“Your mind will play tricks on you even when your heart tells you otherwise.” ~ Johnny Outlaw
My eyes slowly open. Five forty-five in the morning and I’m awake. Seven hours sleep must be my max. I look toward the patio door. It’s dark outside, but a slip of moonlight is streaming in. Lying there motionless for a few minutes I let the fog clear from my brain and reach for my phone on the nightstand.
I don’t have the energy to tackle my emails yet. My inbox gets flooded overnight by overseas emails, but I do check my texts. I have two—one from Dalton and another from Rochelle.
I read Daltons first. I fucked up.
My heart sinks. I flip back to the main messages and then to his again hoping to find out what he means, but there’s nothing else. No other texts. What the fuck? How can he send me that and nothing else? I feel sick to my stomach. I know he won’t pick up his phone this early, so I pop out of bed and run down the stairs to the kitchen and grab my laptop. I open it at the bar and start searching, typing ‘Johnny Outlaw’ into the search bar.
Pages of results show up, but the top three are from yesterday and three hours ago. I click the first titled, “Johnny Outlaw on Going Solo and Being Single.”
I brace myself, trying to block the bile filling my mouth. My hands start shaking and the article pops up—the interview he had yesterday. “Shit, what did you do, Dalton?” I quietly ask myself. I start rapidly reading the article looking for his responses. I come across this, ‘Being married has changed my perspective on life. My priorities have changed.’
Interviewer—You’ve never talked openly about your marriage. Last week you brought Holliday Hughes onstage with you. So you’re changing your stance on this? She’s changed you?
‘She has made me realize my true priorities.’
Interviewer—What does that mean for the band?
‘It means I’m considering all my options.’
Interviewer—You might go solo or quit?
‘Music isn’t a hobby for me. It’s more than a career. Music saved me. Music is a part of me, like an organ that pumps and thrives, keeping me alive.’
I continue reading the article.
Outlaw downs his fourth shot, so I down my third having trouble keeping up with the brooding musician. Casey James’ “Let’s Don’t Call It A Night” comes on the jukebox. The small country-themed bar is buried in the middle of Manhattan and over the course of the last hour has a few more customers. This dark corner offers protection from Outlaw’s enormous fan base and he seems to appreciate that fact.
He speaks in riddles and often doesn’t answer at all. For someone that the world seems to know everything about, I get the distinctive feeling that we actually know very little about him. I’ve danced around his personal life though it’s a topic that endlessly fascinates the media and the world. Maybe that’s because we don’t know anything about it.
Interviewer—You’re a different man from the last time we met. Yet I don’t feel like I know you any better than back then.
‘When was that?’
Interviewer—Three years ago before the Grammy’s.
He looks around. When he turns back, he says, ‘That was before the band change-up.’
It was back when Cory Dean, the lead guitarist and much beloved member of The Resistance died in a plane crash, leaving two young sons and a fiancée behind. Outlaw has been very vocal about how much this tragedy affected him. By his body language, it is still a source of discord for him.
Interviewer—Do you get along with the new members?
‘Yeah.’
Switching tactics, I return back to the man himself.
Interviewer—How do you really feel about fame, Johnny?
‘Fame has no substance. It’s a word, something people use to categorize you. There’s this misperception that fame equals happiness. It doesn’t. It doesn’t hold that kind of power. It can give you glimpses of happiness, but there’s no solid foundation in it.’ The lead singer leans forward and I can tell how passionate he is about the topic. I’ve touched a nerve. ‘Your family, your friends, your art—those have substance. Those hold value and weight over your soul. Losing fame isn’t a loss. Losing a friend is.’
Interviewer—You’re referring to Cory Dean?
‘I’m referring to people and things that matter.’
Interviewer—Your fans may take your reaction as ungrateful.
‘My fans know where I stand and how much I care about my music and them. I won’t be drawn in to defend my stance on something that glorifies failure. That’s what fame does. As soon as you start to lose fame, you’re considered a failure. I’ve got a history I hope one day becomes a legacy. There’s no failure in my accomplishments.’
Interviewer—No, there’s not. You’re legacy already exists.
Two of the newer members of The Resistance walk in with a woman I don’t recognize. She calls Johnny and the guys signal for him to leave. Johnny stands and thanks me. He pays for our drinks and says maybe we’ll catch up in LA later this year.
Interviewer—I’d like to. I’ll set something up.
‘Thanks. Have a good night.’
I watch as the group disappears out onto the streets of New York wondering how far this, using a term he seems to despise, famous man will get without being recognized. Although this interview, like the last one is shorter than I’d like, I’ve learned that he has changed in many way from three years ago, but the mystery still remains.
Not sure what to make of this, I stare at the screen. Getting up quickly, I hurry back upstairs and grab my phone. I see Rochelle’s text still waiting to be read and open it. Call me after you read the interview. I’m worried about Johnny.
I doubt she’s up. Looking at the time, it’s just gone six, but I text her anyway. I just read it. I haven’t talked to him yet. I’ll call you after I do.
Next, I call Dalton. I don’t care what time it is. Closing my eyes, I stand next to the bed holding the phone to my ear. Groggily, he answers, “Hello?”
“Dalton, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You sent me a text that says you fucked up.” I can’t contain the strain in my voice, my nerves getting the best of me. “What happened? How did you fuck up?”
A female voice in the background, sounding tired, way too relaxed, says, “Hang up, Johnny.”
My heart stops, my fingers losing hold of the phone as my soul loses grasp of my world. The phone falls from my hand as I run to the bathroom. Flipping the seat up, I’m hunched over heaving until my body rids itself of the poison of my former life. I roll back and lie down on the cold marble. My thoughts are spinning too fast to keep up and my stomach is churning from the pain that my husband has fucked up and fucked our life.
Standing up, my knees go weak and my hands need something solid to hold onto. I lean on the counter and grab a washcloth, wet it, and dab it to my face. The cool water feels good despite how numb the rest of my body feels. I brush my teeth and go back into the bedroom. My phone has several missed calls from Dalton on the screen even though I never hung up. Guess he did and called back.
But I can’t. I can’t talk to him right now. Just as I set the phone down on the nightstand, it buzzes with a text from him—call me back.
Fuck you!
Then it buzzes again. This time with a text from Rochelle—call me when you can.
I call her back because I’d rather talk to her than sit here for the next few hours letting the fact that my husband is fucking another woman run rampant through my mind.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Rochelle…” the name doesn’t even fully leave my mouth before I burst into tears.
“Holli, honey, what’s wrong?”
“He’s cheating on me.”
“What?” The word spikes in her throat. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I just,” I start to say and sniffle, “called him and I heard a woman in the background.”
“Uh!” She gasps as if she can’t comprehend what I’m saying. “Holli…”
After she pauses, I pick up the conversation with, “I know.”
“I feel sick.”
“I was sick. I just threw up.”
“Holli, I’m in shock right now. I know the band had a meeting in his room last night. Tommy called me to say I needed to get Rory on an interview he’d just done because he seemed different, drunk and sad. I know you left yesterday. Did you leave on a bad note?”
“No, we were good. More than good. I, uh…” I start to cry again.
“I’m coming over.”
“You don’t hav—”
“I’m coming. Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Holli?” Rochelle calls from downstairs.
I roll away from the door and don’t answer. I’m sick of crying and emotionally exhausted.
“I have good news.” I feel her cozy up behind me and hug me. “The whole band was there, Holli. He wasn’t alone with any woman. It was their equipment manager Ash—”
Facing her, I say, “Ashley. I’m very familiar with her.”
“See? It’s nothing. They were just meeting and partying all night.”
We both sit up and lean against the headboard. My eyes burn from the tears. “In New York, she told me without distractions, he could be king, Ro.”
“What does that mean?”
“She insinuated that I’m distracting him from his potential.”
Rochelle’s eyes are fixed on me in disbelief. “That’s bullshit. She actually said that?” Scoffing, she adds, “He’s at the top of his game and owes a lot to you being by his side, so don’t let her give you doubts.”
“Since when does the crew hang out with the band?”
She understands why I’m asking, but still doesn’t sugarcoat the facts. “They don’t normally.”
“Normally,” I repeat in disgust. “I read the article. She was the one with Kaz and Derrick who got him out of the rest of the interview. He didn’t really know who she was when I was there and suddenly it’s like they’re old friends.”
“I… I’m not quite sure what to say. But I talked to Tommy on the way over and Johnny was never alone with her. Derrick was still there when he checked on him. He said Johnny was flipping out because he couldn’t get a hold of you.” She grabs my phone from the other side of me and says, “I think you should call him.”
“I don’t want to. I can’t…” I turn away from her and wipe at my eyes.
“You owe him that much. Just like he owes you his side of things.”
“Everybody owes everybody something,” I remark disgruntled. With a huff I take the phone from her and call him.
He answers on the first ring. My name rushes from his mouth panicked, “Holliday? What’s going on? Are you okay? I almost called the police.”
“Dalton…” I say between quiet sobs that have risen at the sound of his voice. “Is she still there with you?”
“Who’s she?”
“Ashley?”
He sighs. “Fuck. Is that what earlier was about?”
“I don’t like her, Dalton. I don’t want her around you anymore.”
“She was here to discuss Derrick’s acoustic.”
“She got you from the bar. I read that. I read the interview. You sent me a text that you fucked up, then I hear her calling your name at three in the morning from your suite,” I say.
“This has been twisted. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”
“Then why did you text me that?”
“Because I fucked up the interview, I said things I shouldn’t have. I drank too much. He kept asking about us. It was setting me off.”
“You scared the shit out of me and broke my heart at the same time. I’ve been puking I was so sick over the thought of you cheating on me and worse, leaving me.”
“I’m sorry.” With the phone to my ear, I look back at Rochelle. She gives a faint smile, but I drop my gaze to the duvet and start crying again. He says, “Talk to me, Baby.”
“I feel so stupid.”
“We’re in a tough situation. You got jealous just like I got jealous of that model. It puts a strain on our relationship, but I don’t want that. I don’t want you upset or jealous. You can trust me. I promise you.”
“Dalton?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t tell you to fire her, but I don’t want you near her. I don’t want you hanging out with her. She’s trying to come between us.”
“You’re thinking too much into this. She’s the Equipments Manager. That’s it.”
“Please. For us.”
“She’s nothing to me, Holliday.”
“You’re not going to fire her, are you?”
My eyes meet Rochelle and she shakes her head and whispers, “He can’t. It’s not that easy.”
With a heavy sigh, he repeats, “She’s nothing to me.”
He’s not frivolous with his emotions. He doesn’t love easily. The text… I think he was searching for reassurance that he didn’t fuck everything up. For him, for us, I need to push down my feelings regarding her and deal with the fact that she’s not going anywhere anytime soon. I take a deep breath and exhale. “The interview is fine. It’s not what the band wants to hear, but you didn’t disrespect them. If they bring it up, talk to them like you’re talking to me. Be honest with them.”
“Dex is gonna be angry. Tommy is going to be furious with me.”
“Let them. Hear them out, but let them. Just don’t make any rash decisions. All right?”
“All right.”
I hear him yawn on the other end of the line. Thinking of his schedule today, I glance at the hour again and say, “Get some sleep. You need it for the show tonight and I need it.”
“I’ll call you later.” We hang up without goodbyes, sick of that word anyway. Our business may be left unfinished, but we’re both too tired to continue the fight.
When I fall back on the pillow, I peek over at Rochelle. She has the I-told-you-so expression all over her face, but she doesn’t say it. But I don’t mind if she does. “Go ahead,” I say.
Snuggling down next to me, she says, “I don’t need to. I’m just glad you guys were able to talk.”
“Me too.”