“I have always been faithful to you when we were together. You can believe it or not believe it. I don’t give a fuck which. But don’t ever tell me again that I can do what I want to do so long as you don’t know it. I always do what I want. So to be clear, and leave no room for you to fucking misunderstand this: I want you.”

Her eyes flash and I can tell I hit a nerve in her when I didn’t want to. Fuck, Chrissie, do you even understand what I’m saying to you here? I don’t want another woman. Don’t give me permission to fuck around. I don’t need it. I need you.

I wait for her to settle in her emotions again.

“Next, I have never lied to you, Chrissie. I will never lie to you. I have always told you the truth.”

Even that’s the truth. I’m incapable of lying to her. Doesn’t she know that? I have never lied to her. Not once. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been completely honest and myself with.

“Thirdly,” I continue, feeling more confident, less worried, and in control finally, “there’s Kaley and I adore her, but I won’t ever want children of my own. Children are not part of my equation. This is not something that is ever going to change. Not ever, Chrissie. I love you, but I can’t give you that.”

She looks away, her expression changing so rapidly I can’t catch any of the emotions I’m seeing on her face. But I’ve done it. I’ve given her a door to run through, and fuck yes, with the way everyone gossips and how the girl looks, I have wondered if Kaley is my daughter. But asking Chrissie directly is not something I’m prepared to do. My suspicions would hurt her if the girl is Neil’s, and I’m terrified to push too hard since I don’t know what it means if Kaley is my daughter and Chrissie hasn’t told me.

Why wouldn’t she tell me? What does it mean? It means something significant to her if she’s not telling me. I wait. Nothing. Silence.

I hold her in an unrelenting stare. Now is the time, for the both of us, to tell me the truth. I’ve given you the opening, love. Take it if that is my daughter.

The room grows heavy with silence, and I’m more disappointed than I ever expected to be after finally asking if Kaley is my daughter and learning she is not. But there it is. Absolute certainty at last. Chrissie is silent. She hasn’t said a word. Resolved. Kaley is Neil’s daughter. I’ll deal with that misery later.

“You said you have four things to say to me, Alan. That was only three.”

Chrissie’s voice drags me from my thoughts. I feel the jeweler’s case cutting into my thigh from my pocket. No, I’m not going to ask her to marry me today. She doesn’t want me to. That’s why she told me upfront that little part about when it’s good, it’s good. And when it’s bad, I’m gone. That’s what I want, Alan.

Even after all this time, she is unsure if she wants to marry me. I let my gaze slowly roam her. So you want this simple, love? Simple and Chrissie; a paradox unachievable. That doesn’t mean I’m not ready to be done with this.

I let my eyes burn in that way that says I want to fuck you.

“Just stay and be good to me.”

 

 

Chapter 3

2013

 

“There’s a series of questions here I’m supposed to ask. Do you mind if I ask them?”

Fuck, really? They’ve assigned a biographer to replace Jesse Harris that they don’t trust to draft his own questions.

I smile. “Go ahead.” I light a cigarette and wait.

“Best concert?” Miles asks.

Trite. Why am I continuing with this exercise in mendacity? People don’t want the truth. They want cleverly drafted, interesting, and artfully dishonest anecdotes. I don’t even remember most of my concerts—I grin—and then there are some I remember very well.

“June 1998. Los Angeles.”

The words slipping from my lips make the picture come into clear focus in my head and my body rapidly heats. A vision of Chrissie on stage, fucked up for the one and only time I’ve ever seen her wasted. Her blue eyes bright with lust and love as she crossed the stage to me after finishing her set. How she wrapped herself around me like an octopus, practically raping me on center stage, before she gave Neil the bird and told him to fuck off to a packed house.

Then waking up with her the next morning, knowing I could fuck her and holding myself back because she didn’t remember what she’d done at the concert. Fuck, she had been so worried and frantic. I wasn’t much help when she asked me what had happened on stage before she passed out into my arms. I should never have said, “I’m not sure which will be the highlight or the lowlight for you, love. I definitely have a preference.” God, I can be an ass at times. Poor Chrissie. She was so humiliated after learning she’d thrown herself at me on stage and done a rather nice dry hump of my cock in front of a packed house. I should not have phrased it that way. I should not have told her molesting me on stage was ‘the highlight’. She’s right. I can be mean sometimes, but I never intended to be. Not ever with her.

My gaze shifts to Miles. My anger flares when I realize the little cunt is writing that down. “Fuck, that was a joke. Don’t write that.” I stomp out my cigarette. “Write instead: every time on stage is the best concert of my life.”

OK, that’s idiotically trite, but fuck, it’s what people expect you to say.

“What’s your greatest regret?”

I maintain an expertly blank expression while inwardly I’m flooded with annoyance and disgust. Greatest regret. Jesus Christ, I have a life filled with regrets, you imbecile. You actually want me to pick one?

Miles taps his pen. “Do you want me to skip that question?”

I lean back into my pillows and close my eyes. “Answer: I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done in my life, only the things I haven’t done.”

Fuck, this biography being an exercise in mendacity is now an epic understatement. Greatest regret. Oh fuck, without a doubt the week Neil Stanton died…

*  *  *

2003

 

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket again, but I’m fucking tired. I remain slouched on the leather seat as the car moves toward the concert venue. Last show of the tour. Then I’m home. Maybe all I need is to be home with Chrissie to start feeling like me again.

I look out the window.

“I need something to wake me up, Len,” I grumble.

Len tosses me a vial. I take two fast snorts of coke, dampen the tips of my fingers, snort again to clear my nostrils, and then chase it with a long swallow of JD.

Len fixes on me a disapproving glare. “You’ve been waking yourself up too often lately. What the fuck is the matter with you? You look like death.” His gaze intensifies. “Where did you disappear to for an entire week?”

“Sod off. I don’t owe you answers to anything.”

Better to let him think I am a prick—fucking around on Chrissie—instead of the truth. I don’t need Len and the rest of the band in a panic over me.

“Better have a fucking better answer than that for Chrissie.” Len studies me. “Feeling guilty, are you? Is that why you won’t take a call from her? Fuck man, she’s been blowing up your phone for hours. What if she knows whatever it is you’ve been doing during your disappearing act? The longer you let her fume the worse it’s going to get for you, Manny.”

Great fucking advice, Len. You’re such an old woman at times. Worse than Linda. Only you’re wrong about everything. Always. You’re my best friend. You should know me better than that.

I don’t fuck around on Chrissie. Not ever. I collapsed in my hotel suite. I’ve been in the hospital, you asshole. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me yet—I don’t look like death; I feel like death and I’m fucking scared—and I sure as fuck don’t want Chrissie to know about this yet. She takes everything so hard. Better to find out what it is first. Better not to worry her.