by Vivian Lux
And right now I knew it was me.
"Don't," I said. "Stop."
She turned slowly, keeping her eyes on me, wary of any sudden moves. I hated how she was looking at me right now.
Her voice was so low I had to lean over the couch to catch her words. "Why did you agree to see me if you didn't want to talk to me?" she half-spoke, half-whispered.
"Because--" I struggled with the words and finally decided to just fucking say them. "Because you called me." Finally, I didn't say, but she definitely heard it. "Because it sounded like you were ready to talk. Are you ready to talk, Scarlett?"
Her eyes darted everywhere but my face. My anger, which had softened just a little, rose each moment she refused to look at me. "This is my job, Keir," she said. I hated the note of begging in her voice. That's not how I wanted her to sound. Not to me. I didn't want her begging anything from anyone.
"Bullshit. You've got too much integrity to pull something like this without reason." I narrowed my eyes. "Or maybe you actually don't? After all, you never had the fucking integrity to tell me why you left."
Scarlett went on her toes and turned, jabbing her finger into the down button on the elevator. "This was a mistake. You're right. There's too much shit. It would take too long to hash out. I'm just going to go."
Anger licked like flames along my cheek. "No," I roared.
She flinched, which only made me angrier. I hated that I was scaring her, but I hated her leaving even more. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to saunter casually back into my life after five fucking years, Scarlett! Why did you leave? That's not a fucking question, that's a demand. You owe me a fucking explanation."
She lifted her chin, and I saw her jut out her lower jaw in a pretty good imitation of what Rane called my "bulldog face." Scarlett always did that, mirrored my faces with her own. It made me careful back then, but now I didn't give a shit. "I left," she said, her voice impossibly low, "because I needed to, Keir. And that's all that should matter if you loved me."
"If?" I was shouting now and I couldn't seem to stop. "If I loved you? If you knew me at all, you know that there never was any such thing as if, Scarlett. Why don't you tell me the real reason?"
She twisted her fingers around her left hand, and my eyes went to where the ring should be. Five years later, who knew where we'd be if she still wore it? Maybe we'd be parents already, with a house on the coast. Two little kids running around, one blonde, one with dark hair, and both of them with her face.
She opened her mouth, and I braced myself for the revelation that never came. Instead, she let out a small, stifled sob. "Keir, please. I need this interview. My job is on the line, and I have rent coming due, and I had to rent a car to come out here because mine's in the shop. Could you please...just help me out?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. She knew. After all these years, she still knew my fucking kryptonite. She had a problem. A problem I could fix for her.
"Yeah," I heard myself saying. "Yeah. I can help you."
Then I stepped aside and let her back into my life.
*****
When it was done, when it was over, and I had given Scarlett what she needed, then ridden down in the elevator with her like some true fucking gentlemen, I watched her walk away from me, her pretty little heels clicking across the marble lobby floor. She was happy; I had given her what she needed, an exclusive interview that revealed more than I ever wanted to share with anyone... But it was her, and once I started talking, I realized I could keep her there, in my presence--there in the room with me where I could watch her laugh and tuck her hair behind her ear to expose her throat to me--for as long as I kept giving her what she needed.
Never mind what I needed.
I stood like an idiot, like a fucking castrated mule, my hands shoved in my pockets like a chump, watching Scarlett Sawyer leave me. Once again, I had to let her go.
When I got back on the elevator, my fist connected with the metal paneling so loudly that it rang like a church bell in my ears. Anger and hurt wrapped around my heart like a noose, drawing up tighter and tighter.
I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing Scarlett Sawyer again, and while I may not have been happy about it, at least it would have been preferable to the way my heart was squeezing now, a slow motion heart attack.
When I got back to the room, I poured a shot. Then another, then another, then I abandoned the shot glass entirely and began to drink straight from the bottle.
It was over. She was going to go back to her life, and I was going to continue with mine. The tour was starting, only a few more details to hammer out, a few more shows to book. The bus was taken care of, a sleek silver thing that looked more like a jet plane than something roadworthy. Every single bit was ready to go.
Except, suddenly, for me.
How could I let her walk away from me again?
If anyone from the band had been there, maybe they would have talked me down. If my brother had been sitting next to me, he might have called me out on my obsession, distracting me from the tendrils of possessive desire that were snaking through my body like treacherous ivy. If I had been with anyone else, and not alone, maybe I wouldn't have done it.
But I was alone, and more than a little drunk now, and filled with a potent mix of whiskey and regret.
I stumbled a little as I made for my phone. The phone numbers for the editors at Gripwere publicly available. I didn't even have to call Keith, our manager, to make a contact. There was no need to call in any favors, to wheedle or cajole. I didn't have to grease any palms or bribe any middleman. All I had to do was dial.
All I had to do was dial and I could have Scarlett again.
Chapter 10
Scarlett
The offices of Grip (no, Auteur now) were echoingly silent when I returned. The layoffs had been quick, brutal, and as a ruthless as the band whose singer I had just interviewed. It was hard to believe that the merger had only been announced two days ago.
I stared at Zoe's empty desk across from me, refusing to believe that my best friend wasn't here for me to unload on.
In fact, the whole floor was empty, the few of us left in the building rattling around like seeds in the husk of a late autumn milkweed pod. I took a moment to stand at my desk like a little lost rabbit alone in her warren, surveying the strange emptiness.
"Looking for someone, Scar-Scar?"
I didn't jump. I didn't gasp, or whirl around, or give him any of the reactions that he was hoping for. I stared straight ahead, knowing that the thing that bothered Kevin most of all was being ignored.
"They're all gone," Kevin said, almost musingly. There was a cubicle wall between us, but I could still feel the heat of his mockery coming through the walls. "I'm on my way out too. But you're still here, huh?"
I tucked my hair behind my ear and sat down at my desk. I fired up my email, clicking randomly while chanting, "go away, go away, go away," inside of my skull.
"You should tell me your secret, you know," he went on jovially. I don't know if it was a phantom pain or just his nearness, but the place under my ribs felt tender again. My breath came in short, shallow gasps as fear took hold of me. "How you, of all people, managed to keep your job. Who did you convince? Or maybe I should be asking how exactly you convinced them?" His voice took on an air of menace. "Was it while we were together?"
I pulled out my notebook. Just a short half-hour ago, I had been sitting and laughing with Keir like we were old friends again. I had almost forgotten... Almost forgotten the danger I was in.
One interesting side effect of living with my parents, and then with Kevin, was that I could feel anger with just the shift of air currents. Kevin's irritation with me for ignoring him was reaching dangerous heights. The swirling currents were cold around me, like a sudden barometer shift.
Abuse has its own climate.
He leaned over the cubicle. He must've been standing on a fucking chair, he was that desperate to get into my space, to
intimidate me. "And where are you living these days, Scarlett? I'm worried about you. How will I know you are safe?"
I stood back up again, ready to make a break for the ladies' room, when I spied my salvation in the form of Marcia from HR.
"Mr. Cunningham, I'm calling security in five minutes. You were supposed to be out of the building by noon."
Kevin moved away from me, and the air around me was suddenly warmer, sweeter. I still refused to look at him, but I knew exactly what he was doing--smiling charmingly at Marcia, batting away her brusqueness with his boyish excuses. He was "just saying his goodbyes." He was "going to miss it here." Lies, lies, lies.
I stood up and smoothed my hands over the skirt I had chosen for Keir's interview. I walked away, hoping that Kevin would pay me no mind, that this was done. We no longer worked together, he didn't know where I lived...
I was safe.
Once in the ladies room, I splashed some cold water on my face. My eyes looked a little red-rimmed, a little spongy around the edges, but otherwise I could pass for normal. All I had to do now was go back to my desk and begin work on the piece that would save my career.
I had done it. I had seen Keir after five long years, and dare I say I had actually enjoyed it?
I really must be a fucking masochist.
But after the initial drama and panic, Keir and I had settled into something almost like our old comfort. An uneasy but friendly truce. I sat back down at my desk and flipped through my notes, startled at how much of what I had gotten was just small talk, catching up on the past that haunted us both.
He asked me questions, and I answered them, then asked him some in return. That's all that happened, and yet there was something hanging in the air the whole time. It was something real, something tangible that I could reach out and grab if I wanted to...but I wasn't sure I wanted to.
It frightened me how much I wanted to have...whatever it was.
Have it once again.
"How are your brothers?" he asked. Small talk. The easy stuff. It was so fucking easy to talk to him.
"Clark is good. Lives in Kenmore with Dayna."
"Didn't he have a baby on the way?"
He remembered. Of course he did. I nodded. "Hailey is five. They have a little boy too, Clark Junior."
"Sheesh."
"I know, she started kindergarten in the fall."
"And your other brothers? Michael? Matthew?"
I grimaced. "I...don't know. I haven't talked to them."
His eyes went wide. "Really."
I felt my chin jut out a little. "It's better that way."
"And your parents?"
I swallowed. "Haven't talked to them either."
"Really? For how long?"
I bit my lip. It was like he was shining a spotlight right on the wounded spot. "For five years," I exhaled.
He sat back heavily. "I wasn't expecting that."
I felt a sudden flash of anger. "Could we talk about something else?"
"Like what?"
"Like anything at all. I cut them out of my life, Keir. And I'm happier for it."
He nodded. He didn't say anything, but then again, he didn't have to.
There was no one in my life now who knew about my past. About the house I grew up in, the toll it took. No one in my life knew me back then--a scared, mousey girl who never spoke up for fear of the price she'd pay.
But Keir knew. I'd never told him, but I suspected he'd known everything that went on anyway. He paid attention. He knew.
And the look on his face told me it still bothered him.
I walked away from the interview feeling wrung out and hollow. I staggered back to the rental car and sat in the driver's seat for a long, long time, my mind blank.
Whether I had run out of thoughts or was consciously trying not to think, I couldn't tell the difference.
This had been a mistake...but it was a mistake I'd gladly, eagerly make again.
He was taller,broader,sadder than the boy I remembered, and his eyes no longer danced with the manic glee of the boy who had danced wildly around in my driveway serenading me with old Billy Joel songs. "Come out, come out, Virginia, don't make me wait..."
I couldn't imagine this Keir ever doing such a thing.
And yet,somehow, they were one and the same. The boy of my past was the man in my presence. I struggled to force the two of them to unite into one person in my mind as I wrote my initial outline.
I felt my cheeks flushing as I described him, slouched back on the couch, his arm flung out, long fingers absentmindedly stroking the fabric, occasionally gripping it tightly. I took my notes by touch, absorbed as I was with watching him. He slouched to the side, propping his head up with his hand, his fingers raking through his dark hair, and when he did, the side of his T-shirt hitched up.
Keir notices me noticing him, I wrote. But he doesn't call me out.
He doesn't lower his shirt, either.
I had been at it for about an hour, steadily absorbed by the words on the page, letting the real world fall away as I brought color and depth to the story that was gradually taking shape underneath my fingertips. The keen-eyed young journalist flips through her notes, searching for the nugget of rare truth that will hook her readers at the very beginning. The lure and madness of a blank page was something that every writer understood. And once the story took hold of you, it was very hard to stop.
Which was why I almost fell out of my chair when my desk phone rang.
"Scarlett, it's Kelly Lynch." The second she said her name, I knew that it could be no one else. But instead of her icy, above-it-all demeanor, she sounded almost breathless.
"Kelly," I said, unsure if I should be addressing her by her first name or not. "How can I help you?"
"Drop what you're doing." She said it, and like the good little Catholic schoolgirl that I was, I immediately pulled back from my keyboard and dropped my hands into my lap. "We have a new assignment for you."
"You do?" I said, hoping I didn't sound too surprised. "But I haven't submitted..."
"It doesn't matter. Clear your schedule. And I hope you have suitcases."
Chapter 11
Keir
After Scarlett left, I drank until I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark, I had a headache, and for a second I forgot the giant mess I had just made.
As much as my brother and I were the main attraction, Ruthless was a democracy through and through. Rane did much of the talking for us, but it was never without consulting all five members first. This was true even for such mundane matters as what bar we were going to hit up or what shade of red filter to throw in the lights at our rehearsal gigs.
Something as big as what I had just done should have been put to a vote.
They were going to be pissed.
Rane would most likely slug me. That, I could handle. That, I was used to. But the rest of them...
Ruthless was born in my father's garage, the product of two motherless teenage boys looking for some kind of outlet.
The first member we recruited was Billy "Balzac" Balanztian. We'd known him since junior high, when he'd hit puberty before all of the rest of us, standing a full head taller than the rest of the boys by age twelve. By age thirteen, he'd cleared six feet tall and was working on tipping the scales at two hundred fifty pounds. His hair was wild, his eyebrows were formidable and, as I had personally seen while touring with him, the guy needed to shave every four hours lest his beard completely overtake him. Eventually he just gave up and let the wizard thing happen.
Everyone was terrified of him back then, a fact that seemed to bother him more than a guy of his size should ever be bothered by anything. Balzac was a giant teddy bear back then, and still was today, a gentle giant of a man who liked to cuddle baby animals in his huge hands and grew tulips in his spare time. Kids loved him on sight, often mistaking him for Santa Claus, ignoring the fact that he looked like an escaped convict to crawl up in his lap and yank on his ear.
Sensiti
ve enough to realize that his presence was freaking people out, he had retreated from the halls of the high school into the music room, picking up instrument after instrument before finally settling on an upright bass as big as he was. As the only member of the youth orchestra large enough to handle this unwieldy instrument, he soon found his calling.
He was cool, he was patient, he was good at his instrument...and he had the added bonus of being the only bassist we'd ever met. From that moment on, Balzac's position in Ruthless was secure.
We had a vocalist, guitarist, bassist...but lacked a drummer to finish the band. Once again, we scoured the neighborhood, auditioning a bunch of talented drummers, but each once seemed to lack the necessary combination of chops and patience that two hotheads like my brother and I required.
We came up with Twitch as kind of a last resort.
Lowell and Piper Stowe were a pair of musically gifted twins who attended one of the magnet schools downtown. We poached Lowell on the advice of a friend of ours, but when he showed up to audition, it was with his sister in tow. "Sorry guys," he said, his whole body twitching and jerking to the incessant inner rhythm that seemed to come on him like a plague. "Mom says I gotta bring her along."
Piper--Pepper once you knew better--was the quiet twin, tall and whip-thin with technicolor hair that seemed to change weekly. She rarely opened her mouth unless it was to cut someone down to size and mainly communicated in eye rolls and raised middle fingers. But she played keyboards like a goddamn genius and even idiots like us could see she was exactly what our sound needed.
Lowell really wanted us to call him Neo after he watched the Matrix and decided he was "The One", but on the day I called him Twitch,the name just stuck. He just wanted to be your friend, whether you wanted a friend or not. The exact opposite of his twin, he was a goofy jokester who, if he wasn't making you laugh with his stupidity, was making you double over with his clumsiness. It was like all of his reflexes were used up on the drum kit and he had nothing left over to keep him from tripping over his too big feet. The guy was six-foot-five, one hundred and thirty-five pounds soaking wet, and had a size fifteen shoe. He was built like a capital L.