I meet her hostile gaze, hoping my eyes are calm, but direct. “This is about Khloe. Your constant anger at me, everything you’ve done this morning, it is about your sister. Yes, she’s my daughter, you are going to have to figure out a way to be OK with that, and I don’t need to take a DNA test, Kaley. There is no doubt in my mind and I won’t do it. I would never hurt your mother that way. Your mother’s word is enough for me. It should be enough for you, too.”
Every muscle of her face sharply adjusts and then tightens. “God, you’re an idiot,” she screams into my face.
She snatches the box off the counter and rushes out of the kitchen. Zoe follows quickly behind. A door slams.
I exhale loudly.
That was a fucking nightmare.
I turn to find Ian leaning against the wall beside the refrigerator, stunned into silence, his eyes locked on me, openly speculating. Fuck. I’d forgotten Ian was here. How much of that did he understand?
“It’s been a banner fucking year, Ian. I’d appreciate it if you forgot everything you heard.”
Ian bites back a smile. “Consider it forgotten.”
He studies me, frowns, and I tense. It looks like he’s working up to ask something.
I wait.
Nothing.
He’s a good friend.
I don’t have to worry about him in this. He’d never run to the tabloids or the gossip mill. He’ll stay silent about this ghastly scene in his kitchen. I’m certain of it, and thank God, I sure as hell don’t want Chrissie ever hearing about this.
He pulls a bottle from a cabinet. “Do you want a scotch? I’m going to have one. That was fucking intense.”
“Christ, Ian. It’s seven thirty.”
His brows shoot up. “A beer?”
I laugh.
Ian is a very good friend. However, fucking intense doesn’t quite cover it. A gross understatement, since I’m more than a little floored that Kaley shoved a DNA test in my face and thought that I needed it with Chrissie.
I rake a hand through my hair. I’m not certain if I should let it go and leave here with it this way. Christ, the girl is walking around with a DNA test in her pack. This whole situation has been harder on her than I thought it would be. It reminds me of Chrissie’s words over coffee. I feel like an ass on both accounts now.
Ian takes a sip of his drink. He looks at me. “It’s better to let them calm down before you start up at it again.”
“I’m going to head out. Make sure you direct her back to Chrissie’s.”
Ian nods. I reach into my pocket. Oh fuck, I still don’t have my keys. Kaley kept them when she left the kitchen. I’ll just use the app to unlock and start the car now that I have it back again.
I need to get out of here.
A lot has happened this morning.
I need some time alone to work it through.
“Since when are you and Chrissie back together again?” Ian asks.
No, not answering that one, Ian.
I don’t even know if we are together.
I go for the door.
Chapter 14
Four days. No text. No call. I’m back in purgatory, and all I did was ask Chrissie to marry me.
Frozen out.
What does it mean?
I wonder if she’s considering my proposal, or if she’s busy doing other things. Is she thinking about me? Does she miss me as much as I miss her?
Over and over again. Same thoughts. It’s pointless. I won’t know what’s going on with Chrissie until she tells me. That’s how it works. Some things never change.
I’m tired of bouncing off the walls. I go for a run on the beach, take a fast shower and dress. Before heading out, I check my phone one last time. I scroll through the messages.
No, nothing from Chrissie.
With my thumb I go through the list again—same old shit. My thumb lifts from the phone.
Ah, Kenny.
Asshole.
None of the guys have called me since Len broke the news that the band would be going on permanent hiatus after the final leg of the tour. Kenny must have decided enough time has passed for me to cool off so that it would safe to talk to me.
I hit the callback button anyway.
Ring. Ring.
“What the fuck are you doing in LA?” Kenny says into the phone by way of greeting, in a manner that leaves little doubt he knows the unabridged 411 about the sorry state of my life.
I grimace. Fuck you, Len. You’re such an old woman. Why can’t you keep your big mouth shut?
I lean back into the cushions on the couch. “Sitting around in Malibu with my cock in my hand doing nothing. I was about to head out.”
Kenny laughs. “You want to lay down some drum tracks today? I’m in Encino. My usual LA gang. Just messing around in the studio. Seeing what the fuck we can do. We need a drummer. You free?”
Free? Fucking understatement of the century.
I sigh. “Same studio as last time?”
“Yep, same one.”
“I can pop over there for a while.”
I click off the phone. The thought of spending the afternoon in that hot, poorly ventilated recording space Kenny books isn’t uplifting. But why the fuck shouldn’t I do it? I’ve got nothing better on the calendar for the afternoon.
My choices for diversion are limited now that I’m back with Chrissie. No parties. No sex—unless with her, and our status is no sex at present—and I put on the list this time without being asked by her no synthetic recreation or excess booze. Time to clean up my act now that I’m a father. But I’ve wiped from the possibilities list everything I do to keep busy when I’m not touring.
I do feel better physically with all the healthy living shit, though. And hell, it’s only been a week. Not so bad. Except the no sex part. That’s a fucking misery.
The recording studio in Encino is intolerably stuffy when I arrive. Kenny’s mob consists of three other musicians, marquee members of other bands. They’re OK guys.
I’m bombarded with fast greetings, spiced with the usual shit—short versions of what everyone’s been up to and questions about what I’m doing—then we get down to it and start jamming.
Doing drums—instead of guitar, which is what everyone except Kenny pulls me into studios to do—feels good. I should do it more often. A great way to work the tension out of my body and some of the sexual frustration until Chrissie decides she wants to see me again.
Ten hours later, I’m loose, sweaty, drained and lying on a couch listening to the playback of the tape we rolled today. We haven’t done a damn thing worth recording, not in my opinion, but this is Kenny’s gig so what the fuck do I care if it’s not brilliant?
Kenny shoves a bottle across the floor. I open my eyes. He’s still sitting there across the room from me, even though everyone else has cut out for the night, and not so subtly studying me, wondering if we’re OK.
I guess it’s time for us to clear the air but, fuck, I’m not giving him an easy way to feel good about what they did behind my back since the band didn’t even fucking tell me to my face together. I deserve better than that from each of those pricks.
“So you’re not even going to fucking drink with me?” Kenny asks, staring at the bottle of JD he slid over to me on the floor. He shakes his head. “We’ve been friends since we were teenagers, man. Don’t make the band an issue between us. It’s the right move, Manny. We’re still a band. Just not going to be a working band.”
“Fuck you, Kenny. Don’t patronize me. I don’t give a fuck about the band. All you fucking wankers can do what you want.”
“Then have a drink with me so I know we’re cool.”
I lift up my bottle of chilled water. “I’m sticking with aqua these days. Cutting down on the bad living, the cigarettes and the booze.”
He rolls his eyes, frustrated, and runs his fingers through his hair. “If you fucking give up bad living, cigarettes and booze all in the same week your body will drop dead from detox.”