All Shook Up (4 page)

Six months evaporated from my crystal-cut glass. I let my house go to shit. I ignored large piles of bills. I told every media person to fuck off, and yes, they could quote me on that. I changed my number and carefully selected the people I still wanted to see. And I drank.

Sitting here now, it's clear to me that this morbid party is over. If I don't accept Mark's offer, I'll lose the house in a matter of weeks. Finding a small apartment with Hondo could work temporarily, but he doesn't make enough money to support both of us. And he shouldn't have to. As much as I love him, I know I can't spend my life by his side.

The thought brings tears to my eyes. That damned stack of papers Mark brought sits in the back of mind, refusing to let me forget. I down the rest of my drink and take the empty glass to the kitchen, where I face my tormentor.

I pick up the pen a few times, only to drop it again. Finally, I sweep my arm at the stack. Pages fly across the kitchen. Only the last sheet stays on the counter in front of me.

I grab the pen in my fist and write across the page in big letters, "HONDO STAYS, TOO." The paper rips in several places from the pressure of the pen. I clip the pen to the paper, toss it on the front porch, and slam the door.

Twice.

Scene 8 ~ Sophie

Everything seems to happen at once. I sign my way through the thick stack of paper, transferring ownership of the house to Mark. A U-Haul from L.A. shows up with the things he can't live without, mostly instruments and recording equipment. He's the real thing, obsessed with all the trappings of a musician.

And for some bizarre reason, Hondo turns into my personal bodyguard. From the moment Mark signed the papers, Hondo has kept a permanent buffer between Mark and me. He's never acted like that with other guys. I don't understand why he's acting like this now, and I tell him so.

"You begged me to take his offer," I say. I pulled him into my conference room for a chat after he forcibly squeezed himself between Mark and me on the couch.

"It's business," Hondo says. "He doesn't own you."

"Well, that sounds vaguely familiar."

Hondo cracks a smile. I hold out my arms and lock myself to his body. Even if he isn't a real bodyguard, I feel safest with my head on his chest, rocking back and forth in his arms. I can barely remember feeling like this with my mother, and never with Lang. My mother was my private parent, and Lang was my public one. When I lost her, I lost more than I could have imagined. Of course, no daughter is prepared for her mother to disappear at such a young age.

I look up. Hondo leans down and presses his lips against mine. For an endless moment, we stand there with our lips touching, not quite kissing, not quite
not
kissing. The electricity of it overwhelms me, traveling on every nerve around my body. I finally look down and take a few steps back to breathe.

"Sophie," he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"I know," I say automatically, even though I have no idea what I know. This has never happened before.

Neither one of us moves for a full minute. A minute is a long time when you don't know what to do with it. It's a fourth of a song, a third of the time you have to play a turn of Boggle on your phone, the amount of time someone can slip out of your hands when you're not paying attention.

"I have to go work on a project. It's late. Client is pissed." Hondo doesn't look at me as he crosses the room and lets himself out.

"OK," I say, after he's gone.

One minute.

That's all it takes.

Scene 9 ~ Sophie

Mark keeps his distance from me for the first few days. He claimed his bedroom—the master suite—and is busy putting his stuff away. I watch furniture movers take Lang's king-sized bed out of the house, to be replaced by a new mattress set. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I understand it—I wouldn't want to sleep on a dead person's bed—but it seems like I should be sad or upset by the change. I'm not.

When Mark calls me into the room, I see that his entire wardrobe fits in one small corner of the almost-bare closet.

"You needed help?" I say. I bounce a little on my toes, ready to split. Replacing the bed was fine, but the ghosts are particularly strong as I stand here. After I get out of here, it will definitely be time for my daily glass of medicine.

"Hey, yeah, do you know how to work this shower?"

I laugh. "It's a luxury feature of the house. Didn't Mary go over this with you?"

"I guess she forgot. Too busy calculating her commission."

"I think it was her first mansion sale," I say. "I swear, she was walking on sunshine."

When Mark smiles, he looks like a different person. I first knew him only as the gaunt, stoic guitar player in photos and videos. Then, I saw the real-life Mark, fresh from rehab. Now, I will get to know
him
. I wish people understood that you can see a person every day and not know him. No matter how many interviews you read, concerts you see, or songs you listen to over and over, you still do not know the person behind the music. He is still no more than a two-dimensional image. Even Mark seems to be confused about this when it comes to my father.

I show him how to turn the various levels of the shower on in stages to keep from getting sprayed in the face right away.

"Damn, this is like a car wash," he says, laughing, as he leans in the shower doorway.

Before I can turn around to leave the bathroom, Mark pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it into the laundry basket. His chest is even better without a shirt. I study the contours of his muscles as they intersect with his black tribal tattoos. His skin looks bright and smooth and touchable. Very touchable. My primal reaction is instant. As he reaches for the button on his jeans, I'm trapped. Nudity doesn't bother me, in general, unless I'm the one naked. I grew up around nude people. But with Mark, my brain signals cross somewhere between lust and caution, and my mind can't seem to move my legs. I fixate on his hands as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans. Waiting. I lick my lips. My body is humming now, ready for whatever will come out of those jeans.

"Sophie, are you okay?"

I jump a little and look up. "What? Yeah, sorry. I was trying to remember something I wanted to tell you."

I get out of that bathroom as quickly as I can, heading straight to my bathroom.

I hurry in, close the door, and lock it. I lean against the door like I have to hold it shut. My cheeks burn. My nerves are revved up. The warmth low in my belly leaves me a little breathless. These guys are going to drive me crazy. Even though I already showered, I peel off my shirt and step out of my shorts and panties. I turn on the world's most complicated shower and melt into the hot water. Sinking down on the tiled bench and lying back, I let my hair cascade down the side. Images of Mark without a shirt, and what he looks like below the waist, fill my overheated brain.

And I picture Hondo's hesitant kiss, more a question than a statement.

I slide my hand down my body, starting with my right breast, and ending between my legs. My body is ready. The first touch makes me catch my breath. My fingers dip inside, tickling me deep in my lower belly. I push against the palm of my hand. I am so hungry, but it has nothing to do with food. I can't remember the last time I was with someone. I stroke myself in long sweeps. The most sensitive part of my body gives me a little shiver with each touch. I'm hot and aching under the steaming water.

I moan with each touch now, pushing my hips up harder and harder against my hand. My climax surprises me, and I curl up to ride the waves. The pleasure is so intense, I can't contain myself. I shout and curl up tighter. After the waves subside, I relax, my brain blissfully able to hold only a few thoughts.

When I recover, I turn off the shower and dry myself. I stayed in so long, the skin of my fingers and toes is pruned. I look in the mirror to run a wide comb through my long, wet curls. My cheeks are still red, but it doesn't bother me so much at the moment. Today, a little color makes me feel more alive than I have in months.

Scene 10 ~ Sophie

Mark hired a woman to erase me from the house business and write him in. When I answer the door, I find a tall woman wearing a pink warm-up suit and running shoes. Her straight, blonde hair is trapped in a smooth ponytail at the base of her neck. Very pretty. I can't believe she's really an accountant. She looks younger than me.

She introduces herself. "Nicole Tate."

"Sophie," I say.

"Great! I need to see every scrap of paper in this house related to the finances or upkeep."

"That's easy." I lead her into the back of the kitchen and point to a set of low cabinets. "It's all in here."

"Your records are in the kitchen cabinet?"

I release the child-proof lock holding the doors closed. They slam open, and an avalanche of paper pools around our feet. Nicole looks at me with wide eyes.

"I check the mail once a week, and then I take one of the drawers out and toss the new stuff on top of the pile," I say, as if it's a perfectly rational explanation for the hoard.

Leaning over, she picks up a few envelopes and turns each one over in her hands. "These were never opened."

"Yeah," I say.

Nicole takes a deep cleansing breath before pressing a smile back on her face. "Okay, then. I'm going to my car to get a few things. I'll be right back."

Nicole comes back with a laptop, five flat bankers boxes, and a marker. She folds the cardboard into three-dimensional file boxes with lids. She uses the marker to write on the end of each one: Taxes, Maintenance, Sophie, Shred, Recycle. She lines the boxes up on the floor and hopped up on a stool, claiming the kitchen island counter as a huge desk.

For a few minutes, I watch her comb through each piece of paper in my extensive collection. She uses a sharp letter opener to open each envelope. The envelopes automatically go in the Recycle box. After she reads each document, it goes into one of the other four boxes.

I have trouble watching her pry into my life like that. I know the house isn't mine now, but it feels like she's harvesting my heart before I've stopped breathing. I try to shake off the feeling.

"Why do you have my name on a box?"

Nicole looks up. "With all this mail, there's bound to be something here that's personal to you. It doesn't sound like you looked at anything before adding it to the pile."

"Makes sense."

I leave Nicole to her digging. Hondo is at work, Mark disappeared earlier after asking me to let Nicole in, and the only private place I have to go is my recording room.

This is the second room in the house that's off-limits to everyone. Only a few people have permission to come into this room. Like Lang's guitar room, this is the first time I've opened the door in the last six months. The day after Lang died, Hondo brought me my laptop computer, hoping to entice me to go in. It didn't work. Now, I've already broken the seal on Lang's room. I can't lock myself out forever, especially since the house is no longer mine.

Here, I keep my most prized possession—a black Bechstein semi-concert grand piano. In the other half of the room, twelve keyboards are arranged in a semicircle, draped. A dark window conceals a small room with the sound board and computers. This control room connects Lang's studio and mine, so it can be used for either one, but I prefer quick and dirty recording by myself with my laptop. My songs are for my friends and me. I don't make albums.

The doorbell chimes. I consider not answering it, but the person is persistent. I jog down the stairs, and without looking through the peephole, I fling the door open. I immediately regret that action when a mess of microphones and cameras greet me. Damn, damn, damn. Hondo must have left the gate open when he left for work this morning. It's been sticking a little lately.

"Did you know that Mark Dillon left rehab? What can you tell us about that? Has he relapsed?"

"Is the band breaking up? Lead singer Braun Fields said Mark had to get clean or get lost. Which is it?"

"Sophie, how are you coping with your father's death? Does having Mark using drugs in the house bring up bad memories?"

"Do you know that there's a warrant for Mark's arrest in L.A.? You're harboring a fugitive."

"Sophie, Sophie, do you believe your father's ghost haunts the pool where he drowned?"

That was it. I put on my outside voice. "Step back now. This door is closing in five, four, three, two—"

I slam it so hard, the frame shakes. "One."

"What was that?" Nicole says. The doorbell chimes several more times, and people pound on the door. She stares at the door as if a monster is going to come through it.

"That," I say. "Is the price you pay for fame, even if it's not yours."

"That's crazy."

"Try living it." I pull out my cell phone to call the cops. These gossip freaks are trespassing. Lucky for them, I don't own a gun.

After I give my information to the man who answers the phone at the police station, I wander over to my box to see if Nicole has found anything interesting for me. The box is empty.

Mark jogs toward us from the back of the house. "Sophie, I'm so sorry. I knew better than to leave that fucking gate open."

"Celebrity Privacy 101. Use fences wisely," I say.

"I know, I know." He puts his hands up in defense.

"We need to talk," I say, nodding toward Nicole.

"Yeah, sure," he says. "My room."

"Nope. My office."

He follows me to my room and into the closet.

"These are the rules of the closet. One, you can ask any question you want in the closet. Two, everything that is said in the closet stays in the closet. Three, you have to pick up two items and put them away before you can leave the closet."

"Number three sounds a bit self-serving," he says.

"Here we go," I say. "Why didn't you mention you left rehab early?"

He steps back and trips on a leather jacket, almost going down on his ass. He recovers just before he can hit the floor.

"That's private," he says. "Next."

"Are you using?"