Chapter 10
By the time I reach Malibu, I’ve pretty much lost interest in all my favorite pastimes: music, drinking, parties, being purposely obnoxious to people, and sex. It doesn’t surprise me. It always happens when I am in this phase with Chrissie.
I’m in the in-between state. We’re not over and we’re not together. I’ve been here before: not good, not bad, just in between. Now comes the part where I figure out how not to fuck it up before she decides what we’re doing.
I contemplate firing the Indian girl when I get home, but that would be just some moronic, pointless gesture that’s only going to leave the girl unemployed without reason. I wasn’t even remotely interested yesterday—that was before I got to even see Chrissie again—I sure as hell don’t want Aarsi today.
I am now in the hold of Chrissie. All women lose their appeal. I can’t see, I can’t feel, and I can’t smell another woman, not when I’m with her. Not even when I only have the possibility of her. The possibility of her combined with that unrelenting want of her is like a testosterone inhibitor with all women except her the second I become aware I can have her again.
I can smell Chrissie’s scent on my clothes even after having only the briefest feel of her and my cock is rock hard—though there is nothing about the scene that went down at Chrissie’s that should give me an erection.
Amusing?
Definitely.
Pathetic?
No doubt.
But I can’t deny it.
The only thing I really want to do is to go home, lie down, jerk off thinking of her and then sleep. The last twenty-four hours have been one hell of a ride. I’m exhausted. Going to bed alone and emptying my cock sounds like a fine way to end the first round of being with Chrissie again.
Two days pass at a snail’s pace.
I sit on my back terrace, staring at the ocean, wide awake and restless at 11 a.m. after having spent days and nights mostly alone, only filling the vacant minutes by repeatedly checking my phone hoping to find a call from Chrissie.
I look at my cell again. Nothing. Then I tense. Oh fuck, somehow I left her house condemned to be the woman in this next phase of our life together.
Waiting.
Checking the phone.
Paralyzed into inaction.
Fuck.
I’m stalled. But then, I’m in uncharted territory. I’m out of my comfort zone. What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Usually Chrissie sets the ground rules, we fight, I say something inane, we fuck, and then we’re together again. This time she set the ground rules, introduced me to my daughter, we fought, we talked, and then she sent me away. I don’t know how to work with this.
I shake my head. There must be a way expeditiously to get out of my isolated purgatory. Maybe I’m just in this wretched place because Chrissie doesn’t want me at the house with the kids and she’s short on staff. It could mean nothing that she’s ignoring me.
The patio door opens and I glance over as Aarsi appears. She smiles and says nothing—her version of being invisible—and starts to collect my breakfast remains from the table beside me.
She’s wearing a tight, short violet sundress with a pleated hem that puffs with the gusts of wind. Nice touch. Clearly the girl didn’t listen when I said I wasn’t interested. Time to send her away. She’s becoming annoying in her obviousness.
I grab my coffee before she can take it and smile. Hmm? Maybe not get rid of her. Relocate her. Better. I definitely could use an ally in Chrissie’s house.
Since Aarsi works for me, she’s been thoroughly vetted, down to the point where even the most minute detail of her life rests in a file with the people who hire my staff. Brian Craig screens my employees better than the FBI. I couldn’t hire a better nanny for Chrissie if I tried.
No risk if she’ll do it. Would she do it?
“Do you like kids?” I ask abruptly.
Her eyes widen, surprised that I spoke to her. She blinks. “Yes. Why?”
“Do you have experience with them?”
She nods. “I have three younger siblings. And I did a lot of au pair work before I got the job here.”
Perfect. Interview done. Decision made.
“Go get me something to write with,” I order.
She runs into the house and returns. She hands me a pen and a notepad that looks like it’s from her school things.
“Here’s an address. Go there. I want you to work there as much as you are needed, whatever hours you agree upon with Mrs. Harris. Tell Mrs. Harris I sent you there as a nanny or a housekeeper or whatever she needs. Call me if there’s a problem.”
She stares at me like she wants to argue—or worse, ask questions—then she shrugs. “OK. When do you want me to go?”
“Now. Then text me with your schedule if she keeps you.”
I’m starting to feel more upbeat. A sense of doing something to move things in the direction I want them to go. A moronic optimism that I might get to fuck Chrissie again sometime soon if I get her a little help so she’ll maybe focus a little more on me.
Probably an asinine move.
I don’t care.
It’s worth a try.
I need to do something.
I’ve had enough of this.
My phone beeps two hours later. I read the text. Brilliant. Chrissie didn’t toss out the girl. There’s hope.
After a run on the beach, I shower, dress, and head out into the garage. I stare at the line of cars, pick one and climb in.
I jerk it into reverse—everything I want, always, and never anything that I need—and back into the driveway. I merge into traffic on Highway 1 and then cut onto the road to Hollywood.
I don’t have a plan. I’m not even working on a new release. I’ve been here three days, Chrissie and I are still on separate pages and I haven’t gotten anything going, but the Rainbow is always a good place to start. A rockers’ bar in Hollywood. Even though it’s afternoon, there will be someone, something going on there.
A good place to start if I want to get quickly plugged in to the goings-on in the LA scene.
Which I’m not sure that I do.
Fuck, I’m going there anyway.
I’m tired of being alone, waiting for Chrissie to call.
The minute I step through the door, I’m quickly swallowed up by people. Christ, I’m not in the mood for this bullshit. I smile. Make appropriate replies and scan the crowd, picking out the faces of a few here I actually like.
Ah, Ian Kennedy, music producer extraordinaire, out drinking at two in the afternoon.
Amusement and diversion.
Success.
I make my way toward him.
He takes me in a wraparound, one-arm, patting hug. “Hey brother, what the fuck are you doing in LA?”
We go to the back of bar, into the VIP private area. I sink on the couch and call out to the cocktail waitress to bring me a coffee. I ignore the amusement that sparks in Ian’s eyes. Fuck, get over it, Ian. I need to stay sharp with Chrissie. I need to cut down on the booze. I need to cut down on my hours in places like these.
“Got sick of east coast gray,” I say casually, “and the east coast got sick of me.”
He laughs. “Seriously, how long are you here for?”
“Three months. Just taking some downtime. Staying quietly out of the mix.”
His lips purse in an upside down sort of smile and he nods. “Well, you’ve been pretty fucking quiet. I didn’t even know you were here.”
He laughs.
Our conversation quickly evolves into the standard array of shit. Music. Concerts. The road. Women. Shop talk and industry gossip. The more we talk, the larger the circle around us gets, and I’m feeling impatient and bored.
I look at Ian. “Do you want to cut out? Have dinner somewhere?”
Ian gives me a strange look, shakes his head, finishes his drink, and then stands. “I’ve got to hit it. It’s getting late.”
Late? “It can’t be past five.”
He shrugs. “Taking off with you tonight would not be a good thing. There’s trouble at home. Better to go home early.”
My brows hitch up. “Ah, Yotti is still leading you on a chase, is she?”
I laugh.
He glares.
I like his wife.
I shouldn’t give him shit.
Ian juts his chin at me. “Fuck you. Besides, you don’t want me hanging around. Every guy’s wet dream just walked in and she’s got her eyes locked on you like a laser.”
I look over my shoulder. Jen, former centerfold model and current employee of the promotion company managing my tour. Beautiful. Built. Definitely sexually adventurous. My LA preference from my list of friends I sleep with when I’m here.
Ian tosses me an amused look. “Lucky bastard. She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to you. I didn’t even know you were in LA. How the fuck did she find you? Asshole.”
I manage a small laugh as he fades away and Jen closes in. She settles on the couch close to me. She is wearing Dolce & Gabbana. It carries a special tang on her. I’ve never liked the scent, it is usually too pungent, unless it’s on Jen.
Her eyes do a leisurely once-over of me. She smiles that I’m up for anything kind of smile. My cock twitches. Nothing more. A Pavlovian type of response. Not interested.
“In town, three days, and you haven’t called me,” she says, following that with a catlike pout. “You look as if you need a little tending. Why don’t we find something better to do than this tonight?”
Ah, direct. I usually admire that, and there is certainly no need for the preliminaries with us. But tonight it annoys me, and paradoxically the annoyance feels good.
“I was about to cut out,” I say.
Her eyes brighten. “Good. We can cut out together.”
She leans in, and Ian is right, she is every guy’s wet dream.
I ease away from her. I turn on the couch, one leg on the cushion in an open and inviting posture. “Come here. Get as close as you can get, surround me, without touching me.”
“What?”
My laughter grows huskier. “Do as I say.”
Her eyes do a frantic dart around the room. Checking who is here, I imagine. Hardly anyone, it’s early, and definitely no one important or else I wouldn’t have done this. She’s confused but I can see she’s excited about where this is going.
In graceful, clever moves of her body, she spreads herself over top of me without contact. Softly, she laughs. “What I have in mind will require touching eventually. You used to know that.”
“Touching.” I frame her face with his my fingers, spreading them wide. I have a long history with Jen. I like her, but I like even better that she’s no longer even appealing to me, though not exactly unappealing. I lower her face to mine. Breath touching, nothing more. “Thank you. Be a really good friend and lose my number.”
Her eyes flash. She pulls back and sits on the edge of the cushion. “Fuck you, Manny.” She fixes her eyes on me. “So it’s true?”
I shrug, since I don’t know what she’s asking.
Her gaze turns impatient. “You’re back with Chrissie.”
What the fuck?
The way Jen is staring at me leaves no doubt that Chrissie and I are the fast moving gossip in the scene again. Though how that’s possible, I don’t know. We haven’t even done anything as benign as go out for dinner. Probably just logical assumption, but fuck, gossip means soon there will be tabloid print and that always fucks up Chrissie. And the last thing I need is one more uncontrollable element complicating matters with her.
I ignore the comment and stand. “Have a nice night, Jen.”
She stares up at me. “If you decide you need a friend, call me.”
“If I need a friend, you’ll be the first I call.” I remember the slip of paper in my pocket. I take it out and hand it to her. “There is something I’d like you to do. Messenger two passes to the LA concert to this name and address. Enclose a note from me. Send a car on the day to get them there. Let them know it’s coming.”
Jen looks at it and frowns. “Who is Devon Tyler? I’ve not heard her name before.”
The smile I let surface is lazy and enigmatic. “My pizza delivery boy. I’m working at keeping promises. I’ve kept two in five minutes. Good night, Jen.”
I head back to my car, unsure where I’m going next. After an hour of fighting rush-hour LA traffic, I’m here again.
At Chrissie’s house.
Uninvited.
Without a call.
But, fuck, it’s where I want to be.
I knock on the door and wait.
After more minutes pass than seem necessary, it’s jerked wide and then hits the inside wall with a thump. I stare down at a four-foot-high echo of Jack. The kid looks just like his grandfather. “Which one are you?”
One of the twins, I don’t know which, stares at me, annoyed. “You ask me that every time you see me. Do you think it’s funny or do you have a bad memory?”
Echo of Jack. Bright and blunt in surprisingly improved language skills he’s somehow developed in the last year.
I shrug. “Which one do you think? Funny or bad memory?”
The door is slammed in my face. Laughter bubbles upward, though I’m not certain why.
I don’t move. I wait. I’m starting to feel like an idiot, crouched on the stoop. The door reopens and the kid slaps something on my chest. I look at it. Ah, lopsided letters done in crayon on a mailing label in the center of my shirt: Alan. Another label, carefully made as well, on his shirt: Ethan.
Ah, the boy has not only learned to write during my absence, but he can spell.
I smile at Ethan. “It’s very nice. Where did you learn to do letters?”
“I go to school.” He says that in a way that makes it sound as though it had been a stupid question.
“School is doing you good. The labels are very nice. Do you think it’s funny or do you have a bad memory?”
“I remembered the letters.”
I turned the tables on a six-year-old and Ethan turned them back. Laughing, I pick up the boy, step into the house and shut the door. “You’ve made your point, Ethan. You’ve had enough of the joke.”
Ethan nods. “You’ve been gone a long time. Where did you come from?”
I laugh. Where did you come from? The childlike wording is endearing. “New York. I’ve been gone because I’ve been touring. You’re not mad at me, are you? How have you been?”
“I hate my new house. I liked my old house better.”
I nod and leave that one alone. Ethan likes the old house better because Jesse had been there. “You’ll start to like this house, too, Ethan. I promise.”
“Do you want to play video games? There’s no one to play with today.”
The house does sound quiet.
“Maybe later on the video games.” I smile and then notice his cheeks have a bright red burn. “You look like a lobster. Does it hurt? Who let you get too much sun?”
“Aarsi. She took us to the beach but I stayed in the water with Krystal so she couldn’t turn me into a clown with that white stuff she smooches on my face.”
White stuff. Zinc. Fuck. I hope Chrissie isn’t pissed that the boy got a sunburn Aarsi’s first day working here.
“Better a clown than a lobster,” I chide.
Ethan crinkles his nose in disdain. Clearly the boy thinks not. I cross the empty family room, then go into the kitchen. Vacant as well.
I set him on his feet. “Where is everyone?”
“Mom is in the studio. Kaley is gone. Khloe is with Aarsi. Krystal and Eric are at Grandma’s.”
Almost a childless house.
My day is rapidly improving.
Aarsi rushes into the kitchen, looks at me, doesn’t smile, and focuses on grabbing her things and car keys from the counter.
Ethan runs off.
I frown. “What was that all about?”
She sighs, exasperated. “He’s afraid I’m going to take him to his grandmother’s. It’s hell getting that kid from his mother. He doesn’t want to leave her. Not for a second.”
Not an encouraging bit of news, but not surprising. “He’s afraid she’s going to die like his father.”
Aarsi gives me a cold, hard stare. My skin covers in prickles out of nowhere. What the fuck did I say to make her look at me that way?
“Did your first day go well?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Is Mrs. Harris happy?”
Her eyes become more intensely unpleasant. “I have a full schedule. She wants me back tomorrow.”
“Good.”
She shakes her head. It looks almost like she’s struggling not to say something. “Good night.”
She flounces out of the kitchen. I hear the front door close.
I leave the kitchen intending to go to the studio since that’s where I can find Chrissie. In surprise, I discover myself at the end of the hallway, outside the nursery.
I go in.
The room is bathed in the soft light of a single lamp turned low and every detail of the room holds the feel of Chrissie. Not a single item placed by an impersonal hand. Delicately made natural hue teak furniture. A whisper of color from a scattering of pillows woven with scenes from fairy tales. Stuffed lambs and bears. One of the walls is covered by a full-size mural, the dreamy-hazed images familiar. Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
I slowly inhale and then exhale. I haven’t looked at her yet. Not really. Not the way I should have. And certain not with the attention that Chrissie expected of me.
But I couldn’t do it at the time.
I wanted to.
I had to fight to stop myself.
It’s better that I did.
It just wasn’t something I felt ready to do with Chrissie, unsure what I’d feel, and more worried about letting her see. I didn’t want to hurt Chrissie again. I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t know for sure what this would be for me.
I cross the room to the crib.
Khloe lies at an angle, hands under her cheek. She is wide awake and there is a faint sound coming from her like hiccups. It’s nearly a noiseless passing from her lips but it makes her whole body jerk. I laugh. She is wearing only a diaper. I can see every detail of her tiny body. The full bottom lip, the bluish-veined lids with long dark lashes over bright blue eyes, a little pug nose, round creamy cheeks, tiny fat fingers with tinier faintly pink nails, and curls in black.
I slowly stroke her hair. I gaze at my daughter. Emotion lodges in my throat…my daughter. It’s amazing that even so small she is very distinctive in personality. I can feel the serenity of who she is just by touching her, how her body shudders from the reflex she can’t control, untroubled. I’ve not touched her before. My feel and my sound are not familiar to her. She lies calm beneath my fingers, no tears, wide awake and content.
Trusting of the world in every way. Four months have made her world already shaped and defined and comfortable to her. A baby surrounded by love from the start. I feel an unwanted stab in my chest. The only part I’ve had in her being here, in who she is, was at the moment of her conception.
I pick her up, wondering if a change of position will stop the hiccups. She melts into me, a little curl of body parts that feels almost like an embrace. She has her own scent beneath the fragrance of raspberry soap. I settle on the bench built into the long row of full length windows, and lie back against the pillows, legs bent, with her nestled into my chest. Her little body hiccups again. I laugh, the sensation sweetly endearing even with that stream of dampness rolling down her chin onto my shirt.
I smile down at her and let her drool. Surrounded by a stranger, my hold, my warmth, my scent and she falls back to sleep.
I struggle to hold in my emotion.
Being here in Chrissie’s house tonight it feels different. Richer. More intoxicating. More vibrant. Being with Khloe sucks me in deeper, and odder, makes me want Chrissie even more painfully.
It is so fucking strange that I love Chrissie so much, and yet do it badly. I’ve never known how to love her the way she needs to be loved and we are both too old, too tired, too wounded by life for how we’ve loved before—my fucking her, her walking away, my letting her go, her coming back, my fucking her again and on and on even to this point—to start it all over again unless one of us figures out how to change that quickly.
My body and heart ache for her. But I don’t know how not to fuck this up. How to prevent the cycle from starting all over again. I’m sick of losing Chrissie. I’m ready to get to keep her.
I’ve spent twenty years of my life playing fuck and run with the only woman I’ve ever loved, the only woman I’ve never wanted to let go of. What was it that James Hetfield had said? To keep his family he had to be ‘here, clear and in the now.’ Well, I’m here. I’m clear for the first time in a fucking long time. But I am nowhere near in the now.
My lips pucker.
I feel the dampness on my cheek.
Fuck, I’m crying.
Len is right.
British rockers never die. We become fathers and fade away.
I’m shocked how much that thought is appealing to me, and how little interest I have in my life beyond Chrissie’s front door. Everything I want—everything I need—is here with Chrissie.
Holy fuck.
I just want to come home.