Lindsey

 

I’m at my wit’s end, taking two seconds in the back to wipe chocolate filling off my hands, when I hear a snippet of gossip from the two usual suspects, a barista named Charlene and one of the girls from the retail side. Rumors go viral here, cheap and easy to spread, and they usually rival the guests in entertainment.

I chance a glance around the corner, catching the retail girl just as she brandishes her phone in Charlene’s face.

“Hmm,” Charlene says, bored. “It might be him. The face shape is similar.”

“Because it’s the same person, idiot!”

It’s at that moment I spot him. He walks like he’s not an award-winning musician in a record store just off Music Row. The same ball cap is pulled low over his forehead, but now that I’ve met him he’d be impossible to miss. Long strides bring him through the aisles of records to a table along the edge of the café.

“Lindsey, you’ve got a table,” Charlene says when she notices me. Suppressing a sigh, I drop off the fourth order of crepes to my picky guest.

Jenson’s reclined in his chair, his expression relaxed and unaffected, when I reach him. A corner of his mouth slowly hitches up as I cock my head, awaiting an explanation. He didn’t seem particularly keen on the place when I mentioned it was where I worked, so there must be another reason for this visit.

“Hi,” I say when he remains silent. “What brings you to Rhythm?”

He somehow frowns and smirks at the same time, like the explanation is obvious. “I don’t think I made the best impression the other night and I want to apologize.”

I shake my head. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I don’t even know you.”

“That’s not entirely true. You did come home with me.”

A hot flush rises in my cheeks, and I look around to make sure nobody heard. Whispering rapidly, I say, “Yeah, about that. . . There was a misunderstanding. It was a weird night for me. Anyway, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. It’s clear you’re dealing with some stuff, as if that wasn’t obvious enough from the articles and whatnot. Just forget it, okay? Thank you for letting me stay over.”

His mouth twists into a satisfied smile, but I don’t think he’ll let me off the hook that easily. “No worries.” He sits up, setting his elbows on the tabletop and leaning closer. “I’m sorry if that was a little awkward, me passing out early like that. I’m guessing that’s what happened at least. Hopefully I didn’t make an ass of myself.”

I think of him saying his ex-wife’s name and I’m positive my cheeks are scarlet with embarrassment for him. Anxiety that he can read my thoughts expands in my chest, and all I want to do is get him out of here.

“Nope, no. I don’t think so. Anyway, have a good day.” I turn casually, meaning to walk away from Jenson King like a badass, and step right into another chair. It skids noisily across the tile floor.

“I was planning on eating, if that’s cool with you,” he calls, a smile in his voice. He’s laughing at me.

Exhaling slowly, I release the chair I almost toppled and return to his table. “What can I get for you?”

“I’m craving an omelet. Lunch meat and salsa, particularly.” He tosses the menu across the table so it lands in front of me. “Can you accommodate that sort of thing?”

What is he getting at? “The Lindsey Special is only available on special occasions. May I recommend the club sandwich?”

“What type of occasion falls under ‘special’? Aside from the spur-of-the-moment sleepover, of course.” His lips are pursed, but his tone is teasing. He’s toying with me, and I’m not sure why.

Glancing around again to make sure we’re not being eavesdropped on, I lower my voice. “That particular dish is a limited-edition item, reserved only for extenuating circumstances.”

Jenson humors me, drawing closer. His eyes are molten-earth threaded with gold. Dimensional and multi-faceted, like chunks of chocolate topaz. “And what distinguishes a circumstance as extenuating?”

“Pity, mostly. I have to feel really, really sorry for you and the state of your bachelor fridge. What do you guys even survive on? Cans of refried beans and Fritos?”

He leans back and lifts his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “You ever tried to cook a meal with only refried beans and Fritos? It takes commitment and skill, two things I’m not sure you possess.”

I turn to walk away, dodging the chair this time. I enjoy my banter, but not when I have other tables with actual paying customers to attend to. “Good bye, Jenson.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up!”

I don’t hold up. I retrieve a pitcher of ice water and cut across the floor to the part of the dining room farthest from him. Much to my disdain, he follows. I hear his boots on the floor behind me, those lace-up ones that used to be rugged until someone turned them into another trend.

“Stop following me. You’re drawing attention.”

“I actually came here for a reason,” he says from beside me. I refill the waters at a table and ignore the looks they give my unwanted guest. They ask me for lemons, and Jenson tracks me all the way to the counter.

“For what reason? Omelets?” I throw over my shoulder, grabbing the lemons and ignoring the intrusive glances from the retail girl.

“No. You left this in my room.”

That catches my attention. I glance over at whatever is waiting in his outstretched hand. It’s my work tank-top from the other night; I guess in my hurry to leave I forgot it. I snatch it back, knowing how this looks to anyone on the outside.

“I meant to give it to you when we were at the table, but you didn’t stick around long enough.”

“Thanks for that. Do you need anything else?” I tuck the shirt into my apron with one hand while keying in an order at the counter with the other, all the while hoping my manager, Jerry, doesn’t see the guest who’s tiptoeing the line between customer-friendly and employee-only territory.

Jenson braces his hands on either side of the walkway behind the counter top, leaning closer. “What does your tattoo mean?”

“Go grocery shopping,” I say, before ducking beneath his arm and getting back to work.

 

 

Jenson

 

I slide the door aside and walk in, and the room feels like it shrinks just as my eyes adjust. There, sitting on the couch between piles of dirty laundry, is Ross Strahan. Being Vice President of the label I’m signed with, I don’t see him in my basement often—technically ever—yet here he is, sitting amidst the shattered remnants of my life, liquor bottles decorating the flat surfaces and no productivity in sight. The rest of the scene materializes in slow motion, and I realize after a few long seconds of staring that my entire band is here as well.

As soon as I turn around to walk right back out the door, Carter steps out from wherever he was hiding—the snake—and leans against it, casually crossing his arms like he hasn’t just trapped me. My best friend. I clench my fists and let out a breath, feeling my shoulders drop in defeat just as a wave of bile rises in my throat. Time to face the music.

“If any of you even breathes the word intervention, you’re dead to me.”

“Fine. Call it a progress report. How are you doing, Jenson?” Ross says, his elbows on his knees and an I-care-about-you smile on his face. He makes a show of trying to look like he belongs here, but his designer getup makes it impossible.

“That’s what you’re all here for, huh? A progress report? Being that I haven’t seen all of you in the same room together in almost a year?” Despite the fact it’s mostly my fault, I can’t help the bitterness that colors my tone. Betrayal will do that to a person.

“You have to tell us what you want to do, man,” Travis, my bass player, says, rising to his feet from my bed. I know my room doesn’t have much in the way of seating, but him thinking he’s entitled to my most sacred place kind of pisses me off. He might as well take a shit in my bathroom while he’s at it. “We’ve been sitting on our asses for God knows how long without answers.”

“Don’t act like I haven’t given you anything. I put you on the fucking map,” I growl, pacing over to my nightstand. And the whiskey. It’s a reflex, running to the liquor when I can’t get a handle on things otherwise, and I barely catch myself, snatching up a half-empty bottle of water instead. I down it in two gulps and toss the plastic aside.

James steps forward. He’s the newest and quietest member of the band, had been with us for nearly a year when everything went to shit. “You need to get yourself straight, but you also need to tell us what you need from us. We can help, dude.”

“I need all of you to back the fuck off and get out of my face. You think ambushing me is going to fix anything?”

“It’s more of a business meeting,” Carter amends, spreading his hands. He’s always been a peacekeeper, gluing back the seams when they come apart. But right now, all I see is a traitor.

“A business meeting.” I scoff. “Maybe you should’ve thought about the logistics of that before you gathered everyone in my room to jump me. A business meeting.” I swipe off my hat and fist it in my hands before chucking it across the room. Ross doesn’t even flinch, he just stands up and wipes his hands on his jeans like he’s gotten something filthy on them.

“Take the time you need to get yourself together, but I want you in my office tomorrow, Jenson. I respect your personal time, but we also need to get a plan in order. Not everyone’s going to hang on forever. And when they let go, there’s no getting them back. Think about that.” And then he has the audacity to lay his manicured hands on me, giving me a pat on the shoulder before sidestepping a stack of records and slipping out the door.

I turn to Carter. “Ross Strahan, dude? Really?”

“You ghosted on Brad, and he wasn’t gonna push you and get fired. Ross was a last resort. He wants you in the studio, man.”

No shit I’ve been ignoring Brad’s calls—there are only so many questions I can take from our blowhard manager. He acts like he’s all about the band, but I know people, and I know him. All he cares about is his Mercedes and the barely-legal girls he picks up by namedropping. But it burns to know that Carter called Ross himself. I would’ve dealt with him when I was ready, when I had gotten myself together a little more, but instead they had to catch me by surprise in the one place where I’ve never had to hide.

I turn to the rest of the guys, who are watching our exchange like their futures don’t hang in the balance. “Get out,” I say. “Please.” To my surprise, they file out without another word, only a suspicious glance from Travis that makes me want to punch him in the face. Once they’re gone, I cross the room to my dresser, yanking out the top drawer, the location of my stash of cash. I grab a handful of bills without counting them and walk over to Carter, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt. “To cover your troubles. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

“Really, man? You don’t—”

“You can go now.” I pull out a cigarette and light it up, awaiting Carter’s wrath as he watches me for several seconds, then ascends the stairs and shuts the door behind him. It doesn’t feel great to walk out on my best friend, but then it doesn’t feel great to be sold out by him, either.

The truth is a bitter pill to swallow, and the facts are staring me hard in the face. A year and a half ago, I was headlining my own tour. I’ve since then gotten divorced, been to rehab twice, attended more prayer groups than you could imagine, and my life is still swirling down the tubes. My bandmates thought I was just taking some personal time, mentally preparing for our comeback. Up ’til now. I don’t think I’m fooling anyone anymore.

I watch thick ribbons of smoke leave my lips and dematerialize in the air. It’s the end of an era—I feel it all coming to a close. In the coming weeks I’ll have to find my own place, make big decisions regarding the band, and therefore determine the rest of my future. Life is a runaway train that won’t stop for anyone. I just don’t know where it’s headed next.