by Layne Harper
Cindy laughs and laces her arm through mine. “It’s all part of your charm, MK.”
Thank goodness. I think she bought it. Right then I vow that I will never, ever let Aaron Emerson come between me and my dreams. How I’m going to accomplish that, I have no idea, but I just am—damn it.
Straightening my shoulders, I wait for Cindy to unlock the antique door and stroll into the empty shell that will house No Pink Caddy. I tell myself that this is no different than when the paparazzi were staked outside. I survived that, and I will dominate this.
Shannon and Cindy pull out their phones and start banging away while I reach into my bag and extract a sketch pad and colored pencils. Sliding down the plaster wall, I draw what I see in my head. The vision needs to be clear so the contractor and I can work together to make this perfect—or at least my version of perfection.
Turning the red pencil to its side, I shade the wall across from me the raw brick color. Spitting on my finger, I smear the red to give it more affect. Next, I add a comfy seating area near the front of the store by a large bay window. I sketch a couch and two winged-back chairs, coloring them in different shades of red, orange and teal. It feels off so I insert a cobalt blue rug to anchor the space. On the other wall, I draw wood and metal shelving to display items for sale. The store should feel like someone is shopping in my home. I don’t want ten of the same pitcher sitting on a shelf. I want one pitcher. When it’s purchased, a new one will take its place. That reminds me to add a partitioned off area at the back of the space where I can store inventory and dressing rooms where shoppers can try on my vintage inspired clothing.
My dream is for girls who hate to shop to love to come to my place. They can have a cup of coffee and a cookie, and then maybe choose something to treasure from my shelves.
I’m so lost in this fantastic world that I don’t register the commotion until I feel two eyes staring down at me. My mouth hangs open as I attempt to process that my favorite reality show contractor, Vince Asher, is standing right in front of me with an amused smile twinkling in his yellow and hazel eyes.
“H-h-h-i,” I stammer.
He offers me his hand. Fortunately, I remember to slide my pad off my lap before I grasp it as he pulls me to my feet.
“Hi yourself. I’m Vince Asher.” His face is warm and kind, and my heart does a funny little pitter-patter in my chest.
“I know.” I sound like I’ve sucked a helium balloon. “Sorry. Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then, I realize that a camera is trained on us. “Are we being filmed?”
He laughs. “All the time, sweetheart.”
The funny pitter-patter turns into an ache at being called the pet name Aaron had for me. Fortunately, I realize it, and I think I keep the emotion from reaching my eyes.
“The network thought it would be a great way to cross-promote our shows. I’m going to be the contractor for your renovation.”
The most amazing words that I can find to articulate are, “Sure. That would be awesome.”
The cameraman hands his piece of equipment to a guy who I assume is his assistant. That’s when Vince gives me, MK Landry, a hug. I could literally turn into a puddle right here on the lovely linoleum tile I was just sketching.
“I’m excited to finally meet you,” the beautiful and very capable man says. “I’ve checked out your YouTube channel. Nice dishes you fix.”
“I . . . I . . . watch you all the time.” It’s like once I get the sentence out, I can’t shut up. “Your renovation of the old shoe factory into a multi-use building was inspiring. I’ve watched it like a hundred times. Especially when I can’t sleep.” My hands slap over my mouth in horror. “Not that you’re boring or anything. That came out all wrong.”
He laughs. “I know what you meant. When all of this is done, you goin’ to make me some of your famous fried oysters?”
I nod. “You betcha.”
Really, MK? Let’s pull it together so you aren’t such a constant disaster.
Cindy joins us and kisses Vince on the cheek. “Surprise, MK.”
Nodding, my face flushes to atomic levels. “Best surprise ever.”
Cindy turns to Vince and grasps his arm as they talk business. They must go on and on about how good it is to see each other. I stand there awkwardly, aware that I’m not being included, but I don’t know where to go or what to do.
My eyes cut to Shannon who is visiting with someone that she’s obviously friendly with. Finally, I step away and pull my phone out of my bag, as if it’s vitally important that I check my Twitter account right at this very moment.
No message back from Aaron, but I didn’t expect one. I send a Tweet.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
In a soon-to-be announced location with the famous @VinceAsher. He’s as pretty in person. #PinchMeImDreaming
Dropping my phone back in my bag, I pick up my sketches and pretend to study them while I check out Vince. He has made-for-TV good looks. He’s broad and maybe three inches taller than me. His skin is the color of chicory coffee au lait, and his eyes look like they belong to a cat—a dangerous cat, like a tiger. His voice booms, echoing off the raw brick and plaster walls when he proclaims, “This space is amazing.”
I can’t help but feel joyous. Vince Asher thinks my retail space is amazing. This is definitely a Christmas card-worthy moment.
As soon as I see Cindy place her phone to her ear, I walk to where he’s standing. “I’m honored to work with you. Would you like to see my sketches?” The cameraman has his equipment trained on me again. Glancing at Cindy, who just slipped her phone into her bag, and then to the film crew, I say, “I didn’t know that this part would be filmed.”
Vince’s face looks less composed when he meets Cindy’s eyes.
She replies, “Network execs thought the viewers might enjoy watching the storefront come to life. Kinda a behind-the-scenes glimpse. Like we want them to be cheering for your success because they’ve watched it come together.”
“Oh. Okay.” I shrug. That sounds neat. As a viewer, I’d be interested in watching someone restore and then open their first store.
I’ve made more than one hundred videos, but I’ve never made one like this. Someone who arrived with Vince suggests that I change clothes, and wouldn’t you know it, she has the perfect outfit in her rental car. My tan slacks and white blouse are replaced with skinny jeans, a turquoise off-the-shoulders top, leather booties, and large, gold hoop earrings. She pulls out a small suitcase of makeup and begins working on my face. I hold very still and wait for this part to be over. Then she removes the pencils from my hair and looks at them with a bit of confusion before she places them in my palm.
Feeling the need to justify, I say, “They work great in a pinch.”
Her smile is a sympathetic one. My long, dark tresses are fluffed and tossed over my shoulder. Then she pulls out the mother of all hairsprays. I thought Grandmother’s friends cornered the market on hair that defies gravity. Nope. It’s the Hollywood stylist.
When she hands me a mirror, I recognize me, but I’m like a glammed-up version. I look naturally effortless, but with more shading and highlighting and eye colors than I knew existed. My scar is also just a thin line the color of my skin.
She moves to Vince. He doesn’t get much makeup but his bald head is rubbed with some sort of liquid. He must catch me watching because he replies, “It takes the shine off. Camera doesn’t like glare.”
“Oh.”
Shannon fluffs me a bit more before Cindy decides we’re ready for instructions. “This is super easy. Vince is going to walk MK through his vision for this space. The viewer will see computer-generated sketches as he speaks. MK, you’re to listen. I know you have very specific ideas. Those are great and all, but Vince is our expert.”
That sounded a bit like I should smile and look pretty for the camera without having an opinion. Never will that be okay in my book.
My eyes cut to Shannon. She clears her throat. “Before we film, wh
y don’t we have Vince and MK discuss her ideas.”
Vince replies, “I’ve studied the blueprints for the space and have a clear idea what’s possible within the budget. MK’s job is to add the finishes.”
Deciding to be amenable, I reply, “It’s okay. I’m anxious to hear what Vince thinks. Then we can always modify.” My smile is pleasant, and I’m hopeful that this isn’t going to be our first stumbling block.
Someone with a black box clips it to the waist-band of my jeans at the small of my back. Then a tiny brunette-colored circle is hidden in my hair by my ear. When the man is finished, he tells me to talk.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder. Another guy gives me a thumbs up, and he announces we’re ready.
Vince places his hands on my shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. Pretend they don’t exist.”
I nod. My heart does a flip with excitement. This could quite possibly be the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Vince’s tone is confident but friendly when the camera begins to roll. “MK, I’ve had a chance to review the plans for this charming old space. I know you’ve requested a kitchen.” He turns and points to the area where I thought a kitchen should go. “Maybe a large island right there.” His finger draws a rectangle in the air. “Sink there. I’m thinking farmhouse style. Stove, double ovens, and dishwasher along that wall. You, of course, will use your decorating talents to choose the finishes.”
I’m beaming like a kid who was just told they get an unlimited shopping spree in a toy store. “Perfect.” I walk over to the brick wall where I thought my shelves for merchandise should go. “I would like a mix of bookshelves and anchored shelving for this wall.”
He joins me and throws out ideas. We bat them back and forth like collaborative coworkers. I’ve taken his advice and forgotten that the camera is rolling and soon realize that standing still and preparing food in a kitchen or working on a piece of furniture is not the same as having to move when I turn and bump into the guy holding the camera.
“I’m so sorry.” I grimace.
Cindy interjects, “We’ll work on blocking, Eugene. She’s never done this before.”
He rolls his eyes, picks the camera up, and points it at us.
Carefully, I lead Vince to the area where I want my living room set up, then the clothing rack section, and finally the fitting rooms. Everything is possible, and it’s going to be fabulous. I don’t run into grumpy Eugene again.
Cindy claps her hands and turns to an older lady standing near her. “We’ll need to see final numbers. Get a list of finishes from MK, and Vince’s people will draw up a quote.”
The lady nods and is on her phone so fast that I don’t get a chance to introduce myself.
I just filmed a segment with the Vince Asher. I’m trying to play it cool, but I so want to text Bella and send out another Tweet. My fans will never believe this.
“Can I get a picture with you?” I’m acting like Aaron’s fangirl from the restaurant, but I just can’t let this moment pass.
Vince’s white teeth sparkle when he agrees.
We walk outside and stand in front of my new store. Vince wraps his arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his side. I might dissolve like sugar in hot water.
Shannon takes out her phone and snaps multiple pictures from different angles.
When she’s done, Vince whispers in my ear, “Can’t wait to see you again. Maybe you can fry me up some of your oysters in nothin’ but an apron.”
Oh my God! Vince Asher just hit on me. Yup. This must be a dream.
Before I can respond with of course, I’ll make you fried oysters, you beautiful, handsome, man that knows how to use a nail gun, he releases me and announces, “All right everyone. It’s been a pleasure. We have another commitment.” And just like that, he takes everyone with him but Cindy and Shannon.
As their van and three cars pull away from the curb, Cindy laughs. “God, that man is fine.”
Shannon and I nod like bobble-head dolls. Understatement of the year is Vince Asher is fine, and he hit on me.
Chapter Five
Aaron
August
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
First meeting with my merchandise team. I’m looking for ideas. #NoPinkCaddySWAG
Lauren Long @LongLashes
@RealJohnnyKnite I’m the girl in the lacy pink bra. Tweet me for the night of your life. #BucketList
Oh fuck.
Her song is next.
My stomach feels like a shot glass shattered in it. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since Doctor Hebert brought her up.
I should have killed this album and never released it.
It’s my best-selling in years.
I shouldn’t have agreed to go on tour performing her songs but especially this fucking one every. Third. Night.
The tour is sold out.
Rock drums like a mad man as I hit my final note. My throat is on fire, but fortunately, my voice is strong. The crowd moves as one large organism. It’s screaming and chanting, wanting more. The music continues for three minutes. This is supposed to give me a chance to have a glass of water or bourbon or whatever the poison is tonight.
The sweat pouring down my face and back turns cold, and an involuntary shiver overcomes me. My left hand taps the beat on my thigh as I appear to be feeling the music. Inside, bile creeps up my throat, and I think for a second I might be sick. Light blinds my eyes and disorientation overcomes me. I stumble, but recover.
Two minutes and then her song.
Fuck.
Turning around, I give the band the hand signal. The one that says keep playing because I need another minute or five, and then I bolt from the stage.
Grace stands behind a large speaker with her hand on her hip. “What’s wrong with you?” she yells over the music.
Ripping my guitar from my shoulder, I shove it at Jose, my guitar tech. I push past her and towards the bottle of whiskey waiting for me. I embrace the burn as it hits the back of my throat.
My hand closes to a fist and then I open it again, over and over, trying to work the joints. The shot the doctor in Indianapolis gave me did wonders, but my fingers still throb during a show, and I’ve missed a couple of notes. It’s like I can’t compel my middle finger to hit the string correctly. It pisses me off. I’m a goddamn professional and shouldn’t make those kinds of silly novice mistakes.
“Are you crazy? Get out there and play,” she demands from behind me.
I get it. She’s doing the job I pay her to do, which is to ensure my record company is run in my best interest and my shows are fucking pristine. However, she can go fuck herself right now. She has no idea what’s going on inside my mind or body.
“I can’t sing the next song any longer.” My voice is clear and concise. There’s no grey area.
“It’s the number-one hit on the new album. Of course, you’re going to keep playing it.” She has the bitch tone that’s supposed to make me not want to argue with her.
It doesn’t work. I take another long swig. “This is my last time.”
The whiskey numbs the pain deep in my gut or maybe my heart. Exhaling, I feel like a dragon breathing fire.
My sister places her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll talk about it after the show.” Her voice is softer, as if there’s a heart hidden deep inside the dark hollows of her body.
Spinning around on the heels of my black leather motorcycle boots, I glare down at her. “Don’t forget who you work for, little sister.”
God, I’m a dick, and when I don’t feel well, I’m like dick personified. Her face becomes blank. She looks like I punched her. I did, in a way. Words hurt much more than a fist. That’s one lesson I learned from Miss Mary Kay Landry.
“Noted.” She disappears into the blackness.
One more long pull from my good buddy, Jack Daniels, and then I reach my hand out, wiggling my fingers as if I’m the king becko
ning a servant. God, I’m an asshole. Jose hands me back my guitar. As I take the stage again, walking back to the mic, I tell myself that this is the last time that I ever have to sing these lines. Just once more . . .
“Sorry about that brief break, guys. Needed a drink.” I cock my brow, and the crowd goes crazy. “So this is a song off our new album. And I’ve been told that it’s one of the best songs I’ve written in a while. Don’t know about all of that, but here you are, and for the final time in concert.”
My fingers glide over the strings with minimal pain as I play the opening notes of Pink Cadillac. Memories of the night I wrote this song swamp my brain. We’d just made love for the first time. Her in front of me, beautifully naked, with a Caribbean blue dress puddled at her feet. How she fought for us. Her bravery to open herself up to me after I tried to push her away. My hands grasping her firm breasts and tight ass. Watching the rain pressed against her back. Her. Everything about her. Her smell. The bangs that cover her eyes. Her innocence and ferociousness. I wrote this song, giving her the pink Cadillac that had alluded her for so long. But it’s really about me giving her the only thing I’ve never given another woman—my heart.
My voice cracks as a sharp pain shoots down my throat. Cold sweat soaks my white T-shirt. The world goes black with just a pinpoint of blinding light. My head swims. It’s like the worst kind of high. I can’t sleep it off. I’m standing on a stage in front of twenty thousand fans.
Gripping the mic stand, I try to pull myself together. Fuck. What’s wrong with me? I attempt to push MK into the vault where she was nicely locked away until Doctor Hebert’s visit. During Malcom’s guitar solo, I do my damnedest to focus on the crowd and use their energy to get me through the last verse. Their hands are thrown in the air, and they sing my words back to me. This crowd is on fire. What city is this again?