by Layne Harper
I take a minute to focus on what waits for me a couple of blocks from here. Reminding myself that I am the boss, I vow to not let anyone influence my decision when it comes to my tour. I’m going to listen to the facts and then make the business decision that is best for Johnny Knite and the ACE brand.
Unfortunately, my brain forgot to communicate with my stomach, and I feel so sick that I don’t bother finishing my cereal.
When I walk into MK’s empty living room, she’s sitting on her barstool at her kitchen island with her laptop open in front of her. Her eyes don’t look up, and she doesn’t realize that I’m watching her.
Her brown hair looks like beach waves hugging either side of her jaw and falling to just under her breasts. She’s dressed in a white sleeveless top which is fitted and curves nicely over her tits and slims at her waist. Her fingers fly over the keyboard. I can tell she’s concentrating because she pauses, squints, turns her head, and then the faint sound of keys being pressed reaches my ears.
She’s gorgeous. Her bottom lip twists as white teeth catch the corner. She shakes her head at the screen then seems to delete something she wrote. Typing again, MK pauses and reviews her words. She must be pleased because she smiles, nods, and then hits a key with much more drama than necessary.
I want to go back to the place she calls Bliss. Fuck the band and the specialist. Fuck the fans and this tour. I’ve got enough money that we’d never have to work again. We could buy an island somewhere in the Caribbean, and we’d only see other humans if we choose. We’d never wear clothes. Just her and me for the rest of our lives. That’s when we’re perfect.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I could toss her over my shoulder, and we could be on my plane in an hour. Her comments about long distance relationships play on blast in my head. I don’t want to believe that she’s right, but I know she is. Touring has ended many great love affairs. Separation usually doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. Instead it drives a wedge between two people—both unable to relate to what the other is experiencing. We can’t let that happen to us. I won’t let that happen. Not again.
She says spiritual shit like our souls will never be apart. That’s great in theory, but the contractor is still working with her. I’m going to have to remind MK frequently who her man is.
I clear my throat.
She looks up and smiles. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
***
“I’ve had the opportunity to review Mister Knite’s medical files. They were shared with me last night. I’ve also had a lengthy conversation with Doctor Fontenot, who was the neurologist who examined Mister Knite. Doctor Fontenot is a colleague of mine. I believe the examination he did was thorough, and I agree with his conclusions.” The good doctor looks like a douche. He’s maybe in his early fifties, balding, and wears very thick, black rimmed glasses. After staring at him for a moment, I decide he resembles a penis if you put glasses on it. Then, of course, my mind travels to wondering if MK would be into dressing up my dick. The thought is so funny, I really want to share it with the band and MK, but I decide that’s probably a bad idea.
Grace asks, “Do you agree with the Botox treatment that Doctor Fontenot injected?”
The band snickers, and I don’t blame them. It’s funny to think that I have a poison in my muscles. I’m not laughing.
He clears his throat. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s an approved treatment for dystonia.”
MK scoots closer and drags her nails over the tendons in my right hand. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and lean back against the sectional.
Grace speaks up again. “I guess the million-dollar question is can he continue touring?” The irony is that it’s actually more of a fifty-million-dollar question.
Doctor Odom leans against the fireplace mantle and strokes his chin as if it’s a magic rock with all the answers. “Well, we can do the injections for a while until they no longer work.” He looks at me. “It would be best if you did not play the guitar.”
My neck tenses. He’s asking me not to breathe. “No.”
Sam pipes up, “You play rhythm guitar. We can bring in someone else. All you have to do is sing.”
My hand grips MK’s biceps so tightly that she gasps. “I’ve never once in the history of ACE performed on stage without my guitar.”
Billy interjects, “You could still wear it and even play some of the time or pretend like you’re playing. It doesn’t have to be mic’ed.”
That sounds like a shit idea. Giving MK’s body a break, I cross my arms over my chest.
Grace replies, “I think it’s brilliant. His voice is fine. I know the guitar is like his security blanket so he can still wear it.” She turns to me. “Just don’t play.”
I’ve had about as much as I can take. I stand, looking at each band member in the eye as I feel the tendons straining against my skin. “You go on stage, and don’t play. Rock, we’re going to have Auto-Tune play the drums for you. Don’t worry. You can still sit behind your kit. We won’t mic the drums. You can bang away if you wish. Work for you?”
Grace also stands, going toe to toe with me. “That’s a bullshit comparison. We’re not Auto-Tuning your voice. You’re still singing. We’ll hire a rhythm guitarist. Fuck, you know they’re a dime a dozen. We can even borrow one from another band on our label. Hell, let’s ask the kid from the opening act. I bet he’d shit his pants to get to play with you guys.”
“I’m feeling minimized,” I reply while re-crossing arms.
“Grow the fuck up,” Grace growls. “We’re in the middle of ACE’s comeback tour. Venues are booked. Tickets are sold. You either make a sacrifice and have someone else play your guitar parts, or we cancel the tour and you let down all those people who have sacrificed to see you.” Grace turns to the band and raises her eyebrow. “What do y’all think?”
“I didn’t say I want to cancel the tour or postpone. I’ve never said anything even close to that. I just want to play my guitar.” The solution sucks gigantic donkey balls. She’s right. I know she’s right. I can be an adult and remove myself for this shit situation and fully acknowledge that this is the best solution for the tour and for me. Not playing my guitar on stage is not what scares me. I’m a song man, a music writer. I’ve constantly got a lyric, beat, riff, or some piece of music in my head. But I can’t write music without my guitar. It’s what keeps me sane.
Swallowing hard, I ask, “Doctor Odom, will you come on tour with me and fix whatever is wrong with my hand?”
“I haven’t discussed specifics with Grace, and I do have a thriving practice back in New York. However, you’re not the first musician that my staff and I’ve made accommodations like this for.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “When you have a practice specializing in a disorder that only affects musicians at the top of their class, we have to be flexible with where and how the patient receives treatment.” The awkward man crosses and uncrosses his arms as if they don’t fit together.
Everyone begins talking amongst themselves as if the decision has been made. Then MK pipes up. I notice her hickey has been covered with makeup—probably the same one that she uses to hide her scar—and it annoys me. “Doctor Odom, I’d like to know what are the long-term issues with Aaron continuing to perform even if he doesn’t play his guitar.”
Grace rolls her eyes, and there’s an audible huff from the others in the room.
Doctor Odom’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Well, there are many factors. . . I mean we could splint . . . But the audience would know . . . I mean . . .”
MK joins me in standing and wraps her arms around my waist. “You see I’m very concerned about Aaron’s long term health. My goal is for him to still be playing when he’s an old man. Are we sacrificing a few touring months for his overall health? I just want to see the big picture.”
Doctor Odom removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “In an ideal world, I’d suggest that Mister Knite take part in intensive therapy, a brain
remapping if you will. Generally, I see only the middle finger on the right hand affected in guitarists. Of course, in Mister Knite’s case, it appears to be more than just that finger and maybe muscles into the hand. We do believe that stress plays a role.”
“But it can still be fixed, right, Doc?” For the first time, I question if I’ll ever be okay again. Once I was assured that this isn’t cancer, it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t one day be fine. I’m a musician. It’s the only thing that I know how to be. I didn’t go to college. I have no backup plan. Sure, I own a label, and I enjoy signing new talent, but Johnny Records is more of Grace’s thing. I’m a song writer. It’s not just what I do. Music’s the blood that runs through my veins. It’s who I am. It defines me.
The rest of my life is cursed—but music is where I’ve been blessed. The thought of never playing my guitar again turns me into a scared little boy. I want to hide under the bed and cover my ears hoping that the bad news doesn’t find me.
He pushes his glasses up his nose again. “I don’t know. The Botox injections seem to be working. You might be able to rely on those until the tour is over, and then you can focus on the therapies I recommend.”
Billy says, “You sure would have some pretty hands.”
The band laughs, but when I look at MK, she’s stoic. Once the laughter dies down, the room becomes silent. “Do you know why Aaron has this?” she asks.
“We aren’t entirely sure. Sometimes there’s an injury. It might have been inconsequential and unmemorable, but that along with stress, and repeated movement will cause this to happen. We usually only see what Mister Knite is experiencing in an artist performing at the highest of levels. Lots of famous artists suffer from this. It’s just usually kept hidden behind the curtain.”
Fortunately, no one asks if I’m stressed. I think they already know the answer. They’ve had to live with me during this tour.
Grace speaks up. “We have two shows in Vegas. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to cancel them.” She gestures to me. “Your hand is fine right now. Let’s try not mic’ing the guitar.” Grace reminds me of a general addressing his troops as she talks. “Johnny will sing and only play if he feels up to it. I’ll find us a guitarist. Let’s take this one show at a time. Sound good?”
No. It sounds like shit, but it’s a good compromise for right now. All the eyes in the room are on me. “That works.” I turn to address Doctor Odom. “I want to start whatever therapies immediately. You’ve got to get me back playing again like yesterday.”
“Great.” Grace claps her hands. “We’re leaving for Vegas in two hours.”
Doctor Odom asks me to follow him somewhere private to talk about the therapies and for him to examine me without distractions.
When I walk by Grace, she whispers, “Nice hickey. Are you a pre-teen again?”
My response is to flip her the bird with my right hand so she can see that it’s working just fine.
As I lead Doctor Odom to the studio out back, I hear Rock say, “Let’s see how long he can stay clean without his guitar.”
A shiver runs down my spine. My thoughts exactly.
Chapter Thirty
MK
September
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
We’re so close I can taste it. Don’t forget to enter for your chance to attend #NoPinkCaddy Grand Opening.
Veronica Smith @SinnerSaint18
@RealJohnnyKnite I’m in Vegas and ready to rock out at the show tonight. #PinkCadillac
“The floors look great, MK,” Vince says as he drapes his thick arm around my shoulders. When Aaron made the same gesture yesterday in the meeting at his house, shivers went down my spine. When Vince does it, it feels brotherly.
“I love them. I’m so glad I fought to save the linoleum and to add the paint. It’s unexpected, and fun, and very NPC.”
“We’re packing up our tools today. You ready for the next part?” He drops his arm and turns toward me.
We’re standing just inside the door. I look around at the beautiful work that’s been done as I contemplate his question. Am I ready? The answer is an enthusiastic yes. I can’t wait for the grand opening party and to officially be in business. Last night, when I had some time to think, I worked on a schedule for cooking classes. I also opened my garage and took inventory of what I have refinished and is ready for sale, what projects need to be completed, and I made a timeline for working on my pieces that I haven’t started.
Shannon sent me the verbiage for the employment ad. As I read it, I had to pinch myself. No Pink Caddy will actually have paid employees besides Bella, who works for wine and quality time with my great personality.
A huge smile spreads my cheeks as I nod. “I’m so ready.”
Cindy walks through the front door. “Have a good weekend, MK? The floors look great.”
“I’m kinda in love with them.” It’s hard to be humble when I absolutely adore how they turned out. Bella and my family finished them perfectly. I especially love Aaron’s music notes that he drew inside one of the paisleys, but as I admire it, my chest tightens with guilt. Why did he offer to help if his hand was bothering him? Doctor Odom assured me yesterday that it wasn’t holding the paint brush that led to Aaron’s trip to the hospital. But there’s still a huge part of me that wishes that it hadn’t happened when he was helping me.
Cindy kisses my cheek. “And I love you. You ready to tell the cameras about your hard work?”
“I took a few pictures and some video of my friends and family helping me work on them.” Shrugging, I add, “I know that it wasn’t in budget to film over the weekend, but I thought it might be fun to work in some raw video. I like when shows do that. It makes it feel more real.”
Cindy squeals. “Oh. Let’s see it!”
Vince exits out the back door giving us all a wave.
Pulling my phone from my back pocket, Cindy stands to my right side and Shannon stands on my left. We watch the video first. It’s of my family and friends on their hands and knees drawing the stencil and filling it in with purple paint. “I love it, MK. Send that over, and we’ll splice it in while you’re describing how you painted them.”
It feels so great to finally be contributing to the show. So far, it’s been all Vince, and me, being the grateful client. Now, I feel like I’m the one who is actively working to make this a reality.
“Here are the pics that I took.” As the words tumble out of my mouth, I show them the picture of Aaron leaning against the brick wall. I can’t seem to swipe right quickly enough.
Cindy gasps. “That was Johnny Knite. Dear sweet baby Jesus, please tell me he helped with the floors.”
My instinct is to lie, but I know that’s foolish. She obviously saw that it’s him so I need to own it and mitigate the situation. “Yes. He helped with the floors.” I bite my top lip. “But it’s not what you think. He was in town, and he wanted to help.”
I don’t think that sounds any better.
She takes my phone out of my hand and zooms in on his face. “So damn pretty. I assume you two are back together?”
Here is where I decide to not lie, but necessarily tell the whole truth. “We’re talking again. Which is a huge step because I didn’t care to hear a word he had to say for a long, long time.”
Shannon adds, “I think Johnny needed to make peace. That’s all.”
I could kiss her.
Cindy’s hand goes to her hip, and she turns her head giving me the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Rock stars don’t paint floors on a Saturday night because they happen to be in town. That boy is in love with you.”
I shrug. “Maybe he is. I mean I am pretty lovable. You did say it yourself.”
“You’re terrible at being nonchalant. Show me what he painted, and did you have him sign it?”
My face crinkles. “Have him sign it? Why?”
Shannon snaps her fingers. “Because his fans will want to visit the store to see his artwork.”
Throw
ing my hands up, I exclaim, “You’ve got to be kidding me. He drew music notes. Not special at all. I mean that’s not entirely true. I appreciate him helping, but NPC is not code for ACE’s store.”
Cindy laughs and gives me a side hug. “Honey, we’re in this for ratings. Now, no need to tread on Johnny’s name, but a little celebrity boost has got to help.”
“Guess that’s fair,” I concede as I shove my phone back in my pocket.
“All right, sweetie. Let’s get you in hair and makeup while we talk about the grand opening.”
Cindy, Shannon and I walk the two blocks to the trailers. I can tell we’re getting close to renovation completion because there are less people roaming around our makeshift offices. We’re also down three trailers. Vince’s was removed this morning. I was sad to see it leave, but it just means we’re one step closer to No Pink Caddy opening its door and welcoming customers.
Margo hands me a flowy aqua blue skirt with a chevron print and a fitted white shirt when I walk in my dressing building. “I think this will work for today’s interviews.”
“Thank you,” I reply as I disappear behind the changing curtain.
Pausing for a second, I pull out my phone and send Aaron a text. His show is tonight, and I’m worried about him.
Me: How are you? I missed you this morning. My shower was uneventful, and my tile stayed dry. I know you’re busy, but just let me know you’re okay.
Checking the clock, I note it’s eight-fifteen in the morning in Vegas. Hopefully, Aaron is resting peacefully and will text me when he wakes up.
I get dressed and sit down in the makeup chair. Margo begins curling my hair while Cindy, Shannon, Bella, and Robbie take out their notebooks or phones and begin discussing the grand opening.
At the mention of the words grand opening, my stomach is invaded by bats. The emotions of my dream come flooding back. I experience again the sickening feeling that the lights were on and the band was playing but no one was walking through the doors. My hand grips the arm of the chair. “What if no one shows up? What will we do?”