Silent Song

by Ren Benton

  “And you know what a buzzkill my overactive imagination can be. Great for adding complications to a screenplay. Not so much in real life, when they’re hoisting a coffin out of the hole and I know it’s going to fall and dump his body for tourists and paparazzi to snap commemorative photos of.”

  He tightened the circle of his arms and rested his chin on the top her head, forming a protective bubble. “Didn’t happen. It’s okay to let that one go.”

  Her head moved side to side, as if the fear gripped her and letting go wasn’t her choice to make. Her voice cracked. “I’m so tired.”

  He imagined she meant much more than lack of shuteye, but he had no remedy to offer for existential weariness. “I’ll drive you around while the road noise lulls you to sleep. I’ll take you to a hotel. Whatever you want me to do.”

  A lengthy pause suggested she wasn’t up to directing him. She finally agreed to his improv. “Bacon is sounding better and better.”

  They lurched to their feet with minimal bumping and only slightly more cussing, circumvented the bicycle trap without incident, and stepped out into morning light that made them both squint.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” Gin said.

  “Sounds fun.”

  She turned her narrowed, red-rimmed eyes on him. “You don’t have to come.”

  “I’m walking.” He set off toward the path. “You can trot along behind with your little Dachshund legs, but if we’re heading the same way, we might as well keep each other company.”

  She hung back. “I’m not going to impale myself on a branch if you leave me unsupervised, Lex.”

  His thoughts along those lines had receded, but creeps and wildlife still loomed large. If she didn’t want him playing bodyguard, she should have hired a real one. “No point cooking your breakfast until I know you’re coming to get it,” he repeated.

  She could have taken her walk around the lake and made him trot after her; instead, she caught up with him by the edge of the trees. They strolled along the winding driveway without speaking — a thoughtful quiet rather than a tense one begging to be broken.

  When they reached the foot of the drive, an approaching vehicle flashed mounted lights at them. They stopped to wait.

  Moments later, the squad car turned into the driveway. A man in uniform stepped out. “Mornin’, folks. I’m John Raymond, chief of the Grayson Police Department.”

  Gin completed the introductions. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nah. Just thought I’d stop and introduce myself to the neighbors. Let you know I’m nearby in case of trouble.”

  To Lex, it sounded more like a warning than a neighborly overture, as if the chief expected them to be the cause of trouble rather than the victims thereof. “Do you get a lot of trouble around here?”

  “Not at all. It’s a quiet place. Peaceful.”

  The subtle accusation made Gin tense beside him. “Did the neighbors miles away complain about the noise level?”

  Raymond flashed a politician’s smile, phony as it was wide. “Not yet.”

  “We won’t disturb your peace,” Gin promised with matching diplomacy. “We’re exceptionally boring people.”

  Diplomacy wasn’t Lex’s strong suit. “I didn’t even bring my pet cheetah.”

  Raymond eyed him as if contemplating how seriously to take him. “Here’s my card. If you have occasion to call 911 after business hours, do that first, then call me. I’ll likely get here quicker if I’m home.”

  Gin accepted his offering. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

  He gave each of them one last look, tipped his hat to Gin, and drove away.

  She flipped the card between her fingers. “What do you suppose his problem is?”

  Lex looked down at her. “You’re pale and blotchy, and you have purple rings around your eyes.” Diplomacy, again, not his forte. “Either you’re sleep deprived and had a hard cry, or your alcoholic ex-boyfriend has been using you as a punching bag.”

  Fragile, bruised-looking eyelids dropped. “You could have warned me.”

  He hadn’t thought anything of it. She’d just cried her heart out, for fuck’s sake. How glamorous was she supposed to look? “Under the circumstances, it seemed in poor taste to mention you’ve looked better, but if I’d known we’d be receiving callers at this hour of the morning, I would have recommended a makeup artist.”

  She smoothed her hair from her face and held it behind her head. “I’m sure it will be fine. When has attracting the attention of law enforcement not worked out great for me?” She turned back toward the house. “Let’s get you in front of witnesses before harm befalls you and I’m indicted.”

  “I’m positive he was more concerned about your welfare than mine.”

  “And I’m positive domestic violence is less of a bureaucratic hassle for him than murder.” Her voice had gone as flat and frigid as the lake. “If he wants a quiet, peaceful town, he’s going to keep a close eye on the known killer.”

  Immobilized by that parting shot, Lex could only watch as she walked away. She had defended herself in a life-or-death situation. Any rational person would agree the course of action that yielded an outcome in which she survived was the obvious, only choice to be made.

  How had it never crossed his mind while inventorying her injuries that the act of taking a life, no matter how necessary, had left another scar on her soul?

  A couple hours later, Ethan came down to the studio. “If anyone is interested,” he said loudly enough to carry to the far corners of the dungeon, “Liv took Simone shopping.”

  “At the thrift store in Grayson with the stuffed elk out front?” Lex guessed at a normal conversational volume.

  “Hey, they’ve got great stuff. I stop there on my way to the post office so I can ship my loot straight home.”

  “Chris is opening some interesting tokens of affection, huh?”

  “More like bribes to not do this stupid stunt driving retreat that’s going to get him killed. I thought the elk would be persuasive, but it’s not for sale.” Ethan got loud again. “Anyway, Liv’s photo op senses probably led them to Aspen or Denver, so they should be gone for hours.”

  “If I hear from anyone interested, I’ll pass the news along.”

  A minute later, Lex rolled his chair into the live room, where he’d moved the couch so Gin could impersonate a pill bug in peace. “Did you catch all that?”

  It would have been hard to miss. “Shame about the elk.”

  “No kidding. I hoped to inspire Mom in a new direction with her decorating, but I guess she’s stuck with vintage doorknobs and furry wallpaper.”

  “She’ll be so disappointed. Every proper Victorian manse needs a dedicated elk room.” Gin couldn’t force the smile in her brain to show on her face.

  Either the joke wasn’t that funny or Lex felt it necessary to stifle his amusement in honor of her grim mood.

  Ethan’s announcement had taken away her excuse to linger and ruin the rest of Lex’s day. “I guess I can go hide in my — oh, right. I don’t have a room.”

  “Mine’s available. Or you can stay here if you don’t mind the noise. I’ve got some guitar tinkering to do, but I’ll be banging on the piano in a bit.” He wheeled back to the control room as if her decision was of no consequence to him.

  He must care a little. He came looking for her. He didn’t run away when she ruptured and spewed a decade of backed-up emotional sewage. He fed her and made her this hidden nest. He even stood guard between her and Ethan, who posed no threat.

  She stayed curled in the dent she’d made on the couch, where she knew nothing new would hurt her on Lex’s watch, and closed her eyes.

  The piano coaxed Gin awake with sorrowful chords. High, innocent notes fluttered into the song, then became frantic, jarring in their ferocity, like a small bird struggling to free itself from tar and only ensuring it became hopelessly mired in the trap.

  Lex had created a flawless musical summary of Tambara
’s character, a young woman caught in an abusive marriage that would soon kill her. Gin knew how the story ended, but even so, his telling of this part still stabbed her heart, injected fear, and made her want to scream, Somebody save her!

  When the last note faded, she said, “That’s beautiful. Is it your theme song?”

  “That’s still playing coy with me.” He scribbled in his notebook. “Are you happy with the rough tracks I gave you?”

  “I could put your ‘rough’ tracks in the movie as is, and it would be the best music I’ve ever had.”

  His pencil tapped impatiently against the paper. “I know, but are you happy with just that?”

  The offhand arrogance of the I know pushed a smile to her lips — and reminded her that smiling was hard today.

  “It’s, what, ten minutes of noise? Even with the theme, that’s a single and a B side, not a soundtrack. That won’t do much for your revenue.”

  Ordinarily, she’d tell him to let the producer worry about the revenue, but since he and Olivia were both working virtually unpaid unless the project turned a profit, his stake in the production’s success went beyond ordinary. “What are you thinking?”

  “Your scenes are visually lyrical. You don’t need a traditional score because the movie sings all by itself. It pisses me off that people will be too tone deaf to hear it like I do, and I want to ram it into their ears.” He repeated the melody on the piano one-handed. “This doesn’t belong anywhere in the movie, but it belongs with the movie. I can give you five or six more songs if you want them.”

  He had uncovered a secret greedy desire Gin hadn’t known was buried within her — a companion for her movie — but a project of that scope usually took him two years to complete. He’d never given her a departure date, but it certainly wasn’t two years from now. “Do you have time for that?”

  “This is as easy as covering somebody else’s song. Takes an hour to translate the source material into an arrangement with my mark on it.” He flicked a finger at the microphone suspended above the piano. “Recording all the parts will be the most time-consuming aspect.”

  If he insisted on setting himself up like that, it was her duty to oblige. “You could call Matt.”

  He checked his watch. “Running late today.”

  “I had other things on my mind.” Things she’d prefer to avoid revisiting for as long as possible. She sat up and adjusted the blanket he’d draped over her while she slept to envelop her new position. “But since you’re lamenting again, let’s talk about it.”

  “Let’s talk about how one of us needs to look up ‘lamenting’ in the dictionary.”

  “He wants to learn, Lex.”

  “I don’t have anything to teach him.”

  “Oh, bullshit. You may be too selfish to share, but you could fill his brain with songwriting wisdom if you wanted to.”

  “It’s luck, not wisdom.”

  Luck made overconfident fools, not rightfully arrogant geniuses. “Success reproduced album after album is skill, and skills can be taught. I know creativity is ninety percent staring into space and worrying you’ll never have a good idea, but eventually you do, and how you transform it from an idea into music is a process.”

  “One I refuse to itemize into the millionth how-to guide that will be responsible for the next generation of formulaic shit.” The stubborn set of his jaw told her his stance on that issue was immovable. The idea of Gone & Forgotten clones gave him hives. He had never been of the opinion that imitation was a compliment to the band being copied or the copycat. “You also know how few people have the capacity to make something inspired and original out of nothing.”

  She’d done enough teaching to know no amount of instruction would make a difference for the vast majority of people who thought they had a brilliant future in the creative realm, but that one-in-a-million chance of reaching an artist who needed just a little nudge of the ignition switch to launch something truly remarkable made all the in-one-ear-and-out-the-other worthwhile. “Few of them even have the capacity to follow a formula. But a team of four or five throwing together their overused chord progressions and rare sparks of inspiration and interesting mistakes might end up with something good enough to let them live their dream.”

  Suspicion furrowed her brow as she realized how far afield the discussion had strayed. “Why are we even debating this? I never suggested opening the Lex Perry School of Music. Matt is the only sad-eyed waif I asked you to adopt.”

  His eyes slid to the side, accompanied by a tight-lipped mutter. “I was trying to get you off that subject.”

  One simple topic change would shut her up, but he’d apparently rather talk about a touchy subject for him than hurt her. If he’d just tell her why it was touchy, she’d leave it alone.

  When he hurt, he ran away. These evasive maneuvers weren’t Lex being defensive, just... reluctant, almost embarrassed. She’d never seen him like this. “Why have you kept him this long if he’s so objectionable to be around?”

  “He’s a good kid.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Too good. He became part of a touring rock band years younger than I did, and he’s blissfully free of all the vice I wanted to blame on youth and opportunity. Nothing like an unblemished mirror to reflect my character flaws.”

  If his flaws were that bad, he’d have guaranteed his young ward developed them, but several of Matt’s murder texts had begun with whining, He never lets me do anything! “He has you looking out for him. Who did you have?”

  “He looks out for me more often than the other way around. I can’t tell you how often the timely appearance of Jiminy Drumkit has forced me to reconsider acting on impulse.”

  Matt had been around for four of his five years of sobriety. Did Lex give him credit for serving as his conscience? “You had a good time with those impulses while they lasted, though.”

  “You told me once if someone has to be chemically impaired to have a good time, the time isn’t that good.”

  Her insides cringed. If only she’d had the insight then to follow that unassailable logic to its root — addicts were trapped in an endless bad time — she might have been able to help him. “How preachy of me.”

  “Doesn’t make it less true. I’ve done things few men ever get the chance to do. Some of them were incredible, but I’d rather forget just as many.” He bowed his head and studied his shoes. “I have plenty of drunken blackouts with no memory at all, but sometimes I can remember a room in minute detail while drawing a blank on the people who must have been there. My shrink interprets the selective gaps as desperation to believe there were no witnesses. Nobody knows, nobody told their friends, nobody’s using it as a chapter in a tell-all book. It was all just a bad dream.”

  It sounded like fear something he’d done in the past would come back to haunt him, but it wasn’t as if he had a criminal record that inspired periodic checkups by law enforcement officials. “If you’re worried about public perception, it will be ‘lucky dude.’”

  “Screw the public’s perception.” His piercing gaze pinned her to the cushion behind her. “I’m worried about yours, and I can’t even warn you what to expect because I’ve conveniently erased it.”

  The presumed lifestyle of someone twice voted People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, whose entire adult life consisted of one-night stints all around the globe, was something to consider before getting involved with him. Apart from violent tendencies and communicable diseases — neither of which Lex had — Gin couldn’t see how unsavory experiences in a man’s past had any effect on her. Wild sex tapes from fifteen years ago making the rounds would only make her rage at the opportunist who betrayed Lex by making them public. She wouldn’t love the version of Lex she got any less. “I have never judged you.”

  “You’d think better of me if I’d been a better person.”

  “You are my favorite person.”

  He got the wide-eyed look of a man on the receiving end of an unexpected slap to the face.

  Gin
had known Maisie since they were five years old, but their friendship grew from a foundation of professional rivalry, a dynamic that continued to this day. She’d known Ethan for twelve years, but their friendship was tangential to his relationship with Ryan.

  No external force threw her and Lex together. They chose to be involved for no reason other than mutual like. They did nothing for each other’s careers. Their private dispositions yielded no PR benefits. All they got out of each other was each other.

  He was the only true and pure emotional connection she’d had since Ryan.

  But she’d done such a terrible job showing him how much he meant to her, he believed she thought badly of him.

  Regret stung her eyes, five years too late to make a difference. She blinked away the ripples in her vision and forced a smile. Keep it light, Greene. “If you were self-righteously wholesome, you’d have had a fit of the vapors at the very mention of a clown orgy.”

  His expression gradually relaxed. “I almost did because my first thought was a bunch of naked Pennywise replicants. Fortunately, my second thought was Harley Quinn” — he drew a wasp-waisted hourglass figure in the air with his hands — “which made the whole concept of clown sex considerably less seizure-inducing.”

  That would make a great frame for the story: boy frightened by grinning, primary-colored clowns retreats into an adult fantasy filled with dark, blunt-edged pleasures.

  “You’re directing it in your head, aren’t you?”

  “If you don’t want it, somebody else will.” She’d be looking for another job when writer’s block killed her career. Why not soft-core porn music videos?

  “I never said I didn’t want it. I just don’t want to be pawed by oversexed clowns.”