by Lyrica Creed
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s breakfast around here, I guess.” When she glanced to see what the hell he’d meant by that Colt was smirking again. His eyes met hers knowingly and then checked Gage’s reaction like a pesky brother. Yep. He’d meant exactly what it had sounded like. Screw all night. Sleep till noon. Quickly though, he made amends. “What I meant was, since it’s technically lunch, let’s go to BIN189.”
“That’s the restaurant we never got to last night?” she asked Gage, and when she heard a snort from Colt, she whipped around. “By all that is holy, cut that shit out! We went to a party instead.”
“A party?” Colt too, looked to Gage. “And you didn’t text?”
“Turns out The Vox has a place down the street.” Gage named their rapper host from the evening before that she’d never ended up meeting.
“Interesting. Not. Since I wasn’t there. So let’s go. I’m starved.”
Gage looked down at his half-dressed state. “Ten minutes.”
“I should change too,” she followed.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! Seriously, you two. Dressing only. No undressing. And hurry!”
Scarla closed the menu, her mind on the giant chef’s salad she had ordered. It couldn’t come soon enough. The lake beyond sparkled in the sunlight and a light breeze ruffled the pine trees. Beneath the table, Gage’s leg was flush with hers, and Colt’s sneakers nudged her ankle. She kicked him and he only laughed. Gage frowned at the two of them.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Scarla.” Colt grinned.
“What the hell, man. Do you want to die?” Gage’s glower was downright scary.
“Not that kind of surprise. Fuck. What kind of friend do you think I am? Or idiot for that matter?” Colt straightened in his seat.
“Hey, Dad.” Seth stopped by their table.
Behind her, she could hear chairs scraping as a new party of patrons joined them on the patio.
“Hey, kid. You have a good weekend?” Colt greeted, and the moment Seth answered, his eyes went beyond his son.
Scarla knew that look. The prowl. And just as quickly, she realized what was going on.
“So, get this. When Seth here texted me directions this morning, I realized something huge. His voice dropped conspiratorially, and everyone, including Seth visibly leaned a fraction closer. “Jeter is Bradley Walker’s son.”
“Old news, Dad,” Seth informed, and Colt eyed him. “Yeah. They found out yesterday. And went to a party with them. Turns out Scarla and Ivy are friends.”
“Wait, how do you know that?” Scarla abandoned the water she was sipping through a straw and forgot about Gage’s watchful eyes on what she was doing.
“I heard her telling Bradley that you were once best friends and that she missed you a lot.”
Beneath the table, Gage’s hand curved to her thigh. Protective. Reassuring. Warm.
Bored with the adults, Seth migrated back to the table with his friend. She didn’t turn around to look at Ivy, but could almost see her reflection in Colt’s vigilant gaze beyond their table.
“So the two of you talked?” Colt wondered. “Did she say if she and Walker are serious?”
By now, she had her phone in her hand, and she paused from the text screen to send a withering glare his way.
His hands went up, palms facing her in a defense gesture. “Hey. She’s hot. I had to ask.” When she returned her attention to her text, conscious of Gage randomly peering over her shoulder, Colt pressed, “So, I guess that’s a yes?”
“Yes.” Scarla couldn’t help but laugh. “She seems very happy.” She hit send.
You up for a girl’s lunch?
sent 12:45 PM
Ivy
Now?
12:46 PM
Ivy
Sure
12:46 PM
Her heart pounded nervously. Leaning into Gage, she related her plans to share a table with Ivy. After some shuffling, Ivy and she ended up across from each other at a table inside, and the men all remained outside at the patio table where Jeter, Seth, and Bradley were seated.
“Thanks.” Ivy broke a piece of bread in half, but instead of eating it, she looked over it with a grateful grin. “For not being mad too long.”
“Thanks for coming over last night.” Scarlette watched through the window as Jeter and Seth horsed around at their table. “I still can’t believe we were probably crossing paths the entire time I was looking for you.”
“We were. I forgot to tell you. I saw you once. I didn’t think it could be you. But I was so surprised I was getting out of the car and Bradley stopped me. We were in a rush. Now looking back, now that I know Colt is part of Fire Flight—seeing you with them, I know it was.”
Scarlette thought back to the evening on Colt’s driveway when she’d seen a car door open and then close. The scene only served to remind her how easily Ivy could have reached out to her many times.
Before the silence got too awkward, she 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?” Scarla 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?”
Scarla only took a sip and remained quiet. She wanted to slide beneath the table to avoid the question. Gage. Forever? It felt like he’d been in her life forever. But was ‘forever more’ her 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,” she finally whispered. “A lot of baggage comes with him.” She steeled herself from looking toward the window and Gage. “I feel something for him I’ve never felt.” Last night she’d actually had to bite back the ‘L’ word. “But the forever feeling… I don’t know.”
She 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.
They waved father and son off, and Gage wrapped her in his arms as they walked into the house. “Alone at last.” His hands disappeared beneath her shirt and blazed fire trails over the sensitive skin of her stomach. He paused his playing and disentangled from her.
Curiously, she watched as he picked up the disc she 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 her 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 her. He was full of them today. Truth was, he’d always been watchful of her where Colt was concerned. “So you saw his studio?” When she nodded, he asked, “Why do I feel like there’s more?”
She kicked her sandals off and debated whether to tell him. The entire reason she hadn’t confided to him even directly afterward, when she’d been furious, was because it was embarrassing. But lately, even more so than when they’d been kids, she 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 reoccurring 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.” Scarla held her hands before her and shook them out as she walked. Colt’s studio was directly ahe
ad, and she slowed.
“It’s going to be okay.” Gage ran a reassuring hand down her back while keeping his distance. The gesture was very brotherly.
The studio door burst open, and Colt froze midstride, his eyes glued to her face as he took in her new appearance.
Ghosted.
Only hours ago, her hair had been colored as close as possible to the shade she’d been born with plus a few chemical sun streaks. Recovering, Colt greeted them with a thump to Gage’s shoulder—and a peck to her 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 she followed suit. Ignoring their lack of social decorum, he babbled on about how nice it was to meet her. 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 her interview, she would assume possession of her 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. Her brain ached from the legalities.
“We’re all set up here.” Willard walked her 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.”
She wanted to warn him she didn’t really play, but she bit her tongue. A big selling point of her interview versus her mother’s was the bit of her playing the guitar that was her namesake. Gage had worked with her for hours, and she had brushed up on the one song she knew, plus learned the bridge and chorus of one of her father’s easier hits.
“I’ll play first,” she agreed, her eyes already on the purple instrument safely tucked away behind glass. Before I forget what little I know.