by KC Enders
There’s a reason, there is some kind of excuse for this, but now is not the time. I can’t begin to process this shit.
I’m not a diva, not by any means, but what’s the point in being a fucking rock star if I don’t pull the shit on occasion? After a nerve-racking drive from hell, I slam the car into park in front of the terminal’s valet and grab my shit from the back. I chuck a couple of Benjamins at the valet and ask him to return the rental for me.
Suitcase in one hand, guitar in the other, I run through the terminal, slap my passport down, and get pushed through to security. It’s a mad dash to the gate, but I make it, sweaty and panting just before the doors to the jetway click shut. I didn’t even look at my ticket, never had a chance as I was running like hell, so when the flight attendant takes my guitar case straight from my hand and directs me to the very back of the fucking cabin to a seat squished in the middle of the middle, I remind myself that I am a fortunate bastard to be here.
“Excuse me,” I say along with a handful of, “I’m sorry,” as I squeeze myself into a space that is way too small for my frame. I try to get comfortable for the next twelve and a half hours.
I’m starving, I need a shower in the worst possible way, and it’s probably too fucking early for a goddamn drink. I shimmy and wiggle my way out of my leather jacket, doing my best not to inadvertently smack anyone in the face. More than anything, I need to chill, so I pull my earbuds from the inside pocket of my jacket, the one my phone abso-fucking-lutely should be in.
Where the fuck is my goddamn phone?
I pat down my jacket and then check my seat and the floor around me. For all the care I took mere moments ago, getting out of my jacket, I elbow the guy next to me as I frantically hit, pat, and search every pocket of my jeans.
No … nope. No. Not cool, not fucking cool.
It’s gone.
Not here.
Not with me.
It’s gone.
Fucking shit. I replay everything—from squeezing my ass into this seat to the thousand-yard dash through the terminal to checking in. Nope. Handed the chick my passport and got it back with a boarding pass.
Then, it hits me like a sledgehammer. I chucked that bitch across my rental car. Left the car at the curb. Left my fucking phone in the car.
Chapter 37
Gracyn
Well, this is not how I planned for my morning to go. Not in the least.
I walk into the office, ready to do what’s expected—crunch my numbers, compile my clients’ reports, keep things copacetic. That was my plan, but reality Can’t Understand Normal Thinking and has a serious right hook.
Gavin is busy, crazy busy, according to the band’s Twitter feed. Entertainment news sites are going crazy with the speculation of his arrest and a growing rift within the band. According to theBuzz, the band is breaking up, Kane and Nate are secret lovers, and Ian is actually the secret bastard brother of Adam Whitfield from Of The Room. And they all hate Gavin.
What really solidifies the shitstorm from hell is a phone call. The phone call. The one I’ve been waiting for, biding my time for. Praying for. Unfortunately, the timing sucks.
It’s ten in the morning, and I’m stuck in a conference room with Brooks. Not Brooks on a conference call, but Brooks in the flesh, trying to sidle up to me with casual touches that are supposed to be alluring and some kind of sexy, I’m sure. In fact, he just annoys the crap out of me, and I can’t stand being in that dick’s presence.
It’s been days of sending texts and waiting. More texts and waiting. Texts and more waiting. So, when Gavin’s photo lights up my screen, I don’t even hesitate. I grab that phone, excuse myself, and try to school the ridiculous giddiness I feel into something office acceptable and professional.
The effort is totally wasted as I practically shake with excitement and gush out a breathy greeting. “Hey. Is it really you?” Stupid, I know, but where do we start this?
“Yeah, it is.”
That’s it. Nothing more, and I have no idea how to read him. It’s been almost a week since the weekend of hell.
“Gavin, I … you were here? Before you got …” I pause, rethinking the direction I was headed. “Before the tour started?” The phone is silent, and I check to see if he’s still there, my heart stuttering nervously. “Gavin?”
His sigh fills the interminable space between us. “I’m here. I … I was … there, I mean.” More silence. Another sigh evicted forcefully from his lungs. “I tried to surprise you, and then shit went bad.”
“I heard. I … saw.”
“Gracyn, that picture—”
I miss the rest of what Gavin says as Brooks leans over my shoulder, demanding my attention. “Don’t forget your coffee. You know how you get in the morning without it.”
Shifting away from his way-too-familiar proximity, I throw a quick, “Thanks,” over my shoulder at him before focusing back on the phone call. “Sorry, Gavin, I missed that,” I continue, only to feel an icy silence through the phone.
When Gavin speaks, it’s with a detached coldness, “Who was that?”
“Brooks,” I reply, trying desperately to channel Kate’s calm kindergarten voice. I try, but dear God, I have to grip my phone tightly so as not to drop it. I’m shaking all over.
“Brooks.” Gavin spits the name out like it’s venom. And it is, but he’s also a client, and I have to work with him.
Surely, Gavin can understand that?
“What is he doing there? Why is he with you?” He sounds like he’s just barely holding it together. “Gracyn, what did he say?”
“He just … he brought my coffee to me so that—”
“Yeah, because, for some reason, he knows how you are before you have your coffee in the morning. Really? I thought you were different, but you didn’t even fucking wait for me to leave, did you?”
“What? Gavin, no, I—”
He doesn’t give me a chance to explain, just cuts me off, barreling over my words, “Sarah at least waited until I left before she moved on. But you? Who were you fucking with, huh? Him or me?”
I … what? What is he implying?
“Gavin, I—”
“Christ, if he’s with you at this time of day, Gracyn … I’m not fucking stupid. I’ve seen the pictures, the declarations. I get it. His fucking hashtags. If that’s what you want, fine. That’s what you’re after? I thought there was more to you, that you were one of the ones who made the choice to live life as you dreamed, not as others expected you to. I really thought you were different. What a fucking joke.” He laughs humorlessly.
“Wait. Let me just explain—”
But, as far off the rails as this phone conversation has gotten, the train wreck is just now hitting.
Brooks passes by, handing me my things from the conference room. “Don’t forget your coat. It’s cold. I don’t want you freezing on the way.”
What the actual fuck?
It’s like he knows … like Brooks is perfectly aware of whom I’m talking to and how this might be coming across.
“Right,” Gavin huffs. “Better not keep your new man waiting.”
* * *
GAVIN
Why the fuck is that asshole with her at this time of the morning? Even with all the time we’ve spent apart, I know … I know she doesn’t go into work at seven in the fucking morning. That means that piece of shit is with her, at her apartment. The apartment I’ve not had the pleasure of waking up in with her. Of making her coffee … of seeing her prep for her day. No, those little luxuries went the way of the pisser when I got myself arrested and thrown in fucking jail instead of telling her—showing her—how much I loved her.
Can that be right? Have I fallen in love with another chick who can’t be bothered with waiting for me to do my fucking job? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m nothing but a fucking sap.
I check my phone and double-check it again, making sure that I do the correct calcs for time zones. Christ, some people can’t figure out Central
to Eastern, and I’m crossing continents and funky exchanges. Not to mention, I’m sleep-deprived and jet-lagged, and I have no clue which way is up at this point. The guys have been giving me monumental shit since I arrived, not that I can blame them. The label execs haven’t held back either.
I made sure I called her at six thirty, her local time, well before our show tonight in Afghanistan. The one we’re doing for the USO, for the troops stuck in this desert for Christmas, far away from their families. And she’s got that motherfucker handing her coffee and her jacket well before she leaves for the office.
Isn’t that cozy as shit?
I’m out. I just can’t do the cheating, the dismissal by someone I thought I loved. I did love. I love.
I have no recollection of flinging my phone across the room, of it leaving my hand. Of sliding down the wall until my ass hits the floor with a decisive thud.
Chapter 38
Gavin
The cities blur and roll in on each other. The shows all have the mind-numbing feel of sameness. Each is indistinguishable from the one before and the one that comes next. For being in the midst of a dream come true, the fairy tale feels more like the old-school-nightmare version as opposed to the glossy, shiny telling of kids’ movies.
So, instead of seeing the similarities between the Bavarian castle we visit and Disney’s version of it, I spend my time thinking long and hard about the gory original telling of the story by Charles Perrault where the wicked stepsisters cut off their toes in an effort to try to make Cinderella’s shoe fit. All that pretty much sums up my mood for the bulk of the tour. The rest of the time, I spend having serious drunken debates over whether I should respond to the barrage of messages from Gracyn.
Thankfully, the bottle usually wins, leaving me to pass out, safe for another day.
Unless Kane is around. Then, the bulk of my time is devoted to distracting him from his mission to get me laid. Again. It’s like a goddamn repeat of Destin when he was focused so clearly on getting me under anyone and everyone to help me get over Sarah. I got over her … and stuck on Gracyn. And that whole thing has worked out just splendidly, hasn’t it?
“What happened to the days when we shared, Gav? Remember when we first started this, and we shared everything?” And there he is. Kane Newton at his best. “You used to share all of it with me—hotel rooms, PB and Js …”
I’m so not up for dealing with him. Or this. Or anything really. But definitely not Kane.
“Chicks. God, remember that?” he continues. “We need to hit that again. It’d totally make you feel better.”
Kane eyes me from his perch across the small room. I take a pull from the bottle of vodka I’ve been carrying around today, not feeling at all like responding. The sheer volume of alcohol I have put down is astounding. Only a few inches are gone from this particular bottle, and as I lower the thing from my mouth, Kane’s gaze is heavily focused on my lips.
He’s not usually so serious in these conversations. Because, yeah, this is not a first for us. For a while, I thought it was a joke or something after Sasha and he had their falling-out or whatever. Thought the lingering looks and the comments were a way for him to throw his laissez-faire attitude around. But, today, his eyes are heavy with desire and just a touch of uncertainty. He definitely tends toward lust while all I want is love—just not with him.
“No. You make it sound like we were tagging that chick.” I shudder, just thinking about it, because, that night, I was so not myself. And I had no idea the girl sucking my dick was trying to make her way through the entire band in one night.
Pulling his lip between his teeth, Kane leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “We could though, or—”
“Stop. Whatever you’re thinking, just stop. You know I don’t give a shit about what you do or who. You’ve gotta do right by you, be who you’ve gotta be, but I don’t have the patience for your shit, man. You know this.” I knock another inch off the bottle, savoring the burn. I stopped getting the good stuff a couple of cities ago, opting for quantity over quality.
“I do.” He nods, lips pulling up on one side into an almost grin. “But I’ve got you talking for a change. Dude, you need to snap out of this hole you’re in. Deal with it or get past it, but this dance you’re doing isn’t just dragging you down. You’ve been fucked the entire tour. Moody and stuck in your head. Talk to her. At least read a text. Hell, let me read them. I don’t give a shit, but something’s got to give.” He stands from the chair and heads for the door out of my room.
I hold my breath, waiting for my best friend to drop it and vacate my space.
“We’re here for you, Gavin, but you need to pull your shit together, or—”
“Or what?”
“Not my call, but the label’s pissed. You’re bad press, and we all know, that’s supposed to be my job.” With a wink and a not-so-subtle rake of his gaze taking me in from top to bottom, Kane finally leaves.
As if the timing couldn’t be any better, my phone buzzes with the day’s incoming text bomb from Gracyn. The frequency of these has been all over the place. Some days, she hits me four or five times. Sometimes, it’s just one. Today has been a slow day.
GG: Please talk to me. Let me explain.
I trace the cracks in my screen as I think for a hot minute about responding. I consider the pros and cons to the best of my alcohol-addled brain’s ability. The guys all assume I haven’t read any of her messages. I don’t read all of them, not really many at all. But, sometimes, one comes through like this, and I can’t stop myself.
They say there is pain in art, and with the fissures in the glass slashing through her plea to explain, I feel the crevasse in my heart shift and pull the pieces further apart. Explanation shouldn’t even be a thing here. What explanation is there for suddenly having a dickbag like that in your life? What had to change in her world for that to ever be okay? And here I am, looking for some reasoning. I just don’t need to go there.
Tomorrow. I’ll start playing nice tomorrow with the band, the label, the promo. Today, I have a bottle of vodka with my name all over it.
Chapter 39
Gracyn
Best day of my career thus far was walking out the doors of the firm I’d thought I would inherit. Turned out, I was delusional or something, and my father never had any intention of making me a partner.
Who does that? What person in a third-generation family-owned business purposely alienates both of their children? Completely excludes one and dismisses the other because she doesn’t have a penis?
Of course, Michael George, upstanding patriarch of the perfect family, didn’t appreciate me pointing out his double standard. It kind of chapped his ass when I laid out the bullet points of his hypocrisy. Exiling Bryan for being gay and trying to hand-pick a spouse he deemed suitable for me—essentially arranging my marriage—while he maintained his slam pad down in the city. Yeah, no.
I didn’t have to think twice about my response when he handed me an ultimatum.
“Gracyn Louise, you walk out that door, and you’re fired.”
That first step felt amazing.
“Close that door, and you will not have a recommendation from me.”
The cool metal of the doorknob sent a wave of calm through me.
“You’ll regret this, young lady. No one will hire you when word gets out that you were fired by your own father,” he said with a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
Deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep breath in—one, two, three, four—and out—two, three, four.
My back straightened as I turned and plastered on a professional mask. “Mr. George, you and I are both well aware of the financial ramifications of you terminating my employment here. While my compensation is not completely above industry standards, you do pay me an excellent wage, sir—one which will be used to calculate the increase in your unemployment insurance.”
There it was. The crack in his haughty veneer. His smug look
started to sag and slide, the spark of righteousness dimmed just a little.
“And we both know you’re too much of a tightwad to swallow that bitter pill. But don’t worry, Mike; I’m still leaving. The last thing I want is to be associated with you and your holier-than-thou bullshit. I would rather struggle and find my way on my own merits than ride the coattails of a homophobic, philandering prick like you.”
“What about your mother? You want to break her heart like this?”
“No, Dad. I think Mom’s had enough heartbreak to deal with over the years, but maybe seeing me stand up for myself will give her the boost she needs to do the same. Maybe I can be her inspiration to walk away from your toxicity.” The little girl in me who loved growing up in this firm is shaking in her boots. “I’ll leave my key with Margaret.”
“What about a recommendation?” he had the nerve to ask.
“I don’t want your endorsement.” Thankfully, I had prepared, and all my personal items were packed up and sitting in a tote bag just inside the door of my office.
I pushed send on my resignation email, handed my key and company credit card over to Margaret, and felt more empowered than I could have imagined. Saying good-bye to Margaret sucked though. She’d been at that front desk forever and a day, and not seeing her smiling face every morning would break my heart.
Since I don’t have anywhere I need to be for the rest of the day, I drive straight to McBride’s. I absolutely deserve a whiskey to celebrate this next step—and to try to figure out what the hell it’s going to look like.