“Stand here,” he says, positioning me in the middle of the backdrop that looks like a drop cloth with splattered paint all over it. I’m guessing they’re going for an artistic vibe.
Davies’ advice before I headed over here today was to keep my mouth shut, smile, and look pretty.
I told him to go fuck himself.
“Turn to the side,” the photographer instructs, moving my arms around like I’m a toy doll. “Chin over your shoulder.”
At some point, I zone out, my thoughts turning back to Charlotte’s new album and wondering where she’s at today.
What’s she’s doing?
Is there a chance she’s thinking about me too?
Out of the radio playing in the background comes a voice I’d know anywhere, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Hey,” I say, startling the photographer as he whirls around probably expecting a complaint or problem. “Could you, uh… could you turn that up?”
“The radio?” he asks, thumbing over his shoulder.
When I nod, he yells, “Mark! Turn the radio up.”
Chapter 28 - Charlotte
“Tell me, Charlotte, how does this new album differ from your last?”
I’m on day three of radio interviews and my brain feels like mush after answering the same questions over and over. I’m so thrilled to be talking about my music, though, that I have no problem answering as if it’s the first time I’ve been asked.
“I think this album is edgier than anything I’ve ever put out. It’s heart and soul paired with kick-ass music and perfectly represents who I am as an artist and where I’m at in my life.”
“What’s your favorite track on the album?” the interviewer asks.
Normally, when I’m asked this question, I say what I think the interviewer or the public wants to hear, whether it’s true or not, but I’m not living that way anymore. I don’t care what others read into my answer, I’m telling it like it is.
“Well, picking a favorite song is always so hard because each one is, like, my baby, you know? But, if I have to choose, I’d pick Hard Hitter. It’s really special to me… it means a lot and it always puts a smile on my face.”
I can tell the woman interviewing me wants to dig deeper and ask if it’s about Bo, but she doesn't. In fact, most of the people I’ve worked with during this radio tour have been very respectful regarding my private life. It’s made doing promo for the album so much more fun than it’s been in the past. I guess I have the accident to thank for that.
In fact, since the wreck, much of the paparazzi have left me alone. I still can’t go many places by myself, but at least I don’t have to push my way through a stampede just to get to my car anymore. It’s a small victory for the pain I’ve suffered these last few weeks.
When the interview is over, Casey helps carry my bag as we make our way to the car that’s waiting for us. I’m getting much better at walking with my boot on, but it’s still really awkward, so having her with me for support has been awesome. Although, she’s been relentless lately, calling me a duck then mocking how I walk. Fucking little sisters, man.
I’ll have to wait for my air cast to come off before I can kick her ass properly.
The truth is, I’m just happy she’s talking to me again, I’ll let her make fun of me all she wants. She was really pissed when I left New Orleans and I don’t blame her, but I think, once she saw how miserable I was—before and after the wreck—she realized leaving home wasn’t easy for me. She knows I wouldn’t purposefully hurt Bo or myself unless I believed it was necessary. And, although I wish I wouldn’t have left so abruptly, I still think I did the right thing for myself, for Bo, and for us. I have to believe that or all of this was for nothing.
Another day, another city. But instead of being in a radio studio right now, I’m on my way to Wrigley Field. We just so happen to be in Chicago today and tomorrow, and it also just so happens to be where the Revelers are playing tonight… like in one hour.
It was by chance we ended up being in the same city, I had nothing to do with the radio tour schedule. But there’s no way I could pass up the opportunity to watch them play and see Bo, even if it will be from a far, far distance.
He doesn’t know I’ll be there and I won’t be seeking him out afterward. I’m going to sit in the stands and watch my favorite team play, just like everyone else, albeit wearing a disguise.
The crutches are a bitch and the wig itches under my well-worn Revelers hat, but it’s a small price to pay for anonymity. When we arrive at the park, our driver lets us out at the gate and Brutus, the bodyguard, basically carries me up to the Will Call window to pick up our tickets. I got online and bought them a few days ago, when I realized our schedules overlapped.
Again, Brutus strong arms me up the ramp, only sitting me down once we make it to our row. I’ll have to remember to compensate him for his extra muscles. But when I hobble myself to my seat, that’s when it hits me.
The green grass.
The wall of ivy.
The red dirt.
The familiar white uniforms with purple and gold.
The combined aromas of beer, peanuts, and hot dogs. It’s all like a drug to me now, making me feel at home, just as much as gumbo and beignets… and Bo. Even after all this time apart, I still feel like he’s my home. I just have to figure out how and when to make things right.
Before sitting down, I can’t help but crane my neck over the side to search him out. And there, standing beside Ross Davies, near the visiting team dugout, is the other piece of my heart.
With Casey on one side of me and Brutus on the other, I eventually take a seat and try to just relax, feeling a tiny bit squished beside the big guy. “Sorry,” Brutus says, pulling back his elbows as much as he can. “These seats are made for small children.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Not everyone is a freak of nature, Brutus.” The name fits him well because the guy is huge. I made him stuff his torso into the biggest Revelers t-shirt I could find so he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb, but the dude looks so uncomfortable. Fortunately, no one seems to suspect who we are and I’m praying it stays that way.
“When are you going to talk to him?” Casey asks, making it seem like it’s such an easy question to answer. Her eyes scanning below us, obviously seeking out the same thing I was minutes ago.
“I don’t know, Case…” I admit quietly, flipping through the program we picked up at the front gate. “I miss him so much, and we both seem to be doing really well... professionally... but now, I worry us getting back together would mess all that up.”
“So what if it does?” She’s sipping her beer while her eyes stay on the field, completely missing the look of shock I’m giving her.
“How can you ask that?” My voice raises a bit but I manage to reel it back in, glancing around us to make sure no one is listening. “You know how much is on the line, for both of us, and we both want the other to succeed, so why wouldn’t we worry about that?”
Casey shrugs, still not looking at me. “Is your career more important than Bo?”
This causes me to sit straighter.
Is it?
I swallow, then grab her beer and chug half of it.
“Hey,” she squawks, stealing the beer back.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brutus raise a hand to the vendor walking the stands, obviously trying to stave off a potential brawl between sisters over beer. Always one step ahead, this one.
My career has been the only thing that’s been mine for as long as I can remember. However, if I’m being completely honest—which is all I’ve been trying to be lately—the minute I agreed to the rehab ruse eleven years ago, I lost a large amount of control, in addition to the hit it left on my soul.
“If you couldn’t perform or record ever again,” she whispers, eyes forward. “If he never played another inning of baseball? Would you still want to be with Bo? Would he still want to be with you?”
Sitting back further in my seat, my f
ocus on the field in front of us and the men taking their places, I try to imagine what it would be like.
What if I wasn’t Lola Carradine?
It’s really not that hard to imagine. I thought about it many times during my darker days. Although, music is my passion and I thrive on stage, I could survive without it. I’d find a different outlet for the creativity that churns in my soul. I’m sure there are other careers out there where I could use my talents.
But, when I think of life without Bo, that’s when my blood runs cold and my stomach feels sick.
This time without him has been hard enough, but I’ve had the hope of a second chance to keep me going. To consider a future that doesn’t include him, to spend forever without his eyes, his smile, his touch… to never be in his strong arms or hear his laugh or feel his lips on mine… I can’t do it. I reject that possibility.
“That’s what I thought,” Casey replies, smug as shit.
Sisters, man.
Chapter 29 - Bo
Walking out of the dugout, I take a deep breath, sucking in the humid New Orleans night air and letting it fill my lungs as I make my way to the plate. When my new walk-up song blasts through the speakers, everything feels… right... Charlotte’s raspy voice belting out the lyrics to my new favorite song.
You’re a hard hitter,
Breaking down my walls
“Bo Bennett,” the announcer calls as the fans cheer.
Tapping my bat across home plate, then again toward the pitcher, I stare him down, already second guessing the pitch he’s got in store for me. Doing the sign of the cross, I mutter to no one but myself, “This one’s for you, baby,” before resting my bat over my right shoulder.
Deep breath in, deep breath out, and… swing.
“And it’s out of here,” the announcer cries out. “Au revoir!” I didn’t need him to tell me, I already knew. I felt it—the accuracy, the contact. Casually dropping the bat to the dirt, I take my trip around the bases, earning me a high five from Coach Simpson when I touch third, and the rest of my teammates huddled up around home plate, ready to strip my jersey off and douse me with water, but I don’t care.
This is the shit I live for.
There’s nothing like a walk-off homerun to win the game.
Except for one thing, but she’s not here and this is a close second.
After beignets and beer in the locker room to celebrate our seventh consecutive win, I shower and dress, ready to call it a night and be ready for tomorrow’s last game of the series. We need a sweep and I need to be at my best.
“Hey, Rook,” Mack says, whipping his towel in my direction. “Drinks at my place.”
“Nah, man,” I tell him, picking up my duffle bag. “I’ve gotta call it. That last home run took it out of me.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re so full of shit.”
As I make my way out of the locker room, I stop for a few interview questions. This has become an every game occurrence lately, and it gives me a small taste of what it must’ve felt like for Charlotte. But at least these guys keep it pretty professional and they never follow me around.
“Bo, how good did that walk-off home run feel?” one reporter asks.
I didn’t say every question was a smart question, but I answer him anyway, keeping the sarcasm out of my voice as much as possible. “Well, it was great…” I laugh, unsure of what else he wants me to say. “Felt great.”
“What’s the secret to your comeback?” another asks. “Sometimes rookies have a tough time coming back once they get down, but you seemed to bounce back pretty fast.”
A couple answers run through my head.
I didn’t want Ross Davies to kick my ass.
Losing fucking sucks.
“No secret,” I say with a small smile. “I just needed to make a few adjustments.” I know it’s a little canned, but I only give them as much as I want them to have, another lesson I learned from Charlotte.
The unspoken part of that answer is that I realized playing like shit wasn’t going to bring her back to me. Also, the reality that she would’ve been so pissed if I would’ve wasted this half of the season and missed my chance to play in the All-Star Game was enough to kick my ass into high gear.
After a couple more questions, I excuse myself and make my way down the corridor to the player’s entrance. My Toyota parked on the second row looks out of place among all the sports cars and Land Rovers, but it makes me smile every time I walk out here and see it.
Call me crazy, but even with my new endorsements and contract, I have no desire to replace her. And yeah, she’s a she, Tracy to be exact. Tracy the Toyota. I don’t tell many people that because I don’t want to catch shit for it, but Tracy and I have history together and I’m fucking loyal.
“Hey, girl,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting her up, pulling out my cell phone and putting it on the charger. When the screen lights up, I see I have a missed text.
It’s just one line, from a number I haven’t heard from in almost two months, but it makes my heart stop.
Casey: Good Times. 1300 Decatur St. 9:00
Good Times?
It’s not from the person I want to hear from, but it’s close… and it’s the first interaction I’ve had with Casey or Charlotte since the day at the hospital. My mind begins to run crazy with thoughts as I glance at the clock and see it’s almost nine now.
I have no idea where I’m going or what I’ll find when I get there, but my heart tells me to drive. Pulling out of the lot and onto the street, I head in the opposite direction of my apartment, for Good Times.
The streets of the French Quarter are a little difficult to navigate. Twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to find a place to park not too far from the address. Before leaving my car, I dig out a ball cap and throw on a denim shirt I keep in my car. It might or might not be clean, but my goal is to blend in with the crowd.
Walking down the sidewalk, I hear the sounds before I read the location.
Electric guitar.
Heavy bass.
A familiar voice, full of timbre and rasp.
When I step up to the door of the dimly lit club, a man stops me. “Ticket.”
I stop and stare. Of course I need a ticket. “Uh, can I buy one?” I ask, stretching my neck above the sea of bodies clustered around the stage at the center of the room. Charlotte’s long legs poured into her signature leather pants, black combat boots, and a deep, V-neck tank top that shows off her amazing body. Not too much, just enough to make me literally stop in my tracks. My heart doing the thing it does every time I see her… losing a beat it’ll never get back.
But that’s okay, every one of them belongs to her anyway.
“Sold out,” the man says gruffly. “Unless you’re on the list.”
List? Maybe Casey… “Bo Bennett,” I say, dropping my voice to a whisper, not willing to be noticed and cause a scene.
He tosses his head to the side. “Go on in.”
I smile my gratitude, pulling my ball cap down further on my head and finding a spot at the back of the room.
It’s so fucking good to see her. For the first song, my eyes drink her in, every move, every step. I hang on every word and every note. She’s working the crowd and they’re eating out of the palm of her hand. It’s then I notice she’s not wearing a cast or anything… and her gorgeous face is perfect. The nasty gash on her arm is even completely healed.
She looks amazing.
My heart feels at home just being in her presence.
“Thank you so much for coming out tonight,” she says, pulling the microphone she’s been singing into off the stand. “As y’all know, this is for a great cause, something close to my heart. The French Quarter Collaborative is a nonprofit that helps place children with adoptive families, and all of the proceeds from tonight will be donated to the Boys and Girls Home of New Orleans.” The crowd cheers and the smile that splits Charlotte’s face is like the sun itself. “So, drink up�
� eat up… and let’s bring this house down!”
The place erupts as her band cues up the next song and Charlotte grabs a hot pink electric guitar. My favorite song fills the room and I’m lost to her.
When the show comes to a close, I glance at my watch and realize it’s almost eleven. Charlotte shakes a few hands of people who are next to the stage, signing some t-shirts and photos. She’s in her element and looking completely at ease.
I love it.
I love seeing her like this.
And as much as I want to go up to her—wrap her in my arms, talk to her—I’m not sure I should. If she’d been the one to text me tonight, then yes, but she wasn’t. I know Casey meant well, and I’m grateful to her. I’ll find a way to thank her, but not tonight.
Chapter 30 - Charlotte
“Did you see this?” Casey asks, walking over to where I’m perched on the kitchen island, drinking my first cup of coffee and jotting down a few lines in my journal.
Even when I’m not writing songs, I have to keep writing… something, every day. This journal is something I’ve kept up for over eleven years. I’ve paced myself, only putting in it the most important pieces of my life.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 82