Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  Carter reclines against the bar, throwing a glance at a group of girls who’re making fools of themselves around the pool table. “How’s the new place, man?” he asks.

  “Too damn quiet.”

  He snorts. His walls were paper thin, and the house was always filled with the sounds of either music or sex. My place is somber in comparison. Not to mention, I haven’t even unpacked most of my boxes yet. I don’t care enough to try making it feel like home.

  “Oh yeah? I figured that’d be a good thing. That, or you’d find a few ways to liven the place up yourself.”

  I catch the insinuation. “Nah, not really. Just been trying to focus, man.”

  He nods, tips his bottle up. One of the girls is writhing against her friend, but I can tell I’ve got his attention. Unfortunately. “Good. So, you think you’re ready for all this?”

  “Which part?”

  “Strahan’s really pushing the comeback tour.”

  A wave of nausea roils in my gut. A few shows are one thing, jumping into a tour is quite another. “Yeah.”

  “You don’t sound too sure about that. And you don’t look it, either. What’s going on with you? Looked like you were straight miserable at rehearsals.”

  Regrettably, I drain the last of my beer and set it on the counter harder than I mean to. This is a conversation for hard liquor, but I know better than to pull that in front of Carter. The craving itches at the back of my mind. “It’s hard to imagine being back. How everyone will respond,” I admit.

  “Yeah.” His shoulders jerk up into a shrug. “Fuck ’em. It’s gonna be what it’s gonna be, and nobody else needs to have a say in it.”

  My eyes tighten, and I jiggle my foot to distract myself from the Scotch I know is sitting atop my refrigerator at home. Saying “fuck ’em” to everyone I might disappoint is a lot easier said than done—Carter isn’t the one charged with keeping this entire ship afloat.

  “You know this doesn’t have to happen now, right? You can take more time, if that’s what you need. I’ve got your back, and the guys will understand.”

  “I’m good, Carter. I’m straight.” I look over, noting the doubt in his expression. There’s no clout in my words anymore. I force confidence I know I don’t possess. “It’s time to get back in the saddle, leave this era behind me.”

  “I agree. But, just saying, if you’re having any second thoughts, it’d be better they came out now. Save all our asses so we don’t get burned at the stake for hyping up something that isn’t gonna happen.”

  “Is this you talking, or James?” I bite. His words and tone are sounding all too familiar. James is the newest member of the band, and he has the most to say out of all of us.

  Carter pulls a face. “Man, come on. You know you’re my boy.”

  “Can’t blame me for checking. I haven’t been around as much as James.”

  “Speaking of, where have you been? I wasn’t expecting Lindsey to show up at rehearsal. You know—since we’re supposed to be keeping the girls separate from the business and all.”

  I cut my eyes at him. It’s not a spoken rule, but we all know what happens before or after a show belongs to a separate reality than our work on stage, or at rehearsals. And nobody adheres to that rule more than me. Hell, I had a wife and never encouraged her to take the bus with us, no matter how lonely I was. “It’s not like that. She does good work.”

  “Does she now?”

  I rub my hand over my face, fighting frustration. “Not that kind of work.”

  “Hey, I’m not judging. I’d be the happiest out of anyone if you were getting regular pussy.”

  I shoot him a look. “She’s a cool girl.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “And that’s all it is,” I say, purposely not supplying the answers he wants.

  “Like I said, I’m not the one to cast stones. I’d be happy for you if you found someone who wasn’t just a temporary stand-in for Ra—”

  “I got it,” I finish for him.

  “So she’s a legit photographer?”

  “Of course she’s a legit photographer. What did you think I was doing? Bringing a random to rehearsals just to impress her?”

  “I’m not saying I believed it, but that theory was thrown around.”

  “Nick gossips too much,” I say decidedly, because if any one person is to blame for the tales that pass through our band like a virus, it’s him.

  “A photographer, huh? Convenient. You don’t think she’s—”

  “Using me? No.”

  “That was a quick answer.”

  “Anyway. . . ” I trail off, ordering a second beer. It’s not whiskey, so I have a better chance of staying in control. When Carter glances over his shoulder at the girls again, I bump him with an elbow. “I won’t judge you if you go over there and tell ’em you’re Carter Evans. I know you want to.”

  “Shit, man.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Didn’t I tell you I had a girlfriend?”

  “That girl you met at the meet ’n greet? The roadie?”

  “Yeah.” He laughs again.

  “Damn. And I thought I had it bad.”

  An expert at changing the subject, Carter mentions my physique is slipping and how he needs to get me back in the gym. Our usual banter returns without a hitch. For now, I forget about the band, and records, and tours. All of that will still be waiting for me tomorrow.

  Chapter 17

  Lindsey

  The floors are dark wood and the walls and cabinetry are white, white, white. It looks a little like a New York City flat and nothing like Jenson. There’s a fleet of cardboard boxes along the wall, the beat-up leather couch and knotty TV stand in the middle of the living area, a bed around the corner with a familiar rumpled black comforter. This place could belong to anyone if not for the whiskey bottles in the kitchen and a couple guitars on stands beside the bed.

  I drop my bag on the couch and pull out my laptop. Anika was on a date tonight and told me they’d probably go back to our place. I don’t know if it’s a good or bad sign that she’s willing to introduce her suitor to the disorder that is our apartment so soon, but I decided to make myself scarce just in case. I eyed the key to Jenson’s apartment for a solid five minutes, then finally bit the bullet and asked Isaac for a ride. The cost was information, so now Isaac knows everything there is to know about Jenson and was more than happy to drop me off so I could “bone him up.” Leave it to Isaac to make things weird.

  I survey the empty apartment briefly before making for the bench on the far wall surrounded by a bank of windows. Drawing up the wooden blinds gives me an unobstructed view of sparkling city lights, and I confiscate all the pillows from the bed and arrange a comfortable spot where I can do my work.

  While I’m laboring away to put my name out in the world, my mind wanders to what Jenson said about mentors. Having the right guidance could mean the difference between a few years of work and a decade, but it’s hard to trust anyone with the well-being of my career. Especially after Craig. I fell right into his trap, and he played me like a fiddle.

  Dwelling on the situation makes my stomach ache, and I eye my phone suspiciously. I’ve considered changing my number, but he knows where I live and where I work. If he loses one line of contact, who knows how hard he’ll pursue others, and I don’t need to be publicly humiliated at my job, the thing I need most. What sucks most is that his work is phenomenal, he has the in with all the big-name music people, and he has the potential to blacklist me from this industry with just a testimony of his dealings with me.

  One word to Jenson could open doors I’ve thus far only dreamed of. But I’ve never been one to take shortcuts and I won’t start now. I’m willing to start in the trenches and work my way up, even if that means struggling, because at least I’ll have something solid to stand on. Something I made with my bare hands, a camera, and the grit a lot of people don’t possess in this instant-gratification-fueled world.

  But I’m exhausted. Worn thin from my job, a
nd my side job, and keeping a lookout for Craig. Setting my laptop aside, I go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Full mug in hand, I try to get back to work, but remnants of Jenson are everywhere and on everything. When I think about him making vows to someone, promising his whole life to her, it reminds me loud and clear how strikingly different we are. How much of a naïve little girl I become in his presence. I wonder if he still loves her, and my stomach jolts unexpectedly.

  The complexity of us—what was supposed to be a simple equation—makes my head hurt. In the end, it should only come down to a few things: I like the way he looks at me, I like the way I feel when I’m with him, and he has this relentless belief in me that’s dizzying to think about. That’s it.

  Maybe I’d feel less curious if I hadn’t looked him up; it’s never a good idea to red wine and Google. Page upon page of image results loaded instantly, many of them featuring his ex. She was gorgeous. Raven. Her blond hair didn’t suit her name or her sharp features. And the only time Jenson looked at home was when he was looking at her. That obvious emotion, those feelings displayed so plainly, made me feel like I was intruding on something I wasn’t meant to see. I’d closed the browser window and swore to myself I wouldn’t do it again.

  But those photos have stayed with me. It’s hard to reconcile that man—the red carpet-walking award winner with the man-bun and the barely-there scruff—with the one I’ve been spending so much time with. I wonder if they keep in contact. Hell, they could’ve been making amends this entire time and I wouldn’t have known, I only see him on the off chance neither of us are working. It bothers me, even if it shouldn’t.

  I stand up to stretch, but that turns into meandering around the apartment. It’s dismal. There aren’t any knick knacks, nothing on shelves that hints at special significance or value. No doubt the boxes hold a trove of information, but I’m not a snoop. And although he’s never necessarily withheld anything from me, he’s just as much a mystery as he was when I didn’t know him at all.

  He’s a pitch-black cavern of a man, and I’m just a girl with a flashlight.

  Jenson

  I push through the door of my apartment, pausing when I realize the kitchen lights are on. I never remember to leave a light on for myself. That can only mean one thing, but I don’t bother to hope she stayed. A few steps into the kitchen and I notice the mug of coffee beside the sink—half-drank, black. I smile to myself as I rinse it out and place it in the drying rack. Even when she doesn’t mean to, she leaves her mark everywhere. Like a fingerprint.

  And then I round the corner to the bedroom and see her. If it weren’t for the open blinds, for the lights of the city playing on her hair, I might not have noticed her curled up there, surrounded by the pillows from my bed, her head turned away from me. I walk over to her, only realizing she’s asleep when she doesn’t stir in response. Her eyes stay closed, her hair fanned across the pillow, knees drawn up and arms crossed. Dead asleep. It doesn’t look very comfortable.

  I go to wake her before resisting at the last second. If she can sleep like that, it’s clear she could use about a thousand years’ worth. And I told her she could come here with no questions asked. I don’t want her to think I’ll be demanding attention every time she needs a quiet place to work. So I choose to leave her for a little longer. Just as I’m turning away, her phone vibrates and lights up beside her, perched on the windowsill. I’d ignore it if I didn’t see the long list of notifications on the screen. Two missed phone calls. Fifteen text messages. And all from one person: Craig.

  Her speaking to other guys shouldn’t concern me. I have no claim on her, and neither of us is in a place to be exclusive. Still, the number of messages nags at me. Who texts someone fifteen times in a row unless it’s an emergency? Whatever it is could explain some of her mystery.

  I rock back on my heels, debating. All right. I’ll just take a glance. If whatever I see isn’t important, I’ll put it down and forget I ever saw that name on the screen. Besides, it’s probably locked, anyway, and then all this debate will be for nothing. I click and swipe, and the home screen pops up. No password required. I glance at her to ensure I won’t get caught doing something I shouldn’t. She hasn’t moved. Just in case, I take her phone with me to the kitchen so I can ditch it if I need to. I look down at the screen and read:

  Consider this your final warning. Either you nut up and admit what you did was wrong and we come up with some sort of agreement, or you come to me with cash. You’re lucky I’m still leaving this up to you and not getting anyone else involved. What’s it gonna be?

  The fuck? Who does this guy think he is? The words “final warning” don’t sit well with me. What does he plan on doing if she doesn’t respond? And, more importantly, what has Lindsey gotten herself into?

  I scroll up a bit, my pulse pounding as I read a string of texts laced with varying degrees of profanity. She’s been called more names than I’ve used in my lifetime, but I can’t determine what she owes him or why. And from what I can see, she’s ignored him since early October. The messages before then were a little friendlier, if I can even call them that. It looks like they met up “on location” at a warehouse in south Nashville. There’s talk of working out details, camera equipment, and something about one-on-one sessions. This Craig mentioned a prior email exchange between them and that texting would be easier. I’m sure I’d find out more if I switched to her email account, but I’m already crossing the line as it is. And as I scroll back down, it’s easier to see the progression from pushy to aggressive. He demands money and threatens to trash her reputation—the one thing I’ve learned Lindsey is most proud of. Then I land on another message, one of the last few she sent him:

  So now you’re sitting outside my apartment? We discussed everything we needed to at the workshop. Stop following me.

  And his response:

  Pay what you owe. Or call the cops and we can settle it with them. I have no problem taking you to court.

  Following her? The cops? What the hell is she involved with? I’m no stranger to the darker side of the entertainment industry. Alcohol is on the low end of the spectrum of offenses, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility that she got caught up in something a lot worse.

  Then the conversation I overheard at her apartment when she was talking to her roommate Anika arises suddenly in my mind, and things start clicking roughly into place. Something about a guy in a BMW parked outside the apartment, then at Rhythm. So not only is he willing to confront her in person at her home, but he has no problem showing up at her job, her livelihood. And she hasn’t said a goddamn thing to me. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

  Raven’s main complaint was that I sang a lot of songs and spoke a lot of words, but I was never a man of action. That was tough to accept, but as time passed and wounds healed, I began to understand what she was saying. But the thing about life and tragedy is, you either adapt and survive, or you don’t. So I click on the contact information and type that asshole’s phone number into my own contacts. I’ll figure this out tomorrow. Lindsey won’t appreciate my interference, but I imagine anything would be better than being consistently stalked and harassed. And if I do this right, she won’t find out I had anything to do with it at all.

  I creep over to the window and place her phone back on the sill. She’s still dead to the world. So I go to the bathroom and switch on the shower, before climbing in and scrubbing the day away.

  I’m brushing my teeth when a soft knock sounds at the door. I open it to a tousle-haired, soft-eyed Lindsey. No sign of suspicion in her eyes, no hint that she’s opened her phone to those messages. Mouthing a greeting around the toothbrush, I turn back to the sink and spit.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she says. She crosses her arms like she’s cold, pulling her sleeves over her hands—my sleeves, I realize, when I recognize the logo of a local brewery. She’s in one of my shirts again.

  I shrug indifferently, rinsing my mouth and drying my face. I don’
t mean to be cold, but I know what’s transpiring between us—something that can’t happen, according to her. Something that doesn’t need to happen, according to me. My emotions have been all over the place for months, I haven’t yet found my footing since I got back to music, and I have no clue where I’m headed. If those things aren’t the makings of a train-wreck relationship, I don’t know what are. So I have to ignore this, whatever it is growing after every one of our conversations and spontaneous outings.

  She’s regarding me warily, awaiting a response.

  “No problem,” I finally say, not sure whether it’s meant to reassure her or me. “Did you get some work done?” I go into the attached closet, partially closing the door so I’m not being completely brash. I drop my towel and pull on some clean briefs and a pair of basketball shorts.

  “Yeah. Sorry for randomly showing up. Anika had a date tonight, so I told her she could have the bedroom.”

  I toss the towel toward the shower and turn back to her. “It’s all good. I told you to use it whenever, so I’m glad it was useful.”

  She balls a fist beneath her chin, her smile tight-lipped. I try again to read her expression, but her eyes are directed down somewhere near my chest. I want to reach out to her, pull her to me, put my hands in her hair. All the idiosyncrasies that would come natural to me in a relationship. But this isn’t one, that much is clear. Instead, I’ll let her dictate where this goes. Once again, the ball is in a woman’s court, and I have little to no say in what happens to it.

  Before I left Tripp’s, Carter mentioned something about Lindsey and me, how I should “just go with it.” He may go through women faster than Justin Bieber, but some of what he says makes sense. I walk around Lindsey and pull back the comforter on my bed, sprawling out on my stomach and checking my phone. There’s a lot I could be doing right now, but the air is thick with her. She flips off the bathroom light and sits on the edge of the mattress, just inches from me.