusts. My nipples tighten. My heart bumps like an erratic drumbeat.
“God, you feel so good. I love you so much,” Alex groans.
I stop rocking against my husband’s cock. He continues to penetrate my center. In and out. His shaft milks my sex into submission.
“What did you say?”
“You know that. You’ve always known. You do it for me. Always.”
I can’t respond. Tension builds between my thighs. My pussy yearns for release.
Have I known?
Alex stops moving, his dick still filling me. I open my eyes. In the early blue rays of morning, I meet his pensive, wanton gaze. When did he get so radiant? When did he become my husband? When did we get here? When did we become real? Always.
