Perfect Timing (25 page)

“Aidan, this will blow over. I don’t know about Anne, but the fans will forgive you. And if you do end up doing time, C-Note will put the right spin on it. They’ll sell tickets, a chance to win an Aidan Royce conjugal visit. It could be the new meet-and-greet. Imagine the line.”

“You’re a pig,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Move on.”

“Okay. Here’s my theory, the former centerfold and her boyfriend pounced on an opportunity. Thanks to last night, a trendy club becomes an instant L.A. shrine. It’s the place where Aidan Royce, who you have to admit hasn’t suffered press like this in some time, slips back into those dangerous habits. They saw you coming, buddy, and they went for it. Unfortunately, it also sounds like you ran into a cop who was looking to spank the rich and famous.”

Aidan shook his head. “Maybe . . . I don’t know. The whole thing reeks of—”

“Just stay loose until your lawyer gets here. What’s the worst that can happen? You reclaim your crown as rock’s king of the badly behaved. It won’t come to anything more than a few hours in an overcrowded cell. Maybe some time under house arrest with a nifty ankle bracelet.”

Aidan’s mouth dropped open, hands thrusting into the air. “But I didn’t fucking do anything! I gave a girl a ride because it’s what any decent person would do!”

“Maybe so. But Aidan, you’re not any decent person.” Kai laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“Unbelievable, I order fucking club soda and I end up with the mother of all hangovers!” Pacing in a small, somewhat trapped, circle he talked more to himself than Kai. “This can’t happen, not now.”

“Assuming we have to deal, you can always turn the tables, go on the defense and say they slipped you something. Your lawyer can manufacture a blood test that says as much.” He looked at Aidan, gesturing with a look that said
money and celebrity can fix anything
. “Speaking of which, counsel is on its way.”

“I won’t plant one lie on top of another. Not that C-Note’s PR people wouldn’t love that angle.” Hands thrust to his waist, he continued to pace. “And that’s the first thing I want to make clear to C-Note attorneys. How many did they send? Maybe we should move this thing to a conference room.”

“Uh, Aidan, I didn’t say C-Note attorneys were on the way.” He stopped, listening harder. “I haven’t even talked to Fitz; he’s been on a plane on his way back from Japan. But there is a lawyer on the way, a really good one.”

Aidan’s head cocked at the innuendo, his gaze bearing down. “She’s not?”

“She is. That’s what I came to tell you. Anne is on her way. She called off the C-Note attorneys herself, said she’d handle things.”

“Here? She’s coming here?”

“Is it that surprising? I know she’s been in New York and traveling since the Asian tour ended, but I thought that was just logistics.”

“It was . . . it is. You know I’ve been stuck here in the studio.”

“Okay, but your Facebook status hasn’t changed, has it?”

Aidan walked to the window, absorbing the scalding view. “No,” he said, then glancing over his shoulder, “of course not.”

“So it doesn’t take Dr. Phil to figure that Anne wasn’t keen on waking up to footage of the new lady in your life.”

“There isn’t . . . That woman was def—This is total bullshit.” Aidan turned, looking hard at Kai before his gaze darted away. “Believe me, if there was someone else, it wouldn’t be
Miss October
.”

“Whatever works for you, man, but I’d review my story before Anne gets here. You know how these things take on a life of their own.”

“Anne won’t jump to conclusions. But DUIs and assault charges aren’t her forte. She’s a business attorney, Kai. She handles my personal business matters, my new contract with C-Note. Besides, Anne’s a busy woman. I just wish she’d talked to me before she got on a plane.”

“Apparently she saw this as her most urgent priority.” His phone rang. “Damn, there’s Fitz now. Let me run some interference.” He answered, but put his hand over the phone, adding, “Just so you know, she’ll be here any minute.”

“Terrific,” he muttered, wondering if Xanax was a staple in the Royal Beverly Crowne’s minibar, not for himself but for her. Anne’s concern would be resolute. He returned to the bedroom, avoiding the glass, rummaging through the linens until he came up with his shirt. Buttoning it, he adjusted to the news: Anne was on her way. Capable, sharp-minded, accommodating Anne. Beautiful, though she didn’t lead with it. He dropped onto the edge of the bed. Aside from those facts, what he couldn’t gauge was his reaction. Aidan wasn’t sure how he felt about Anne descending on the situation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

H
IS
RELATIONSHIP
WITH
A
NNE
F
IELDING
BEGAN
HONESTLY ENOUGH.
Aidan had hired the savvy East Coast attorney to handle his affairs, not with the intention of having one. A few years older, she was versed in finance and law, and in solid possession of a focused life. It made her the perfect choice to handle a variety of business matters. The then-firm of Reinhart and Phelps was known for its celebrity clientele. Today it was Reinhart, Phelps and Fielding. Entertainers, professional athletes, new money of all sorts eagerly sought her out. They’d dabble in vineyards or look to add to a collection of vintage vehicles, maybe buy real estate in up-and-coming markets. While negotiations and contracts required lawyerly expertise, Anne referred to them as show-and-tell acquisitions—investments that her clients could brag about at parties but involved no real risk. Aidan surprised her by wanting to do the opposite. With his inheritance, he’d set out to build his own portfolio, one that didn’t include anything in Napa Valley or bear an Aston Martin insignia, not even part ownership of a condo in Dubai. It was the cornerstone of his reinvention, a way of making Aidan Royce accountable. At first his wildly small investments perplexed Anne, but as his portfolio grew so did her interest. A guy who could have bought and sold pro sports teams or start his own record label, he went for the minuscule long shot. Aidan was drawn to start-up companies and quirky inventors, small ventures that had everything but big capital. Capital that, in time, he could provide. In the beginning he stuck to what he knew, ideas and tangible commodities related to the music industry. He grew bolder, trusting his instincts and a head for numbers that, until then, he’d generally ignored. His efforts did make Aidan Royce accountable, adding a layer of self-worth to Aidan Roycroft, businessman. But only in the last year could he confidently claim that the two had merged into one.

So it was the thrill of the chase, the rush of the win, the comfort of an occasional loss that became an aphrodisiac. As needed, Anne offered Aidan legal guidance, financial advice, and, eventually, her bed. It seemed like an appropriate segue. Although with Anne, a dark-haired beauty with snow-white skin, tethered to New York, and Aidan in almost constant motion, the relationship had an odd structure from the get-go. This did not concern him as his life had a decidedly odd structure of its own. They saw each other when they could, Aidan trying harder when Anne complained that time together resulted from rare open calendar dates or him mixing business with pleasure. He was determined to prove her wrong, the desire for a substantial relationship something he wanted to renew as much as his image.

Then, last fall, she’d flown to Boston to meet him before a sold-out show at the Garden. It was a singular performance, a mistake really. There were certain venues a rock star simply preferred not to play. And while he didn’t deal the card often, it was the only explanation someone so famous need offer. But when the show sold out in less than fifteen minutes he felt obligated to see it through. A rain-soaked October day had Aidan holed up in his hotel room waiting for time to pass. Anne was late, weather delaying her flight. He’d turned on the gas fireplace and flipped through local newspapers. In whatever city, reading them had provided Aidan with leads for some of his best acquisitions. When she finally arrived, he was sitting on the sofa. The business section of the
Boston Globe
lay open in his lap, his gaze fixated on the flames. In his hand was a near-empty glass of scotch, on the table sat a bottle with a terrific dent in it. Aidan recalled having to tell himself to breathe, pumping air in and out with the synchronicity of a machine.

“You look toasty,” she’d said smiling, tossing her coat on a chair, curling up next to him. She inched back. “Or make that just toasted. Aidan, what’s going on? You . . . you don’t drink.”

That was all she knew, Aidan having explained
alcohol-enhanced nothingness
to a good therapist, but never to Anne. “I made an exception. I forgot how much I fucking hate Boston—and everything connected to it.” He finished what was left, his hand gripping until the glass squealed for mercy. “How was your flight?” he asked, a peripheral glance darting from the fire onto her.

“Fine, if you like flying in a monsoon. Aidan, give me the glass.” She eased it away, her head tipping curiously. “Was it your intention to just do the show drunk or did you want the stitches too? I know you weren’t looking forward to Boston, but you’ll be gone—”

His head whipped from the fire to her. There was one giant breath, the kind a body might take before expiring. “What would you say if we took this, us, to the next level?”

She shook her head, not in a negative gesture, just trying to keep up with his mood swing. “Us? The next level, as in we move in together?” She reached for his other hand, which was clutched around the paper. “Aidan, this is unexpected, I—”

“Not move in. Get married,” he said, staring. “Marry me, Anne.” She was uncharacteristically silent. “I don’t want to just live with somebody. It’s too fucking easy to walk away. I want forever, permanent . . . a real family.”

“Forever, permanent . . . a real family?” She blinked widely. “Like the kind with children?”

“And a dog. Even a mortgage . . . if I needed one.”

“Because rock star lends itself so beautifully to stable marriages.”

“It’s not a fucking joke, Anne. I’m ready for this. Marry me.” Her facetious smile faded.

“Aidan, I . . . Are you serious?” She quieted, perhaps weighing blood alcohol versus legitimacy.

He only hesitated long enough to toss the newspaper aside. “Incredibly serious.”

“Listen, let’s get you some coffee—or tea, you prefer tea before a show. Kai will be here soon.” She left him on the sofa, finding tea bags and filtering water through a coffeemaker. Silence pulsed, the faux fire not offering the crackle of much needed background noise. A timer beeped through, signaling hot water and Anne’s opening. “Aidan, you caught me off guard,” she said, arms swinging wide. “My gosh, I’m not even spending the night!” But her tone shifted as she filled a cup, dunking a tea bag like she was trying to drown the thing. “Of course, we could adjust that plan. We could talk,” she said, a spoon swirling. “Not that anybody needs to send out invitations or alert the media. Well, not yet. But after Boston, there’s only Philadelphia and Cleveland, and then you’re done touring. To be honest, I didn’t realize you were such a fan of marriage. But it might be the perfect time to explore the idea.”

Aidan, whose gaze had returned to the unchanged flame, looked over. “Absolutely, perfect timing . . . ”

“Your tea’s ready. I don’t know the concoction though.” She glanced over, so anxious to get it right. “Honey and some kind of juice . . . Pineapple?”

“Grapefruit, but that’s only if it’s cold.” His gaze shot to hers. “Besides, it’s missing an ingredient, and I don’t know what it is.” Focusing on small motor skills, Aidan neatly arranged the newspaper pages—all except one, which remained in his hand. On his way to the bar, where the future steeped and stirred, he stopped at the fireplace. He looked at a photograph that was surrounded by paragraphs of text. It swam in his drunken gaze. A couple stood in front of a downtown building in Providence. It was a place called Grassroots Kids, the
Globe
’s business section featuring the unsung heroes of nonprofits. This story was dedicated to a Boston doctor, Nate Potter, and his girlfriend, who’d spearheaded the Rhode Island–based project. In the interview, Dr. Potter spoke not so much about the cause but about its architect. He talked about her commitment to the fledgling nonprofit while maintaining her day job at a radio station. How it was an honor to be a part of her life. His words read passionately, the way you’d speak about someone you loved.
No, that isn’t right. Say it, Aidan, admit it. Put an end to it, because you’ll never take that risk.
The good doctor’s words, they were the way you’d speak about someone you were in love with. Crouching in front of the fire, Aidan felt the alcohol rush back up his throat. How rock star and poetic, he thought, to lose it right there, all over the Four Seasons’ imported Persian carpet. He forced the booze back down. Straightening the crumpled page, Aidan mirrored an old ritual by turning unwelcome emotion into blistering ash. He couldn’t get the hell out of Boston fast enough.

Time was on Aidan’s side, waking up to the City of Brotherly Love the next afternoon. He closed out the tour two days later before a record crowd in Cleveland. There he’d played a special set, paying homage to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. HBO was taping it for a spring special. It had taken Aidan’s complete focus to memorize the lyrics to a half-dozen vintage songs, knowing he had one take to get it right. He put all his energy into nailing cover versions, hits that belonged to Sam Cooke, the Doors, Springsteen, Van Halen, and a few others. Not long after he was back in California, far away from Boston’s depressing weather. From there he thrust himself into forward motion by asking Anne to work from the West Coast. While she readily agreed, she didn’t suggest setting a wedding date or moving in. Instead, she sublet an upscale condo a short drive from his Malibu home. He was touched by her respect for his feelings about living together. Aidan didn’t want his parents’ life. He wanted forever after, and a careful approach stood a better chance. While it was a piece of paper that held no guarantee, it was a tangible thing that symbolized the commitment he wanted. After unpacking her personal items, before buying a houseplant that, according to Anne, would only be a death-row prisoner, they went about the business of exploring the next level. They did couple things, like walks on a private stretch of beach, Anne on Aidan’s arm for any public outing. They adjusted to each other’s quirks, which included his extreme hours, as well as Anne’s love of Fabergé glass and golf. It was something she excelled at and he loathed, though Aidan viewed this as a plus. Anne had her own interests, separate from his. That was important. The glass collection he didn’t really get. Yet, on her birthday, Aidan presented her with a rare and lavish addition. He helped her choose a car, which he insisted on buying since California living required as much. She balked at the gesture, but eventually selected a limited-edition Mercedes coupe. Delving into familial tasks, she tried her hand at cooking. “Seriously, Aidan, I’d love to cook for you. How hard could it be?” The law, golf, and vintage Fabergé glass were her fortes. Cooking, they discovered, was not. It was an odd spot for the overachieving Anne, who appeared dumbfounded when a delicate seafood dish became permanently encrusted to a pan. Aidan joked that she should have started with foolproof fish, like sticks that came in a box. He felt bad afterward, Anne sulking, Aidan making it up to her by hiring a personal chef. But those ripples appeared to be the biggest bumps, Aidan set on the idea of a singular relationship. Eventually, he decided a ring would make things more concrete, fulfilling a desire that seemed to be insatiable. So it came as a shock, mostly to himself, when in the midst of nurturing a relationship that was striding toward permanent, he agreed to an impromptu Asian tour.

Fitz suggested it at a roundtable of C-Note executives. The group gathered quarterly to marvel over the pot of gold that was Aidan Royce. There they would scheme future plans as to how they might further exploit their product. Fitz and company had grumbled about Aidan’s Far East following, insisting that greater exposure would translate into increased earnings. “They’ll spend money if you’re accessible—CD’s, merchandising, and shows . . . spectacular live shows.”

Fitz was prepared for an all-out argument, including the fact that Aidan had recently completed a thirty-city U.S. tour, and he was taken aback by his response. “It’s fine. I’ll do it. I’ll go,” Aidan said, swallowing hard. But he couldn’t keep the sentences from flowing. “It’s easy to lull yourself into the security of a homegrown fan base. You have to be smart, you have to play to the world like it’s one fucking stage.”

From across the table, Fitz removed his glasses, looking queerly at Aidan. “That’s what I was going to say.”

Kai went to work directing the nonstop multicity tour: Manila, Beijing, Seoul, Singapore, Shanghai, Bangkok, Hong Kong, the Philippines, and Malaysia, a place where they were ecstatic to welcome rock royalty. Anne did not feel the same, his decision causing a volatile argument. In the heat of it, Aidan almost put the tour on hold. But the fiery moment faded when Anne acquiesced, agreeing how important it was to promote the public side of Aidan Royce.

There were phone calls and video chats, along with plans for Anne to join him as soon as she could get away. But it was difficult to put a career on hold for the express purpose of popping in on a rock ’n’ roll life. Tour demands mounted, further interfering. And although he gave every performance one hundred percent, Aidan’s focus was askew, his mind not on the business of being a rock star. Midway through the tour, surrounded by throngs of fans, hordes of media, and endless entourages, Aidan found himself, once again, in the pit that was the bottom of alone. He turned to the thing that had saved his ass the first time around, concentrating on business ventures removed from the world of rock ’n’ roll. It kept him busy, kept him functioning. But when he got to the penthouse balcony of a five-star hotel in Kuala Lumpur, Aidan knew it wasn’t enough. That’s when he decided to jump. It was a wild leap, making a risk-filled purchase that he couldn’t explain, completely unsure what he would do with it. But he did know the moment he put the deal in motion an insatiable need no longer felt as urgent. Days later, he finished out the tour, returning to L.A., not quite as ravenous and temporarily at peace. He should have known the feeling wouldn’t last.