by Neve Wilder
Something in my tone made his reply come out softer. “Where are you, though? I’ve been looking for you for a day and a half.”
“Isn’t that the question?” I mumbled, and scrabbled around some more, pawing over surfaces until I found a notepad with the Tropicana logo on top. I gave him the name, and he promised to be at my door in a half hour. I’d had to go physically look at the door to tell him the room number.
Before I hung up, he said, “Bro, you might want to stay off the internet.”
Shit.
Of course that was the first place I went after I hung up. I didn’t have a computer, any of my clothes, a suitcase. Apparently I’d left everything at the hotel Blink and I originally checked into. But my phone was enough. The screen had a nice new crack in it that cut up through the center of the face that popped up. My face. My Facebook page. My level of intoxication was so evident I could practically smell the booze rising from the screen. I should’ve put the phone down and not looked, like Blink had advised me, but I couldn’t. A train wreck–style allure took hold of me as I scrolled through the pictures to see just how badly I’d embarrassed myself. It was quickly evident that I hadn’t just gone off the rails, I’d chewed through the bastards and dragged the twisted metal carcasses of them after me.
Bellagio, 8:00 p.m., Saturday. Blink in the background, a bunch of glowing drinks with smoke pouring off them in the foreground. Faces I didn’t remember. Shit, I hadn’t just lost a night; I’d lost an entire day and two nights. That was a new low.
My descent was hard, fast, and reckless. And catalogued almost hour by hour via my own uploads to Facebook. Fucking hell, I was my own worst enemy. A publicist’s nightmare come to life. Every hour of my misery was accounted for in confessional style. The second to last picture I’d posted was a blurry shot of a bathroom floor covered in scattered paper, dark with crosshatches of ink. My notebook. I panicked all over again.
I tore through the suite to the bathroom. No notebook, but there was a residue of a bubble bath ringed around the tub and an empty bottle of champagne next to it.
A knock at the door pulled my attention away from the meltdown in progress, and I flung the door open to find Blink looking tired and surly. Also, worried. There was a bruise on the right side of his jaw, but somehow it was the concern in his eyes that made my breath hitch and my stomach drop to the floor below me.
“My notebook,” I said, and when my voice cracked, I realized it wasn’t necessarily about the lyrics on the page, it was about Evan. It was about that notebook being the only catalogue of us I had left.
Blink put one hand to my shoulder and pushed me backward, closing the door behind him. “I’ve got it, man. It was in the other room. Picked up all the pieces, and I think most of it can be taped back together.”
I dropped onto the couch, elbows to my knees, bunching my fists in my hair.
“I fucked up.” In so many ways.
“Yeahhhhh.” Blink drawled the word out. “But that’s kind of what people expect.” I loved him a little more for his honesty even though it fucking hurt, and he’d clearly thought my primary concern was the publicity, when really it was hurting Evan more. “It’ll blow over fast.”
“The tabs pick it up?”
“A few. Some of the Facebook photos. It’s not terrible, though. Not the worst they could do, and give it twenty-four hours and something else will come down the pipeline and it’ll be forgotten.”
But not by Evan, who’d just received yet more evidence of exactly how much of a fuckup I was. As if he needed it. Blink was saying all of that just to make me feel better. I could tell by the expression on his face, but I appreciated the effort anyway.
I scrubbed at my face and drew in a deep breath. “I want to go home.”
Blink nodded slowly to that. “That’s a good idea, yeah.”
“How did I get here?” I asked. When I searched my memory, I came up with zilch. I stood up and walked around the suite, gathering various belongings of mine as Blink trailed after me, righting a few turned-over lamps and picking up empty bottles that he pitched in the trash.
“Dunno. I mean, I guess you walked or took a cab. I lost you when the Bellagio ejected you.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, you were a hot fucking mess and making a scene, and I was trying to talk the manager down. Thought maybe if I could get him to listen, I could calm you down. Thought about giving you some shit to knock you out, but by that point I didn’t know what the fuck all you had in your system, so I was scared to do that. Turned out it didn’t matter. You punched the fucking security guard and took off.”
I cringed listening to the account, and then my gaze landed on the bruise at his jaw. “That how you got that piece?”
Blink grimaced and looked away, bending over to pick up a throw pillow that was lying in the middle of the floor.
“Nah, man, that was you. Way earlier.”
“I punched you?”
“Yeah. Shit.” He straightened up, holding the pillow in front of him like a shield before he glanced down and realized what he was doing and tossed it aside. He stared at me, jaw working as his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek where the bruise was. “I tried to kiss you, dude.”
“What?” I nearly lost my grip on the shoe in my hand.
“Wow. Yeah, you really don’t remember shit. Maybe we should just leave it at that.”
“Maybe your ass better fill in the details before I give you a matched set.” It was an empty threat. I could hardly get my jeans up over my thighs without stumbling. My equilibrium was off, and I probably wouldn’t be right for another couple of days the way this hangover was going. “Why the fuck did you try to kiss me?”
He gave me some kind of look, like making him talk was physically causing him pain.
“Dude, I’ve had a hard-on for you forever. ‘Blink, get me this.’ ‘Blink, I need that.’ ‘Blink, my head is on fire and I’m gonna die.’ Why the fuck you think I was so quick on the draw?”
“Umm, ’cause we’re paying your bills?”
Blink snorted. “Not anymore.”
“What’s that me—wait. One thing at a time. Back up.”
He gave me a do-I-have-to look, but I set my jaw, and even though I was trying to reel back through every interaction with Blink ever—of which there were a lot, because I was almost as close to him as I was Evan—there was nothing, fucking nothing I could think of that would have ever tipped me off that he was harboring some unrequited crush on me. “I thought you were straight.”
He lifted his palms and waggled his fingers, giving me a miserable half smile. “Surprise.”
“Jesus.”
He shrugged. “I keep it to myself.”
That wasn’t for me to argue with him about. He flopped down on the bed, covering his face with his hands, and spoke between them. “So yeah. I was hammered, too. Not like you, but yeah. I decided it was an opportune time to make my confession. It wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t.”
“Did I kiss you back?”
“No. You punched me. That’s what I’m saying. Started spouting all this bullshit about how you’re going to be celibate now.”
“Incredibly poor timing on your part.”
“The worst,” he agreed.
I finished buttoning my pants and sat down on the bed next to him. Blink didn’t move, just kept talking through his hands, telling me about the clubs we’d gone to before and after, how I’d apologized later on and we’d ended up having some kind of heart-to-heart about how stupid I was over Evan and whether it could ever work out or not. Because apparently I’d been in the euphoric delusional stage where I thought everything would work out if I could just get Evan on the phone to listen to me.
“I tried to take away your phone, but you would’ve really lost your shit.”
By then, I lay sprawled on the bed next to him. Every detail he recounted just dragged me lower. I didn’t even want to get up off the bed. I wished I could just pull the cover
s over my head and suffocate myself.
“I’m sorry. That probably sucked for you on so many levels.”
“Yeahhhh.” He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. “But whatever. It’s done now. Evan called me when I was on my way over, asked me if I’d found you, and when I said yes, he said ‘good’ and that I was fired.”
“What? He can’t fucking do that.”
“Honestly, dude, maybe it’s for the best. This whole situation has turned black, and I can’t keep up with the partying anymore the way I used to. I’m just… I’m tired, man. Tired of it all.” He turned his head to face me and gave me a weak smile.
We lay there in mutually miserable silence for a while, then I pushed myself upright. “Let’s go home.”
I pulled him up after me, ignoring the way my limbs shook and shivered, and we collected the rest of my clothes. I didn’t know what I’d been doing in that hotel room, but the proliferation of empty booze bottles, plastic baggies, and broken furniture suggested I’d thrown myself a righteous pity party. I was amazed I hadn’t woken up with a stranger—or strangers—since that was usually how I soothed a wounded ego, but when I asked Blink, he shook his head quickly and said I’d pushed everyone away unless they wanted to drop something down my throat or give me something to put up my nose. And then I was amazed I’d even woken up at all.
Once we checked out of the Tropicana, I waited in the town car with my head slumped against the window while Blink went into the Bellagio and packed up the rest of my shit. I was worthless, practically immobile. Any movement made my stomach somersault dangerously. The driver had rolled down his window, probably to diffuse the scent of booze permeating the air around me. Blink had Mars handling getting us some plane tickets out of there, and honestly, I wasn’t even sure I could fly, I felt so fucking awful. It was a gorgeous day outside, blue sky, laughter and chatter filtering in through the window. Happy couples and families walking through the portico, down the sidewalks, and I felt like my skin was made of ash and neon, my bones so brittle they would crumble with a breeze.
When Blink got back down to the car, the driver hopped out to load my suitcase into the trunk. Blink slid in next to me, and when the driver glanced over his shoulder to confirm we were heading to the airport, I stopped him with a shake of my head, then turned to Blink.
“Will you get Byron on the phone?”
Blink made the call and handed the phone over to me.
“We need to talk,” Byron said.
“Yeah, I know. But not right now. I can’t even fucking see straight. I need you to do me a favor.”
There was a pause, then a leery “All right.”
“Find me a fucking rehab within two hundred miles of Vegas.”
He muttered something that might have been “Thank fucking God,” then said he’d call me back.
Twenty minutes into our ride to the airport, he did. “The Reserve. Had to pull a lot of shit to get you in there so… you’re going to show up, right?”
“Yep, on the way now.” I paused to tell the driver where we were going, then came back on the line. “Have you talked to Evan?”
“Yes.” Byron’s voice was still wary, like he’d been afraid I was going to ask.
“I’m guessing from that short answer, he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
The line went silent, and I shrunk in on myself further. I expected as much, but it still sucked.
“I think you should both cool off for a while, Les,” Byron said after a few moments. “Let everything die down.”
I exhaled a long breath, chin tilting in a nod he couldn’t see. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
“He knows.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t ask, either. I got off the phone, and Blink handed me a bottle of water. I managed a sip and then crashed hard in the back seat.
Do you get homesick being on the road for so long?
Evan: Yeah, definitely. I’m a homebody at heart.
Les: Not often. Anywhere I lay my head is home. What? Why are you laughing at that? We moved a lot when I was a kid, you know that! I’m a wanderer.
Evan: No no. I’m just thinking about the last place you “laid your head.”
Les: Where?
Evan: I don’t think they can print it.
Les: Ohhhhh, yeah. Shit, okay. Let me just say no, then, and leave it at that.
Chapter 36
Thirty-three missed calls from Les. Correction: ignored calls.
Twenty-two of them were apologies of various intelligibility. Eight told me how much he missed me. Two were obvious butt dials, nothing but the pandemonium of slot machines and overly loud voices in the background.
1. Answer the fucking phone, Porter. Pause. Goddammit. This is fucking stupid. Fuck you.
2. I shouldn’t have said fuck you. I’m sorry, but come on, Porter. Pause. Evan, just answer the phone and let’s talk about this. I fucked up, yes, but I wasn’t in on anything. I wasn’t in on some conspiracy to… whatever it is you’re thinking, you paranoid bastard. …I take back the bastard part. You’re not really a bastard. Uptight. Not that that’s entirely bad. It’s not an insult. Jesus, what the fuck am I saying? You’re uptight, but I’m cool with it. It’s hot. Most of the time. Not so much right now. Long silence. Ugh!
11. Do you know why I never let you see my notebooks? Because if you knew how much shit I write in there is about you, you’d think it was pathetic. Or creepy. I guess it’s a little of both. Shit, Ev… you turn me inside out. I miss you, man. Like you wouldn’t believe. Romantic bullshit, like how you smell and taste, and dumb stuff, too, that I’m not even going to tell you about. Well, I would if you would call me back. Call me back and let me tell you. Shit, just let me hear something other than your voicemail. Pause. What? No. I’ll be there in a minute! Evan, come on.
17. Blink just kissed me and I fucking punched him in the face. I feel bad, but what the fuck? That was out of the blue. He says he’s been twisted up over me for years. I had no clue. Poor fucker. Haaaa. I really could start a Lonely Hearts club now. Pause. I think I’ve crossed the emo threshold. It’s dark over here. Smells like coffee and cigarettes and the rubbery soles of checkered Vans. But you should know, I didn’t want to kiss him. Or anyone. Fuck him. Fuck them all. I don’t want to be with anyone else, Porter. Just you.
32. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Evan.
I’d listened to them all the way through three times before forcing myself to stop. By then, the fury I felt at him had waned to a simmer, but just when I’d start to actually feel bad for him, it’d bubble over again. Good. I needed that. He’d given me exactly the kick in the ass—and stomach, and heart—that I needed to remember why getting involved with him beyond the music was a stupid idea in the first place. He was a disaster. And like an idiot, I’d let myself get wrapped up in him.
The problem remained that as mad as I was, there were parts of it I didn’t regret. Being with him, wanting him, feeling so turned on I could hardly stand to be around him without touching him, feeling like I was no different than the rest of the horny world—the part where, for three weeks, I remembered what it was like to be head over heels for someone. That had been priceless. If only Les hadn’t been the one to get my motor running. I hated him for making me feel that way and then ripping it apart with something so stupid.
Regardless, I was done. So fucking done. I’d called Byron on the way home and told him I quit. He’d flipped out like I thought he would and told me to at least take twenty-four hours to think about it. I’d told him I would, but that the answer would be the same. And it was.
I had a week of quietly torturing myself at home in Nashville before Byron called me in for a meeting, and when I walked into his office on Music Row and found not only him, but Levi and Kenny, our A&R guy from MGD, I knew something was up.
Blink had texted me the day before to tell me Les had checked into rehab, to which my only reply had been “about fucking time.” I didn’t regret firing Blink. I thought he w
as an enabler of the worst kind, and if Byron or MGD had something to say about that, fucking fine. But no one even mentioned Blink.
I walked into the conference room, and all three of them stood and came forward to shake my hand. Byron’s receptionist asked if I wanted anything to drink, and when I declined, everyone moved to sit again. Byron looked distinctly uneasy, which put me on edge.
“So we find ourselves in an interesting position, Evan,” Kenny said, cutting to the chase. “Byron tells us you’re not interested in continuing on as Porter & Graves, but you and Les have the next album written already, correct?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t planned ahead, which was a mistake, so my tactic was to say as little as possible and see what direction this meeting was going in.
“My thinking here is we proceed with the album and they record separately, if Evan is okay with that,” Byron said with a glance over at me. He and I had discussed this on the phone before, but I hadn’t been able to come to a final decision. And we hadn’t talked to Les about it yet. I thought we’d have more time. Les and I had always been in the studio together, and it almost shocked me how wrong it felt to hear Byron suggest otherwise. But I got it. It was a practical solution and would fulfill the contract in technical terms. It didn’t take into account touring after that, though, and I didn’t think releasing an album without a tour to promote it would fly with the label. I couldn’t imagine six months on a bus with Les right now.
“That’s certainly an option,” Kenny said. “I have another one for you to consider, as well.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the conference table.
From the way Byron’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, this was news to him. My interest was more cautious.
Kenny continued. “In lieu of a fourth album from Porter & Graves, you fulfill your portion of the contract by delivering us a fresh album. In addition, we’d be highly interested in two additional albums after that. So essentially a three-album contract, for which we’re willing to offer—” Kenny held up his finger, withdrawing a folded paper from the breast pocket of his coat and sliding it across the table. It landed between me and Byron. I skimmed through far enough to find the numbers as Byron looked on. Then he pressed his lips together and looked over at me.