CHAPTER 50

“Do you have questions about recovery time? The procedure? Anesthetic?” The surgeon spreads his hands on his desk. He’s for sure taking for granted the range of motion in those fingers, those palms. The sixty-something man might be a doctor, but he’s pure California. In living here the past year and a half, I’ve learned Angelenos can take for granted almost anything. I shake my head. “I’ve done it before, at some of the best clinics in the country.” “Well, I like to think we have the best team here at UCLA. You’re on the schedule for three weeks from now. I sincerely hope we can get you the results you’re looking for in terms of both mobility and pain management.” “Me too.” I leave the clinic and head outside into the sun and get into the waiting car. It’s not my first surgery, but I’m hoping it’ll be my last. Jacob calls it my obsession, but I think of it as relentless focus. Since the night a single blade destroyed what I’d worked twenty years to build, I’ve been aching for the day when I can say I’m back to myself. I have a few hours before I need to be at the venue for sound check for the benefit concert tonight. I scan the set list, which I’ll go over again with my band once I get there. For the most part, I do vocals and some light chords. The lead guitarist who plays with me is probably good enough to play harder assignments than what I give him, but it makes me envious to hear him do it. To deal with the monotony of traffic, I go through my email, firing off responses to anything urgent and leaving most of it where it is. After, I open the list of demos Shane sent through from local bands. I listen to the first, then skip to the next. Another skip. I let the third one ride a moment. It’s sultry and raw. I glance at my phone to see what it is. It’s Shane. Not another band, but her. It’s simple, but catchy, and the vocals feel fresh and real. I file that away as the car reaches my destination, a toy store in La Brea. Inside, I tell the clerk, “I need a present for a friend’s kid. She’s four and a half.” “Get her a book on manipulating guys,” comes a familiar voice from behind me before the clerk can respond. “It must be some secret coming-of-age thing, because all chicks seem to know it by the time they’re twelve.” I turn toward Jacob and grin, clapping him on the back. He looks every part the actor in jeans, boots, and a white T-shirt. His aviators are shoved back on his head. “Thanks for meeting me,” I say. “Tell me you haven’t burned down the apartment yet.” “Nah, but you might want to stay in it sometime.” I shake my head. The two-bedroom place we share is way bigger than the New York apartment we had until I left on tour and that Beck kept until graduation. “I’m heading out again in a couple of days. I made a deal to help Eddie out with his new studio.” I huff out a breath as I scan the shelves for a gift for Sophia. “You’re supposed to be in your studio. Recording at your label,” he reminds me. “The one who pays your income, which covers half of our rent.” “Thank you for that lesson in pronouns. I have three weeks until my surgery so I’m taking a vacation.” I pick up a puzzle. Maybe Sophia’s into these. Something with fish or birds, exotic ones she wouldn’t see in Dallas. “A vacation with Emily Carlton. I saw your post the other night. You might not tagged her, but you’re so busted.” “Nothing to bust. We hung out.” But my abs clench under my shirt at the sound of her name. The purple dump truck on the shelf triggers my memory that Sophia’s into things with wheels. I lift it off the shelf as Jacob grins. “I bet you did.” I cut him a look, but my retort dies on my lips. My roommate’s the one person other than Emily and Eddie who can see through my bullshit. Still, I’m not about to tell him I lost control the moment she peered up at me with those doe eyes wanting to collect on what I owed her. Turned out I was on the receiving end of something priceless. I’m man enough to admit that the best moments of my life have been spent holding that woman. And yesterday, she was wild. From the second I found her under those tight shorts, soaked and squirming, it was a breakneck descent into madness. I wanted nothing more than to free my swollen cock and sink into her as far as I’d go, to see her beautiful body arch and writhe on that dark wood backdrop. But I spent the last two years knowing Emily and I ended because she got over me first. Still, the way she looked at me, the way she asked me for it… It took everything in me to remember we’re not together. Jacob squeezes a stuffed toy hard enough it squeaks. “I’m relieved to hear it’s nothing serious. Because you were fucked up after it ended. You both were.” I round on him, boxing him in against the shelf. “Go on.” “She couldn’t go with you, and you couldn’t stay. Someone had to be the bad guy. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have moved on—not just from her, with your life.” Hearing it spelled out is bringing up old feelings. Not even the bitterness of leaving, but the things it’s taken me two years to appreciate. How fucking incredible she is. How much I loved her. How much she loved me. “You didn’t tell me she was seeing someone,” I say. “Did you think I’d be jealous?” “Did I think you’d look like you’re looking right now? Yes.” “But they broke up,” I say, pouncing. He frowns. “I heard. He’s some big producer type. And—please use this for good, and not evil—apparently he cheated on her. A casting couch situation with some actress.” Jacob reads the disbelief on my face. “Fucking tool, yeah. You know our girl has always had some issues believing she was enough. With all she’s accomplished, I hope she sees it and never gives the guy another look.” I turn that over as I start toward the cash register, dump truck in tow. I hope to hell she didn’t fall for Ian because she thought she needed him. The fact that he hurt her makes me want to crush the only good fist I have left into his face. But thinking of the ex has a dark thought occurring to me. I liked the idea she wanted me yesterday, wanted another shot at how we’d ended things. Was he the reason she was questioning herself in the first place? I’m not stupid enough to think what happened between us was some kind of a sign—we’ve both moved on, I’ve got an album to make and she’s finishing a show—but fuck it, I need to know. “Timothy.” Zeke walks into my dressing room after sound check, and I shift back in my chair. The guys from the band are around me, talking amongst themselves, but when he enters, they nod deferentially before ducking out into the hall to make themselves scarce. The exec drops onto the arm of the couch. “You’ve been posting on social.” “You proud?” I drawl. “The venue you tagged is in Dallas.” He frowns. “There’s a strict competition clause in your contract. You can’t record for any other label.” “I was visiting an old friend. Remember, I’m on the first vacation I’ve had in two years. Once I get through this surgery, I’ll be back in the studio to finish the album.” “You know your career has nothing to do with your hand.” I shift back in my seat, a humorless smile pulling across my face. “You’re saying that day Eddie and I went to your house senior year, if I hadn’t been able to play, you still would’ve offered me a deal.” He narrows his gaze. “Two hundred years ago, men figured out how to make music with machines. The player piano. The music box. Everyday people could have music when they wanted—accurate, predictable, perfect. “Being proficient in playing doesn’t make you a good musician. Being proficient in feeling—in believing what you’re doing so much it makes someone listening, someone watching, connect with it—that’s what it’s fucking about. “That’s what I saw in you that day. A quiet, gives-zero-shits kid who came alive the second he picked up a guitar.” His words are unsettling, though I’m saved examining them too closely when my phone buzzes with an incoming call from Emily. “Regardless of the outcome of your procedure, I expect you back in studio the next week or you’ll be paying for missed time out of your royalties,” Zeke tosses as he heads for the door. “Always a pleasure.” Zeke and I have always had a rocky relationship, but my relentless focus on being the best I can clashes with his “make money first” approach.” He disappears down the hall and I go back to my phone, hitting Accept. “Everything okay?” I answer, concerned. “Yes. Fine,” Emily says, a little breathless. “I just called to say good luck tonight.” I’m still on edge from Zeke’s threat, my hand tightening on the phone. I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday in the studio, and the sound of her voice has every part of me tightening as I remember the way she fell apart under my hands and my mouth. But despite my physical response to her now, I can’t help thinking of all the times she didn’t call to wish me good luck when I was on tour. The times I didn’t text her because I knew she was busy. She’s calling now. Which means nothing. Tell her goodnight. Get moving. “How was your day?” I ask instead, shifting out of the chair and leaning over the bureau, pressing my bad hand on the surface. The fingers won’t straighten all the way. “Less exciting than yours. Took Sophia to daycare. Met Avery for coffee before she headed back to New York. Worked on the musical. Went for a swim. With the bathing suit this time,” she adds lightly. I turn over my hand and inspect the tangle of black vines and thorns and roses, the white lines beneath. Layers upon layers of ink and scars, like the layers of lies and feelings and decisions that litter our past. I should be hanging up, both to get on with my prep and because talking to her like this feels too good, too much like something I could look forward to. “I was listening to a demo Shane sent in the car today,” I hear myself say. “She’s good. I’d love to cut the punk loose and put Shane in the studio instead.” “Then do it.” Her direct reply takes me by surprise. “This isn’t my fight. It’s not my music.” “Diving into someone else’s mess can be the best way to get out of your own. Maybe you need something bigger than yourself to believe in.” My bassist sticks his head in the doorway, calling my name and jerking his head toward the stage. I take a last look in the mirror at my stage getup, the makeup, the hair—all done by professionals to craft a man who looks like me but isn’t quite. “Tell me yesterday wasn’t you trying to fuck your ex out of your head.” My blunt words have her pausing. But there’s a cord of strength in her voice when she responds. “I think I needed to feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. I wanted to feel in control, which I know is a weird way to think of what happened, but it’s true.” Maybe I haven’t been alive these past two years despite the crowds and the music and pressing past every challenge that’s been leveled at me. Maybe I didn’t feel in control until I had her heated skin under my lips, her hot breath on my hand, her tight body squeezing me when she broke apart. When I answered her call, I wanted to prove my heart doesn’t beat for her. But now, it’s hammering harder than ever. “You are the most alive person I’ve ever met,” I say. “I saw your show in New York four times. I couldn’t see opening night off-Broadway because we had a gig in Colorado. But the second night, I flew in. And your first night on Broadway. I even saw it once without you in it, because there was something I suspected but wanted to know for sure.” I block out the noises from the backstage crew, the chatter and footsteps in the hall, until all I hear is her soft breathing. “What’s that?” “It was better with you.” Everything’s better with you.