Silent Song

by Ren Benton

  You do not deserve this kid, asshole.

  He no sooner thought it than Matt ruined it. “It’s that time.”

  “No.”

  “You know you love it.”

  “I will fire your ass—”

  He tried to dodge, but youthful agility caught him in a bear hug.

  Piper’s voice rose in a wail. “I’m going to miss Lex, too!”

  Two seconds later, he was sandwiched between a sobbing pregnant woman and her baby daddy, a cage of arms preventing his escape.

  Ethan flung another pair of bars around all three of them. “Quick, Gin, get a picture!”

  Lex bared his teeth and hissed at her.

  “Your reputation is safe, badass. My phone is charging.” She pried arms away from him one at a time, as patiently and relentlessly as one would remove chewing gum from hair. “I know he’s cuddly, but you two have a long drive ahead of you, and the restraining order against Ethan will be here any minute.”

  She probably meant the reference to him as cuddly to be as much of a joke as the restraining order, but for one woman, he’d not only submit to cuddling — he’d volunteer for it. He’d written a song challenging her to be oppressively clingy, but even her best imitation of a facehugger from Alien left him thirsty for more contact.

  Unlimited access to the highest quality affection had spoiled him. A triple dose of mob squeezing made him want another shower, but a collateral brush of Gin’s knuckles against his chest as she pried away the final limb made him want to be petted for hours.

  Once Piper’s eyes were mostly dry and Matt was settled behind the wheel, the three staying behind stood side by side and watched the Suburban lumber down the driveway.

  There went his ride. The jangling in Lex’s head departed with them, but an invisible thread attaching the trailer hitch to his chest gave an unpleasant yank. “I miss them already.”

  “Ditto.” Ethan slung an arm around Gin’s shoulders. “We need a set of our own, honey.”

  “Ask Maisie if it’s in the budget.”

  Ethan plodded back to the house, muttering about bureaucracy being the enemy of fun.

  “He’ll pout all day, but you don’t have to.” Gin tipped her head in the direction Matt and Piper had gone. “They’ll drive into cell range in a minute. One quick phone call will bring them back.”

  Whatever Matt had said to her, he’d found himself a champion. His mistake was thinking Lex would cave to put an end to Gin applying pressure. Resistance rewarded him with continued contact. The incentive to budge would have to be earthshattering to compete.

  He crossed his arms and silently dared her to do her worst. “Why the hell would I want them to come back?”

  She eyed his belligerent posture — a familiar foe. Predictably, she chose a conservative counter first. “You just said you miss them.”

  As if he’d ever been swayed by his own words. “I have four more days trapped in a car with them to look forward to on the way back. I’m going to enjoy every minute of missing them while I can.”

  She shrugged as if she expected him to believe the campaign was over rather than postponed to conserve her energy for battles to come. “Matt said you’re thinking about retiring.”

  Matt’s mouth was bigger than Lex had ever given him credit for. “Was that before or after he swore he could keep a secret?”

  She squinched her eyes. “He’s gone. You won. You can quit kicking the puppy now.”

  “Funny, I don’t feel like it’s over yet.” A stupid grin formed at the thought of prolonged pushing.

  “I know that look. Now you’re being oppositional for the sake of it.”

  The trace of amusement in her voice didn’t motivate him to change course. She scripted every word, gesture, and camera angle, directed hundreds of people at a time to do her bidding, and always got her way in the end. The challenge of an occasional nuh-uh from an opponent who said it just to be ornery kept her sharp. “Can’t have you becoming complacent in your faith that following the script inevitably triumphs over improvisation.”

  “Mm. Because anarchy, historically, has proven to be such a great way to get things done.”

  “Almost as great as the civilized savior imposing ‘order’ on the ignorant natives who couldn’t possibly understand the situation they’ve been living in as well as someone who barged in a minute ago.”

  “That would sting if the baby-faced native hadn’t begged for intervention because his leader is being an unreasonable tyrant. For the record, I wanted to stay out of it.” Her shoulders hunched as she tucked her fingers into her front pockets. “Is it true?”

  He said a lot of shit just to test out how it sounded, but telling Gin had a way of speaking ideas into existence. He took a few seconds to evaluate where he wanted to be so he didn’t end up shopping for an alpaca farm and a loom by the end of the day to show her he was serious about a career change. “I don’t have an exit plan, but I know I don’t want to keep doing this until it’s embarrassing.”

  She studied him so long he felt a squirm building. Then she nodded once, as though his reasoning met with her approval. “I promise I won’t exploit the fact that Lex Perry is a limited resource when I’m marketing the movie.”

  “Don’t tell your PR guy.”

  She grimaced. “Oh god no. Ethan would throw you under a bus for an extra half inch of print. Literally, to guarantee we get the last of the supply.”

  “Thank you for protecting me from the media monster.”

  “Oh, that’s the least of your worries.” She circumvented him to follow Ethan into the house. “Don’t forget we left him unsupervised with Matt for almost four hours last night. There’s no way he didn’t get recruited to Team Drummer Boy.”

  Possible, perhaps even probable, but Lex suspected a distraction to throw him off the scent of the confirmed enemy operative leading him back to her base. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on... Ethan.”

  Communication limitations led Lex to the office, where he learned Gin’s complaints of hypothermia weren’t much of an exaggeration. “Why is it so cold in here?”

  Ethan swept a hand toward the window and beyond to encompass the trees crowding that corner of the building. “Sunless. The rest of the house gets a greenhouse effect. It will shoot up to eighty in here once the computers get warmed up, and I’ll have to crack a window or strip down to my underwear to stay comfortable.”

  “Meanwhile, Gin’s teeth will be chattering.”

  Ethan gave a woeful shake of his head. “Southerners.”

  “Mm-hm. Which part of the Louisiana tundra do you hail from again?”

  “Baton Rouge, which is half a degree latitudinally north of the origin of our little hothouse flower, so I am naturally more rugged.”

  “Gotcha.” Lex waved his dead phone. “Can I get in on your charger? Mine is in a motel somewhere along I-80.”

  “Gone and forgotten, is it? Never let it be said you’re inconsistent.” Ethan pointed to a charging pad on a shelf of the built-in cabinetry. “Make yourself at home.”

  Lex slid his phone into place beside Gin’s. “How about a land line I can wander off with for forty minutes?”

  “That’s oddly specific.” Ethan passed him a handset.

  Lex weighed the invitation to explain. Therapy was socially acceptable as part of addiction treatment. After the first year, though, tolerance changed to Damn, man, aren’t you fixed yet? Like he’d broken an arm and should be fully recovered a few months later.

  He’d been using alcohol since third grade to grind down the teeth of pain. Sobriety took away his anesthetic so he felt every bite, tearing and searing, crunching bone and scraping marrow. Therapy was a weekly Band-Aid to cover the damage from ongoing gnawing, not a cure for thirty-six years of damage. He was never going to be fixed.

  Ethan had made it clear he didn’t care how sick Lex was, but he might be more comfortable knowing the disease was no longer rampaging unchecked while it was under the same roof with Gin. “My
shrink is pathologically rigid about scheduled appointment times.”

  “Then you don’t want that phone. House line. Anybody could pick it up.” Ethan took back the handset and handed him another as nonchalantly as if every office had a dedicated psychiatric hotline. “Dial and then press the blue button to lock the line so we don’t accidentally interrupt while we’re juggling calls.”

  Sometimes anticipation did all the chewing on behalf of a bite that never happened. “Thanks.”

  Gin walked into the office. The chill prompted her to wrap another flannel shirt tight around her middle. “This is ridiculous. I’m ordering a space heater.”

  “Then I’ll have to open a window and strip down to my underwear. Lex is taking a phone, so one less caller can annoy us.”

  Her velvet laugh rubbed Lex’s ears as she passed behind him to reach her desk. “Take two.”

  It hadn’t even occurred to him he now had a movie to promote on top of the album and the tour. “Do you need me to field any interviews?”

  “Will that help your creative process?”

  The drowning gurgle deep in his throat fell short of adequately conveying his lack of artistic enthusiasm.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” She sat in her chair, folding her feet under like warmth-conserving origami. “I can hold off the torch-and-pitchfork crew while you perform your alchemy in the dungeon.”

  His fulfillment of media duty was notoriously grudging — to the dismay and ire of his publicist — but dumping it all on Gin in the name of protecting the sensitive artiste wasn’t fair to her. “You have magic to do, too.”

  “Promo is part of this stage, so it’s factored into my schedule.” She grabbed the edge of her desk and used it to pull her chair toward the computer. “I can handle the press, Lex. I can’t do what you do.”

  “You don’t have to stroke my ego.” Not that he could complain when one little brush engorged said ego with invincibility, but he’d rather earn her approval than accept handouts.

  “I’m not going to lie to keep you humble.”

  Stroke, stroke, squeeeeze.

  She amended, “Unless, of course, abuse helps your creative process.”

  “Remember this conversation when I come to you with nipple clamps and a riding crop. It’s for the music.”

  Ethan covered his ears with his hands. “I’m scandalized.”

  “I’ve been clubbing with you,” Lex reminded him. “It takes more than a little light S&M to make you clutch your pearls.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’ll give you twenty bucks to pretend likewise.” Ethan bent over his keyboard and typed importantly. “I believe we all have non-incriminating business to attend to.”

  Gin twirled a finger at Lex. “No musical business until I get that release.”

  “If you don’t have it by now, it’s because Maisie’s late for work.”

  Her lips puckered around a low whistle. “Them’s fightin’ words, mister.”

  Lex would blame aliens before he questioned Maisie Mandel’s efficiency, but not even an extraterrestrial invasion could thwart Big Jim James from his mission to pave the planet with contracts.

  He wagged the phone on his way out the door. “If I’m wrong, patch her through. I will humbly submit to a tongue lashing.”

  Her voice followed him down the hall. “I’ll tell her it’s for the music so she’ll flog extra hard.”

  The studio’s isolation and soundproofing provided more privacy than Dr. Ogawa’s office. Her carefully selected seating options might make her other patients comfortable, but Lex preferred to prowl during his sessions.

  This one was no exception, but even he recognized less agitation behind his movement in this environment. On his own turf, surrounded by familiar gear, he wanted to get the appointment over with so he could do something more worthwhile with his time, not because he felt trapped and desperate to escape.

  Dr. Ogawa came on the line at precisely the designated time. “Good morning, Lex. How was your trip?”

  Without the severity of her appearance to contradict her warm tone, she sounded grandmotherly.

  Agitation returned to Lex’s prowl. He felt less adversarial toward Dr. Ogawa than her predecessors, but he didn’t pay her to nurture him. He pictured the razor-straight line of her graying hair and the grimmest suit in her funereal wardrobe. Having reestablished her role as his tour guide through the hell of his mental status, he could respond accordingly. “Long. I was glad to have someone to split the driving with.”

  Damn. He hadn’t thanked Matt and Piper for taking their turn at the wheel when they could have hopped on a plane to visit family like normal people. One more apology to add to his list.

  “Does the discomfort influence your stance regarding treatment for your fear of flying?”

  He’d already tried that. The cognitive behavioral therapy that managed — mostly — his everyday anxiety was a tasteless joke in the face of full-blown phobia. The same communication failure that permitted physical malfunctions skipped all the warning signs leading up to a panic attack. He had himself under control right up until the certainty he was going to die seized his trachea with icy fingers so he couldn’t breathe, and then it was too late for reason.

  Dr. Ogawa had witnessed one of his breakdowns firsthand during a therapeutic field trip. He knew their destination, recognized the terminal, saw the planes taking off and landing, and felt so fine, he thought he’d been cured without even realizing it.

  Then he got out of the car. He didn’t remember much of what followed, but if airport security hadn’t been more impressed by the doctor’s credentials than his faulty brain was, the adventure would have become a damn sight more traumatic.

  She recommended medication. Lex had medicated himself for years. It took the combined efforts of a lot of doctors, nurses, and peer groups to train him that medicating didn’t solve his problems. He couldn’t reconcile himself to a mind-altering substance being good for him just because it came with a prescription — hell, half the people in rehab had been hooked on something a doctor gave them. If he wanted to be reliant on a chemical crutch to get him through the day, he’d have stuck with alcohol and its familiar side effects.

  Yeah, his career had taken a hit since dropping international gigs. The label, the affected fans, and plenty of people in between were unhappy with him, but he had to draw the people-pleasing line somewhere. He chose to draw it at popping pills as a coping mechanism and accepted the consequences. “I can live with being grounded.”

  He could practically hear her scribbling remains stubbornly noncompliant in his chart, but she didn’t criticize his decision out loud. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

  He wandered into the live room. “You want to know about Gin.”

  “It’s not a matter of what I want. I do think she’s a timely subject. You’ve previously avoided discussing your relationship.”

  Between his alcoholism, anxiety, depression, phobia, professional implosions, parental conflicts, and issues with other women, there had been no shortage of topics to address without exhuming a relationship five years in the grave. He always had more immediate problems to deal with.

  He hadn’t counted on being so close to this one again.

  “What do you want to know?” His fingers fell on the piano and played a descending D-flat minor scale that sounded nearly as sullen and defensive as he did.

  “How has she changed since the last time you saw her?”

  He’d braced himself for a difficult question. How many ways did you wrong her? How can you think she’d ever forgive you? Can you really blame her for suspecting you of sabotage after your history of bad behavior?

  Describing her was painless. “She’s... more.”

  Comfortingly familiar. Painfully intensified. Like he’d been moving closer to the sun during a night that lasted five years and morning had finally dawned. Either she’d become more dazzling or he’d never seen her clearly through the
poisonous haze — or both.

  Regardless of the cause, she was brighter now. And he didn’t want to share her light with his psychiatrist. “I couldn’t make it through my morning run. Physically.”

  To her credit, Dr. Ogawa didn’t sigh at the change of subject. “I went to a conference in Denver once and was wiped out by altitude sickness for the first two days, even without exerting myself. You had a normal physiologic reaction.”

  “That’s what Gin said. Then suddenly she was too tired to go on.”

  His limitations still held her back. She ran ten miles a day for fun. She’d been here long enough to acclimate to the elevation. But she had to stop and babysit his worthless ass to make sure he didn’t drop dead before he made her music.

  He’d trapped her at his side again, this time by holding her movie hostage.

  “Did she appear well rested?”

  He laughed out loud. He really hadn’t been forthcoming about Gin if she had to ask. “Not a day in her life.”

  “Do you have some other reason to believe she lied about feeling tired?”

  A snarl formed at the insinuation Gin was a liar — then he realized the only accusation to that effect had come from him.

  “Or, to put it another way,” Dr. Ogawa prompted when he kept that insight to himself, “what did she have to gain by lying in that situation?”

  Nothing but the pleasure of being growled at by him for the duration of the three-mile walk back to the house. It wasn’t exactly a newsflash that he became irrational when he felt shitty.

  The addiction whispered, You didn’t make stupid mistakes like that when you were numb.

  There was the liar. He didn’t remember his stupid mistakes, but he had no doubt they’d been legion.

  The whole point of enduring therapy was to develop awareness, of himself and his effect on others, so he should answer one question and get his gold star for the day. “She wasn’t trying to gain anything.”

  “Then you lose nothing by taking what she said at face value. We’ve talked about this, Lex.”

  Much of his life was in the hands of strangers he entrusted with managing his money, his career, his schedule, his transportation. On any given day, he might wake up penniless, irrelevant, late, and stranded on someone else’s whim. Until that rude awakening came to pass, however, there wasn’t much point worrying about what the nameless, faceless shadows with the power to ruin him were up to. He could blame that ruin on someone else, hire new nameless, faceless shadows, and bounce back.