For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2)

by Selena Laurence

  "Oh my God. I’m so sorry!" I tell him as I try to wiggle my way out from between the chair and table where I’m wedged.

  "Aw shit!" he says again loudly as he tries to brush off the beer dripping down his Duck Dynasty t-shirt.

  I get my heel tangled in the chair leg and stumble, so he reaches out and grabs my arm to keep me from falling. By this time, everyone around us is looking and some are trying to scoot out of the way to give us more room to maneuver. My chair goes down and bashes my ankle when it does.

  "Ouch! Jesus, that hurt," I exclaim as I stand there with the guy holding my elbow while I rub my ankle.

  Then, from out of nowhere, there’s an enormous crash, a couple of women yelp, and the music stops with a screech. I look up just in time to see Walsh barreling off the stage and right at the guy holding on to me. The guy lets go to put his arms up as Walsh slams into him, knocking him on the floor. Walsh jumps on top and punches him in the jaw. The poor man he’s assaulting isn’t small, so when he finally has a chance to respond, it’s with a solid punch to Walsh’s gut. Walsh flies off and lands on his back, and the guy leaps on him. They’re wrestling and rolling around while tables and chairs crash to the floor, people scream, and beer spills everywhere.

  I’m so shocked that I haven’t gotten it together to say anything. Leanne is standing next to me, holding my arm, and cringing. Walsh’s opponent manages to reach over to a nearby table and grab a very heavy beer mug. I’m about to scream my head off as I picture that mug crashing into Walsh’s skull and killing him when Mike and a bartender appear and wrench the two combatants off of each other. Walsh is breathing hard and his lip is bleeding. The other guy just looks raging pissed, and he keeps struggling to get at Walsh again.

  "What the fuck is the matter with you, man?" the guy bellows.

  "What’s the matter with me?" Walsh shouts back. "You think you can just manhandle my girlfriend, you drunk prick?"

  Wait. What? Leanne looks at me, eyes huge.

  "Oh hell," I mutter. I step over to Walsh, who’s trying to shake off Mike but doesn’t stand a chance. Mike’s all muscle.

  "Um, Walsh?" I say quietly as I sidle up to him.

  "Are you okay?" he asks as he looks at me briefly before his eyes go back to the guy he jumped.

  "I’m fine."

  "Tammy, maybe you should just stay out of the way for a few minutes," Mike shouts as the other guy starts yelling at Walsh again.

  Finally, the bartender holding combatant number two loses patience. "All right! Outside. Both of you. Go out there and kill each other for all I care, but you’re out of my bar as of right now!"

  The other guy mutters something about being “happy to get out of this shithole" and stomps off to the front door. Walsh makes like he’s going to follow, but Mike gives him a firm shove toward the back of the room and admonishes him, "No you don’t, Muhammad Ali. We’re getting our shit and going out the back."

  Walsh flips him off but does as he’s told. I follow, turning to shrug at Leanne, who mouths, "I’ll wait here."

  WHEN WE get to the back room, Mike goes straight to Jenny and they start talking quietly in the corner. Walsh stomps to the small utility sink and grabs a paper towel to clean up his lip and knuckles, which are also bleeding.

  "Here," I say as I stand next to him. "Let me." I take the paper towel, dampen it, and begin wiping off the blood. "What is the matter with you?" I ask matter-of-factly.

  "The fucker had his hands on you and was shouting," Walsh mumbles around my hand and the rag.

  "I knocked into him and spilled his beer, so he was upset, but he had a hold of me because I got tangled up with my chair. He was keeping me from falling on my ass."

  Walsh blinks but doesn’t say anything else.

  "Angry much?" I ask gently, moving on to his knuckles.

  "I guess," he answers, looking into my eyes finally.

  I sigh. "Thanks for looking out for me, even if it was really stupidly misplaced."

  I see his mouth twitch a tiny bit. There’s a smile under there somewhere.

  I finish cleaning him up and throw away the paper towel. "I think you’ll live. Unless that guy’s waiting for you outside, and then I’m not so sure."

  Walsh rolls his eyes. "Not likely," he says. "It’s a barroom brawl, Tam. No one cares about those five minutes after they’re over."

  "And you know this how? You’ve never been a fighter that I can recall."

  "Maybe, but I spent a lot more time at bars than you realized."

  I look at him for a minute. "Huh."

  Then the awkwardness descends. We stand there shuffling our feet, not sure what to do next. Finally, I decide to put us both out of our misery.

  "Well, I guess I should go—"

  "Tammy. Wait." Walsh puts his hand on my arm to stop me then pulls it back like he’s been burned. "Do you think… I don’t know. Maybe we could talk or something? Just for a while?"

  My heart does a little flipping, dancing thing that it hasn’t done in so long I’ve forgotten how it feels. But I try to keep my cool. "Um, I guess that would be okay. Do you want to walk me back to Mrs. Stallworth’s?"

  He nods his head, his shaggy hair flopping over his eye for a moment. I quell the urge to reach out and push it back.

  "Sure, that’d work. Just let me tell Mike. He gave me a ride here."

  "I can drive you back to the ranch if we get my car at the house. But before we go, I want to talk to Jenny for a minute."

  Walsh eyes me suspiciously.

  "It’s fine, I swear," I assure him.

  He shrugs and walks over to Mike, who’s packing up his guitar while Jenny messes with her cell phone.

  "Um, hi." I approach her, trying not to look threatening. As with my bitchiness, I’ve been told I have an issue with this. "I’m Tammy, Walsh’s… Well, an old friend of Walsh. And Mike."

  She graces me with a hundred-watt smile and puts her hand out. "It’s so nice to meet you, Tammy. Michael told me y’all were in town. How are you liking it here?"

  I restrain the temptation to pat her on the head like I would an overeager golden retriever, opting instead to get right to the point.

  "Listen," I tell her as I gesture for us to sit in a couple of folding chairs nearby. "I’m not sure how much Mike told you, but I used to manage the band—Lush—that he and Walsh were in."

  "I think he did mention that. I gotta tell you though." She leans in and whispers,"I have no idea what that means."

  I smile at her. "That’s okay. It’s like when people say they produce movies—no one really understands what they do. In my case, the band had a manager who oversaw their careers, but I was their day-to-day manager. I did everything from coordinate their crew on tours to help them deal with the press to make sure they got fed when they needed. You name it, I did it."

  "Wow," she says seriously. "That sounds like a lot of work. I just teach kindergarten."

  "Well then, you understand what I did perfectly." I can’t help but laugh. "Corralling rock stars is just like corralling kindergartners."

  We both giggle over that one.

  "I wanted to talk to you, Jenny, because I have to say, you’ve got a real future in the music business."

  She breaks out into that stunning smile again. "Do you really think so? I mean, Michael keeps telling me I do, but you know"—she leans in once more—"I think he might be looking at assets other than my voice, if you know what I mean."

  Mike bellows from across the room. "I heard my name over there. Quit badmouthing me, Tammy."

  I give him the finger and keep talking, ignoring the small look of shock that crosses Jenny’s face at my suggestion to Mike.

  "Mike’s a dog, Jenny. I won’t lie. But he’s also a really talented musician, and he’s absolutely right about you."

  She nearly squees with excitement, bouncing in her chair. "You don’t know how happy that makes me."

  "Well, I’m hoping you’ll be a lot happier in a few minutes. See, I’ve been out of
work since Lush broke up. I needed a rest, so I used the last few months to do that. I came out here to see how Walsh is doing. We, uh… We were engaged, you know?"

  She reaches out and places her hand over mine. She’s blonde and chirpy, but real, and the look of sympathy she gives me is genuine. "I heard about that, and I’m so sorry."

  "Thanks," I mutter. "But anyway, when I saw you perform tonight, I knew it was time to get back to work. I’d like to represent you, Jenny. Be your manager. I’d like to start to work right away on getting you some gigs in Austin and Dallas. Do you write music too?"

  Her hands are over her mouth now, her eyes as wide as a couple of Frisbees. "Shows in Austin and Dallas? You think someone there would let me play for them?"

  "Jenny." I shake my head. "I don’t think you realize what we’re talking about here. You’ve got it. You’ve got what it takes, and I want to help you go all the way. I’m talking Grammys and headlining concerts. You’ll have to work your way up like everyone, but I know what I saw tonight, and it was magic. You’ve got magic."

  "Oh. My. Good. Lord," she breathes out.

  I give her hand a squeeze this time. "It’s okay. It takes some getting used to, but we have to start from the beginning, and that means getting you some songs. You can sing a few covers, but you’ll need your own material too, which is why I’m asking if you write music."

  "I’ve written some lyrics. Michael said he wants to help me with the music. He keeps saying something about producing a CD for me, but well, I wasn’t sure how serious he was about it."

  I look over at Mike and Walsh, who are having some sort of debate. "Mike," I call out. "We need you."

  He strolls over, all cocky, muscular swagger. But his eyes are glued to Jenny the entire time. He’s such a jackass. If he screws this up for me, I’ll kill him.

  "You called, your bitchiness," he says, giving me an evil smile.

  I grit my teeth and ignore the bait, trying to remember my anger-management skills from therapy.

  "I’ve been talking to Jenny here about her career."

  Mike gives me a sharp look. "Yeah? What about it, exactly?"

  "I’ve offered to be her manager."

  He looks at me, incredulous. "You what?"

  Walsh has wandered over at this point and takes up the mantra. "What are you talking about, Tammy?"

  "I’m talking about being Jenny’s manager." I stare them both down, daring them to find a reason why I can’t do this.

  "B-but, you’re Lush’s manager," Walsh stutters out.

  "There is no Lush. In case you hadn’t noticed."

  Both guys continue to stare at me in shock. What the hell did they think? I was going to sit around the Portland mansion for the next twenty years on my ass? Or maybe they thought I should just sling hash at the Double A forever? My first priority is repairing my relationship with Walsh, but I miss what I did, just like the guys miss music.

  "Anyway, I’ve got some preliminary ideas about how to package Jenny and some places she can start out, but first, she needs songs. She says you’ve been talking to her about that?" I look at Mike.

  He lifts his chin. "Yeah, I have some ideas, and I was interested in arranging and producing some stuff for her. I have ideas about her career too, Tammy, and I’m not going to just lie down and let you roll over everyone and everything."

  "Michael," admonishes Jenny. "She’s offering to help me. Be polite."

  "Sunshine, I am being polite. Just ask Tammy."

  I huff out an impatient breath and ignore Walsh’s smirks. I shut my eyes for a second, remembering what the therapist said about cooperation and negotiation in relationships. Then I remember Mrs. Stallworth’s advice about using my moneymaker instead of the frying pan.

  "So let’s do this. Let’s set up a time for the three of us to meet and we’ll start talking about our individual ideas. Mike, you know music, and I know management. There’s no reason we can’t both work on this. I really want to help Jenny get where I know she can go, and she’d get there a lot faster if she had you as her music director."

  Mike still doesn’t look like he trusts me, but Jenny elbows him in the side—pretty hard apparently, because I hear him grunt. "All right, all right. We’ll meet. We’ll talk. Whatever makes Jen happy makes me happy," he says, gazing down at her like an idiot.

  Walsh snorts and I stand to leave.

  "Okay. We’ll talk soon then, Jenny. It was really nice to meet you."

  I get an effusive farewell from the beauty queen before I text Leanne that I’m heading home, and then Walsh and I walk out the back door and into the cool night air.

  "You want to tell me what that was all about?" he asks.

  "Exactly what I said it was," I respond. "I haven’t worked in months, and I wasn’t even sure I was ready to, but when I heard her sing tonight, I just knew I could take her to the top."

  He nods his head as we walk side by side. "She’s pretty amazing, isn’t she?"

  "Yeah, she is."

  We continue in silence for a while, and when we reach Mrs. Stallworth’s little fence, he opens the gate for me and follows me up onto the porch. As I put the key in the lock to the front door though, he stops me.

  "Wait, let’s just sit out here for a while if that’s okay. That flower room gives me a headache."

  I have to laugh at that, and we sit down side by side on the porch swing.

  I realize, as we sit and the silence looms, that we have no idea what to say to each other, and it makes me so sad that I think I might break. There was a time when any silences between Walsh and me were comfortable, natural. Now, it’s tense, awkward. I wonder if we’ll ever get back to that comfortable place or not.

  "I’m sorry," he says, his voice reverberating in the moist darkness of Mrs. Stallworth’s front porch. "For the parking lot, for tonight, for being so mixed up," he continues.

  "It’s okay—"

  "No, it’s not. This isn’t who I want to be. I don’t want to be pissed and petty and just generally so fucked up."

  He leans his head back and sighs. His exhaustion is palpable. My heart aches.

  I shift on the seat, angling my body toward him. I lightly run my fingers through his hair above his ear, thinking how long it’s gotten since we used to live together. It’s like everything else about him now—familiar and completely foreign all at the same time.

  "You’ve got to give yourself a break, Walsh. We both made mistakes. I made the biggest one, and I’m angry too. Some days, I’m so mad I just want to rip all my hair out and beat my fists until they bleed. I’ve been angry most of the time you’ve known me. It’s sort of a constant state for me, you know? I’m learning how to handle it, but I’m the last person in the world to hold being angry against you."

  He turns his head slightly and gives me a small smile. "I’ve always liked your brand of angry. You’re fiery, and it’s only because the rest of the world can’t keep up with you. You get frustrated and that’s understandable. This—with me—it’s different, Tam."

  He looks up at the sky, occasionally leaning his head into my hand as I continue to stroke his hair. He’s always been a very tactile guy, so I know that touching him is soothing. We used to lie in bed at night and he would caress my skin over and over. Not in a sexual way, just because he loved the feel of it. He had his favorite spots—the soft skin at the very top of my inner thigh, the underside of my breast, the little place right behind my ear. He’d often fall asleep just stroking one of those small patches of skin.

  "So tell me about it," I whisper. "I’m here because I love you and I want to understand what you’re going through. You aren’t angry at me anymore?"

  "I’m mad at everything. You. The band. Joss. Ronny. This place. Portland. All of it. I’m just mad. I can’t explain it."

  I feel tears burn in my eyes. He uses the word mad, and it comes out in barroom brawls, but what I hear—the emotion behind the words—is sadness. He’s so very, very sad. And in this moment, I will do anything to ma
ke him feel better, give whatever I have to in order to restore peace to this beautiful man’s heart.

  Yes, I will sacrifice everything—even myself.

  I stand and take his hand. I don’t say a word as he follows me, his head down. I silently lead him upstairs, into my room. There, in the dark, I undress him like a doll. I pull his shirt over his head then undo his jeans and pull them down, kneeling before him as he lifts his feet and steps out of the denim. I reach for the waistband of his boxers, and he digs his fingers into my hair, forcing me to look up at him. His face glows in the moonlight seeping into my tiny room. His expression is inscrutable, and I almost see him as much as hear him whisper, "Are you sure?"

  I nod, and he loosens his grip on my hair as I gently pull his underwear off. I lay my head against his thigh, breathing in the smell of his skin, his sweat, his heat. Slowly, I run my palm along his erection, and I hear him sigh long and low. I follow my hand with my tongue, sliding it along his length then taking him into my mouth. I use one hand to hold the base of his cock while I move my other to his lower back, pulling him against me as tight as I can. He keeps one hand in my hair and carefully massages my scalp. The other arm hangs at his side, his fist clenching and unclenching as he struggles with whatever feelings are ricocheting through his body.

  The room is silent except for the soft sounds of our breath, his becoming raspy the longer I pump him in and out of my mouth. Finally, he pulls away from me and leans down, his face bending to mine. He strokes a thumb along my cheekbone as I gaze up at him. I see a single tear work its way from the outside corner of his eye and travel down his scruffy cheek. He reaches out and grasps both of my elbows as he lifts me to stand.

  "This way," he whispers, "if we’re going to do this, it’s about both of us."

  My heart lurches in my chest as I remember him saying the same words to me the very first time we ever made love.

  I remove my clothes before he lays me down on the bed and kneels between my thighs. He spends the next few minutes just stroking my body. He runs his hands over my torso, my hips, my arms and legs. He caresses me from head to toe, silently, gently, memorizing every curve and dip while he looks down at me with the same serious expression the entire time. I bite my lip to keep from sobbing. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, don’t know what he’s feeling. Is this hello or goodbye? It’s not just a fuck, but something deep inside me tells me that it’s not a new beginning either.