by R. E. Blake
“Sage! No, I’m fine. This is all getting blown way out of proportion.”
“Yeah, I woke up to my phone going berserk with messages about you in the news. Out drunk and fighting. Typical Wednesday night.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Right. But you did get into a fight.”
“He got into my face and started pushing me, being a douche bag. I tried to get him to back off, but he was looking to beat me down. Probably recognized me from the show.”
“Huh. But they didn’t arrest him?”
“He knows everybody there. So he had a lot of people lying for him.”
I can’t take this. I start sobbing. “Derek, I’m coming on Saturday, and you go and do this. It’s like whenever we have a chance at something, you trash it–”
“Sage, last time I checked, I didn’t crash into you on the way to the airport.” His voice is soft, but the steel in it is unmistakable.
“You know what I mean. The drinking, breaking your hand, now this…”
“This is some punk deciding to get into the news, Sage. That’s all it is. It’ll go away. You’ll see.”
“So they dropped the charges?”
He pauses. “Not yet. But they’re investigating. I’m hoping someone besides my engineer comes forward. He was with me.”
“Then it’s just the other guy’s word against yours?”
“I’m hoping it isn’t. Other people must have seen it.”
“How much did you drink, Derek?” I ask and hate myself for it as the words come out of my mouth. I sound like a total nag.
“Two beers. Maybe three. I wasn’t drunk.” Now he sounds defensive. The discussion’s quickly going in the wrong direction. I want our interaction to be about how much we mean to each other, but it’s turned into me ragging on him and him tuning out.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later once I’m done for the day,” I say, stifling the anger that’s bubbling up like acid.
“Sage…”
“I’m already late.” I hang up before I can do any more damage. Going off on Derek does no good. And I have no proof that he isn’t telling the truth – in which case, he really hasn’t done anything wrong.
But I’m furious as I hurry to get ready. I don’t want another tense day with Sebastian because I’m late. I forego breakfast and make it on time, and thankfully someone’s brought a dozen donuts and left them in the coffee room. I gratefully munch on a chocolate glazed as I pour myself some coffee, and then move to the couch by the control room. Sebastian is sitting across from me, a troubled look on his face.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Rough morning.”
He’s obviously heard. “You talk to him yet?”
“Yup. He’s out of jail. Nothing’s broken. Says it was all a big mistake.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “I’ve been going to clubs for years, and I’ve never gotten into a fight.”
Point taken. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. Did you work on the song any more?” I ask, knowing the answer already.
“Of course. I think we’re good to go. You okay to give it a listen?”
I shrug. “Sure.” It’ll be good to have something to take my mind off Derek.
We pad into the studio, and John rolls the tape. Sebastian isn’t completely happy and adjusts a few levels and then plays it again. And again. And again, fiddling with faders and knobs and gain structures until my eyes glaze over.
I decide it’s an emergency, so two donuts are warranted. The second tastes better than the first, and I consider diving headfirst into the bag and wolfing them all down, but restrain myself. I check in the bathroom mirror to make sure I don’t have powder or glaze ringing my mouth and then return to the control room, my black cloud of rage slowly dissipating as the day wears on.
At lunch I call Melody again and tell her Derek’s side of the story, but she sounds unconvinced. “I suppose it’s possible. Anything’s possible,” she says.
“Right. But he wouldn’t have had the problem if he wasn’t at a club, drinking.”
“True. Then again, he’s a rock star, right? What’s the point if you’re not going to be out partying?” She pauses. “You sound totally pissed.”
“Do I?” Of course I do. I am.
“Uh, yeah. I’m glad you never get angry with me.”
“How can I? You’re my chocolate bud and my BFF.”
“Don’t forget how I’m almost your producer’s girlfriend.”
“Almost?”
“Technical difficulties.”
“The age thing?”
She laughs. “More like the NorCal, SoCal thing.”
“Mmm. Well, maybe you’ll move down here if you decide Stanford isn’t for you.”
“Very funny. This is serious. I have to figure out some way to make it down again, this time for good.”
“Isn’t that a little…rushed? I mean, you’ve known him for, what, a couple days?”
“How long did Romeo know Juliet? Brad know Angelina?”
“I don’t remember. But I think it was more than two days.”
“Why are you trying to kill my buzz? I had an amazing time, Sebastian and I have something powerful going on, and you’re being all negative.”
“Reading about your boyfriend getting arrested does that to you, I hear.”
Melody’s always about Melody. At least she’s consistent. But I’m surprised at how determined she sounds about coming back down, and I hope she won’t be disappointed by Sebastian. He’s got a completely different life than she does, and I wouldn’t bet money on them getting past the torrid sex stage.
Not that I can speak to that. Although I’m certainly hopeful. Or I was.
Now I don’t know what I’m feeling. I still want Derek in the worst way, but the arrest has thrown me and has me questioning how much I trust him. Which gets my negative inner voice going.
I turn the phone off and trudge back into the studio for another six hours of working on the song, which sounds fine to me the way it is. But Sebastian has different ears than I do, and he’s still not happy with the mix. So we go through it again and again, but my mind’s not on it.
By the time the day ends, he’s finally satisfied, and we only have two more songs to mix before the album’s done. We’re going to shoot for having one finished by the time we leave tomorrow night, and he’ll do the final one without me – a standard, which will pose no challenge for him.
The truth is he could have mixed the entire record without me, and I would have been happy with it. Everything so surpasses my wildest expectations it’s impossible to hurt the songs, and having me in the room is more about Sebastian making me feel involved in every step than about necessity. I can see how it would get crazy with a band, four or five different members with different takes on what should be highlighted, but with a solo artist it’s hard to go wrong.
I’ve mellowed out over the course of the afternoon and call Derek on the way to rehearsal. He sounds excited when he answers.
“I told you it would go away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I thought that was why you were calling. The cops dropped the charges. Some witnesses came forward that backed my story. It’s on the web.”
“Really? That’s awesome.” And it is. What isn’t so awesome is that I didn’t believe him. I was so quick to assume he’d gotten into a drunken fight and think the worst of him. I feel like a clump of goo under a rock.
“They asked me if I want to file any charges, but I said no. That just gives him what he was after.”
“I’m glad it turned out okay, Derek. It’s pretty heartbreaking to read about you on the web and not know what’s going on…”
“Don’t worry. You’re here in just a couple of days, right? Two more nights?” His voice softens. “That’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
Well, not all, exactly, if you’re out at clubs, but I don’t say it. “That�
��s right. Saturday night.”
“I can hardly wait.”
A thrill shoots through me as I envision Derek holding me in his arms. In his naked arms, glistening with shower spray. The mental image makes a part of me melt, and suddenly two days is an eternity.
“I know. But only for four nights.”
“Right, but then in a few weeks I can come out to L.A. I’m still working on that, but the label’s really putting pressure on me to finish the record and get ready to tour. I think they’ve negotiated a deal to put me out with Boomerang for their East Coast tour.”
Boomerang’s an indie band that’s gotten popular over the last couple of years and has a lot of fans. “That’s great! When does it start?”
“We’re still waiting for confirmation, but they’re thinking in a month.”
“Wow. How’s your band?”
“Pretty good. We should be ready.” Derek’s gone through the same process I have, and we’re in lockstep in terms of timing. No surprise there – both labels want the records released yesterday, if not sooner.
“Great.” The cab arrives at the rehearsal studio, and I fumble some bills out as I shoulder the phone. “Hey, I’ll call you later, okay? I’m at rehearsal.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Do what you need to do. I’ll be around,” he says.
I stop on the sidewalk and take a deep breath. “I miss you, Derek. More than you know.”
His voice softens and I can barely hear his response. “Me too.”
Chapter 33
By the time Saturday arrives, I’m a wreck. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two nights, as I play and replay every possible scenario in my head. I know I suck, but I can’t help myself. I hate that I’m such a spaz – I’ve worked myself into a complete lather by the time I board the plane.
Fortunately, nobody recognizes me with my baseball hat and oversized sunglasses, and I busy myself playing with my tablet so I don’t have to talk to the lady next to me, who seems about as interested in doing so as I am in eating a fistful of ants. We sit in our little spaces, carefully not looking at each other’s stuff, making sure we don’t touch when our meals arrive, our elbows locked at our sides like penguin wings.
The flight’s turbulent, completely different than the first crossing, and the pilot comes over the speaker several times to warn us that it “might get a little bumpy,” which I’ve learned is code for “now’s when you’ll run through every prayer you’ve ever learned.”
Our arrival at JFK is anticlimactic – there’s some kind of delay, so we sit on the runway for a half hour until a gate clears for us to deplane. I’m gnawing on my fingernails, and I’m surprised they aren’t bloody stubs by the time we make it down the Jetway.
When I walk into the arrivals area, I look around for the driver with the sign – Terry arranged for a car service to take me to Jeremy’s, which was thoughtful of her.
A tall man with olive skin and a bored expression on his face, wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt, spots me and motions with the Sage sign. I approach, and he’s got that fan boy look on his face. I hope this isn’t a mistake, but relax when he turns out to be nice, funny, and not at all interested in serial killing me or raping me or anything.
His name’s Omar, and he’s working for his father’s company while he finishes his doctorate. I’m grateful for anything to take my mind off the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, so I express interest in what he’s getting his Ph.D. in. Turns out it’s some kind of molecular whatever, and I quickly tune out. From there I busy myself with texting Melody and Jeremy, letting them know I made it in one piece. Melody’s on her game and fires back quickly.
Melody: Yeah, baby. Getting ready for sexytime.
Me: Do you have to make everything ugly?
Melody: Remember, video’s worth a thousand words. And a few million $.
Me: Good to know for a retirement option.
Melody: You might get your own reality show. Worked for the Kards.
Me: What is it they do again?
Melody: Exactly. I so wish I could tap into that $.
Me: Perhaps a Sebastian vid? Forbidden love?
Melody: I’ll keep that in my back pocket.
Me: Ew.
Melody: Didn’t mean it like that. But now that you mention it.
Me: I’m hanging up.
Melody: If it’s a girl, you better name her Melody.
Me: Ha ha.
Melody’s irreverence is just what I needed, and as we cross into Manhattan I’m actually able to breathe without feeling like a steel band’s tightening around my chest. At least for now.
Derek and I agreed we’d meet up at Jeremy’s once I settled in, but when I call, he doesn’t pick up. I’m only slightly annoyed – he could be running late at the studio, or his battery could have died, or he could have gotten into another tequila-fuelled fistfight…
Stop, already, I command myself. Don’t ruin it. You will not overanalyze this, like you do everything in your life. Go with the flow. Easy. I am a leaf on a mighty river, powerless, and shouldn’t fight the current.
Which is all good, but I’m still a bundle of nerves. Now that I’m actually going to be with Derek for four nights, my nervousness has kicked into high gear, and the anxiety’s threatening to take over.
Jeremy’s street hasn’t changed in the six or so weeks I’ve been gone. Battered garbage cans line the sidewalk, graffiti mars every sign and post in sight, the cars are all sad clunkers that look like they’ve been through a world war. By Los Angeles standards it’s a slum, but I know for New York it’s not a bad neighborhood.
Omar stops in front of my building and gets out to open my door. I give him a folded ten-dollar bill, and he smiles and hands me a card. “Here’s my number. If you need anything while you’re in town, call. A ride back to the airport, a tour guide, whatever. I’m around. That’s my cell.”
My key still works on the front door, which is always nice. Jeremy was vague about when he’d be home – his show’s running tonight, and there will be an inevitable post-show party, so I won’t sweat it. There’s a faint glow in the window, and the building still smells like old socks. Some things never change…but then I remember Lucifer’s. It could be worse. Way worse.
I shudder as I make it to our floor’s landing, the memory of the tunnel rats as vivid as a scream, and stop in front of the apartment door, fumbling for my keys again.
The deadbolt clicks open, and I twist the knob, but when I enter, I’m wondering if I’m in the right place – the entire flat is suffused in a dim red light and smells of incense. “Jeremy?” I call out when I hear music from the bedrooms, and drop my backpack after closing and locking the door – something you learn to do quickly in New York. When I turn around again, I see there’s something on the floor, and it takes me a few seconds to realize what they are.
Rose petals.
“Jeremy?” I call again as I walk toward my bedroom. The door’s open, and my breath catches in my throat when I peer inside and see Derek sitting on the bed playing his guitar, a bottle of champagne on my dresser with two glasses next to it. I walk in slowly, and when he smiles, his eyes light up the room.
“You made it,” he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him. He puts the guitar down and rises, and then I’m in his arms, hugging him tight.
“I’m so glad to see you,” I say, and my voice sounds thick. I pull away and look around at the flowers, the champagne, a small box of Belgian chocolates… “I can’t believe this.”
He grins and looks down at me with those amazing emerald eyes. “I had a little help from Jeremy.”
“Just a little?”
“Well, the champagne, flowers, lighting, and chocolate. But the rest is all me.”
I tilt my head up and my eyes gaze into his, and it’s like I’m sinking into the ocean, pulled under green waves by an undertow that’s more powerful than anything I’ve ever felt. And then his lips graze mine, teasing, brushing them, and he kisses me so
softly I can barely feel it. I want to devour him, consume him whole, and he kisses me again, and this time the connection’s more vital, more solid as his full lips meld to mine, our tongues meeting, at first tentatively and then with more urgency.
I let out a small moan as I close my eyes. My anxiety melts away, and my world is now only Derek’s sweet taste, his delicious smell, his mouth and mine locked together. His breathing deepens, and I can feel its heat on my skin. I’m getting dizzy from his aroma, the nearness of him, the overpowering headiness of being so close.
He pulls away and smiles.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He looks over at the dresser. “Champagne? It still sounds French, even though it’s made in Jersey City.”
I laugh in spite of the moment and nod again. I can see he’s struggling to talk past his desire, and I adore him for it. “Sure.”
He pops the bottle, which he must have pulled out of the refrigerator when he saw the car pull up, and pours our glasses full before handing me one. I hold it up and he clinks his lightly against it. “To my incredibly beautiful girlfriend.”
“To us,” I say, holding his stare. I’m shocked by how much I want him right now. It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had has been lifting weights and working out, waiting for this moment. My natural shyness is battling with the hunger that’s in my core, the unthinking need that’s building, the touch of his lips on mine still tingling as I take a cautious sip.
He walks over to the boom box I bought from a street vendor for forty bucks and turns on music – Chris Isaak. He turns to me and takes a drink of his champagne while studying me like he’s never seen me before. I match the intensity of his gaze, any modesty gone as the champagne warms me with each swallow.
“You look good,” I say, and it’s the truth. He looks like he could be on the cover of a magazine, with his chiseled features and his slightly imperfect nose perfectly framed by his bottle-green eyes. I take another long pull on the champagne and reach out to him. “Kiss me again,” I say, my voice deep in my throat.