She was like an icy hand around my heart.
I’d never had a woman treat me so distantly as Charlotte did that weekend. It was like she wasn’t even there, just going through the motions of hustling me out of bed in the mornings and reminding me of every fucking appointment I had. She was like a flesh-and-blood smartphone calendar, and about as personable.
I stopped giving her a hard time – literally – in the mornings. She seemed surprised on Saturday to find me already dressed and ready to start the day. Sunday was the same. If she’d really meant what she’d said, that she wished we’d never met, I wouldn’t push her buttons. I wasn’t that much of a bastard.
But fuck, it hurt.
And then that long, fucking Sunday afternoon hit. Somehow, the hours between noon and three always crawled by like a turtle stomping through peanut butter. It was worse now that Charlotte was essentially ignoring me.
She was there at rehearsal, just like every time. And every time I was supposed to be singing to Natasha, I was actually singing to Charlotte.
“The taste of your lips, the feel of your kiss...”
I hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, so my voice was a little rougher than usual – in spite of my endless mugs of liquorice tea. The concert was going to be a disaster if I didn’t start going to bed earlier.
Or getting up later.
“I want more, baby... don’t leave me like this...”
I’d been writing a lot of our lyrics lately and just running them past Tyler. He offered suggestions, but I think he was getting the idea that I had to get something out of my system.
Or someone.
“Your touch in the night, your words in the dark...”
Natasha’s voice was polished and light. She’d liked this one – A Taste of More – so at least she was happy. A happy Natasha was one who didn’t wander into my place uninvited, and interrupt me when I was trying to work.
Or not work, as the case may be.
“I want more, baby... You’ve stolen my heart.”
But I didn’t want her singing my lyrics. They were mine. Mine and Charlotte’s.
What I really wanted was to hear how Charlotte and I sounded together. The few bars of Birthday Memories we’d sung before she’d turned to me in tears had been pretty fucking impressive.
The chorus for A Taste of More was okay. Not great, but okay. We made it to the end of the song, and Natasha turned to me, her eyebrows raised.
“What’s going on with you today, lover boy?”
I ran a hand through my hair and clenched my teeth. Charlotte was sitting on the sofa, pointedly ignoring us. Tyler and Joey were tuning up their guitars as Dan played a riff on the drums. Walt was scratching out some notes on a pad of yellow legal paper. Why the man didn’t pick up a tablet once in a while truly boggled me. He was as bad as Charlotte.
Get with the century, you dinosaurs.
“I’m tired,” I said shortly. It was mostly true. “And I fucking hate Sundays.” That was also true. But there was no way I was going to tell Natasha what was going on in my head. I trusted Wendy with that, and no one else.
I needed to go for a walk.
Walt lifted his head from his notes and clapped. “Enough for today,” he said, and I couldn’t have agreed more. We broke and milled around a little. Tyler and Dan were doing the twin thing, sharing a look that meant something only to them. Joey was slouching on the sofa next to Charlotte, who smiled at him and murmured some kind words about his playing. He beamed. He wasn’t used to getting much attention from girls.
Well, from girls who didn’t want to get into his pants, and knew words with more than one syllable.
“I’m going out,” I said grumpily. Natasha opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. “Alone. I need to walk.”
She shrugged and picked the sheaf of music off the stand. “Suit yourself,” she said. “I want to get home anyway. There’s a bubble bath and a glass of wine calling my name.” She smiled coyly at me. “When you’re finished your walk, why don’t you join me? The water will still be hot.”
I saw Charlotte stiffen, and I felt a burning sensation in my chest. Was this what she was upset about? She must have known that Natasha and I had been over for months. I was pretty sure there’d been an article about that in a magazine somewhere – although the interviews all ran together after a while. Walt put all that shit in binders, so Charlotte must have seen it in the one he’d given her.
My frustration with both women gave an edge to my voice.
“I’m in enough hot water already, Tasha,” I said, glancing at Charlotte, then at Walt, who smirked. “See you guys tomorrow.” I waved at them and stalked out of the room, my temperature rising.
Women were nothing but trouble.
I checked my phone when I got outside. I’d hoped that Wendy would call me that week, but I hadn’t heard from her yet, and I was worried. Her husband – and his shiny, new gun – had been in the back of my mind ever since she’d mentioned them in the same sentence. I hoped she was okay, but there wasn’t much I could do about it until she got in touch with me.
Back at the house, I wandered around aimlessly. I should have been writing the last few songs for the concert, but my muse was obviously as upset with me as Charlotte was. Sometimes when I couldn’t think of a tune, I’d idly drum my fingers on different surfaces, to see if I could get a sound that would spark an idea. I shuffled in and out of every fucking room in that huge house – my bedroom, the office, the spare room that I never used – even, as a last resort, the music room. But my muse had fled.
Again.
Standing next to the piano, I threw my arms out and shouted, “Where the fuck are you, you bitch?”
“Who are you looking for?”
I spun around and stared at Charlotte. She tilted her head to the side and lifted her eyebrows.
Nothing embarrasses me: not jacking off with her in the room; not competing with Tyler and Dan to see who could come up with the dirtiest jokes; not even making lewd comments around my ancient housekeeper.
This though? This embarrassed me. I blushed and shuffled my feet.
“No one,” I mumbled, and shrugged.
She looked as tired as I felt. With a sigh, she walked past me, opened her day planner, and set it on the piano.
“You have an interview tomorrow at ten,” she said quietly. “Rehearsal at three.”
“Charlotte.” I looked down at her.
She kept talking, studying the open notebook. “I talked to Tyler at the studio. He said you’ve been writing both music and lyrics, and if you want to keep going that way, he doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“Charlie.”
“And Walter says you’re shaping up to be your old self.” She rubbed her forehead and set her glasses on the piano next to her book. “At this rate, you won’t need me here past the concert date.”
I grabbed her arm. “Charlie, stop.” I turned her towards me and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at me. “What the hell is going on?”
She pulled her head away and stepped back. “I’m doing what I was hired to do, Kyle,” she said, her voice tightening. “I’m a personal assistant. I’m assisting you.”
I leaned against the piano. “You could assist me a lot better if you weren’t being such a fucking ice queen.” I ran my eyes over her body and flashed her a grin, but she wasn’t playing.
She glared at me. “You have enough women in your life,” she said, slamming the day planner closed. “You don’t need one more.”
I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t thrilled to be fighting with her, but at least she wasn’t treating me like a piece of furniture. “It’s not about what I need,” I said, and shrugged. “It’s about what I want.”
The ache in my chest said I was a fucking liar. It was all about what I needed, and it pissed me off that I felt this way about her. Especially because she didn’t feel the same way about me.
She stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I shrugged again. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“Are you even listening to yourself, Kyle?” She laughed, but there wasn’t an ounce of humour in it. “You’re the most spoiled, irresponsible, easily-distracted...” She shook her head. “This conversation is over.” She picked up her planner and glasses and turned to leave.
I backed up into the doorway and put a hand against the frame, blocking her exit.
“Nobody walks away from me, doll,” I said, looking down at her.
Her eyes flashed. “Maybe that’s your problem,” she snapped. “Maybe when someone does, you’ll understand that it’s not always about what you want.” She rubbed her forehead again. “Ugh. Why am I still here?”
“Because you want me as much as I want you.”
She glared up at me. “All I want is a man who won’t cheat on me with every backstage bunny who spreads her legs!” I blinked, and her eyes widened. She clapped a hand over her mouth, the way she had when she’d accidentally thrown cold water on me.
And that’s pretty much how I felt right about then.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, and ducked under my arm, out the door. I turned to grab her, but she was quicker, and she was gone before I could say anything.
Someone had hurt her. Badly.
I wanted to kill the fucker.
I could feel the growl building in my chest. I grabbed my Gibson and dropped down onto the sofa, settling the guitar against my leg. I was in the middle of tuning it up when something she’d said hit me.
You have an interview tomorrow at ten.
Shit. I’d totally forgotten to read the list of interview questions.
I ran upstairs to the office and shuffled through the mountain of papers on the desk, but I couldn’t find the damn thing. Maybe I should ask Charlotte organise this room, too. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally found the wrinkled sheet stuffed behind the cushion of one of the chairs. Apparently I’d used the back of it to write lyrics. I didn’t even remember that; I’d been kind of... preoccupied the last few weeks. I sighed and scanned the list. When I saw what the reporter was planning to ask, my grin was so wide, my face nearly split.
Let’s see Charlotte be upset after this little exercise in publicity.