by Josey Alden
"Four million dollars," he says in slow motion. "Four point two million dollars, which is a crazy huge amount of money, which is your asking price, which means you asked and he accepted, and then it all fell apart because for a reason that is not yet apparent, you said no."
Hondo takes a breath. "And we haven't even gotten to the part where you would still have a home."
"Are you almost done?" I say.
"No," he says, pacing back and forth in front of me. "I've given you space to be a little wild the past six months. But this, this is not good at all."
"What do you mean, you've given me space? And what the hell does space have to do with anything?"
Hondo puts his gigantic hands over his face for a few seconds before answering. "Sophie, honey, this guy is offering to save your ass in a way none of your friends can, including me. Please let him."
"You know what?" I say. "He's nothing special. He doesn't get to own me. He's not the only rich dick on the planet who needs a house. Someone else will make an offer."
"When? You've waited four months for this offer."
"When-the-fuck-ever," I say. "It's going to work out."
My voice wavers on the last few words. Hondo pulls me to my feet, wraps me into his arms, and kisses the top of my head. I relax into his body. What would I do without him? No matter what he says, he was the one who saved my ass. I owe him everything. He just won't talk about that.
"It's going to work out, it's going to work out," I say, like a mantra. "It's going to—"
A sudden sob cut off my words. I cling to Hondo, burying my face in his chest to muffle the worst of my crying. He rubs my back in slow, little circles until the sobs clear out, and I'm left with an annoying case of hiccups.
"I love you, Ho," I whisper.
"I love you, too, sweetness."
"Please don't let my real estate agent murder me in my sleep."
"I'll do my best."
Scene 3 ~ Mark
Lang Winter's daughter. I had no idea I was going to offer her that deal. No one can ask me to pass up something like this, though. It's not like I'm going back on my resolution. I'm not here to sleep with her. Hell, she and that Hondo guy are all over each other. I don't need to be in the middle of that drama.
For me, this is all about craft and business. Never More Alone is falling apart. Braun and the guys are blaming it on me publicly in all the rags. Yeah, it pisses me off. Especially after I spent more than sixty days in rehab. I usually don't drink more than a few beers at a time. My coke habit wasn't that bad, either, mostly a weekend and party thing, and I'm not sure I believe all that sex addiction bullshit. Either way, sixty-three days was plenty of time to regain my focus. Whether alcohol, drugs, and women had that much of a grip on me or not, I can't deny that the partying was wasting time I needed to pour into my music. And what better way to focus than to work in Lang Winter's own house?
Fuck. I can't believe Sophie turned down my deal. Given the financial problems Lang had before he died, she has to be hurting financially. Why else would the house be up for sale? I thought offering her the asking price would make it an instant deal. And it's not like I'm asking anything illicit of her. I just want her to share some of that Lang Winter magic with me. Surely, that is worth four million dollars.
Feeling defeated and irritated, I go back to my hotel room. I turn on the TV and mute the sound. The lights and colors keep me from feeling too numb inside. Especially since my last taste of coke was more than two months ago. Even worse, the rehab counselors challenged me to make it the whole ninety days of treatment without masturbating. It was obvious they thought I couldn't do it, so I took it as a personal challenge. With nothing better to do tonight, though, I deserve a little relief.
I pull off my shoes, and then my t-shirt and jeans. I'm wearing a ridiculous pair of boxers with lipstick kisses all over them. The girls love them, so it's worth the potential embarrassment. Almost instantly, my erection stands straight out. I don't even have to think about one woman. Just thinking of the female gender in general turns me on.
Shit, it's been way too long.
I pick up the remote and search for a so-called adult channel. With my other hand, I stroke myself to a full erection. I don't need porn to get me off, but it gives me something to look at in this depressing room. I find a movie with a threesome of one guy and twin sisters. Kind of a stupid premise, but porn movies are not known for their complex storytelling. In the first two minutes of the movie, the twins are already asses up, with the lucky guy pounding them one after the other.
Whatever.
I close my eyes and let my mind wander as I touch myself. I think about Sophie. She's tiny, no more than five feet tall. Her blonde curls reach almost to her ass. I haven't seen that much hair on someone in a long time. Her eyelids don't really open all of the way. I didn't know if that's just her, or if the constant stream of alcohol gives her permanent bedroom eyes.
When she opened the door for Mary and me earlier, she was wearing only a t-shirt and a scrap of underwear. Right away, I could see the natural lines of her breasts under her thin shirt, still held high by her youth.
I keep stroking myself, knowing I won't last long. I lie flat on my back on the bed. I picture Sophie straddling my legs, preparing to go down on me. Which one would she choose? Would she start with oral or go straight for the main event? I moan as my body catches fire. How the hell did I go two months without this? Those damn counselors brainwashed me.
My breathing speeds up as I push up hard into my fist. I stopped for a second to spit on my hand for lube. After that, I'm beyond the point of no return. I shout as I come, covering my chest and belly in my pearlescent white liquid. I stare at it for a while, wishing I wasn't alone in the bed.
No, it's not like I'm going back on my resolution. Outside of my fantasies, I'm not going to have sex with Sophie. I'm not going to have sex with anyone. Not yet.
I clean up and crawl back in bed, trying like hell to keep Sophie's face from being the last thing I see before I crash.
Scene 4 ~ Sophie
Lang Winter. My father. A legend of the guitar world, then and now.
It's strange how everyone has simply forgotten who he really was and replaced their true image of him with an odd, misinformed nostalgia. Bandmates, fans, managers—they all seem to suffer from the same Lang amnesia. I stopped counting the number of remembrance web sites that popped up in the last six months, but not one of them wrote about the sudden rages that made a major hotel chain ban him for life. I have no idea how much money he spent on property damage to keep the claims out of court. His arrest record for public disturbance has at least fifteen hits here in Dallas alone. I don't want to think about the rest of the country. Hell, the rest of the world. For some reason, despite his animalistic behavior, he was allowed to stray anywhere he wanted.
Maybe I should feel bad for hating him. I'm sure it makes me an ugly, ungrateful daughter. But he didn't help his own cause by leaving me with a double-mortgaged mansion, two years of unpaid taxes, and a bank account that supported me for about two months after his death. And I wasn't blowing it on parties, either. The parties came later, when I resorted to living on credit cards. No, good ol' Lang didn't even blink an eye when he sold the rights to all of his songs. Every single one. I will never receive a dime in royalties from them. The best part? I didn't know this until the reading of his will.
Maybe I should feel good about receiving his guitar collection in the will. It's worth a nice chunk of change. But it's hard to put a definitive value on something when you can't bring yourself to unlock the door to the room.
Of course, I could find a job like a normal person. Anything I'm qualified for can't touch the bills I have coming in, though. I was three years into earning my bachelor's degree in music when Lang overdosed on hydrocodone. When you're twenty-one and your parents are gone and you can't comprehend the number of zeroes on the credit card statements, the liquor store becomes your sanctuary. Well, it became m
y sanctuary. Other girls in my position might have sailed right on through that ugly storm.
Not Sophie Winter. Lang Winter's only confirmed child. College drop-out. Soon-to-be homeless person.
If Lang is looking down on me from some invisible kingdom in the sky, I hope he sees what a fucked-up mess he left behind on earth.
Scene 3 ~ Mark
Braun calls me around one in the morning. He's the only one in the band who stayed in touch with me when I went to rehab. I wish he hadn't bothered. Lead singers can be so fucking arrogant.
"So, are you out of rehab for good, or what?" he says. The slur of his words pisses me off. Why did everyone have to be such damned hypocrites?
"Maybe," I say through clenched teeth. "Not your business."
"Hell, yeah, it's my business," Braun says, his bass voice blasting through the phone's tiny speaker. "Where the hell are you, anyway?"
"Hotel," I say.
"Fuck you, man. You know we held auditions tonight, right? We can't wait for you."
I wipe my hand over my face. I was sentenced to ninety days in rehab. Technically, by leaving early, I've broken the terms of my probation. Going home doesn't feel like the wise choice right now. At home, everyone knows where I live. Everybody recognizes me instantly on the street. I'd be hauled off to jail within two seconds of unlocking my front door.
"You have to wait," I say. "What's the new recording schedule?"
Braun snorts. "Dude, you don't get it. There is no band for you. You're out. We just need you to sign the fucking legal papers."
Out of the band. Yeah, it's cliche, but it feels like I'm the only person alive who's been sentenced to this punishment. I roll over and stare at the ceiling, acid seeping into my veins. How the fuck could they kick me out of my own band? I'm the most serious one there. I write all the goddamned songs.
"Who'd you tell?" I say, calmly.
"Everyone knows."
"Terrific," I say, envisioning a mob scene outside the hotel. At least I didn't tell Braun where I am. He loves talking to the press, no matter how sleazy. The guy loves to talk, period.
Braun starts up again, but background noise drowns out his voice. He's at a party. I give up and end the call. He calls back three times. On the fourth call, I throw my phone against the television, cracking the touchscreen and scratching the TV screen. I'm proud of myself. Two months ago, I would have put my fist through the TV.
A few hours later, I give in to my insomnia. Four fucking o'clock in the morning. A time that shouldn't even exist.
Without turning the lights on, I find my jeans and t-shirt, and then my shoes. At this hour, I don't bother with the old hat-and-glasses routine. If someone recognizes me this early, they deserve the fucking autograph.
The elevator plays the same pseudo-smooth jazz that it apparently plays twenty-four hours a day. If I could find the speakers, I would smash them, too. What's intended to be soothing is a grinding of gears in my brain. Loud, I understand. Quiet, why bother? It's an irritating tickle.
As I walk through the mostly empty lobby, an annoying little voice reminds me that I did feel better after the first two weeks of rehab. The first two weeks were pure hell, but when I started eating and exercising again, I regained my strength quickly. Of course, without the coke and alcohol clouding my head, abstaining from sex was barely possible. I'm a goddamned saint to have made it this long.
When I pass the front desk, the girl behind the counter gives me a huge smile. These gorgeous creatures are everywhere. Why am I expected to ignore them? Sex is natural. Sex is a good thing.
And if I don't stop thinking about it, I'll explode.
The Winter house is two miles from the hotel. I take off in that direction, promising myself I will turn back and go to bed when I wear myself out. It doesn't happen. The longer I walk, the more awake I feel. By the time I reach the iron gate of the house, I feel like I could run the next five miles. To where, I have no idea.
I grasp two of the vertical iron bars and leaned forward, peering between trees to see the house. The yard is more trashed than the house, though. Between the trees, the ivy, and the overgrowth, you can't even tell a house is back there. I have to imagine what the house and grounds could look like with some attention. Honestly, though, it could be a tar-paper shack, and I would still want it. As long as Lang Winter took a breath inside the place, I have to have it.
I laugh when I realize that I look like a voyeur, hanging off the fence like this. So, this is what it's like on the other side. Doesn't seem that exciting to me.
For the next two miles, I think about how to change Sophie's mind. The house is symbolic of Lang's talent, yes, but his daughter is his blood, his spirit—no matter how much she thinks she hates him. Buying the house would be useless without her in it.
And I already have too many useless things in my life.
Scene 6 ~ Sophie
Friendly Neighborhood Real Estate Agent Mary has left me twelve voicemail messages in the past twenty-four hours. I haven't responded. I have nothing to say to her. Nothing she wants to hear, anyway.
With the exception of Mary's calls, my phone is eerily silent. What the hell is that about? It's the first day I've been truly alone in the house without Hondo, without anyone. Did Mark "Deal of the Century" Dillon scare off all my friends? Or did Hondo tell everyone to leave me alone?
I wasn't paying enough attention to his band, Never More Alone, to know that Mark had taken a break. Well, it has left him looking healthier than I remember from the magazine photos. In every one, he was painfully thin, with black circles under his eyes. I remember thinking that he looked so much older than he was, even though he was only five years older than me. Yesterday, though, Mark filled out his t-shirt and jeans quite nicely. The black circles under his eyes were gone. He had dimples when he smiled.
Why does any of this matter? I won't see him again. People like Mark don't ask twice.
I glance up the main staircase. Lang's studio is there, first door on the right. I'm not sure I could even find the key now. The day he died, I closed that door, locked it, and walked away, like it was a private burial for my father's most prized possessions: his guitars.
Now, I want to see them. I have to go in. I rummage through the kitchen junk drawers to find the key. Bills, old mail, dried-up pens, and rubber bands. No key. I move to the next set of drawers, feeling more and more desperate as I go. I've ignored that room for six months, but now that I have this itch, I have to scratch it immediately. Pulling drawers free from their tracks, I upend each one, creating a pile of crap in the middle of the kitchen.
Finally, a key lands on the tile floor with a plink. I snatch it and jog up the staircase. The stairs made me short of breath—cardiovascular fitness hasn't been on my priority list for a while—but I don't let it stop me from sliding the key into the lock and turning it.
The lights come on automatically as I step through the doorway, like they were waiting for me to return. I shake my head. Why do I think stupid things like that? Lights don't wait on people, and a room doesn't capture the essence of its owner at death. The truth is, the guitars lining this room would score me a small fortune if I auctioned them. It wouldn't be nearly enough to save the house, but maybe it's time to let go and move on. I should have sold them six months ago, when their value would have been the highest. That's what people do, right? As soon as someone dies, they go shopping, like they can buy a piece of the dead person to last forever.
Isn't that what Mark wants, too? A bit of Lang to fix whatever's wrong in his life? I've seen it over and over my whole life, though. People always wanted to be close to Lang, as if his charisma would cure them of their frustrating lives. Maybe it's that way with all of the famous ones. I don't know. It just seemed like Lang couldn't be in a room without ten other people there, too. And often, I wasn't one of those ten.
I turn to leave the room on that anticlimactic note. A flash of blue catches my eye, though. Despite myself, a smile tickles the corners of my li
ps. I go to the acoustic guitar and pick it up, running my hand over the peacock blue surface. Next to every other guitar in the room, this one is worth absolutely nothing. A starter instrument. No collector would give it a second look. No one ever took notice of it at all, except me. And that's what makes me smile. Lang put so much of our lives out in the public, I treasured the secret things that were left for me.
I give the guitar a tentative strum, and then tune it, feeling the familiar vibration of the wood. I try again to play the strings, but my hands are shaking too much. I set the guitar back on its stand.
"Your favorite?"
I flinch so hard at Mark's voice, I knock over the next guitar, a silver Strat that's probably worth two thousand bucks. He catches it before it hits the floor and puts it back in place.
"Where's Mary?" I say as I place my guitar back on its stand.
"She's not here."
I can't believe he came back on his own. Maybe this is a new sales tactic Mary dreamed up overnight.
"How did you get in the house?" I say.
"I watched Mary put in the codes on the gate and key box. I have this knack for remembering numbers." He grins like a naughty kid.
"So, you broke into my house." I cross my arms, trying to scowl at him but failing. "Are you stalking me?"
He grins again, and I have trouble pulling my gaze away from those dimples. His eyes look tired, though.
"In my defense, I rang the bell ten times."
"I didn't hear anything," I say.
"Maybe you weren't really listening," he says, nodding toward my blue guitar.
I practically push him out of the room and slam the door behind us.
"That," I say, locking the door. "Is private."
I slip the key into the front pocket of my jeans and stomp down the stairs, hoping my hands will stop trembling by the time we reach the kitchen.
No such luck. I perch on a stool next to the island and fold my hands in my lap, out of view.
