“Sounds amazing,” she hums, tired but happy.
“In the meantime, I have a sandwich waiting for you, and maybe I can help you take a shower?” I ask, kissing her forehead.
She comes alive at the mention of food and gives me grabby hands. I step into the kitchen to get the sandwich and refill her water. We make our way down the hallway, Kinley taking bites with one hand while removing clothes with the other.
She’s naked except for her socks by the time we reach our room, and she’s folding her crusts into the napkin. I’ll have to remember that for next time. No crust. Palming her round ass, I direct her toward the bed, where she leans against the frame to take off her socks. I go into the bathroom, get the hot water started, and then disrobe.
After she washes her face, I take over. Her long, shiny chocolate locks feel amazing in my fingers, and I shampoo and condition the strands with care. Knowing she’s fading fast, I quickly wash her body, and if I linger for a second or two on some of my favorite spots, I can’t imagine anyone would blame me. We towel each other off, finish our nighttime routines, and then meet in bed.
Even though we’re naked, tonight isn’t about sex. It’s about connection, and I sigh as she scoots into my hold. I place my hand on her chest, and she covers it with her hand. She’s asleep within seconds, but somehow, I feel like I’m the one who’s dreaming.
I don’t know how I’ll make this work, but I’m never letting her go.
Chapter14
Kinley
This thingwith Mac and me has only intensified with her in my house and bed. She’s not much of a talker when it comes to matters of the heart, but I can tell from the way she looks at me, holds me, takes care of me, respects my opinions…even if she’s not totally where I’m at, she’s getting there.
God, how that scares me. Even if this isn’t all some construction of an altered mind, you don’t get to her level of fame without making the hard choices. I don’t know how I come out in a battle of her career versus me. I try not to think about it in those terms, but that’s where my brain keeps going.
Another thing we haven’t really talked about is how much she’s been doing. She’s started getting up at the crack of dawn with me while I’m getting ready for work, already setting up for the day in what we’re calling Studio West—RIP, sitting room. She’s very fulfilled, I can tell, and genuinely loving what she’s doing. It’s so goddamned special to see. But when I get home from a long day, she’s still going at it.
The whole thing worries me and makes me take an even closer look at my own level of burnout. It’d be pretty easy to lie to myself, but in my braver moments, I admit this career is taking more than it’s giving. I’m still too afraid to ask what that means, but something has to change.
Thing is, I don’t think Mac feels the same way about her level of overwork and stress. I suspect she’s been doing this as a matter of course, even though it’s far too much with her—and she would absolutely scoff at this designation—fragile health.
I’m afraid to say anything, so I call her tour doc. I don’t want her to feel like I’m going behind her back, but I need some insight. Dr. K’s horrified when I tell her how long Mac’s days have been.
“She is supposed to be on rest. Actual rest.”
“This is my fault. I encouraged the singing and the guitar playing because they went well with her physical therapy sessions, but now she’s overdoing it.”
“No, Kinley. This is all her. She’s falling back into her old pattern, not learning a damn thing. If Mac’s not on the road, she’s in the studio, dogged, almost like she’s afraid she’s going to lose it all and be right back where she started.”
“Does she not realize who she is? Not just like who she is as an artist, but who she is to other people?”
“That is a very good question. I bet she’d have a very interesting answer for you.”
“What should I do?”
“My dear, this one might be beyond you. She probably needs somebody who’s known her a bit longer to intervene. Give me another day or two, and I’ll give you a call.”
Now, twenty-four hours later, I’m an anxious ball of nerves, scared about what I may have set into motion. If I’m being honest—like the kind of honest that scoops out the marrow of your bones and leaves you feeling hollow—I’m terrified she’ll see how much I’ve interfered and leave.
I like to think of myself as a confident, modern woman, but I’ve been reduced to a needy little girl by this scarred, imperfect, powerhouse human being.
This morning, however, feels perfect, and I again doubt my sanity. Mac and I are in the music room, picking out the chords on another song she’s started, and it’s so…idyllic. Perfect, really.
I impressed her the other day with my little bass-line show but then had to admit it’s the only bass line I’ve ever learned. Worse, it’s the result of my shamefully massive crush on Anthony Kiedis. Mac cracks up for a good ten minutes after I admit to the subterfuge.
Wheezing, she asks, “You do know it was Flea who played the bass, right?”
“Duh. This delusion may have included imagining we were playing together, and he and I harmonized perfectly, okay?”
Once she stops laughing, she shows me a few basics. I manage to quickly pick up what she’s laying down, and I discover that I kinda like the laid-back feel of the bass line.
I’m practicing the chords on her new song when there’s a knock at the door. Worried Freddy and Mason—who we’ve barely heard from since they took over the cabin—might be having a problem, I set aside the bass and hop up, walking quickly to the door.
