“She’s never gonna give it up. You’re gonna get a severed nipple in the mail, wake up chained to a bed in her basement.”
I snorted. “Not funny.”
He tipped his beer at me. “You hear she put a golf club through Kanye’s windshield last week? Climbed the hood and then pissed into the crack in the glass. She’s gone fucking unhinged. Talented as shit but completely off the deep end.”
“Yeah, I saw that.” I shook my head. “What the hell do you think happened to her?”
He scoffed. “She’s a superstar, this business happened. The price of fame. If you let them, they’ll bleed you for every damn drop, and once you’re dry, they try fucking your corpse.”
I looked over at him. “Do you think it’s drugs?”
“Drugs, alcohol, a mental fucking breakdown. Who knows? She’s been circling the drain for a while if you want my opinion. She’s always been a bit of a paparazzi whore, a touch of Lindsay Lohan. It’s a goddamn shame she turned out like this, though. What a waste.”
I blew a breath out through my nose. I had to agree about the waste thing—my current situation with her notwithstanding. Lola was brilliant. A lyrical genius. I never met anyone that musically talented in my life. “You know she plays like seven instruments? And has a four-octave vocal range. Fucking effortless.” I shook my head. “We got along too. She was cool—I liked her.”
He snorted. “I bet you did. This is what happens when you mistake creative chemistry for actual chemistry. I did that once and ended up married to wife number three. Worst nine days of my life.”
I scoffed. “Well, to say I regret it at this point would be an understatement.”
I shook my head, looking out over the pool. I’d spent a week with Lola at her beach house writing, and she’d been perfectly fine the whole time. Focused, polite. Charming even. We’d hit it off immediately. We’d had some drinks to celebrate finishing the soundtrack, and one thing led to another—then it was like a switch flipped. Keeping me up until 5:00 in the morning while she wrote gibberish on legal pads, dragging me out to the beach to swim naked, not eating. Then sleeping for a whole day, and I couldn’t get her out of bed.
I shook my head again. “I was so worried about her I’d called her manager to come get her. That really pissed her off. He got there and she completely lost her shit, started throwing furniture off the balcony.”
Ernie snorted. “Well, to be fair, that guy’s a dick.” He bobbed his head. “Actually so is Kanye.”
I laughed a little.
The day after the furniture thing, the harassment started, and once it started, it didn’t stop. I didn’t know what the hell to do about it. She was relentless. Calling all hours of the night, crying and screaming into my voicemail, then calling back to apologize, texting nonstop, showing up at my recording studio and causing scenes when I wouldn’t buzz her in. Nothing I did would make her back off. I’d resorted to ignoring her, hoping she’d eventually get bored, but all she ever got was new phone numbers.
“God, what was I thinking?” I mumbled.
“You weren’t. And that song. I don’t know if I should feel sorry for you or congratulate you for your sexual prowess.” Ernie held up an index finger. “You fucked her one time, and she’s immortalized it in the Top Ten.” He sat back and laughed into his beer.
My jaw flexed. “I’m glad somebody thinks it’s funny.”
Lola had written a fucked-up, piece-of-shit song about us having sex on a beach. It was everywhere. It had even popped up in the truck with Sloan during the car wash.
She didn’t use my real name. She called me “Snow Bird,” and she’d never publicly confirmed it was about me, but it made me fucking furious. The thing was like a leaked sex tape set to music. I grimaced even thinking about it. That’s the moment when my concern for her finally turned to irritation. It had been half a year of this shit now, and I was officially over it.
Ernie undid the top button of his shirt. “So when did you meet this girl you’re thinking of taking on tour?”
“Two weeks ago. I saw her for the first time yesterday.”
He sat up. “Are you fucking insane?”
I shrugged. “What? I like her.”
He set his beer down and faced me. “Here’s the deal. Listen closely because I’m about to tell you something that took me five marriages to figure out. It takes a woman six months to show you her crazy. Six months, my friend. I don’t recommend ever taking a girlfriend on tour, but if you absolutely must, it should be someone you’ve known longer than ten minutes.”
I laughed.
“I’m not kidding. Listen to me, you’re thinking like Jason right now. Jason likes this girl and Jason wants to take her on tour and Jason’s all fucking twitterpated. You cannot be Jason at this point in your career. You need to be Jaxon. Jaxon is a stone-cold motherfucker who wants to sell records. Jaxon doesn’t have time for the emotional baggage that comes with that shit. Fame is a jealous mistress. She doesn’t like to share.” He shook his head. “Do not ask that woman to come with you. In fact, you should probably stop seeing her.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that.” I tipped my beer into my mouth.
He sighed. “Well, I can’t say that surprises me. You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. And what do I know, right?” He picked up his beer and stopped with it halfway to his mouth. “Just please, use a fucking NDA and condoms. Don’t end up like that last idiot. What a fucking shit show.”
I chuckled. “Still pissed about what’s-his-face, huh?”
“Hey, I fired him.”
I laughed. I loved Ernie. He was one of the best agents in the industry. He’d been a big-name musician himself in the eighties, so he’d seen it all. He was a little cynical when it came to women, though.
I checked my phone. Sloan still hadn’t texted. I stared out over the pool. “This girl feels different.”
“They all fucking feel different. See if you feel the same way next year when you’ve been on the overseas leg of your tour for six months and she’s either back here riding your ass or with you on the road and riding your ass there. You do not need that shit, I’m telling you.”
I drew my brows down. “Wait, what? What overseas tour?”
He gave me a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t you get the email with the dates? Eh, Christ, my assistant is shit.” He shook his head. “They’re extending your tour to the UK. Adding two more months here, eight months there. Pia’s working on the media blasts now. You’ll be home for the holidays for five weeks.” He looked over at me. “You’re welcome for that, by the way. They wanted you singing in Paris for their Christmas thing and I told them to go fuck themselves so you could see your family. They might even keep that promise, though I wouldn’t count on it,” he mumbled. “They wouldn’t put it in writing. Then you’re off to Dublin and London and wherever the fuck else.” He tipped his beer at me. “Congratulations and long live the queen.”
I sat back in my chair with my beer between my knees. “Jesus. Fourteen months on the road?” I’d never done more than three without a long break between.