Summer of Irreverence: The Rock Star (The New York Artists Series)

by Cathrine Goldstein

  ****

  Summer let herself into her tiny apartment. She sighed, heavily, dropping her bags. It was a nice enough apartment, small, but clean. She had a tiny white kitchen, with an attached dining room that’s sole purpose was to house her mother’s dining room set and china. She never used that room—ever. In the living area she had a deep blue couch, and a wingback chair. Her desk was situated in front of a window, with a beautiful view of the backyard. Off the living room was her bedroom that contained a white wrought-iron bed frame, a tall dresser, and a small closet. It didn’t matter the closet was small, Summer hardly had any clothes. And since she hadn’t bothered to go back to New York to get the rest of her things out of Jeanette’s apartment, she had even less. But Summer couldn’t fathom facing New York or Jeanette. Jeanette could trash Summer’s stuff for all Summer cared.

  Summer plopped down onto her belly on the couch and buried her face in a cushion. Something tickled her chin.

  “Huh,” Summer sprung up with a gasp. The medallion. She had forgotten to give it back. What should she do? She couldn’t mail it, it was too big a risk. Maybe she’d see him again and could give it to him then? The tears that dropped, big, round, and heavy with memories, told her that would never happen. She clutched the medallion in her hand, holding it to her body. She lay down on her back and gazed at the exposed beams of her tiny cottage apartment. Holding Malcolm’s medal in her hand, she drifted off.

  ****

  The days blended into a week. Malcolm’s tour would be ending soon. Not that it mattered. He’d probably forgotten about her already; probably already replaced her with six or seven gorgeous women who truly were models. Wedged into the corner of her couch, papers and journals around her, she sighed.

  Summer pulled herself from the couch. Burying herself in work, catching up on papers she had been neglecting, none of it made her feel any better. She paused to consider this is exactly what she did when her parents had passed. She stood, stretching, the room suddenly spinning. Darn. She had forgotten to eat, in—she cocked her head, thinking. When was the last time she had eaten?

  She fiddled with the medal around her neck. This wasn’t healthy—any of it. She took a deep breath and marched to the kitchen. She pulled open the door of her empty fridge, tears rushing to her eyes when she thought of flirting with Malcolm in his kitchen. She wiped her tears in her t-shirt.

  “That’s it. This stops now.” She spoke the words aloud so she would at least attempt to believe them. She yanked open a cupboard and pulled out a hardly used pot to boil water. She marched to her pantry and grabbed a box of pasta. Again she checked the empty fridge, hoping she would miraculously find a slab of butter. No luck. She slammed the door of the refrigerator, pushing the memory of Malcolm’s kitchen out of her head. Why was she still focused on him when he had certainly already forgotten about her?

  She checked her cell phone again, sighing. There was no one who was going to call her—no work, no school, no Jeanette…no Malcolm. There was no one, except Dr. Brad. Summer dumped the old, half eaten box of spaghetti into the lukewarm water, not bothering to stir. What did it matter if it came out a gelatinous clump? It’s not like she was going to eat it, anyway.

  Summer stood there fiddling with her medal, and suddenly some unsolicited advice she had received when her parents passed, sprung to mind. “Don’t try to pretend they were never here, instead, allow the wonderful memories you shared guide you toward future happiness.” Summer never believed in that advice. She believed squashing pain and focusing on work was the only answer. But now, here, all alone in her tiny kitchen, the thing that kept her going wasn’t her work. It was her thoughts of him. Saving the cow and the calves was her life’s calling, yes, but having Malcolm there was the only thing that made it memorable.

  She put the medal to her lips, and dragged it back and forth across her mouth. So maybe he was gone. But what they had was real—and it would live inside her, as long as she allowed it to.

  ****

  Malcolm stormed offstage. He was pissed. The concert sucked—he didn’t care what anyone said. He had forced himself to sing his love song, but his thoughts had continually drifted to Summer. He grabbed a bottle of water and chugged it, finishing it in one gulp. He hurled the empty container across the wing space, watching it bounce off the wall. It landed with an unsatisfying plink. Why? Why did he have to pretend everything was okay? He was so damned sick and tired of pretending. He was so over being him.

  “Hey, Mal…”

  A beautiful blonde woman in a green dress sauntered past, and all he could think was how Summer wore green the first night he met her. The night that began this whole lie.

  The woman stumbled forward, nearly touching him. “Whaddaya say we go back to the bus?”

  Where the hell was security? They must have thought she was cool. Well, she wasn’t cool—not in any imaginable way. Her breath was hot and reeked of beer. She slurred her words. What kind of woman speaks like that, and throws herself at a man?

  Jimmy came running over. “Hey, Mal, why don’t I get you some space…?”

  He began to escort the woman away, but Malcolm reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her there. Her arm was cool and slippery. She turned to Malcolm, giggling, her overly made-up face contorting like an ugly clown in a funhouse mirror. Jimmy shook his head.

  “Tell me something,” Malcolm tossed his head and forced a smile, addressing the woman. “What would you say if after I’m through with you, my friend here has a go of it? He likes my leftovers…”

  Malcolm leered, and Jimmy dropped his head.

  “K by me,” the blonde woman twirled her hair and snapped her gum, sizing up Jimmy. She stumbled as she spoke. “But why wait for you to be done? I’m always up for a party. The more the merrier.” She tripped on her high heels.

  Malcolm released her arm and shook his head. “Get her outta here…”

  Malcolm turned away, disgusted. He walked off to a private area backstage, pacing. He stomped around the equipment that was already beginning to pile up. Most of it belonged to the venue; his equipment was already being loaded onto the buses. This was nearly the last show of the tour—thank God. He was so done. So incredibly done. But now what? Now back to New York to write some more crap about bogus love while he waits for the final show at the Garden—the place her first saw Summer?

  “Ugh…” Malcolm grabbed a large amplifier and hurled it clear across the backstage area. This time, the amplifier hit with a satisfying crunch.

  Jimmy came running back.

  Malcolm put up his hand, without turning in Jimmy’s direction. “I’m fine, Jimmy. Fine.” Malcolm checked out the damage he’d just caused, his face burning from embarrassment. “Just uh…tell them it was an accident, and make sure it’s paid for.” Malcolm took a deep breath, turning back, fury draining from his soul. That was it. He was tired of running; tired of shirking responsibility.

  Jimmy began to walk off.

  “Jimmy, wait.” Malcolm stood tall, swallowing hard. “Don’t tell them it was an accident. When the press gets hold of my temper tantrum, tell them I threw an object in a confined area making sure no one else would get hurt. I threw it outta frustration, stemming from…personal issues.”

  Jimmy nodded, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “You got it.”

  “And Jimmy?” Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Thanks.”

  “We’ve all been there, Mal. Just…just make sure you’re not killing the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  Malcolm nodded, thinking of Julian and Summer, simultaneously. He ran his hand over his chin. “Of course I am.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As much as Summer loved work, she hated once again being under the thumb of Dr. Brad. And even more, she despised the idea of heading back to New York—with Brad—for a veterinary convention. She really had no choice. She would meet surgeons at the top of their profession, from all over the world, and she’d learn the latest cutting-edge techniques.
She knew if she ever wanted to break out on her own and away from the clutches of Brad, she’d need to make connections. Grudgingly, she agreed to accompany him to the convention. Her only conditions were, one, he understood this in no way meant they were a couple, and two, she had her own hotel room. Truthfully, she wanted to be back in New York—she had been away from the city, and Malcolm, for an entire month.

  Summer checked into the hotel the day before the convention began, and that night, she was expected to participate in a dreaded meet and greet, mix and mingle. She hated dressing up for these ridiculous parties. Most of all, she hated all the chitchat small talk she had to endure, while drunken vets twice her age drooled on her cleavage.

  Thankfully, that wouldn’t be an issue tonight, the dress she was wearing had a high neckline, to cover Malcolm’s medallion. She wore that chain always, refusing to take it off—the feel of his medal against her bare skin making him…somehow…closer. Stalling in her hotel room, Summer sat and then stood, sat and then stood, until finally she adopted a sort of squat, hovering over the bed, paralyzed, not knowing what to do next. Her emotions guided her from one extreme to the other: from seething anger, to hysterical tears. Emotions made no sense to Summer, and quite frankly, they threw her for a loop.

  Standing upright and pacing back and forth in her hotel room, Summer balled up the sides of her black dress into her sweaty palms. She clumped back and forth in her heels. She wasn’t particularly good with people, and these types of social events always reinforced this fact. For the past year or so, she’d always relied on Brad’s charm to take over in social situations, but she couldn’t do that tonight. Darn it. She stopped moving. Reality bites. Not only would she have to face a roomful of strangers, she would never again face Malcolm.

  Sighing heavily, Summer pushed open the door to the bathroom and tore at the zipper of her small makeup bag. Yanking out a brush, she blotted her cheeks with blush and then smeared on some lip gloss. She threw her unbrushed hair into a ponytail over her shoulder. She stared in the mirror—perfectly heinous. Which was exactly how she felt. She didn’t want to get dressed up for a party. Frankly, she didn’t want to do anything with anyone but him.

  She marched into the lounge of the hotel, and Brad turned to her.

  “Summer…” His voice was animated, and he held out his hand to her as if they were a couple.

  She inhaled deeply, shaking her head. Why was this so hard? Her legs ached from being in these ridiculous shoes, and her shoulders throbbed as she forced them down, away from her ears. Brad held out a glass of chardonnay, offering it to her. She shook her head and stood there, motionless, staring straight ahead at nothing, until something flickered in the corner of her eye, catching her attention.

  Summer turned to a band. The members were dressed in three piece suits, and together, they played annoyingly loud Muzak versions of today’s greatest hits. She closed her eyes. Seeing a band, any band, just wasn’t okay. Summer turned away from Brad and the music, and glanced around the lounge, her eyes darting from person to person, feeling all eyes on her. What was the problem? Why was everyone staring at her? She rubbed her ears. Why was this horrific music so loud? Changing her mind, she grabbed the wine from Brad and downed it in one guzzle. He raised a judgmental eyebrow in response.

  Summer spun around the room, choking on all the suffocating politeness. She put her hand to her neck, and then touched her face, feeling her cheeks warm from the alcohol. Her breathing grew more and more rapid, and she broke out into an icy sweat. She fought to catch her breath, looking around wildly. She backed up until she bumped into the bar. The horrific song ended, and she turned to order herself another wine.

  Then, she heard it…the soft chords of the most famous love song in the world. Malcolm’s love song. The one he had written for Julian. She swallowed her tears, biting her lip, desperately not wanting to fall apart here…now. She needed to work with many of these surgeons tomorrow. She had to hold it together. And she almost did…until the lead singer began singing.

  Summer turned toward the band, covering her ears with her hands. “No, no, no….” she muttered under her breath. How dare he sing Malcolm’s song? How could this older, heavyset man with greasy salt and pepper hair think he had the right to sing this song? The song sung by the sexiest, strongest, most talented musician—ever? She reached behind and grabbed the bar, bracing herself, while a wave of possessiveness washed over her, sharp and painful, as if she were doused with an enormous bucket of ice water.

  Her knees buckled, and her legs grew wobbly. She fought to stay upright. Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm—all she could think was, Malcolm. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t want to be here.

  Unfortunately, the only place she truly belonged, the only place she ever really found happiness, is the one place she was no longer welcome.

  Summer whipped her head around the room. She raised a shaking hand to her forehead, trying to calm the dizziness. Mercifully, out in the lobby, she spotted the revolving door. With the blemished version of Malcolm’s song still assaulting her brain, she let go of the bar and fought her way to the door. She didn’t debate telling Brad she was leaving. It just didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

  With every bit of strength she could muster, she pushed through the revolving door, and fell out onto the street. She tripped on her shoes, catching herself just before she hit the sidewalk. She threw herself up against the building, sucking in the warm New York air, slowing her pace, trying to keep from hyperventilating. Shapes and cars whizzed by, the street morphing into an animated Christmas tree, with lights and noise and happiness. But there was no happiness for her. Summer put her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob, memories of Malcolm and Winston rushing through her brain.

  Her heart ached so completely, she finally understood…nothing is more real than love.

  ****

  “Summer…?” Jeanette wrapped her arms around Summer’s neck, yanking her into the apartment. “How? Why?” Her voice was scratchy as she embraced her friend, tightly.

  Summer hugged her back, and the two of them stood there, crying in each other’s arms. Finally, Jeanette pulled back to take a breath, and Summer’s eyes traveled up and down Jeanette’s pajamas.

  “You’re in my pajamas!” Summer laughed, for the first time in over a month.

  Jeanette giggled along, and they made their way into the living room.

  “I had no idea they were so comfy.” Jeanette smiled brightly, and then her face fell. She dropped her chin, and uncontrolled tears began flowing.

  Summer hugged her and led her to the couch. Jeanette landed with a plop.

  “Wait here…” Summer ran to the guest bedroom and slipped on a pair of her flannel PJs. She grabbed a box of tissues from the bathroom, and then joined Jeanette on the couch. She climbed onto the couch next to Jeanette, wedging the tissues between them.

  Jeanette had a bottle of wine going. She leaned forward and grabbed another glass off the coffee table, offering it to Summer.

  “No, thanks.” Summer shook her head. “I have to work in the morning. I already had one, but it’s worn off. I’m afraid I’m going to have to feel every single bit of this.”

  Jeanette nodded, and Summer grabbed a throw blanket off the chair, spreading it across their laps.

  “So…” Summer approached the topic cautiously. “What happened?”

  Jeanette clutched her wineglass. “What’s to tell? I fell for the wrong guy. Again. I thought…” She stared off, lost in thought, and then turned back to Summer. “I thought he was a nice guy. And…I know it’s horrid, but I thought he’d appreciate me, because he doesn’t look like the type of guy who normally gets models.”

  “And?” Summer stroked Jeanette’s hair as they spoke.

  “And…and it seems I’m not the only model who thought like that. He was seeing three of us—me in New York, another in LA, and a third in Miami.”

  “Damn.” Summer shook her head.

  “Yup.” Jea
nette took a deep breath. “How could I be so stupid? I mean, I know men. I’ve been around, you know?”

  “Jeanette, you can’t blame yourself. This was his doing, not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong. It just sounds like…”

  “What?” Jeanette turned her icy eyes to Summer.

  “It sounds like you need to stop looking for the next Superman, and instead, settle for a nice, normal guy.” How could she give advice like this when the only man she ever wanted was the antithesis of normal?

  “Stop kissing the damned frogs?” Jeanette wiped away a tear.

  Summer sighed heavily. Why was giving up on something she never believed in so incredibly hard? “Maybe so.”

  Jeanette nodded and smiled at Summer. “What about you?”

  Summer shrugged. “I’m sure you heard it all.”

  Jeanette shook her head. “No, actually, that’s the strangest part. Malcolm never said a word to anyone. And no one’s really seen him since this leg of the tour ended.”

  Summer narrowed her eyes. She rubbed the spot in her esophagus that burned whenever she was stressed. It was a new symptom that started just about a month ago. Just about the time Malcolm Angel left her for good. “I hope he’s okay.”

  Jeanette reached out and took Summer’s hand. “I know you do. Want to tell me?”

  Summer nodded. “Everything was great. More than great, actually, it was perfect. Then we were on his tour bus driving through the country, and I saw a cow in distress, so I made Malcolm stop the bus so I could deliver twin calves.”

  Jeanette stared at Summer with her mouth open. “You what?”

  “Oh, yeah. There was blood and gore everywhere. Must have been incredibly sexy to see me with my hands up inside the birthing canal of this poor cow. Oh…” Summer put up her index finger, her voice more energetic. “And let’s not forget, for added effect, I was wearing my white peasant blouse that got drenched in blood, and mucus… and afterbirth.”

  Jeanette burst out laughing, nearly spitting her wine. “I’m sorry, Sum, but I’m trying to imagine the band standing around the middle of a field watching, while you delivered calves.” Jeanette laughed harder.