Chapter Eight
A metal desk battered into industrial chic dwarfed the otolaryngologist sitting behind it with Zander’s latest scan results. Dr. West gestured to a chair that could have been the love child of a sheet of plywood and a giant rusty paper clip. “Please, sit down.”
Gingerly Zander obliged. “Got anything to soften the fall?”
Rather sheepishly, the older man produced a lime green cushion from behind the desk. “The designer came highly recommended.”
Zander positioned the cushion under his posterior. “Yeah, I’ve been suckered a couple of times myself. I’m hoping for good news,” he added. “My UK promoter is asking for second shows.”
But the specialist was already shaking his head. “I have to agree with my colleague’s diagnosis. Further touring is inadvisable until the polyp on your vocal cords is removed.”
Despite never having exercised the rock star’s prerogative of smashing a TV through a window, Zander had a sudden violent urge to hurl his chair through the plate glass.
His expression must have given him away because West added nervously, “The good news is that post-op recovery time is three months, so you’ll only need to postpone your tour—”
Zander interrupted with a bitter laugh. “Ever seen one of those YouTube videos where two hundred thousand dominoes are lined up for a chain reaction? Postponement isn’t as simple as changing dates and making sure the venues are free.”
Standing, he wandered to the window and hauled up the thin metal blinds with a sharp tug. “To give you an idea of scale, we hire twenty-eight big rigs to carry gear in every country we tour.”
Beyond the palms lining the boulevard, the city’s skyline faded to sepia in LA’s smog. His fingers tightened around the window latch, then released. He couldn’t even open the fucking window and take a calming breath because his whole life revolved around his vocal health.
Haven’t I done everything right? Suffered enough? Surrendered enough?
He’d bled, blustered and prostituted Rage’s legacy to bring the band back from the ashes. Lightly, Zander banged his head against the pane, tempted to throw himself through the window.
“Um, Mr. Freedman. Are you alright?”
The only thing he hadn’t done, in the merciless pimping of himself over the last couple of years, was don a skirt, forget to wear underwear and flash his junk.
“Please sit down, Mr. Freedman, you’re making me nervous.”
Trying to think, Zander returned to his chair. There had to be a way through this. “I’ve performed with this polyp for a while. Can’t I continue to manage the problem and delay surgery until after the tour?”
“Steroids reduce the swelling, but they won’t make the growth disappear. In fact, they could mask any increasing severity of the problem. Continued overuse will also make the mass larger and firmer.”
Zander waved that aside. “Has there been any change in the size or shape of the polyp, scarring or whatever it is you look for, between my two scans?”
“No. But—”
“And I’ve performed a dozen times since then.”
“Which is as much down to luck as management.”
“I was born lucky, Dr. West.” He leaned forward. “Let’s talk crisis care.”
The specialist stared at him, his thin face perplexed. “You don’t seem to understand the gravity of your situation. Steroids increase the fragility of the blood vessels in your vocal cords, making them more likely to rupture. A hemorrhage risks fibrosis—scarring—which could result in permanent damage to your singing voice. By continuing to perform, you’re effectively playing Russian roulette with your career.”
“I’ll sign a waiver, exonerating you of all responsibility.”
The other man shook his head.
“There’ll be no comeback on you whatsoever.”
“Why would you take that risk? Surely your fans will understand.”
He’d already strained their loyalty to breaking point through repopulating the band. With no help for it, Zander came clean. “You know what an eighteen-month, seventy-show, six-continent tour costs? Two hundred million dollars. I invested anything that wasn’t nailed down in this venture to convince backers of my commitment. Mortgaged every property.”
Dr. West opened his mouth, closed it.
“My profit comes after the concert promoters, stadium owners and ticket vendors take their cut and I’ve paid the wages, traveling and living costs of my musicians and one-hundred-and-thirty-eight support crew. Right now I’m nowhere near breaking even. So when you talk about Russian roulette, I’ve been rolling the dice for months. You have to help me manage this.”
The other man was silent a long moment. “And you’ll sign a waiver?”
“In blood if necessary.”
“Then I’ll help you on one condition. If you experience a hemorrhage, it’s imperative you avoid hitting your vocal fold until the blood reabsorbs. That means immediate and strict voice rest. No speaking, singing, whispering, throat-clearing for a week. And you’ll simply have to deal with the aftermath of canceling.” He waited for Zander’s nod.
“How will I know if I’ve had a hemorrhage?”
“A sudden voice change or harshness while speaking or singing. Pain or loss of range.” They talked through a management plan.
“If you ignore your symptoms you risk permanent damage.” West looked at him sternly. “Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal.” Any chance was better than none. Any feeling better than despair.
* * *
Elizabeth hadn’t seen Zander in two days—two days of missed interviews. He’d relayed a message via Philippa to say he was sick.
Rubbish.
They inhabited the same house, large as it was. Didn’t Zander realize she could smell the heavy perfume favored by his vocal coach in the library?
Glimpse him leaving in sports gear for a supposed doctor’s visit?
Hear him composing most of the night on an acoustic guitar? Faltering, hesitant chords played over and over again, occasionally resolving into something coherent and poignant.
The last straw came over breakfast when Dimity mentioned Zander was leaving for a boxing match in Vegas. Staying overnight. At which point Elizabeth flung down her napkin and announced in throbbing tones, “Enough!”
“Enough!” She repeated it now, less throbbingly, but with equal resolve, standing outside Zander’s bedroom with the breakfast tray she’d intercepted from Constanza.
He’d regrouped after Jared’s phone call and laughed off her suggestion he was uncomfortable with seeing himself as good. Elizabeth marveled that she’d ever considered him anything other than a devil sent to test her patience.
Balancing the tray on her hip, she opened the door without knocking and swept in. Her reflection frowned from the mirrored wardrobe.
The drapes were pulled, the only light coming from the open door behind her and stealing through a crack in the curtains. A huntsman’s bedroom, the dark wood furniture solidly crafted and a color palette of blood-red and forest green.
Zander lay sleeping on his back in the center of a massive bed, the brocade covers kicked off except for a sheet, which was a stark splash of white in this shadowy lair.
“Good morning,” she said firmly.
He didn’t stir.
Elizabeth kicked the door shut behind her.
Zander opened a baleful eye. “Why are you in my bedroom?”
“I brought you breakfast.”
He closed his eye. “Go away.”
She marched into the room. “Before you leave for Vegas we need to have a serious talk.” Dumping the breakfast tray on the bedside table, Elizabeth yanked open the heavy curtains. Sunlight streamed onto the bed.
With a groan, Zander rolled onto his belly and put a pillow over his head.
Elizabeth returned to the side of his bed. “We’re not spending enough time together.”
“This is why I never married,” he said, his voice muffled.
“Do you know what the difference is between good and great?”
The pillow remained in place. Momentarily she was tempted to smother him with it. He could have been a spoiled child, except for the bunch of corded muscle across his shoulders as he held the pillow in place, and the strong tanned back tapering to a round ass, barely covered by the snowy sheet.
She was becoming accustomed to Zander’s beauty, could view it almost dispassionately. Almost.
“The difference is commitment,” she answered when he wouldn’t. “I can’t write a brilliant memoir without your full cooperation.” Zander didn’t respond and she folded her arms.
“Taking on this project was a professional risk for me and there’ll be fallout on my career if I fail. I can accept dying gloriously on the battlefield of review as long as I’ve given it my best shot.” She released a frustrated breath. “But not my own side shooting me down before I’m even out of the trenches. If I can’t get the interviews I need, then my name won’t be going on the cover.”
Zander rolled over and lifted the pillow. “The contract—”
“Stipulates only that I write it.” Briefly she wondered if he had been unwell—he did look washed out—then she steeled herself. “Every day you curtail or postpone our interviews is a day closer to a second-rate rehash of your life. If you wanted a once-over-lightly job you could have hired anyone. But you hired me.” Hearing a wobble in her voice, she paused. “Waste that opportunity if you want to,” she added quietly. “It’s your dime and I have your wonderful library to enjoy before I go home to ridicule. But be aware that your window to make that choice is closing.”
Zander’s mouth tightened, his jaw set. A succession of emotions scudded across his face—anger, impatience, frustration. Flinging the pillow across the room, he sat up. “Pack your bags.”
* * *
His car was long, sleek and red with soft leather upholstery that cradled her body. Which was just as well, because when Zander hit the accelerator, Elizabeth pressed into it with the centrifugal force of the Hadron Collider.
“I have to say I’m a little disappointed it’s not a convertible,” she confided over the engine’s deep-throated rumble. “I always fancied driving through the desert with the top rolled down.”
He flashed her a grin and adjusted his Stetson. “A roof and tinted windows protect my privacy. Besides, then we wouldn’t be able to talk, which is the purpose of this, right?”
“Right… How impractical of me.”
“The Dodge Viper affects everyone that way—speed thrills.”
Their ride drew looks, but not as many as Elizabeth expected. Luxury cars were everywhere once they hit the freeway, and the tinted windows enabled her to gawk like a tourist. “How long is the drive?”
“Four hours, but we’re not talking the whole way,” Zander warned.
“The advantage of more time together is being able to take a relaxed approach to our interviews,” she pointed out. “What music do you have?”
He docked his iPod. “Name your genre.” His taste proved eclectic, everything from jazz and hip-hop to blues and death metal. “I like to keep up.” The next hour proved their most productive session to date. “Initially we were labeled a grunge band, but our appearance was due to poverty not ideology.” Skipping between tracks, Zander played her examples of his musical influences.
“Because we were young when Rage hit big, people think our success came easy, but it was based on hundreds of hours of practice in our family basement and years playing covers, sneaking our own songs in the playlist when we could. One night we were the warm-up band in some dive and the headline act didn’t show, so we played through. It was a light bulb moment for me. I realized we could differentiate ourselves by our work ethic—being professional and reliable… No, don’t use ‘reliable.’ It isn’t sexy.”
“We’ll edit out the profanity later.”
He laughed. They connected best when sharing a joke, but too often, Zander defaulted to the icon’s story, the one everyone had heard before. It frustrated the hell out of her. Spending more time with him was one thing; her challenge was getting him to reveal the real man.
“So when we showed up to gigs we were punctual, polite,” he winced theatrically, “and professional. When some drunk yelled for ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ instead of returning the prima donna holler, ‘Didn’t you notice we’re a fucking rock band,’ I’d ask, what key? Word got around that we were reliable”—taking his eyes off the road, he glanced over with a grin—“and we got more gigs and more leeway to play our own songs. We started building a fan base. In our private lives we made all the mistakes—booze, drugs, women, ego—but even through our worst excesses we never canceled a concert or shortchanged our audience on performance.”
He fell silent, his gaze pensive on the highway. “Devin collapsed onstage rather than break the band’s cardinal rule that the show must go on.”
“Did you try and stop him drinking?”
“When he was underage, I kept an eye on his intake, once he was legal, I stopped.” Taking a hand off the wheel, Zander massaged the nape of his neck. “We were all into everything then and his drinking seemed no more excessive than anyone else’s. And in the early years I was more concerned with Jeff’s heroin addiction.”
Rage’s original drummer had died of an overdose.
“A few times Mom and I talked Dev into rehab, but you can’t fix someone who won’t acknowledge a problem. We’re both stubborn that way. Kinda like Jonah saying about the whale, ‘I can take that fish, I’ve seen bigger.’”
He was trying to divert the conversation into safer channels. Elizabeth smiled and said nothing, and after a minute Zander spoke again.
“So when Dev finally got sober and said he wasn’t coming back to the band, I should have believed him, but it was my turn for denial. I only announced I was looking for new band members to call everyone’s bluff—Mick and Travis were setting ridiculous terms for their return. Then a reality show producer wanted in, some talented musicians auditioned and I started seeing a different future for Rage.”
“Do you see much of Devin these days?”
Zander took so long to answer she stopped expecting one. “The best thing I can do for him these days is leave him in peace.”
“But you’re his brother.”
“Which means that no matter what shit goes down, we understand each other. If I ever started babying him, he’d hate it. And he has his librarian to heal any paper cuts. Mom married a cop, my brother a librarian; I swear it’s a lot of responsibility stopping the family getting too respectable.”
She couldn’t push him too hard or he’d retreat behind his image. “My sister Marti would empathize with you. She’s the rebel in our family.”
“Yeah.” He glanced over, a glint in his eyes. “And what were you, Doc?”
She chuckled. “Reliable.”