Rise

by Karina Bliss

  She woke in the dark to the sound of tires over gravel and the sweep of headlights across the walls. Rolling to her side, she peered at the bedside clock. Eleven p.m. Yawning, she sat up, still in her traveling clothes, and switched on the bedside lamp. A tray had been placed on her nightstand. Lifting the linen napkin, she found sandwiches, juice and a pot of tea. She touched it—stone cold—then opened the note propped against it. Come down if you feel like it, otherwise see you in the morning. Philippa.

  Glancing down at her rumpled clothing, she decided against making an appearance.

  Coward.

  Instead, she drank the juice and ate the sandwiches sitting on the patio in the soft light of a half-moon, headphones on and doggedly listening to Rage’s musical back catalog. As a writer, she focused on the lyrics, some of which were profound, some profane and some simple profanity. But the power of Zander’s voice made it easy to understand why he hit every list of the greatest rock vocalists.

  She jumped when her subject suddenly appeared on the adjacent patio, carrying his cell. “I don’t have any comment to make about my former bandmate dating my ex, other than to say he’s a lucky guy.” Without glancing in Elizabeth’s direction, Zander pulled up a chair. “You’ll have to ask Travis if it’s revenge. Personally, I’ve moved on.” Abruptly, Zander ended the call.

  Pocketing his cell, he leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands. His posture stifled the greeting in her throat. A minute passed, five; Zander didn’t move.

  A little embarrassed, Elizabeth waited, growing cold as the night chill penetrated her clothes. Finally, Zander stood and returned inside, freeing her to return to her room. She closed her curtains with the oddest sensation of having witnessed…loneliness.

  * * *

  “The reason you have problem is that when you sing you breathe here.” Leonie Masutti, one of classical music’s foremost vocal coaches, tapped Zander’s ribs sharply with a steel ruler. “Instead of the diaphragm here.” With her palm, she shoved out what air he had left in his lungs. “Ascolta! Listen!”

  Shaped like a scoop of gelato with a similarly icy center she had a blackbird’s sharp gaze and the imperiousness of a grande dame. When a ruler wasn’t handy, she used her fists to pummel her disapproval.

  Zander rubbed his ribs. “I am listening, but the rasp is my vocal signature. I’m only asking you to improve my warm-up techniques, not turn me into Pavarotti.”

  “Have no fear, you are in no danger.” Her smile reminded him of cranberry jelly covered by cling wrap; its sweetness wasn’t for the likes of him. “You have operatic personality, but not the discipline for classical training. For this, you need not only talent, but patience and ability to delay gratification.”

  “When did Pavarotti ever say no to a cheeseburger?”

  Signora Masutti crossed herself. “Do not joke about the late Maestro.”

  She’d told him on their first session that she’d only accepted him as a client as a favor to a mutual friend, a famous tenor. It didn’t stop her from charging Zander like a wounded bull and treating him like something she’d found under a dainty hoof.

  “Singing through every note isn’t rock ‘n’ roll,” he reminded her. They were standing in his library, normally Zander’s sanctuary. Bay windows interspersed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filtered light across the parquet floor and cast a gleam on the maroon leather of the studded couches and armchairs.

  “Growling, you are straining the voice.” Leonie made a sawing gesture across her plump throat. “With my techniques you are on peak of mountain, soaring. Guarda.” Her bosom swelled. “Inhale, suspend breath, exhale. Recover. Each step controlled.”

  The woman was a bully and a snob, but she was the best and right now he’d dance around a campfire shaking his tail feathers if he thought it would help.

  There was a tap on the door and the fiery head of his new biographer appeared. “Am I too early?”

  Thank God, the cavalry. “Come on in, we’re nearly done. Leonie Masutti, vocal coach, meet Elizabeth Winston, my biographer.”

  Smiling Elizabeth entered, holding out a hand. “How do you—”

  “Sit.” Leonie pointed to an armchair. “Say nothing.”

  His biographer’s startled brown eyes met his.

  “Mafiosa,” Zander mouthed and Elizabeth smothered a smile.

  Leonie swung around suspiciously and he winked at her. Her frown deepened. “You are too young to write a biography.” She rolled her plump shoulder in a contemptuous shrug. “Is ridiculous.”

  “Twenty years in rock is forty in human years,” Zander said. “Rockers are like cats and dogs that way.”

  Leonie sniffed. “Certainly you sound like them.”

  “Signora Masutti usually makes her living training opera singers,” he informed Elizabeth dryly, “not slumming it with rock ‘n’ roll trash. Fortunately, the color of our money is the same.”

  “I think you now show off, so I go,” said Leonie. “Remember, on high notes, smile to improve control over projection. The higher the note, the wider the smile.”

  “I’m a badass rocker,” Zander protested. “You want me to grin when I’m belting out ‘Girl, I’m gonna ride us to hell’?”

  “Grimace then.” She picked up her bag. “As I do, listening. I see you tomorrow. We have much to improve.”

  Ignoring Elizabeth, she swept out, her chiffon scarf wafting in her wake.

  “What a forceful woman,” Elizabeth commented.

  Zander threw himself into the chair behind the studded leather-topped desk. “She’s a geriatric dominatrix.”

  “Why do you employ her if you dislike her so much?”

  “I’m reviewing my vocal warmup and she’s one of the best.” Taking a swig from his silver hip flask, he eyed his biographer over the collection of old atlases and globes. “You look different from when we met.”

  “I hope so.”

  She wore a slim-fitting fawn skirt topped with a short-sleeved white blouse, the three top buttons undone. A thin gold chain disappeared into the neckline and a pair of gold stud earrings glinted in her earlobes.

  Wet, her hair had been russet red ringlets; dry, the color was closer to a harvest pumpkin and she’d straightened it and clipped it into a French twist that emphasized her delicate bone structure. She even had eyelashes, a curved sweep that didn’t soften the directness of her gaze.

  Her makeup was flawless, not a freckle in sight, her lipstick nude and altogether she presented a picture of restrained elegance with all the awkwardness he remembered gone. Maybe because she wasn’t trying to hide ink stains or gingham panties through wet white linen. “You don’t have to dress up,” he added. “We’re informal around here.”

  She looked down at herself in surprise. “This is casual and I’m wearing sandals.”

  True enough, her long, narrow feet were encased in topaz decorated leather flats. It was her cool self-assurance that gave an impression of restraint.

  “Sure, wear whatever you want. Please…sit down.” Gesturing to a chair, Zander pushed the call button to the kitchen. “What sightseeing did you do yesterday?” He’d postponed their first interview.

  Elizabeth settled gracefully into a chair opposite his desk. “I went to the happiest place on earth.”

  “I didn’t see you in my bedroom.”

  Her laugh was interesting, husky and sensual.

  “I figured you’d be at the Getty Museum,” he added, “somewhere cultural.”

  “That’s what’s fascinating about people, isn’t it? You make assumptions and then discover all these contradictory layers. It’s why I became a biographer.”

  He wondered if he could still ruffle her. “Because you’re nosy?”

  “I prefer intellectually curious,” she said serenely. “What did you do yesterday?”

  He’d reacquainted himself with the magnitude of his debt. “You don’t have to soften me up first with small talk. I’ve never been big on foreplay.”

  �
�I expect that’s a by-product of being a rock star.”

  Zander lifted a brow. “Are you implying I’m lousy in bed?”

  “No, I’m saying pleasantries probably aren’t as necessary to celebrities as they are to the rest of us. Though you make a good point,” she added thoughtfully. “With so many willing women, one would never need to build skills—other than perhaps endurance.”

  “One would be wrong,” Zander said firmly. “However, I will try harder with verbal pleasantries. Let’s just say that yesterday I didn’t have nearly as much fun as you did.”

  A scratch on the door and his cook entered. Like Signora Masutti, she was small, dark and round. But if the vocal coach was icy gelato, Constanza was freshly baked bread.

  “Mi tesoro,” she exclaimed. “How was the tour?”

  “A big success.” Crossing to meet her, Zander kissed her cheek. “So you miss me?”

  “No, you make too much mess.”

  “You’ve met Elizabeth Winston?”

  “Yes, I cook her huevos rancheros for breakfast. Tell her my life story.” Constanza beamed at Elizabeth. “For lunch, I plan spicy chicken, mango and jalapeño salad.” She looked at Zander and added casually in Spanish, “No chilies still for you?”

  “Unfortunately,” he replied in the same language. “I’m still on bland food.” He’d told her he had a small ulcer. “Our secret.” It was getting tough keeping all his secrets straight.

  “You can warm yourself on her wonderful hair,” she replied before reverting to English. “I’m saying, your hair is beautiful,” she told Elizabeth, running a hand over it. “Fiery as a habañero pepper.”

  “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. New Zealanders tended to turn aside compliments. Hiding a smile, Zander ordered herbal tea and some coffee for Elizabeth, then handed Constanza the extended list he’d gotten from the specialist. “These are other foods I should avoid,” he added in Spanish.

  Tutting over it, she left.

  “You sound fluent,” Elizabeth commented as he opened a window for the breeze.

  “I went through school with a lot of Mexican kids.” Raising his face briefly to the sun, Zander returned to his desk. “So, let’s hammer out how we’re going to do this.”

  “Okay if I record our talks?” She pulled a compact digital recorder out of her bag and placed it on the desk between them. “I prefer to concentrate on the conversation rather than taking notes.”

  “As long as when you’re outside these walls, you’re careful to keep the device on your person and not in a bag that can be stolen or left behind. We don’t want leaks we haven’t engineered ourselves and the paparazzi will go through trash given the opportunity.” Noting her shock, he shrugged. “Press interest comes in waves. Right now I’m riding one, so any scoop is worth big bucks.”

  “Do you ever resent the intrusion?”

  “There are worse things. When Dev collapsed onstage and the band imploded, two of my former bandmates—Mick and Travis—very publicly laid the blame on me. Overnight I became a pariah. My manager suggested I lie low until it all blew over.”

  She smiled. Interesting that she already knew him well enough to appreciate how ludicrous the suggestion was.

  “What did you do?”

  “Gate-crashed the A-list parties I was no longer invited to and acted like the guest of honor. Told Barb Walters I’d be re-forming Rage with new musicians. I figured if I was going to be labeled an asshole, I might as well be the king of assholes. The only thing I never did was whine about being misunderstood, or get defensive. Show weakness in this industry and they’ll tear your fucking throat out.” A flicker of emotion crossed his biographer’s face. “My swearing bother you?”

  She waved it aside. “I won’t even notice it by the end of the day. So the reality show for new band members came about because…?”

  “Because the networks saw a buck in it. Why won’t you notice it?”

  “Constant use negates the shock value. While we’re on the subject, do you want expletives in or out of the book?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Cursing can read as juvenile in print, so I’d recommend leaving most of them out,” she commented. “Of the rock biographies I’ve studied, those free of profanity came across as more authoritative. But we can do a comparison test if you prefer.”

  “Whatever works for you, Doc.” Amused, he opened a desk drawer, retrieved a packet of tobacco and papers and began rolling a cigarette. If she’d noticed he’d found a way around using her mouthful of a Christian name, she gave no sign. “Are you saying you never curse?”

  “For maximum impact, I save it for special occasions.” She gestured to the tobacco. “The nicotine patch didn’t work, then?”

  That startled him. “How did you know that?”

  “You were wearing one in Auckland.”

  “The patches work most of the time.” This woman was scarily observant. “I’m still weaning myself off the rituals.” Zander finished rolling the tobacco and licked the edge of the paper to seal it, eying her as he did so. Must be the jet lag making him feel slightly off balance.

  Elizabeth took a notebook out of her bag and opened it to a list. “I thought we’d do some general questions to loosen us both up.” She cleared her throat and Zander realized she was nervous.

  Toying with the cigarette, he relaxed into his chair. “Shoot,” he invited.

  “Are you a saver or a spender?”

  He gestured to the opulence around them. “What do you think?”

  “When you walk into a party, what do you notice first?”

  “People noticing me.”

  She said curiously, “Do you enjoy that level of attention?”

  “Doc, rock stars need that level of attention.”

  “Did you always aspire to be a singer in a rock band?”

  “When I was a choirboy I thought I’d be a priest, but it was less of a spiritual calling than imagining myself in the pulpit with a captive audience. Rock filled the same criteria and celibacy wasn’t a requirement.” He shot her a wolfish grin and her gaze dropped to the notepad.

  “Do you rely primarily on instinct or logic when making decisions?”

  “Instinct made me a rock star when logic said it wasn’t possible. So instinct. Always.”

  “What do you call on when life gets tough?”

  “Alcohol, denial and fast women.”

  She smiled. “Seriously.”

  “I am serious.” Zander passed the cigarette inches under his nose to breathe in the acrid scent of tobacco, then regretfully dropped it in the trash. “What would your answer be?”

  “Prayer. Conscience. Faith,” she said without a trace of embarrassment.

  “My way sounds more fun.”

  “I’m playing the long game.”

  He chuckled.

  “How do you deal with failure?”

  “I beat the crap out of it. So what did God say when you told Him you were going to work for me?”

  “She said I’d have to double my prayer quota.”

  Zander laughed.

  “What’s your religious affiliation now?” she added, without missing a beat.

  “Atheist.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “That’s interesting. How did a former choirboy—”

  “Next question.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Finish this sentence. If someone challenges me…”

  “I fire ’em.”

  “Assuming it was contractually possible.”

  “Of course,” he said silkily.

  She looked at him a long moment and said equally silkily, “I’ll let you call me Doc…Politics?”

  Let me? “I’ll support anyone who promotes affordable health insurance. Medical bills impoverished my parents.” Needing a smoke, he touched the nicotine patch under his T-shirt. “Next question, Doc.”

  “Your mother’s a New Zealander, your father Texan. How did their paths cross?”

  “Are we going ba
ck to Genesis?”

  Smiling, she waited.

  Zander decided to be amused. “Dad—Ray—was working at a Harley dealership in West LA when he met my mom at Marie Callender’s—that’s a pie place, Kiwi—where she was waitressing part time. She was studying in the States. He followed her to New Zealand, where they got married and where Dev and I were born. We moved to LA when I was five and settled in Long Beach.”

  “Was it tough making the transition?”

  “Hell no. Bright lights, big city with a beach culture and Disneyland down the road. I had an awesome childhood.”

  There was a tap on the door and Constanza entered carrying a tray holding his pot of green tea and Elizabeth’s coffee. The coffee smelled good, his tea like moldering grass clippings. “Thanks, Constanza.”

  She left and Elizabeth stood to pour. She was obviously used to taking charge. Working with him would come as a shock, then.

  “I thought it might be useful to talk informally to people who knew you when you were young—teachers, school friends, your former bandmates. Can you give me their—”

  “No. The memoir is my version of my life, not a platform for old grievances.”

  “Some people must have nice things to say about you—your mother for example,” she joked.

  Unsmiling, he held her gaze. “I don’t want you contacting my family. Which reminds me. Both Mom and Dev can veto anything in the manuscript before it’s sent to the publisher.” He’d hurt them enough.

  “Okay,” she agreed calmly, adding sugar to her coffee. “What did you think of the interview schedule I proposed?”

  He’d been too busy to attend to anything that didn’t relate directly to their contract. “Refresh my memory.”

  “As well as shadowing you—”

  “No shadowing.”

  “But you suggested it at our interview.” She handed him his disgusting tea.

  He’d said a lot of things to secure her services. “When it works you can tag along.”

  She frowned as she returned to her chair. “It’s very important that with such a tight publishing schedule we maximize interviewing opportunities.”