Summer

by Frankie Rose

  Noah makes a hmm sound, scratching at the side of his head. For the first time, I realize he’s wearing his beanie again, despite the fact that it’s sweltering outside. “I don’t lie to you, Avery. And I don’t lie to Neve either. She knows I’m not perfect. She knows I have my faults. I wouldn’t want to deceive her into thinking I’m a saint or anything. But she does know that I do my damnedest at all times to not fuck up and ruin things. She knows that I’ll always do what I think is the right thing where she’s concerned. And she knows I try and do the same for you, now, too.”

  The atmosphere seems to have shifted dramatically in the last few seconds. It’s not as horrifying as it might have been a month ago, though. Then, I would have fled the coffee house, fighting tears, feeling let down by the fact that Noah was being slightly more intense that I thought he should be. Now, I chew on my bottom lip, tapping my finger against the side of my mug, thinking. Would it…would it be so bad to contemplate letting Noah back into my life? In a romantic way? I’ve railed against the idea endlessly since we started grabbing coffee and making fun of each other, taking Neve for walks in the park. But Luke— it hurts to even think his name—has moved on, that much is clear.

  He’s created a new life for himself in LA; him moving out there was supposed to be an experiment. He was meant to roll with the punches out there and see what happened for the first twelve months and then think long and hard about what he wanted. Honestly, I never really thought, never really truly believed deep down in my heart that he was going to stay in California. I was almost certain he was going to come back to New York and resume his position with the NYPD, but now it’s very clear that he’s charging full steam ahead with his career as a musician. If he’s given up on the east coast, on the police force, and on me, then what in god’s name am I doing clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe he’ll change his mind and reappear like he was never really gone and all of this has been a massive misunderstanding?

  When I look up at Noah, he’s staring at me intently, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and he’s giving me the space to think it, to come to my own conclusion on the matter. He gives me a soft smile, and then winks at me. “You want to see something really, well and truly laughable and ridiculous?”

  I return his smile. “Sure.”

  Leaning across the table, he butts his head toward me, waggling his eyebrows. “Pull off the hat then, love.”

  I do, and my stomach lurches as shock and then amusement fire through me one after the other. His curls…his curls are all gone. Almost, anyway. His hair is cropped so close to his head that it’s a mess of inch long twists and snarls that clearly don’t want to conform or lay flat in one particular direction. “Neve wanted to cut it,” he says, grinning. “Apparently, it looked like girl’s hair and that just wasn’t going to do.”

  “Oh my god.” I try not to laugh, but it’s almost impossible. In places his hair has been shorn so close to his head that it looks like he’s going prematurely bald. “You know you’re gonna have to take it all off,” I tell him.

  “And why would I do that?” He snatches his beanie away from me, tugging it back onto his head, pulling a face of mock confusion.

  “You look like you were attacked by a psychotic barber is why.”

  “Ha! That’s my kid you’re talking about.”

  “I’m only playing. You know I love her.”

  “Yeah, well…she loves you, too.” He smiles, rolling his head down so that his chin is resting on his chest, eyes cast down at his hands as he rubs the pad of his right thumb over the nail of his left. He’s trying to hold his tongue, I can tell, and I’m so grateful I could cry.

  “I’m happy we can be like this,” I say softly.

  “I know. Me, too.” We sit in silence for a second, both of us not looking at each other, just sitting and listening to the sounds of the coffee house around us. The clatter of dishes from the kitchen. A waitress laughing somewhere. The guy behind the counter swearing at the till that doesn’t seem to work all that well. Eventually, Noah takes a deep breath and says, “You want to tell me what else is bothering you? I know it can’t just be your ex.”

  It’s weird how well he knows me. I don’t think Morgan would even have noticed that I am extra stressed out today, or that I have a different kind of tension pouring off me. I consider lying to him and telling him he’s mistaken, if only to prevent the conversation from taking an even more awkward turn, but in the end I’m too exhausted to even pretend. “I found out that Chloe Mathers is appealing her sentence.”

  Noah’s head snaps up, suddenly very alert and very tense. His eyes look darker than they did a second ago—more stormy. “That cop? The policewoman that shot you and tried to poison you?”

  I nod.

  “What the fuck?”

  “I know. It’s…it’s crazy. I don’t even know how to process it. And I have to go back there and testify all over again.”

  “Like hell you do!” Noah looks like he wants to climb over the table between us and shake some sense into me.

  “I really do. They subpoenaed me. I don’t go back and they’ll be looking to arrest me and drag me back there by the roots of my hair or something.”

  A waitress shows up at the table and tries to refill our coffee but Noah places his hands over both mugs, still staring at me, unblinking, mouth hanging open. “That is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard. Can’t you get a lawyer? Get out of it somehow?”

  “Apparently not. And besides…my uncle Brandon made a very valid point. If I don’t go back, there’s every chance she’ll manage to talk her way free, and then what? I’ll never get another good night’s sleep again.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “What? No, it’ll be fine. I’m just anxious is—”

  “I’m coming with you, Avery.” Noah reaches across the table and takes hold of my hands in his, squeezing them. “You shouldn’t have to go at all, but if you do then I’m at least gonna make sure you have a support network.”

  “I’ll have Brandon there. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Noah gives me an uncertain, conflicted look. “But, love…Brandon might not be enough, huh?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well. If they’ve called you back to repeat your testimony, then the chances are high that they’re pulling everyone back in right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you weren’t the only one who died that night, were you?” he says quietly.

  It hits me then, how completely and remarkably stupid I’ve been. Of course he’s right. The court will want to hear all the accounts of that night again, and I was far from alone. Luke was with me. Luke almost died, too. There was me thinking only moments ago that I was unlikely to ever see him again, and now I’ve realized that it’s only a matter of time.

  I’m going to have to stand in a room with Lucas Reid again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  LUKE

  “You realize I’d have given my left nut to have been in that position, you asshole. I swear, if you freak out about this one more time, I’m going to knock you the fuck out.” Cole pushes open the glass doors that give entry to MVP Records, scowling over his shoulder at me. He got himself a new tattoo over the weekend—it’s meant to be a fierce looking bald eagle perched on his shoulder blade but I told him on the cab ride over here I thought it looked like a blurry butterfly and he’s been sore with me ever since. Suggesting once more that we pull the new music video for Cottonmouth and reshoot it is apparently the straw that’s going to break his grumpy fucking back, though.

  “I was ambushed.” I punch him in the back, hard enough to let him know that I’m really, seriously pissed about this. “What did I fucking tell you? I said I was just going to sing. You know I would never have agreed to a make-out session on camera. Especially with the girl that’s playing fucking guitar for us right now. How the hell is that going to look, man?”

  Cole rolls his eyes, groaning.
“Like you’re one of the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet. Do you know how hard I tried to talk Butler into letting it be me that played tonsil hockey with Marika? Seriously, dude. Teenage boys are gonna be furiously jerking off to that music video, holding their goddamn thumbs over half the screen so they can pretend it’s them having their faces licked and not you, you miserable motherfucker.”

  He’s not exaggerating. At one point during filming, while Marika was straddling me, hands all over my shirtless body and ruffling up my hair, grinding herself up against me, she did actually lick me. And it wasn’t a friendly lick. It was an I-want-you-and-I-need-to-know-what-you-taste-like-right-this-second lick. According to the director of the video, it wasn’t something that had been discussed but he’d wanted her to do again, to try and nail the shot, because of our ‘raw chemistry.’ At that point I’d lifted Marika off me, placed her carefully onto the ground and politely informed the guy that I was done and I wasn’t going to be his performing fucking monkey anymore, and if he had any problem with that then he could talk to Butler.

  I thought perhaps I’d get lucky and the licking would have been cut from the final reel, but fuck me if it wasn’t looped back to front all over the goddamn chorus. It basically looks like we were fucking.

  Cole ignores the receptionist with the messy bun on the front desk, failing to make eye contact with her as she says good morning to us—I manage to shoot her a tight smile, though I doubt she expects it—and then he’s shoving his way through another set of glass doors and winding his way down corridor after corridor, the walls of which are plastered with innumerable gold and platinum records. Cole stabs a finger at a platinum disc belonging to a huge rap artist as we hurry toward MVP’s on site mixing studio, growling under his breath. “One of these days, really fucking soon, Cottonmouth is going to have a platinum disc up on the wall here and it won’t just be because of your lyrics and the music, man. It’ll be because that video is pure fucking sex and it’s about to drive people crazy all over the country. Women are gonna get pregnant just from watching that shit, and you’re going to be that super fucking hot guy who had Marika grinding up on his cock. Can you please, just for one teeny, tiny second, take a beat to appreciate that that might not be the worst fucking thing in the world?”

  “It will be when Avery sees it,” I mutter.

  “You think she’s glued to the fucking TV, man? I saw that chick up close, okay. There is no way on the face of this earth that she’s still pining for you. She’s probably hooked up with some hipster douche bag from Columbia or something. They’ve probably been learning how to make kombucha and fermented shit that stinks out their shared apartment, prancing around in Birkenstocks, telling everyone about their matching moustache tattoos on the sides of their goddamn index fingers. And meanwhile you’re missing out on all this amazing shit that’s happening to you right now because you just can’t let go.”

  Things have been tense between Cole and I ever since we got to LA, but I’ve never been closer to seriously losing my shit at him as I am right now. If I open my mouth to say anything to him, if I so much as look at him, I’m going to pile drive my fist into his face and there won’t be any apologizing or trying to fix things later. I’ll be headed straight to the airport and I’ll be getting on a plane. I’d probably never see him or the other guys again. Fuck my stuff. Fuck my guitars and my clothes and all the half-written songs I have sitting around in piles back in my apartment. I’d leave it all and I wouldn’t think twice. I’d just go.

  Instead of doing that, however, I follow Cole in silence, biting down on my tongue so hard that the taste of blood fills my mouth. Cole leads the way into the mixing studio and the other guys are there, including Marika and Butler. Marika gives me a sly, sneaky smile that implies we have a shared secret of some kind. My face remains blank, impassive, and hopefully bored-looking as I allow my eyes to sweep over her to settle on Pete, whom I give a broad smile.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?” He holds out his fist for me to bump, which I do, and Butler gives me a hearty slap on the shoulder, like we’re bros or something.

  “Here he is. The man of the hour. And look! He’s actually fucking smiling! Wonders will never cease.”

  “I smile all the time, Butler. Just not at you. Why d’you call us down here?”

  Our manager slaps his hand to his chest, faking injury. “Burn. One of these days, we’re gonna go out and grabs some beers and we’ll be best friends, just you wait and see.” He probably shouldn’t hold his breath. I make a non-committal grunting noise and shift around the other side of Pete so the guy has to stop touching me. He frowns but continues speaking. “I called you all down here because I have some fantastic news and I wanted to share with you guys when you were all together, face to face. The label’s been sitting on this for a while and it’s been killing me to keep things under wraps, but we finally received a formal offer last night. This is big, guys. Really fucking big.” The fucker stands there with his hands held up, fingers spread wide, like he’s some kind of magician and he’s about to perform his grand finale.

  Cole looks just as confused as me, Pete and Paul do, which is strange since Butler seems to have Cole in his back pocket most of the time. The only person who doesn’t look intrigued is Marika. She hovers next to Butler, arms folded across her body, bouncing on the balls of her heels like a kid impatiently waiting to open its Christmas presents.

  “You guys should know, my favorite whiskey is Dalwhinie, okay?” Butler says, grinning. “You’ll be buying it for me by the caseload when I tell you what I’ve set up for D.M.F.”

  “Just spit it out, man,” Cole says, laughing. I can tell he’s getting excited by the way he rubs his palms slowly against his jeans.

  “This isn’t public knowledge yet, but Fallen Saints are reforming in September to do one huge blow out concert at the Staples Center. It’ll coincide with their remastered greatest hits release—”

  “They’re remastering that album?” Cole says. “They only released it, what…four years ago?”

  “Sam Perry just got divorced. With the settlement he just gave to his ex wife and the copious amounts of blow he insists on shoveling up his nose every waking moment of the ever-loving day, he needs a revenue injection apparently. The reason for the release doesn’t matter, though. What matters is the fact that Howey Blumenthal, the Saints’ manager, heard Cottonmouth on the radio last week and he put it to the guys. They listened and they all agreed that they want you to open for them.”

  We stand in stunned silence for what feels like forever. Pete turns one of the spare sound editor’s swivel chairs around and sits down heavily, his eyes looking like they’ve glazed over.

  Fallen Saints. I was listening to Fallen Saints when I was a troubled teenager. I listened to them all the way through college, too. Their tracks were the first I learned to shred on an electric. They’re a cult classic band, legendary rock gods that have had a huge impact on the music industry for decades. And they want D.M.F. to open for them. It’s a little hard to process to say the least.

  “What the actual fuck?” Paul says as he exhales. “Why the hell would they want us?”

  “Because you’re young blood. Because you’re riding high on the charts right now, and D.M.F. lyrics are on the lips of half the goddamn nation,” Butler says. “It’s actually very smart on their part. Fallen Saints want to keep earning royalty checks, which means they have to make an effort to remain relevant. By partnering with D.M.F., they’re doing that and then some. There are hordes of people out there right now that are chomping at the bit to see you boys play. They’d be willing to pay an extortionate amount of money to see you live and in that kind of environment, which means the Saints are cashing in on your fan base at the same time you’re cashing in on theirs. It’s so fucking perfect, I could weep.”

  “And the album? We’re on deadline. A gig like that takes some serious rehearsal. We don’t have time to do both. At least well, anyway.”

  Butler w
aves off Paul’s concerns. “Worry about the concert. If the album’s pushed back by a couple of weeks, that’s no big deal.”

  Cole’s been shaking his head while Butler’s been talking, and he doesn’t look like he’s planning on stopping any time soon. “What’s the capacity of the Staples Center again?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

  “Oh, you know. Just a casual twenty thousand.” Butler laughs, looking around our group with a grin plastered all over his face, eyes lit up like he’s just done a few bumps of coke himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has.

  “Thought so. Just wanted to check.” Cole explodes into activity, pacing up and down, waving his arms around in the air. He grabs hold of me by my shoulders and shakes me roughly, laughing at the top of his lungs. “Fuck, Luke. Twenty fucking thousand people! Fallen fucking Saints! Can you believe it? Are you excited?”

  No matter how pissed off and likely to punch him I was a second ago, I find myself laughing along with him and everyone else in the room, too. “Yeah. Yeah, dude, I’m excited. This really is huge.”

  Cole shakes me one last time and then he lays a fat kiss on my forehead, and then he’s letting me go, grabbing hold of Pete and Paul and shaking the shit out of them, too. “I knew moving out here would pay off,” he says. “Didn’t I tell you guys?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marika and Butler exchange a look that makes me feel uncomfortable, though. Something suddenly doesn’t seem quite right. Why the hell is she so damned excited? If anything, this is terrible news for her.

  Butler notices my strange expression and his smile falters, like he knows I caught that weird non-verbal high five he just sent Marika. “Everything okay, Luke?” he asks, his voice a little too easy breezy.

  “Yeah. I guess I’m just feeling a little sorry for Marika that this is happening next month instead of this month. I mean, we’re in the middle of August right now. My cast is off. I’m already playing guitar, strengthening my wrist. By the time we’re meant to be playing with Fallen Saints, I’ll be playing lead again. Marika will be working with another band.”