“Yeah, yeah,” she answers, sliding her round backside from my desk. “Just one more thing. Can I go with you to The Tonight Show taping today? My new ex-boyfriend is going to be there!”
“No,” I shake my head. “Hell no.”
“Aw, come on, boss lady. I’ll be good.”
“No, Tam. I’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t need your out-of-control libido to be one of them. Now go do your job before I find someone to do it for you. Those interns are just itching to knock you off your stilettos, and I’m starting to feel like letting them.”
“Fine! I’m going. But you can’t keep him all to yourself if you’re not going to do anything with him, you know,” she retorts before quickly shutting my office door before I can fire back.
The day crawls at a snail’s pace, and I find myself staring at the clock more often than not, waiting for five o’clock to hit. Ransom will get to Studio 6B earlier for necessary sound checks, and while I am tempted to show up for that, I don’t want to seem too anxious. Caleb is there; he’s got it. And while it’s perfectly reasonable for one’s publicist to be present for all publicized events, it just seems a little thirsty to pop up for rehearsals. Lord knows we don’t need any speculation from anyone else.
I make it a point to arrive on time to show that I’m all about business. And while I may be decked out in new Stella McCartney, my look is chic and professional. I’m here to work, and nothing else.
“You’re here,” Caleb remarked, looking genuinely surprised when he spots me in the green room.
“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just . . .” He shakes his head, not even bothering to finish. And, honestly, he doesn’t have to.
“So where are the guys?” The guys . . . yeah right.
“You know the drill. Quiet meditation before performances. Ransom has been insisting on it since as long as I can remember.”
I peg him with a look that screams, Oh, come on! “So you mean to tell me, even knowing about his”—my eyes dart around to ensure no listening ears are near—“issues, you never questioned what he was doing before every show?”
The answer seems painstakingly obvious. He’s getting high, for Christ’s sakes! Ransom wants to be left alone so he can get lifted in peace. Meditate, my ass.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Caleb claims before I have to say it out loud. “And you’re wrong. Music is the only thing that kid is serious about. He never performs less than completely sober, not even a drop of beer. It’s the one pure part of him that he keeps for himself. The one thing that he can offer with one hundred percent honesty.”
I stare at Caleb for a long beat, waiting for the rest of the joke, but he only gazes back with total confidence. He’s telling the truth. He really believes that the only time Ransom isn’t high is when he is on stage. Humph. Interesting. Maybe what they say about artists is true. Maybe their art truly is the source of their sanity and the villain of their demise.
We watch the show from backstage, jamming out to The Roots and laughing at Jimmy’s witty banter. He slow jams the news and plays Password with Reese Witherspoon and Josh Duhamel. It’s great, all lighthearted fun and games. But when Jimmy introduces tonight’s musical guest, Ransom, to the stage, I instantly know that shit just got real.
“Fuck,” Caleb spits out under his breath as the lights go up to reveal the foursome, all decked out in black. The music starts, and the roaring crowd simultaneously calms into hushed silence.
“What?” I know something isn’t right, but I’m just not sure what it is.
Caleb pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously. He doesn’t look up when he answers. “The motherfucker changed the song they rehearsed. This isn’t what they prepared at sound check.”
“Fuck,” I say, mimicking Caleb’s earlier sentiment. “He can’t do that. He can’t do that, right?”
“He just did.”
I look around, my mind working double time to find a way to fix this debacle, but it’s too late. The sounds of electric guitar are already echoing throughout the studio, along with the hypnotic rhythm of drums. Even though the band could play just about anything on their own, The Roots accompany them to add an extra dimension of sound. Luckily, they know this, which is surprising, since it’s not a Ransom original. I can’t even place what it is exactly.
Until he sings.
I should have known. I should have fucking known. Of course, he’s still pissed at me and wants to let the world know just how much of a mind-fucking slut I am. And maybe he should. If this is what it takes for him to let this go, then better to do it in song than let it play out on TMZ.
But as he belts out the first verse of Prince’s “Darling Nikki,” a cover they featured on their last album, I know that this is so much more than musically venting. Ransom isn’t . . . right. He looks good, and he’s engaging the crowd in that wildly sensual way that gets them screaming for more, but there’s just something off about his movements. Even his voice isn’t as crisp as it usually sounds. There’s something lying underneath it, be it pain or desire or shame. I just know this isn’t the Ransom Reed I saw kill it in front of the massive audience at Madison Square Garden just two Fridays ago.
Still, the band finishes to a cheering crowd and a standing ovation, which is a good sign, despite the glaring truth staring us in the eye. Ransom wouldn’t know it though. As soon as the music stops and Jimmy appears on stage, holding a vinyl copy of their last LP, Ransom drops the mic on the stage and walks off, brusquely pushing past the host and his bandmates. And me.
“Never performs less than sober, huh?” I say to Caleb, both of us too stunned to do more than just stand there.
“Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck,” he groans.
“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.” I look over at the shell-shocked agent and sigh, releasing my last bit of resolve. “So about getting him out of town . . . I think I might be able to help with that.”
Chapter Nineteen
Convincing Ransom of getting out of the city is much easier than Caleb and I anticipate, and we’re left wondering if the young rocker was already getting burned out of “the life.” We knew that confronting him after his grand performance would only lead to tragedy, so we waited until Tuesday—today—to give him the ultimatum—take some time out or we walk. Both of us. I can’t understand why that would be a big enough incentive, but apparently, it works.
Now, convincing Tucker? That’s a different story. One that I’m not quite prepared to hear.
I get home from work at my usual time, knowing that coming in late would only agitate him and make it harder to plead my case. He’s sitting at the bistro table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a document from a stack of papers in a file folder. The scents of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and lemon waft from the kitchen, and my stomach growls. Even though Lucia has already left to go home for the evening, she always leaves dinner in the oven. Tonight smells like her famous citrus herb chicken.
Tucker looks up as soon as I approach and smiles, although I can tell it’s forced. He looks tired . . . even older. I can’t imagine what must be troubling him, and I make it a point not to ask. That’s our thing—work stays at work. Still, I can see the past few days have worn on him, and I am yearning for him to let me comfort him.
“Hey babe,” I say, wearing a genuine grin. “Something smells good.” I kiss him on his full lips and go into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. I’ll need it for the conversation we’re about to have.
“Lucia made chicken and a Caprese salad.”