Undone, Volume 1 (3 page)

But it wasn’t my
dream. I loved music, but what I loved was the creative feel of it,
the joy, the rush. Not the rigid, relentless execution of a flawless
classical performance. I wasn’t knocking classical music—look at
my playlist and you’d find as much Stravinsky and Prokofiev as you
would Coldplay and Ash Black. But what I’d grown up with was cold
and sterile, not the beating, pulsing energy and passion that
breathed life into music.

The funny thing was,
though, I now got paid to be a demanding, rigorous piano teacher. I’d
earned my degree in library sciences and been working as a children’s
librarian for a year now, but to make ends meet I taught piano to the
sons and daughters of wealthy New Yorkers.

My shift ended at five
because the library closed at five. No money to stay open longer than
that. I pulled on my winter coat, hat, gloves and boots and headed
out into the subway system to the Upper East Side where families paid
me more for a half-hour’s piano lesson than I made in five hours as
a librarian.

“Hello!” I
announced my arrival into an austere penthouse apartment, stomping
the slush off my boots and removing my coat in the mudroom.

“Anika.” The
housekeeper stiffly greeted me.

“Please, call me
Ana.” We went through this every week. The formality of this and so
many of the families I worked for killed me.

“Colby is in the
music room.”

Imagine, New York City
real estate as expensive as it was, and this family was by no means
the only one I worked for with a music room. A whole room devoted to
a huge grand piano! Other families had it on display in their
gigantic living rooms. Not one of them had an upright pressed up
against a wall in a crowded corner, like I’d grown up playing.

I coached Colby through
her lesson, stopping her when she lacked technical precision,
encouraging her to add more feeling like we were following a recipe
for blueberry muffins and you could drop in a teaspoon more of
passion. I’ll tell you what this girl needed, and it wasn’t my
pushing her. She needed to zip up into a snowsuit, head over to
Central Park with some friends and have a good, old-fashioned messy
snowball fight. She needed to laugh until her belly ached.

Problem was, all of her
friends were busy doing exactly what she was, working with
highly-paid tutors and coaches and teachers grooming them to
perfection. And that’s what I was paid to do, too. So I did it,
pointing out a few passages where she could make improvements. But I
worried that after I left she’d stay up until three a.m. completing
her homework and then practicing and practicing some more.

After several more
lessons much the same, I finally emerged out onto the city sidewalk
free at last. It was only around 20 degrees, but the wind wasn’t
blowing too hard so I decided to walk a few blocks. I lived in
Brooklyn so eventually I’d have to get onto the subway, but
Manhattan at night during the holiday season pulled at me like an
unopened Christmas present. All the lights and wreathes and garlands
beckoned, drawing me down toward the gleaming storefront displays
that started up as I walked south on Madison Avenue toward midtown.

I still couldn’t
believe I lived there. Growing up an hour and a half north of the
city, it had seemed a world away. My parents would take me in once or
twice a year, usually to see a Russian pianist perform, introducing
me to my heritage. And trying to hand off the baton.

Now I got to live
there! Well, in Brooklyn. And not Park Slope, mind you, prices there
had gone through the roof. I’d found a small three-bedroom
apartment in North-Central Brooklyn, east of Bed-Sty, south of
Prospect Heights. It wasn’t big enough for a piano, wasn’t really
big enough for much of anything, but I loved it.

I wondered if my
roommates would be home when I got back. Jillian liked to cook big,
fattening casseroles as if we were a large, Italian family instead of
three single women in their twenties. I didn’t complain. My
nighttime teaching schedule didn’t exactly permit me much time to
make dinner. My other roommate, Liv, would likely be out. She tended
to sleep until noon, then stay out all night. As an artist, her hours
worked for her. She was studying performance art at the Pratt
Institute, though I still hadn’t quite figured out exactly what
that meant. We’d all connected over the three-bedroom apartment
online, and though we had very little in common I loved the eclectic
mix, just like the city.

I drew my earbuds out
of my pocket and plugged them into my ears. Nothing like New York
City at night with a soundtrack. Time to fire up some Ash Black. My
boots powered down the sidewalk. With his deep, growling voice
stroking me through the chords, I felt powered up and ready for
anything.

That was what I loved
about music, the adrenaline, the freedom. That surge when you heard
the opening chords of your favorite song.

My ex-boyfriend Stan
had never understood that. Stable and level-headed, hardworking and
loyal, he had all the makings of a wonderful husband and father. My
parents had loved him. They were only getting older, already in their
mid-to-late-sixties. They wanted to know when I was going to give
them grandbabies. Stan had been ready to sign up for the job, buy the
house down the street from my parents and unfurl that future.

The only problem was
me. I knew plenty of other girls who would have loved the stabile,
predictability of Stan. He was a handsome guy, polite to my parents.
We ate spaghetti together every Monday night, take-out Chinese every
Wednesday and pizza on Fridays. Sundays we had dinner with my
parents. We went to the gym Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, and had
sex Friday and Saturday nights. In his apartment, we’d turn out the
lights and have our five minutes in heaven missionary-style in his
bed. It wasn’t even long enough for me to work out my to-do list
for the next day or figure out what I needed at the grocery store,
though I usually got a good start on both while we did the deed.

Ultimately, I couldn’t
do it. Stan and I already had long stretches of silence, nothing to
say to each other while we sat on the couch in front of the TV. I
tried to tell myself that meant we were super, duper comfortable
together. But if we were already like an old, boring, married couple
before we even got engaged, what did that mean? How was that going to
play out?

I’d broken things off
a year ago. I’d heard from a friend back home that he was already
engaged to someone else, some girl I didn’t know whom he’d met
online. I wished them luck.

Who knew, it had
probably been a stupid mistake to end things. I was probably just a
ridiculous dreamer, holding on to fantasies in blatant defiance of
reality. The kind of guy I dreamed about probably didn’t even exist
in real life. I knew I’d read too many romance novels, grown all
too enchanted with the archetype of the strong, tough, sexy bad boy
with the heart of gold.

But I was only 24.
Wasn’t it a little too soon for me to turn up my hands and say
‘eh’, all right, I give up, I’ll settle? Couldn’t I be
allowed a little more time to dream?

Because, what if? What
if there was a guy out there who made my blood rush and my heart
beat, a guy who could make me laugh and feel wild and reckless and
alive. A man who gave me the kind of thrill I felt when listening to
my favorite music, that sense that the future was limitless, that I
could do anything I wanted and more.

I’d always been a
good girl, but I’d always had a thing for bad boys. There’d been
a guy at my high school with a motorcycle and a black leather jacket.
He’d been a year ahead of me. I’d watched him, shy and quiet, and
he’d never noticed me. Until one day after school, he’d caught me
looking, stepping through the autumn leaves holding my books. He’d
given me a sexy wink and a beckoning smile, then invited me over with
a tilt of his head. He’d patted the seat behind him on his bike as
if to say, “It’s yours if you want it. Let me take you on a
ride.”

My eyes wide, I’d
looked down and scurried away. I didn’t even know him. I wasn’t
about to hop up on a motorcycle with him. Besides, my mother had told
me a million times I was never allowed to ride one because they were
so dangerous, death traps she called them, shaking her head when we
saw one on the road.

But that moment had
stayed with me. It wasn’t so much that one guy. It was the idea of
him, of that moment. The path not taken. The opportunity missed.

I’d played it safe
for a good, long time, but I’d been slowly spreading my wings.
Finishing my degree at a four-year SUNY a little further from home,
pursuing a degree in library science, finding a job in the city and
moving to Brooklyn. Step by step, I was building my own life. Nothing
wild and crazy. Yet.

But I had a feeling
inside. It wasn’t something I could name, nothing I could put my
finger on. But I tingled with possibility. I was young and the city
expanded before me, the driving beat and sexy voice of Ash Black in
my ear. Anything could happen. I didn’t know what would happen
next. But I did know that the next time a hot guy patted the
motorcycle seat behind him and invited me to hop on, I wasn’t going
to say no. I was going to run over, jump up, wrap my arms and legs
around him and say “Hell, yeah! Let’s go for a ride!”

Ash

I’d grown up in New
York, but it was a funny thing. Once you’d lived in California for
several years, all that biting wind and slush? You realized there was
another way. Sure, you could brave it all, charge through the
fiercest storms as tough as nails. But once you’d lived in
California you realized that you didn’t have to. There was a land,
a golden land, with beaches and palm trees and sunshine. OK, where I
lived in San Francisco it was mostly fog, but at least it never did
this shit, with the driving sleet coming at you from an angle that
just seemed deliberately vicious.

I ducked into a coffee shop. My
buddy Vance lived around here in SoHo, or at least he had when we’d
last partied, which now I realized had been a year or so ago. Things
got hectic in the Ash carnival. I texted him again:

You around?

Two o’clock on a
Friday afternoon, I guessed Vance would be into hanging out. Vance
was the kind of cavalier rich kid I’d grown up with, the type who
drank Krystal for breakfast and ate pussy for lunch. Right now he was
probably flanked by hot chicks, one to the right, one to the left and
one right between his legs. He was always up for a party.

I’d flown in from
S.F. last night and checked myself into a hotel because I’d be
damned if I’d see my family any more than I had to. I’d headed
out, figuring I could meet up with Vance, and now I guessed I might
as well grab a coffee. Baseball cap down low over my face, I got in
line like the rest of the poor schmucks in New York, standing around
and waiting to order.

Day four of Mandygate
as my agent, Joel, had started calling it, and this thing wasn’t
going away. It wasn’t getting any better. If I were honest, it was
getting worse. I’d lost a sponsor, our biggest one for the New
Year’s show.

Before the video, I’d
been all set to headline the Super Bowl halftime show. The
t’
s
were crossed,
i
’s
dotted, the big news was going to be announced in a couple of weeks.
But now they were having second thoughts. Was I family friendly
enough? As if before I’d broken up with Mandy Monroe I’d been a
cuddly teddy bear, but now the world saw me as a grizzly.

Yesterday Mandy had
leaked 30 seconds of a new song, all about her heart twisting and
aching and breaking. Over-the-top bullshit, all of it, but people
were eating it up. And sending me hate mail. With death threats on
Facebook, “#DieAsh” was gaining alarming popularity on Twitter. I
didn’t spend a lot of time with my fan base on social media—make
that any time—I had people to handle that. I was too busy out
living life and actually doing the shit that made me fans. But the
last couple nights I’d stayed up late, alone and sober, watching
the waves of hate roll in. Because something about it, all that trash
talk, a strange, small part of me had to agree. I was an asshole. How
had it taken the world so long to realize it? I’d known it all
along.

Shit, someone in the
coffee shop recognized me. The worst kind, a girl, maybe around 17.
They didn’t hold back, the young ones, like wild tigresses after a
meal. I popped the collar on my jacket and tucked my chin into it.
Brim pulled down low, hands in my pockets, everything about me gave
off the “stay the fuck away” vibe.

She started whispering with her
friend. I took my phone out of my pocket. Nothing back from Vance.
Something from my agent Joel, of course.

Find her yet?

I rolled my eyes. He’d
cooked up some half-baked rescue plan last night, something about
getting back at Mandy with her own medicine. I hadn’t followed all
of it, told him he’d lost his mind. This had to blow over soon. Not
yet, though.

By the time I got up to
the counter, I could feel a rumble behind me. Like the start of a
small earthquake, a tremor building up. Whispering and phones
clicking, the girls were snapping photos of me and spreading the
word.

“Double tall latte.”
I leaned in close to the girl behind the counter so I didn’t have
to speak loudly. That was the problem with having one of the most
recognizable voices in the world. My deep, gravelly snarl had made me
famous, working my way into bedrooms and hearts all over. Now it made
the barista scowl.

Giving me the
stink-eye, she punched in my order. Then she turned her back and
whispered to her co-worker by the coffee machines. The other one
looked over her shoulder at me like I’d committed war crimes. They
must be raging Mandy Monroe fans. God knew what they’d do to my
coffee.