Page 10 of Captivated By You
And more than needing an answer from that damn woman, I needed to work on a new album.
Ticket sales plummeting and a tour being canceled last year demanded I come back out on fire and on top. If not, there were dozens more musicians just like me, fighting to take my spot. One failed album after my disastrous year and I’d be saying sayonara to my homes in L.A. and New York and my vacation home on Anguilla. I’d be back in a Midwest city, living off my royalties for the rest of my life.
No way was that fucking happening. As much as I sometimes missed Kansas and my family, there was more I wanted to accomplish.
My phone rang on the coffee table and I picked it up, sliding my thumb across the screen and putting it to my ear as soon as I saw Anne’s name.
“What’d she say?” I demanded, not bothering to say hello. Anne wouldn’t be offended. She never said hello to me.
“Yes. She’ll be on the plane tomorrow.”
I suddenly wanted it to leave immediately. Fuck. Why did I give her a day to change her mind?
Why was I doing this in the first place? I hated the idea, loved the idea of the woman.
I flicked the pick toward my guitar set up against my leather corner chair where I typically sat to write and headed toward the kitchen. There, I popped open a bottle of beer and took a heavy chug while Anne sighed and went quiet.
“You need this.”
I swallowed the beer and set it down on the counter. I turned to my view. The sway of the trees, the bustling of NYU students carrying backpacks and rushing to classes did shit to calm me.
Which gave me a new idea. I wasn’t taking Claudia to L.A. anymore.
“What I need is to write a damn platinum selling album. That’s what I need, Anne. The rest is publicity bullshit and I’m tired of my damn chain being yanked every time I take a step. I’m changing plans. Claudia and I are going to Anguilla.”
“Disappearing for months is theworstthing you can do. Makes you look like you are guilty or ashamed. Besides, you’re supposed to start recording your next album. Here. I’ve just spent the afternoon securing your recording time and letting your band know.”
“Or maybe it means I need a goddamn break,” I snapped, “and they can use one, too.”
Jesus. She didn’t get it. And she never would. She had no idea what it felt like, the looks I got, the curious stares and judgment in people’s eyes ever since the news first broke. I’d been convicted in a court of public opinion before I was charged with anything. My parents spent months defending me to their friends, my sister the same at the elementary school where she worked.
All of it was bullshit and I was more than tired of the constant need to spin.
A month or two out in Anguilla was just what Ididneed.
I hung up the phone and tossed it onto the counter. Anne wouldn’t hold it against me, she hung up on me plenty.
Splaying my hands out on the cold, grey and white striped marble, I straightened my arms and dropped my head.
Fuck this. I needed to get my head on straight and it wasn’t going to happen amongst the crush of people and the constant noise and lingering stares when I was recognized.
A month on Anguilla. It was the best idea I’d had in six months. I picked up the phone and made the call, changing the flight plans.
