by Daya Daniels
“Did a twister roll through here and only hit your coffee table?”
I laugh.
“Will you need anything else?” the room service attendant asks.
“No, no. This is perfect. Thank you,” I tell him, before he gives me a nod and rushes out.
Wyatt stands, still scanning the mess with a finger between his teeth.
I extend a hand towards the breakfast table. “Would you like to join me? Since you’re here and all.”
“I guess I can.” He smiles. “I’d like to, Liv, actually,” he says louder rushing towards me.
He places a kiss on my cheek and peers into my face. “You look like you’re going to cry, Liv.”
“I’m fine,” I say but my voice is weak and far from believable.
“Are you sure, hon?”
“Yeah.”
I promised myself that I would try my hardest to break old habits. I wouldn’t cry. I. Would. Not Cry. This wasn’t technically my situation to cry over. Or was it?
“I’m going to put some clothes on. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, senorita. I’ll be right here waiting for you,” Wyatt says slipping into a seat at the table.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zane
The last few shows went smoothly but everything seemed like it was a haze for me. Interviews, appearances, parties, performances, writing, recording. Each day went by with lightning speed.
We’d been travelling for the last month—state to state. Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, and Michigan. I sit here in the studio and it takes me a minute to remember what city I’m in. What day is it? What time is it? Fuck.
I’m in the Winterland Recording Studios in Minneapolis, Minnesota. That’s it.
I scrub my face with my hands and place my elbows on the mixing board in front of me. I’m exhausted and my lip is split from the most recent fist fight I had with Cash a few nights before. Hopefully, he can see out of his right eye today. I haven’t seen the fucktard and have no desire to.
Dexter sits in the recording booth, holding an acoustic guitar in his hands. “I think this works, man,” he says strumming the chords. “It sounds crazy good.”
I chuckle.
“Where’s the songs Cash said he was writing?”
I throw my hands up in disinterest.
“He hasn’t written them, has he?” Dexter laughs.
I only shake my head.
A knock to the door brings my attention to the monitors. I groan when I see Barry’s fat face. I hit the intercom. “What do you want?”
Barry looks up into the camera. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“I’m working.”
Barry drops his head. “Zane, I need to discuss a few things with you.”
“I’m working!” I roar.
“Fuck, then. Fine,” Barry says curtly and disappears.
“Greedy, fat fuck,” I mumble underneath my breath, grabbing the Gibson telecaster and heading over to where Dexter sits.
He giggles and runs his hands over his face. “I wish I could help, man, really.”
“You are helping. You’re here.”
“I’m no songwriter. I play bass and a few other instruments but you know I’m no songwriter.”
“It’s cool.”
“We almost have a whole album here.”
“Yeah, I know. The only thing that asshole needs to do now, is come and sing the fucking words. He won’t like the songs. I don’t know for sure yet but I can tell you he won’t like the songs, just to spite me.”
“Fuck him,” Dexter says. “Cash is crazy. What the fuck was that fight about the other night anyways? I was tempted to get in the middle but I know the two of you.”
Cash and I had a long history of not getting along, then getting along and then not getting along again. It wouldn’t have been in Dexter’s best interest to get in the middle because if Cash had hurt him, I couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t have been a murder committed. This is what we did. We fought and we made up, over and over, but nothing could save Cash from Cash. He was his own worst enemy.
Cash had won the Loudwire Music Award two years in a row for best vocalist of the year. The guy had a gift, from drumming up the crowd to hitting notes that sometimes seemed impossible. He had an exceptional voice. It rivalled the pitch, tune, vocal technique, and outstanding range of some of the greatest rock singers. He was a screamer, as Rolling Stone magazine called him. If Cash couldn’t do anything else in the world, the one thing he could do was sing.
“How’s everything going with Liv?”
“Good, she’s a bit of a drama queen but I love her.”
Liv had spent most of the week bending and twisting me to do everything she wanted. She sang twice when I needed to focus on writing, so I put her over my knee and bit her ass. Then, we fucked like rabbits. I didn’t know if loving her made me crazy but, likely, it was the other way around.
“Yeah,” Dexter says dropping his head and looking at me like I just told him I found the Loch Ness monster.
“Yeah, apparently the first time I told her was when her head was buried in my lap.”
Dexter belts out a laugh, nearly dropping the guitar in his grip.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“No.” I chuckle. “I don’t but when I thought about it, it slowly started to sink in. I was so into it, I could’ve said anything in that glorious moment.”
Dexter giggles. “That’s fucked up.”
“No, not really. I said it for a reason, even if I was blitzed out when I did. Clearly, I meant it. Now, it just feels good to say it to her, you know.”
Dexter reads the music in front of him, while I adjust the neck of my guitar.
“How’s the Charvi girl?” I ask him.
“Charvi and Liv are pretty good friends.” Dexter laughs. “She’s cool but she’s like a dude—real laidback. She doesn’t fuss much. I don’t know it’s weird. She’s hot as fuck. She’s beautiful and smart. I didn’t think women like Charvi existed. I considered the possibility that she could be a tranny.”
I explode with laughter.
Dexter laughs along with me, while a smile plays across his face and his brown eyes widen. He pulls his hair pick out of his fro and combs it a few times.
“Seriously, man. That was before I slept with her of course but no worries there. She’s all woman.”
“I hope so,” I mumble, taking a seat on the stool. “For your sake.”
He bobs his head a few times. “I’m happy, Z. For the first time in a long time, I’m happy. Being a part of this band is just like wow. Like, what the fuck happened to us?” He laughs. “It has its ups and downs but it’s better than where we were headed.”
Dexter out of Cash and I was the first to get arrested when we were teens. He stole a souped-up 1964 Chevy Impala one night that was parked outside The Bluebird Café’ on Hillsboro Pike in Nashville. He did six months in juvi and got a year’s probation before he got serious about music.
“It is.”
“We’re a long way from sharing pairs of shoes.” He chuckles.
“Yeah, we are,” I scoff, remembering those days that seemed so long ago but they really weren’t.
Dexter puts on his headphones. I follow suit, strum a few chords until I’m ready and begin to sing.
“I’m your hangman. I wait for the words I’ll never hear.
“The same ones that’ll push me to the edge.
“My slow beating heart holds on to your pretty lips. You drift away, out of my reach.
“I tip. I lean. Then I fall. You’re such a black fucking peach.
“Your words are like rope. They wrap around my neck and choke.
“I don’t like it. I don’t care what you can offer.
“Let me go to never never land.
“I’m your fuckin’ hangman.”
I nod when I see Rose enter the studio. He gives us a wave. His drumsticks protrude out of the side pocket of his jeans. He pushes his gla
sses up on his nose and takes a seat at the control booth. When Dexter and I’ve finished the first set of songs, the three of us will complete a few more.
Cash can come in and lay down the vocals later, when he decides to get off the Mania Train.
Liv
Charvi lies out on a lounge chair in a hot-pink, two-piece bikini. Ray-Bans cover her eyes and a trucker hat with a Coke emblem on the front of it tilts forward on her head. Her long black hair is brushed to one side and brought together in a plait, which drapes along the length of her arm. She lifts the beer she’s holding to her lips and takes a long sip.
We sit outside in the blazing sun on the edge of Lake Harriet. It’s the middle of June. It’s three in the afternoon. The birds fly overhead and people line the other side of the lake doing the same as us. It’s a beautiful day. A perfect day, in fact.
We’ve been in Minneapolis for three days so far. Why Zane chose to rent a house for the time we’re here was beyond me, until I saw the lake. The piece of it that we have is private. It’s like our own little peninsula.
Zane works most of the time—actually, all the time. I’m usually on my own but I still have Charvi. So, the two of us swim. We boat, when we feel bored. We fish at night and shop during the day sometimes. It’s been good girl time.
“Favorite movie?” she asks, still looking up at the sky.
“Um, I guess Pretty Woman.”
Charvi laughs.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She giggles.
“Yours?”
“Half Baked, hands down.”
“Figures,” I mumble to myself.
Charvi makes a face and shifts, switching the position of her legs that are crossed at the ankle.
“Can I move?” she asks attempting to sit forward.
“Yes,” I say softly, holding the charcoal pencil in my hand against the paper.
Charvi groans, stands, and stretches like a lazy cat. Her skin is tanned and her eyes are tired from the sun and the water that we’ve been diving in and out of all day.
“I’m finished anyways,” I say, looking over the sketch.
Charvi moves to look over my shoulder. “This is incredible, Liv,” she compliments, while a beaming smile brightens her features.
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
“Rang peela. It means ‘the color yellow’ in Hindi.” Charvi continues to play with my hair. “It’s a very significant color in my religion.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” she hisses. “It is the color of knowledge and learning. It symbolizes happiness, peace, meditation, competence, and mental development,” she says touching my forehead playfully. “Yellow is the color of spring and activates the mind, Liv. Lord Vishnu’s dress is yellow symbolizing his representation of knowledge. Lord Krishna and Ganesha also wear yellow dresses.”
Charvi continues. “Yellow clothes are worn and yellow food is eaten at spring festivals. Single girls wear yellow to attract a mate and keep evil spirits away. It’s a good color and your head is full of it.” She laughs, patting me on the shoulder a few times.
I roll my eyes and giggle.
Charvi walks across the wooden deck and into the kitchen to grab another beer. “Do you want one?”
“Yeah, sure,” I sing out, still scrutinizing the portrait of her in my hands.
I crook my head and fiddle with the strands of my hair, noticing that a lot of them are now platinum blonde from the sun. I run my hands over the bright yellow bikini I have on. It looks pretty against my golden skin.
Charvi steps outside, holding one of the beers up to her lips and shoving the other towards me. I take it from her hand.
“Come on, let’s go and sit at the waterside. The sun is going down in a little while anyhow.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is.”
I pick up my phone that rests on a table under the covered deck. I have a few text messages from Olga just asking general questions. I reply quickly. I scroll down further and notice a few more from Stanton. I scoff as I read his words that seem like they’re more about him, than they are him asking about me and how I’m doing. I roll my eyes and reply, making my best effort not to crush the fucking phone as I type in the letters. All my responses are auto text— “yes,” “no,” “okay,” “fine,” “no problem”...“fuck off,” which I didn’t type but I wanted to...badly.
I dash outside, grab my straw hat and pull it on my head. I put the beer bottle to my lips and drain it. The cool liquid nearly freezes my hot insides. I stare up at the blue sky. Fuck, it’s perfect.
Charvi belches loud, then giggles.
“That’s disgusting,” I whisper, giving her the side eye.
She shrugs and pulls her hat off. “Come on!” she screeches dashing into the water.
I put the bottle down and follow behind her.
Liv
Charvi and my day by the lake somehow turned in to a full-on, blow-out party. It had to be near two in the morning and everyone was here. I shoulder my way through the crowded hallways, full of roadies, friends, and probably a few specially invited fans. Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes screams from the speakers. I grab another beer from a cooler.
“Hey, lady, where are you off too?” Wyatt asks, hooking an arm around my shoulder.
“Hey.” I giggle, certain I’m a little drunk.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“What have you been doing?”
I pull away from him and look him over, taking in his brightly colored surfer shorts and the baby-blue polo shirt he’s wearing. “I,” I say proudly. “Have been working on my art.”
“Well done, Liv. I’m proud of you. You’re going to be famous one day for it. I’d put my last dollar on it.”
“Don’t do that.” I laugh out loud. “You might find yourself penniless.”
Wyatt gives me an endearing look, placing a hand on each of my shoulders. “No, I won’t, Liv. It’s true.”
I shrug. “Have you seen Zane?”
“He isn’t here yet. Neither is Cash.”
I sigh and pop the cap off the beer in my hand. I shift in the baggy VS muscle tank that now covers my bathing suit. Before the crowd came, I slipped on a pair of shorts and flip-flops. I scan the house and still don’t see Zane. I pull my phone from my pocket and text. A reply comes right back that just says “on our way.”
Inwardly, I roll my eyes secretly hoping he isn’t bringing Cash along but I know of course he is. So far, in the last few months, I’d witnessed Zane get into nearly ten fist fights with Cash. They both injured each other on nearly every single occasion. During the others, Zane just simply beat Cash up. It was exhausting. Cash also had the propensity to sometimes injure himself. I knew I could be drama but Cash was overkill.
I take two flights of stairs, until I find the bathroom at the end of the hallway. I knock. When I don’t hear an answer, I push my way in and stumble back at the sight just a few feet away from me. I freeze and I swear my stomach drops and lands somewhere on the fucking floor.
Rachel’s half-shut brown eye’s meet mine under cinched brows. Her mouth is a gaping hole and her small body is underneath the weight of Santa Claus, while he vaults her into the vanity from behind, that she struggles to hold onto.
Well, fuck me in the dick.
My eyes lift to the face of the man that pins Rachel down in front of him. His large hand wraps around the back of her neck, while he pounds into her mercilessly. Barry’s face is contorted and covered in sweat and I suddenly feel the need to throw up. His pants are around his knees and his dress shirt is open, exposing his big belly. Barry is so into it, that he doesn’t even realize I’m standing a few feet away from him, watching.
Rachel moans when her body jerks forward again but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. I don’t speak. I only ease backwards. I click the lock on the handle from the inside and pull the door back shut.
“What the hell,” I say to myself.
I breathe hard, nearly hyperventilating. I pull off my shirt, push my shorts down and slip out of my flip-flops. I reach the shoreline of the lake and without testing the temperature of the water, I plunge right in. I sigh when the tepid water washes over me that’s welcome. The summer air is hot. I swim for the platform that floats a few feet away in the darkness. When I make it there, I climb up the ladder, make it to the top, and collapse.
I don’t know how long I stay there but my eyelids grow heavy, while I’m looking up at the white full moon. It’s pretty and peaceful—a lot like I feel right now, despite what I’d just witnessed.
The music gets louder. Loser by Beck blasts from the outside speakers. The laughter gets louder. I roll onto my side, only to see Cash and Zane stumble outside of the house, shirtless and wearing shorts. Cash does a few cartwheels. Zane does a few backflips. They laugh and hug, then dance and sing along to the music. The sight is comical. Cash shouts something and gets a beer. Zane follows behind him. He makes small talk for a while until I see him looking in the direction of where I lie.
I eye over his tall frame. He looks so handsome, except for the fact that he’s undoubtedly drunk. He grabs a cigarette from Rose, takes a draw and then hands it back to him. Then he walks his sexy ass to the water and jumps right in.
Liv
“C’mere, baby girl,” Zane whispers when he reaches the platform.
The sound of the water lapping against the side of it fills my ears. I’m still damp. He swims closer and holds on to the side of the platform. His black hair is slicked to his head and his grey eyes look like they’re glowing under the light. I take in the sharp lines of his face—angular jaw, strong nose, etched cheekbones, full kissable lips. He’s a specimen to die for.