I feel cornered. Like she knows something, or thinks she knows something.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, looking down at my phone when Sophie texts back with her order.
Jeanine shrugs and stands. “Just that you left about two hours ago and I didn’t know where you were.”
I wonder if that’s true, that she doesn’t know where I’ve been. But if she knows, how is that possible?
Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
What I do know is that I’m feeling guilty.
I’ve made my family the center of my universe by choice. My mom never once used guilt or anything like it to get me to help with Sophie. But here I am now, with my little sister at home alone, wondering where I am, and without even having had dinner yet.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and leave the office.
It takes me twenty minutes to get the food and get home. The summer sun hasn’t set yet, but it has gone down enough to make the streetlights come on. I sit in the car for a moment and look at the house. I try to let go of some of the guilt, but it doesn’t work.
I get inside and find Sophie watching something on TV. She quickly changes the channel when I walk in. She turns and looks at me.
I see disappointment in her eyes. She gets up and grabs the bag, saying, “I’m starving.”
. . . . .
Later that night, after Sophie has gone to bed, I’m in my bedroom looking for something to watch on Netflix but finding nothing of interest. It’s frustrating. I need a distraction, I need to unwind before going to sleep.
The guilt over leaving Sophie hanging for a while has dissipated. I may have let her down earlier this evening, but overall I’m a good older sister, living up to the promises I’ve made. With the recent contact from Wyatt, I may find myself defending that view once again, but I know I’m right.
Seeking diversion, I pull up my photos and artwork on my laptop. Since I’ve promised Adam that I’ll share them with him, I decide to make a folder of all of my favorites, so we don’t have to wade through all the stuff I don’t want to share.
I go through the photos first, choosing about one out of every five. I come across my favorite recent one. I took my camera with me to work a few weeks ago and after my shift I went to my favorite spot to watch the sunset.
It’s on the back-beach—the Intracoastal Waterway. That part of the island faces west. This spot is at the end of a dock that juts out over the marsh and ends where the waterway starts. There’s often pelicans back there, resting on the pylons. The sunset makes for an incredible backdrop when they’re perched up on those posts.
It’s a private dock on the property of a house that hasn’t been occupied for almost two years. That’s how long I’ve been going there, and the For Sale sign is always out front.
Every time I go to the dock, I dread seeing the sign gone and finding out that someone has bought the house. That will be the end of my days as a temporary squatter on their land.
I scroll through photos I shot in downtown Charleston. It’s not a major city, but it’s busy enough, especially during tourist season.
The historical buildings, churches, even a French Quarter all make me think of this city as a mini New Orleans. I’ve taken shots of most of the old churches and their graveyards, the huge houses on the waterfront, old Civil War era cannons, cobblestone streets, and row houses with their second-floor wrought-iron verandas dripping with vines and Spanish moss.
After choosing all the photos I want, I go to the designs folder that contains my mock-ups of advertisements. Some are for real companies, others are for companies I made up, names and slogans included. I choose some to show Adam and put them in the new folder.
I like to think of myself as a modest person, but when I look at my work I think I’m pretty damn good. All the practice, and the fact that I love it, has helped hone my craft.
Going through my work makes me keenly aware of the fact that it’s been two weeks since I last sent out my resume and samples. I check my email. No responses from any of the companies I sent the packages to.
Lying in bed, I touch my wrists. I think I can still feel where Adam wrapped and twisted my panties around them earlier.
Or is that a phantom feeling? Something I want to feel so badly that I can will the physical sensation into existence? Is it really about the wrists and the panties, or is it more about Adam?
Maybe I’m craving his touch so badly that I can feel him when we’re not even together.
Chapter Twelve
Evan
I wake up and open Twitter. I hadn’t planned on torturing myself, it’s just kind of habit, clicking on it and seeing what’s going on in the world and answering tweets from fans.
I’d done a pretty good job of avoiding that since the last time—including deleting the app from my phone—and if I hadn’t been only half-awake, I might have remembered the promise to myself and not opened it on my laptop.
But there it is. The notifications tab says I have over two-thousand tweets directed at me. I have about four-hundred thousand followers, but two-thousand tweets in this short a period of time is odd.
After browsing just a few tweets, I see the pattern. They’re all asking me what’s going on, and is it true? I’m wondering what “it” is until I scroll down to a tweet that includes a link to TMZ.
Jesus. What the hell? I’ve never been on their radar before, so why now?
I open the link and see the headline: WHERE IS EVAN CRAWFORD? There are two pictures of me. One onstage and another getting out of our tour bus. Stock photos, nothing interesting.
Do I even want to read the story? No, I don’t. But I can’t stop myself. I scroll down and read:
Evan Crawford, guitarist for the band Tuesday’s Fault, is nowhere to be found as the band’s long-scheduled studio time approaches. The twenty-nine year old musician collapsed onstage in May during a show in Indianapolis. TMZ has been unable to obtain information on the cause of Crawford’s illness, but he missed the last two shows on the band’s tour, leading many to believe it is serious. Session guitarist Rob Bowers filled in for Crawford on short notice. It is unclear if Crawford has taken a leave of absence from the band or if he has left for good. TMZ reached out to the band members and their manager for comment but so far no one has returned our request.
I read it twice. The phrase “leading many to believe” pisses me off. It’s unsourced, unsubstantiated, and they can always claim that “many” do believe it’s serious. I’m also infuriated by the phrase “It is unclear” followed by baseless speculation. That’s another way to insert bullshit without having to take responsibility for it.
I close my laptop, go back to the bedroom, and dress for a run.
It’s early, the beach isn’t crowded, and the waves are small. Peaceful. Just what I need. I run harder and faster than I normally do. Probably a mistake because I didn’t stretch or warm-up. It’s unusually hot for this early in the morning and the lack of breeze makes the humidity worse.
Morbid thoughts crowd my mind as I run. Maybe I’m about to give TMZ the story they want. Maybe I’ll collapse during the run and someone will find me on the beach. Maybe it would even be Audrey, and she’d be upset.
Someone would snap a picture of her and the story would go like this: Evan Crawford collapses on beach, mystery girl revives him. Or: Evan Crawford collapses on beach, mystery fling fails to revive him, Crawford dies at age twenty-nine, missing Club 27 membership by only two years.
Jesus, why am I thinking like this? I’m letting it get the better of me. It’s just a mindless story in a worthless tabloid rag.
I don’t quit the run. I finish what I had planned to do: all the way to the other end of the island and back.
After a cold smoothie and a shower, I check my phone and find two missed calls. One from our manager Bruce, and another from Jay. Neither left a voicemail.
My phone rings again and Bruce’s name appears on the screen. I accept the call. “Bruce, I can’t
imagine what you’re calling about.”
“You saw?”
“Yeah, I saw.” The words come out with a sarcastic laugh. “Who hasn’t?”
“It’s bullshit. Just forget about it. And, hey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”
I’m walking to the den with a glass of water and an orange. “That’s bullshit.”
“Evan, relax.”
“I am relaxed, Bruce. I was pissed at first, but I’m over it.”
“Are you?”
“Yep.”
“Then come back.”
I laugh. “Nice try. I’m over the TMZ bullshit. I’m not over my vacation yet.”
“So that’s what it is. A vacation. Last time you said you weren’t sure if you were coming back.”
“I’m not.”
Bruce is silent for a moment. “You’re not making any sense.”
I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. “It makes perfect sense to me. I’m done trying to explain it. Hey, do you know if mustard goes bad?”
“What?”
I’m holding the bottle, looking for an expiration date. “Does mustard go bad? Spoil?”
I hear him sigh. “Call me when you want to talk.” He hangs up without saying anything more.
“Bye,” I say anyway, and get on with what’s important—deciding what to have for lunch, and wondering if Audrey will run across the TMZ story and start putting all of this together.
Almost immediately after the call with Bruce, I get a call from Marcus, our drummer. They’re calling in exactly the order I knew they would: Bruce, Jay, now Marcus. Scott’s call won’t be far behind.
“Bruce is pissed,” he starts off.
“I know.”
“And the rest of us are getting there, too.”
I lay on the couch, not wanting to hear any of this.
“You don’t have anything to say,” he says, not asks.
“I told Bruce and Jay all there is to say. I’m not into this right now. Can’t do it.”
“Not into it? For fuck’s sake, Evan, get into it.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Of course it is. We’ve been doing this for a long time.”
I’ve been looking up at the ceiling, watching the fan go around and around. There was something calming about it at first, but now I’m starting to lose track of which blade I was focusing on. Just to give you an idea where my mind really is at the moment.
“You guys can go into the studio without me,” I say. “Take Rob with you. He did well in the last two shows.”
“Is that what this is about? You’re pissed that someone stood in for you?”
I sit up quickly. I wasn’t pissed off before, but that comment got me there. “What the fuck have I said that makes you think I’m mad about that?”
Silence from him.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
“Calm down, dude.”
I take a deep breath. I’m about to tell him the whole story—just how much that night in Indianapolis changed things for me. It’s really nobody’s business but mine. And, if I’m being honest with myself, there’s a pride issue here, too. I don’t want to tell anyone that I have no new music.
“I gotta go,” I say.
“Keep in touch. Let us know what’s going on because the label needs an answer. Time’s running out.”
. . . . .
I need some way to channel my frustration and anger. I go to the master bedroom and get my backpack, the one that holds all my writing notebooks.
I stop in the kitchen on my way back to the den and grab a beer. Sitting on the couch, I lay out the notebooks before me.
I always write in longhand. There’s something free about it, like the ideas from my mind flow down through my arm, to my fingers, into the pen, and they come out with the ink. It’s an odd way to describe writing, but that’s how it feels sometimes.
There are all of my notebooks from more than ten years of writing music. They contain scribbled bars of music, entire songs, and lines of lyrics that I worked into songs later.
Some of the older ones have really bad sketches from back when I was trying to draw. There are pages with lists of possible song titles, album titles, tour names.
My oldest notebook contains a list of band names we fought about for a few months before doing our first minor tour playing small clubs in the Midwest.
This is it. Right here before me, my entire creative career.
Not being able to write is frustrating. It’s like when you’re trying to think of a certain word or a book or a movie title, or you’re trying to remember someone’s name. It’s like all of those things combined, multiplied by a thousand, stretched out over days and weeks and now going on for a month.
And it’s even worse than not being able to recall those things; it’s not being able to recall who or what I really am as a creative person. It’s crippling. It’s like I’m not the same person when I can’t write. And this is supposed to be my job, my livelihood, my life.
I have a horrible thought: what if I’m never able to write again? What if this is it?
I’m set, financially, so it’s not that. Although, if something goes horribly wrong in that aspect of my life, I suppose I could sell these notebooks on eBay.
That ridiculous thought makes me laugh and some of the tension slides out of me. But I need more.
What I want is a good distraction.
What I need is Audrey.
Chapter Thirteen
Audrey
It’s Tuesday, I’m off work, and my first thought is: How can I see Adam today?
I’m about to text him when I see that he’s already texted me while my phone was on mute overnight.
His text reads: I don’t know if you have anything planned on your day off, but you should cancel it and come see me. He sent it at 7:03 a.m. and it’s now just after 8.
I feel the smile on my face and a thrill of excitement giving me goosebumps. Oh, no, this isn’t good.
I text him back: I have no plans.
Adam: You do now.
I love the boldness, but I don’t want to show it.
Me: Bossy this morning?
Adam: Very. What time can you be here and how long will I have you all to myself?
Me: Tonight?
Adam: Perfect. Bring something that tells me something about you.
Me: Like what?
Adam: It’s up to you. That’s the point.
Me: I’ll think of something.
Adam: I have something for my list. I’ll need you to pick it up on the way here.
I try to be playful with him.
Me: Sorry, it’s my day off.
Adam: This isn’t work related.
He texts it to me and it’s a full minute before I can respond because I keep looking at the words—first, wondering what it’s going to be like and second, wondering where I’m going to buy it.
I get up and take a shower. Every time I’ve been with Adam so far, I’ve always been working or just finishing up work. I’m always in my resort uniform—the blue shirt and white shorts. And because we’re in the depths of the hot and humid summer, my hair is never how I’d like it to be, and for once, showing up freshly showered will be a nice change of pace.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my body and pick up my phone to select some songs to play while I get ready.
I start the first song and put the phone down, only to have it chime a few seconds later. It’s probably Adam, teasing me more, or adding something to the list.
But no, it’s not. When I pick up the phone, my mood changes dramatically from high anticipation and near-bliss to one of dread and puzzlement.
How the fuck did Wyatt get my cell number?
He’s not in my contacts list anymore, so it just shows up as a number along with the text, but of course I recognize it.
His text says: Aud, I really need to talk to you. I called your house a couple of times. You mus
t have gotten the messages.
A couple of times? Sophie only told me about one time. I don’t respond to the text. I put my phone down and continue getting ready for the day.
Another text comes in: Maybe you’re not up yet. But I need you to get in touch with me. I hope you’re sleeping well. I miss that bed. I miss all those nights I slept over at your house. Text or call me. It’s important.
I put the phone down again without responding. It had to have been Sophie. She probably gave him my number, totally unaware that I didn’t want him to have it.
I can’t blame her. I never told her not to because I didn’t have a reason to tell her. At least until the other day when she told me he had called. I should have told her then. It’s no one’s fault but my own.
Looking in the mirror, I’m still a mess, but this isn’t about looks right now. This is about me as a person. I have no intention of responding to Wyatt so I have two options, as I stare at my reflection.
One, I can let this bother me all day, which means giving him some power to take away from my enjoyment.
Two, I can push this as far from my mind as possible, enjoy my time with Adam, and not give up any of the ground I’ve made since our breakup.
I’ll be damned if I let Wyatt have a shred of control over my happiness. Option Two it is.
. . . . .
“I can’t tell you who it is.”
Stacy rolls her eyes. “I know who it is. It’s the guy from the bar that night. And the guy from The Windjammer the other time.”
We’re having lunch at an Italian place in the mall. It’s dark and cool in here, a nice break from the sweltering day we’re having. It’s also fairly quiet, except for Stacy, who is grilling me about my sex life. Not my personal life, not my dating life, just my sex life.
“You told me he delivers stuff to the resorts, right?” she asks.
“I did?”
She stabs two olives and a slice of pepperoni from the antipasto plate. She nods as she puts it in her mouth.
I can’t remember what I told her about Adam, but I guess that’s what I said. “Right. I was hoping you’d forget.”
The Rider List: An Erotic Romance Page 9