“Well, they can buy the single and then wait like everybody else.” When he got close, his fists clenched at his side, the guy got in his car. “Same with you, asshole!” he said to another man in a space not far away.
If they wanted a story, he was going to give them the most boring one of all. Getting in his car, he headed to the highway and drove the speed limit. In the rearview mirror, he saw the caravan trailing him just like he’d wanted.
Fifteen minutes later, he was driving through Twentynine Palms to the east—and two of the five cars following him stopped, turning away. Another fifteen minutes, there was only one determined photographer still on his tail, the one he’d first approached, and Quentin decided he would drive all fucking day and into the night if it got this guy off his ass.
Almost an hour later, he arrived at the junction to Highway 177, and he turned south. If the guy following him was paying attention to the map, he’d figure out that, even if it took some time, he could get back to Joshua Tree following this route. Quentin had to get back home somehow, but there was no way in hell he’d go back the way he came—at least not until this fucker got tired of following him. Quentin still had half a tank of gas, so he knew he’d be fine.
Finally, after another half hour, the photographer turned back, no doubt realizing just how futile this mission was…leaving Quentin alone with his thoughts. After a few more miles, Quentin pulled over to the side of the road and got out to walk around a bit, feeling free…but exposed. Then he got back in his SUV and kept driving.
By the time Quentin got back to Joshua Tree via the alternate route, it was nearing sunset—and, even though he felt like he’d won the battle with the paparazzi, he’d lost the one with himself. He didn’t even realize he’d parked in front of the bar until he was pocketing his keys and entering the establishment.
He’d never been in here before, but he’d been in plenty of places like it. They served food, and he caught the hint of a cheeseburger…but that wasn’t what he was here for. The bar had a stainless steel counter and wooden walls, and it was lit up like Christmas, not exactly the kind of place he wanted to drink in. Instead, he would have preferred a dark corner. There weren’t many people here, probably because it was a weekday night, and he imagined the two folks at the bar were regulars. Both older men were talking to each other while the bartender watched something on the television screen on the opposite wall. As soon as he saw Quentin, though, his eyes shifted focus.
Although the town was fairly small, especially when Quentin compared it to L.A. and the entire Greater Los Angeles Area, where he’d spent much of his youth, that didn’t mean he knew anyone here. Probably the only people he could say he kind of knew were the cashiers at the grocery store. It was the only place he really frequented here—and he’d kept his distance intentionally. Thus far, no one had recognized who he was, so he’d been able to live a quiet life.
That was probably going to change now, though…but, for now, he had this moment.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked as Quentin slid onto the black leather stool.
“Whiskey neat.”
“Any particular brand?”
“Nope.” In fact, cheaper would probably be better, he thought, but he let the bartender choose. The guy pulled a bottle off a higher shelf, something of higher quality. Quentin didn’t really care, because the end result would be the same, regardless. When the bartender poured two ounces, Quentin tapped the stainless steel, indicating that he wanted more—so the bartender tilted the bottle again, doubling the amount. Quentin nodded. “That’s good.”
After he paid and tipped the man, he pulled the glass close. Looking into the amber pool, he got lost in memories. The scent drifted into his nostrils, and he drew it in deep. Not once had he forgotten the smell of caramel and smoke and, when he inhaled a second time, his mouth began to water.
Yeah…this was what he needed.
But how long had he sat there with his hand clenched around the glass, immobile, the knuckles white?
If he was going to do it, it was time.
Picking up the glass, he lifted it to his lips and his mouth filled with saliva again. Before the liquid even touched his tongue, he knew what to expect—the burning, warming sensation that would light up his taste buds and his chest…and then a sense of calm would radiate out to his limbs. And the more he drank, the more he’d relax. It was temporary, of course, but he knew it would work.
But this was exactly what he’d been fighting against: giving up and giving in.
Setting the glass down on the bar, he didn’t say a word as he slid back off the stool and out into the evening that was growing cool.
He’d done it…but how long would he be able to resist?
The paparazzi motherfuckers were still hanging out by the entrance to his home, including the tenacious photographer who’d followed him the farthest. Yeah, the guy was just doing his job, but it was a shitty fucking job.
When Quentin got there, Raine was nowhere to be found. He knew she’d be in her room if she wasn’t in the kitchen or elsewhere, and it filled him with a sense of guilt again.
Not just guilt…but longing—and he had to resist, just like the whiskey he’d walked away from twenty minutes ago.
He trudged back to the studio, determined to finish this album so maybe he could try to go back to normal.
Avoiding social media, knowing that was part of what was driving him to be so goddamned stupid, he checked his email…but there was one subject line in the short list that could not be ignored: Official Nomination Invitation for Producer of the Year.
What the fuck?
Opening it, he quickly scanned the contents. The first line said, “We are pleased to inform you that your work on ‘Ripped Away’ has been recognized as a nominee for Producer of the Year in the National Guild Music Awards held the first week in December. Your attendance is requested for a rehearsal and ceremony taking place…”. There was more about red carpet and press and he realized what this all meant.
They were inviting him back inside.
But he didn’t know that he wanted it—not now, not this way.
