by Lyrica Creed
Before the silence got too awkward, I spoke. “I thought I saw you once. At a benefit gig where Fire Flight played.”
“You were there? Shit. Yeah. Jeter was there with Seth. Bradley and I picked him up. We were in one of the other band’s rooms for a bit.
Ivy picked some more at her bread and affixed a curious gaze over the table. “Tell me everything. About you and Gage. How it happened. How you two found your way together.”
“There’s not much to tell. I stayed with him while looking for you. And we got close. I mean we’ve always been close. But I guess we figured that out and where to go with it.”
“I’m happy. Like I said last night. Everyone kind of knew you two had a thing for each other. Even way back when.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Yeah you did.” Ivy smiled and finally took a bite. Cheeking it, she added, “Like you just said, looking back, you know.”
“I guess so. And you’re happy? Really?” I picked up a roll. “Because there’s a Fire Flight guitarist out there hoping the answer to that question is up for debate.”
“Seriously? I saw him looking, but I thought you all were talking about me or something.” Ivy cut her eyes to the table where the men were laughing together. “He’s hot. But yes, I’m happy with Bradley for now.”
“For now?”
“Well, it doesn’t feel like forever love. Not that I would know what that feels like.” Ivy twisted her lips for emphasis. “Do you?”
I only took a sip and remained quiet. I wanted to slide beneath the table to avoid the question. Gage. Forever? It felt like he’d been in my life forever. But was ‘forever more’ my destiny with him?
“Remember when you texted the picture of that guy in your study group? It wasn’t long ago you said you’d never had the forever feeling. But this is Gage. What about now?”
“I don’t know,” I finally whispered. “A lot of baggage comes with him.” I steeled myself from looking toward the window and Gage. “I feel something for him I’ve never felt.” Last night I’d actually had to bite back the ‘L’ word. “But the forever feeling… I don’t know.”
I continued to ponder the question on the ride back to the house, and again when Colt and Seth loaded up into the convertible and drove off. Gage had already hinted his feelings were deep with all of his mysterious fight starting conversations.
We waved father and son off, and Gage wrapped me in his arms as we walked into the house. “Alone at last.” His hands disappeared beneath my shirt and blazed fire trails over the sensitive skin of my stomach. He paused his playing and disentangled from me.
Curiously, I watched as he picked up the disc I had noticed earlier from the countertop. “What’s that?”
His chest rose and then fell with a silent sigh. “You know how Colt collects all Tyler Conterra memorabilia?”
The shrine-like corner in Colt’s studio flashed into my memories. The weight of the indigo guitar with a skull on the front—and a scarlet red rose on the back. The flash of a camera. “Do I ever.”
Another one of his speculative looks touched over me. He was full of them today. Truth was, he’d always been watchful of me where Colt was concerned. “So you saw his studio?” When I nodded, he asked, “Why do I feel like there’s more?”
I kicked my sandals off and debated whether to tell him. The entire reason I hadn’t confided to him even directly afterward, when I’d been furious, was because it was embarrassing. But lately, even more so than when we’d been kids, I had this weird impulse to tell Gage anything and everything.
Chapter 44
She seemed to be in a mental struggle with whatever it was, kicking her shoes aside, probably to stall answering. His mind fell back to the night he’d caught her and Colt kissing and he’d virtually yelled at her to check out Colt’s studio. She’d come home the next morning, furious with Colt.
Taking the step between the two of them, he cupped her face and touched his chin to her forehead. “If there’s more, just tell me. You were so pissed with Colt until recently.”
“I had to work some stuff out. And he’s… he acts like a clueless brute sometimes.”
“What did the clueless brute do this time?”
“I asked if I could hold my dad’s guitar.”
“And he didn’t let you!” His inner amp needle swung from curiosity to fury.
“He let me. And while I was holding it…” She heaved in a breath and then blew it out. “He took my picture with it.” Her eyes were far away and sad. “Without asking. Just took it. He showed it to me. Didn’t know he did anything wrong. I didn’t say anything. It was done. You know. What point would there be?”
“He’s an idiot, Scar. You’re right. But I’ve come to find his heart is in the right place about all of the right things.” She nodded. Whether in agreement or taking his word for it, he didn’t know. “And that’s what this is about.” He held up the DVD again. “He means well.”
Leading her to the couch, he sat and coaxed her down. He pulled her against his side, pushed his own shoes off, and intertwined their feet together on the floor. “Since he has the guitar and so much of the important stuff of those years, Willard Acker, the director of the twenty-year documentary came by several times with a camera crew to get shots. Naturally, as these things go, Colt, being such a big fan and loaning his stuff for the film, received an advance copy of it.”
“And that’s it?” She indicated the disc.
“Yeah. Remember you told me how your mom plays into this?” He watched as she warily nodded her head. “You said the movie shown in theaters, television―and the prescreen―will be the documentary by itself. But when the DVD of the movie goes on sale, one of the extra features will be interviews with a few significant persons in his life. One of those interviews is the one your mom came to L.A. for?” She nodded again, and he played with her manicured fingers, noting how much shorter she was wearing her nails since beginning the guitar. Carefully choosing his words, he began. “Willard Acker emailed Colt the extras yesterday. Colt thought you should see them. Well, more specifically, see your mom’s interview.”
He snuck a look at her face and relaxed in relief when she remained calm. Looking toward the fireplace and the electronics shelved around it, she asked, “Do you have a DVD player here?”
“No. I can come up with one if you want to watch the documentary. But the interview part that was emailed to him is here.” He cued up his phone and passed it to her.
She seemed hesitant before determinedly accepting it. “You watch it already?” Her blues held his gaze, and he sadly noted the vulnerability in their depths as he nodded. “I guess if you of all people think I should see, something is really wrong.” Curving an arm around her neck, he pulled her closer and landed a kiss on the side of her face.
The camera panned in on Henni who sat demurely, hands upon the lap of a deceptively classy dress.
At one time, rumor had it you and Tyler were getting married.
We were. Yes.
But you didn’t.
No. If that had happened, it would have been only because of the baby on the way. And that’s not a good reason to get married.
Tyler once said in an interview he believed he’d found his soul mate, but he wasn’t destined to be together with her. Was he talking about you?
Yes.
Yes?
He called us soul mates. Wrote the song, you know. But it’s true. We couldn’t be together. I couldn’t marry him. He had too many problems. No one could see that. Unless they knew him. You have your public face. And private face. And in private, he was a mess.
How so? Depression? Drugs?
Yes. And yes. And more. Tyler wasn’t himself when he was fu—when he was using. He was suicidal. And delusional. He had dreams that he believed were going to come true or had already come true.
What kind of dreams?
He said one night aliens had kidnapped him. He never got over that. He believed it the rest of his days. He also had a r
eoccurring alpaca lyptic dream.
Alpaca? Oh… Apocalyptic.
Yeah. Apocalypse. He had zombie dreams he believed to be true. That a disease would breakout and the government was going to be overturned. He began collecting guns and getting paranoid.
And here we are twenty years later.
Here we are. Like I say. I loved him. But he had problems. And being batshit crazy was one.
Batshit crazy seems a little strong. Many people collect guns. And to be fair, now, two decades later, there is a huge fascination with zombie culture.
I could go on. But people don’t want to hear it. His fans don’t want to hear that he wouldn’t come out of a closet for hours or that sometimes he wore women’s underwear. Let’s face it. That’s why I was the most hated woman in music back then. Because no one wanted to believe Tyler was anything except a saint. They wanted to blame his addiction on someone. So that was me. When he’s the one that got me on the shit. And then when that addiction killed him, dying from the heroin he took couldn’t be his fault. So they blamed me. I was the crazy girlfriend who drove him to OD. They had to blame someone. So they blamed me.
They blamed me.
The screen faded with the last rant.
She pushed the phone back at him, and when it dropped, he made no move to pick it up.
He didn’t want to miss one bat of her eyelashes, one tic of her lips, or one tear from her ducts. Lifting a finger, he wiped at the tiny wet blob before it trailed her cheek.
“I guess she’s been paid for this shit,” she finally whispered of Henni.
“Probably.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t take at least some of that out. What is his name? Wilfred?”
“Willard Acker.”
“Whether it’s true or not, why would they disrespect his memory like that? On the twentieth anniversary of all times?”
He stayed quiet, continuing to monitor her reaction, silently praying he would say and do the right things to help her through the thought process. She eased back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He brought her a glass of the tea they’d brought back from BIN 180.
They napped some, wrapped together on the couch.
The sunset was turning the lake gold when she suddenly sat up, dropping her feet from the deck railing. “I think I know what I should do.” She abandoned the last half of her peanut butter sandwich to Rascal and wadded the paper towel. “This Willard Acker. I need to get in touch with him. I can offer him my interview if he will drop hers.” She ignored Rascal, who was attempting to nose the paper towel and the chips crumpled in it from her hand, and turned to Gage. “Do you think my interview would trump hers? It may not be as interesting. But I wasn’t the most hated woman in rock. I’m the one they’ve been chasing after for interviews for years.”
“I think it’s worth a shot. I’ll call Colt and get Acker’s number.”
Chapter 45
“I’m freaking the fuck out.” I held my hands before me and shook them out as I walked. Colt’s studio was directly ahead, and I slowed.
“It’s going to be okay.” Gage ran a reassuring hand down my back while keeping his distance. The gesture was very brotherly.
The studio door burst open, and Colt froze midstride, his eyes glued to my face as he took in my new appearance.
Ghosted.
Only hours ago, my hair had been colored as close as possible to the shade I’d been born with plus a few chemical sun streaks. Recovering, Colt greeted us with a thump to Gage’s shoulder—and a peck to my lips! A low growling sound escaped Gage’s throat, but he had the good sense not to pounce this time.
“Willard Acker.” A jittery man with thinning hair repeated the stutter-and-stare routine before introducing himself and putting his arm out. Gage ignored the outstretched hand and I followed suit. Ignoring our lack of social decorum, he babbled on about how nice it was to meet me. Three others, obviously his crew, lingered back, each attending to their phones or equipment.
Legal documents had already been signed and copies faxed to each party earlier in the afternoon. In exchange for my interview, I would assume possession of my mother’s interview. And destroy it. Furthermore, Henni Smythe wouldn’t be connected or approached in any future manner with the documentary or any projects it might umbrella. My brain ached from the legalities.
“We’re all set up here.” Willard walked me through the set. “We can start with the shot of you playing the Scarlette Rose,” he gestured to a high stool, “or we can begin with the chat,” he pointed to two armchairs he’d brought in. Is that what he was calling it? A chat? “I know for a lot of musicians, playing relieves their nerves. Just however you want to do it.”
I wanted to warn him I didn’t really play, but I bit my tongue. A big selling point of my interview versus my mother’s was the bit of my playing the guitar that was my namesake. Gage had worked with me for hours, and I had brushed up on the one song I knew, plus learned the bridge and chorus of one of my father’s easier hits.
“I’ll play first,” I agreed, my eyes already on the purple instrument safely tucked away behind glass. Before I forget what little I know.
As reverently as the last time, Colt extracted the guitar from behind the glass. Gage held out his hand. “I’ll tune it for you?” I nodded, gratefully, as I hadn’t thought of that. He’d shown me how to use a tuner app, but I had no idea how to tune by ear yet.
Yet. I silently acknowledged the desire to continue learning.
A young woman introduced herself as the onset stylist. I had already been tended to by a stylist before arriving, but now I sat for touchups while the cameraman and Willard pointed out shiny spots and hair wisps.
I was soon settled on the tiny set with the Scarlette Rose. The strap felt heavy on my shoulder. Looking up, I sought the comfort of Gage’s eyes and let my fingers drift over the strings. Up one fret, then back down, I concentrated on what I was doing and ignored the fiery pain in the tips of my never-quite callused fingers. I drifted from the song Gage had taught me, weaving in the extra layers he’d added as I learned. From there I segued into the bridge and verse of my dad’s song. The piece was simplistic and short.
When I lifted my head, I was almost surprised to see the camera and the hypnotized gaze of every other occupant in the room. “And cut!” The directive rang out and applause clattered around me. He asked me for one more take before I shrugged off the guitar. The rest of the interview time flew by. We talked mostly of what it was like to have access to my father’s life through media. We touched on my personal life, where I’d lived, what my music tastes were. Gage’s publicist, who was now mine too, had done a Skype session with me, advising me on the wording of my answers.
You don’t remember your father at all?
No.
You knew him though. Through his songs, videos, interviews. What is one thing you feel like he taught you in the legacy he left?
Don’t let fears control your destiny.
Thank you, Scarlette. You’ve grown up as beautiful a person as your dad. He would be proud.
“I wish he hadn’t said that part about my dad being proud. No one knows that.” I took a long sip of my beer and idly watched the several heads bobbing in the two pool levels.
“I know that.” Gage emphasized the pronoun, refuting my statement. His eyes caressed mine, but he didn’t physically touch despite his chair being only a few inches from mine. “He would be. I told you that already.”
“You killed it, Scarla.” Colt stood in front of his fancy grill and never paused in the flipping of burger patties to interject.
Switching my attention from Gage, to Colt, I smiled my thanks, becoming used to how he never got the deeper meaning of a conversation or gesture. The backyard gate swung open, admitting Caroline who carried a baking pan. Judging by the way his eyes always lit up in a special way for this one woman, Colt being a shallow dick would change one day.
After the greetings died down, Caroline left Colt’s side to
sit on the edge of the pool and talk to Seth. Colt continued to poke at the meat browning over a glow of orange coals.
While everyone else was occupied, Gage tipped his water bottle ever so slightly. The stream splashed my collarbone and did a slow run down my skin, trailing through the valley beneath my swimsuit top before damming up at the elastic.
“Let’s eat these burgers already and get out of here.” His whisper was heavy with meaning, and although I only raised my brows, I couldn’t concur more.
Our second night at Arrowhead we had only snuggled in bed. The next morning we’d flown out, and events had unfolded too quickly over the last two days to think about sex other than a shower quickie. This afternoon, we had rushed home minutes after “that’s a wrap” had been called—long enough to change into our swimsuits. Another quickie had helped me wind down—at first. Now a couple of hours into the aftermath, thinking about that wall bang rekindled what felt like orange coals in the sweet spot of my insides.
Colt dished the hamburger patties up. I stabbed a piece of meat with a fork, slapped it between the two layers of a bun with only a squirt of mustard, and took a big bite. “Hungry?” He waved the spatula and sent an incredulous look my way. Nodding with my mouth full, I tried not to look at Gage. For sure, I didn’t want to provoke any of Colt’s obnoxious remarks.
I knew Gage was being careful of our relationship. He had removed his arm from around my chair, the moment the rest of the band began arriving.
I wasn’t sure if he was being considerate of me, or if he had his own motives. I understood if it was the latter. If there was anyone who didn’t need another scandal—besides rich Hollywood socialites suffering from affluenza—that person was Gage. His career in the spotlight couldn’t take another hit.
Caroline selected an empty chair and pulled it in close to the food fixings. As I heaped my plate, she conversed over the table. “I was so happy to hear you extended your stay in L.A.” I nodded and smiled around another bite. “Colt said you might finish school here.” Colt blasted his baby mamma with an annoyed glare, and now I did eye Gage. We had talked about it very briefly and only a few days ago. That I might transfer into one of the homeopathic colleges near Los Angeles while Gage was… gone. Apparently, he was so sold on this plan that he’d spoken of it in passing with Colt. I swallowed my bite and nodded. “That’s something I’m thinking on.” The others invaded the table and Caroline continued to talk, but I switched the topic to less personal matters.