I don’t even know if we are together.

I go for the door.

 

 

Chapter 14

Four days. No text. No call. I’m back in purgatory, and all I did was ask Chrissie to marry me.

Frozen out.

What does it mean?

I wonder if she’s considering my proposal, or if she’s busy doing other things. Is she thinking about me? Does she miss me as much as I miss her?

Over and over again. Same thoughts. It’s pointless. I won’t know what’s going on with Chrissie until she tells me. That’s how it works. Some things never change.

I’m tired of bouncing off the walls. I go for a run on the beach, take a fast shower and dress. Before heading out, I check my phone one last time. I scroll through the messages.

No, nothing from Chrissie.

With my thumb I go through the list again—same old shit. My thumb lifts from the phone.

Ah, Kenny.

Asshole.

None of the guys have called me since Len broke the news that the band would be going on permanent hiatus after the final leg of the tour. Kenny must have decided enough time has passed for me to cool off so that it would safe to talk to me.

I hit the callback button anyway.

Ring. Ring.

“What the fuck are you doing in LA?” Kenny says into the phone by way of greeting, in a manner that leaves little doubt he knows the unabridged 411 about the sorry state of my life.

I grimace. Fuck you, Len. You’re such an old woman. Why can’t you keep your big mouth shut?

I lean back into the cushions on the couch. “Sitting around in Malibu with my cock in my hand doing nothing. I was about to head out.”

Kenny laughs. “You want to lay down some drum tracks today? I’m in Encino. My usual LA gang. Just messing around in the studio. Seeing what the fuck we can do. We need a drummer. You free?”

Free? Fucking understatement of the century.

I sigh. “Same studio as last time?”

“Yep, same one.”

“I can pop over there for a while.”

I click off the phone. The thought of spending the afternoon in that hot, poorly ventilated recording space Kenny books isn’t uplifting. But why the fuck shouldn’t I do it? I’ve got nothing better on the calendar for the afternoon.

My choices for diversion are limited now that I’m back with Chrissie. No parties. No sex—unless with her, and our status is no sex at present—and I put on the list this time without being asked by her no synthetic recreation or excess booze. Time to clean up my act now that I’m a father. But I’ve wiped from the possibilities list everything I do to keep busy when I’m not touring.

I do feel better physically with all the healthy living shit, though. And hell, it’s only been a week. Not so bad. Except the no sex part. That’s a fucking misery.

The recording studio in Encino is intolerably stuffy when I arrive. Kenny’s mob consists of three other musicians, marquee members of other bands. They’re OK guys.

I’m bombarded with fast greetings, spiced with the usual shit—short versions of what everyone’s been up to and questions about what I’m doing—then we get down to it and start jamming.

Doing drums—instead of guitar, which is what everyone except Kenny pulls me into studios to do—feels good. I should do it more often. A great way to work the tension out of my body and some of the sexual frustration until Chrissie decides she wants to see me again.

Ten hours later, I’m loose, sweaty, drained and lying on a couch listening to the playback of the tape we rolled today. We haven’t done a damn thing worth recording, not in my opinion, but this is Kenny’s gig so what the fuck do I care if it’s not brilliant?

Kenny shoves a bottle across the floor. I open my eyes. He’s still sitting there across the room from me, even though everyone else has cut out for the night, and not so subtly studying me, wondering if we’re OK.

I guess it’s time for us to clear the air but, fuck, I’m not giving him an easy way to feel good about what they did behind my back since the band didn’t even fucking tell me to my face together. I deserve better than that from each of those pricks.

“So you’re not even going to fucking drink with me?” Kenny asks, staring at the bottle of JD he slid over to me on the floor. He shakes his head. “We’ve been friends since we were teenagers, man. Don’t make the band an issue between us. It’s the right move, Manny. We’re still a band. Just not going to be a working band.”

“Fuck you, Kenny. Don’t patronize me. I don’t give a fuck about the band. All you fucking wankers can do what you want.”

“Then have a drink with me so I know we’re cool.”

I lift up my bottle of chilled water. “I’m sticking with aqua these days. Cutting down on the bad living, the cigarettes and the booze.”

He rolls his eyes, frustrated, and runs his fingers through his hair. “If you fucking give up bad living, cigarettes and booze all in the same week your body will drop dead from detox.”

“Fuck you, Kenny.”

He laughs. “Remmy is out of town. I’m flying solo. Want to do dinner? Hit a party? Some clubs or something? It’s too early to fucking go home.”

Remmy. Kenny’s wife. Never could stand the woman. Linda is right. Kenny did remarry too soon after his last divorce.

I exhale. “No. It’s late. I think I’m just going to go back to Malibu.”

“It’s fucking ten thirty, you wanker. What’s the matter? Been having some rough nights lately, have you?”

“Something like that,” I answer ambiguously.

“Chrissie,” he says, laying his head back against the wall and laughing. “Someday you’re going to have to explain to me how an asshole like you managed to stay in the game with her this long. She’s a fucking incredible woman.”

My temper spikes. Thanks a lot, Len, for running your mouth to no doubt everyone we know.

Kenny’s eyes open. “By the way, congratulations. After all this fucking time you and Chrissie back together again and you’ve got a kid. It’s the way it should be. The two of you together. Finally. There’s still time, mate. Enough time to have some of the things in life worth doing. I’m glad you both decided to stop wasting time.”

Oh Christ, Kenny being philosophical in his uniquely moronic way. Still time…blow me. He’s on his way to divorce court again. Nope, not staying and drinking with him and listening to him ramble on about Remmy. Time to cut out.

I move to sit up on the couch and finish my water. I toss the bottle into the trash and stand. “Well, you know what cowboys say. You ride the horse until it bucks you off then you ride it again.”

Fuck, that was idiotic, but it makes Kenny laugh.

“One would think you’d figured out how to ride that horse by now,” he jeers. “Hey, it’s a little girl, right?”

“Yes. Khloe. She’s five months.” I try to sound casual over it, but it still sends a current across my nerves every time I think of her.

Kenny laughs again. “Fuck, you guys didn’t waste any time after Jesse’s death. Better marry Chrissie soon. Not take any chances this go around or you’ll lose her, mate.”

I ignore that comment. “Good night.”

“Do you have a picture of your daughter?”

I’m shocked that he asked, then shocked when I realize that I don’t.

I change the subject. “Come on. I am hungry. Let’s go grab something to eat.”

We leave the studio and meet up again at an elite rockers’ club in West Hollywood a few blocks from the Whiskey. I make it to the front door, powering through the standard array of bullshit to get into the damn place—fans, press—and blow past the interference inside—ex-lovers and women hoping to fill that slot tonight—and find Kenny already seated in a red leather booth in the back of the joint.

Fuck, why did Kenny pick here to eat? It’s packed, there’s live music, and I just wanted something quiet, fast and no hassle. But Kenny can’t spend one minute out of the mix. It’s like a drug for him. No wonder his life has turned to shit again.