Four

Liam

 

 

 

I moved back to the windows in my living room in Greenwich Village overlooking Washington Square Park.

I bought the four-story townhome because one, I had the money to buy whatever I wanted, and two, because Greenwich Village was the only part of New York City I could stand for more than an hour. You’d think being in Los Angeles and touring for the last several years would have me used to the constant crowds and people and traffic. Holy fuck the traffic in L.A. sucked. I liked the feel of the NYU Campus and the view of the park outside my window. It made everything feel less cramped and uptight like so much of New York always seemed to be. Plus, both my entrances had gates to keep out the crazies who occasionally followed me home.

I lived in a fortress in New York City, and I was getting so damn tired of all of it.

The longer I was on the road, the less I could remember about home. Small town life was simpler in Carlton, Kansas, which was almost an hour outside Kansas City. It moved slower, people were quieter, children were happier.

At least that was how I remembered it. Based on how my sister and her family, and my mom still talked about life there, it hadn’t changed a bit. Sure, a new strip center occasionally went up. Urban sprawl crept into the edges of town and new developments were constantly being built. Commuters to Kansas City were willing to drive the hour in order to give their families a safe place to live.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Instead of heading to the University of Kansas like the majority of my graduating class, I packed up my eight-year-old Buick, a hand-me-down from my mom, and hit the road for Los Angeles.

And I’d made it. I fucking made it. I worked my ass off, spent half my life sleeping on busses, my only friends being the backup band and roadies and my opening acts. Some of them were pains in the ass. Some were pretty cool. Few of them I actually trusted.

Which is exactly how I found myself in this fucked up mess to begin with. A mark on my record I doubted would ever be erased.

I knew it. Anne knew it. So why she was trying so hard when I was always going to be the guy accused of raping a twenty-year-old Yale college student was beyond me.

Fuck that chick and the roadie she bribed to allow her access on my bus where she then took photos to be able to confirm we had met.

We had. For about twenty-two seconds before I grabbed her arm and yanked her off my bus. Touching her alone caused enough damage, and maybe I’d gripped her harder than necessary, or maybe she’d paid someone else to leave bruises on her arm. Those marks that had been splashed all over the paper, despite my team’s efforts to keep them suppressed raised enough questions.

But I didn’t rape her. Only assholes with egos the size of Texas and dicks the size of Rhode Island were that despicable.

Now I was staring out the window of my living room, pausing between the laps I was pacing around my home, waiting for some damn brunette to give me her answer through the intake coordinator at the most expensive brothel I’d ever heard of.

What was it about this woman? This Claudia, that kept getting to me?

I shouldn’t have been fascinated with her. Besides her perky tits and tight ass, I was still thinking about the firm set of her jaw when I asked her name. I was still grinning at her refusal to give it to me, despite her obvious recognition of me.

Yeah. It was all of that. If I had to show a cleaned up version of myself, I wanted it with someone who wouldn’t fawn at my feet.

I wanted someone who could hold her own, be just as stubborn as me to ensure that when a year was up, we went our separate ways.

It’d been eight hours since I demanded an answer. And I was getting pissed. I hadn’t expected the brunette to jump at the chance to spend a year with me, but putting it off this long was ticking me off.

I’d made it clear she was who I wanted, and I’d walk if it didn’t happen.

Anne and that Karen woman should have been busting their asses to get me what I wanted.

If only I could figure out why I was so damn insistent on it.

Anne was at the New York office and I was trying to work on new music. Nothing was working to get me focused. None of my usual calming tricks or relaxation techniques helped.

Hell, I’d even done yoga, which was always my last resort. My limbs were loose, but my head was a jumbled fucking mess.

Something needed to give.

I needed my answer, and I needed it to be yes.

I paced another lap around my living room, flicking my guitar pick between my thumb and middle finger. I had a tune in my head, but it was too soon to fully hear it. It was how songs came to me, in pieces and chunks, never linear, and somehow I was able to smooth them together until a song was formed. This new tune was a mess, even for me. All I heard was the bass line, a constant thumping in my head and the ring of certain chords, but there was nothing I heard yet that gave me the hint of a melody or the flow.

I wouldn’t get it put together until I cleared some of the mess in my head.

And more than needing an answer from that damn woman, I needed to work on a new album.

Ticket sales plummeting and a tour being canceled last year demanded I come back out on fire and on top. If not, there were dozens more musicians just like me, fighting to take my spot. One failed album after my disastrous year and I’d be saying sayonara to my homes in L.A. and New York and my vacation home on Anguilla. I’d be back in a Midwest city, living off my royalties for the rest of my life.

No way was that fucking happening. As much as I sometimes missed Kansas and my family, there was more I wanted to accomplish.

My phone rang on the coffee table and I picked it up, sliding my thumb across the screen and putting it to my ear as soon as I saw Anne’s name.

“What’d she say?” I demanded, not bothering to say hello. Anne wouldn’t be offended. She never said hello to me.

“Yes. She’ll be on the plane tomorrow.”

I suddenly wanted it to leave immediately. Fuck. Why did I give her a day to change her mind?

Why was I doing this in the first place? I hated the idea, loved the idea of the woman.

I flicked the pick toward my guitar set up against my leather corner chair where I typically sat to write and headed toward the kitchen. There, I popped open a bottle of beer and took a heavy chug while Anne sighed and went quiet.

“You need this.”

I swallowed the beer and set it down on the counter. I turned to my view. The sway of the trees, the bustling of NYU students carrying backpacks and rushing to classes did shit to calm me.

Which gave me a new idea. I wasn’t taking Claudia to L.A. anymore.

“What I need is to write a damn platinum selling album. That’s what I need, Anne. The rest is publicity bullshit and I’m tired of my damn chain being yanked every time I take a step. I’m changing plans. Claudia and I are going to Anguilla.”

“Disappearing for months is the worst thing you can do. Makes you look like you are guilty or ashamed. Besides, you’re supposed to start recording your next album. Here. I’ve just spent the afternoon securing your recording time and letting your band know.”

“Or maybe it means I need a goddamn break,” I snapped, “and they can use one, too.”

Jesus. She didn’t get it. And she never would. She had no idea what it felt like, the looks I got, the curious stares and judgment in people’s eyes ever since the news first broke. I’d been convicted in a court of public opinion before I was charged with anything. My parents spent months defending me to their friends, my sister the same at the elementary school where she worked.

All of it was bullshit and I was more than tired of the constant need to spin.

A month or two out in Anguilla was just what I did need.

I hung up the phone and tossed it onto the counter. Anne wouldn’t hold it against me, she hung up on me plenty.

Splaying my hands out on the cold, grey and white striped marble, I straightened my arms and dropped my head.

Fuck this. I needed to get my head on straight and it wasn’t going to happen amongst the crush of people and the constant noise and lingering stares when I was recognized.

A month on Anguilla. It was the best idea I’d had in six months. I picked up the phone and made the call, changing the flight plans.