Punk and Zen (50 page)

I stared at her in shock. “When did that happen?” I
asked. This put a whole new twist on my life. It meant potential politics that
I might have to steer far and clear from, if I had to work with both of them.
It meant I might want to find a new label if my current contract was about to
change. I was going to have to call Mrs. J—Jerkster’s mom—sooner than I
thought, then.

The sun beat on my head, and the slate tiles of the
roof began to burn under my feet, which forced me to remember my manners. It
really was hot out there, and Samantha and Francesca had just traveled quite a
long way. That, and Carlos had made them take the outside stairs.

“You know what? Never mind, it’s hot and I’m sorry.
This way, ladies,” I said politely and led them to my apartment—I guess
our
apartment, seeing as they would be staying more than a day or two.

“So,” I said brightly as I opened the door and they
followed me in, “this is it.”

Samantha promptly selected the ideal corner for her
bass guitar, and I gave them the nickel tour.

While they unpacked and settled in, each using one of
the travel trunks that served as end tables, I decided I wasn’t hanging
around—I was going out before work tonight. I quickly showered to get rid of
the chlorine and dressed. On the way out of my room, I grabbed some towels from
the linen closet and made coffee.

Yeah, okay, I was pissed and confused and just
generally off track, but still, they were staying in what was essentially my
home, and I knew when I finally calmed down, I’d be happy to see them. In fact,
part of me was; I just wasn’t ready to deal with either one of them yet.

“Hey, go change, swim, relax,” I said, and put the
towels on the sofa. I’d already told them it was a pullout; they’d have to
figure it out for themselves from there. “I started coffee,” I told Fran with a
weak grin. I’d learned to make it when we were, whatever we were, because she
enjoyed it so much.

Samantha took a towel and nodded, silent, that heavy
emotion she carried darkening her eyes.

Fran looked up from her bag. “Thanks, Nina,” she said,
her voice as gentle as always. “I know this must be quite a, a shock for you.
Can we take you out to dinner and talk?”

I couldn’t. I needed time to calm down, to wrap my
head ABC around their presence in my space—every aspect of it,
including work. And I had questions, probably more than two.
I shook my head and asked, “Um, let me rain check you on that, okay? I, uh,
I’ve got a few things to take care of.” Yeah, lame, maybe, but what was I
supposed to say, um, you guys are really freaking me out? I don’t think that
would have gone over very well. No, that’s a lie. It probably would have been completely
fine, but I just wasn’t up for it at the moment.

As I walked to the door, it occurred to me—by the time
the night ended, I would forget what I was mad about, since I’d be tired
because their combined presence was making my brain swim. And I was hyperaware
of my skin—the water that had barely dried, the heat from outside, the slight
hiss from the air-conditioning.

And in the end? I knew it wouldn’t matter why I hadn’t
heard from either one of them for so long—because deep down at the heart of it,
I missed them both too much to care.

I stopped with my hand on the knob. “Since you guys
just got here, why I don’t I take both of you out tomorrow, then. Let’s say
brunch, since I get out of work late?”

Samantha and Fran exchanged a surprised look, then
Samantha gave me that smile that made me want to—well, it made me want, anyway.

“Sure, that sounds really good.” She nodded lightly,
and Fran smiled in agreement.

Okay, then. Cool.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.” Okay, so I was
fucked up, but at least I felt a little better as I walked down the steps and
out into the parts of the city that would bring me a little distraction before
I had to deal with the combined presence of my lion and the diamond edge of
Sammy Blade.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

If I hadn’t got so, so, I don’t know, adrenalized is
probably the best way to describe it, that I shook every time I saw either one
of them, I’d say it all went very well. It hurt to see Fran, to be near her, to
remember anything, everything, while Samantha left me raw, shaken, and confused—I
didn’t know anything at all about where we stood with each other, and the fact
that they were together, in my face and in my space…

Once I got downstairs and into the “studio,” things
were fine. Working with Ann R Key was quite easy. I played her the pieces I’d
written, and we would develop them, adding bass lines and occasional harmonies
and trying to sketch out where percussion should go, while Fran worked in
Carlos and Enrique’s office during the day, reviewing the tons of paperwork the
label sent her. Apparently, it sucks to be low man on the totem pole when
you’re working in the legal department.

The evenings weren’t too hard because I worked, but on
the nights and days I didn’t, I started spending time with them, sometimes
together, sometimes individually, depending on what was going on. I was the one
with the scheduled time off, while Fran’s job was ABC really every day
and sometimes late into the evening, and Samantha’s revolved around me, with
“other things” that she occasionally had to do. They weren’t any of my
business, so I didn’t ask.

It started with them both coming to the club when I
was spinning and grabbing a bite with me afterward. Then one night when I
didn’t have to spin, but Fran had to “review clauses,” I took Samantha to one
of my favorite places.

It was a hot-ticket restaurant where they served
things like roast tuna with mango chutney in a white-on-white dining room.
Mostly I tried not to spill anything while attempting to maintain a
conversation, which is not something I usually had a problem with—I suspect it
was either company-or subject-dependent.

“I met Trace…” Samantha said nonchalantly as she cut
into whatever it was on her plate.

I almost choked and was afraid the chutney would come
out my nose. Instead I hefted my glass of sangria and took a healthy swallow.
Once I could see again, I said as calmly as I could, “Oh, that’s, uh…you went
to Staten Island, then?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded and sipped sedately. “She
was…more than you said she was.”

I stared at her, remembering quite well the “full
confession” I had made to her before I’d left and sincerely hoping she didn’t
mean that I’d either omitted or changed the facts, such as I knew them, anyway.
I put my fork down as safely as I could to prevent injury to myself or anything
else in that white, white dining room.

“What do you mean?” I asked very carefully.

Samantha set her glass on the table and gazed at me,
studying me seriously.

“Do the words…unholy, unclean, and undead mean
anything to you?” She gave me a half-smile.

I thought about it. What was it Candace had said?
“That one has fangs.” Unholy, unclean, and undead. I grinned at Samantha.

“Uh, that sounds about right to me, yeah,” I said. “I
wish I’d thought of that.”

Samantha laughed lightly. “Eeyeah…but you’re okay, right?”

I didn’t know what she meant by that at all. “Um, I’m
fine,” I told her, arching my brow, “although there might be a scar or two
somewhere. Why?”

Samantha raised her glass and gestured. “Just making
sure. People like that, they’re…they’re just vampires, you know?” She quirked
her lips when she said it, and the half-smile reached everything but her eyes.

Now that bit, about the vampires? I did understand.
The thought of Trace didn’t hurt anymore, not the way it used to, but it still
left me feeling, I dunno, dirty or something, and it still had this sense of
“my fault” about it. Still, it was way over, and the best part of that was it
was two oceans and more than two time zones away.

I don’t really remember what I said, and the rest of
the conversation returned to more mundane things, well, mundane for us
anyway—like the studio and the work we were doing.

I asked Samantha when she’d switched from guitar to
bass, about the band Loose Dogs and the work she did with them, and where she’d
played. Samantha had never performed in the States; instead, she’d spent about
half her professional life doing studio gigs, but she’d performed all over
Europe, even in some of the places I’d gone with the Microwaves and Adam’s Rib.
We compared notes about venues and sound, bands we liked, and the things we
totally hated—and we made lots of jokes about train food.

Samantha had “stuff to do” the next night, and Fran
happened to be free, so I took her to a very traditional restaurant known for
serving some of the finest Italian food in the city. It was great to hear Fran
rattle off her order in Italian; she spoke it beautifully. My pronunciation
wasn’t bad, but really, I cheated, because I spoke Spanish anyway.

When I told her in Spanish that I admired her Italian,
she blushed and looked at her plate a moment. I smiled but was a little
embarrassed, too, because I hadn’t meant to say that, and it crossed all the
boundaries we’d been so very careful to maintain.

“Well, Nina, you’ve a beautiful accent yourself,” she
returned with one of her trademark smiles. I tried very hard not to stare at
that gorgeous mouth and was grateful when the waiter came back with our food.

We joked and laughed with much of our old closeness as
we ate, then spent the rest of the night hopping around from place to place,
Spanish style. I really enjoyed seeing the delight on Fran’s face as she
observed the local social culture, the mix of people, the sense of friendly
playfulness that seemed to be a part of the very sidewalks and buildings.

And we sort of fell into this habit, I guess, of Fran
and me or Samantha and me going out and wandering around Madrid on nights when
I was free. Or they went out and did stuff or came to hang out in the club, and
we became, as weird as it sounds, friends, friends like we hadn’t been in
years.

I can’t say there wasn’t some tension, because in all
honesty, either one of them near me made me vibrate like a live wire, and any
time I was with both of them for more than a few seconds I had to keep myself
at least three feet away from whoever was nearest because it felt like… Truth
to tell, there really wasn’t a single moment, not even in the studio, when I
could forget what it was like to love Samantha, the primal intensity of her, or
to be loved by Fran and her controlled fierceness.

Whenever I saw Carlos and I was with ABC one
or both of them, he’d give me an evil smirk and pretend all innocence if either
one of them glanced over. I scowled at him a lot—then tried not to, because I
didn’t want my eyebrows to stay like that.

Enrique constantly asked me for updates.
“Y qué?”
almost every day, and he got some arched eyebrows and a lot of “And nothing,
busybody,” in response. He laughed at me every time.

Finally, everyone had two days off—it was a
holiday—and in their respective travels around Madrid, Samantha and Fran had
each happened upon a spot that everyone talked about as
the
place. I’d
never been to it because it was famous for two things: the food and the very
specific atmosphere. People went there for important dates: to propose to their
intendeds, to celebrate twenty-five-year anniversaries, and to begin or
consummate secret, undying trysts.

So, of course, that’s where we went—and it was
perfectly nice and perfectly weird, because it was a really romantic, candlelit
spot where we had duck breast with something and way too much spiced red wine,
and ordered some to take home. What the fuck, right?

After dinner, we took a walk in
El Parque de Retiro
or the Park of Retreat (and for the smallest bit of history, because, hey, it’s
Spain, not some mundane part of Staten Island’s dump or something), which is
what Felipe IV had built it for—retreat.

This park came alive at dusk and rocked through the
night. Artists and vendors lined the walkways, selling everything from
“authentic” bullfighting ad posters to castanets and a variety of foods.
Scattered here and there were the occasional games of chance, such as darts and
balloons, the shell game, cards. Gypsies offered to read your palm and your
cards and solve your problems—all of them—for the right price. There were also
street performers, individuals playing their guitars and singing their hearts
out or groups doing complex flamenco patterns. This was Madrid at its most fun,
and I was glad to be able to share it.

We passed the Crystal Palace and the San Jeronimo
Church (which happens to be where the monarchs who’d financed Christopher
Columbus got married)—imposing structures that looked a heck of a lot different
in real life than they did in a small two-by-two picture in a textbook, and
finally, we came to the lake path.

I was feeling pretty expansive and just generally good
about everything, because we all felt just so very comfortable with each other
that I could occasionally hold Samantha’s hand or Fran’s as we walked along.

I linked my arm through Samantha’s on one side, then
Fran’s on the other. “So…” I started as we strolled along the edge of the lake,
moving from patch of light to patch of light and watching as the rowboats slid
by with their lantern-lit bows, “w
hat are you guys
really doing here? I mean, okay, we’re all working for the label, in effect,
but why both of you? Not that I mind, of course,” I added, giving them each a
smile.