Broken Crown

by Susan Ward

  She nods and quickly lowers her gaze to stare at her hands.

  “I can do that, Chrissie. I’m ready to do that. I want to do that. With you.”

  She looks back up at me. Her eyes go wide. Good. I have her attention now.

  I stand up. “I have four things I would like to say to you since you’re in the mood for clearing the air today. If that’s OK?”

  She doesn’t speak. She nods. Maybe she’ll let me say everything I want to say for a change—some of her comments definitely pissed me off—and then I just want to end this night making love to Chrissie.

  “I have always been faithful to you when we were together. You can believe it or not believe it. I don’t give a fuck which. But don’t ever tell me again that I can do what I want to do so long as you don’t know it. I always do what I want. So to be clear, and leave no room for you to fucking misunderstand this: I want you.”

  Her eyes flash and I can tell I hit a nerve in her when I didn’t want to. Fuck, Chrissie, do you even understand what I’m saying to you here? I don’t want another woman. Don’t give me permission to fuck around. I don’t need it. I need you.

  I wait for her to settle in her emotions again.

  “Next, I have never lied to you, Chrissie. I will never lie to you. I have always told you the truth.”

  Even that’s the truth. I’m incapable of lying to her. Doesn’t she know that? I have never lied to her. Not once. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been completely honest and myself with.

  “Thirdly,” I continue, feeling more confident, less worried, and in control finally, “there’s Kaley and I adore her, but I won’t ever want children of my own. Children are not part of my equation. This is not something that is ever going to change. Not ever, Chrissie. I love you, but I can’t give you that.”

  She looks away, her expression changing so rapidly I can’t catch any of the emotions I’m seeing on her face. But I’ve done it. I’ve given her a door to run through, and fuck yes, with the way everyone gossips and how the girl looks, I have wondered if Kaley is my daughter. But asking Chrissie directly is not something I’m prepared to do. My suspicions would hurt her if the girl is Neil’s, and I’m terrified to push too hard since I don’t know what it means if Kaley is my daughter and Chrissie hasn’t told me.

  Why wouldn’t she tell me? What does it mean? It means something significant to her if she’s not telling me. I wait. Nothing. Silence.

  I hold her in an unrelenting stare. Now is the time, for the both of us, to tell me the truth. I’ve given you the opening, love. Take it if that is my daughter.

  The room grows heavy with silence, and I’m more disappointed than I ever expected to be after finally asking if Kaley is my daughter and learning she is not. But there it is. Absolute certainty at last. Chrissie is silent. She hasn’t said a word. Resolved. Kaley is Neil’s daughter. I’ll deal with that misery later.

  “You said you have four things to say to me, Alan. That was only three.”

  Chrissie’s voice drags me from my thoughts. I feel the jeweler’s case cutting into my thigh from my pocket. No, I’m not going to ask her to marry me today. She doesn’t want me to. That’s why she told me upfront that little part about when it’s good, it’s good. And when it’s bad, I’m gone. That’s what I want, Alan.

  Even after all this time, she is unsure if she wants to marry me. I let my gaze slowly roam her. So you want this simple, love? Simple and Chrissie; a paradox unachievable. That doesn’t mean I’m not ready to be done with this.

  I let my eyes burn in that way that says I want to fuck you.

  “Just stay and be good to me.”

  Chapter 3

  2013

  “There’s a series of questions here I’m supposed to ask. Do you mind if I ask them?”

  Fuck, really? They’ve assigned a biographer to replace Jesse Harris that they don’t trust to draft his own questions.

  I smile. “Go ahead.” I light a cigarette and wait.

  “Best concert?” Miles asks.

  Trite. Why am I continuing with this exercise in mendacity? People don’t want the truth. They want cleverly drafted, interesting, and artfully dishonest anecdotes. I don’t even remember most of my concerts—I grin—and then there are some I remember very well.

  “June 1998. Los Angeles.”

  The words slipping from my lips make the picture come into clear focus in my head and my body rapidly heats. A vision of Chrissie on stage, fucked up for the one and only time I’ve ever seen her wasted. Her blue eyes bright with lust and love as she crossed the stage to me after finishing her set. How she wrapped herself around me like an octopus, practically raping me on center stage, before she gave Neil the bird and told him to fuck off to a packed house.

  Then waking up with her the next morning, knowing I could fuck her and holding myself back because she didn’t remember what she’d done at the concert. Fuck, she had been so worried and frantic. I wasn’t much help when she asked me what had happened on stage before she passed out into my arms. I should never have said, “I’m not sure which will be the highlight or the lowlight for you, love. I definitely have a preference.” God, I can be an ass at times. Poor Chrissie. She was so humiliated after learning she’d thrown herself at me on stage and done a rather nice dry hump of my cock in front of a packed house. I should not have phrased it that way. I should not have told her molesting me on stage was ‘the highlight’. She’s right. I can be mean sometimes, but I never intended to be. Not ever with her.

  My gaze shifts to Miles. My anger flares when I realize the little cunt is writing that down. “Fuck, that was a joke. Don’t write that.” I stomp out my cigarette. “Write instead: every time on stage is the best concert of my life.”

  OK, that’s idiotically trite, but fuck, it’s what people expect you to say.

  “What’s your greatest regret?”

  I maintain an expertly blank expression while inwardly I’m flooded with annoyance and disgust. Greatest regret. Jesus Christ, I have a life filled with regrets, you imbecile. You actually want me to pick one?

  Miles taps his pen. “Do you want me to skip that question?”

  I lean back into my pillows and close my eyes. “Answer: I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done in my life, only the things I haven’t done.”

  Fuck, this biography being an exercise in mendacity is now an epic understatement. Greatest regret. Oh fuck, without a doubt the week Neil Stanton died…

  * * *

  2003

  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket again, but I’m fucking tired. I remain slouched on the leather seat as the car moves toward the concert venue. Last show of the tour. Then I’m home. Maybe all I need is to be home with Chrissie to start feeling like me again.

  I look out the window.

  “I need something to wake me up, Len,” I grumble.

  Len tosses me a vial. I take two fast snorts of coke, dampen the tips of my fingers, snort again to clear my nostrils, and then chase it with a long swallow of JD.

  Len fixes on me a disapproving glare. “You’ve been waking yourself up too often lately. What the fuck is the matter with you? You look like death.” His gaze intensifies. “Where did you disappear to for an entire week?”

  “Sod off. I don’t owe you answers to anything.”

  Better to let him think I am a prick—fucking around on Chrissie—instead of the truth. I don’t need Len and the rest of the band in a panic over me.

  “Better have a fucking better answer than that for Chrissie.” Len studies me. “Feeling guilty, are you? Is that why you won’t take a call from her? Fuck man, she’s been blowing up your phone for hours. What if she knows whatever it is you’ve been doing during your disappearing act? The longer you let her fume the worse it’s going to get for you, Manny.”

  Great fucking advice, Len. You’re such an old woman at times. Worse than Linda. Only you’re wrong about everything. Always. You’re my best friend. You should know me better than that. />
  I don’t fuck around on Chrissie. Not ever. I collapsed in my hotel suite. I’ve been in the hospital, you asshole. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me yet—I don’t look like death; I feel like death and I’m fucking scared—and I sure as fuck don’t want Chrissie to know about this yet. She takes everything so hard. Better to find out what it is first. Better not to worry her.

  The car rolls to a stop and the door is opened. The crowd, the screaming, the rapidly flashing cameras are almost more than my fatigue-drained body can take as I am pulled by my security team into the arena. Maybe Dr. Blackman was right; I shouldn’t have left the hospital. But fuck, what’s the point in lying in a bed waiting for them to tell you what’s wrong when they can’t do a single thing to make you well until they figure out what the fuck is wrong in your body.

  Fuck, I’m breathless. Why can’t I pull air in and out of my lungs? What the fuck is happening to my body? I don’t want to be ill. I have everything to live for. Finally.

  My security team starts ushering me toward the pressroom, but the couch in my dressing room is where I’d prefer to go. My phone vibrates again. I pull it from my pocket and flip it open.

  Blackman. Finally. What the hell took so long? What the fuck is the point of having money if it can’t at least expedite things in your life once in a while? It shouldn’t take so long to get answers on a handful of medical tests. They make you wait because they can. Miserable cunts in white coats.

  I search for somewhere quiet to take the call. Shit, nearest place is an exit tunnel.

  I turn toward the head of my security detail. “I need to take five minutes in there alone. Keep everyone out of the tunnel.”

  I’m escorted into the concrete corridor and security starts pushing the bodies back from me.

  I hit the answer button, cover one ear with a hand, and turn my back on the shouting crowd intent on not letting me have a completely private moment for this.

  “Yes, Dr. Blackman,” I say anxiously. “Did you get the test results back?”

  “How are you feeling, Alan?”

  Oh shit. I can tell by his tone of voice this is not going to be good news. I tense. “Why don’t you skip the pleasantries and move on to the part where you tell me what’s wrong with me?”

  A long pause. “When can you get back to the hospital? This is a discussion we should have in my office.”

  “I can’t. I’m performing tonight. Then I go home to California. Just tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.”

  “California. Good. Probably best. I have a colleague at Stanford Medical Center. Top man in his field. It’s where I recommend you go for treatment. He’ll take excellent care of you. High success rates. They are making remarkable medical advances with this type of illness in the United States. Much better treatments than we have in the UK.”

  Treatment for what? Why can’t anyone ever talk to me straight? “What is wrong with me?”

  “Alan, you have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Cancer.”

  My body goes cold even though it feels like my heart is about to explode from its rapid beating.

  “Cancer? Are you telling me I’m going to die? Is that what the fuck you’re telling me tonight? Stop equivocating and be direct even if it offends your medical sense of superiority and cruelty.”

  “That’s not what I’m telling you. There are no guarantees, but the cure rate is very high for this type of cancer. If you were going to get a cancer, this is the one you want. Ninety percent cure rate.”

  My temper flares. As far as reassurances go, that one was fucking inappropriate. Who the hell would want any kind of cancer?

  “When are you back in the States?” Dr. Blackman asks.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll set things up with Dr. Hern for him to see you as soon as possible. You shouldn’t delay this, Alan.”

  As if I’m going to fucking delay trying not to die. “Set it up.”

  I snap shut the phone. My legs give way. I’m crouched against the wall, my face in my hands. My phone starts to vibrate again. Chrissie. Every part of me is desperate to hear her voice, but I can’t talk to her, not now. I’ll lose it if I hear her voice.

  I stand up and shove the phone into my pocket.

  “You ready to do this, Manny?” Trey shouts from the top of the corridor.

  I nod to the head of my security team, climbing the slight incline to the main corridor. God, I can hardly breathe and it was only ten steps. I’m ushered into the pressroom. The rest of the band is already there fielding questions.

  Len stands up, placing his hands on my chest. “We need to talk before you do this. Something has happened that you need to know about.”

  I rake a hand through my hair, trying not to explode. I just found out I have cancer. I don’t need to hear about anything, not one more fucking trivial thing anyone thinks is important, not ever again.

  Do I call Chrissie and tell her or do I wait until I’m home? I can’t breathe again. Emotion clogs in my throat. Oh fuck, not here. Not now. Not for people to see.

  “Manny…”

  I ignore Len and drop heavily onto my chair as my name is shouted over and over again. I point. Jenkins. Daily Telegraph. It will be a softball question. I can’t take more than softball questions today.

  Jenkins stands. “Do you have a comment on the death of Neil Stanton?”

  Did I hear Jenkins right? The sudden hush in the room is eerie, even with the rapidly flashing cameras wanting to catch my first reaction. Oh no. The repeated phone calls from Chrissie. So unlike her. Crap. Is this why she’s been calling me?

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Jenkins flips his notebook. “This is from the LA Times this morning. ‘UCLA Medical Center announced that Neil Stanton, lead singer of Arctic Hole, died at 7:27 a.m. following a fatal car accident on Laurel Canyon Road at 11:30 p.m. Thursday night. He was immediately rushed into surgery; however, he never regained consciousness. At his bedside when he was removed from life-support were his wife, singer-songwriter Christian Parker, and their daughter, Kaley Stanton.’ Do you care to comment?”

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I need to get home, now.

  I calmly arch a brow. “Ex.”

  Jenkins’s eyes widen. “Excuse me? Would you like to repeat that comment?”

  “The LA Times is inaccurate,” I reply succinctly. “Christian Parker is his ex-wife.” I point to another reporter. “Next question, please.”

  I force myself to sit through another five questions, then abruptly I stand up and calmly leave the room.

  I lean into the head of my security and order, “Take me to my car.”

  Trey looks alarmed. “Where the fuck are you going? You’re on stage in less than two hours.”

  “I don’t care.”

  And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t.

  The house is dark when I reach Malibu fifteen hours later. I should have called Chrissie before I left London, but I traveled straight here from the UK without even my customary stopover in New York as I prefer. The few days alone to decompress from the road before I try to ease myself into Chrissie’s world are an immeasurably useful thing, but not this time. Getting to her quickly, for a multitude of reasons, felt like necessity.

  With all that’s going on, it would probably have been the smarter move to do the days in Manhattan. I’m anxious, tense and on edge. And Chrissie…who the fuck knows what I’ll find going on with her? Neil’s death could manifest in her in a variety of ways.

  Fragile Chrissie. Angry Chrissie—since she flooded my voice mail and I still haven’t called her—or the worst of the worst, convoluted emotionally illogical Chrissie.

  It’s probably going to be the latter, since everything about the Neil situation is emotionally illogical to me. Her affection for her ex-husband has never gone away, not even through the years after their divorce. They’ve maintained a strong friendship—somehow after Neil shoved in her face in a brutal way that their marria
ge had been a farce because he’s gay—and she still is willing to participate in keeping his sexual orientation a secret from his fans.

  Not one betraying word has even passed from Chrissie’s lips. But then, that’s Chrissie. She is loyal and does it lovingly.

  Five years she’s lived with me and I still can’t get Neil Stanton out of my life and I’m still not sure why Chrissie cares for him. It’s probably because they have a child together, but shit, I can’t stomach the fucker, not even for Kaley.

  Oh fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking crap about a dead man, and I need to pull it together because showing my disdain for Neil is the last thing Chrissie needs at present. She’s going to be a mess over his death. That much I know for sure.

  I move through the main living area of the house. No one. Rooms dark. I check the clock. 10:30 p.m. Hopefully she’s just gone to bed early and isn’t out. It would be a fucking rotten end to the miserable hours of travel if she’s not here. I should have called when the plane landed so she’d be awake. Tonight I could really use one of Chrissie’s homecomings. Having her run to the door, all sexy and breathy with her eyes sparkling just because I’m here.

  God, I love the way she looks at me. The way she feels, the delicacy of her in my hands, how soft and supple and intoxicatingly giving she is in a way a woman should be and too often isn’t. The way she smells, tastes—the thought of her shoots straight to my cock.

  I pour myself a drink, willing him to be calm. Tonight isn’t going to be—or at least shouldn’t be—one of those hard fuck nights with Chrissie. She’s going to be emotional over Neil’s death. She’s going to want quiet and tenderness and excruciatingly slow lovemaking. It’s fucking incredible how completely she gives in to fully feeling everything in her body, my body, and our bodies together. But it’s been two months apart this time, my body is on fire and my erection hasn’t calmed down completely since I boarded the plane.

  I probably should have whacked one off before reaching home, but the building urgency is part of the thrill. The holding back, for her, the long spans of torture without her, then the losing myself in her without letting my body go, not completely, until we are both insane for release.