by S. L. Scott
“I don’t know anything about you, Todd.”
That makes him laugh sardonically. “For the record, if I could change what I did, I would.”
“For the record, it doesn’t matter what you would do if you could because you can’t, so what’s done is done.”
“I loved you.”
My arms fall to my sides and I sigh. Looking down, I bring my bottom lip in and scrape my teeth across and releasing while I think about what I want to say and how. “Look, I cared about you. A lot. That’s what hurt so much.”
“I apologized back then. I’ll apologize now. I’m sorry. I screwed up. You were the best thing I had in my life and I fucked it up. I’m sorry.”
Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, I say, “Thank you.” He hands me a business card. “What is this?” I look down and read it. “Since when do musicians start carrying business cards?”
“Since the band announced the next tour is their last. We’re breaking up. I’m producing now. I’d like to work with The Resistance.”
I hand the card back to him, offended this was all a ploy to get to my husband. “Then you need to talk to them. I can’t get you an in.”
“You can. You just don’t want to.”
Shrugging, I say, “Maybe that’s it too, but I don’t make band decisions or even have a say, and I’m not going to start now.”
I walk around him, but he takes my arm, stopping me. “I bought you a ring.” My mouth opens and he says, “I was going to ask you to marry me, but I had a breakdown. I freaked out inside. We were twenty-one. Way too young.”
Freeing my arm, I look down as old hurt comes back like the boyfriend who once stabbed me in the back. I shrug, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me that you know the truth.”
“The truth doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Does knowing I still have the ring?”
“Knowing you still have the ring just makes me sad for some reason.” I glance to the door and back to him. “I need to go. That really is a business meeting, an important one, that I need to return to.”
“Okay.”
I start to leave again, but this time I stop and turn back. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I lied before. The truth does matter.”
He nods and I turn back around and go inside.
When I sit back down at the table, I see Kiefer join his party in the corner. While I make my apologies to Cliff and Jason, I watch him down his drink, pretending that what just happened didn’t affect him like it did. I still know him well enough to see past the pretenses.
The waitress arrives and I order the special. From time to time, I can sense Kiefer watching me, but I keep my eyes on my dinner companions. We talk about the extensive line they want to carry from Limelight and wanting me to endorse it with an ad campaign. I drink the one glass of champagne but no more. I like to be alert when discussing business. By the end of our meal, I say, “No numbers have been mentioned. Do you want to talk about it or would you prefer to send something over this week?”
“Let’s enjoy dessert and we’ll send the numbers over this week,” Cliff suggests. “How did your photoshoot go?”
“It went well. The delay was hard to work around and we lost some key elements, but I think we more than made up for it.”
Jason asks, “Have you modeled before?”
“Not professionally. I’ve done some stuff with the company as the face of Limelight, but this was different being a model in the campaign, playing a role, and taking direction.”
“Does your husband play an active role in the company?” Cliff asks.
“No. I started it years before I met him. I’m living my passion and he’s living his. We’re both fortunate to be able to do that.”
“Any plans for kids?” he asks, making me uncomfortable.
“One day,” I answer. My tone is clipped, though I didn’t mean it to be. “I should probably get going.” I look around for the waitress, but I don’t see her.
Jason says, “Dinner’s on us.”
“Thank you. It’s been a really nice evening.” I stand with my purse in hand. “I look forward to working with you. Hopefully we’ll get the finances in order so we can make that happen.”
Jason stands and takes my hand. “It was a very nice night.”
While waiting on the sidewalk for the valet to pull my car around, Kiefer comes out with an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He smiles and pulls the cigarette from between his lips. “Meeting went well?”
“Yes. It went well. Did you have a nice dinner?”
“I did.” He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply. “I always knew you’d do well.”
Smoke circles above his head and by the kind smile, I’m almost convinced he might not be that bad. “Thank you.”
“Not only a successful businesswoman, but married to a superstar. Impressive. How’d you two meet?”
“We had a one-night stand in Vegas.” I smirk, cocking an eyebrow up. “That led to two nights and phone calls, trips to see each other and lots of great sex.”
“Apparently,” he says, taking my bluntness in stride. “You were always beautiful, Holli.”
That wipes the smile from my face, making me suddenly feel shy under his attention. “That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t all bad then, but I’m different now.”
Stepping closer, I lower my voice so only he hears instead of all the valet drivers. “You weren’t that bad. But when you were… that was hard to get past.”
“Well I’m single if you ever want to hang out,” he throws the offer out so casually.
“That’s not gonna happen, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Understandable.” He tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the ground as my car is parked in front of me. “Maybe our paths will cross again.”
I don’t try to reassure of him or make niceties over a future get together. I’m glad tonight happened though. It’s good to put your demons to rest. I say, “Take care of yourself, okay?”
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nods and watches as I tip the valet and climb into the driver’s seat. In my rearview mirror, he stays where I left him, watching as I drive away.
I’m exhausted from the whirlwind week and it’s only half over. I want to climb into bed when I get home and sleep for days. It won’t be the same without Dalton, but I’m hoping to find sleep fast anyway. I need to call Tracy and update her, so I do it while I’m driving. The Bluetooth connects and she answers, “Hey Hols, how’d it go?”
“We have a deal if we want one,” I reply.
Her voice goes up an octave. “That’s fantastic! Great job. I knew you could do it.”
“I don’t know if I did anything. Seems they already had made up their mind before I got there.”
“The brands’ success sold them on the product. You sealed the deal.”
Leaning my head back, I smile as I drive. “Do you remember Kiefer?”
There’s a long pause, then she asks, “Your Ex Kiefer?”
“The one and only. He came over to the table. We went outside and talked.”
“About?”
“About our breakup. And he wants me to hook him up with the band. The Mattresses are breaking up after the next tour. He’s producing now.”
“What the hell?”
“It was all weird and brought up those old angry feelings I used to have, but then it was… I don’t know, okay. I was okay.”
“You’re in a better place. That’s why.”
Dalton pops into my head and I smile. “It’s funny how seeing an Ex can remind you how good you have it now.”
“Sometimes we have to go through the bad stuff to get to the good stuff.”
“I guess so.” I turn down a street and slow for a stop sign ahead. “Anyway, I called because I wanted to share the good news about the deal. Let me know if you see anything come through. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
&
nbsp; “We have a busy day, so be ready.”
“I’m ready. I’m going home and going straight to bed.”
She laughs. “Yes, get some rest. It’s been a crazy few days. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
“Night.”
“Your mind will play tricks on you even when your heart tells you otherwise.” ~ Johnny Outlaw
My eyes slowly open. Five forty-five in the morning and I’m awake. Seven hours sleep must be my max. I look toward the patio door. It’s dark outside, but a slip of moonlight is streaming in. Lying there motionless for a few minutes I let the fog clear from my brain and reach for my phone on the nightstand.
I don’t have the energy to tackle my emails yet. My inbox gets flooded overnight by overseas emails, but I do check my texts. I have two—one from Dalton and another from Rochelle.
I read Daltons first. I fucked up.
My heart sinks. I flip back to the main messages and then to his again hoping to find out what he means, but there’s nothing else. No other texts. What the fuck? How can he send me that and nothing else? I feel sick to my stomach. I know he won’t pick up his phone this early, so I pop out of bed and run down the stairs to the kitchen and grab my laptop. I open it at the bar and start searching, typing ‘Johnny Outlaw’ into the search bar.
Pages of results show up, but the top three are from yesterday and three hours ago. I click the first titled, “Johnny Outlaw on Going Solo and Being Single.”
I brace myself, trying to block the bile filling my mouth. My hands start shaking and the article pops up—the interview he had yesterday. “Shit, what did you do, Dalton?” I quietly ask myself. I start rapidly reading the article looking for his responses. I come across this, ‘Being married has changed my perspective on life. My priorities have changed.’
Interviewer—You’ve never talked openly about your marriage. Last week you brought Holliday Hughes onstage with you. So you’re changing your stance on this? She’s changed you?
‘She has made me realize my true priorities.’
Interviewer—What does that mean for the band?
‘It means I’m considering all my options.’
Interviewer—You might go solo or quit?
‘Music isn’t a hobby for me. It’s more than a career. Music saved me. Music is a part of me, like an organ that pumps and thrives, keeping me alive.’
I continue reading the article.
Outlaw downs his fourth shot, so I down my third having trouble keeping up with the brooding musician. Casey James’ “Let’s Don’t Call It A Night” comes on the jukebox. The small country-themed bar is buried in the middle of Manhattan and over the course of the last hour has a few more customers. This dark corner offers protection from Outlaw’s enormous fan base and he seems to appreciate that fact.
He speaks in riddles and often doesn’t answer at all. For someone that the world seems to know everything about, I get the distinctive feeling that we actually know very little about him. I’ve danced around his personal life though it’s a topic that endlessly fascinates the media and the world. Maybe that’s because we don’t know anything about it.
Interviewer—You’re a different man from the last time we met. Yet I don’t feel like I know you any better than back then.
‘When was that?’
Interviewer—Three years ago before the Grammy’s.
He looks around. When he turns back, he says, ‘That was before the band change-up.’
It was back when Cory Dean, the lead guitarist and much beloved member of The Resistance died in a plane crash, leaving two young sons and a fiancée behind. Outlaw has been very vocal about how much this tragedy affected him. By his body language, it is still a source of discord for him.
Interviewer—Do you get along with the new members?
‘Yeah.’
Switching tactics, I return back to the man himself.
Interviewer—How do you really feel about fame, Johnny?
‘Fame has no substance. It’s a word, something people use to categorize you. There’s this misperception that fame equals happiness. It doesn’t. It doesn’t hold that kind of power. It can give you glimpses of happiness, but there’s no solid foundation in it.’ The lead singer leans forward and I can tell how passionate he is about the topic. I’ve touched a nerve. ‘Your family, your friends, your art—those have substance. Those hold value and weight over your soul. Losing fame isn’t a loss. Losing a friend is.’
Interviewer—You’re referring to Cory Dean?
‘I’m referring to people and things that matter.’
Interviewer—Your fans may take your reaction as ungrateful.
‘My fans know where I stand and how much I care about my music and them. I won’t be drawn in to defend my stance on something that glorifies failure. That’s what fame does. As soon as you start to lose fame, you’re considered a failure. I’ve got a history I hope one day becomes a legacy. There’s no failure in my accomplishments.’
Interviewer—No, there’s not. You’re legacy already exists.
Two of the newer members of The Resistance walk in with a woman I don’t recognize. She calls Johnny and the guys signal for him to leave. Johnny stands and thanks me. He pays for our drinks and says maybe we’ll catch up in LA later this year.
Interviewer—I’d like to. I’ll set something up.
‘Thanks. Have a good night.’
I watch as the group disappears out onto the streets of New York wondering how far this, using a term he seems to despise, famous man will get without being recognized. Although this interview, like the last one is shorter than I’d like, I’ve learned that he has changed in many way from three years ago, but the mystery still remains.
Not sure what to make of this, I stare at the screen. Getting up quickly, I hurry back upstairs and grab my phone. I see Rochelle’s text still waiting to be read and open it. Call me after you read the interview. I’m worried about Johnny.
I doubt she’s up. Looking at the time, it’s just gone six, but I text her anyway. I just read it. I haven’t talked to him yet. I’ll call you after I do.
Next, I call Dalton. I don’t care what time it is. Closing my eyes, I stand next to the bed holding the phone to my ear. Groggily, he answers, “Hello?”
“Dalton, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You sent me a text that says you fucked up.” I can’t contain the strain in my voice, my nerves getting the best of me. “What happened? How did you fuck up?”
A female voice in the background, sounding tired, way too relaxed, says, “Hang up, Johnny.”
My heart stops, my fingers losing hold of the phone as my soul loses grasp of my world. The phone falls from my hand as I run to the bathroom. Flipping the seat up, I’m hunched over heaving until my body rids itself of the poison of my former life. I roll back and lie down on the cold marble. My thoughts are spinning too fast to keep up and my stomach is churning from the pain that my husband has fucked up and fucked our life.
Standing up, my knees go weak and my hands need something solid to hold onto. I lean on the counter and grab a washcloth, wet it, and dab it to my face. The cool water feels good despite how numb the rest of my body feels. I brush my teeth and go back into the bedroom. My phone has several missed calls from Dalton on the screen even though I never hung up. Guess he did and called back.
But I can’t. I can’t talk to him right now. Just as I set the phone down on the nightstand, it buzzes with a text from him—call me back.
Fuck you!
Then it buzzes again. This time with a text from Rochelle—call me when you can.
I call her back because I’d rather talk to her than sit here for the next few hours letting the fact that my husband is fucking another woman run rampant through my mind.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Rochelle…” the name doesn’t even fully leave
my mouth before I burst into tears.
“Holli, honey, what’s wrong?”
“He’s cheating on me.”
“What?” The word spikes in her throat. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I just,” I start to say and sniffle, “called him and I heard a woman in the background.”
“Uh!” She gasps as if she can’t comprehend what I’m saying. “Holli…”
After she pauses, I pick up the conversation with, “I know.”
“I feel sick.”
“I was sick. I just threw up.”
“Holli, I’m in shock right now. I know the band had a meeting in his room last night. Tommy called me to say I needed to get Rory on an interview he’d just done because he seemed different, drunk and sad. I know you left yesterday. Did you leave on a bad note?”
“No, we were good. More than good. I, uh…” I start to cry again.
“I’m coming over.”
“You don’t hav—”
“I’m coming. Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Holli?” Rochelle calls from downstairs.
I roll away from the door and don’t answer. I’m sick of crying and emotionally exhausted.
“I have good news.” I feel her cozy up behind me and hug me. “The whole band was there, Holli. He wasn’t alone with any woman. It was their equipment manager Ash—”
Facing her, I say, “Ashley. I’m very familiar with her.”
“See? It’s nothing. They were just meeting and partying all night.”
We both sit up and lean against the headboard. My eyes burn from the tears. “In New York, she told me without distractions, he could be king, Ro.”
“What does that mean?”
“She insinuated that I’m distracting him from his potential.”
Rochelle’s eyes are fixed on me in disbelief. “That’s bullshit. She actually said that?” Scoffing, she adds, “He’s at the top of his game and owes a lot to you being by his side, so don’t let her give you doubts.”
“Since when does the crew hang out with the band?”
She understands why I’m asking, but still doesn’t sugarcoat the facts. “They don’t normally.”