“I know, Heidi.” He nods, his eyes fixed on the wood-grain of the table. It’s the most sincere and humbled I’ve ever seen the man in all the years I’ve known him. “That’s why I asked you to meet me today. I wanted you to understand why I couldn’t tell you. And why I can’t let you give up on him, even though I know you tried to.”
“What?”
Caleb lifts his eyes to meet my gaze. They stir with a kindred somberness. “I know you. You wanted to drop him. I couldn’t let you do it. Not now.”
“And why is that?”
“Because everyone else has. And if you did, he may not survive it. And the band would be dead.”
I purse my lips and smirk knowingly. “And that’s your only interest in his well-being? The future of the band?”
Caleb shrugs before picking up his cup of overpriced mocha. “I’m a businessman first. But I’m also human. Ransom is a good kid. He just needs someone to believe that so maybe he can start to believe it too.”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms in front of my chest, leaning back in my seat. “Oh, spare me the bleeding heart bullshit. He’s a grown man, Caleb.”
Caleb matches my cynical glare, and a slow smile creeps onto his thin lips. “You would know, now wouldn’t you?”
Poker face intact, my face and body language don’t flinch a muscle. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, backing down from what would have been a fight to the death, and pretends to check his phone. “Nothing at all. It’s just interesting that he’s grown so attached to you, is all. So attached that he refused to leave that bar until you showed up. He kept saying that he had a song for you, and that you wanted to hear him sing. Quite fond of you in such a short time, wouldn’t you say?”
I don’t say a word. Fuck Caleb and all his suspicions. I would cut off my arm before I surrender my secrets to that gossip queen.
“Anyway,” he presses on. “I need a favor from you, seeing as he seems to listen to you.”
“And that is?” My voice is flat, my face unreadable.
“I need Ransom to lay low for a while. Get out of town. After last night’s antics, I’m sure the publicist in you would agree that taking some time away would be beneficial.”
“And why the hell do you think I’d do something like that? Better yet, how do you think I could convince him to even agree to it?”
Caleb shrugs for the eighth time since we’ve sat down. It’s not like him to be so indecisive. “You’re a resourceful woman. Use your God-given resources.”
I absorb the jab of his words and retaliate, leaning forward across the table so he can clearly see the seriousness on my face. “Careful, Caleb. I like you and all, but be very fucking careful about what you insinuate.”
He brushes it off with a phony laugh. “I’d never, love. Just a thought. Hey, if he lands in jail, he’s your problem—not mine. Last night, he only got into a fight with a brick wall and a few barstools. But who knows what tonight has in store for us. Hey, we’ve got Fallon tomorrow night. That should be a riot.”
With that, he climbs onto his Prada loafers, throws a bill on the table, and straightens the lapel of his crisp oxford. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I actually have work to do.”
I watch him strut away with more sass than necessary, sipping what’s left of my cold latte and wondering what the hell to do next. So I can’t quit on Ransom, for fear that he’ll spiral even further. But I can’t control him either. I thought getting into bed with him was the pinnacle of my problems, but it seems that getting into business with him is just as messy, if not messier. I’m just not sure what I’m willing to sacrifice—my marriage or my sanity.
I don’t hear from Ransom for the rest of the day and I assume he’s drying out after last night’s antics. So I focus on the person who’s really important—my husband. Tucker needs me more than anyone else right now. When I left, he was still asleep, which was surprising considering that I’ve never known him to sleep past 7 A.M. even on the weekends. I was only able to squeeze in a couple hours of shuteye when Caleb hit me up for coffee.
“Hey babe, you hungry?” he calls out from the kitchen over the sounds of Coltrane. The aromas of griddle-melted butter, fried pork, and syrup caress my senses.
“Starving,” I answer, kicking off my shoes and stowing my purse before padding toward him on bare feet. “Whatcha making?”
He waves his spatula like a magician’s wand toward the various pans on the glass range. “I’ve got scrambled eggs, bacon—the real stuff, no turkey crap—and I’m almost done with the pancakes. Champagne is chilling in the fridge along with the OJ for mimosas.”
I take that as my cue and, after giving him a quick peck on the cheek, go to prepare our drinks. Even though I was hoping to catch a few extra hours of sleep, there’s no way I can deny us this rare, uninterrupted quality time. Sundays used to be sacred to us—we’d go to the farmer’s market, cook together, listen to Tuck’s records, and just relax and recharge for the week ahead. Yet for the past couple years, we’ve used the day to catch up on unfinished projects and separate activities. Seeing Tucker move around the kitchen, grooving to “A Love Supreme” makes me miss the old us. It makes me crave the togetherness we once shared. Seeing him now is like looking through new eyes. It’s still a wonderful sight, but it’s not familiar to me. And that makes me sad.
“Feel free to change the music if you want,” he offers as he flips the last batch of pancakes. “Or turn it off if you want.”
“No, this is fine,” I smile between sips of my cocktail.
And actually, it is.
MONDAY REARS its ugly head before I’m ready, but at least I feel better than I have in ages. A lazy Sunday was just what the doctor ordered, and I get to the office ten minutes early, bearing donuts no less.
“Oh, shit,” Tamara remarks, taking a peek at the glazed confections. “And these aren’t even gluten free. Girl, Dr. D must’ve put it on you real good this weekend!”
She holds up a hand for me to slap but I ignore her and retreat to my office, shaking my head the entire way.
“We will not talk about my sex life, understand? So go eat your deep fried breakfast before I replace them with bran muffins.”
Tamara laughs me off and comes to sit on the edge of my desk. Why the hell do I let her get away with this shit? Anyone else would be limping out of here if they’d done that. Metaphorically, of course.
“So you want to tell me what’s going on with you and that sexy ass rock god?”
I power on my iMac and busy my eyes and hands with reading messages from last week. Anything that will help school my features into something other than What-the-fuck-am-I-really-that-transparent shock. “Who? Ransom?”
“Uh, duh. What other fine-as-fuck musicians were you damn near tonguing down this weekend?”
“Tam . . .”
“I’m just saying . . . that boy wants you like fat chicks want fat-free cupcakes.”
“Well . . . I don’t want him.” Lies.
“You don’t? Not even a little bit?”
“Nope. Not interested.” All lies.
A devilish grin broadens her plump, red-stained lips. “Well . . . can I have him?”
“Um . . . I don’t think you’re his type, Tam,” I snicker.
“What? You don’t think he likes brown girls?”
“No. I don’t think he likes dick.”
Tamara rolls her eyes and waves off the remark like I just told her he prefers red wine to white. “Girl, please. A man doesn’t know what he likes until he tries it. And trust me . . . once you get a taste of this chocolate bar, you won’t ever wanna satisfy your sweet tooth with nothing else. I’ll turn that pretty boy into a full blown chocoholic!”
Great. Yet, another addiction for Mr. Reed.
“Look, this has been fun,” I say, lifting a slender, arched brow. “But I don’t pay you to talk about your raunchy fantasies. Don’t you have some work to do?”