Why would Jesse write the gay notation in the margin? He knows the truth. He was there and later married Chrissie and he also knows Neil’s homosexuality has nothing to do with me or my story or what happened between me and Chrissie. And fuck, no one privy to the truth talks about Neil. It’s the best kept secret in the music industry, and for Chrissie and Kaley’s sake it’s not going to change because of me. Some secrets are meant to be kept forever, even the secrets of a dead man you despise. The truth now would just hurt a little girl. Why the hell is Miles going there? I should fire him and cancel this project the second we land.
I take a sip of my scotch. “Next question.”
“Why didn’t you ever marry Christian Parker?”
I look at him. “You’re slow on the uptake, aren’t you? She turned me down.”
Miles turns the notepad toward me. “No, I’m not slow on the uptake. It’s a question Jesse Harris wrote down. ‘Why did you ask only once?’”
“She turned me down.”
He starts to scribble, shaking his head, annoyed with me. “You asked only once,” he mumbles with the moves of his pen.
Oh, going for my jugular vein. Yes, you miserable little cunt of a man. I asked her only once. But I didn’t intend it that way…
* * *
Pacific Palisades, June 1998
The patio door opens. I look over my shoulder to find Len Rowan exiting the house. The fucker is shirtless and still zipping up his fly. It’s one thing when the band is touring to witness Len getting his dick wet with every road whore he can find; it’s another to be in his house and to know he does it in the bed he sleeps in with Linda.
His wife is better than anything on the road. Why does Len fuck around on Linda? This open marriage thing they have going is ridiculous. I’d be crawling out of my skin if I knew my wife was up in Santa Barbara with Jackson Parker screwing him. It wouldn’t matter who I was fucking. That’s what I’d think of. Her with him.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” he mocks, dropping heavily onto the chair beside me. “Chrissie said she’d be at your place by two.”
I blow past the reference to Chrissie by saying, “Bianca, huh?”
Len laughs. “Why the fuck not? She and Kenny have been over for two years. Everyone in the band has fucked her except you. Linda is gone. Off with Jack for three weeks this time. And Bianca gives the best head on the west coast. Kenny didn’t lie about that one, mate.”
I glare at him. “Fucker.”
Len grins. “She’s still here if you need to get your dick sucked before you go see Chrissie. Might make you faster on your feet if you weren’t walking around with a rock-hard willy. Maybe you should toss one off before you leave here.”
“Asshole,” I hiss, gulping down the remainder of my drink.
Len laughs, but I ignore it. He knows the story. I’m back with Chrissie. Three weeks this time. Bianca is a repulsive thought and even if I wasn’t all tangled up with Chrissie again I sure as hell wouldn’t want Bianca’s mouth on my knob.
No point pretending with Len that I’m not dick whipped and incapable of being with a woman other than Chrissie. No need to pretend that I’m not in love with her. That I haven’t been going out of my mind since she fucked me and then left my house two weeks ago after I asked her to stay. Len knows the history too well to pretend I’m not Chrissie knotted-up again.
Crap, why I am still here at Len’s house hiding from her? Shit, you know why. You don’t want to go back to the Malibu house and find out she’s there only to tell you we’re over again. That fucking scene I’ve already lived through more times than I care to, though that is an idiotic concern because we’re not really back together yet so if she walks out the door this time it’s not her leaving me again.
I’m in that place with Chrissie that I hate. We’ve fucked—for the first time in five years—but we’re not together and nothing is decided yet. She went home to Santa Barbara two weeks ago without making clear what she wants from me. Like always. Fuck and run. Except I do know that if I boffed another woman while I wait for her to decide what the fuck we’re doing, Chrissie would end us forever. That’s fucking crystal clear.
“Do you want my advice?” Len asks.
“From a man who can’t keep his fucking wife happy or his cock in his own hand? No.”
Len chuckles. He leans forward in his chair. “Well, I’m giving you my advice anyway. Chrissie is a mother. Don’t fuck with her or she’ll rip off your balls. She’s not going to be interested in anything but marriage with you. Not this time, Manny. Go back to your house in Malibu. Ask her to marry you. If you can’t do that then stay here.”
I feel the box in my pocket cutting into my flesh. I take a long pull on my scotch. Marry her? What the fuck is wrong with Len? How could he get this so wrong? He thinks I’m the one fucking with Chrissie. I’ve been trying to marry her for nine years. I knew the first time I saw her playing the cello in Jack’s studio at the Santa Barbara house that crazy spring Jack brought me home to stay with him that I wanted to spend the rest of my life loving Chrissie.
I pull the jeweler’s case from my pocket. I open it and turn it to Len. His eyes widen. It’s a very impressive Harry Winston engagement ring. The diamond alone would make it a sure thing with any girl but Chrissie.
“I’ve been fucking carrying this since 1989, you ass-wipe.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing still here?” Len counters. “You’re going to piss her off. She’s not going to stick around waiting for your sorry ass all night. Don’t blow this. I don’t want to be stuck with you, mate, trying to hold together fucked-up Manny after having lost Chrissie again. Get the fuck out of here.”
“I want to ask her to marry me. It’s too soon. She’s not even divorced from Neil yet. I want it decided, but it would be the wrong move.”
Len rolls his eyes. “It’s not too soon if she’s let you put your spunk in her for an entire week. What the fuck is the matter with you? You can have any woman you want. You do have any woman you want.” He gives me a meaningful, pointed glare. “This bird ain’t no different, but with Chrissie, you get all twisted up in the head. Go back to your house. Talk it out. Fight it out. Or just fuck it out. Probably best for you. But pop the question, give her the damn ring and then marry her.”
Len makes it sound so easy. But then, he’s never loved Chrissie.
I run a hand over my face. I sink my fingers into my hair. Len’s right. No more stalling. It’s nearly dark. If I drag this out too long, Chrissie might not be there when I return.
My nerves are as taut as over-tightened strings on a guitar by the time I pull into my driveway at the Malibu house. Chrissie’s black Range Rover is here. She waited four hours for me. A good sign.
The house is quiet when I enter. I debate going directly to her, then I make a beeline for my bedroom. I start grabbing things and shoving them into a bag. Why the fuck am I packing? I don’t need to pack. Everything I need is everywhere I am. Always. I never pack a suitcase to go anywhere.
Fuck, I’m stalling, avoiding what awaits me in the great room. What a fucking pussy move that is. Delaying the enviable reality. What’s going to happen between us has already been decided. By her.
Chrissie knows what she’s going to do. She drove here. She’s made a decision. I know what I want to do. I want to tell her I love her, ask her to marry me, and then fuck her until I have to leave here.
I go down the hallway and halt at the edge of the tile. She’s standing in front of the wall of glass, staring at the ocean. I can’t see her face and I can’t read her posture. It could mean anything; she might be here to say I love you or she might be here to rip my heart.