Damn Brian. Why the fuck did you insist I do this moronic biography? We sure as hell don’t need the money.
* * *
I open my eyes, feeling something cold in the palm of my hand. The fucking Tiffany infinity band. I toss it away and roll over in bed.
Oh crap, I’m not alone. Who the hell is that? I can’t remember her name or even where I picked her up. Fuck, I was wasted last night. A new level of fucked-up even for me. I wonder what happened to Miles. I don’t remember us splitting up. Hell, I don’t even remember coming home.
I run a hand through my hair and try to patch together bits and pieces of the night that just passed. Fuck. Nothing. Blank after the first club.
I stare at the nude body curled beside me. The room definitely smells like sex. Oh fuck. I hope I didn’t do anything stupid. I turn. I look at the floor. Used condoms. Quite a few. A busy night. I let out a ragged breath. Thank God I wasn’t too drunk to forget to be paranoid and careful.
I lie back against the pillow. Linda is right. I am drinking too much if I can’t remember picking up a girl who looks like that.
She has a beautiful face and I have a hazy memory of a chic, rich girl’s smile flashing there and a Boston-bred accent when she spoke. Yes, for some reason this girl had tried to talk to me, talked quite a bit and flashed her smile. I can’t recall what about. The words must not have been inspiring.
At least she’s a pleasant surprise. With how fucked up I was last night—with how much I needed to fuck Chrissie out of my head—I could be waking up with absolutely anything lying beside me in bed.
I lean over and look at her face. But she’s quite lovely. Brown hair. Straight, blunt cut, chin length. Well groomed. Manicured finger and toenails. Caribbean tan in winter. A high-priced whore? Or a rich girl looking for trouble? Probably the latter.
I close my eyes against the bright light in the room. I need to get a grip. Slow things down. My life is out of control. I know that.
I look at the girl. Nothing underscores that grim reality better than my endless series of mornings after with anonymous bed partners. I don’t know what it is about the women today. They are so enticing and yet leave you so unsatisfied. They are like fucking heroin: the first hit incredible then every other trip without pleasure.
Every woman I go to bed with these days seems to know how to fuck, but none of them know how to make love. They are energetic instead of passionate, flexible instead of tender, full of fast-shifting positions and empty of intimacy. They try to impress me with their vast and creative knowledge on how to have sex. I haven’t met a woman in a long time who can impress me with her mind.
I drag myself out of bed and pour a scotch. I debate whether I should wake her and get it over with, or fortify myself before dealing with her and sending her on her way.
Christ, this shit is getting old.
I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I step in and stand there without moving, head leaned back against the tile as the dual streams hit me. Crap, I feel like shit.
Instead of washing, I stare at the phone mounted on the steam-covered tile. After twelve months on tour I’m finally back in the States.
Should I call Chrissie?
It could go either way. She could hang up on me or I could suffer one of those horrid interludes, her being gracious, me being an asshole, both of us wishing I hadn’t bothered to call.
I shut off the shower, deciding not to call her. I dress for an excursion on my bike. I need a long road trip on my Harley. I need to get lost for a while. Get away from everything. Everyone. Stop doing crazy shit every day.
I sink down on my bed. I call my assistant and tell her to clear my calendar for the next month. She starts to bellow why that isn’t possible. I hang up. I call the garage and order them to get my bike ready.
I walk toward the door and remember the girl in my sheets. I can’t just cut out on her, whoever she is.
I stop beside the bed, reach out a hand and shake her body. “You need to get dressed and get the hell out of here, love. If you’re a whore, I’d like to pay you first. If you’re a nice girl, leave me your number.”
She sits up in bed, pulling the blankets with her to cover her naked flesh. Morning-after modesty, another farce since the pile of used rubbers leaves no doubt what we did last night.
Those pouting red lips smile. Yep, Boston bred. The girl isn’t ruffled by any of this.
“I’ll bill you,” she says smoothly. “Though it is often considered a blurry difference, I’m not a whore. I’m your attorney. One of your divorce attorneys. I brought the finalized settlement contracts, and though you missed our meeting, I waited ten hours in this apartment for you to return to sign them since your ex-wife has an irritating proclivity to change her mind. I thought it best we jump on the offer and settle it fast since you didn’t have a pre-nuptial agreement.
“When I tried to explain, you jumped on me. I thought what the hell, it’s been a slow day and I’m earning five hundred bucks an hour for this. Why shouldn’t my job have an occasional perk? You have been interesting. I’ve never been laid by a man who holds an infinity band while he fucks me. I think it’s better I don’t tell you the things you mumbled. I’ll only warn you that you should be relieved that it’s covered under attorney/client privilege since my meter ticks until you sign those documents.
“The contracts are on the dresser. Please sign them so I can shower, dress and go. It’s Saturday, in case you don’t know what day it is, and I play racquetball at six. That I didn’t expect you to know. It was a subtle attempt to speed you up in the signing.”
Oh fuck. I stare at her, then I start to laugh. The humor surprises me, but then my attorney is charming and quick on her feet and very beautiful.
I go to the dresser. I start reading the contracts. “Thank you for not boring me with whatever I mumbled and thank you for promising to bill me so it’s privileged. You can, however, bore me by letting me know how much this is costing me.”
Panties and bra in place, my attorney scrambles from my bed, gathers her clothes and then snatches the signed contracts from my hand.
“Me, I cost you seventy-two hundred for this meeting. Your ex-wife cost you one-hundred-sixteen million, two hundred-twenty-seven thousand, a combination of cash, future cash, and an interesting assortment of personal property. You did, however, manage to retain the Malibu house that, against my advice, you battled her over, the bill from me five-hundred thousand over the value of it.”
I clutch her chin a little roughly and give her a hard kiss. “You, love, were a bargain.”
I leave her, half dressed and staring at me from my bathroom doorway. That sounded theatrical even to me. Chrissie would have given me such shit over those theatrics, but the girl seemed to be expecting something like that so I played along.
Chapter 6
I reach Nevada four days later and check into an unspectacular hotel off the Vegas strip.
I kick the door closed, and drop my helmet and pack onto a chair. It’s a hideous room. What a nightmare. But it’s better than one of the upscale casinos. The clerk at the front desk stared at me, blank. It would be impossible to go into the trendier scene and not have someone recognize me.
I’ve managed to stay out of contact with the world for four days. It’s better to keep it that way.
I pull my cellphone from my pocket and stretch out on the bed. The standard array of bullshit voice messages. I scroll through them. Brian. Fucker.
I hit the callback button¸ and remember the quote he gave Jesse for my biography.
Ring. Ring. Answer.
“Fuck you, Brian.”
A pause.
“Where are you?” he asks, a little worried, more exasperated, and blowing past my anger without even a nibble.