by Layne Harper
All the worker bees scatter. I’ve been told there’s a trailer they go to for drinks and food. The multiple cameras get in place. The sound girl has Vince and me test our mics. This whole process takes around thirty minutes.
Then I’m sent outside with a cameraman.
He films me walking about thirty feet, opening the door, and entering the store.
“Hi!” I greet Vince. “I just finished lunch with a friend and thought I would stop by to see how it’s going.”
He’s standing near the saw horses holding a piece of white trim. Looking up, he calls, “Glad you did. Why don’t you come over here and take a look at this?”
The camera follows me until I reach Vince’s side. “What’s going on?”
“The wood glue is not wanting to stick to the glossy paint finish that you chose. See . . .” He demonstrates how easily it is to remove the trim from the cabinet door.
The whole time I’m thinking this is the drama problem? Use a trim nail and counter sink. Instead of solving the issue, I play along. “Oh. I do see. That’s a huge issue. Do I need to change the finish?” I hate making myself look incompetent.
He gives me, the camera, and the female viewers at home a gorgeous smile. With a wink, he says, “You know I’m in this business to please my clients. I think we can use trim nails.”
Gee, why didn’t I think of that? “Great. I’m really committed to the high gloss white on the traditional style cabinets. It adds an updated flair.” I caress the shiny surface as if it’s the cheek of a newborn baby.
Janet yells cut and then starts giving out orders. “Group interview time.” She positions Vince and me against the raw, red brick wall. “I need you two to discuss the progress on the remodel of the store and tell the viewers what’s next.”
I’ve only been doing this for four days, but I think I get better with each interview. I feel more comfortable in front of the camera and seem to have found my pace. Vince and I play well off each other. This is actually the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.
Next, we have what is called the producer interview. Janet stands off camera and asks me questions. She said she’ll be edited out so the viewer will just think I’m giving them the inside scoop.
After I’m finished, I’m sent back to my trailer to change into work clothes. Vince and I are going to install the shelves on the brick wall where I’ll display items for sale.
When I walk into my dressing room on wheels, Bella is sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine. “Your phone’s been going crazy.”
Margo says, “I’ve pulled two outfits for you to choose from.”
“Thank you,” I reply to Margo and walk into my makeshift dressing area.
Then to Bella, “Who’s been trying to get ahold of me?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’re my assistant. You’re supposed to take care of these things,” I sigh as I notice that my overalls didn’t make the final cut. I have two tank tops. One is a stretchy blue lace and the other is green ribbed cotton. My pants choices are blue jeans or blue jean shorts.
I slip the sky-blue tank over my head.
“Fine,” she replies, and I feel the floor vibrate as she walks. “It’s like ten messages from Aaron.”
My head flies out from behind the curtain at the mention of his name. “Give it to me.”
She mouths I could have read them out loud.
She knows that I’m keeping Mister Emerson a secret and can be a such a brat sometimes.
I slip on the jean shorts and exit the confined space. After doing a little twirl, Margo approves.
Taking the seat across from Bella, I scroll through Aaron’s texts.
Aaron: I can be there as early as five a.m. on Saturday morning. Too early? I can get Seamus to prepare the house.
Aaron: Here’s the deal. I don’t want Seamus to prepare the NOLA house. I mean I don’t care if he dusts it, but I want to spend time with you. Can you wear something other than a baggy shirt and soccer shorts?
Then, about twenty minutes later, he sent another message.
Aaron: I didn’t mean it like that. Okay, I did because you’re all I think about and well, I’m a guy and you’re a beautiful girl. Therefore I want to have sex with you, but what you wear won’t change that.
Pausing, I laugh. Thankfully, Margo asks if I’m hungry and offers to go to the food trailer for me. I gladly send her off.
When the door closes, I tell Bella, “I’m going to read you these texts because you’re my best friend.”
She nods and tosses the magazine she’d resumed reading. Clapping like a fool she says, “Yay. I love love.”
I start over and catch her up on what I’ve already read. “Okay, so the next one says, but I want to make love to you not fuck you. That’s kinda crazy for me. I don’t just want in your panties. I want all of you. I only want to make love to you if you’re making love back.”
Continuing, I read the next text. “He says, why hasn’t someone invented a way to take back sent text? I’m sorry I sent the last one and, well, all of them. Fuck, MK. I miss you. I haven’t painted floors ever in my life, but it sounds like fun. It’s a great way to relax on my day off.”
Bella jumps to her feet. “You’ve got him, MK. He’s yours for the takin’. That boy is panting for you.” Her victory dance is uniquely her own.
“Sit down.” I roll my eyes. “You remember what his sister told me. I’m his play thing. His new hotness. He has a short attention span and will grow tired of me. Then, I’m once again going to be poor, little MK dumped for a second time by the rock star.”
She shrugs. “Or you’re MK, the rock star’s girlfriend and gets every bit of his attention, devotion, and love and every girl is green with jealousy.”
My head falls between my knees, and I once again wish that our paths had never crossed and he never reentered my life. He makes things complicated. Filming a reality show is enough of a leap out of my comfort zone. I don’t need to add dating one of the most famous men in the world to my plate.
“MK.” Bella snaps her fingers near my right ear. I sit up, looking at her. “Burnt Sugar is the name of your show, right?”
I nod.
“Maybe burnt sugar is also a metaphor for your relationship with Aaron. Is he the knight in shining armor you’ve wished for? No. He has a rocky past, a teenage daughter, and, as he told you, enough baggage to fill an eighteen-wheeler—which you’ve witnessed—but he’s crazy about you.”
“And how is that burnt sugar?”
“You’re still hoping for a guy like Tripp. You want someone who looks like they could model for J Crew and has a normal, high income job. Tripp is your sugar. He’s your ideal, but you’re not attracted to him. You’re attracted to the guy who is burnt sugar. He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a pink collared shirt and light blue striped shorts. Aaron would rather poke his eye out than own a chain of carwashes. But he’s who makes your heart flutter.” She pauses and offers me her hands, pulling me to my feet. “You thought I was reading that gossip rag, but I was watching you read his messages. Did you know you were smiling? Did you know that your face was lit up like a Christmas tree? Give yourself permission to give him another shot, and this time quit letting your head get in the way of your heart.”
“That’s why you’re my best friend. You know the words that I need to hear and when I need to hear them.” I throw my arms around her neck. “I love you, Bella Boo.”
Grabbing my phone, I settle back into the maroon leather chair.
Me: I can’t wait for you to help me paint the floors. You can be my assistant. I think working off your pillowcase debt is a good idea. I miss you too.
“Bella, what if he dumps me again and I have all those crazy people camped out on my front lawn?”
She kneels next to my chair. “You’ve been down that path. You’ll be ready. Plus, you’re no longer the scared girl who quit her job in a fit of rage and then decided to focus on NPC full time. You’re an est
ablished woman with your own reality show. Honey, you’ve got scoreboard. Johnny Knite didn’t make you. You made you. You pulled yourself up by the bootstraps. He’s the lucky SOB who gets to bask in your glow. He chooses to screw that up? His loss, but then you at least know that he’s not your ever after instead of being left with lots of question marks.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aaron
September
Johnny Knite @RealJohnnyKnite
What’s up Vegas? Two sold-out shows. Who’s ready to party?
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Kitchen is in! Who wants to take a cooking class from moi? Stay tuned. We’re getting close. #BurntSugar
I hate Vegas. It’s where I got alcohol poisoning and arrested. It’s opulent. It’s over the top. It’s basically everything that’s wrong with this world.
“We’re honored to host you and your band, ACE,” the owner of the casino says pulling me out of my dark thoughts. His name is Robert Haines. He’s in his mid-forties and inherited this place from his old man. Lucky bastard. My dad didn’t even acknowledge that he knocked-up my mom.
“Thank you for opening your casino to us and our fans. We were excited and honored when we heard we were invited to play here.” Total bullshit. I told Grace to cancel. There are too many of my vices at my fingertips in this town. The alcohol is free, and my former dealer lives half a mile up the strip. I was hoping MK would come and keep me occupied, but instead I’m going to her.
I can’t let her down. I can’t use again.
We’re in a private dining room inside a posh restaurant located on the second floor of the casino. Grace set this dinner up and insisted that I come. I’d have been happy hiding in my suite until it’s time to play my sst and head to the private airstrip.
Bottles of alcohol are being passed around like bags of chips at one of Jude’s high school slumber parties. I met with the doctor today and, after taking x-rays of my hand and drawing more blood, we discussed my alcohol consumption. I’m trying to do better. I really am, but then the waiter pours me an aged fifty years’ bourbon and all bets are off.
The second and third highball glass taste just as good as the first. My bandmates get rowdy and begin formulating plans for making the strip our bitch. Robert places a call and gets us set up in a VIP section in one of the top night clubs in Vegas.
The feeling of being bullet proof and twenty-two again starts pumping through my veins. I haven’t torn a night up in a long time. Tonight is beginning to look promising.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and smile when I see it’s a text from MK.
MK: Long day on set. I’m about to go to bed. I miss my pillowcase, but I miss you more.
I smile like the fucking Joker. My girl misses me. Maybe she’s coming around. This is the most promising message yet.
And then just because I’m a glutton for punishment . . .
Me: What are you wearing?
To my surprise, she replies quickly.
MK: A certain someone’s Def Leppard shirt.
Me: Lucky shirt.
Jesus Christ, I’m getting a boner in the middle of a private room in one of the most expensive restaurants in Vegas while surrounded by my band and sister. How fourteen-years-old of me.
MK: What are you wearing?
I contemplate making up something sexy like I’m lying naked on the bed with my legs spread holding my gigantic, throbbing cock. Instead, I decide to go with funny.
Me: A shark tooth necklace . . .
MK: JERK
Me: Shouty capitals are rude. BTW, my band is looking at me like I’m crazy. We’re in the middle of dinner with the owner of the casino while I’m typing on my phone, smiling like crazy.
MK: I lick my finger and thumb massaging my nipples, bringing them to hard points. They push against the soft cotton. The bit of friction making my . . .
Oh God. I know she’s fucking with me, but my dick can’t seem to make that connection. I should put the phone away and ignore her, but when have I ever done what I should?
Me: Your pussy is wet . . . Fuck! Stop this right now. The owner and I are about to have a private chat about the band doing a year of residency here when the tour is over. I need to concentrate not be sitting here with the hardest dick in Vegas.
MK: Oh. That’s really cool. I hope the talks go well. Good night.
“Why are you staring at your phone like that?” Grace asks.
“Uh . . . Sorry,” I reply. “I’m going to step out and make a call. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I must adjust myself before I stand and make my way out the private entrance. I’m in a long, narrow, beige hallway. It contrasts with the over-the-top décor of the casino. At the end are two stainless steel doors with windows indicating that the public area lies beyond.
After exiting, I realize that I’m in the restroom hallway near the restaurant. There are two club leather chairs with a black granite cube table in between. I grab a chair and give her a call.
She’s laughing when she answers. “That was fun.”
“Fuck, sweetheart,” I sigh as I remove my grey fedora and drag my left hand through my hair.
“I thought you had a meeting,” she says in a sing-song voice.
“I do. I stepped out to regroup. It’s not fair to sext me.”
She giggles again. “I was just teasing you. I mean not really. I am wearing your shirt and my nipples are hard, but it could be because I have the AC turned down to sixty-nine. It’s hotter than hell today.”
“You’re lucky that I don’t get on a plane, fly to New Orleans, kidnap you, and bring you back on tour with me. I’d tuck you against me, and spend every moment making sure you knew how much I wanted you.” Well, that was very stalkerish. I blame the lack of blood in my brain.
Her little sigh causes my dick to jump. “How should I respond to that?” The sweet, upbeat voice has been replaced with one that sounds unsure and frustrated. “Aaron, you say these words, and I believe you mean them, but I’m so afraid that you’re going to get bored with me. I’m going to give myself to you, and you’re not going to find me good enough. Some pretty little thing in a leather bustier is going to sashay up to you after a show and you’re going to be like ‘MK, who?’”
Wow. This conversation took a ninety-degree turn. I didn’t want anything serious or heavy. I was calling to tell her goodnight. My fist digs into my thigh. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re what and who I want? I fucking asked you to marry me. You think I did that because I was coked up. Nope. I asked you because you’re it. You’re the whole ball of wax. You’re the one. I knew it then. Got stupid for a while. And now have been clearly reminded.”
The phone line falls quiet before she replies, “Then if all of that is true, how could you abandon me?” Quickly, she says, “Never mind. I don’t want to rehash that again. I just wish I could believe that’s the truth. Time will help. Go to your meeting. I’m going to bed.”
I feel like we take two steps forward and one step back. It’s beyond infuriating. “Good night. I’ll text you when I’m getting on the plane.” Sniffles cause my heart to skip a beat. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”
The sniffles turn into sobs. “I want this to be easy, Aaron. Why can’t you have an eight to five job and wear a suit to work? Why do you have to be rock star? Why can’t you be vanilla ice cream? I like vanilla ice cream.”
My stomachache reminds me that this is an issue between us. I’ll never be her ideal guy. She’s never going to be okay with me touring and my crazy life. Her freak out when the media showed up at her doorstep tells me she’ll never be able to handle a red carpet lined with reporters screaming questions and asking her to model. Her life is limited to a small store on Magazine Street in New Orleans. She wants to live within walking distance to it and go to church every Sunday with her family. This will eventually become a problem because my career is worldwide. We’ll have to resolve this together.
My p
rincess MK hasn’t quite come to terms with the fact she’s not going to live her sorority girl dream life if she runs away with me. I decide to go with a humorous response. “That life is boring. Who wants to wear a suit, although I do look quite dapper in one? And vanilla ice cream is shit. I mean who wants vanilla when you can have pralines and cream? There’s nuts . . .”
“And burnt sugar,” she laughs through sniffles.
“I don’t know about burnt sugar. There’s caramel.”
“Never mind. I’ll explain this weekend. Goodnight, Aaron.”
I hate hanging up with her. “Are we good, sweetheart?”
She sniffs. “I’m okay. We’re okay. I’m just super stressed, and this has been a tiring week. I’m feeling overwhelmed, like I can’t get everything that needs to be accomplished finished. Do you know that I didn’t pee at all today while I was on set?”
“I hope not. That would have been awkward.”
“No. Like I peed when I got up this morning, but I didn’t go to the bathroom until I got home at seven tonight. That’s not healthy.”
I agree. “That’s not good. You’ve got to make time for you. Sometimes you have to tell everyone to fuck off and give you a minute.”
“Easier said than done,” she scoffs.
“You’ve made a couple of comments about me being a spoiled rock star. I get it. I’m sure I am in a lot of ways, but I’ve had to put limits on what I’ll do because as we skyrocketed to fame, everyone wanted a piece of me. I couldn’t breathe, and I had a toddler at home, with no mother, who needed her parent. If I hadn’t put limits and been demanding, I’d be dead now. This business would have literally killed me.”
“Thank you,” she replies. “That’s great advice, and I appreciate it. Any other pearls of wisdom, send them my way. I’m just ready to do what I do best, and that’s bringing new life to the old. All this other stuff is superfluous.”
“We have the weekend. Just you and me and bucket of paint.” I smile as I say it and warmth travels down my limbs.