Chapter Twenty-five
Zander woke with a groan. His mouth tasted like solvent and his throat was parched. Peeling his eyes open, he saw the stainless steel leg of a couch. It took him a moment to realize that he was lying on a rug on the living room floor with a blanket over him. The sun beat down on his face and found an answering throb in his temples.
Shoving off the blanket, he rolled into shade and flattened his cheek against the cool marble tiles. The previous night returned to him slowly—applause, humiliation, alcohol, Doc—“Shit!”
He sat up so abruptly the room spun and he had to drop onto one elbow to steady himself. Gingerly rolling to his feet, he staggered into the kitchen and dunked his head under the tap, then slurped some water. The low angle of the sun suggested early. He peered blearily at the wall clock as he wiped his face dry. Seven a.m.
Moving carefully he went upstairs, making full use of the handrail, and hesitated outside Elizabeth’s door. Maybe he should work out what he was going to say first…clean himself up. He started walking away, then swung back and rapped on the wood.
“Elizabeth.”
No reply. Of course she’d be pissed. Zander leaned his forehead against the door. “I’m so sorry.”
“She’s not here.”
Her blue eyes flinty, Dimity exited his bedroom, wearing his robe.
With a groan, Zander slid to the floor. “So I remember it right then?”
“If you remember accusing Elizabeth of screwing you to get dirt for the memoir, telling her she was the one played, and then firing her, then yes,” she said mercilessly.
He flinched. “Why are you here and wearing my robe?”
“Someone had to stay to put you in the recovery position.”
“On the floor?”
“Be grateful for the blanket.”
Zander pushed to his feet. “Where is she?”
His PA shrugged.
“She wasn’t planning on flying home though?”
Dimity shrugged.
“Shit!” Zander rifled through his pant pockets. “Where’d I leave my cell?”
Another shrug. Clearly he’d receive no help from that quarter. Tearing downstairs, he searched the living room, yanking cushions off the sofa in his frantic search.
Dimity leaned against the wall and watched. “You humiliated and then fired her, Zee. Why wouldn’t she go straight to the airport?”
“Doc’s too smart to take what I said seriously.” He ducked to look under the couch and had to grab his head to stop it falling off.
“Sounded pretty serious to me,” Dimity said. “She was talking about reworking the memoir and releasing it as an unauthorized biography.”
“What…no!” Zander scanned the room wildly. “It’s all a mistake. I’ll fix this.” Through the patio doors, he spotted his cell in a planter box and pounced on it. It was sticky with champagne and the battery was low, but it worked. His call went straight to message. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. If you’re at the airport ready to fly home, turn around. Please. Phone me. I have to talk to you.”
Disconnecting, he looked at Dimity. “Quit teaching me a lesson and tell me the truth. How deep am I?”
She sighed. “Right to the top of the snorkel.”
Zander paced. “What else can I do?”
“Nothing. You have to wait until she’s ready to talk to you.”
“But we’re leaving for Massachusetts in a few hours.” He punched in Elizabeth’s number again. Dimity swiped his cell.
“She knows the schedule, Zee, and badgering her won’t help your cause.”
“She has to forgive me.”
“You broke her trust and probably broke her heart. She doesn’t have to do anything.”
* * *
Being disappointed in love was like having the flu. Streaming eyes, runny nose, aching muscles, and a leaden misery that saw Elizabeth traipse from bed to couch and back again, unable to find comfort because unhappiness followed her everywhere. Praying didn’t help—she wasn’t ready to consider forgiveness, because anger dragged her from the abyss of self-pity. She needed anger.
He’d wanted to hurt her; she’d seen the intent in Zander’s eyes, heard it in his voice. And why? Because she’d said, “Wait.” Not “no” but “wait.” Wait for me to catch up, wait for me to be sure.
For me to stop being careful, you have to be careful of me.
Instead, he’d slashed free with the finesse of the Incredible Hulk, tearing every artery, every vein, every tender quivering feeling in the process.
Forget the personal cost; he’d made her feel dirty, professionally. Through all the interviews they’d done together, they’d never been on the same side.
Elizabeth cringed, imagining the patronizing condolences of her peers when they heard he’d fired her. She’d be a joke… Hell, she was a joke.
She’d loved the way he saw her as sexy and adventurous. Now she knew the person he’d really been seeing was a gullible fool.
Holed up in her agent’s New York apartment, she followed the Rage circus online, through news and gossip sites. The Massachusetts and Detroit concerts received glowing reviews—clearly Zander’s performance wasn’t suffering.
That hurt.
She couldn’t even sketch out ideas for rewriting the memoir as a biography because she couldn’t bear to look at her notes or listen to their interviews—why bother, when it was all bullshit anyway?
Zander left apologies on her cell every day, sometimes humble, sometimes insistent—always contrite. Elizabeth listened to each message once and then immediately deleted it because she didn’t trust herself not to hit replay.
On the third day, he said desperately, “Doc, please. Don’t give up on us,” and she felt herself softening—weakening—and that scared her enough to block his number.
She knew she had to see him to tie up professional loose ends and reclaim her dignity with the last word—but not yet. Not until she was sure he couldn’t talk her into giving him a second chance.
And until then… He could wait.
* * *
“Thanks, man, this means a lot.”
The fan wore an original Rage T-shirt, which strained across his middle-aged belly. Even faded, twenty-year-old Zander’s sneer retained an insufferable arrogance as he fronted the band.
“Always a pleasure to meet a die-hard fan.” Zander itched to rip the T-shirt at its bursting seams because he was still making that young punk’s mistakes. Instead he scrawled his autograph across his smug face. Where was Elizabeth and why wasn’t she returning his calls?
The fan checked his T-shirt and nodded approvingly. “I’ve got nothing against the new guys,” he confided, “but I grew up with the original band and I miss the old guard, y’know?”
“Yeah,” Zander said. “I know.”
“But you can still belt out the hits good as ever, so you keep that up, hey?”
“I appreciate your loyalty.”
“Hell man, I raged through my twenties to Rage. You’ve got me for life. Mind if we take a picture? It would sure tickle my wife, she thinks you’re the relish on a Chicago dog.” He dropped an arm around Zander’s shoulders and they both grinned for his cell. The guy smelled of tobacco and Bud and the sweat of someone who’d stood queuing for eight hours in a hot sun.
This was the last concert of this tour leg and next week, after he’d scheduled a surgery date, Zander would disappoint thousands more fans like him by canceling the Asian leg. But he’d made it. He’d won. And victory was a sour, sad and hollow thing. He’d lost Elizabeth.
“Enjoy the show.” He patted the guy’s shoulder, before turning to another fan waving an autograph book. “Hi there, who am I signing to? Jasmine? That’s a pretty name.”
“She’s here,” Dimity murmured beside him. Zander finished signing, his pen suddenly shaky on the page, and scanned the VIP meet and greet lounge at Soldier Field Stadium. It took him a moment to spot Elizabeth because she’d covered her bright red hair with a sunhat, the straw brim pulled low. She stood by the door—never a good sign.
“Cover for me,” he said to Dimity and weaved his way through the crowd with a smile here, a quip there, Luther one stride behind him. “We’ll need somewhere to talk,” he muttered to his bodyguard.
“There’s a utility room, second door along the corridor. I’ll stand guard.”
Elizabeth didn’t smile as Zander approached, but he wasn’t expecting her to. “I’m only here to tie up loose ends,” she said by way of greeting.
He felt sick as he gestured her into the corridor, but didn’t respond until they had privacy in the utility room.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was scared you were having second thoughts about us. Then my performance for the vets was…crap. I got drunk and lashed out. Of course you’re not fired.” He went to touch her, but she moved away, her expression impassive.
“I can’t work with you anymore, Zander,” she said crisply. “I don’t want to.”
His stomach clenched. He hadn’t expected her to fall into his arms, but he needed time to win her over. “You’re not fired,” he repeated, “which means if you quit you’ll be in breach of contract.”
“So what, you’ll sue me now?” Taking off her hat, she ran a hand through her hair. “Is this how it ends, with threats and counterthreats?”
“No! Because it’s not going to end.”
“Relax,” she said wearily. “I won’t write an unauthorized biography. And I’ll tell everyone we had creative differences and parted amicably.”
“I don’t give a shit about the memoir, all I care about is you. Please, Elizabeth, give me a chance to explain.”
“What’s to explain?” she challenged. “You treated our relationship, professional and personal, with a total lack of respect.” Zander opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “I don’t doubt you’re sorry, but I can’t trust you and there’s no magic wand that will suddenly make me. You hurt me, Zander, really hurt me,” her voice wavered and she paused, “and I’m not letting you do that again.” Her gaze was steady on his.
“You hired me as some kind of moral rubber stamp. You never had any intention of telling the truth, did you?”
He squirmed. “I haven’t lied to you.”
“The whole basis of our contract is a lie. Was our affair all part of the manipulation, something to distract me from asking further questions?”
It was his turn to hold her gaze. “You know better than that.”
She said bitterly, “I know it worked.”
He had to tell her the truth. “I didn’t want you at the concert because I lip-synced the performance for the vets. Lip-syncing to me is…” he spread his arms helplessly, “…like the Pope converting to atheism.”
She frowned at him. “I’m missing something. Why did you lip-sync?”
“My voice is fucked. I need surgery to remove a vocal cord polyp.”
“Oh my God.” Her hand reached out instinctively, before she recollected herself. “Tell me.”
“I found out before this tour leg, only I had to keep performing because I borrowed against everything I own to make the Resurrection Tour happen. Tonight’s concert will be the break-even point.”
“I…I can’t believe it.” Dazed, she tipped up a nearby bucket and sat down.
Baldly, he filled in the details. “While you were in New Zealand, my voice got worse. I was wound tight with the stress and the upcoming performance. When you said, let’s wait on going public, I heard rejection and… I’m so damn sorry for lashing out. Please…” To Zander’s horror, his throat tightened with emotion. “Give me another chance to do better. I’m not the same cynic who set out to exploit you in Auckland. You’ve already changed me.”
“Have I?” Her expression was unbearably sad. “How many times did we talk or Skype while I was home? Even when you were telling me you were crazy about me, you were hiding major secrets.”
He wanted to say, “I didn’t want to worry you,” but he couldn’t lie to her.
“Oh Zander,” she said softly. “You don’t trust me and I can’t trust you.”
He didn’t like where this was heading. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have told you.”
“You mean if you weren’t desperate.” Standing, she paced the small utility room. Unwilling to add any more fuel to the fire, Zander waited. Please, God…please, God. “You can even use the voice thing in the biography,” he blurted. “Not the lip-sync. I still need a career.”
Elizabeth stopped with a sigh. “I don’t want to add to the pressure on you, so I’ll stay as your biographer.” Zander moved to take her into his arms and she sidestepped. “Nothing else.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I know it’s painful, but it’s time to get real—we’re too different to make this work.”
“God knows I don’t deserve you,” he said desperately, “but don’t pretend what’s between us isn’t real. And yeah, sometimes real can be messy, and hard and painful but it’s worth it.” He held out his hand. “We’re worth it.”
She folded her arms. “Those are my terms.”
He looked at her a long time, but her gaze didn’t waver. Zander sighed. “I accept,” he said.
* * *
In downtown LA, Zander shifted in Dr. West’s uncomfortable designer chair, waiting for his specialist to arrive with the results of his latest stroboscopy. He could still taste the topical anesthesia and feel the tingle of returning sensation at the back of his throat.
His cell beeped and he dug in his jean pocket, hoping for Elizabeth, though in the past few days their encounters had been strictly professional. She hadn’t returned to his LA home, instead staying in downtown Calabasas and visiting for their interviews. But yesterday, when he’d mentioned this appointment, he’d caught a flicker of concern before she’d doused it.
But the screen showed Dimity’s number. Disappointed, he switched off his cell.
His biographer would be leaving for New Zealand in a week because she’d have all the additional interview material she needed to complete the manuscript. And Zander was heartsick about it. The paper-clip arms of the designer chair creaked in protest and he released his grip and gave himself the lecture, the one that stopped him making more stupid mistakes.
He’d give her space—a few months to miss him—while he recovered from the surgery he was here to schedule. They’d reunite for the book launch and publicity tour in early January, by which time he’d have come up with a cunning plan to win her back. Because he wouldn’t give up on them.
West arrived, his brow knitted and his expression grave. “I specifically told you that if you had any symptoms to stop performing immediately.”
“I did everything I could, short of canceling, to minimize the damage.” Trying not to sound defensive, Zander watched the specialist upload the most recent shots of his vocal cords onto his laptop. “And I’m off steroids completely.”
“I’m afraid there’s significant additional scarring.” West pivoted the screen and pointed to a pulpy red mass.
Zander averted his eyes. “So let’s schedule surgery and get this fixed. I’m resigned to canceling the next tour leg.” He opened his online calendar. This afternoon he’d break the news to his manager and the band. First thing tomorrow, he’d personally telephone promoters before working on a press release with Dimity. Better get his lawyer onto the insurance companies too. “Next week’s good for me.”
“You don’t seem to understand.” The specialist’s gaze shied away from Zander’s before he resolutely brought it back. “There’s every possibility the damage to your singing voice is permanent.”
“Huh-uh.” He grinned, waiting for West to say, “Gotcha. Just teaching you a lesson.” And waited.
“It’s a lot to take in. Do you want a few min—”
“No. I’m fine.” This was how shock worked, Zander remembered. You act normal, talk normal, feel normal until bang… Sensation catches up with the blow. “What are my odds?”
“If you do exactly what you’re told post-op, around sixty percent.”
“Of full recovery?”
“Of permanent damage. Let me show you where the problem is.”
Dr. West launched into explanations, but the blood was pounding so hard in his ears Zander missed most of it.
“When will we know?”
“Four to six weeks after surgery… Easy now.” The specialist strode over and pushed Zander’s head down between his knees. “Deep breaths. We don’t want you keeling over.” His hands were cold on Zander’s neck. Poor circulation, he thought dazedly. Gradually his surroundings stopped moving and he sat up slowly. “I’m okay.”
“Why don’t you come back when you’ve had a chance to process this.”
“No, let’s schedule the op today.” They fixed a date.
“Post-op you’re on total vocal rest—no sounds—for four days. A speech therapist will teach you how to sneeze and cough silently. Then you use a confiding voice—not a whisper—for two weeks, gradually increasing your talking time from two sessions of five minutes apiece on day one. Again, a therapist will guide your progress.”
Zander nodded, resisting the urge to touch his throat.
Satisfied, West led him to the door. “You must not, under any circumstances, attempt to sing until cleared to do so. It’s imperative the vocal cords heal properly to optimize the chance of retaining your singing voice.”
“Whatever you say.”
West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll go over all this again before surgery.”
In reception, Zander nodded dully to Luther and followed his bodyguard to the elevator. Only as he dug in his pocket for his car keys did he recall he’d driven here alone. “What are you doing here?”
“I figured by your expression that Dimity got hold of you.”
Zander switched on his cell and saw he’d missed half a dozen calls over the past half hour. He started with Dimity’s.
“Zee, some rumor’s gone viral that you were lip-syncing at the charity gala. A monitor engineer gets drunk in a bar…sounds like the start of a joke, right? Everyone in the industry knows your stance, but that hasn’t stopped the media converging on the house, so Luther’s coming to provide security. I’ve got our lawyer working on a suitably threatening denial.”
Zander started to laugh.