by Layne Harper
I drape the article of clothing over my arm. “You’re giving me underwear advice for my date? Are you crazy? Did you not just hear when I made it clear that I don’t want a damn thing to do with you.”
“Yeah, but you don’t mean it. You get annoyed with me, and then you forgive and forget. I’m going to play the whole show with a raging hard on.” The expression on his face can only be described as lusty. His eyes are heavy, and his smile says he thinks he’s going to get to remove this dress.
“Oh. You think I’m going to your concert.” My head shakes back and forth, and my laugh is rueful. “Not on your life. I have a date tonight, and it’s not with you.”
His face screws into a crazy contorted Picasso-style expression. “Who in the fuck are you going on a date with?
“None of your business. Go do your show. Sing the songs you wrote about me.” Then I lie just because I’m still angry at him, and I want to inflict pain. “I’m going to assume that you showing up here is nothing more than you hoping to get laid.”
“Come on, MK. Don’t do this.” He pulls me to him and throws the dress on the carpet. “Ditch the guy. Come to my concert. I swear to God I will not molest you one little bit after it’s over. We can go get ice cream and watch a Disney movie.”
Shaking my head, I sound resolved when I reply, “I’m glad you came by, but, Aaron, there’s nothing left for us. Give me back my necklace, and you can move on just like I have. I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t be pleased that you’re here.”
“We’re over. We have been.” He drags his hand through his long hair. The last bit of sun pours through the hotel window, highlighting his body with a yellow hue. He really is the golden boy. “I need you back in my life. It’s not about the sex; it’s about something in here.” He touches his heart as he licks his lips. “Please don’t go out with this guy. Please come to my show. Please stay up all night and just talk to me. Please help me to feel whole again.”
Like a coward, I distract myself from his pleas by picking up my dress. Looking towards the wall because my heart will not allow me to see the hurt in his eyes, I reply, “I can’t. I. Nothing. You.”
I run into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. When I hear the hotel room door slam with a loud bang, I sink to the edge of the bathtub and have myself a good, old-fashioned meltdown. My chest heaves with sobs as I gasp for air. Trembling hands make it difficult to grab a tissue from the box, and I wind up using the hem of my shirt.
I was over him. I’d picked up the pieces of my shattered world and reassembled them into something better and stronger, or so I thought. Then, one surprise visit from my rock star, and I realize that I love him just as much as I did ten months ago. My feelings never faded. I just learned how to bury them deeper in the dark confines of my heart.
Once I’ve physically expunged the tornado of emotions that escaped through the crack in the metal door, I’m completely mentally and physically dead. I pick my withered body up from the cold hotel tile.
It crosses my mind to cancel on Vince, but I quickly determine that’s letting Aaron win. Seeing him is only a setback in reclaiming my life. I refuse to spend a lonely night in this room shedding more tears over Mister Emerson. So instead, I pull myself together, clean my face, get dressed, and meet Vince in the lobby only thirty minutes late.
Chapter Thirteen
Aaron
September
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Goodbye LA! As always, you never disappoint. I’m so ready to be home.
Rock Star Groupies @RockStarGroupies
Rep for @VivaValdez has confirmed that her and @RealJohnnyKnite are no longer a couple. #LookOutSanFran
Johnny Knite @RealJohnnyKnite
Hey San Francisco! Y’all ready for ACE? Let me hear you tonight. #LoveThisCity
“Hi, MK, this is . . . ummmm . . . Aaron. I don’t really know what to say. I . . .ummmm . . . haven’t left a voicemail for anyone ever. I think. Well, maybe Jude, but it was more of a you-were-supposed-to-be-home-thirty-minutes-ago-and-now-I-think-you’re-dead sorta message.” I cup my hand around the phone so the guys will not overhear. “I’ve texted you, and you haven’t responded. It’s been a week and—”
The robotic voice asks if I’d like to review my message. Delete.
Picking up my plastic Solo cup filled with bourbon and a splash of water, I take a sip before I start again. “MK, fucking return a message. I saw you deleted me from Find My Friends. Why? Call me back.”
Sighing, I hit one and erase that message also.
Rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck to let the tension out, I try again. “I hate that you went on a date, and I hate that you will not call me back. I can’t accept that you nothing me. I’m not sleeping or eating. I just need to talk to you. I just need to figure out how I can make you see how good we can be together. And . . . I’m a pathetic fucking creeper.”
I delete that one too. We’re in San Francisco tonight and taking the stage in ten minutes, but I can’t seem to find any peace. Seeing her. Kissing her. It’s left me completely out of sorts.
The crowd chants “ACE” so loudly that the cement walls vibrate. The band members are each doing their own thing to get pumped up. Billy has Sam pushed against a speaker with his hand up her short leather skirt. Rock is doing push-ups where he claps in between, and I’m . . . well, I’m being a pathetic fuck.
One more try . . .
“Hey, MK. I’m about to take the stage, but I thought I’d leave you a message. Call me, and I can talk after the show. K. Bye.” That was good. I sounded upbeat—reasonable and not neurotic.
“It’s time,” Jose says as he hands my guitar to me.
It slides easily over my head and across my body. I flex my hand and have a silent conversation with myself, willing me to get through this show without any craziness. The doctor I saw in LA had his nurse do x-rays and take all my blood. Fucking vampire. I should have the results in the next couple of days. He asked the best question though: Have I been under any stress? I wanted to laugh. Where should I begin? Rehab? Breakup with MK? First tour in five years? Having to sing her songs? Being constantly asked about my muse in every new city we arrive in? Jude in one ear begging me to make things right with MK? Grace who still isn’t really talking to me? The fact I haven’t fucked anything but my hand in months? That my fingers feel as if they’ve been electrocuted? That I was brave enough to visit MK, and she blew me off and went on a date?
What would I have to be stressed about?
Handing Jose my phone, I take my position. The crowd chants “ACE” even louder—if that’s possible. The air is electric. Sam and Billy finish their thing, and the rest of the band runs out on stage. A giant screen-printed image of the cover of our album acts as a stage curtain. Lights illuminate the image, and I smile when I see the shark tooth necklace. Reaching up, I run my finger over the sharp edge of the tooth, thinking of nothing but her.
As the curtain falls, the opening hard-driving notes of Forked Tongue are served up raw and edgy for the crowd. They lose their collective mind. It’s a get-the-party-started sort of jam. No matter how many times we’ve begun a show with this song, it never gets old. My heart beats in time with the drums, my hands shake, and I bounce on my toes in anticipation of greeting the screaming masses. This will always be my drug of choice. Quickly my brain adds and MK, but I push that thought away.
On cue, I stroll onto the stage, strumming my guitar. As soon as the crowd spies me, there’s a loud roar. Nodding, I take my place in front of the mic stand.
For the next two hours, I own the crowd’s heart, soul, and mind. I play for them like my life depends on it and in some ways, it does. This is the only thing that isn’t fucked up in my world.
I sing to the crowd. They return my words—the words I’ve written. I tell them I love them, and they yell it back. I’ve had fans say that my music saved their lives, and they conceived their children while listening to my voice. It’s a high, and one that I never w
ant to come down from.
For one hundred and twenty minutes, we are one, and my life is perfect. But like all good things, it must eventually come to an end.
I hand my guitar to Jose, and take a towel from someone, using it to wipe the sweat that runs down my cheeks and drips off my chin. My fingers beckon for the device I’ve become tethered to.
Jose hands me my phone, and I immediately check for missed calls and texts like I’m a high school girl waiting to be asked to the prom. My heart skips a beat when I see I’ve a missed call from MK.
I let the guys continue walking towards the dressing room as I duck into a doorway to listen to her voice. Eagerly, I type in my password because my hand is shaking so that the finger-reader can’t recognize my thumbprint. I hit the voicemail button and bring the phone to my ear.
“Aaron, I’ve gotten your messages and voicemail.” Her voice is like a song to my ear. I catch myself smiling when she says my real name. “I didn’t want you to think I was purposely ignoring you. My life is complicated right now, and I’m only focusing on No Pink Caddy. I think it would be best if you and I didn’t talk or see each other for a while—or ever.” My stomach clinches at her words. “I’m really glad you came by my hotel room. It was nice getting proof of life and wishing you well. Give Jude a hug from me.” She pauses for a second. “And please send my necklace back.”
Staring at my phone in disbelief, I save her message. She can’t blow me off that easily. I didn’t get to be the front man for one of the most successful rock bands of all times, named after me, by taking no for an answer.
I want to call her, but I know it’s the middle of the night in New Orleans. Contemplating, I decide that I don’t give a damn. The phone rings three times before she says in a sleepy voice, “Hello.”
“Fuck you,” I tell her as I walk to my dressing room. “Tell me, MK, that seeing me hasn’t fucked your world. Tell me that you haven’t thought about me every waking minute and reminisce about the time we shared.”
She sighs. “Aaron, it’s after two in the morning. If I hadn’t been asleep, I wouldn’t have answered your call. Go have sex with a groupie and leave me alone.”
I let my dressing room door slam behind me. The banging sound reflects my pissed off mood. “You’re frustrating me.” My hand drags through my sweat-soaked hair. “If it’s your goal to drive me crazy, well, it’s working. I don’t want to fuck anyone else. I want to hold you and kiss your neck and watch you roll your eyes at something I say. I want to cook dinner with you and laugh at some dumb sitcom we agree to only watch together. Why can’t you believe that?” Pacing, I hang my head.
“Because when you want those things you don’t leave the other person hung out to dry. You don’t purposely inflict pain on them.” She sounds very awake now. “You don’t leave them because you got mad and took your toys and flew back to Austin. You certainly don’t leave them to be tabloid gossip and to deal with the storm of media that descended on their front lawn. People went through my garbage, and paid my second-grade teacher for a tad bit of gossip about me.” She pauses for a heartbeat. “You released the album written about me and then forced me to read all the speculation that circulated on Twitter about who the girl is.”
“Dick move.” I kick an imaginary ball, and then pull my wet shirt over my head, tossing it on the ground. “So how long are you going to punish me for being an asshole?”
“I’m not punishing you. This isn’t some sort of test where I’m going to make you walk through hot coals to earn your way back into my life.” She pauses. “I know this is going to come as a huge shock to you, but you don’t get everything you want by stomping your booted foot.”
There’s a knock on my door. “Hold on,” I tell her. Then to the door, I yell, “What?”
Grace’s muffled voice says, “They’re ready for you at the meet and greet.”
“Be there in a minute,” I reply not planning on going anywhere until I get MK to understand that she’s being pig-headed. Then, into the phone, I tell her, “I just want you to give us another chance. I fucked up and so did you.” She coughs and I continue, “I might have fucked up worse than you. Whatever. Don’t slam the door on us.”
“Pumpkin, there’s not a door for me to slam. When you left me alone to deal with the public mess you created, you showed me the kind of person you really are.” I’ve never heard her so cold and angry.
“When I saw you in LA, you felt it too. I know you did. You melted into my kiss, sweetheart. You can say we’re over, and you can fly your single flag all over your site, but we’ll never be finished. Your heart still belongs to me. You just have to come to that conclusion on your own.” I end the call and toss my phone on the cushion next to me.
Fucking MK. Why can’t she just move past me being an asshole and embrace the new and improved version of me? I’m different this time.
Chapter Fourteen
MK
September
LE @ LEFlyGirl
Fucking just admit it @NoPinkCaddy you’re who @RealJohnnyKnite wrote #AlisVolatPropriis about.
LE @ LEFlyGirl
@NoPinkCaddy you’re a fraud. You only share the sugary parts of your life. #SoOverYou
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Filming more B roll today. I’m going to be out and about around #NOLA. If you see me, give me a wave.
I never went back to sleep last night. After he hung up on me, I thought about firing off some nasty texts. In my mind, they were freaking gold. I even added extra exclamation points and everything to make him understand why I’m so over him.
Instead of typing my hateful words into my phone, I got up and went for a run. I’m not an exercise kind of girl, but sometimes my feet slamming against the concrete mimics the feeling of punching a certain someone in their smug grill and releases a bit of the tension.
“Okay, MK, we want a shot of you dancing down this block of Bourbon Street,” Cindy instructs. “The camera will start at Saint Peter and follow you to the corner of Toulouse. This will probably be used for the opening credits so ham it up.”
It’s a Thursday in the French Quarter, and the sounds of jazz mixed with Turn Down For What blend together in the most interesting sort of way. It’s kind of like gumbo. I can’t explain why it’s so good, it just is. “Got it.” I give her a thumbs up.
Grumpy Eugene motions with his hand, and I sashay my way down the black asphalt. It’s early so the people surrounding me are mostly sober tourists. I know this because they stop and stare. Native New Orleans folks could care less if there’s a camera. Ignoring them, I do a little turn and shuffle step when I reach the middle of the block.
Margo, my stylist, has me dressed in skinny jeans, an aqua blouse that ties right above my belly button, and black heels that are like five inches tall. This outfit was not designed for dancing.
When I reach the stop sign, I do a little shimmy that drops my behind just above the nasty concrete but not touching it. That would be disgusting.
Cindy yells, “Cut.” Then she turns to me. “That was awesome, honey. I especially liked the twerk at the end.”
Wrinkling my nose, I tell her, “As if.”
We both laugh.
“Okay, I want a shot with you and a Lucky Dog cart,” Cindy says and the crew of people follow her to the next block. Fortunately, the hog dog vendors are a dime a dozen on Bourbon Street. They’re so popular that John Kennedy Toole featured them in his book Confederacy of Dunces. He called them Paradise Hot Dogs, but any good New Orleans girl knows who he was referring to.
The gentleman signs the waiver and three different cameras get shots of me ordering and taking a bite out of the Bourbon Street staple.
“Next we’re going to film you around Jackson Square. Sound good?”
Nodding, we begin walking the two blocks towards the river.
Bella catches up with me. “Remember that old show we used to watch at Grandmother’s when she thought we were ‘napping’ at like the age of nine?”
/>
“The Mary Tyler Moore Show?” I ask.
“Yeah that one. You filming walking down the street reminded me of the opening credits where she tosses her hat,” Bella says as she locks her arm with mine.
“Ha. That’s a compliment. We loved that show.” We walk around a chunk of sidewalk that’s missing. “Guess who called in the middle of the night?”
She hip bumps me. “Your life is so much more interesting than mine. Rock stars chase you down and profess their love. Instead, I sleep next to boring old Nyall who snores just a wee bit.”
“Trade you my neurotic rock star for your stable, practical minded Brit any day.” We both scoff at my absurd statement. “He’s so adamant that we should get back together. He says all the things that a girl wants to hear, but let’s be real. He’s made his fortune writing and singing songs that make women throw their panties at him.”
“Are you one of them?” We turn left on Chartres and continue walking towards the square.
“I want to believe him. Like if I could look into the future and know that he’s sincere, I’d probably at least be able to have a conversation with him without wanting to squeeze and twist his balls.”
She lets go of my arm. “They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe you guys needed to break up and go through those awful months to arrive in a better place. Like maybe you’ll look back at this time as the best thing that ever happened to you instead of the worst of times.”
I pick my hair off my neck and pray for a cool breeze. “Maybe. He’s on tour for the next four months so I figure I’ll just continue blowing him off. If he’s still adamant about us giving this relationship another try, I’ll deal with it then.”
“Jesus, MK, he’s not a disease. You make him sound like he’s cancer or taxes or the mortgage payment.”
“I guess he kind of is. I’d moved on. Then, once again, he barrels into my life, and I realize after seeing him, that yes, I still have strong feelings for him. I’m just not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive him for what he did to my life.”