“I do too, especially since it’s my last chance.” The book was coming out on the fourth anniversary of me going pro with writing. And that was the deadline for the bet between me and Dad.
“Don’t worry, hon,” Mom said. “You’ll hit it. I have faith in you, and I’m going to make sure it happens, too! I’ve already made a ton of graphics and brainstormed some ideas to help.”
I smiled at her enthusiasm, even if it was mainly motivated by her desire to see me win and humiliate Dad. I wanted to see him humiliated too, but mainly, I wanted to see him admit he was wrong—wrong to mock me and other women for enjoying romance, wrong to belittle my choices and desires.
“Thanks, Mom.” I took the last swig. “I gotta go and finish the scene I was working on.”
“Okay! You go make me proud.”
Chapter Eleven
Killian
The next morning, I puttered around in my kitchen, intending to make myself an omelet. I’d decided to make it a habit to eat better, especially when I wasn’t touring. Things could be hectic on the road. My recent collapse had reminded me I needed to take care of myself if I wanted to be singing and performing for decades to come, even though the specialists who’d examined me had said I was healthy enough. I didn’t plan on fading away after only a few years like so many others. I wanted longevity.
Probably should get the other guys to start eating better, too. We could be like the Stones, or Aerosmith…
Besides, I did my best work when I was well rested and well fed. There was a myth of suffering, cocaine-snorting musicians pouring out amazing work in a drug-induced haze. Might be true for some, but not me. It was a terrible way to work, more self-destructive than creative.
But in the last several years, I’d pushed anyway because I wanted to see how far I could go. And my body had punished me for it, so now it was recovery time. Recharge the batteries. Sleep. Rest. Take it easy. I was certain if I could get over this burnout, I’d go back to writing brilliant songs again, with the kind of lyrics that resonated with millions of listeners.
Not doing that was…
My mouth dried, and a chill crept into my body. Not write songs and perform them? It was the thing that made me matter—the vehicle through which I made a difference in the world and touched people’s hearts. Grandma’s proud expression fleeted through my mind. I didn’t want to disappoint her, even if she was gone now. I couldn’t let my band mates down…or my fans.
And it wasn’t about money or fame. My parents had left me and Mir a huge trust worth billions. I could live like a king even if I never did anything productive for the rest of my life. But that wasn’t what I wanted. Not what Grandma would’ve wished for. I only had one life, and it should be meaningful. Make an impact.
As I pulled out eggs and cheese from the fridge, I paused. Emily’s refrigerator had looked pretty barren yesterday. And she’d only bought alcohol, ice cream and Animal Crackers at Sunny’s Mart. I doubted she’d gone back later to get something more nutritious.
Her eating habits irked me, probably because they reminded me of Mir’s. My baby sister liked to subsist on mainly junk food because it was quick and easy, and she hated wasting time with something as “mundane” as eating when she was working. Thankfully, she was now dating a nutritionist, who was making her eat more like an adult.
I turned my head toward Emily’s house. Left to her own devices, she’d probably have potato chips and beer for breakfast. Maybe a cup of coffee if she was feeling particularly mature.
You’re not her mother.
Yeah, but I have to go over there to shower anyway, so…
My mind made up, I picked up a carton of dozen eggs and some shredded cheese and put them in a plastic bag I grabbed from under the kitchen sink. Grandma had always kept a few there just in case. I tucked a bath towel in, plus the pink towel I’d laundered last night. I put the book Emily had lent me under my arm, picked up the bag and walked over to her place.
When I knocked on the door, Emily opened it. She was in a ragged T-shirt that I was certain had been blue at some point, but had faded into some odd shade between a bruise and dirty dishwater. It hung over her, the fabric tired and droopy. Her yoga pants were frayed around the ankles. No makeup. Her hair was so messy that it was hard to tell if she just hadn’t bothered to brush it or if her hair was the type that couldn’t be tamed without a team of professionals armed with a cabinet full of product. Then I remembered her photos and decided she couldn’t be bothered.
Normally, I wouldn’t feel anything in a situation like this. Hell, I didn’t always feel anything even when a half-naked groupie rubbed her tits along my arm. But with Emily, my curiosity intensified. She was probably decently successful enough in her career. She was a bestselling author, so she must’ve made some money from her writing. So why did she look like she went dumpster diving for her wardrobe? I knew she had nicer clothes, the ones she’d worn to conferences and book signings. Part of me wanted to tease her a little, play with her hair—not because I wanted to touch her hair necessarily… Okay, who was I kidding—I wanted to touch her hair. But it wasn’t just about fulfilling some lurid desire. I could run my fingers through the cool strands until it was neater, close to the way it had been in her social media photos.
Then there was something else, too, underneath the curiosity. The same spark that had gone through me at Sunny’s Mart. It sizzled through my system, made the base of my spine tingle.
Was Emily feeling it too? Looking at her narrowed green eyes, I decided…maybe not. The notion was vaguely disappointing but also stirred my sense of challenge. This must have been how mountain climbers felt at the base of Mount Everest.
“You’re here early,” she said. “It isn’t natural.”
I smiled. “I’m an early bird.”
“I thought music people stayed up all night.”
“I might’ve, if you’d let me practice my drums,” I said. “But in general, I like to get up when the sun is up.”
“Like I said, not natural.” Her face contorted with distaste, and she shuddered in an exaggerated fashion then moved back into the house. “Come on in.”
I followed her in, gently kicking the door shut after me. Several empty beer and water bottles stood around the living room along with a few empty bags of Animal Crackers and M&M’s. Her laptop was on the coffee table. A purple blanket and a pillow lay on the sofa, a prone-body-shaped impression in the cushions.
“Did you sleep on the sofa?” I asked, stunned. Her bedroom was just upstairs.
“Yeah. I was working, then sort of fell asleep there.” Wincing, she rolled her shoulders and neck.
Exasperation tugged at me. She should’ve known better. Sleeping on couches was overrated for creative types, unless you had the spine of a teenager. Working with tight muscles the next day was a bitch, and all your brain could think about was how much you wanted a massage. “You might need to stretch.”
“Yeah. If I can find the time.” She dug her fingers into the back of her neck.
That half-assed attempt wouldn’t do anything. And I’d hate to see her suffer for the rest of the day, since I could tell she wasn’t going to stretch or get a proper massage.