Chapter 2
2013
Miles hits the icon on the phone, shutting off the recorder. “Did it all really happen that way?”
His disbelieving voice startles me from my memories. “What? You think I could make up shit like that? Yes, it all happened exactly that way.”
He starts scribbling on his notepad and I wait for his next inarticulate inquiry. I refill my glass of scotch, though I’ve probably had too much as it is. I should try to stay sober until I’m away from Miles again.
Miles looks up. “Santa Barbara, 1989. Is that when you started your affair with Christian Parker?”
I have to keep myself from glaring at him. Really, you need to ask me that? Haven’t you ever read a tabloid?
“That would be inaccurate,” I reply pointedly.
“What part?”
“All of it.” I toss down my drink and refill the glass again. “I fell in love with Christian Parker Harris April 27, 1989. We have never had an affair. We’ve loved each other for nearly twenty-five years.”
“Can you be more specific? Jesse’s Harris’s notes are surprisingly vague.” He flips through the pages. “New York City, 1989: first romance. Asks Chrissie to marry him. Chrissie says no and goes home to Santa Barbara with her father. 1994-1998: Chrissie is married to Neil Stanton. Malibu 1998-2003: Chrissie divorces Neil and moves in with Alan. Chrissie walks out on him and marries me 3 months later.”
I fight not to visually flinch, but it’s hard to listen to someone state the milestones of your life as though they were not significant. It’s more complicated than that. It always had been more complicated than that with Chrissie.
“You can add,” I say through gritted teeth, “we were together 1991 to 1993.” I dramatically arch a brow, darkly amused. “She walked out on me, and that’s how she ended up married to Neil Stanton.”
Miles chokes on his drink. Ah, he didn’t know that part of the history. After a few seconds of coughing, he stares at me. “How can you claim to love her and be so glib about everything?”
Glib? What the fuck is this guy? A wannabe romance novelist? He’s a biographer. My biographer. I’ll be any way I want to be here.
“I’m not glib. I’m exact. And I don’t want you writing about me and Chrissie.”
He leans back in his seat. “That will leave a lot of holes in your life story. Especially since you’ve had a successful recording career with her.” More flipping through pages. “You’ve recorded together on five albums. You’ve recorded solo nine songs by her. Together you’ve won eleven Grammies.”
“Fine. Holes. Deal with it. Professional relationship you may write about. Person relationship: off-limits. Skip over it in the book. Isn’t that what celebrity biographers do? Dance around the parts their clients don’t want them to tell by writing a little fluff here and there?”
He takes a cigarette from the table, lights it, and then shakes his head. “That’s not how it works.”
I fix my burning black stare to bore into him. “That’s how it works with me.”
“Is Kaley Stanton your daughter?”
That question takes me by surprise. I can’t believe Miles actually asked it. No one ever dares to ask it, not even Len and Linda Rowan and they are my closest friends. I’m not exactly sure why everyone continues to wonder it. But that’s how people are when they look in on your life and see only partial truths. They invent the story they want to exist to fill in the blanks of what you won’t share with them, but if Kaley were my daughter, Chrissie would have told me long before this. Jesus Christ, the girl is almost eighteen. As much as I’ve always hated the fact, Kaley is Neil Stanton’s daughter.
Fucking Neil…
The tic in my cheek twitches. “No, she is not my daughter, but now I know you do read the tabloids. So stop being a fucking waste of my time by asking stupid questions. You have me until we land in New York, then I’m done with this project and whatever you don’t have you’re going to have to finish without me. I’ve already given you more of my time than I should have.”
“Are you really worth over five billion dollars?” Miles asks abruptly.
Shit, this weasel likes to jump around a lot. He probably thinks it will toss me off-balance and get from me things I don’t want to say.
“I don’t know the exact amount. But something like that.”
“Why did Christian Parker turn down your marriage proposal in 1989?”
I ignore the question and try to ignore my thoughts as I wait for Miles to figure out I’m not answering and move on. She was too young to marry me and knew it. Like an ass, I told Chrissie we were over if she left me. And the fragile heart she has believed me. First regret of many with Chrissie.
After a few moments of watching Miles clumsily turn pages looking for something to ignite inspiration, I pour myself another drink.
“Was Neil Stanton gay?”
I choke on my scotch. “What? Why are you asking me that? Neil’s sexual orientation has nothing to do with a biography about me. Or are you thinking I had sex with him?”
Miles’s face burns deep red. Good. He deserved that for being an impertinent little prick.
He turns his notepad toward me. “No, I don’t think you had sex with him. I’m reasonably confident after traveling with you on tour for two months that you are not gay. But it’s here. In the margin. A note by Jesse Harris. I’m wondering why it’s there.”
I pretend to be disinterested, but I’m fuming. Why would Jesse make a note of that? We all knew that Neil was gay and that was why Chrissie left him. It would be so much better to believe that Chrissie divorced him for me, but no, that is not the way things ended up being. And fuck, Jesse was Chrissie and Neil’s neighbor for five years. Even if Chrissie hadn’t told him the truth, he must have seen Neil fucking around with Andy. Jesse was that way. A watcher. He observed everything. Made him one hell of a writer. No, I have no doubt he was aware Neil was having an affair with Andy in Chrissie’s house, and I’m positive he watched everything the day Chrissie caught them in bed together.
Why would Jesse write the gay notation in the margin? He knows the truth. He was there and later married Chrissie and he also knows Neil’s homosexuality has nothing to do with me or my story or what happened between me and Chrissie. And fuck, no one privy to the truth talks about Neil. It’s the best kept secret in the music industry, and for Chrissie and Kaley’s sake it’s not going to change because of me. Some secrets are meant to be kept forever, even the secrets of a dead man you despise. The truth now would just hurt a little girl. Why the hell is Miles going there? I should fire him and cancel this project the second we land.
I take a sip of my scotch. “Next question.”
“Why didn’t you ever marry Christian Parker?”
I look at him. “You’re slow on the uptake, aren’t you? She turned me down.”
Miles turns the notepad toward me. “No, I’m not slow on the uptake. It’s a question Jesse Harris wrote down. ‘Why did you ask only once?’”
“She turned me down.”
He starts to scribble, shaking his head, annoyed with me. “You asked only once,” he mumbles with the moves of his pen.
Oh, going for my jugular vein. Yes, you miserable little cunt of a man. I asked her only once. But I didn’t intend it that way…
* * *
Pacific Palisades, June 1998
The patio door opens. I look over my shoulder to find Len Rowan exiting the house. The fucker is shirtless and still zipping up his fly. It’s one thing when the band is touring to witness Len getting his dick wet with every road whore he can find; it’s another to be in his house and to know he does it in the bed he sleeps in with Linda.
His wife is better than anything on the road. Why does Len fuck around on Linda? This open marriage thing they have going is ridiculous. I’d be crawling out of my skin if I knew my wife was up in Santa Barbara with Jackson Parker screwing him. It wouldn’t matter who I was fucking. That’s what I’d think of. Her with him.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” he mocks, dropping heavily onto the chair beside me. “Chrissie said she’d be at your place by two.”
I blow past the reference to Chrissie by saying, “Bianca, huh?”
Len laughs. “Why the fuck not? She and Kenny have been over for two years. Everyone in the band has fucked her except you. Linda is gone. Off with Jack for three weeks this time. And Bianca gives the best head on the west coast. Kenny didn’t lie about that one, mate.”
I glare at him. “Fucker.”
Len grins. “She’s still here if you need to get your dick sucked before you go see Chrissie. Might make you faster on your feet if you weren’t walking around with a rock-hard willy. Maybe you should toss one off before you leave here.”
“Asshole,” I hiss, gulping down the remainder of my drink.
Len laughs, but I ignore it. He knows the story. I’m back with Chrissie. Three weeks this time. Bianca is a repulsive thought and even if I wasn’t all tangled up with Chrissie again I sure as hell wouldn’t want Bianca’s mouth on my knob.
No point pretending with Len that I’m not dick whipped and incapable of being with a woman other than Chrissie. No need to pretend that I’m not in love with her. That I haven’t been going out of my mind since she fucked me and then left my house two weeks ago after I asked her to stay. Len knows the history too well to pretend I’m not Chrissie knotted-up again.
Crap, why I am still here at Len’s house hiding from her? Shit, you know why. You don’t want to go back to the Malibu house and find out she’s there only to tell you we’re over again. That fucking scene I’ve already lived through more times than I care to, though that is an idiotic concern because we’re not really back together yet so if she walks out the door this time it’s not her leaving me again.
I’m in that place with Chrissie that I hate. We’ve fucked—for the first time in five years—but we’re not together and nothing is decided yet. She went home to Santa Barbara two weeks ago without making clear what she wants from me. Like always. Fuck and run. Except I do know that if I boffed another woman while I wait for her to decide what the fuck we’re doing, Chrissie would end us forever. That’s fucking crystal clear.
“Do you want my advice?” Len asks.
“From a man who can’t keep his fucking wife happy or his cock in his own hand? No.”
Len chuckles. He leans forward in his chair. “Well, I’m giving you my advice anyway. Chrissie is a mother. Don’t fuck with her or she’ll rip off your balls. She’s not going to be interested in anything but marriage with you. Not this time, Manny. Go back to your house in Malibu. Ask her to marry you. If you can’t do that then stay here.”
I feel the box in my pocket cutting into my flesh. I take a long pull on my scotch. Marry her? What the fuck is wrong with Len? How could he get this so wrong? He thinks I’m the one fucking with Chrissie. I’ve been trying to marry her for nine years. I knew the first time I saw her playing the cello in Jack’s studio at the Santa Barbara house that crazy spring Jack brought me home to stay with him that I wanted to spend the rest of my life loving Chrissie.
I pull the jeweler’s case from my pocket. I open it and turn it to Len. His eyes widen. It’s a very impressive Harry Winston engagement ring. The diamond alone would make it a sure thing with any girl but Chrissie.
“I’ve been fucking carrying this since 1989, you ass-wipe.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing still here?” Len counters. “You’re going to piss her off. She’s not going to stick around waiting for your sorry ass all night. Don’t blow this. I don’t want to be stuck with you, mate, trying to hold together fucked-up Manny after having lost Chrissie again. Get the fuck out of here.”
“I want to ask her to marry me. It’s too soon. She’s not even divorced from Neil yet. I want it decided, but it would be the wrong move.”
Len rolls his eyes. “It’s not too soon if she’s let you put your spunk in her for an entire week. What the fuck is the matter with you? You can have any woman you want. You do have any woman you want.” He gives me a meaningful, pointed glare. “This bird ain’t no different, but with Chrissie, you get all twisted up in the head. Go back to your house. Talk it out. Fight it out. Or just fuck it out. Probably best for you. But pop the question, give her the damn ring and then marry her.”
Len makes it sound so easy. But then, he’s never loved Chrissie.
I run a hand over my face. I sink my fingers into my hair. Len’s right. No more stalling. It’s nearly dark. If I drag this out too long, Chrissie might not be there when I return.
My nerves are as taut as over-tightened strings on a guitar by the time I pull into my driveway at the Malibu house. Chrissie’s black Range Rover is here. She waited four hours for me. A good sign.
The house is quiet when I enter. I debate going directly to her, then I make a beeline for my bedroom. I start grabbing things and shoving them into a bag. Why the fuck am I packing? I don’t need to pack. Everything I need is everywhere I am. Always. I never pack a suitcase to go anywhere.
Fuck, I’m stalling, avoiding what awaits me in the great room. What a fucking pussy move that is. Delaying the enviable reality. What’s going to happen between us has already been decided. By her.
Chrissie knows what she’s going to do. She drove here. She’s made a decision. I know what I want to do. I want to tell her I love her, ask her to marry me, and then fuck her until I have to leave here.
I go down the hallway and halt at the edge of the tile. She’s standing in front of the wall of glass, staring at the ocean. I can’t see her face and I can’t read her posture. It could mean anything; she might be here to say I love you or she might be here to rip my heart.
I drop my bag. Ah, she whirls. Her blues eyes widen and then cloud over seeing the suitcase. I’ve upset her and we haven’t started the first round of this. Not wise, Alan. Why the fuck did you pack a bag and bring it in here? What a moronic gesture to make.
Chrissie smiles and holds her arms wide. “I came back.”
I stare at her. After leaving me for two weeks, without even the effort of a phone call except the one yesterday, that’s what she has to say. No help there, not with that comment. And the tension in the room is palpable. I’m not sure if it’s me or her.
My temper flares. “Yes, I can see that.”
I move to the bar to fix my drink, sensing I’ll need one before this is through. I start dropping ice into a glass.
“Are you going somewhere?” she asks in that annoyingly calm voice she has when I’m about to get a healthy dose of playacting so she can hide from me what she’s really feeling.
I focus on pouring the scotch. “New York. I’m in the mood for a change of scenery. Southern California gets tedious after a while. I don’t know how you live here full time.”
There was more edge in my voice when I spoke than I intended and I regret it. Chrissie’s cheeks redden and her body visibly stiffens.
“It’s what I’m used to, I guess. It’s where I’m from, Alan.”
I move from the bar, tall scotch in hand, and settle on the arm of a chair. I take a cigarette from my pocket and light it.
I sit there smoking, studying her. Why the fuck doesn’t she say something? One useful line would be nice, Chrissie, to give me some indication of the direction we’re going today.
Finally, she moves from the wall of glass and sinks down onto a chair. It’s across the room from me. Not a good sign.
Decision made; there is no point in taking the initiative. It’s better to wait, see what she does, and figure out what the hell it means later.
She lifts her chin and meets my gaze directly. “I have some things I want to say to you, Alan, if you have time before you leave for New York to listen. It’s why I’m here. I didn’t want to say them on the phone.”
Fuck, not on the phone. That can only mean one thing. It’s going to be bad. Chrissie is nothing if she is not predictable in her unpredictability. The awful moments we always do face-to-face when I would prefer she spared me the effort.
Oh fuck, why doesn’t she get on with it so I can get the hell out of Los Angeles and start the process of trying to live without her again?
Angrily, I stomp out my cigarette in an ashtray.
“Are you going to say the things you came here to say, Chrissie, or am I supposed to try to figure them out on my own?”
Her body does a little jerk and those blue eyes widen and flash. I let out a slow, steadying breath. It’s better not to aggravate her. If I keep biting at her, she’ll lose her nerve, and I’ll never find out what she intended to say.
“Are you going to be mean or can you please just listen until I finish?” she says in a small, pleading voice.
Now I feel like an ass.
I shift my gaze away from her. She expects too much if she wants me to do this pleasantly, but then that’s Chrissie. “If you say something, I’ll listen. But you are not saying anything, Chrissie. You’re just sitting there, staring at me, tight-lipped like always. Is there a point to this, love? I’d really appreciate it if you got on with it.”
She stares at me. I rake back my hair in a well-practiced gesture that screams without me having to bother saying it that I’m pissed off and ready to be done with this.
I do another fast once-over of her. For some reason she’s more relaxed. The tension is gone from her posture and the features of her face have softened. She’s looking at me in that way she has that takes my breath away and would keep me here with her even if she wanted to run an icepick through my head.
“You’re the love of my life, Alan. I knew it in New York. I know it today. And I don’t think anything is going to change that. For either of us.”
Her eyes are wide and fixed on me. Effortlessly, she pulls me in, to the point where I am drowning in her and all the blood concentrates in my cock and reminds me why I’m willing to sit through this nonsense.
I adjust how I’m sitting on the arm of the chair. After a minute or two of her saying nothing, my anger is kicked up another notch. Some things never change with Chrissie. Make me hopeful, give me an erection, and then snatch it away. So Chrissie.
“I want four things, Alan. That’s all I ask if you have an interest in trying to make a go of us again.”
An Interest in trying to make a go of us again? Is she fucking kidding? What the hell does she think I’ve been trying to do for the last nine years? And what’s up with that fucking perfunctory, businesslike manner and voice of hers? A little sweetness, a touch of loving from her would definitely help at present.
Len’s words rise in my memory. Chrissie is a mother. Don’t fuck with her or she’ll rip off your balls. She’s not going to be interested in anything but marriage with you. Not this time, Manny.
I study her without letting her see me. Is this what I’m being dragged through, when all I want to do is get her into the bedroom, tell her I love her, and sink myself inside her? Chrissie being clear—in her unclear way—trying to muddle through some sort of pre-scripted set of maternal ground rules before she permits me back into her life?
I take a deep swallow of my scotch.
“I’m moving into this house with Kaley,” she announces in breezy confidence. “This is where I’ve decided to live if you want to live here, too. I won’t ever travel with you. Not ever. Don’t ask me to. To be with me, you have to be here. And when you’re home, you’re home. I expect you to be really here with me. And when you’re on the road, I don’t want to know what you do there. Not ever. If you can’t be discreet then don’t do it.”
I arch a brow. Oh you are, are you? Not a request. A statement, as if it’s a done deal and I don’t have vote in this. A part of me wants to tell her to fuck off and leave the room. But I’ve come this far. I might as well stay and see where she’s going with this.
“Don’t ever lie to me,” she whispers. “I don’t know if I will forgive you everything you do, but I do know I won’t ever forgive you for lying to me. Not ever. Not after my marriage to Neil. You have to promise me that. It’s the only way I can move forward with you.”
Ah, assertive and chastising. This is new. Her telling me what she wants from me. It’s a little thrilling and definitely a fucking turn-on. I can work with this.
“Let’s keep this simple. When it’s good, it’s good. And when it’s bad, I’m gone. That’s what I want, Alan. I love you. And that’s never going to change. That’s what I wanted to say to you. That’s why I’m here. I love you.”
She moistens her lips with her tongue and every part of me starts to throb. She thinks we’re through this, that she’s arranged our future in an absolute way, that we are soon to be in bed together, and she wants it as much as I do and isn’t afraid to let me know it.
Interesting. New facet of Chrissie. A turn-on.
I battle back the ache in my cock that is more than willing to let this be the end of our discussion today. But that little speech certainly deserves a response.
I set down my drink. “Are you finished?”
Fuck, that came out harsher than I intended, but I’m battling my body’s desire to pin her against the wall and fuck her hard now. There are a few things I need to say, though I probably shouldn’t, since I like where she left us and I most likely will fuck it all up again.
She nods and quickly lowers her gaze to stare at her hands.
“I can do that, Chrissie. I’m ready to do that. I want to do that. With you.”
She looks back up at me. Her eyes go wide. Good. I have her attention now.
I stand up. “I have four things I would like to say to you since you’re in the mood for clearing the air today. If that’s OK?”
She doesn’t speak. She nods. Maybe she’ll let me say everything I want to say for a change—some of her comments definitely pissed me off—and then I just want to end this night making love to Chrissie.
“I have always been faithful to you when we were together. You can believe it or not believe it. I don’t give a fuck which. But don’t ever tell me again that I can do what I want to do so long as you don’t know it. I always do what I want. So to be clear, and leave no room for you to fucking misunderstand this: I want you.”
Her eyes flash and I can tell I hit a nerve in her when I didn’t want to. Fuck, Chrissie, do you even understand what I’m saying to you here? I don’t want another woman. Don’t give me permission to fuck around. I don’t need it. I need you.
I wait for her to settle in her emotions again.
“Next, I have never lied to you, Chrissie. I will never lie to you. I have always told you the truth.”
Even that’s the truth. I’m incapable of lying to her. Doesn’t she know that? I have never lied to her. Not once. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been completely honest and myself with.
“Thirdly,” I continue, feeling more confident, less worried, and in control finally, “there’s Kaley and I adore her, but I won’t ever want children of my own. Children are not part of my equation. This is not something that is ever going to change. Not ever, Chrissie. I love you, but I can’t give you that.”
She looks away, her expression changing so rapidly I can’t catch any of the emotions I’m seeing on her face. But I’ve done it. I’ve given her a door to run through, and fuck yes, with the way everyone gossips and how the girl looks, I have wondered if Kaley is my daughter. But asking Chrissie directly is not something I’m prepared to do. My suspicions would hurt her if the girl is Neil’s, and I’m terrified to push too hard since I don’t know what it means if Kaley is my daughter and Chrissie hasn’t told me.
Why wouldn’t she tell me? What does it mean? It means something significant to her if she’s not telling me. I wait. Nothing. Silence.
I hold her in an unrelenting stare. Now is the time, for the both of us, to tell me the truth. I’ve given you the opening, love. Take it if that is my daughter.
The room grows heavy with silence, and I’m more disappointed than I ever expected to be after finally asking if Kaley is my daughter and learning she is not. But there it is. Absolute certainty at last. Chrissie is silent. She hasn’t said a word. Resolved. Kaley is Neil’s daughter. I’ll deal with that misery later.
“You said you have four things to say to me, Alan. That was only three.”
Chrissie’s voice drags me from my thoughts. I feel the jeweler’s case cutting into my thigh from my pocket. No, I’m not going to ask her to marry me today. She doesn’t want me to. That’s why she told me upfront that little part about when it’s good, it’s good. And when it’s bad, I’m gone. That’s what I want, Alan.
Even after all this time, she is unsure if she wants to marry me. I let my gaze slowly roam her. So you want this simple, love? Simple and Chrissie; a paradox unachievable. That doesn’t mean I’m not ready to be done with this.
I let my eyes burn in that way that says I want to fuck you.
“Just stay and be good to me.”