I slide in one of my diamond earrings and check myself out in the hotel mirror. My nose is a little swollen because I still haven’t taken the stud out yet. It’s different, and I want different. When we begin filming Timelines again, the director will make me take it out, so I may as well have some fun while I can. I need to look extra hot tonight. I pucker up my lips and reapply my red lipstick. Brighter is better. I lean over to look at the digital clock on the night table. It’s only seven, but I have this horrid feeling that the night is going to last forever. A few old girlfriends are driving in from my hometown to grab drinks. The girls from high school are all social climbing, name-dropping, selfish, using money to get whatever they want types. When they’d mistreated my cousin, Quinn, after an accident involving her boyfriend, that was when I “lost” the girls’ numbers.
Quinn has been my best friend since birth, and when I moved to LA, I abandoned her for what I thought was a better life. I still feel guilty for leaving her so suddenly, but I couldn’t stay in that town. It was suffocating. I thought I could find something better out in the real world. Love? Fame? Attention? Who knows? How wrong was I? Nonetheless, after they saw my Twitter status stating my trip to Nashville, they’d insisted on driving the two hours to visit. I fluff my thick, red hair and let it fall along my back. It contrasts nicely with the white scoop neck blouse and skinny jeans. I step into a pair of comfy flats and grab my purse before walking out the door. I hesitate as I reach the lobby. I’m half-tempted to walk out the front door and straight to the auditorium where my cute, mystery guy said he’d be playing tonight, but I decide against it. Sticking with my plan seems safer. Drinks with the girls, then I’ll get in bed early and catch up on some much needed sleep. The vibration of my phone calls out to me. After picking it up, I read a message from my agent.
The director passed. He said you’re too wholesome looking.
I slam my phone back onto the bed. What does ‘wholesome looking’ mean anyway? It’s probably a nice way of calling me fat, even though I’m far from it. I used to think that being an actress was everything I’d ever wanted, but lately the lack of privacy and scrutiny is almost enough to change my mind. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever get a starring role. I’m destined to be type casted in the soap opera genre as the ditzy friend. I head straight for the hotel bar. I need a drink, and fast.
Two hours later, I find myself alone and drowning my sorrows in a shot of tequila. Drinks with the girls had gone…smoothly. I smiled and nodded while they gushed about their new lives, jobs, and babies. Everyone commented on how lucky I was to be rich and famous, but all I want is someone to love me, just like they all had. They’re the lucky ones. Look at me; I’m halfway to a pity party. Just my tequila and me. I promised Quinn no more drinking, but this is an emergency. What Quinn doesn’t know, won’t hurt her. I wave at the bartender to pour me another shot. He shakes his brown head.
“Aren’t you ready to go too? Your friends have all gone.”
He is so not going to cut me off!
“One more,” I plead. I look up at him and bat my dark lashes. It’s a move that works with all the guys. They can’t resist me. His face turns red, but he pours one last shot to which I promptly throw back. I’m not drunk yet, my tolerance for alcohol is high, but I’m lonely. It’s nice to pretend that the bottle is my best friend, but I always end up feeling like shit in the morning. Looking at my phone, I contemplate looking at one of those trashy gossip websites. I’ve gone a whole two days without doing it, but the temptation is just too much. What are they saying about me? What do they think about Barrett? Are the producers mad? What about my drunken night? Against my better judgment, I give in. I scan through the articles looking for anything that might mention my name. Sure enough, there’s a headline with a picture of me leaving a club with Jo. If I had to get caught drunk, at least I look good in it.
“Ginger Teague so over scandalous boyfriend. The popular Timelines actress was seen leaving a few LA nightclubs the other night without fiancé Barrett. Her left ring finger was also noticeably sans ring. Many partygoers stated that Ginger was drinking, dancing, and seemed to be having a good time flirting. Barrett was recently involved in a scandal of his own earlier this week, when a mistress sold a story to the press claiming that she and Barrett had been having an affair, a Snapchat picture that was reportedly Barrett’s nether regions were also leaked. His reps deny that the story is true. A source close to Teague states that she and Barrett are doing “just fine” and reports that the couple are madly in love and the false claims of some wannabe actress can’t destroy their love. We all hope this is true, since the couple also play on-screen lovers. We would hate for them to break up.”
What a credible source. Barrett and I are madly in love, exactly what they want everyone to think. After skimming through a few hateful comments, I slip my phone back into my clutch and finish my drink. For being a girl who supposedly has it all, I sure feel alone in the world. My friends are fake, Barrett can’t keep his dick in his pants, and even my career is at a standstill. If I don’t do something quick, I’ll end up broke and alone. I need a change. I need something fun. I need…a little mystery in my life.
Standing up, I motion for the bartender to put all the drinks on my tab. Now where can I find mystery? I stumble through the hotel lobby. It’s a long walk to the auditorium, but I can’t drive. Maybe he’ll cheer me up. For the second time that day, I hightail through the streets of Nashville, but this time in better footwear.
Walking into the dimly lit auditorium sends a shock through my trendy system. It’s dirty, damp, and smells like something may have died a bazillion years ago in here. The entire audience is singing along to the band on stage. From the sounds of it, they’re just finishing up a song. Though I missed the entire concert, I shrug and keep an eye out for my mystery guy. I’m not sure what to say to him. It’s not like I wanna marry him or anything. I doubt he makes any type of living with this band. How would he support me? Oh right, he wouldn’t. I stand among the shadows with my back pressed up against the cool concrete wall. I sobered up a bit walking here, so now I realize what a huge mistake this is. I don’t know this guy’s name or what band he’s in. Country or Rock? For all I know this could be a play. It’s just those eyes. He has the lightest blue eyes I have ever seen, and the cutest goofy grin to match. Dammit, I’m kidding myself. I love his pompadour hair and tats. This guy has me so incredibly fuckin’ turned on, it’s impossible to talk myself out of this. He invited me, right? Well sort of.
Thump. Thump. My heart pounds as he strolls around the stage in that same T-shirt and jeans from this morning. This time he has on a pair of sexy, black rimmed glasses and holds an acoustic in his hand. Oh yes, he’s gonna sing. Out of the four men on the stage, he has my full-undivided attention. And he’s not wearing shoes. That’s interesting. I don’t know why, but I half expect some sort of pop music to start playing. Instead, my mystery guy and another man rock out some tricky chords. My feet tap along with the beat, and the whole crowd begins to sing along. His voice melds into my mind, and soon the underground rock beat slows down and he starts singing about a girl he can’t get rid of. No matter how toxic and crazy she is, he has to keep pushing through the days by her side. Depressing, this song is fucking depressing.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts and turn to order a drink at the bar. It reminds me too much of my own relationship with Barrett. I was addicted to him. No matter how many times he cheated on me, I always forgave him because I’d convinced myself I was better off. I know, I know. If I’ve figured this all out, why do I continue to do it? There is no simple explanation, except lust. I vainly fell for his charming good looks and smolder. Complications, complications. So glad that’s over.
After sitting down on an old torn barstool, I wait for the set to finish while sipping on a Jack and coke. The place is small, and, surely, he’s seen me by now. I stand out; I know this and am damn proud of it. Here I sit, confident he’ll approach me after the nex
t song.
After the set ends, and people begin leaving cheering and clapping, I only play with the straw in my drink. What do I want to happen? Do I want to hook up with him? Maybe we can just talk. As the minutes fly by and still no mystery man, I get a little worried. I don’t chase guys; it’s bad enough that I came here. I’m not about to walk up to him. I stand up to go home and throw a tip in the jar beside me. This is a bad idea.
“I hoped you’d show up. Did you enjoy the show?”
A smile tugs on my lips, which I hide before turning around. I recognize that voice. It’s imprinted forever on my brain.
“It was okay.” I shrug as if his lyrics, his voice, hadn’t just touched my soul.
“Just okay?” he looks a bit hurt because his brow furrows and he looks down at the ground. He reaches out and feels for my hand to pull me toward an old rusty door leading backstage. Against my better judgment, I follow him. I’m the kind of girl who frequents country clubs and five star restaurants, I have no idea what to expect in a place like this, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
“I wanna show you something, Ginger.”
I stop in my tracks, refusing to move any further until he explains himself.
“I never told you my name…” Wearily, I pull my hand from his and take a step back.
“I sort of…recognized your face from TV.”
I put my hands on my hips and cock my head before smiling. Oh, so he’s a fan. I look him up and down. “You don’t peg me as the kind of guy who watches soap operas.”
He rubs his chin before shaking his head. “No, my girlfriend loves Timelines.”
At the mention of girlfriend, my heart skips a beat. I can’t allow him to see how affected I am. I stand there and play actress, like I don’t care at all if he has a girlfriend. The smile stays on my face, and my eyes crinkle in the corner, all while my insides scream in pain. What the hell? Girlfriend?
“I see.”
“Shit.” he moves his hand up to his forehead and looks up at me from underneath it. “Sorry, it’s sometimes hard to remember that we aren’t together anymore.”
I keep the fake smile on my face.
“Sure.” I didn’t mean for it to come out as sarcastically as it did.
“No, really. We broke up a few weeks ago.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me….I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten your name.” I lick my lips as I wait.
“The name is Caspian, but everyone calls me Cas.”
How cute! Completely poetic for such a heartfelt kinda guy. Never have I thought a man of his type to be completely beautiful, until now. Can I find something about him that I don’t like? Then I remember. Ah, yes the smoking. Complete turn off. Must think of the smoking. Must keep my eyes off his hands, lips, and eyes. Smoking, Ginger! Gross!
“Nice to meet you, Caspian.” We stand there together beaming, and it’s the first time in a long time that I am able to relax around another person. I have to pretend around my normal friends. I’ve become someone I’m not happy being, a girl who cares too much about what others thought.
“You from around here?” I ask him.
“Nope, I’m on tour right now. I actually grew up in New Mexico.”
“I grew up a few hours from here,” I offer, still unsure as to why I’ve told him about my childhood.
“Really? You don’t even have an accent.”
“What?” I can’t hear over the loud cheering of the crowd.
“Your accent! It’s not very… Nashville-like, for lack of a better word.”
Oh. He means southern. He talks a little strange.
“Yeah, no one wants a southern girl in their movies. I lost it when I moved to LA.”
He pointed to the door behind him. “You wanna hang out back there? It’s quieter.”
I ponder saying no. I should turn around. Instead, I nod and follow him through the backstage door. A shock of static electricity flows through my body as he grabs my hand. I pull back and look up at him. A few sweaty band members lay on a beat up couch and loveseat. One of the guys, a brunette with a thick beard and oversized gauges in his ears, beats on a coffee table with some drumsticks, while giving me a suspicious look. Caspian ignores them, and we walk straight into another private room filled with a few guitars, a couch, and a large mirror.
“From the moment I saw you on the street, I knew you were the one.”
Of course, a pickup line. He’s taken me to a secluded room. What did I expect, really? It’s what he wants, what all the men want from me. They never stay afterwards; no man has ever changed for me.
“You jerk!” My breath gets heavy. Cas puts a hand out to calm me.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m such an asshole. I suck at this. I meant I knew you were my muse. You could get me out of this rut.” His hand travels down my side and stops on my hip. “You walked past me on the street, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”
How lame. Another pick up line. Does this guy even know how to flirt? I swear he was a little smoother this morning. “Well you sure know how to flatter a girl. You’re right, you aren’t good at this.”
He smirks, knowing good and well I’m interested, and pulls an acoustic guitar from the corner of the room. It’s a beauty, a dark brown wood that looks as old as I am. My father collected guitars growing up, but at the insistence of my mother, he sold them all. I’d always admired them though. It was the only thing my father and I had in common.
“This is beautiful,” I say, reaching out to trail my fingers along the neck.
“You play?”
“No. I took a few lessons once, but I can’t play anything. I grew up right next to the infamous Music City.” I raise my hands to gesture toward the lovely city around us. “So naturally I love music. I was in a few musicals here when I was younger.”
“So you sing?”
“Barely. I don’t compare to your voice. That was amazing.”
He plays a few chords on the guitar and smiles. “So the truth finally comes out. You really did like it.” His fingers pluck the strings delicately, and his head bobs with the beat and he begins singing a few chords.
Dear Ginger
Life is calling you a fool
Learn to embrace the new......And
Free your soul
Free everything you own
Walk forward and take control.....With me
Be my soul - Be my world too
I always will....Stay
We are gold - You are my muse
I never will....Leave you
When he finishes his song, he sets the guitar down and gives me an intense stare. Should I clap? If this were Facebook, I’d give him a like. I’d favorite his tweet. Maybe I should pat him on the back with a ‘Good job well done!’ or ‘Atta boy’. The rules of a serenade are lost upon me.
“That was… so poetic,” I tell him. I love it.
He bites his lip and shrugs. “Indeed. I wrote that this morning, after we met.”
“Is it about me?” I cock my head to the side.
“Not really…I don’t really think about what or who the song is about. It’s a mixture of fiction and nonfiction, but you inspired the passion.”
“One question. Do you really think I’m a fool?”
He runs his hands down his face. “You can’t read into it that way.”
I let the moment pass and look through a few random CDs on the table. I don’t look him in the eyes as I talk. I’m not sure why.
“Sometimes I feel that way. Lost among faces. Nothing special among a crowd of special people. People think I’m just a girl who likes to party and have fun. Stupid, young, and foolish.”
I let my eyes move up to gauge his reaction to my confession. His expression is blank like he’s still trying to figure me out.
“Then don’t let them think of you that way.”
I sit back in the chair and cross my hands in front of my chest. “You make it sound so easy. I guess I could get lost in the
melancholy that is life.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I have no idea how hard it is to be a famous actress. I bet you have no privacy at all, right? Not able to make a mistake without the whole world watching.”
“Exactly.” I clear my throat. “So you wrote all those songs you played? Which one is your favorite?”
He shrugs and fiddles with his hands a bit. His shy demeanor is so adorable.
“I dunno. I wrote all of them, so they’re kinda, like, all my favorite. You just asked me to pick a favorite child.”
Well I’m not shy. In fact, I talk way too much. “You sound amazing though. What’s the name of your band?”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Aly,” he finally says.
“Aly,” I repeat, it doesn’t sound as sexy coming from me, but the way it rolls off his tongue sends shivers down my spine. He stands up and walks to a small white cooler hidden in the corner. He holds up a few bottles of water.
“No, thanks.”
He shrugs and sits back down. After taking a giant swig of the ice-cold water, he makes a sound. It sounds halfway in between a grunt and an orgasmic sigh. Sweat rolls down the side of his face, which, surprisingly, is a turn on. I force myself to look away and stare at the rotting ceiling. There’s a blackish green patch of mildew in the corner.
He sits back and rests his arms along the back of the leather couch.
“So,” I say to fill the awkward silence. “I’m sorry if I came off rude this morning. I had the worst morning ever. Actually, it’s been a bad couple of days.”
“I hope everything gets better.”
My hands tug at the fabric of my clothes. “Thanks me too.” He must think I’m a whiney mental case.
“How long you in town for?”
“I leave on Sunday.” I have two more nights left.
The One Thing Page 3
