Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (37 page)

S
he seemed to be in a mental struggle with whatever it was, kicking her shoes aside, probably to stall answering. His mind fell back to the night he’d caught her and Colt kissing and he’d virtually yelled at her to check out Colt’s studio. She’d come home the next morning, furious with Colt.

Taking the step between the two of them, he cupped her face and touched his chin to her forehead. “If there’s more, just tell me. You were so pissed with Colt until recently.”

“I had to work some stuff out. And he’s… he acts like a clueless brute sometimes.”

“What did the clueless brute do this time?”

“I asked if I could hold my dad’s guitar.”

“And he didn’t let you!” His inner amp needle swung from curiosity to fury.

“He let me. And while I was holding it…” She heaved in a breath and then blew it out. “He took my picture with it.” Her eyes were far away and sad. “Without asking. Just took it. He showed it to me. Didn’t know he did anything wrong. I didn’t say anything. It was done. You know. What point would there be?”

“He’s an idiot, Scar. You’re right. But I’ve come to find his heart is in the right place about all of the right things.” She nodded. Whether in agreement or taking his word for it, he didn’t know. “And that’s what this is about.” He held up the DVD again. “He means well.”

Leading her to the couch, he sat and coaxed her down. He pulled her against his side, pushed his own shoes off, and intertwined their feet together on the floor. “Since he has the guitar and so much of the important stuff of those years, Willard Acker, the director of the twenty-year documentary came by several times with a camera crew to get shots. Naturally, as these things go, Colt, being such a big fan and loaning his stuff for the film, received an advance copy of it.”

“And that’s it?” She indicated the disc.

“Yeah. Remember you told me how your mom plays into this?” He watched as she warily nodded her head. “You said the movie shown in theaters, television―and the prescreen―will be the documentary by itself. But when the DVD of the movie goes on sale, one of the extra features will be interviews with a few significant persons in his life. One of those interviews is the one your mom came to L.A. for?” She nodded again, and he played with her manicured fingers, noting how much shorter she was wearing her nails since beginning the guitar. Carefully choosing his words, he began. “Willard Acker emailed Colt the extras yesterday. Colt thought you should see them. Well, more specifically, see your mom’s interview.”

He snuck a look at her face and relaxed in relief when she remained calm. Looking toward the fireplace and the electronics shelved around it, she asked, “Do you have a DVD player here?”

“No. I can come up with one if you want to watch the documentary. But the interview part that was emailed to him is here.” He cued up his phone and passed it to her.

She seemed hesitant before determinedly accepting it. “You watch it already?” Her blues held his gaze, and he sadly noted the vulnerability in their depths as he nodded. “I guess if you of all people think I should see, something is really wrong.” Curving an arm around her neck, he pulled her closer and landed a kiss on the side of her face.

The camera panned in on Henni who sat demurely, hands upon the lap of a deceptively classy dress.

At one time, rumor had it you and Tyler were getting married.

We were. Yes.

But you didn’t.

No. If that had happened, it would have been only because of the baby on the way. And that’s not a good reason to get married.

Tyler once said in an interview he believed he’d found his soul mate, but he wasn’t destined to be together with her. Was he talking about you?

Yes.

Yes?

He called us soul mates. Wrote the song, you know. But it’s true. We couldn’t be together. I couldn’t marry him. He had too many problems. No one could see that. Unless they knew him. You have your public face. And private face. And in private, he was a mess.

How so? Depression? Drugs?

Yes. And yes. And more. Tyler wasn’t himself when he was fu—when he was using. He was suicidal. And delusional. He had dreams that he believed were going to come true or had already come true.

What kind of dreams?

He said one night aliens had kidnapped him. He never got over that. He believed it the rest of his days. He also had a reoccurring alpaca lyptic dream.

Alpaca? Oh… Apocalyptic.

Yeah. Apocalypse. He had zombie dreams he believed to be true. That a disease would breakout and the government was going to be overturned. He began collecting guns and getting paranoid.

And here we are twenty years later.

Here we are. Like I say. I loved him. But he had problems. And being batshit crazy was one.

Batshit crazy seems a little strong. Many people collect guns. And to be fair, now, two decades later, there is a huge fascination with zombie culture.

I could go on. But people don’t want to hear it. His fans don’t want to hear that he wouldn’t come out of a closet for hours or that sometimes he wore women’s underwear. Let’s face it. That’s why I was the most hated woman in music back then. Because no one wanted to believe Tyler was anything except a saint. They wanted to blame his addiction on someone. So that was me. When
 he’s 
the one that got
 me 
on the shit. And then when that addiction killed him, dying from the heroin he took couldn’t be his fault. So they blamed me. I was the crazy girlfriend who drove him to OD. They had to blame someone. So they blamed me.

They blamed me.

The screen faded with the last rant.

She pushed the phone back at him
, and when it dropped, he made no move to pick it up.

He didn’t want to miss one bat of her eyelashes, one tic of her lips, or one tear from her ducts. Lifting a finger, he wiped at the tiny wet blob before it trailed her cheek.

“I guess she’s been paid for this shit,” she finally whispered of Henni.

“Probably.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t take at least some of that out. What is his name? Wilfred?”

“Willard Acker.”

“Whether it’s true or not, why would they disrespect his memory like that? On the twentieth anniversary of all times?”

He stayed quiet, continuing to monitor her reaction, silently praying he would say and do the right things to help her through the thought process. She eased back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He brought her a glass of the tea they’d brought back from BIN 180.

They napped some, wrapped together on the couch.

The sunset was turning
the lake gold when she suddenly sat up, dropping her feet from the deck railing. “I think I know what I should do.” She abandoned the last half of her peanut butter sandwich to Rascal and wadded the paper towel. “This Willard Acker. I need to get in touch with him. I can offer him my interview if he will drop hers.” She ignored Rascal, who was attempting to nose the paper towel and the chips crumpled in it from her hand, and turned to Gage. “Do you think my interview would trump hers? It may not be as interesting. But I wasn’t the most hated woman in rock. I’m the one they’ve been chasing after for interviews for years.”

“I think it’s worth a shot. I’ll call Colt and get Acker’s number.”

“I
’m freaking the fuck out.” I held my hands before me and shook them out as I walked. Colt’s studio was directly ahead, and I slowed.

“It’s going to be okay.” Gage ran a reassuring hand down my back while keeping his distance. The gesture was very brotherly.

The studio door burst open, and Colt froze midstride, his eyes glued to my face as he took in my new appearance.

Ghosted
.

Only hours ago, my hair had been colored as close as possible to the shade I’d been born with plus a few chemical sun streaks. Recovering, Colt greeted us with a thump to Gage’s shoulder—and a peck to my lips! A low growling sound escaped Gage’s throat, but he had the good sense not to pounce this time.

“Willard Acker.” A jittery man with thinning hair repeated the stutter-and-stare routine before introducing himself and putting his arm out. Gage ignored the outstretched hand and I followed suit. Ignoring our lack of social decorum, he babbled on about how nice it was to meet me. Three others, obviously his crew, lingered back, each attending to their phones or equipment.

Legal documents had already been signed and copies faxed to each party earlier in the afternoon. In exchange for my interview, I would assume possession of my mother’s interview.
And destroy it
. Furthermore, Henni Smythe wouldn’t be connected or approached in any future manner with the documentary or any projects it might umbrella. My brain ached from the legalities.

“We’re all set up here.” Willard walked me through the set. “We can start with the shot of you playing the Scarlette Rose,” he gestured to a high stool, “or we can begin with the chat,” he pointed to two armchairs he’d brought in.
Is that what he was calling it? A chat?
“I know for a lot of musicians, playing relieves their nerves. Just however you want to do it.”

I wanted to warn him I didn’t really play, but I bit my tongue. A big selling point of my interview versus my mother’s was the bit of my playing the guitar that was my namesake. Gage had worked with me for hours, and I had brushed up on the one song I knew, plus learned the bridge and chorus of one of my father’s easier hits.

“I’ll play first,” I agreed, my eyes already on the purple instrument safely tucked away behind glass.
Before I forget what little I know
.

As reverently as the last time, Colt extracted the guitar from behind the glass. Gage held out his hand. “I’ll tune it for you?” I nodded, gratefully, as I hadn’t thought of that. He’d shown me how to use a tuner app, but I had no idea how to tune by ear yet.

Yet.
I silently acknowledged the desire to continue learning.