by Josey Alden
"Celebrity Privacy 101. Use fences wisely," I say.
"I know, I know." He puts his hands up in defense.
"We need to talk," I say, nodding toward Nicole.
"Yeah, sure," he says. "My room."
"Nope. My office."
He follows me to my room and into the closet.
"These are the rules of the closet. One, you can ask any question you want in the closet. Two, everything that is said in the closet stays in the closet. Three, you have to pick up two items and put them away before you can leave the closet."
"Number three sounds a bit self-serving," he says.
"Here we go," I say. "Why didn't you mention you left rehab early?"
He steps back and trips on a leather jacket, almost going down on his ass. He recovers just before he can hit the floor.
"That's private," he says. "Next."
"Are you using?"
"That's also private, but no."
"Would you tell me if you started using again?"
"Hell, you were the one whose brain was sopping wet the day we met," he says. He crosses his arms. "Shouldn't I be asking you these questions?"
"Go for it."
"Are you going to stop drinking?"
"Yes," I say.
"Shouldn't you be in detox, then?"
"Maybe, but I don't have the money."
"You're kidding, right?" he says, opening his arms wide. "I just paid you four point two million dollars for this place. Did you spend it that fast?"
"That money was spent before I inherited the house. Ask Lang Winter about that. Oh, wait, you can't because he died from a drug overdose. See why I might be a little sensitive to people using in my—"
"My house," Mark says, correcting me. "And in my house, I don't answer to you, and you don't answer to me, no matter what room we're in. Is that clear?"
My temper flares, but I give it a moment to cool off before responding. He levels those aqua blue eyes at me until I speak again.
"Understood. Remember to pick up two things before you leave the closet. It's mandatory."
I walk out.
Scene 11 ~ Sophie
"What're you doing? It's only five," I say, turning over in bed with a groan. I peer up at Hondo with one eye. He's already showered and dressed.
"I have an early meeting with a client," he says.
"When did you start taking meetings with clients at obscene hours? Wait, when did you start taking meetings with clients at all?" I sit up and squint at him in the low light. "Hondo J. Farrer, are you wearing a sport jacket?"
He smooths down the front, and then makes sure the collar lays flat. When he puts his hand down, a tag dangles out.
"You might want to get rid of the evidence," I say. I grab a pair of scissors from the drawer in my nightstand. "Don't want anyone to know you're using new clothes to climb the career ladder."
"Fine. I deserve that," he says. "But could you cut me a little slack now?"
I hug him, sport coat and all. He kisses the top of my messy curls.
"See ya later," I say, with a little wave. "I'm going to resume my coma now."
The next time I wake up, it's nine o'clock. Now that I'm really awake, I feel like someone beat me up all night. Today's my first day with no vodka. I even poured out the rest of the bottle last night. Detoxing is harsh, way more hard-core than I expected. For a few seconds, I can see how it would have been hard for my father to get off the hydrocodone. That moment evaporates quickly, though. If I'm doing it, he could have done it. He just didn't want to.
Nicole is back at her makeshift desk, still sorting through the piles of paper. We moved all of the mail from the kitchen to a corner of the living room, and it doesn't look like she's made a dent in the mountain of Sophie yet. She looks up and smiles when I walk into the kitchen.
"Found one for you," she says, pointing at my box.
"Awesome," I say. I try to smile back, but it probably looks more like gas than anything. I follow the scent of brewing coffee. After pouring a cup with a dash of milk, I pick up my mail. It's one envelope, with my name and address typed across the front. No return address on the front or back. I peer at the top, righthand corner until I make out a date stamp in faint red characters: September 1. The month after Lang died. It's probably a condolence letter from a distant relative. I fold it and stuff it in the pocket of my violet kimono. I have no need for condolences now. I just need lots of coffee, a warm shower, and music.
I really need to make music. But after so long, I'm not entirely sure I remember how. Surely, I haven't forgotten how to play the piano, though. After I clean up and begin to feel somewhat like a human being again, I go up to my studio.
I open the floor-to-ceiling black-out curtains to reveal a wall of windows that look down on the pool area. Then, I carefully pull off the piano cover. I'm proud that the black finish doesn't have a single scratch. An instrument this gorgeous deserves the best treatment. When I sit down on the bench and play a few notes, though, I realize I've neglected my poor piano in another way. It needs to be tuned. Badly. I sigh and pick up my phone to call my tuner. Then, I put it back down when I remember I have no money to pay for tuning. At some point, I'm going to have to find an income. As soon as I finish this detox, that has to be priority one in my personal turnaround plan.
"Hi." Mark's voice is familiar to me now. He stands in the doorway. "You looked like you were going to play something."
"Ha, not like that. You didn't hear how awful that sounded?"
"It was just a few keys."
"I know my piano," I say.
He walks across the room to me, glancing at my draped stacks of keyboards. "I don't think I've ever seen that many keyboards in one place before, except at Guitar Center."
"Ironic," I say.
Mark laughs, and I find myself drawn to the sound. I relax a little. He's obviously going for comfort today: old t-shirt, long shorts, and bare feet. I don't feel so awkward in my kimono now. He's dressed like he's at home. Well, the house might be his now, but this room is still my home.
"Great view," he says. "So, where do you want to do this?"
"Um, do what?" I say, caught off guard. My cheeks warm. I wish there was a cure for blushing. It gets super annoying.
"Work with me."
Oh. Oh. This is the moment of truth. Where am I going to teach him? What am I going to teach him? How am I going to teach him? Anxiety bubbles up in my chest. I have no idea what I'm going to do to help him learn Lang's technique. I barely play guitar, myself.
My brain finally kicks in, and I remember that Lang has hours of home video of himself practicing stored in the guitar room. What better way for Mark to learn than from Lang himself, speaking and playing from beyond the grave?
"Follow me," I say, feeling much better than I did five minutes before. Why did I think this was going to be hard? For once, Lang will do all the work. I can't believe I almost rejected Mark's deal. Sometimes, I can be so dense.
I've begun leaving the guitar room unlocked, so we head straight in. The end wall supports a set of closed shelves six feet high and ten feet across. Each segment of shelves has a sliding door that opens from the bottom, pushing the cover back under the shelf above. I have no idea how the tapes and discs are arranged, so I start looking at the top, left corner.
I lift the first cover to find … nothing. The first shelf is empty. I go to the next one with the same result. One by one, I open each cover only to find nothing in them.
"Maybe he didn't like using the top row," I say to Mark, not really believing my own explanation. The bubbles of anxiety turn into a whirlpool in my chest again.
Mark helps me look behind every door. If I can find just one video, it'll be better than nothing.
After the last cover drops back into place, I lean my head against the shelves.
"What are we looking for?" Mark says.
"Video. Lots and lots of video."
I open the storage closet and flip the switch to turn on
the fluorescent bulb. This room is empty, too. It looks like someone turned the room upside-down and shook everything out.
The anxiety is lodged in my throat now. If I can't find any of Lang's materials—his videos, notes, sheet music, anything—I'm screwed. Again. Why the hell didn't I look for these things before I signed? Who knows what Mark will do if I break my half of the deal? I'm sure the penalty is spelled out in the legalese at the bottom of page fifty. The stuff nobody reads. The writing that always seems to end up on my wall.
And where did all of this stuff go? Someone must have ripped me off during a party. I didn't know half the people who were in my house during the last few months. They must have found the key and gone in while everyone was crashed. It doesn't make any sense, though. Even I had trouble finding the key. Unless someone knew about the room and knew it was locked, they wouldn't even know what they were looking for.
"Are you okay?" Mark says.
I answer him with a nod, and then walk into the control booth that connects Lang's room with mine. It's squeaky clean. Lang's laptop is gone. So is the external hard drive we used for back-ups.
"What the hell is going on here?" I say. I slump into the rolling chair in front of the sound board and drop my face into my hands.
"You didn't know Lang was cleaning out his things," Mark says quietly.
I thought this was the work of a stranger, but could Lang have done this himself? Before he died? Or asked someone else to do it after he died? Why?
"I don't understand," I say, rocking back and forth in the chair. "I can't believe it's all gone. And why are the guitars still here?"
Mark kneels in front of me and pulls one of my hands away from my face. It's something Hondo would do if I was really upset. I let Mark hold my hand. This is probably one of the last times he will be nice to me, given that I have no way to keep my side of the bargain. Somehow, the rough callouses of his fingers rubbing the back of my hand are calming. I let my other hand drop to the arm of the chair and look at him.
"I have to tell you something," I say.
Scene 12 ~ Mark
Sophie looks so serious, I'm a little afraid of what she's going to say. Her eyes are shiny with tears. I keep hold of her hand to urge her to continue.
"I can't do this," she says. "I can't teach you anything. Without Lang's videos, I don't have anything to give you. I'm sorry."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I say.
She sighs. "I can't keep my end of our deal."
Then, I realize what she's saying. She thinks I expect her to literally teach me to play guitar. I laugh, and she frowns.
"I don't think it's very funny," she says. She pulls her hand from mine and stands up.
"No, you don't understand," I say, standing. "I'm not expecting guitar lessons from you. I guess I wasn't very clear."
Her face relaxes, and her eyes brighten. It's the first time I've seen her look relieved since I've been here. Out of nowhere, I have the urge to touch the soft lines of her cheeks and lips. I want to slip my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me, so I can taste those lips.
Damn. I can't lose my focus now.
"I want you to listen to me play, and help me capture Lang's spirit," I say. "I want to be inside his brain. I need to know how he felt, where his music came from."
Her face clouds over again, and she hugs herself. I've heard the sensational stories, sure. A quick search online returns thousands of hits for Lang's infamous behavior. But I know there's more to the story. Much more. And Sophie is the only person who really knows who her father was. Looking at her now, I wonder how painful those stories are. Have I stumbled into something that's none of my business?
I give in to my hunger and pull Sophie into a hug. At first, she won't uncross her arms, and her body stays rigid. After a minute, though, she relaxes and lets me hold her closer. As the tension melts from her body, it starts to build in mine. She is the first woman I've had in my arms since starting rehab. I lean my head on her blonde curls and breathe in the coconut scent of her shampoo. I can feel her breath against my neck.
Oh, this is dangerous. I feel myself harden, and I know my desire won't be a secret in about three seconds. Before she can tell how turned on I am, I let go abruptly.
"We'll talk later," I say. I don't wait for her reply.
In my bathroom, I stand in the doorway of the shower, nude, dealing with my almost-painful erection. I didn't count on this. I thought I could keep my boundaries in place here. But when I come, instead of feeling release, a growing hunger gnaws me from inside.
Scene 13 ~ Sophie
Mark vanished. One second, he's comforting me, and the next second, he's gone.
This shouldn't be a surprise to me.
I walk back into my studio and sit on the piano bench. I play a simple melody, correcting the out-of-tune sound in my head. My hands shake on the keys.
The missing video and equipment make no sense. If Lang was trying to make money, he would have left that stuff and auctioned off his guitar collection instead. I wish there was a way to find out when he cleaned out the shelves and closet. Mark might think I have the key to Lang's inner life, but I could barely keep up with his external one. Now, my father seems more of a stranger than ever before. Mark still doesn't understand that. He thinks living in the same house means something. He must not know that people can dwell in the same house for years without living in the same universe.
I try to stand up, but I'm dizzy. Actually, I feel like total hell. I close the keyboard cover and rest my head there, using my arms as a pillow. I need food, probably. I definitely need more sleep. Vodka does not play nice when you want to pick up your toys and go home.
Scene 14 ~ Mark
I head upstairs to apologize to Sophie for taking off like that. She probably thinks I'm being an asshole. And for some reason, that bothers me.
I go into Lang's room, but she isn't there or in the connecting sound room. Her studio looks empty, too. When I walk through the room, though, I find her lying on the floor next to the piano bench, having a seizure.
God dammit. I kneel on the floor and turn her on her side. I straddle her so I can use my knees and thighs to hold her in that position while I fumble with my phone, grateful that the shattered screen still works enough to make a call.
By the time the ambulance arrives, Sophie's body has gone quiet. I keep checking her breathing to make sure she's still with me. I have trouble letting go of her when the paramedics arrive. They sweep her onto the gurney, loudly asking her name and if she knows what happened, if she took any drugs. I stand there, half-stunned and not sure what to do. After they strap her down, one of the paramedics looks at me.
"How old is she?" he says.
"Twenty-one or twenty-two, I think."
"Drugs? Alcohol?"
"She stopped drinking recently."
"Any health problems? Diabetes? Epilepsy?"
I shrug and shake my head. I know almost nothing about Sophie Winter.
In the back of the ambulance, I watch her face. She looks comfortable now, more comfortable than I've seen her since moving in. Is my deal that stressful for her? I thought buying the house would be an enormous relief to her, but what if I was wrong?
I don't like the fact that she isn't awake right now, but I can't bring myself to ask the paramedic any questions. If it's bad, at least I have a few more minutes to pretend everything is just fine.
Scene 15 ~ Sophie
Before I open my eyes, I hear the sounds, the shrill beeps of different machines, the clanging of metal against metal, people's voices echoing. I can't make sense of the noise, but it somehow reminds me of the day Lang died. I try to raise my hand to my face, but the back of it feels stiff and irritated. Finally, I can move my eyelids enough to see that a clear, thin tubing is taped to my hand and threaded into a machine. I must be in a hospital room.
"Sophie?"
I recognize the voice, but I don't understand what Mark is doing here. Hell, I can't u
nderstand what I'm doing here. I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are opened too wide, his mouth set in a grim line. Lovely. I'm probably dying.
I try to sit up, but Mark puts his hand against my shoulder. "You need to stay there."
A frustrated sound escapes my throat. "Why?"
"You had a seizure," he says. "Probably from going off the alcohol too fast. Same thing happened to a guy at rehab."
"Where's Hondo?" I say.
Mark frowns. "I don't know. I don't have his number."
"Phone," I say, holding out my left hand. "Please."
Mark puts his phone in my hand and leaves the room. I dial Hondo's number and wait through four rings for him to answer, "Hondo here," which is his standard greeting when he doesn't recognize the number.
"Hi," I say, annoyed that I sound so weak.
"Sophie, where the hell are you? I've been calling everyone on the planet, looking for you."
"Well, you missed a number," I say. "I'm at the hospital."
"Why? What happened?" His voice is escalating.
"It's all right, I'm fine," I say. "Just a seizure." I decide not to tell him I feel like death's slightly more attractive cousin.
"Room number?" he says.
"How should I know?"
"Never mind," he says. "I'll be there in fifteen."
I can't seem to hold on to time. When Mark finally comes back into the room, it seems like hours have passed. But that doesn't make sense because Hondo still isn't here. Or maybe he came and went already. I try to read the clock, but I can't decipher the numbers and hands.
"What time is it?" I ask Mark.
"Six," he says. "We've been here for a while."
"Hondo?"
"He'll be here soon. You already called him."
In an instant, my eyes fill with tears. I sob loudly without the slightest idea why. I try to cover my face with my hands, but the IV tubing is caught on something. Only my left hand makes it up to my face.
