by Emma Scott
I heard her swallow hard. Forcing down tears and emotions and everything she wanted to say but never would. She hadn’t told Dad anything about me other than I was still alive, that she had heard from me and I was doing well. She kept to her script, no matter how many times I begged her to try out some new material.
“You should have known better than to bring that boy home,” my mother said, mustering a little firmness. “You knew how it would upset your father.”
“Everything I did upset him,” I cried, my voice clanging around the stairwell. “Nothing was ever good enough. Yeah, I knew bringing Chett home was a bad fucking idea, but I wanted to get caught. Do you know why, Mom? To force Dad to talk to me. And how goddamn sad is that? His own daughter. His own child.”
“Cassandra, I have to go now. I’ll tell your father I heard from you, and—”
“That I’m doing well?” I finished. “Not well, Mom,” I snapped, and wiped my nose on the back of my hand. “We’re a fucking sensation. We’re the next big thing…”
“You know I don’t care for all this foul language, Cassandra,” she said. Now her voice was turning to stone, walling me out. But I couldn’t stop.
“You tell Dad that, okay? You tell him I made it, and that I did it without his fucking help or approval or…or his goddamn roof over my head.”
“I’m going to hang up now, Cassandra.”
I sucked in a breath, instantly regretting every word. I needed to hear more of her voice. “Mom, wait. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
The line was quiet and I thought she’d hung up until I heard her draw in a shaky little breath.
I eased one of my own and closed my eyes. “I’m sorry. Tell Dad…” I swallowed down the tears. “Tell him I love him. Okay? Please?”
“I will,” she said, though I didn’t believe it. Not for a second.
“Thanks, Mom. And I love you too. How are—?”
“I have to get off now. Take care.”
The line went quiet for good.
I stared at my phone a few moments more. A tear splatted onto its face and I wiped it away with my thumb. I thought about pressing the ‘call’ button again. I could call her back and tell her I was sorry for swearing. Or I could call back and say I wasn’t fucking sorry at all. I was never calling again. I was as done with them as they were done with me.
Are they done with me?
The thought made my heart ache. No, not yet. My mother held on. She needed my phone calls. I knew that. But if I never called her again, she wouldn’t call me. I knew that too. She was still a bystander in her own child’s life.
I slumped against the concrete wall. I could hear the crowd on the other side growing restless. It sounded like a thunderstorm moving closer. If we didn’t take the stage soon…
I needed a smoke.
I pulled a battered soft pack of cigarettes from the top part of my thigh-high boot, and lit it from a matchbook tucked into the cellophane.
I drew in deep, exhaled, and slumped lower against the wall, weighed down by all the tears I didn’t cry over the last four years. They threatened to burst out now in my own thunderstorm. I battled it all back, inhaled it hard, wrapped it in smoke and pressed it into my gut where it sat like a lead weight.
Dad won’t even talk to me.
I exhaled the thought back out. So what? Who cares what he thinks? He’s never given a shit in twenty-two years, why would he start now? Fuck him.
A brave speech, except I would’ve given anything to hear my dad’s voice, and not have it be laced with disappointment or anger. To hear him say he missed me or he loved me. To be told I could come home any time I wanted and the door would be open…
But he’d shut and locked that door, maybe forever, and the foundation on which I’d been built was crumbling to dust.
The crowd roared on the other side of the wall. They were clamoring for us. For me. They loved me.
And as Roxie Hart would say, I loved them for loving me.
I took another pull from my vodka and rose from my crouch just as Jimmy Ray busted through a door on the landing above mine, looking frantic and wound up.
Our manager was in his mid-forties with thinning hair. His suit—always Armani, since a mid-size label signed us three months ago—hung a bit loose over his lanky frame. His wild eyes landed on me and he collapsed against the wall in exaggerated relief, his hand over his heart.
“Jesus, kitten, give me a coronary why don’t you? The gig was supposed to start half an hour ago.”
I ground out the cigarette under the heel of my boot and plastered a smile on my face. “Sorry, Jimmy. I had an important phone call. But I’m good now. Ready to kick ass.”
“Glad to hear it. This crowd is going eat us alive if we don’t get out there, a-sap.”
I moved past him but he stopped me, his hand on my chin, studying my face.
“You been crying?”
I sucked in a breath. Jimmy Ray wasn’t anyone’s idea of a father figure, but he’d been good to us. Good to me. I felt myself start to wilt under his kindness, wanting to tell him…
“Because your makeup is smeared,” he said. “Make sure you fix it before you go on, yeah?”
I nodded mutely.
“Thatta girl.”
He smacked my ass lightly, to get me moving, and followed me out of the stairwell, back to the green room where the rest of the band was waiting.
They were all dressed in full concert gear: leather, vinyl and lots of chunky costume jewelry. Violet, our bassist, wore her brown hair pulled tight to one side, revealing the small black raven tattooed in the shaved skin of her scalp above her ear. She gave me a nod, and flashed me the peace sign.
Lola, my best friend, sat in a deep chair, spinning her drumsticks deftly around her fingers. She jumped up and came to me, peered at my face through shocks of black and electric blue hair. Her dark eyes were sharp, observant and full of concern.
“You okay? Where’d you take off to?”
I was spared answering by Jeannie, our lead singer. She’d been doing her vocal warm-ups, but stopped in the middle of a scale.
“What the actual fuck, Kacey?” Her eyes, lined in kohl as black as her skin-tight leather pants, zeroed in on me. She was a pretty gal, our fearless leader, or would be if not for the perpetual constipated look on her face.
I felt the weight of the room on me, heavy and accusatory. I crossed my arms over my chest, affected a pinched, slightly mid-Western older lady voice. “Hello, Jeannie, who’s bothering you now?”
Lola snickered, and Violet muffled a laugh behind her hand.
“Who’s bothering me? You…” Jeannie’s confusion morphed to irritation. “Wait, are you quoting some stupid movie at me again?”
“Stupid?” I gaped dramatically. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is nothing short of a classic. A national treasure…”
Jeannie flapped a hand, her bracelets jangling. “Whatever. If you devoted as much time to the band as you do to partying and watching 80’s relics—”
“Come on, Jeannie,” Violet said, with a sigh. “Let’s not start any shit right before the show. She’s here. We’re fashionably late. So what?”
Lola nodded. “Only newbies start a show on time. She’s ready to kick ass, right, Kace?”
“Oh, stop coddling her, for chrissakes,” Jeannie snapped at Lola, and then Jimmy swooped in and pulled her aside, talking soothingly to her in a low voice
Under my breath I said, “Mmm-mmm-mmm, what a little asshole.”
Violet burst out laughing, but Lola’s eyes flickered to my ‘Evian.’ She was a human Breath-a-lizer, that girl. Quickly, I tossed the bottle in the trash before she got wind of its contents and laid another of her patented lectures on me. The vodka had already started to work anyway, putting me one giant step back from reality, as if I were behind a pane of glass.
“Let’s not fight, ladies,” Jimmy chided, bringing Jeannie back to the center of the green room. “Three thousand paid ticket-holders ar
e waiting.”
“He’s right,” Jeannie said, and mustered what we called her Fearless Leader expression: stiff and serious as she eyed us in turn. “We need to get focused and give them the performance of our lives. Circle up.”
We formed a ring in the center of the green room, holding hands, while Jeannie murmured a sort of vague invocation. Violet was a Buddhist, Lola an atheist, so the group prayer was more about channeling our energies, being grateful for our opportunities, and getting the four of us in tune with each other so we could play as one cohesive unit.
Was this what I wanted? I mused while Jeannie droned positive affirmations. I suspected the answer was no, but I’d come too far now. Lola was counting on me. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d still be on the streets. She’d taken me in after Chett ditched me, and we’d gotten this gig together. She needed me to not fuck this up, and I needed to not be a fuck up.
“Forget every other show,” Jeannie was saying, her typical closing statements. “Forget we’ve been on the road for months. These fans deserve our best, so let’s go out there and perform as if it were the first day of the tour. Blood, sweat, and tears, ladies.”
We made loud noises of agreement to get amped up, then headed out.
Lola pulled me aside. “Are you okay? For real?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Totally.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh, I… I called my parents.”
Lola’s shoulders slumped and she covered her eyes with one hand. “Oh shit, no. No, no, no. I keep telling you to give it up. It always bites you in the ass, Kace. Every time. You get all upset, then you get even more wasted than usual.”
“No, no, it was great!” I said. “I only talked to my mom but… Well, my dad said hi. I heard him in the background. That’s a start, right?”
Is this where you’re at? Lying to your best friend after all that she’s done for you?
Lola looked shocked. “Really? He talked to you?”
“He said hi, Lola. He really did.”
Lola studied me through narrow eyes and finally relented.
“That’s great, Kace,” she said, hugging me. “I’m really happy for you. To be honest, I’ve been worried lately. You party twenty-four-seven and have a different guy in your bed every night.”
“Not every night,” I said. “I have my dry spells. Like Tuesday.”
Lola snorted.
“Let’s go, girls,” Jimmy reappeared at the door. “They’re waiting.”
I flashed Lola a reassuring smile. “We’re going to kick ass at this show tonight. I promise.”
“I wish you’d promise not to party so fucking hard afterward. Maybe you’d be able to remember how kick-ass the show was.”
I pretended to be affronted. “That is the least rock and roll thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Keith Richards would roll over in his grave if he heard you talk like that.”
A smile twitched Lola’s lips. “Keith Richards isn’t dead.”
“See? Nothing to worry about.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed, slinging her arm around me. Protectively, as always.
Hugo Williams, the Pony Club’s head of security, appeared at the green room door to escort us to the stage. His dark eyes were warm and kind as he smiled at me, his teeth white and bright against the dark of his skin.
“Hey, Hugo,” I said, as we filed out.
“Hey, sweets,” he said in his deep baritone.
This was only our second night at the Pony Club but Hugo seemed extra considerate of me, going out of his way to make sure I felt safe.
Jimmy slung an arm over my bare shoulders. “Sounds like a rowdy crowd tonight, Hugo.”
I smiled up at the bodyguard. “Hugo’ll take care of me. He’s my hero.”
The big bodyguard nodded, like a soldier given an order, and led us to the stage. We took winding back hallways with pipes running along the ceiling. Our footsteps clapped and echoed on the cement.
Jimmy turned to me. “You ready?”
“Born ready, Jimmy.”
“That’s my girl.”
I joined my bandmates at a short flight of stairs that led to the stage. A roar went up—the crowd responding to the MC taking the mic.
“Las Vegas! Are you ready for Rapid Confession?”
Another wave of sound, like an avalanche ripping apart the walls of the venue.
The door opened, a dark rectangle blazing with stage lights. We streamed up the short flight of stairs and onto the stage. My red Fender was waiting for me on a stand. I looped the strap over my shoulder and saw Jeannie throw me a nod and a nervous smile—a peace agreement. I nodded and smiled back, agreement accepted.
Lola clashed her drumsticks over her head in a four-count lead-in to “Talk Me Down.”
I played my goddamn heart out. I wrote “Talk Me Down” for myself. It was an anthem to everything that scared me about where I was going and what I was doing to myself. Nobody knew it was mine. I sang backup to Jeannie’s melody. But when I played, my heart came out. The music carved open my chest, flayed my ribs and showed the world everything inside.
I shredded my solos. All the liquor I’d drunk on an empty stomach turned the stage lights into blurry orbs of white. The faces in the crowd melted together, becoming one roaring, churning, electric mass. I fed off of the energy, sucking in their screaming approval and spitting it back out with every chord and progression until my fingers bled, and at the end of the show, I nearly smashed my Fender onto the stage.
As the last notes of the last song vibrated in the air and then vanished, the crowd lost its collective shit. I was lit up like the Fourth of July, running along the lip of the stage, slapping hands with the front row audience. They grabbed and pulled me over the edge. I laughed and laughed, surfing on a wave of adoring hands, drunk as hell and high on being loved.
The boulder of Hugo and his team rolled into the crowd, hauled me down, and marched me out. But I didn’t want it to end. I called to the crowd around me.
“I love you all so much! Come back with me…” I pointed at random strangers. “Come with me! Let’s keep the party going…”
Hugo dragged me to the green room where the band was celebrating. Champagne spewed through the air in gold and foamy arcs. I grabbed a bottle out of someone’s hand and downed half of it in one draught. I shouted at security to let in the small crowd I’d invited.
“They’re with me!” I cried.
About two dozen pushed their way in. My bandmates were all too high on the heady success of the show to care. Jimmy looked like he was going to fly straight off the ground.
Tossing the champagne aside, I grabbed a bottle at random from the long table of post-show food and drink. Jagermeister.
A bold choice, I thought with a laugh, and let out a scratchy whoop after the liquor burned its way down my throat. The room, filled with my new friends, cheered back. Strange faces I didn’t recognize, whom I’d never remember tomorrow. People who were here for the music and the free booze and entertainment and for me, their matron saint of Good Times. I climbed onto a table, and they cheered and raised their bottles to me.
They love me.
The room began to spin as if I were on a carousel. It was too packed in here. No air. Security was trying to squeeze in through the wall of bodies. Glass shattered. Some in the crowd cheered, while others cursed.
Lola yelled for me to get down before I broke my ass, then was lost in the crowd. The huge, hulking shape of Hugo parting the sea like Moses. I tried to lift the emerald green bottle to my lips for one final slug because this party was exploding and I was going to hit bottom and shatter into a million pieces.
My father’s words, four years ago, resounded in my head with just as much clarity as if it were yesterday. Get out! Get out of my house!
“No,” I said, then louder, blearily, my mouth thick and clumsy around the words. “You get out. This is my house. My house.”
I raised my bottle in the air. “This is my house!�
� I screamed and a hundred million voices raised their own bottles and cheered me on until the sound tore through me like wind through tissue paper.
I laughed or maybe cried, then staggered sideways. The liquor bottle slipped from my fingers just as I slipped from the table, straight into Hugo’s waiting arms. I saw the blackness of his T-shirt, then the blackness behind my eyes swallowed me whole.
The sign above me blinked off and on. Red and white. Pony Club. The edges of the metal were rusted and three of the bulbs lining the edge were burnt out. It looked cheap. Gaudy. Like a lot of Vegas. But when I squinted…
The lights blurred and I could imagine globes of white and red glass. Glass beads, maybe. A bundle of them held together with wire to make a bouquet. My mind pulled the red beads out long, making flattened petals. A poinsettia with white baby’s breath. A Christmas bouquet of glass that never needed watering. My mother would like that. Or maybe Dena. I started to pull out the battered little notepad I kept in the front pocket of my shirt to jot the idea down, then stopped.
Christmas was six months away.
A soft ache tried to take root, and I squashed it with practiced ease, like a lump of gum pressed under a table.
Keep to the routine.
I withdrew my hand and left the notepad where it was.
It was getting loud in the Pony Club. The show had supposedly ended an hour ago, but the shouts and whoops of some epic party were loud and clear—if muffled—through the cement of the venue’s back wall.
I pulled my cell phone from the front pocket of my uniform slacks to check the time. It was nearly one a.m. The limo was commissioned only until two, but I could already tell this was going to be a night of enforced overtime.
But what did I care if the job ran late? I didn’t sleep much these days and I could use the money. I’d stay until the band and their manager came oozing out of the venue, wasted and reeking, and take them back to the mega-mansion in Summerlin where I’d picked them up at five that evening.
The upside to driving at night was it left me time to work during the day. The downside was the down time. So many empty hours spent waiting for my fare to get done with dinner or the show, or to finally emerge from the casino, stinking of booze and smoke and—more often than not—mourning their losses at the blackjack or poker tables.