by Molly Joseph
“It’s not bluegrass,” she said for the third time, but it didn’t matter. The answer was no.
“You call this label ‘Vanguard,’” Lola said as she got to her feet. “Do you even know what ‘vanguard’ means? It means being on the forefront of new movements and ideas.”
“Honey, there’s not going to be a bluegrass movement anytime soon,” said Michael. “But I love how you own it. Your songs are sweet, they just aren’t…”
“They aren’t what your listeners are looking for. At all.” Kym’s strident summation had Lola stalking for the door. “But we can’t wait to hear what you’ve been working on for next year’s EDM release.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Lola over her shoulder. “It’ll be great.”
Michael ran over to hold the door for her, and then stood in the way so she had to struggle to fit her guitar through. Before she could escape, he took her arm and gave her an awkward air kiss. “Take care, sweetheart. See you soon.”
She wanted to whack him with her guitar, but it might get damaged and her father had bought it for her. Instead she walked down the hall and stepped onto the elevator. Of course her songs were crap. They were overly emotional, self-indulgent, female anthem shit, and if Ransom had pretended to like them, it was only because he liked her.
Ransom. She needed him right now, damn it. She’d give anything to run to his arms right now. How far away was Vegas? Maybe she could take the bus.
But Ransom didn’t want her around, because she was too young and stupid. He’d made that perfectly clear, and she needed to put away her acoustic dreams too, and get back to business. She had a huge gig in Sacramento in less than two weeks. She needed to get her shit together.
She lifted her chin as the elevator doors opened to the lobby. Caleb would ask her how the meeting had gone, and she’d have to say something without crying. She’d have to pretend she didn’t care.
But it wasn’t Caleb she saw as she walked out of the elevator. It was Ransom, her earlier longings made real. Had he always been so beautiful, or had she missed him that much? She walked toward him as if in a dream, then dropped her guitar and ran into his arms. She started crying before they even closed around her. She buried her face against his comforting presence and all her tears poured out.
*
When Lola crossed to him from the elevator, there were three things Ransom noticed.
One, she was blonde now, a light, pale blonde that made her look even more innocent.
Two, she didn’t look toward Caleb, didn’t so much as spare the man a glance. She came straight to him.
Three, he was still deeply in love with her. He’d thought those feelings might fade away when he had some distance. They hadn’t.
When she came into his arms, the love he felt was so shocking, so overwhelming, that for a moment he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t say hello, or what’s wrong, or I missed you, or it feels so incredible to hold you again. He could only bury his fingers in her non-pink hair and try to survive holding her body against his.
In a fleeting moment of awareness, he saw Caleb sit down and look away. Ransom wondered how long they’d been standing there, how long she’d been sobbing against his chest. He tried to remember if he’d pressed a kiss—or more than one kiss—against her soft hair as he embraced her.
“Shh,” he said, trying to calm her. “What’s the matter? What did they say?”
“They hated me. They hated my music,” she sobbed.
“What? I can’t believe that.”
“It’s true!”
“Well, they’re idiots.”
Caleb brought over a tissue and faded again into the background. Good kid.
“Calm down a minute.” He wiped at her tears. “Tell me what happened.”
“They kept calling it b-bluegrass.” She took the tissue from him and used it to blow her nose. “They said I should do a holiday collaboration with…with Eminem.”
Ransom sighed. “They have no hearts. No souls. They’re music execs, you know? Hey, Lola Mae, look at me.”
She did. Her deep blue eyes were tainted a miserable red. He wanted to go upstairs and slaughter whoever had made her cry like this.
“What they say doesn’t matter.” She shook her head but he put a finger under her chin. “It doesn’t matter. They’re greedy, they want you to do whatever makes them the most money. They didn’t even try to understand your musical vision, did they?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t understand. They hardly listened.”
“But you understand, and I understand. And other people will understand. Don’t give up because a few knuckleheads didn’t like it.”
She pushed away from him in frustration. “Those knuckleheads control my career. What am I supposed to do now? Upload my songs to some dumbass music sharing site?”
“Yes.”
“You’re stupid.” She sniffled into the crumpled tissue, then looked back up at him. “What are you even doing here?”
“I brought you a birthday present.” He presented the ivory gift bag, a bit crushed now from their embrace.
She stared at it. “You came all the way from Vegas to bring me a birthday present?”
“And to help celebrate your success.”
She started rooting through the tissue paper. “Well, there’s nothing to celebrate. There’s seriously no fucking point.” She took out the bracelet and he turned it over to show her the inscription.
“Love Yourself,” she read. She stared at the words while he studied her new, longer hair. So blonde. So different. But so much the same. “Love yourself?” she repeated in an even angstier tone. “That’s ironic, coming from you.”
His eyes narrowed. He was aware of Caleb sitting a few feet away, but he still asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know what it means. You didn’t love me enough to stay with me, so what’s the point of this shitty gift?”
A minute ago she’d been clinging to him. Now she was glaring, her lips mashed in a line.
“The point is…” What is the point, Ransom? Why are you here? “It’s a gift. It doesn’t have to have a point.”
But that was a shit answer, an evasive answer. “Do you really want to talk about this now?” he asked, glancing toward Caleb.
“I want to know why you brought this to me.” She waved the bracelet in his face. “I think you bought the wrong one. Couldn’t you find one that said Get Lost, Kid?”
“Lola—”
“Or You’re Not Enough For Me?”
“You know that’s not why—”
“Do you think they even make bracelets like that? Because that would’ve been the perfect way to express your feelings.”
“Wow. Are you done?” He suppressed the urge to shake her, especially with her new, young bodyguard watching from a few feet away. “I brought you a gift because I thought you might like it. I came here to support you. You might try saying thank you.”
“You might try not giving people Love Yourself bracelets when you’ve treated them like trash.”
“I never treated you like trash.”
“You threw away what we had,” she said. “You left me.”
“I did that for your benefit. I left you because we’d never work. It didn’t have to do with loving you, or not loving you.” Every word out of his mouth made him sound more like an asshole, and she was already wrought up from her disastrous meeting. Her expression darkened with every syllable he uttered. “You’re twenty years old,” he said through his teeth.
“Twenty-one, remember? You brought me a fucking birthday gift.” She waved the bag in front of his face, then shoved the bracelet back down into the tissue paper. “Whatever. I don’t want anything from you, especially something that tells me to love myself when I feel like a crappy, rejected piece of shit.” She thrust the bag back into his hands. “Take this to Vegas and give it to your fucked up soul singer. I have to go.”
Caleb materialized beside her and picked up he
r guitar case. As they walked away, Lola turned and snatched the bag back from his fingers. “No, you know what, I’m keeping this. Yes, I can love myself. I think I’m the only one who does.”
“Lola—” he began, but she gave him the finger and stalked toward the door. Caleb followed with a brief, mystified glance back in his direction.
Lola 2.0. Less pink, but moody as ever.
Ransom 2.0. Willing to admit he deserved her outrage, because he’d made the wrong fucking choice.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Worth the World
Lola composed twelve different emails to Ransom that evening, and deleted all of them. Then she almost called him, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. It had been so difficult to see him, so difficult to feel his warmth and strength and remember what she was missing. She’d almost gotten over him, and now she felt broken in pieces again.
At least this time, she’d done the leaving. She’d been the one to turn her back and walk away, and she hoped he felt as shitty as she’d felt when he abandoned her.
No, she didn’t hope that. Ugh.
Once she got over her red-hot anger, she remembered why he left, and why he would have left her again, even if they’d gone out to dinner or something for old times’ sake. She understood he couldn’t get over their age difference, and that he worried about his porno past besmirching her brand or some such bullshit.
He was also worried about losing his job, even though she could have supported him. She hadn’t envisioned a cabana boy situation, but she could see how he’d imagine things that way. He had a lot of pride, and major issues around sex and money. She understood all that, but it didn’t make the outcome any easier to bear.
She missed his face, his direct gaze, his muscular arms. She missed his half smiles and the way he offered support when she felt blue. She missed having someone around who accepted her for who she was, but still encouraged her to be better. To be happier.
She looked down at the bracelet he’d given her. It fit perfectly on her wrist. It was so pretty and shiny and polished, and the engraving was nice. Love Yourself. It was what he’d taught her to do, to love herself more. It was a thoughtful present. She shouldn’t have freaked out on him. For days afterward, she stewed about what had happened, until she thought she had to find some way to make things right.
But when she tried to apologize and explain her feelings in an email, she said too much, and then she’d delete all the emotional stuff until the email was so bare there was no use in sending it. Then she’d do an Internet search for Rico Rockhard just to look at him, and then she’d feel guilty, because she knew how heartbreaking his porn years had been. Then she’d feel frustrated and depressed because she’d rejected him when he was trying to be kind to her.
Then she’d compose another email and start the cycle all over again.
Dear Ransom,
I need you to come back to me.
Dear Ransom,
I’m different now. I’ve changed. I’m more mature.
Dear Ransom,
Sometimes I have nightmares about Barcelona, and you’re not here.
Dear Ransom,
No one has ever kissed me like you.
What does that MEAN?
She spent hours on her guitar trying to work through her feelings. The songs wrote themselves, songs about loss and longing and hard muscles and deep gazes and sexual fireworks.
She wondered if he was seeing someone else by now. You couldn’t walk six feet in Vegas without bumping into a bimbo, and looking the way Ransom looked, he might have slept with four dozen women. She imagined him banging them in elevators, or drilling them against walls while their fake boobs bounced and they cried Ooh, ooh, ooh… Seriously, all he had to do was snap his fingers.
But he wasn’t the finger-snapping type, and she knew she only imagined those scenes because she’d watched too many of his films. He’d told her more than once that he didn’t like empty sex. He was a caring person who preferred for sex to mean something.
And…he’d had sex with her, so she must have meant something to him. He’d never fucked her in an elevator or up against a wall. He’d felt something for her, even if he’d left afterward out of some misplaced sense of honor. The staying-away was the issue, the obstacle. She had to figure out how to get him to reconsider that choice. If he’d give their love a chance, just for a while, he’d see that she didn’t care about their age difference, or his porno past.
He’d see that she wasn’t a wild, idiot kid anymore, but an emotional woman who wanted to love him.
Maybe if she could get him to come to the festival in Sacramento, she could make some grand gesture to explain how much she needed him, how much she missed him. She could play one of those guitar songs he loved, one of the ones she’d written about him. She’d share it with all the thousands of people in the audience, but especially him. She’d invite him to stand beside her at the sound console so she could gaze right into his eyes when she introduced the song.
The whole scene rolled out in her mind like a movie. He’d smile. He’d give in. He’d kiss her. As for the audience, ravers were an easygoing crew. She could play one folksy song, and they wouldn’t mind. Hell, she’d put a beat under it, the way Ransom suggested, and turn it into a totally new sound. The crowd would love it. Would he come to Sacramento if she asked? Even after their altercation?
She’d write an email. He preferred emails, and she’d for sure cry if he rejected her over the phone. She’d share her feelings and leave the rest up to him. She had to hurry, because the Sacramento EDM Fest was just a couple of days away.
Lola M. Reynolds
([email protected])
July 6 11:15 AM
Dear Ransom,
I hope you’re doing great in Vegas. I’m writing belatedly to thank you for your gift, and to thank you for coming to L.A. last week. I’m sorry I flipped out and stormed off. Even though I changed a lot after Barcelona, my inner diva still flares up sometimes, and I behave like a jackass. I don’t have any excuses.
But I regret it now, because I would have liked to spend more time with you. I miss seeing you. I know you’re busy but I’m doing this huge set on Friday at the Sacramento EDM Festival (flyer attached.) I know you LOVE EDM MUSIC more than anything in the world. Ha. Maybe not. But please, if you can, come to Sacramento. I’ll make sure you’re on the list to get backstage. Maybe you can stand by the stairs the way you used to. And maybe, if you felt like it, we could get some coffee afterward…
She wrote more, then deleted more, then simply signed it with her name and pressed Send. God, she hoped the email made sense. She hoped she wasn’t being ridiculous or childish.
She really, really hoped he showed up.
*
Ransom didn’t quit Ironclad because Caleb ratted him out to the management. On the contrary, there hadn’t been any blowback from his meeting with Lola in the Vanguard lobby, even though Caleb had seen enough to ask some serious questions.
No, Ransom quit Ironclad because Lola never gave him enough lead time to be where he needed to be. She’d invited him to come see her show and he wasn’t going to disappoint her, even if she seemed to have no concept of necessary travel time between Sacramento and Las Vegas.
The bodyguarding was just a job. He could get another one. He could take five years off and not run out of money. Would five years be enough to get Lola out of his system? Would she mature enough in five years to realize she’d be better off with some younger guy?
Maybe. Maybe not. Of more pressing urgency: How was he going to get to fucking Sacramento in time for her festival set? He’d told her he would be there, but once again, the universe conspired against him. Cancelled flight. Lost luggage. He’d had to set up a new rental car account now that he wasn’t working for Ironclad, and he never realized it took more documentation than applying for his fucking driver’s license in the first place.
By the time he worked out the rental car shit, located the festival site, and paid t
wenty dollars for parking a good half-mile from the actual festival grounds, Lola’s set was already underway. He knew her songs by now, knew every one of them down to the number of beats per minute. He stopped, banged his fists together, and looked back at the car in the far, far distance. His ear plugs. Damn it.
He wasn’t going back now.
As he trudged toward the entrance kiosks, kids sent him sideways glances. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that a designer suit might raise suspicion at a raver event. If only he had a neon necklace or something. If only he hadn’t worn the Ferragamo shoes.
The festival officials, a bunch of hipster college kids drunk on power, asked him three times if he had any drugs or weapons on him.
“I’m supposed to be on the backstage list for Lola—Lady Paradise,” Ransom explained. “She invited me here. I worked in Europe as her security guard.”
Another “official” sauntered over. He was about Lola’s age, with a ring in his nose and a long, braided goatee. “You got some security credentials on you?” he asked.
Out of habit, Ransom reached for his waist, where he usually clipped his badge. No longer there. Fuck. “I don’t work in security anymore,” he said.
The hipster crew exchanged glances. “Can you call someone?” Ransom asked, pointing at the head guy’s two-way radio. “I’ve been traveling since five AM to get here. She’s going to be pissed if I miss her set.”
That wasn’t a lie. Lola had a temper when she didn’t get her way, and Ransom’s own temper was surging just like Lola’s beats and drops. To his relief, the kids agreed it was a good idea to call the backstage manager. The backstage manager responded after the world’s longest five minute silence and confirmed that yes, Ransom was on the backstage access list. Thank God.
Ransom moved through the turnstile only to be stopped by the braided goatee kid with the walkie-talkie. “Uh, sir, one-day passes cost seventy-five dollars.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ransom chewed the inside of his lip as he reached for his wallet, subduing the urge to rip the kid’s goatee out by the roots. He handed over his credit card and waited for them to swipe it. He then submitted to the indignity of having a skull-printed paper band affixed beside his Mont Blanc wristwatch by a girl with rainbow-painted lips.
