Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (13 page)

Grabbing the pen and small spiral from his shaving kit—yeah, he didn’t desecrate hotel showers anymore—he began to scribble.

I dwell in hell.

Winning her back is what he wanted to do. He could. He was sure of it. But would that be right? To pursue her until her name was again tied to his and his shady past?

Air drying beneath the heat lamp, he picked up his phone and typed her name into the search engine. S-C-A-R-L-E-T-T… On the second ‘t’ the correct auto complete suggestions appeared.

The first results were Wikipedia and a Facebook fan page. After that, various headlines—all good. The sex video was almost pushed to the next page by the goodness that was Scarlette Conterra.

Clearing the search, he typed G-A-G-E—Ahh that didn’t take long either.

The clusterfuck his life had always been to the public. Rehab. Inciting a riot charge complicated with hate crime. Arrest for possession of an illegal substance. Assault on a fan. Lyrics criminal threat suit dismissed.

It had been one thing when being with him was what she had wanted. And who was he to deny her what she wanted—especially when it was mutual. But now that she was no longer dirtied with him and no longer wanted to be, to beg her back would be selfish. Lastly, he couldn’t help the turn of his thoughts at times when he considered getting his career back on track. He was trying to put ugly headlines behind him and do his damndest not to create any new controversies.

He checked his messages while waiting on room service. Standing at the window overlooking the bodies baking by the pool, he returned one call out of the many.

“Hi, Jax. Sorry I missed your call.”

“Not a problem. Listen, I’m in town and I’d like to meet with you. Can you do this afternoon?”

“Sure.” He was bursting with curiosity, but he tried to keep his voice level and professional.

Jax asking for a meeting the same day rather than days in advance seemed unusual. But he wasn’t a man anyone in the business turned down. A knock followed by an announcement of “room service” drew his attention. Carrying the phone, he skirted the bed, moving in that direction.

“Oh. I apologize. Are you out of town?” Jax asked, clearly having heard the interruption.

No. I’m whoring in a hotel ten minutes from my house
. “I’m close. I can do this afternoon.” He swung open the door and watched as the server set up.

Although he’d done it many times, nothing ever felt as lonely as eating a meal in a hotel room alone. After they’d ended the call, he quickly consumed the ‘hearty country breakfast’ and checked out.

He returned home long enough to shave and change clothes before setting off again in the Lotus. La Dolce’ Vida—-the Italian café where they’d arranged to meet—was busy although it was not yet the dinner rush hour. Absently rubbing a thumb over a razor nick on his jaw, he followed the hostess through the deserted dining room to a private room.

Jax slid from a booth seat, standing and greeting him with a firm handshake. “I hope I didn’t cut a getaway short.”

“Not at all. I caught the Vagrants last night. Did the after party at the Marmont. Got a room rather than go home.” He studied Jax, hoping he didn’t think he was partying chemically again. “Great show.”

“I saw them at Edgefest. You’re right. They’re entertainers.” The server came by, dropping off drinks and taking their orders. When she left, Jax folded his arms on the table. “How are things these days?”

“All right. I’ve got a few projects going while regrouping and figuring out what’s next. Green Envy needs a session guitarist. I haven’t confirmed though.”

Jax sipped his tea and set the glass down. “I signed an indie band with a large following earlier this year. Rattler.” Gage nodded, an indication he’d heard of them. “They’re beginning a tour in the spring. The guitarist is leaving. Just doesn’t have the commitment. There are two songs left to record too.” He pulled a storage device from the inside pocket of the bomber jacket he wore. “Here’s some promo videos, a live show, their songs. If you like it, I’d like for you to meet ’em.”

Accepting the USB drive, he ran a thumb over the plastic before nodding and pocketing it. “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll look at it tonight.” He fingered the cutlery as they were served appetizers, and gnawed at the inside of his lip trying to shake the big loser feeling. Stepping in as a replacement to an infant band rather than birth his own band wasn’t what he was looking for. But this was Beau Jax. Again, only an idiot passed on him.

As if reading his mind, Jax waited until the waitress vacated the room once more and leaned forward. “Who’s managing you these days?”

Gage answered, although the person in question had done little of nothing so far. The Green Envy gig had even fallen into his lap through his own connections.

“I listened to what you sent. What else are you working on?”

He summed up his current projects, picking at the food on his plate at first. And then not wanting to seem rude, he shoveled in bites with a little more gusto.

“You ever produce for anyone else? Besides your demo projects?” When Gage shook his head, Jax spoke of a band and asked if he wanted to sit in on a session with them. “I like what you’re doing with your stuff. And their producer is stumped with some of the arrangements.”

He arrived home more confused over his future than ever. He studied the business card he’d been given. A talent manager closely associated with Jewelstone. Jax’s nice way of saying ‘not interested but this guy may find you a new gig?’ And yet, Jax had offered him everything—a position in a band, an engineering gig—everything except the hope of signing him on as himself at some point in the future. Atop the card, he placed the thumb drive and stretched out on the couch, hoping to sleep through the night.

A
ll in all, this Christmas could have top billing of the Christmases of the last several years except for one thing. Despite the festivities a surprisingly sober mother without a crazy rocker boyfriend in sight had insisted on, I still had a Gage-sized hole in my heart that kept a damper on things.

Holiday seasons during my late teen years and early college years had always included Henni’s latest boyfriend, cheap takeout, and then me disappearing into my room. I’d always used the excuse of studying, but had more often than not ended up with headphones feeding my favorite songs into my head while I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

This year, my mother had flown into Los Angeles and was bunking on my couch. We’d cooked dinner with all the trimmings for just the two of us. Henni’s cooking skills peaked at boiling water—and oftentimes in the past she’d forgotten that on the stove while getting her next fix. My culinary experience was limited to a blender—as in smoothies or hot sauce. So, our dinner was less than stellar, but we both enjoyed every bite.

“Do we have to wait until morning to open presents?” I felt ten years old when I asked the question. But the day had been going so well. We were on a roll this season, and I didn’t want to chance something spoiling it by morning.

“I don’t see why.” My mother left the dishes soaking in the sink and skipped across the room. Kneeling beneath the tree we’d trimmed—another novelty my especially maternal parent had insisted on this year—Henni drew out three brightly wrapped packages. Very small. Medium. Large.

I couldn’t help laughing. “I feel like this is a test. One of those experiments we set up in psych class. Which should I choose first…?”

“You shouldn’t be thinking of class. You’re on semester break!” My mother promptly pushed a glass of wine across the sofa table.

“Well, grab yours while you’re down there and let’s tear into these babies! Sorry I didn’t get you three.”

My mother replied with a ‘pish’ sound she’d perfected through the years and settled Indian style on the floor with my present in her lap. “One, two, three, and go!”

The paper settled and while my mom screeched in excitement over each article of designer clothing separated from tissue paper folds, My focus remained frozen on what was inside the medium box.

The child’s size electric guitar was cherry red. I ran a finger down the frets, plucking terribly out of tune strings. But the real oddity—if a kid’s guitar to a woman in her twenties was not strange enough—was the deep, wide scuff on one edge. Looking up, I found Henni watching closely, even as she continued to pilfer the stack of trendy clothing.

“You remember anything?” My mother paused for a sip of wine.

In a clear vision as if I were looking into a crystal ball, I saw the guitar smash from my own hands—which were strangely tiny—to a blue and black tiled floor. Suddenly, I remembered the floor well. It was the kitchen in a house belonging to a musician who was gone for months at a time while Henni and I had lived there full time. After throwing the instrument, six or seven-year-old Scarlette had vaulted over it and run to her room. Behind her, my mother’s musician boyfriend had managed to yell in the midst of his laughing fit. “Booyah!”

“Why would you give me this?” Coming back to present time, I clenched the neck and felt my teeth grit.

“Don’t throw it.” Henni hastily set aside the box of clothing and scooted closer. “I never explained that Christmas to you. “ Your father bought that guitar for you. The day after you were born, he walked into the hospital with it. We put it up for you. And I thought you were about the right age that Christmas. The age he would have given it to you if he were still alive. But when you showed such an aversion to it—and anything musical as I soon realized around that time—I put it back into the box and back into the closet.”

I dropped my eyes to the age-faded box. “Thanks, Mom. Sorry I was a bratty kid.”

“Sorry I was a shitty mom.” The confession came out without a missed breath, and I studied my parent in surprise. “Since you have now made peace with guitars, open the other one. The big one.”

I’d known what it was the second Henni had slid it under the tree, and now I tore the paper, curious to see what type of guitar I’d find beneath this ribbon wrapped package. In seconds, I lifted an acoustic Taylor from a hard case. “It’s beautiful!”

Unable to contain myself, I began to strum, tuning as I noodled around.

“You’re really gifted.” My mother’s compliment was accompanied by a faraway look. “Your dad was about your age when I met him. Actually younger. He was your age when his career exploded. You play with the same passion.”

Embarrassed, I fit the guitar back into the case and snapped it closed. Waving the smaller box, I teased, “Guitar picks?” But when I opened it, my jaw dropped open.

The distinctive silver cross necklace appeared in all pictures of my father from a certain point on. “This is
the
necklace?”

“The one and only. I gave it to him as a birthday present our first year together. His family gave it back to me at the service. I sat in the bathroom floor of the funeral home and cried. I’d wanted it to stay with him. But they wanted nothing of me buried with him.”

Reaching over, I pulled my mother close. It was a lot to take in. The memories and the memorabilia.

Instructing Henni to leave the dishes and the mess, I said I was going to bed. “I’m so tired.” And it was true. Fatigue drained my energy and ached my eyes.

Curling into a ball, I squeezed my eyes closed, but sleep didn’t come. Dishes rattled from the other room.
Henni doing dishes
. My world as I knew it had jumped from its axis. The dishwasher was humming when a rap sounded on the bedroom door and my mother peeped in.

“Your phone.” Henni held the device out. “A text or something came through, and being almost midnight, I thought it might be important.”

Thanking her, I accepted the phone. The door had just closed behind my exiting mother when I pulled up the message from Gage and burst into tears.

My crying quickly escalated into a fit of such extreme magnitude that I didn’t hear the door reopen. The bed shifted slightly beneath my mom’s weight.

“Who’s got you crying, baby?”

Sucking in a shaky breath, I sniffled while my mother stroked my hair. “Gage.”

Without another word, Henni stretched out on the bed with me, and pulled me close. “What happened?” My mom’s fingers smoothed and soothed through my hair. “With Gage?”

“We just weren’t right together.”

“He cheated on you?” Henni’s words were so quiet they barely hung in the air. “All people aren’t wired for monogamy. That doesn’t mean they love you any less―”

“He didn’t. And he would never. Gage isn’t like that.” As I said it, I realized it was true. Of all the complications Gage had, lying and cheating was not part of his problematic equation. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

My mom stilled, and drew slightly back, affixing a curious look to my face. “It’s you, isn’t it? Damn, why am I just now realizing this? You’ve never committed to a relationship. You couldn’t escape those genes. Between your father and me, you got a double dose…”

“I don’t want to talk about it…” I repeated, and relaxed when my mother’s arms tightened again.