“So, you haven’t talked to him?” Grant asks as I pull some cans of IPA out of the fridge. I gently lob them to everyone. I can’t help but notice Bennie is staring at me intently, waiting for my answer just as much as everyone else.
“I talked to him only long enough to find out he thinks I might have planted the story,” I reply.
Grant chokes on his first gulp of beer. Joe slaps him on the back, but his eyes are wide and glued to me. “You? Why would he think that?”
“Because I’m mentioned in the article,” I explain, taking a sip of my beer but it doesn’t taste enjoyable so I put the can on the counter. “Because the article gives his nicknames for his pot plants and he told them to me once.”
“Oh. Shit,” Grant whispers, shaking his head.
“You would never do that. Would you?” Joe asks.
“Of course not!” I bark out. Then I notice Bennie tucked into the sofa at the other end of the loft. He’s sipping his beer with his feet up on my coffee table, watching us like we’re the half-time show at the Super Bowl.
He notices me noticing him and decides to speak. “Well, it looks like you might be needing me for more than this one gig, then?”
“I guess so,” Joe answers for me, not bothering to look back at Bennie. We exchange a glance that says neither of us are happy about it and when I look at Grant’s face he doesn’t looked thrilled with the idea either.
I hate the idea of Bowen not playing with us again so much that I swear bile rises in my throat. The idea that Bowen and I are over, before I can even tell anyone we happened, that also makes bile rise in my throat, while my chest aches like it’s been used as a punching bag. And the best part is I have no one to blame but myself. I’m the one holding onto the lies for money. Lying, hiding, pretending to please a bunch of bigots I share a bloodline with. For cash. I hate me.
Bennie has brought up the Stanley Cup playoffs and since Grant’s favorite team is a first-round match-up against Joe’s favorite team the conversation is easily swayed. I listen, kind of, but in reality, I’m just holding a beer I don’t want to drink, surrounded by people I don’t want to be with. I just want to be alone to sulk and stew and hate myself in private.
Finally, Joe mumbles something about having to get home to his wife and they all decide to leave. Bennie is the last one out the door. He pauses before joining Grant and Joe in the elevator. “You want me to stay? You look like you need company.”
I shake my head. “What I need is a good night’s sleep.”
That’s not a lie. I haven’t managed more than four and a half hours since the fight. Or break-up I guess you can officially call it since Bowen hasn’t reached out once.
“Well, send me any other upcoming dates,” Bennie says and gets in the elevator with the others. He doesn’t seem pissed off at the rejection tonight, which is good. We need him for the gig. I mean, personally, I would be fine if he bailed again and we couldn’t perform. But I don’t want to screw over Lacey or take cash away from the guys.
Fuck. I am so sick of doing shit for everyone else.
I’m pacing my apartment deciding whether I should go to bed and stare at the ceiling or continue pacing when the elevator pings. Lacey Baldwin steps off. She’s in a pencil skirt and white, short sleeved blouse. Her blonde hair is smooth and tucked back behind her ears and the make-up looks fresh. She looks like she’s starting her day, not ending it.
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” Lacey says with a sheepish smile. “I was going to text you, but Grant walked Bennie out and saw me outside. He punched in the elevator code for your floor and told me it would be fine if I just came on up.
“I was just on my way to bed,” I tell her.
“You look like you haven’t slept in a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“Is it because your friend is in trouble?” she asks, still standing just a couple feet away from the elevator, like she might change her mind and leave any second.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “And he isn’t my friend.”
“Your bandmate.”
“He isn’t just that either,” I reply. “Look, I know I’m locked into this thing for you, because of our families and because I can’t let the guys down, so I’m not going to fuck you over. I just want the truth. Did you plant that story?”
“No. I swear, Chase,” she replies without hesitation, her eyes staring straight into mine. She takes a couple steps forward. “I know this seems like something either one of our parents would pull from their bag of tricks in order to win, but I didn’t, and I grilled my staff to make sure none of them did it either.”
“I want to believe you,” I reply.
“Good. Because it’s the truth.” Lacey digs in her shiny black oversized leather bag and pulls out a single piece of paper. “In other news the reason I’m here is I’ve got a list of songs to avoid for the gig. Stuff my dad’s publicist thinks might be too controversial for my supporter base.”
“Barf,” I say and roll my eyes. “You sound just like them.”
“I guess sometimes I am,” she says with a twinge of remorse in her voice. “I actually want to do good if I get in, Chase. I fully intend on being more moderate on a lot of stuff than our parents are. That’s why I wrote an editorial to the same paper that screwed over Woody, in defense of his hobby plants.”
