On the Rocks Page 7

  “Not too far from here, actually.” I had wanted to scope out somewhere higher on the mountain overlooking the city, but I couldn’t afford a place like that, not yet, and certainly not with my lackluster album sales. I’d wanted to talk about that shit with CJ at some point too, but now wasn’t the time. Right now, I felt like I was walking through a minefield.

  CJ set the bag on the counter and opened a cabinet, fetching out a drinking glass. “You’re all moved out already?”

  I’d finished the week before, and just two days ago had cleaned his place top to bottom for his welcome home. “Yeah.”

  He walked to the sink and poured cold water from the tap into the glass. His back was to me when he said, “Guess I should collect my key from you then.”

  It sounded almost like a question and I wasn’t sure how to answer. I was probably having a hard time, because I felt like a quarterback trying to make a pass but I’d just gotten knocked to the ground. I was still holding the fucking ball and the wind was knocked out of me—hard. How the hell could I talk at a time like this? “Uh, yeah, if you want to.” I swallowed and reached in my jacket for my ring of keys.

  How had I been so stupid? What had I been thinking? Why had I thought that he would come home and things would be normal—or somewhat normal? We’d stay the same, only I’d have my own place. What was the big fucking deal about that?

  But, goddamn it, I’d been hurting so badly already that I was afraid to hash it out. I was so scared that if I asked him, I’d find out that I’d never really meant a thing to him. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to hear that I was just a step up from a whore, and that was only because we were friends…because, in spite of anything CJ had ever said to me about “caring,” his actions screamed far louder than his words. I’d never felt like anything special to him.

  I was a warm body in his bed who just so happened to be a friend.

  I shut something off inside myself then, and I think it was to stop myself from crying or screaming or slapping him. I focused everything inside me on that fucking ring, winding the silver key through the loops until it came free, and I set it on the counter.

  I felt my eyes get watery and I clenched my jaw. Be practical. “Uh…your mail’s over there on the table. And your mom wanted you to call once you unpacked.” I forced a smile, but I got the feeling it was like the way a person’s grin is lopsided after the dentist shoots her gum with Novocain—it feels like your muscles are obeying your brain’s commands, but you look in the mirror and see how clownish you really seem to everyone else. “She has a food delivery to make.”

  He too put on a small, forced smile but the air was thick and heavy with everything we weren’t saying. “I’ll have to come see your place sometime.”

  “Yeah.”

  I left soon after. There was no welcome home sex like I’d imagined when I’d been driving to the airport earlier that day. There was no hug or kiss goodbye, but maybe there should have been, because, for some reason, it felt like someone had died.

  Oh. That was me. Inside.

  Chapter Ten

  THE BEST WAY to get over heartache is to bury yourself in work. At least, that’s how it works for me…and I had an album to put together. I’d spent the better part of two weeks writing new material, putting all my rage and anger and heartache into words and guitarspeak.

  When I next met with Mollie, she told me I needed an agent. When I tried to object, she then asked how I planned to find a new guitarist. “I’m not getting a new guitarist. Fuck it. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Fine,” she said, but she still wanted me to get an agent. “When it comes to my job, I’m not taken seriously by the studios. I’ve tried…and I think I’ve done a damn good job so far, but a real agent knows the ropes, knows how the talking heads work. You complained about your sales. I think if we go with a bigger studio—thanks to an agent, you’ll be discovered by a larger audience.”

  “You can’t do that?”

  She sighed. “Look, Kyle, I know Peter did that shit—and a whole lot more—but the guy’s a dinosaur. He pretty much does everything for his people—and you know why? Because he’s been in the industry forever and people know him. They trust him.” I snorted. “No, not the talent. I’m talking the big guns. I don’t have that kind of pull. I can get you just about any venue you want, any city you want, any time you want. But I can’t negotiate with labels—not the big boys anyway. They won’t even talk to me. We need someone else for that.”

  “I don’t think that’s the problem, Mollie,” I said, looking down at my Starbucks cup. When we had to deal with each other outside the recording studio, it was here at my local coffee shop. The sugar and warmth seemed to soothe both our nerves, because even though we respected each other, we also rubbed each other the wrong way. “The label’s been great. I think—”

  “Really? How many copies of your album did they initially release and ship out to sellers?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Exactly.”

  I got ready to respond and furrowed my brow. I wasn’t going to argue that point with her. “Look, Mollie,” I started, trying not to laugh at the expression on her face. The red lipstick stuck out like a sore thumb against her pale skin, but it looked great paired with her raven hair. The girl needed to get out in the sun more, and if it hadn’t been pouring rain that morning, I would have suggested enjoying our coffee under an umbrella outside so she could at least get some indirect rays. “I think marketing is our weak area. Hell, exposure even. Look at all the small venues I played at last tour.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I know. I came on board late, remember?”

  I twirled the cup in my hand. “Yeah.”

  “I’m willing to run with it. You want exposure? You got it. I’ll get you into venues big and small and I’ll get you seen.” She paused, picking up her phone and tapping rapidly on the screen with both her thumbs. Then she looked up, one black eyebrow cocked. “How long you willing to be on the road?”

  I gave it some thought. Honestly, now that CJ and I were most likely officially done (even though neither one of us had said as much—then again, how could something be over if it had never really started in the first place?), I didn’t give much of a shit how long I was on the road. In fact, my fans were the ones who loved me, so that was where I belonged. “As long as possible.”

  She gave me a wide smile that looked skeptical. “Hell, girl, I can keep you on the road two years supporting this next album. But will your guys be up for that?”

  I grinned. “They want big success as much as I do, Mollie—whatever it takes. I just tell ‘em this is what we’re doing. They’ll go for it. Trust me.”

  “All right. Just be careful what you wish for.”

  I rolled my eyes. Maybe she didn’t know how badly I wanted success. I wanted to leave CJ and Liz and even Barbie behind, and the best way for me to do that would be to take my career to a height I’d never reached before. I would not become another Vagabonds tragedy, starting out with a bang and ending in a whimper. Hell, no. I would do whatever it took to get there.

  Maybe it was good that CJ was no longer in the picture distracting me. And I remembered something I’d said to Barbie years ago, something about pain making for better songwriting. If that was true, then this album was going to seriously kick ass.

  * * *

  Three months later, my boys and I were on the road with an album that just released and a video to boot. CJ and I hadn’t spoken at all—not a text, not a call, not even an email. I decided I wasn’t going to be the one to extend an olive branch, because I wasn’t the one who’d decided to get all funky in the first place. It hurt. God, yes, it hurt, but I wasn’t going to let it show.

  And my old bandmates were popping up here and there. I heard from Kelly. She was now an official veterinarian, practicing in Fort Collins and loving it. I was glad she’d pursued her heart. Vicki also contacted me before we left on tour, and at first I was happy, because I hadn’t real
ized how much I’d been missing her. But when she asked to borrow money, I knew then that nothing had changed for her. She’d been working as a bartender but her car had “completely crapped out” and she needed to get it fixed. Her mom, she said, had been battling breast cancer and so they were “all tapped out.”

  How could I say no to my friend? Of course, I lent her the money.

  But it didn’t stop me from feeling used. I couldn’t tell by looking at her if she was still using, and I wasn’t going to ask. She didn’t look horrible. The way she moved, though…she seemed older somehow and also—sketchier. That’s the only way I can think of to describe it.

  If nothing else, it made me realize that it was best for me to not keep her as a full-time fixture in my life. I needed to be serious about my career and I couldn’t if I was partying constantly. Before we parted ways, Vicki asked if we could get together and party sometime (yeah, she really did)…and she also asked if I needed a drummer. Shit. What could I say? I told the truth as diplomatically as possible. “I’ve got a drummer right now, and he’s recorded both albums with me. If I need someone, though, I’ll call you.” I didn’t know if the second part was a lie or not, but it fell out of my mouth with surprising ease.

  Fortunately, Barbie was no longer talking trash about me or any of the Vagabonds—well, not directly at least. Nope. She was now part of some stupid ass reality show. I didn’t fully understand the concept, nor did I want to. Those shows were designed to take lots of train wrecks and hot heads—all semi celebrities, mind you, who wanted to stay in the limelight—and put them in a situation where they would easily create their own drama. Well, Barbie was perfect for that shit. She could stir up a hornet’s next half a mile away.

  Liz? She released her second album and critics (and fans) were tripping over themselves to kiss her ass. I had to hold down my breakfast—likely full of green bile—every time I heard her name or a snippet of one of her shitty tunes.

  This album needed to do it for me. I needed to stop fueling myself with hatred and jealousy and just let myself be happy with my own success. If it would just stop being so fucking elusive…

  “Out for Blood” ~ Lita Ford

  Chapter Eleven

  MOLLIE HAD DONE exactly what she’d promised. Our tour was killer—five days a week most of the time. The first leg of the tour was us headlining—small and medium venues—but we were going to be a supporting act next year, jumping on a tour with Last Five Seconds. They were a heavy metal band with a huge following, so that could only be a good thing. Then, after that, she was going to work on booking events in smaller venues with local bands opening for us—again, the idea was to draw in new ears to hear our music.

  Mollie also tried to convince me again that I needed to hire a rhythm guitarist—at least one for touring—and I told her no. I’d done all the guitars on the album and, because of that, I knew how to play what I needed onstage. The fewer people I had to worry about, the fewer potential problems or people wanting to leave. And, once and for all, I got the message—don’t shit where you eat. Stay away from coworkers. Friendships are nice—unavoidable and necessary even—but fucking people leads to complications and, ultimately, problems…problems that I no longer wished to have to deal with. My libido nowadays was in check—in fact, I wasn’t having nearly the indiscriminate encounters on the road that I used to. And why? Why, CJ, of course. I was still in mourning.

  As if Mollie were trying to convince me how great a manager she was, she kept us insanely busy. The two days a week we had free were not really free. She always had something tourist-y arranged for us, whether it was checking out the Grand Canyon or visiting the 9/11 memorial in Manhattan. I think it was also to keep us out of trouble. It was hard to sightsee or appreciate anything when you were nursing a hangover.

  And that was also how she knew if we’d been bad or not.

  Honestly, though, anyone who’s in a band can tell you that you get pretty good at functioning while high. It comes with the territory. After a while, you don’t know how to function without something…so you learn to function with it. I’d never had an addiction aside from smoking (and I even managed to kick that nasty habit), but I also knew I could have acquired several were I not careful. So I was happy to let Mollie manage me and the band the way she saw fit. And I got to see all kinds of attractions and museums and art that I never would have had I spent every night getting hammered out of my mind.

  I think that too was why I wasn’t getting laid as much either. It was a lot easier to fuck a new stranger ever night if you were plastered. When you’re sober, though, you give your choices more than a cursory thought. You actually put your ideas through the paces, and what might have seemed brilliant with a pint and a puff doesn’t seem quite so attractive when you’re examining something in the clear light of day.

  I was viewing life that way now—through clear eyes. And, in spite of the fact that I felt hollow and empty without CJ, I took comfort in the fact that my bandmates were becoming my friends on the road…and also that our first single “Ridin’ Roughshod” was climbing the charts and getting lots of airtime. Thank heavens for music, my number one love.

  We’d been on the road for several months when we got word that we’d been nominated for a Grammy. No, I didn’t think it was any big deal, just as a lot of rock musicians don’t. The Grammys had always seemed to be a commercial venture that catered to the masses, and metal had never evolved to feed the majority. The music was intentionally rebellious, and to be nominated for an award like that was almost…embarrassing.

  But I’d never admit out loud that being nominated was also way fucking cool. It really was an honor, because it was like someone else’s way of telling us that we were good, that we were viable…

  And that we were here to stay.

  I didn’t plan to go, and I didn’t expect to win the award. We were up against some heavy hitters. Mollie arranged our schedule so that we could attend anyway—and I thought that was cool—but I didn’t write a speech. I knew it would be dumb if we won and I wasn’t prepared, but it also seemed stupid to waste time writing a speech that I’d probably never give.

  What I found more exciting was the fact that our second single, “Give It Up,” was on the U.S. Billboard 200 chart. That, to me, was acceptance and love of the fans. That was what I was working for. Fuck, yeah.

  * * *

  The Grammys were the reason I met…oh. I guess I better not say his name. No, it’s not like he’s God and his name is sacred; it’s more like what I have to tell you, while true, is not well-known and I could see myself getting my ass sued, even though I never signed a nondisclosure statement. And, frankly, what I now know about the dude doesn’t change the fact that he’s a hell of an actor.

  For simplicity’s sake, let’s just call him John. Some of you who know me personally will probably be able to figure out who this guy is, but some of you fans just now learning my intimate history for the first time might not be able to piece it together. I’m sorry to be such a tease. Let’s just say he was a hot property about the time my second album, Tuning You Out, broke big. Well, of course. That’s why I was there at the awards.

  So why was a famous Hollywood actor—not known to ever sing in public before—attending the awards ceremony? Well, I’ve been told lots of actors do, but I guess John was supporting someone whose song had contributed to the soundtrack of his latest movie. He had a date with her—an equally famous blonde pop star—but he’d spied me in the crowd when the award my band was nominated for was announced.

  No, we didn’t win.

  That was cool, though. I was good with that. But John had sent one of his people to hobnob with me before we got out of that zoo, and this person had one goal in mind—to get my number.

  A guy about my age with his black hair slicked back, wearing a tuxedo, approached me and the guys. “Ms. Summers, can I speak to you for a moment?”

  I didn’t peg him for a fan for several reasons. First, he spoke to me form
ally and he was very polite. I’m not saying my fans aren’t polite, because they are, but they’re friendlier. And his clothes were not metal, a dead giveaway. I said, “Sure.” Jake and Brandon stuck around, I think mainly because they wanted to make sure everything with this guy was kosher.

  “I represent John Smith.” Ha. Yeah, so…just roll with it, okay? Now, bear in mind that the guy’s name was definitely not John Smith. Like most Hollywood actors, his name was recognizable. My curiosity was instantly piqued.

  I kept my cool, though, because I had no fucking idea what this guy would want from little ol’ me. Still couldn’t help my metal self, though. I wasn’t going to instantly turn stuffy just ‘cause this kid was. “Yeah?”

  “Yes, and he asked me to get your number.”

  I swallowed. That was when the whole thing hit me. I felt my eyes grow wide and my grin matched. “Wait. You’re here to arrange a date?”

  The kid kept his cool, but I could almost see him mentally shrug. He was the poor assistant for some rich guy who had him do all his dirty work. Just for that reason alone, I almost said no…but maybe there was some weird protocol in the acting world that I wasn’t aware of. He said, “I don’t know that that’s what Mr. Smith wants your number for. He just asked me to get it from you so he can call you sometime.”

  I smiled once more and felt a little relieved that Jake and Brandon had dropped back. “We’re only going to be in L.A. one more day, so—”

  “As I said, Ms. Summers, I don’t know his intent, but I can relay that information if you like.”

  So, yeah…I gave him my number.

  And I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me when he called me while we were walking around Universal Studios Hollywood theme park the next day. We were standing in a circle, the four of us, trying to decide which café to eat at. It wasn’t the food we were worried about; it was the experience—you know, do you want to eat food representing a movie theme or would you rather go with one of your favorite TV shows? But my phone rang so I stepped away and told my companions to pick without me. I didn’t recognize the number and so I was tempted to let it go to voicemail…but then I remembered Mr. Smith had my phone number—and something in my gut told me this was him.