The next morning, I woke to a loud thwack as something hard smacked me on the forehead. Sunlight bled through my clenched eyelids.
“Get up, jerkoff.”
I knew that voice. I loathed that voice. Another thwack, this one to the bridge of my nose. I groaned, swatting at the air to no avail. Evil hag.
“Get.” Thwack. “Up.” Thwack.
“Fucking hell, Asha. Lay off me. And get the fuck out of my room.” I pulled a pillow over my face. I was naked under the sheets. Unless she wanted a show, she needed to leave.
“No.”
Goddammit! That little wench smacked my nuts through the blanket with what now definitely felt like a rolled magazine.
“Shit,” I hissed, and clutched my junk as I rolled over. “What is wrong with you?”
“We need to talk. Now.” The bed dipped as she sat on the edge.
“What time is it? Why are you here?”
“Morning, asshat. Hadley and I are going out. Honestly, Josh, I thought she was exaggerating.”
That got my attention. I tossed the pillow aside and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. There was Asha, glaring daggers. I put the pillow over my lap.
“Hadley? What did she say?”
“Oh, now you’re interested? This needs to stop.” She waved the rolled magazine over me. “First, it’s gross. Second, it’s gross! Third, I can’t believe you’d do that to her.”
“Hey. You’re way out of your depth here. This is my house and my room. Feel free to fuck off. I don’t need your approval.”
“You two have a twisted relationship. I see you looking at her like a sad puppy half the time. The other half you’re just blatantly staring at her ass like you’re going to drop to your knees and take a bite out of it. And here’s the real kicker: She’s looking at you, too, asshole. While you’re up there singing, Hadley is eye-fucking you like she might burst a blood vessel.” She stopped, staring at me as if I’d missed my cue. “Shall I go on, or are you getting a clear picture?”
“You’re full of shit.”
“No, Josh. I’m just the only person who cares enough to tell you the truth but not enough to worry about pissing you off. So, suck on that.” She smacked me on the nose again to emphasize her point and then sauntered toward the door.
“Why do you care?”
“Maybe I’m a sucker for a lost cause. Don’t make a fool of me, Josh. I can be an ally. If you can get your shit together.”
“I don’t want your advice.”
“No, you don’t.” Asha took a hard look at me. I got the impression she found me lacking on a fundamental level. That shit pissed me off. “But you should take it. Step one: try keeping it in your pants. You’re this close”—she held her fingers an inch apart—“to losing her.” With that, Asha walked out of my room and slammed the door behind her.
What the fuck just happened?
* * *
There was no trace of breakfast waiting for me downstairs. Not even a discarded meal in the trash can or a note saying, “Fend for yourself, dickhead.” Nothing. Just a too-big and empty house. I didn’t much care for that feeling. Even though I’d heard the girls leave after I’d gotten out of the shower, I still stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glanced at the living room—not expecting Hadley to be there with her fingers up, but still sort of hoping she would be.
Fine. Whatever. This was better. Hadley was out having fun with a girlfriend, doing girly shit, and I could be lazy on a Sunday morning in peace. Perfect.
Except that the house was too big and too quiet. And Punky hated girly shit. And I hadn’t bothered to buy cereal the last time we’d gone shopping.
On an empty stomach, I went to the garage. I picked up my acoustic guitar and attempted to play the bits and pieces of the song that had been swirling around in my head, but it was complete garbage, nothing like the melody that had so easily composed itself last night.
Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3, partially tattooed to wind around my right forearm, stared back at me as I strummed.
I used to wake up at the crack of dawn like every morning was Christmas. I’d run down the stairs, push open the heavy soundproof door to the music room, and spend hours fiddling with Carmen’s piano. At first it was just noise. One morning, my mother came in and sat quietly amused as I played total nonsense. But it wasn’t nonsense to her. Something in the notes struck her. We sat at the piano all morning and well into the afternoon as she attempted to teach me a simple series of notes.
I had learned to play “Chopsticks” on the piano in three days. The usual melodies and nursery rhymes were within my repertoire in three months. I could reproduce nearly any song I heard by ear in the first year under Carmen’s instruction. It escalated and grew until I won state competitions against students twice my age. Juilliard invited me. Harvard, Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center. And it all went by so fast.
The first song I’d ever composed was a birthday present for Hadley. My mom had suggested that I write her a song—something thoughtful, personal, and unique. Give her a gift that only I could. Carmen was great like that.
I played the song at Hadley’s tenth birthday party after we’d finished eating cake and her other friends had left with their parents. Hadley cried when I finished the song. I was terrified as I searched her eyes and those of my parents. I thought I’d upset her. I thought she hated it. For a few seconds, I seriously considered running. But Hadley insisted they were happy tears. That concept made not a damn lick of sense. She laughed, hugged me, and said she loved it. She used to make me play it for her constantly while she hung around during my rehearsals. Well, she didn’t make me. I’d have played her anything so long as she looked at me like I was hot shit.
At some point in my reminiscing, I’d stopped strumming. My fingers had the neck of my acoustic guitar in a death grip. The imprint of the strings was red in my palm as I pried my hand free and set the instrument down.
Three hours later, Asha’s words still plagued me—not that I had a reason to put an ounce of faith in the tiny devil.
To prove that I wasn’t completely uncivilized, I spent a few hours whittling down my laundry pile. That task didn’t require any actual work past starting the machine and switching out loads, so I kept up the cleaning mode as I went over the rest of the house. It was too damn big.
Sometime between trying to figure out how to empty the vacuum bin and throwing the fucking thing across the room when I finally pried it loose, I realized that I was agitated, cranky. I had a temper tantrum over a fucking vacuum. Everything was out of sorts, and it made me antsy.
Fuck this shit.
* * *
I met up with Corey and Trey at a pub downtown, where they were finishing a game of pool. I got a beer and a round for the guys, taking a stool at the table in the corner.
On a Sunday afternoon, only a few old guys occupied the bar, chain-smoking while watching soccer on the tiny TV on the wall. The pleather cushions on the stools were all ripped and held together with duct tape. The felt on the tables was scuffed, and there wasn’t a straight cue stick in the building.
Trey scratched and sent his stripe in the pocket. “You’re bad luck,” he told me as he grabbed his beer from the table. “I was up three shots on Corey before you showed up.”
“That’s a matter of perspective. Corey’s not complaining.”
“Yeah. Come over here and rub my ball for luck,” Corey said as he picked the cue ball out of the pocket and held it up. “Trey owes me a new drum head if I win.”
I winked at Corey over the rim of my beer bottle. “Bring ’em over here, handsome.”
He laughed, then missed his wide-open shot entirely. “Fuck.”
“My bad. I didn’t mean to get you all hot and bothered.”
“Don’t tease me.”
Corey plopped down on the stool across from me and chugged almost half the beer in one huge gulp. It was like his thick neck was just one big drain straight to his stomach.
Trey got up to take his turn. “Have you heard from Scott lately?”
“Texted me demanding a cut from his last gig. I told him to fuck off. Why?”
Trey made his shot easily and proceeded to sink one after another while Corey hung his head.
“Came asking me about it. I told him it was up to you.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s the deal: You handle the money, Corey does promotion, and I take care of the gear.” He chalked his cue, circling the table to line up his next shot.
“And what was Scott’s role?”
“Nothing. He missed that day of rehearsal.”
The cue ball cracked off a stripe to knock it into the corner pocket.
“You guys are so tough on him.” Corey swigged his beer. “He just needs a little help.”
“Hey, how’d it go with the blonde? Grace, right?” I asked him. “The one Asha pushed on you.”
Trey sank the eight ball with a decisive thunk, winning the game. “She hates him.”
“Already? Doesn’t it usually take at least four hours for a chick to decide you’re a pervert?”
“Nah,” Corey said, huge grin on his face. “Not that long. I think I’m in love,” he barked through a laugh.
“You lost me.”
Corey was the best kind of friend, but he had the emotional maturity of a dachshund.
“She’s the future ex-Mrs. Clark. Legs for days. Round ass. Great tits. Fuck, I got a stiffy just looking at her lips. Really fuckable lips.”
“That makes no sense.”
“She’ll come around. And it would be the perfect relationship. Since everything I say pisses her off, we just won’t talk.”
“Great plan. Let me know how that goes.”
“She asked Asha about coming to the show next week.” Trey took a seat at the table. “Either Grace is a closeted rock groupie or a glutton for punishment.”
Corey spun his bottle cap on the sticky wood tabletop. “I’ll spank her if that’s what she’s into.”
“Speaking of Asha. I woke up naked with her this morning. You need to do a better job of putting your toys away at night.”
Trey flipped me off and then chucked his empty beer bottle in the trash can behind the pool table. “That girl does what she wants. I’m just along for the ride.”
I respected that about him. Trey wasn’t the jealous type. I couldn’t remember him ever getting into it over a girlfriend before, or ever having a bad breakup. He’d tell the girl that it was over, and by the end of the talk, she’d thank him for his honesty and all that shit.
“At any rate, I’d consider it a favor if my personal life was not a topic of conversation with you two,” I told him. “She busted into my room, smacked me around with a magazine, and crossed too far over my not-your-damn-business line.”
“You know,” Corey said, “some guys pay for that kind of kink.”
“Neat.”
Her diatribe had been running laps around my head all day. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything without her irritating voice talking over my thoughts. I also couldn’t get over the fact that Hadley had talked to her about the girls I hooked up with.
“Trust me,” Trey said, “I know what to do with a beautiful woman, and it doesn’t include talking about you.”
“So...” I eyed my beer. Nothing left but the bubbles of backwash around the beveled bottom. “She swept Hadley out of the house first thing this morning.”
“Fuck yeah,” Corey barked as he slammed his fist on the table, shaking our bottles. “Pay up!”
Trey narrowed his eyes at me as he dug a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and slapped it down in front of Corey. “Just so you know, Josh, I was on your side. You let me down.”
“The fuck is that about?” I caught the bill before Corey could pull it away. “You’re betting on me?”
“Betting against you.” He tugged the bill out from under my hand.
“Start talking.”
Why was I suddenly so fucking interesting?
“I bet Trey that you couldn’t go twenty minutes without asking about Hadley.”
Corey looked so proud of himself. I wanted to knock that stupid smirk off his face.
“You didn’t make it ten.”
“We have plans on Sundays. We have, you know, shit to do. We have a routine.”
“You have a routine,” Trey said. Semantics. “And Hadley just goes along with it. Didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe Hadley misses having other friends? I like you, but sometimes you’re shitty company.”
Of course I’d thought about it. I knew it wasn’t Punky’s preference that her entire social calendar included school, hanging around the house with my sorry ass, and going to gigs with the band. But everything changed after the night I left her alone.