by Layne Harper
Just one more time. Then never again.
I start the stanza strong. My voice is damn near perfect. Maybe I can do this. I’m on autopilot. I focus on doing what I do best, and that’s giving my fans a fan-fucking-tastic show. Then I sing the line that kills me. “I knew she couldn’t be anything but mine.”
My middle finger cramps as I try strumming the string. It’s not possible for me to continue as my vocal cords seize. I do the trick where I hold the mic towards the crowd and act like I want them to sing my words back to me. My heart’s beating so fast and hard that I swear someone slipped me speed. It’s just got to end, and soon. Fortunately, the next song is heavier and has nothing to do with MK.
Fifteen more seconds . . .
Ten . . .
Five . . .
Fucking over.
As the final note sounds, my vocal cords relax, and I’m able to swallow and even breathe again. My finger relaxes and can fly over the strings with ease.
The rest of the show goes as it should. We finish the last encore and leave the crowd screaming for more. This feeling is better than any artificial high. Back in the beginning, when we were playing small clubs and venues, we didn’t have contracts that assessed fines if we went over a certain time. We’d play sometimes until the manager would turn on the lights and kick us out.
Those were the days. It was just me and the band and us sneaking under-age Grace into the clubs with us, telling the owner she was our manager. Then she actually started doing the job. Jude came along. Mom would watch her when we played. I’d get woken up in the morning to Jude’s sweet face and special daddy kisses. That was when we were clawing our way to the top of the music food chain. That was when life was simpler.
Rock slaps me on the back as we head to the backstage gathering room to meet fans. “Great show, but what the fuck happened in the middle? We aren’t playing Pink Cadillac anymore—the fuck?”
Shrugging it off, I chuckle. “Tired of that song, and I just needed a drink, like I said.”
He pushes me against the cement brick wall and throws his solid arm over my chest as people continue to stream past us. He’s taken me completely by surprise. His cold, dark eyes see through my lie. “Bullshit. You don’t have to tell me, but don’t fuckin’ lie to me. We’ve been brothers way too long.”
Holding up my hands, I meet his squint. “Noted. Fine. Then I don’t want to talk about it.”
He lets me go, reminding me of a Mastiff puppy. The guy is huge but has no clue what to do with his size. About ten years ago, he traded his cocaine habit for the gym. It’s worked for him. “Cara and I are here if you need to talk.”
I nod. We continue to walk in silence before I ask, “How did you know that Cara was the one?”
The two have been together for what seems like forever. She’s a freelance tattoo artist who’s done most of my ink. They seem like they were made for each other. She tours with us in between trips back to Austin for work.
He’s quiet for a moment before replying, “She cared enough to call me on my bullshit.”
MK called me on my bullshit.
He continues, “Look, man. I can’t give love advice or any of that shit, but what I can tell you is that Viva is not the person you’re supposed to be with. She’s too young, but she’s a smokin’ hot distraction until you find the right girl.” He punctuates his statement with a laugh.
I don’t reply. Viva is a very sweet girl and hot is a good way to describe her, but I don’t miss her when she’s not around. I don’t check my phone hoping she’s called or texted. And I certainly never count down the days to seeing her again. I don’t track her on Find My Friends or worry about her when she’s not around.
The noise from the gathering room greets me when I’m still far enough away to know that tonight, everyone is in the mood to party. Not feeling it at all, I walk past the entrance and to my dressing room. Pushing the door open, I close and lock it behind me so I don’t get any unwanted visitors. I flop down on the couch and hold my head in my hands as I stare at the ceiling.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I ask the universe. I’d like an answer that covers both my mental and physical fucked-upness. A year ago, I was preparing to enter rehab, not believing that I needed help. It was a deal to keep me from serving jail time. The prosecutor didn’t want the publicity of an assault trial against someone famous who did what most dads would do in the same situation—beat the shit out of the guy who tried to rape his daughter. I thought six to eight weeks of vacation sounded sweet. Chose a place on the beach. Had no idea when I stepped off the plane that this small island in the Caribbean would fuck my world. As much of an asshole as I was, they still made me meet with the doctor who ran the program.
Then the doc mind-fucked me. He’s the one who pointed out I had never had a healthy relationship. He’s who suggested that I open myself up to more than just fucking women. He’s the bastard who planted it in my head to try dating and maybe even falling in love.
Here I lie, after a huge show, staring at the ceiling thinking about chocolate brown hair brushing against my thighs as she rides my cock instead of getting a meaningless blowjob from a female willing to donate her mouth for my masturbation needs.
Fucking MK.
Pain travels through my wrist and down the bones in my hand. I flex, hoping to find some position that relieves the throb.
MK.
When I needed her the most, she tossed me out like a piece of trash. No, she melted and then burned me like a marshmallow forgotten in a campfire. I fell in love with someone who doesn’t have a clue how to stand by their partner for better or worse. She’s a good-time girl.
My right fist tightens, imbedding my nails in the hard skin on my palm.
Standing, I grab the bottle of Jim Beam from the counter and walk out of my dressing room to join the party. Time to dull the pain.
Chapter Six
MK
August
Happy 31st birthday to me! I appreciate your calls, messages, videos, and tweets, and I even received a Hallmark birthday card in the mail from Grandmother with a $20 bill inside. The tradition continues.
So I have some news. . .
It’s official! You’re going to be able to visit me whenever you wish. The lease is signed on my store. Y’all, it’s simply fantastic. I’ve admired the space since I was a kid. Truly this is a dream come true, and I keep pinching myself that this is really happening.
More later. I’m off to meet Bella.
Cheers,
MK
The dingy yellowed shade flies up, hitting the top of the window, causing me to yelp. My hand covers my racing heart, and a giggle escapes my lips. Staring through the dirty floor-to-ceiling window, I make a mental note to find someone who can clean the outside of these puppies regularly.
Grasping the bottle of blue liquid, I mist the pane of glass as I pray it will come clean. Nothing is more depressing than not being able to see outside. Wadding up the back-to-school sale circular, I smear the droplets over the pane, put a little elbow grease into it, and step back, admiring my work. Mercifully, I can see clearly through the window and note a couple holding hands walking by. They’re cute. The girl and I make eye contact, and she smiles.
It’s Sunday afternoon. Tomorrow, the pre-production team arrives. Shannon says the day will be long so I should get a good night’s rest. I don’t think that’s possible.
“It’s getting there,” Bella says as she rests her hands on my shoulders.
We’ve gotten a lot accomplished. The dirty linoleum floors have been bleached and scrubbed. They’re marginally shinier than they were before. I still love them and feel committed to giving them new life.
I look into her dark eyes and smile. “Thanks. I’m happy you’re here.”
“I know.” She sprays blue cleaner on the window next to mine and begins wiping it. “I’m so proud of you, MK, and besides, there’s really nothing I’d rather be doing on a Sunday than cleaning floors and wi
ndows.”
She’s so cheeky sometimes.
Scrubbing a smudge that looks like peanut butter, I internalize her words. I’ve been overly emotional—even weepy lately. The enormous endeavor I’m about to begin is finally becoming real. I’m Mary Kay Landry, and I’m about to open my store on Magazine Street and have a lifestyle reality show. My wildest dreams are coming true. No. That’s not true. It never occurred to me to dream this big.
“Have you thought about how different my life is this year as opposed to last?” Pausing for a second, I add, “Both of our lives.”
She grabs the stepladder and sprays the tops of both of our windows and scrubs. “I’m married. You’re going to be a TV star. I mean it happens every year, right?” she teases.
“Maybe next year, at this time, I’ll be married.”
She adds, “And I’ll be a mom.”
“Yours is much more plausible.” I laugh.
Silence falls over both of us as the sounds of scrubbing glass fill the large space. “You know we’ve been trying since the wedding.”
I can read my best friend like a book. Her muscles are taut with tension.
“It’s only been like three months. You’re fine.” How do I know this? I don’t. But I feel the overwhelming need to reassure her.
She steps down and moves the ladder to the third window. “I probably am. Nyall and I are just so anxious to become parents.”
“I know you are. It will happen when the time is right. Then, I’ll be an aunt, and you’ll be a mum, and we’ll spoil your baby rotten.” Because Nyall is British, Bella is determined that the baby will call her mum instead of mom.
I walk over to the small refrigerator I purchased for the space so the crew will have cold water tomorrow and pull out a bottle of wine. Red Solo cups are stacked on top so I grab two. Opening the bottle, I pour us each a cup.
Bella disposes of our used newspaper and leans the cleaning supplies against the brick wall. Then she walks over to the center of the shop and sits down on the worn, but clean floor. I join her, handing her a glass.
“Have you thought anymore about appearing on camera?” Cindy and Janet suggested that my fans would love to meet Bella on-screen. She’s been the snarky voice off camera for so long. They offered to pay her on a per-episode basis. So far, she’s been noncommittal.
After taking a chug of wine, she leans back on her palms and says, “Nyall and I’ve discussed it, and we don’t think it’s a good idea. I love you, MK, but you’re about to become a celebrity. I saw what your life was like after your relationship with Aaron became public. That’s not something either of us want.”
God, her words hit home, and I trace the star tattoo on the inside of my wrist. It’s not the life I want either, but I want my store and something new and different, so this is the price I must pay. Plus, my existence has already been headline making news. Like the saying goes, I can’t put the genie back in the bottle.
I guess my silence makes her feel the need to justify her response. “Like, I’m super happy for you. You’re going to handle it just fine. You’ve already had experience. Maybe I’ll be your personal assistant.”
My face lights up. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can and look, Bella, I get it. You don’t have to be on screen, but I felt I would be a really crummy friend if I didn’t at least offer.”
She smiles, crinkling the star scar on her cheek. “Always lookin’ out from me, chica. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“So as your new PA, the first order of business is firing Shannon. She’s awful.”
I laugh, and the noise echoes around the empty space. “She’s really not so bad. A little uptight, but I think we can break her.” I change the subject because Shannon might be difficult, but she’s a necessary evil. “I really do appreciate you helping me clean up around here today. I know that part of the show is getting the store ready, but I just couldn’t have company show up and not even be able to see outside.”
She holds her Solo cup up, and we toast. “Have you talked to Tripp lately?”
“We’ve texted back and forth about silly stuff, but no. Why? What’s going on?” My voice rises with worry.
“He slept with his assistant.”
My mouth hangs open. Tripp is not the type who sleeps around. In fact, Tripp is the guy who’s like It’s only been three dates, of course we aren’t having sex. Clapping my hands, I say, “Do tell. I need details.”
She turns towards me, and we revert to our fourteen-year-old selves. “They’ve been flirting and stuff for a while.”
“Yeah. I know he was texting with her last month when we all met at Eddy’s.”
“So, he had an evening meeting at his office. She offered to stay. Meeting canceled at the last minute, and they did it in the conference room.” Bella’s cheeks are glowing. She’s as excited as I am.
“That’s so dirty,” I squeal. “Love it.”
“So now she’s wanting a relationship, and he’s freaking out.”
My head turns to the side. “Why?”
Bella’s expression changes to a pained one. She hesitates for a moment and looks to the ceiling before replying, “He’s not sure he’s over you.”
My shoulders slump. We’re childhood friends who tried dating. I adore him, find Tripp to be very handsome, but there’s no attraction. He’s a great human being and wonderful friend but he doesn’t stir the sort of emotions in me that say, for example, Aaron did. I’ve made it very clear that we’re just friends, and I thought he had quit carrying the torch for me. Apparently, I was wrong.
“Should I talk to him again? I can state for the thousandth time that we will never be anything more than friends.” I sound more frustrated than I actually feel because I’m so tired of this being a part of our friendship. I’m not that incredible. The boy needs to move on for goodness sake.
Bella’s head moves back and forth. “I think this is something that he’s got to work through on his own.”
My heart aches and falls into the pit of my stomach. Guilt is such a crummy feeling, and it’s one I attempt to avoid at all costs. I know this is Tripp’s issue, but it’s hard to turn a blind eye or cold shoulder when a friend is in pain and you’re the cause.
“Well, while I’m already feeling guilty, I might as well meet the family for church.” Standing, I dust off my behind and slam the rest of my glass of wine before tossing the cup in the white garbage bag lying on the floor near the fridge.
“You make mass sound so appealing.” Bella laughs as she finishes her Solo cup and disposes of it.
“I don’t mean it like that. I get something out of church. If nothing else, it’s a ritual I’ve performed every Sunday for most of my life. I find it’s a place I can meditate and concentrate on what lies ahead for the upcoming week. This week is going to be crazier than others.” I lock the front door and hug my friend before we part ways.
“Let me know if you need me tomorrow. Your PA is ready to report for duty.” She does a silly salute before turning around and walking the opposite direction that I’m headed.
It’s so warm today that my lightweight shirt sticks to my body. My short-shorts do little to keep me cool. It’s days like today that I wish I had a car. Not because I mind walking, but I hate when it’s this hot and this still. It’s miserable.
Whistling Willie is nowhere to be found on his street corner and I don’t blame him. Playing the bongos takes a tremendous amount of cardio, and it’s too dang hot for that. Even the trees seem to be beaten down by the heat. The leaves hang on their stems and the branches sag over the cracked sidewalk.
I let myself in through my locked gate and then into my cottage house. After a quick shower and half-hearted attempt to blow-dry my hair, I throw it up in a messy bun with the thought that God doesn’t care what I look like. But my mother does, so I slide a form fitting, yellow, sleeveless dress over my curves and a pair of silver designer sandals on my feet. Normally, I cover my scar with special concealer purch
ased from the Geraldo-looking plastic surgeon, but it’s just too hot outside. Light powder will have to do. It does little to hide the ugly red line, which now looks like I’ve been scratched by a cat. I’ve learned to accept it as one learns to accept the bump on their nose or uneven eyebrows. My scar is a new feature of me.
Opening the Uber app, I summon a car, grab my bag, and race out the front door to meet my ride. It’s still sweltering even though the sun has begun to set. I carefully make my way down the brick path with the goal of not getting the heel of my sandal stuck in a crevice. I’m so focused on not tripping that as I open the gate, I run into a very strong, male chest.
His hands grasp my biceps to stop me from tumbling backwards. Why in the world do I own shoes that I can’t walk in?
“You okay?”
I look up into the eyes of Vince Asher. “W-w-what are you doing here?”
“Stopping by to say hi. Don’t have your number.” He ends his statement with a gorgeous smile.
I couldn’t be more shocked. “But you had my address?” Why do I say this? I wish I was like the characters in movies that always have a quick and witty comment.
This time he laughs. “As you said in your post. Everyone in the world knows where you live.”
My eyes grow wide. “Well, that’s just fantastic. I’m going to wind up on one of those damn walking tours of the city. Everyone is going to point at the house where dumbass MK lives. The girl who was stupid enough to date a rock star.” Then it occurs to me that Vince Asher is standing outside my gate, and he might have a good reason, and probably doesn’t care to listen to my ramblings. “I’m off to mass.”
The Uber pulls up. My eyes dart between the driver and the hot male specimen standing in front of me.
Vince throws up his hands. “My mama would kill me if I kept a good southern girl from going to church. I was hoping I could take you to dinner before we start pre-production tomorrow.” His smile could be used to sell toothpaste it’s so pretty. “But we can do it another day.”
Is he kidding? I turn to the Uber driver. “Sorry, but I don’t need you after all.”