Chapter 5
2013
“Does 2006 mean anything to you?”
I smile. “Not a thing.”
Miles makes a notation. I turn to stare out the airplane window.
“There are some quotes here that Jesse notated he wanted to use in the biography,” Miles says diligently, “but the contract specifies I have to get your permission before I include them in the draft I send to the publisher for approval. Can we go through the ones he wanted to use?”
This should be interesting.
I shrug. “Shoot.”
He sets papers neatly in front of him on the table. “OK, the first one is a quote from your manager, Brian Craig.”
Oh great. This should be fucking fantastic.
“He says, ‘For a man of such internal discipline, Alan Manzone has a disastrous weakness for addiction. While he was able to kick heroin at the age of twenty-six, his second major addiction he’s never been able to kick, not even after the rehab of two failed marriages.’”
Fuck you, Brian. Very funny. That was obnoxious.
I bite the inside of my cheek, and battle not to snap off the response forming in my head.
I can feel Miles staring at me. “Second addiction?”
Miles’s expression says it all. He’s thinking Brian is referring to women. That I’m a sex addict. No, you miserable cunt. Brian is talking about Chrissie. A cheap shot he just had to get in. Goddamn you, Brian, you are an asshole.
I stare him down and Miles flushes.
“Why would Jesse Harris have wanted to use that quote?”
I shrug. “You’d have to ask him.”
Miles’s eyes bug out. Fuck, that was a crass thing to say.
I grab a cigarette, strike the lighter and inhale deeply. I let the smoke curl slowly from my lips. “Next quote, please.”
Miles stares. “Do I have your permission to use that one or not?”
I take another long hit from my cigarette. “Use it. If Jesse wanted it, it’s in.”
There, I’ve surprised him. And to be honest I’ve surprised myself. Why did I give permission for that? Guilt over that night—no, don’t start thinking about that. The only thing I have going for me is I’ve managed for an entire year to stay away and not fuck up Chrissie’s life again.
I find Miles holding out a pen to me. I take it and initial the sheet, granting my approval for this hideous comment to be included, my own private apology to Jesse for what I did the night of his burial.
Images flash through my head like screenshots from a porno flick. All my blood concentrates in my cock in a way that is exclusively Chrissie’s. It was a fucking incredible night. It almost made up for the nine years Chrissie forced me to watch her married to Jesse. She was on fire, the burning scorch of grief. Twelve hours of frantic, violent fucking, unlike anything I have ever known with her. Shit, unlike anything I’ve ever known with any woman.
It was the wrong move. I shouldn’t have done it. But I knew it would happen the moment we’d returned from the long hours of Jesse’s memorial to find ourselves alone in Chrissie’s house. I had every intention of being the man I should be for her that day. But, fuck, it had been pulsing in my cock from the moment I’d stepped off the plane in Santa Barbara for the funeral. I’d gone to California to bury a friend. All I could think about was fucking his wife.
Disgusting. Maybe Linda is right, I do need therapy. I was good friends with Jesse. Necessity if I wanted to still have a place in Chrissie’s life after her marriage.
Pathetic?
Yes.
Manipulative?
Sure.
But it worked.
Chrissie and I remained friends, and I got to christen her widowhood. Fuck, I’m a prick. Jesse was a great guy. I liked him. I didn’t want to. Didn’t intend to. But I did. He deserved better than that from me on the night he was buried. Sure, I still fucking love Chrissie, but I’m very good at not violating the line with my ex-lovers. Especially when I like their husbands.
But I fucked up. I should have split the second Chrissie sent the kids off with Jesse’s family for the night. It just didn’t seem right to cut out on her.
More images flash in my brain. Her tears had come first. A vision of Chrissie curled against me, holding on for dear life, crying and vulnerable.
Christ, why did I do it? She was consumed by grief. She didn’t know what she was doing. She needed comfort. I only intended to hold her. But I shouldn’t have touched her. And then, damn, she moved closer, she touched me…instant combustion.
That’s when the fucking started. I understood it then and I get it now, what it was for her. Chrissie just needed sex in that strange way people do sometimes in the midst of death. I told myself not to, and fucked her anyway. And that’s all it had been for her. Carnal fucking. A way for Chrissie to shut off the heart and brain to pain.
I down a full glass of scotch this time. It happened. I need to let it go. Forget about it. It’s fucking ridiculous to feel so badly over this still. It’s been over a year since I fucked her that night after Jesse’s burial.
“Since Jesse started this project with you and will be noted as a co-author on the book at release, do you want to include a comment about him or his death for the biography?”
Oh, you fucking weasel. You can be a shit at times.
I set down my drink. “He was a great guy. We were good friends.”
Miles waits expectantly. “Concise. Do you want to expand on that? He did die while working on this book. He’s an enormously popular man. Maybe how you felt when you heard the news?”
Fuck.
My jaw clenches. “Shocked. That’s how I felt, how we all felt. It’s not the kind of death you expect. He was young. In perfect health. Happily married. A terrific father. A brilliant novelist. A good man in every way. What the fuck do you want me to say? He died of a heart attack on the way to the docks to go sailing with his family. Unexpected. A loss for everyone who knew him.”
Miles starts to write. “Can I use the good parts of that in the book? I’ll quote it accurately, but not completely.”
“Fine,” I snap harshly.
Jesus Christ. My temples are starting to throb. Are we almost through this, Miles?
“What’s that you’re holding?”
Startled, I look down at my hand. Oh fuck. Why am I holding it?
I take a steadying breath before answering. “An infinity band from Tiffany.”
“You keep taking it from your pocket and staring at it. You do it sometimes before you go on stage. I’ve been wondering what’s up with that, why it is important to you. Some sort of good luck charm?”
I toss it on the table. “Depends on how you look at it.”
There, figure that one out on your own, Miles.
“Do you want to talk about Shyla Donahue? We haven’t covered that marriage.”
“No. I would prefer not to.”
“We can’t skip over everything. There needs to be something in the book about her. You were married five years.”
My temper flares.
How’s this for an anecdote about Shyla?
“The last thing she did before she walked from my life and filed for divorce was to hurl that bracelet at my face.”
Miles’s eyes widen. “Really. Why?”
“Women. Who knows why they ever do anything? Any man who says he understands a woman is a liar.”
Miles sits for a moment pondering that. And, shit, I’m the liar. I know why Shyla rocketed the damn thing at me.
It was hers, I hear Shyla screaming in my memory of that horrid fight we had the day I got back to New York after the funeral. I stepped through the door. She took one look at me, and she knew I’d fucked Chrissie while I was in California.
It was hers.
I wonder if I should share this fascinating factoid with Miles. No. Better not. It could be too easily misconstrued as an unspectacular, trite eulogy for our marriage. But it really said it all. The girl got to the heart of the problem with laser-sharp accuracy and simplicity for once.
No comeback from me had been required. Not after that. I didn’t even try to make one and I didn’t try to stop Shyla as she walked from the door. This last time we were both relieved that I didn’t.
“Manny.” I hear the pilot through the intercom. “We’re about forty minutes out of New York. We should touch down around 8:30 p.m. Manhattan time.”
Thank God.
Miles starts to pack up.
“I think I have everything I need.” He zips closed his satchel. “I should have a first draft ready for your review in about a month.”
My brows hitch up. I can’t imagine what he’s going to write with the odd hodgepodge of facts and quotes I’ve allowed him to use.
Who cares?
I don’t really care about anything anymore. And I haven’t for a very long time.
The plane touches down. Stops. The steps are pulled down. I move my way to the open cabin door.
Good. Colin. Waiting beside my car. I can get the fuck away from Miles. Without saying goodbye to him, I trot down the steps and cross the tarmac.
I hear something hit concrete. I turn. Miles is struggling with his load-of-crap satchel, suitcase, and laptop bag awkwardly clutched in his arms.
More junk hits the ground.
“Do you need a lift somewhere?” I call out.
Miles looks up, startled.
“That’s OK. I’ll just grab a taxi out front.”
I let out an aggravated sigh. This guy is pathetic. Why did they replace Jesse Harris with him? And why do I feel like a shit leaving him to grab a cab? He’s nothing. An employee.
“Get in,” I order sternly.
Miles makes his way to the car. Colin takes the junk from his arms and drops it into the trunk.
“Thanks.”
He climbs in. Doesn’t move. I have to go around to the other side. I settle on the leather seat and pour myself a scotch.
Colin slams the door. A minute later, I feel the car start to move.
I hold the bottle up in Miles’s direction. “Do you want another drink?”
Miles laughs, awkward. “I think I had enough on the plane. I’ve got a lot of work to get through tonight.”
I smile, amused. Oh no, Miles, you are not going to start work on my biography tonight. You don’t like me yet.
“I am going to stop for dinner. Why don’t you join me?” I ask.
Bug eyes again. “Thanks.”
Brian wanted this book to be flattering. Time to give Miles a healthy dose of the rock star life.
“Colin, take me to The Blue Light.”
“Isn’t that a club?” Miles asks.
“I want to have cocktails first. You don’t mind, do you?”
Miles says nothing. Good. I stare out the window. It’s time to party. I need this wanker to like me if I’m going to have a shot in hell of this book not being completely humiliating.
Damn Brian. Why the fuck did you insist I do this moronic biography? We sure as hell don’t need the money.
* * *
I open my eyes, feeling something cold in the palm of my hand. The fucking Tiffany infinity band. I toss it away and roll over in bed.
Oh crap, I’m not alone. Who the hell is that? I can’t remember her name or even where I picked her up. Fuck, I was wasted last night. A new level of fucked-up even for me. I wonder what happened to Miles. I don’t remember us splitting up. Hell, I don’t even remember coming home.
I run a hand through my hair and try to patch together bits and pieces of the night that just passed. Fuck. Nothing. Blank after the first club.
I stare at the nude body curled beside me. The room definitely smells like sex. Oh fuck. I hope I didn’t do anything stupid. I turn. I look at the floor. Used condoms. Quite a few. A busy night. I let out a ragged breath. Thank God I wasn’t too drunk to forget to be paranoid and careful.
I lie back against the pillow. Linda is right. I am drinking too much if I can’t remember picking up a girl who looks like that.
She has a beautiful face and I have a hazy memory of a chic, rich girl’s smile flashing there and a Boston-bred accent when she spoke. Yes, for some reason this girl had tried to talk to me, talked quite a bit and flashed her smile. I can’t recall what about. The words must not have been inspiring.
At least she’s a pleasant surprise. With how fucked up I was last night—with how much I needed to fuck Chrissie out of my head—I could be waking up with absolutely anything lying beside me in bed.
I lean over and look at her face. But she’s quite lovely. Brown hair. Straight, blunt cut, chin length. Well groomed. Manicured finger and toenails. Caribbean tan in winter. A high-priced whore? Or a rich girl looking for trouble? Probably the latter.
I close my eyes against the bright light in the room. I need to get a grip. Slow things down. My life is out of control. I know that.
I look at the girl. Nothing underscores that grim reality better than my endless series of mornings after with anonymous bed partners. I don’t know what it is about the women today. They are so enticing and yet leave you so unsatisfied. They are like fucking heroin: the first hit incredible then every other trip without pleasure.
Every woman I go to bed with these days seems to know how to fuck, but none of them know how to make love. They are energetic instead of passionate, flexible instead of tender, full of fast-shifting positions and empty of intimacy. They try to impress me with their vast and creative knowledge on how to have sex. I haven’t met a woman in a long time who can impress me with her mind.
I drag myself out of bed and pour a scotch. I debate whether I should wake her and get it over with, or fortify myself before dealing with her and sending her on her way.
Christ, this shit is getting old.
I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I step in and stand there without moving, head leaned back against the tile as the dual streams hit me. Crap, I feel like shit.
Instead of washing, I stare at the phone mounted on the steam-covered tile. After twelve months on tour I’m finally back in the States.
Should I call Chrissie?
It could go either way. She could hang up on me or I could suffer one of those horrid interludes, her being gracious, me being an asshole, both of us wishing I hadn’t bothered to call.
I shut off the shower, deciding not to call her. I dress for an excursion on my bike. I need a long road trip on my Harley. I need to get lost for a while. Get away from everything. Everyone. Stop doing crazy shit every day.
I sink down on my bed. I call my assistant and tell her to clear my calendar for the next month. She starts to bellow why that isn’t possible. I hang up. I call the garage and order them to get my bike ready.
I walk toward the door and remember the girl in my sheets. I can’t just cut out on her, whoever she is.
I stop beside the bed, reach out a hand and shake her body. “You need to get dressed and get the hell out of here, love. If you’re a whore, I’d like to pay you first. If you’re a nice girl, leave me your number.”
She sits up in bed, pulling the blankets with her to cover her naked flesh. Morning-after modesty, another farce since the pile of used rubbers leaves no doubt what we did last night.
Those pouting red lips smile. Yep, Boston bred. The girl isn’t ruffled by any of this.
“I’ll bill you,” she says smoothly. “Though it is often considered a blurry difference, I’m not a whore. I’m your attorney. One of your divorce attorneys. I brought the finalized settlement contracts, and though you missed our meeting, I waited ten hours in this apartment for you to return to sign them since your ex-wife has an irritating proclivity to change her mind. I thought it best we jump on the offer and settle it fast since you didn’t have a pre-nuptial agreement.
“When I tried to explain, you jumped on me. I thought what the hell, it’s been a slow day and I’m earning five hundred bucks an hour for this. Why shouldn’t my job have an occasional perk? You have been interesting. I’ve never been laid by a man who holds an infinity band while he fucks me. I think it’s better I don’t tell you the things you mumbled. I’ll only warn you that you should be relieved that it’s covered under attorney/client privilege since my meter ticks until you sign those documents.
“The contracts are on the dresser. Please sign them so I can shower, dress and go. It’s Saturday, in case you don’t know what day it is, and I play racquetball at six. That I didn’t expect you to know. It was a subtle attempt to speed you up in the signing.”
Oh fuck. I stare at her, then I start to laugh. The humor surprises me, but then my attorney is charming and quick on her feet and very beautiful.
I go to the dresser. I start reading the contracts. “Thank you for not boring me with whatever I mumbled and thank you for promising to bill me so it’s privileged. You can, however, bore me by letting me know how much this is costing me.”
Panties and bra in place, my attorney scrambles from my bed, gathers her clothes and then snatches the signed contracts from my hand.
“Me, I cost you seventy-two hundred for this meeting. Your ex-wife cost you one-hundred-sixteen million, two hundred-twenty-seven thousand, a combination of cash, future cash, and an interesting assortment of personal property. You did, however, manage to retain the Malibu house that, against my advice, you battled her over, the bill from me five-hundred thousand over the value of it.”
I clutch her chin a little roughly and give her a hard kiss. “You, love, were a bargain.”
I leave her, half dressed and staring at me from my bathroom doorway. That sounded theatrical even to me. Chrissie would have given me such shit over those theatrics, but the girl seemed to be expecting something like that so I played along.