Rise

by Karina Bliss

  “They do pop,” she said. Looking into them too long made her giddy, but Elizabeth wouldn’t tell him that. He had the most beautiful eyes, eagle-fierce, and when his gaze intensified she felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. Warm becoming uncomfortably hot.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You don’t consider a beauty regime unmasculine?”

  “Not as long as I’ve got a big dick. That sock story? All wrong. I don’t understand guys who worry that their masculinity will be compromised with a dab of moisturizer.” He pulled his silver flask out of a side pocket of his discarded jacket, looked at it, then opened a drawer under the coffee table and replaced it with another. “A real man should be able to seduce a woman while wearing a tutu and tiara—actually that’d be fun.” Unscrewing the top, he toasted her.

  “Is your health regime the reason you’ve given up alcohol?”

  Zander paused mid-swig.

  “I know that’s water,” she added before he could deny it. “The amount you drink, you’d be in a coma if it was hard liquor.”

  “Don’t underestimate a rocker’s capacity.” He hesitated. “I’m giving booze up for the tour because alcohol dries out the voice.” He anticipated her follow-up question. “The flask’s a decoy. I don’t want anyone asking if I’m having trouble with my vocals.”

  “And are you?”

  “Not if I adopt clean living.” He touched the shape of the nicotine patch under the sleeve of his white T-shirt. He wore it in different places every day; on a hip, a shoulder, an arm and, God help her, she never missed the outline. “No smoking, no booze, no drugs.”

  “All the vices.”

  He gave her a lazy smile. “Not quite. But don’t mention any of this in the book. People don’t read rock memoirs for health tips; they want to know how it feels living with unlimited access to fast cars, faster women and mountains of cash.”

  Elizabeth jerked upright, bumping the table. Tea splashed into her saucer. “Gluttony!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We structure chapters around the seven deadly sins.” Grabbing a pen and notebook from the table, she wiped a couple of drops of tea away and began writing. “It will give the material shape and riff off your trademark irony.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Gluttony. The overconsumption of rock stars, and why you’re so bent on finding success again when you’ve already had a stellar career.” She jotted it all down. “Lust—groupies and girlfriends…that reminds me.” She looked up. “We haven’t talked about Stormy.”

  Zander played with his flask. “Stormy is a generous, caring woman who’ll always have a place in my heart.”

  That sounded rote. “The media speculated that you cheated on her.”

  “It’s because I didn’t want to cheat on her that we had an open relationship. It worked well for a long time.”

  For whom? “What changed?”

  “Stormy was ready to start a family, I wasn’t. She ended it.”

  “Really?” Stormy’s escapades since the breakup didn’t suggest a woman ready to settle down. She’d been dating a string of shady men and charged with physical obstruction for drunkenly haranguing a cop who’d pulled her date over for speeding. “General consensus suggests you broke it off.”

  “Hell no, she kicked me to the curb. Expand on your seven sins idea,” Zander said. “I like it.”

  Encouraged, Elizabeth returned to her list. “Pride—clearly your arrogance.”

  “Clearly. Don’t forget my vanity.”

  She scribbled it down. “Anger—the breakup of the band; sloth…” Tapping the pen against her chin, she frowned at him. “You can hardly be accused of laziness unless we count a laissez-faire approach to relationships. Maybe we can lump sloth in with lust. Envy is the toughest, since you have everything you could possibly want. We’ll come back to that.” She returned to writing. “Let’s end with the virtues.”

  “Faith, hope and charity?” His voice was unholy with amusement.

  “Actually you’re forgetting prudence, justice, temperance and fortitude, but we’ll stick to the big three.” Ignoring his skepticism, she ticked them off on her fingers. “Faith—what sustains you, what you hope for the future, and charity…some of your causes, perhaps?”

  Zander shook his head. “Most of the charities I support prefer my donations to remain anonymous.”

  “Why?”

  “They don’t want to alienate conservative donors.”

  “That’s harsh if they’re taking your money.”

  “Hey, I agree with them. Unless a celebrity profile directly benefits a cause, contributions should be anonymous.”

  Interesting that he was discreet on this and a publicity whore on everything else. When she pointed that out, Zander shrugged. “Exploiting people in need for cheap publicity sticks in my craw. My family’s been there—broke, desperate, vulnerable. When Dad was diagnosed, Mom gave up teaching and worked nights at Walmart so she could take him to treatments. Our standard of living fell real fast. Sometimes pride is all you have left and to have some jerkwad put his arm around your shoulder for a photo op—” He forced a smile. “Even I wouldn’t stoop that low.”

  Elizabeth said casually, “Remind me how old you were when your father was diagnosed?”

  “Thirteen and Dev was nine.”

  “Your mother has said in interviews that she was forced to leave you alone a lot. You took care of him.”

  Zander rummaged in his jacket pocket, produced a tobacco pouch, and started rolling a cigarette. “It was toughest on Mom. She needed to look after Dad, she was trying to look after us, as well as keep a roof over our heads while all our savings went south. And I was hitting my teens, getting attitude.” He paused to lick the cigarette paper. “Dad had always been the disciplinarian—tough but fair—and with the brakes off I started roaming the neighborhood, Devin in tow.”

  Picking up a silver lighter, he absently flicked the flame on and off. “I was offered my first joint by a friend’s father—a small-time grower—when I was fifteen.”

  “Your dad died a year later?”

  “Yes.” Zander watched the flame with the fascination of an arsonist.

  “Were you with him at the end?” she said wistfully.

  With slow deliberation, Zander placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The tip burned red as he sucked smoke into his lungs and held it, eyes closed. Five seconds passed before he exhaled. He looked at her through the blue-gray haze, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say it was a shit time for my family and leave it at that.”

  “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.” Elizabeth sipped her tea to give him a moment; it was cold and bitter. “My dad died away from home when I was nineteen,” she explained. “Life changes forever doesn’t it?”

  Zander dropped the cigarette under his heel and extinguished it against the slate floor. “What happened?”

  “He was doing a stint as a military chaplain in Timor-Leste and was caught in an ambush.”

  “I’m sorry. At least we had time to prepare for Dad’s death.”

  “Can you prepare?”

  “No. Mom fell apart after his death. Suffered months of depression.” Zander seemed to recollect himself. “This is off the record.”

  “Of course.”

  “I quit school and went full time at Dairy Queen. She was furious when she found out, but by then I’d missed too many classes to re-enroll.”

  “Leaving school to support your family was a selfless gesture.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Zander said dryly. “But my grandparents had been begging Mom to bring us to New Zealand and I could see all my dreams for the band slipping away. I’d have done anything to stay in LA.” His mouth curled in a cynical smile. “The friend’s dad who was a small-time marijuana grower? I supplemented my income by becoming one of his couriers. When Mom grew suspicious about the extra cash, I told her the money came from gigs.”

  “Why do you always mock yoursel
f every time there’s a suggestion you might have been…” Elizabeth searched for the right word. “…good?”

  “Do I?” His light tone didn’t match the bleakness in his eyes. When his cell rang he answered it with relief. “Jared… Uh-huh.” Zander straightened in his seat. “Kayla’s mother will come on tour?” he repeated slowly. “To help with the kids and as company for Kayla? Yeah, your wife is a frickin’ genius. It’s a win-win for everybody.”

  Elizabeth wondered if Jared heard the irony and hid a smile. “Problem?” she inquired when Zander ended the call.

  “Ever heard of Buffalo Calf Road Woman?”

  Intrigued, she shook her head.

  “She was a Cheyenne who reportedly fought next to her husband in the Battle of Little Bighorn.”

  Elizabeth’s historian’s ears pricked up. “Custer’s Last Stand.”

  “Her tribe’s storytellers credit her with knocking Custer off his horse before he died.”

  Understanding where he was going with this, she started to laugh.

  Zander said moodily, “Damned if I’ve just been knocked off my horse.”

  Chapter Eight

  A metal desk battered into industrial chic dwarfed the otolaryngologist sitting behind it with Zander’s latest scan results. Dr. West gestured to a chair that could have been the love child of a sheet of plywood and a giant rusty paper clip. “Please, sit down.”

  Gingerly Zander obliged. “Got anything to soften the fall?”

  Rather sheepishly, the older man produced a lime green cushion from behind the desk. “The designer came highly recommended.”

  Zander positioned the cushion under his posterior. “Yeah, I’ve been suckered a couple of times myself. I’m hoping for good news,” he added. “My UK promoter is asking for second shows.”

  But the specialist was already shaking his head. “I have to agree with my colleague’s diagnosis. Further touring is inadvisable until the polyp on your vocal cords is removed.”

  Despite never having exercised the rock star’s prerogative of smashing a TV through a window, Zander had a sudden violent urge to hurl his chair through the plate glass.

  His expression must have given him away because West added nervously, “The good news is that post-op recovery time is three months, so you’ll only need to postpone your tour—”

  Zander interrupted with a bitter laugh. “Ever seen one of those YouTube videos where two hundred thousand dominoes are lined up for a chain reaction? Postponement isn’t as simple as changing dates and making sure the venues are free.”

  Standing, he wandered to the window and hauled up the thin metal blinds with a sharp tug. “To give you an idea of scale, we hire twenty-eight big rigs to carry gear in every country we tour.”

  Beyond the palms lining the boulevard, the city’s skyline faded to sepia in LA’s smog. His fingers tightened around the window latch, then released. He couldn’t even open the fucking window and take a calming breath because his whole life revolved around his vocal health.

  Haven’t I done everything right? Suffered enough? Surrendered enough?

  He’d bled, blustered and prostituted Rage’s legacy to bring the band back from the ashes. Lightly, Zander banged his head against the pane, tempted to throw himself through the window.

  “Um, Mr. Freedman. Are you alright?”

  The only thing he hadn’t done, in the merciless pimping of himself over the last couple of years, was don a skirt, forget to wear underwear and flash his junk.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Freedman, you’re making me nervous.”

  Trying to think, Zander returned to his chair. There had to be a way through this. “I’ve performed with this polyp for a while. Can’t I continue to manage the problem and delay surgery until after the tour?”

  “Steroids reduce the swelling, but they won’t make the growth disappear. In fact, they could mask any increasing severity of the problem. Continued overuse will also make the mass larger and firmer.”

  Zander waved that aside. “Has there been any change in the size or shape of the polyp, scarring or whatever it is you look for, between my two scans?”

  “No. But—”

  “And I’ve performed a dozen times since then.”

  “Which is as much down to luck as management.”

  “I was born lucky, Dr. West.” He leaned forward. “Let’s talk crisis care.”

  The specialist stared at him, his thin face perplexed. “You don’t seem to understand the gravity of your situation. Steroids increase the fragility of the blood vessels in your vocal cords, making them more likely to rupture. A hemorrhage risks fibrosis—scarring—which could result in permanent damage to your singing voice. By continuing to perform, you’re effectively playing Russian roulette with your career.”

  “I’ll sign a waiver, exonerating you of all responsibility.”

  The other man shook his head.

  “There’ll be no comeback on you whatsoever.”

  “Why would you take that risk? Surely your fans will understand.”

  He’d already strained their loyalty to breaking point through repopulating the band. With no help for it, Zander came clean. “You know what an eighteen-month, seventy-show, six-continent tour costs? Two hundred million dollars. I invested anything that wasn’t nailed down in this venture to convince backers of my commitment. Mortgaged every property.”

  Dr. West opened his mouth, closed it.

  “My profit comes after the concert promoters, stadium owners and ticket vendors take their cut and I’ve paid the wages, traveling and living costs of my musicians and one-hundred-and-thirty-eight support crew. Right now I’m nowhere near breaking even. So when you talk about Russian roulette, I’ve been rolling the dice for months. You have to help me manage this.”

  The other man was silent a long moment. “And you’ll sign a waiver?”

  “In blood if necessary.”

  “Then I’ll help you on one condition. If you experience a hemorrhage, it’s imperative you avoid hitting your vocal fold until the blood reabsorbs. That means immediate and strict voice rest. No speaking, singing, whispering, throat-clearing for a week. And you’ll simply have to deal with the aftermath of canceling.” He waited for Zander’s nod.

  “How will I know if I’ve had a hemorrhage?”

  “A sudden voice change or harshness while speaking or singing. Pain or loss of range.” They talked through a management plan.

  “If you ignore your symptoms you risk permanent damage.” West looked at him sternly. “Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” Any chance was better than none. Any feeling better than despair.

  * * *

  Elizabeth hadn’t seen Zander in two days—two days of missed interviews. He’d relayed a message via Philippa to say he was sick.

  Rubbish.

  They inhabited the same house, large as it was. Didn’t Zander realize she could smell the heavy perfume favored by his vocal coach in the library?

  Glimpse him leaving in sports gear for a supposed doctor’s visit?

  Hear him composing most of the night on an acoustic guitar? Faltering, hesitant chords played over and over again, occasionally resolving into something coherent and poignant.

  The last straw came over breakfast when Dimity mentioned Zander was leaving for a boxing match in Vegas. Staying overnight. At which point Elizabeth flung down her napkin and announced in throbbing tones, “Enough!”

  “Enough!” She repeated it now, less throbbingly, but with equal resolve, standing outside Zander’s bedroom with the breakfast tray she’d intercepted from Constanza.

  He’d regrouped after Jared’s phone call and laughed off her suggestion he was uncomfortable with seeing himself as good. Elizabeth marveled that she’d ever considered him anything other than a devil sent to test her patience.

  Balancing the tray on her hip, she opened the door without knocking and swept in. Her reflection frowned from the mirrored wardrobe.

  The drapes were pu
lled, the only light coming from the open door behind her and stealing through a crack in the curtains. A huntsman’s bedroom, the dark wood furniture solidly crafted and a color palette of blood-red and forest green.

  Zander lay sleeping on his back in the center of a massive bed, the brocade covers kicked off except for a sheet, which was a stark splash of white in this shadowy lair.

  “Good morning,” she said firmly.

  He didn’t stir.

  Elizabeth kicked the door shut behind her.

  Zander opened a baleful eye. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

  “I brought you breakfast.”

  He closed his eye. “Go away.”

  She marched into the room. “Before you leave for Vegas we need to have a serious talk.” Dumping the breakfast tray on the bedside table, Elizabeth yanked open the heavy curtains. Sunlight streamed onto the bed.

  With a groan, Zander rolled onto his belly and put a pillow over his head.

  Elizabeth returned to the side of his bed. “We’re not spending enough time together.”

  “This is why I never married,” he said, his voice muffled.

  “Do you know what the difference is between good and great?”

  The pillow remained in place. Momentarily she was tempted to smother him with it. He could have been a spoiled child, except for the bunch of corded muscle across his shoulders as he held the pillow in place, and the strong tanned back tapering to a round ass, barely covered by the snowy sheet.

  She was becoming accustomed to Zander’s beauty, could view it almost dispassionately. Almost.

  “The difference is commitment,” she answered when he wouldn’t. “I can’t write a brilliant memoir without your full cooperation.” Zander didn’t respond and she folded her arms.

  “Taking on this project was a professional risk for me and there’ll be fallout on my career if I fail. I can accept dying gloriously on the battlefield of review as long as I’ve given it my best shot.” She released a frustrated breath. “But not my own side shooting me down before I’m even out of the trenches. If I can’t get the interviews I need, then my name won’t be going on the cover.”