by JD Glass
Once, just once, she asked me as carefully as she could if I had resolved anything with Samantha and Francesca.
I’d taken a very, very deep and slow breath before answering her as honestly as I could, as honestly as our friendship deserved, before I told her I’d completely lost contact with both of them—and this time, it wasn’t my fault. I’d tried, I’d really and truly tried.
Dee Dee was quiet. I could just picture her nodding as she digested that information and thought of how to respond to it.
“Ah, Nina…” she sighed finally. “Maybe there are things you don’t know about. I find it hard to believe that either one of them…”
We chatted a bit more and promised to touch base again soon.
It was okay, not hearing from either one of them, I mean. I was dealing, I guess, or something like it. I didn’t understand at all, but I also tried hard not to think about it, because otherwise, it fucked me up and I ABC couldn’t focus, and I really needed to: I had a new contract and a new time frame in which to put a demo together and find the musicians to do it with.
Graham stopped by to visit, listened to some of what I’d composed, then boasted about the work I was doing back to the London office; they wanted me recorded and touring for the fall.
Enzo said they’d send me someone to work with, and by the terms of my contract, I’d have to. I hoped we got along, but really, whatever, because no one showed up for that either, so I enjoyed my life as best I could and wrote a lot of music.
Carlos and Enrique were generous enough to let me carve out an even larger sound studio from the DJ booth, and I spent hours every day writing, arranging, recording.
That’s what I did when I wasn’t out scouring for new sounds to add to my playlist or very occasionally socializing with the many beautiful young men and women the guys constantly introduced me to, but that was rare. It was a very focused, contained, and productive life.
I worked by myself during the siesta, the best time of day for it, since only Carlos and Enrique or any new trainees were in the building, so I was guaranteed the precious time I needed—I usually rewarded myself with a swim later on.
I had just recorded a tricky section for the second time and was listening to it back because I didn’t like it, I wasn’t happy. It needed, oh, I don’t know, it needed something, and I was bouncing my head in time to the rhythm when, for whatever reason, I looked up across the board. Maybe it was the difference in air currents, or a different scent in the room. But whatever prompted the impulse didn’t matter.
She was coming in from the corridor, and when she realized I’d seen her, she jammed her hands into her pockets. I put my guitar down safely, then cut the sound as she approached, a languid walk that spoke of determination despite uncertainty.
Her long curly blond hair was pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she wore what most Spaniards on vacation did—a white linen shirt over white capris. Her skin was darker, her body thinner. Those shoulders, that jaw. I dropped the headphones and stepped away from my workstation.
“Kitt?” I whispered, unbelieving as I walked toward her. My hands started to tremble and the pulse beat in my neck. Even in the dim blue light of the club, she radiated a golden light. My lion. I stood not five feet away from her.
“Nina?” she asked softly, uncertain.
I nodded, dazed.
“You look…my God, you look amazing!” Her mouth, that flawless mouth, smiled tremulously at me, and she closed the distance between us. The tremble ABC in my hands became a shakiness I couldn’t control when she reached for my face. Her thumb brushed my lip, stroked my chin, then came to rest in that spot she had claimed as hers. I could barely breathe. My eyes stung and I reached for her blindly, pressing her to me, and her hands were on the bare skin of my back, holding me, caressing me.
I buried my face into her neck and kissed the warm pulse that leapt under my lips. “God, I missed you,” I whispered, “I missed you so much.”
“Nina, I’m sorry, I am so sorry,” she told me in between the kisses she laid on my face. She held my face and kissed my eyes, and it took everything I had not to break into sobs. I stepped back and away from her brilliance before it blinded me, before it took away everything I had struggled so hard for, the things that were mine.
“What…” I swallowed and impatiently wiped my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I had to move, I had to get away from the warmth that radiated from her. I stepped back to my workstation and began to randomly organize things.
Fran sighed and lowered her head, accepting my distance. “Your mother…your mother told me where to find you.” When she raised her head, I could see the glint of tears in her eyes.
I swallowed against the rising tide in my body. I wanted to hold her, I wanted to love her as I had, when she was mine and we both knew it.
“No. I mean,” and I dashed the tears from my eyes again, struggling against everything, “why are you in Madrid?”
And then I heard it—the a capella (vocal only) version of “The Kiss” by Loose Dogs. I checked my board. Nothing was on. Was a radio playing in the outer bar? The sound was coming from out there, and no one was supposed to do anything to the sound system but me. I had to go investigate; the sound had a distinct quality I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“I heard you needed a bass player,” Fran said with a tear-filled smile as I excused myself. Fran didn’t play bass, I thought confusedly as the melody got louder. I was halfway across the floor when I realized the difference in the quality of the music: it was live.
This was beyond bizarre. Whoever the singer was, they were doing a dead on-spot imitation. Did one of the guys bring in a new waitress to train in the afternoon? I stopped and stood perfectly still, attempting to orient on the approaching source. My heart still raced from earlier, and when that person came around the wall, singing, walking straight to me, those diamond-bright eyes cutting through the dim light, I swear that beat stopped.
“You’re fuckin’ kidding me!” I spit out through clenched teeth when I started breathing again. I spun and stared at Fran, who came up to me, crying, smiling. I stiffened, my hands curled, and the tendons strained in my wrists.
I couldn’t believe how angry I was. ABC Maybe the last few years had been my fault, but this current disconnect hadn’t been. I knew that. The only thing I felt was betrayed.
“Nina?” Fran sniffed, then recovered. “Meet Ann R Key, the bassist for Loose Dogs.” She swept her arm in the direction of what was unmistakably, undeniably, Samantha, with a bass gig-bag slung over her shoulder.
Samantha smiled at me, a cocky little grin that was a quirk of her lips. It was only her eyes that looked sad, and for a moment, I wanted to touch that mouth, lighten those eyes, but I shook myself. No.
“Do you still need a bassist?” she asked softly.
I looked from one to the other. One of them showing up, maybe that I could understand, but both of them, showing up together, that was too weird, like they were ganging up on me or something, and I didn’t like it at all.
Was this supposed to be some sort of fucking game? What the fuck were they doing? Whatever. I wasn’t playing.
I shook my head and ran my hands through my short spiky hair. Then I took my guitar, and as quickly as I could without hurting it, I slammed it into its case and yanked at the handle.
“What the fuck do you think you guys are doing?” I asked, infuriated because I felt stupid for some reason, incredulous because I simply couldn’t believe I was looking at either one of them.
“Six weeks. Six fucking weeks,” was all I said as I walked past them to the wall that led to the corridor before I faced them.
The sense of betrayal persisted, I don’t even know why, and all I could think was that I’d been so much better off, after all that silence, without them. I mean, one breaks up with me, the other promises, what, eternity? And breaks a date. What the fuck was that?
“How far do I have to go to get away from
you?” I asked, not knowing which of them I spoke to.
Fran took a step toward me, but Samantha stopped her, grabbing her hand. Somehow, that little gesture, the implied intimacy of it, killed me. “God, just leave me the fuck alone, both of you,” I snarled, and stalked out.
I assumed one of the owners had let them in, and even though he might not have understood the argument, since it was in English, I was pretty sure my tone was loud enough to be understood. The club was empty as I walked through it. Whichever guy it was had made himself scarce. I’d have words for one of them later, that was for sure.
I went to the back stairway that led to the roof, to my apartment, and when I got to the top and opened the door, ABC the bright afternoon sun blinded me.
As I entered my apartment I glanced at the pool. A refreshing swim seemed like a good idea—time to float and think, think about nothing at all because I needed to cool off, literally and figuratively. Seeing Fran again had set my heart to racing, and the completely unexpected revelation about Samantha had just completely fucked me up. I realized I didn’t fucking know her at all.
I settled my guitar in its usual spot and went to change into one of my swimsuits. I’d been there long enough to acquire a nice collection. I went with the turquoise string bikini I’d picked up when I first arrived; it looked great with my tan, or at least that’s what Carlos said, and that tan needed some maintenance. I slapped some sunblock on. Even though I wanted to maintain the color, I was still naturally fair skinned, and the afternoon sun could be brutal. That was something I’d learned the day my face and shoulders matched my hair color.
I selected a towel and stepped into the kitchen, opening a cabinet for some olive oil. Pouring a tiny bit into my palm, I worked it into my hair—a neat little trick I’d learned from Enrique. He’d told me that it would prevent my hair from getting dried out as well as preserve the color for longer, and he was right.
Done with my sun preparations, I grabbed my sunglasses off the table, tucked them into the strap along my hip, and stepped out onto the roof. I tossed my towel down on one of the chaise lounges, walked to the board, and dove in.
The water was warm, heated by the sun all day, but it was still refreshing, I thought as I surfaced with a long stroke. Automatically, I began to swim the length, focusing on my arms, the position of my legs. I did about four laps before I decided to just float and let the sun warm me.
I swam to the cement and brick edge, then pulled myself out of the water. After dripping across the hot roof toward the closest floating raft, I returned with it, dropped it into the water, then carefully climbed on. A couple of strokes propelled me to the middle of the pool, where I pulled my sunglasses from my hip and slipped them on.
I lay there for a while, the soft slap of the water against the sides of the pool, the soft rock of the lounger and the warmth of the sun lulling me into a light doze.
“Y qué?” Enrique’s voice cut across my peace. And what?
Lowering my sunglasses, I looked at him as he stood next to the pool, carrying two tall glasses and wearing the most popular form of male attire—a Lycra Band-Aid. This one matched my bikini—and Enrique looked good in turquoise. Frankly, Enrique looked good in everything. “And what what?” I asked archly.
He brought a lounger over, dropping it into the water. “Which one is the bass player?” he asked. He put the drinks down on the ledge and swung his legs over, dipping his feet in the pool.
“The one with the bass, of course,” I answered, putting my sunglasses back on.
I heard him splash in, then lift himself onto the lounger, creating waves that lightly jostled me. “Here,” he said, and bumped into me. I opened my eyes and took the glass he handed me.
“Thanks.” I saluted as I sipped. Hmm. Rum and Coke, or Cuba Libre—Free Cuba, as they called it. You know, I’m pretty sure that I don’t know anything that I probably should about Cuba, but I thought it was weird that they call the drink that in Spain; after all, they were once an empire.
Enrique settled back comfortably into his lounger. “Which one is the ex?” he asked, sipping nonchalantly.
I closed my eyes and leaned back, putting my glass into the holder in the lounger’s arms. “The blonde,” I answered shortly, “the devastatingly beautiful-didn’t-believe-me-fuckin’-dumped-me blonde.”
“Ah, a lover’s quarrel?” he said lightly. “And it was over someone…another woman…” He let that hang in the air.
I considered how to answer. Since I hadn’t given in to temptation, I hadn’t sinned, right? And truth to tell, if Fran hadn’t broken up with me, I know, for a solid fact, that I would never have let anything happen between Samantha and me, no matter what.
“There was no other woman, except in her mind,” I answered finally. “Where’s Carlos?” I asked, trying to change the subject. Usually we all ended up in the pool at the same time every afternoon.
“He’s downstairs, putting in some new equipment. Enzo from Rude is setting up a new show.”
I digested that news quietly. There had to be something else to it. I knew Enzo and the label were waiting to see what I came up with. Graham had been really excited about the new material I’d developed, and in a very real way, I was “his discovery.” Enzo had already more than hinted that he wanted me out on tour before long—to hit the back-to-school crowd, which didn’t really make sense. Standard industry practice was not to release anything new between October fifteenth and January, going into February, really—the entire biz revolved around established acts at that time for the holiday rush.
Maybe he thought I didn’t know that, and honestly, I hadn’t before Graham explained it to me.
“And?” I asked.
“And what?” Enrique returned, lightly mocking my earlier answer.
“And what else did he want? I know Enzo. He doesn’t call without at least several agendas, ABC no?”
“No…and yes, you are right,” he drawled, “he wants something else.”
“Of course he does,” I said, more to the sky than to Enrique. “Does he want a time line or a new demo?” For the last few weeks Enzo had been really been pressuring me to give him something, anything. I knew he wanted me to get back on the road. He was famous for saying “It’s good enough for rock’n’roll,” which meant slapping some shit together and putting it out there sometimes. But there were two things wrong with that, at least as far as I was concerned.
It had always been drilled into my head that trifles make perfection and perfection is no trifle. I wasn’t going to just put some shit out there and attach my name to it—no fucking way. And I’d learned on tour that with no product, the show doesn’t matter—you leave nothing memorable behind. Before I went out on the road again I was making sure that I had enough good music to perform and to sell.
“He wants you to work with Ann, thinks you’ll be a good team.” He resettled himself on his lounger as I sat up to stare at him and sipped on in silence. “Graham suggested it.” He shrugged casually.
Fuck. What the fuck are you doing to me, Graham? I thought. At least he’d hooked me up with an excellent bassist, I grudgingly credited him.
“So, who was she?”
I sighed, resigned to playing the game. “Who was who?”
“The imaginary woman, of course?” he asked, eyes wide like an innocent. Which, from the lift in the corner of his mouth, I knew he wasn’t.
I settled into the lounger, set my sunglasses back on my head, and picked up my drink. “The bassist,” I said casually as I took a sip and closed my eyes.
“So the blonde is the one you were engaged to?”
“No,” I answered shortly, “that was also the bassist.”
I could feel his shock in the silence, then a sudden splash rocked my lounger. I opened my eyes to see Enrique in the water, shaking his head at me.
“Muy chueca, chica,” he said. Very twisted, girl. I saluted him with a small smile.
“I know,” I told him, that tight little smil
e on my face difficult to speak through, “believe me, I know.”
“No, not just that,” he said, wading toward me and pulling his lounger with him. “It’s just that Enzo asked if we had an available apartment. And since the other one is being worked on and Graham said you girls knew each other, we thought, well—”
“They’re staying with me,” I said flatly. Great. Fucking great. Maybe I’d go back to New York early and find an apartment in Brooklyn, no, Queens. Everyone got lost in Queens.
My displeasure must have shown on my face, and Enrique misunderstood—he thought I was concerned about appearances, which, in conservative Madrid, many Madrileños are. But I wasn’t a Madrileña; I was a New York City punk, and that shit never really mattered to me.
“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “we only dress Catholic.”
“I thought gays weren’t allowed to believe in God,” I shot back at him, still not exactly thrilled with life at the moment, but willing to play with Enrique all the same.
“Someone better tell God that.” He grinned maddeningly. “Besides,” he added, “this is Spain—and you should have more than one lover. Damn, Nina, you should at least have a lover.” He studied me for a moment. “Love is more flexible than you think,” he said softly.
I really didn’t want to get into that conversation with him. For the record, the word “lover” in Spanish—amante—sounds a heck of lot nicer than it does in English. It carries just so much more with it, which is why I didn’t object to Enrique’s use of it. I still don’t like the word in English.
I hung my glasses from the center strap of my bikini top and decided to swim a few more laps to get my head clear of the adrenaline that was pumping my brain full of mush; and in the end, I must have done a few more than I thought, because Carlos and the girls came up the outside stairs and through the gate.