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Watching them I remembered I needed to check in with Dave. A quick phone call over
the noise of the party, and I’d found out what the hustle they’d run on James was.
Apparently it was all Trevor. I wasn’t surprised. It seemed Trevor had mentioned to
his PA that he needed some likely lads to play a part. To set a little trap for someone
that needed to learn a lesson, learn his place in the scheme of things. When he’d
mentioned James’ love for hacking intrigues and easy money, she had told him that
she had some friends who would be perfect. So he’d taken them all out to a good dinner,
they’d figured out the details of the scheme over the brandy and cigars, and Trevor
had provided the seed money, and a small fee. I knew, or I hoped, I’d get more of
the story out of Trevor directly but I couldn’t resist asking Dave. “So it was a scam?
They weren’t even hackers?”

Dave had chuckled. “Lily, who knows. Trevor told me that her friends had seemed extremely
knowledgeable. But they claimed they were pretending. All in fun. Trevor’s no fool.
If he said he didn’t want to know, that’s your answer.”

He told me to hold on, and I heard him speak to someone in the background. Then his
voice was back. “Anyway, you made it. Congratulations. Enjoy the last night. And relax.
Call me when you’re back in New York. Ciao. And give Tristan and AC my best.” I was
about to say something when the line cut off. I was left with the silent phone in
my hand, and the sounds of clinking glass in the distance. Dropping my phone in my
bag, I took Dave’s advice and went to join the party.

I got a drink, and said hello to a few people. But the proper after-party was in some
club somewhere. So after Tristan and AC had gone to clean up, we all headed outside.
They appeared and signed autographs for the crowd of the faithful waiting. One of
the security guards helped us to the street, and we climbed in the limo.

The intercom came on. “Good evening boss.”

Tristan laughed. “Have you moved to Austin now? I thought you were heading back to
Dallas.”

The driver didn’t seem surprised. “They said you still needed a driver out here for
another day. I’m in a motel. I figured what the hell. Nothing much going on at home
anyway.”

Tristan shook his head, even though the driver couldn’t see him. “Well, good. Nice
to know who’s up front. I appreciate it. I’d invite you to the party, but that’s the
whole point—you’re not supposed to be drinking.”

“It’s ok. Thanks boss.”

AC looked at Tristan. “Another day.”

Tristan grinned at him. “Yeah. I figured another night of poolside living couldn’t
hurt.” He put his arm around me. “You’re staying, right?”

AC shrugged, but his eyes were bright. “Maybe I will at that. That model in L.A. is
going to be so disappointed.”

Tristan put his hand on his knee. “As your physician, I recommend a day of rest if
you’re going to be shagging three models a day. Or one model three times a day. Or
two models one and a half times a day. Wait, that’s wrong. No wonder I keep losing
money.”

AC put his hand over Tristan’s. “Good advice doc. Now tell me. What’s a half-shag?”

“There’s a joke in there. Give me time.”

AC leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “All the time you need. I’ll be over here.”

“Bastard.”

AC lay over us. “My real name must not be spoken. Now remind me what crap I’m supposed
to spout tonight if we want more hotel nights. At this point, you’ve got me where
you want me. I’ll say anything.”

“Just the usual. I’m wonderful, a genius, best thing that ever happened in your life…”

“Usual lies, full version. Got it. Invoice you in the a.m.”

Listening to them, there was a part of me that almost wished for one more insane night
on the road.

chapter twenty

Austin to New York

The last day in the hotel felt like a long goodbye. Tristan and I were due to head
to NYC for a few days before going out to California. AC had always planned to go
directly to L.A. He spent most of his time, apparently, these days, on the west coast.
I realized I had no idea where he lived, if he had an apartment somewhere, or if he
drifted from place to place, staying with friends for a few days, before moving on.
It hadn’t mattered before, not that it would be an easy question to ask. But I had
a feeling I knew the answer anyway, from something he’d said. We had all been sitting
at the table in the morning having breakfast. AC had looked at both of us, before
stabbing a bit of French toast with his fork. “This is nice. Something new and something
old.”

Tristan had glanced at him. “Ok, I’ll jump. What’s new and what’s old? Don’t say me.
Or Lily.”

AC kept cutting little pieces of French toast, but didn’t say anything else. Once
all of it had been carved up into small squares, which were remarkably uniform, I
thought, he impaled one on the end of his fork, and twirled it in the air. “No, not
that. Just it’s nice having breakfast with people I’ve known longer than a few weeks.
A few days. Hours. That’s new.” He chewed thoughtfully.

“So what’s old?” Tristan asked.

“Knowing I’m leaving tomorrow. Not being entirely sure where I’ll be after that.”

A terrible look crossed Tristan’s face. “Shit, AC. Why didn’t you say? I thought you
were heading off to see that woman, what was her name? Heidi? Heather? Heather in
leather? What happened?”

AC laughed. Now he was making two little stacks of the French toast squares. “Helene.
Heidi. Really?” He picked up two squares with the fork and examined them carefully.
“This food is really pretty good. No, I am seeing her. I think. Not sure I’m in the
mood for your average model star-fucker, though. How jaded is that?”

Tristan quickly put his hand on AC’s forehead. “Are you sick? Damn. One day off. That’s
all it takes.” He ran his hand through AC’s blond curls. “Come with us then. A couple
of days in New York. Cure you. No dragging anyone back though, mind. A home’s a home.”

AC raised his eyes and the two of them exchanged a silent communication. AC broke
away first, and looked over at me, then back at Tristan. “No, you two need some time.
And I did promise. Besides, I’ve got to sort out some shit in L.A. Think I need to
store my stuff somewhere more permanent than some junkie guitarist’s garage, you know
what I’m saying?”

Tristan shrugged. “Fine. After the big show crap, you’re coming back with us to the
city. Don’t say no. We’ll arrange it later.” He looked him up and down. “Now stop
playing with your damn food and eat it. You look too skinny. I’m going to start having
to look for your coke stash, and you know how that ends up.”

“Yeah, up your nose. Besides, you like me skinny.” AC winked at me. “But what about
Lily here? Don’t you think you should ask her first? She does, you know, like live
with you. Might want her opinion on this.”

I jumped in before Tristan could say anything. “No, it’s cool. We don’t need any of
those couples’ talks in the bathroom.” Tristan snorted. “You are very welcome as far
as I’m concerned—and it’s not my house, anyway.”

AC leaned over and picked up my hand, and kissed the top of it, gently, theatrically,
while gazing at me from under his long eyelashes. “Nomads, isn’t it right? To our
soft landings.”

Tristan grabbed my hand away. “Don’t make me change my mind. ‘Nomads.’ Drama queen.”
He kissed the same hand, then pulled my arm around his neck. “Don’t make her leave.”

AC shook his head. “Not a chance.” He pushed at his plate. “Come on, last day. Let’s
go hang out in the pool for a while. All this talk of the future is making me anxious.
And you know what happens when I get too anxious. I can’t swim if I drink too much.”

And we spent the day doing nothing. Swimming. Sitting by the pool. A couple of the
other guests definitely recognized us, but whether they wanted to protect our privacy
or keep their cool and their distance, I couldn’t say. It was hard to believe only
a couple of days ago, we’d been constantly surrounded by people, most of whom either
wanted something or were there to keep too many from wanting too much. We all regarded
everyone else warily, were happier when they went away, and even more pleased when
we retreated back into the bungalow for a bottle of wine, the door closing tight behind
us.

We wound up ordering dinner from somewhere the hotel recommended. I didn’t even pay
attention. It was good, without being memorable, but the idea that we had nowhere
to rush off to was the real draw. Tristan inspected what AC was eating and told him
he had to eat more. He even picked up a forkful of food and sang a little song about
hungry birds until AC obediently opened his mouth, chirping, and ate it. Tristan laughed,
pleased.

Somewhere out there was the real world, some hard place, with its details and demands.
But for the moment, in the soft warmth of a room we probably would never see again,
none of it mattered.

We opened another bottle of wine and went over to the living room area that faced
the pool and the trees. AC picked up his guitar, and began strumming some soft chords.
I stretched out and listened to him sing a couple of Neil Young songs, my eyes closed,
wondering how life could really get this easy. Tristan suggested another one, this
time Simon and Garfunkel, and the two of them began to sing together. Their voices,
away from the stage, and the demands of singing over the electronics, and the crowds,
and the drums, were more subtle. Still powerful and rich, but with overtones and a
warmth that could never be transmitted over and through the speakers. Part of me still
wished I had something to record it that would do it justice. But some moments are
just that—ephemeral, born to be experienced, and not captured. I sat up and poured
more wine, and sat cross-legged on the sofa, watching them as they tried to figure
out the exact chord for a Nirvana song, watching them laugh as they teased each other.
“You’re diminished, you muppet,” Tristan said, giving AC a one-armed hug and a quick
thump around the head, as he went off to get some water.

At one point they started trying to think of any song they had ever liked. One of
them would sing the first few lines, before deciding they couldn’t be bothered to
work it out, and moving on to the next one. Then AC picked out a few notes and said,
“Kate Bush. You like her, right, Lily? Come and sing on this one.”

I felt my face go red. “Yes, I like her. No, I can’t sing.”

AC stood up and pulled at my arm. “Come sit on the floor next to us. You’ll hear the
notes better through the vibration of the guitar. Makes it easier. Come on. You’ve
sung before, everyone has. Come play with us.” He pulled at me again, and grabbing
my wine glass, I got up and followed him. He sat down in the chair, and I knelt on
the floor by him, Tristan on my other side.

Tristan smiled and leaned over to kiss me. “Good. I’ll still love you if you can’t
sing, you know.”

AC smacked his head. “For fuck’s sake, Tristan, that’s not much of an incentive. Either
way.” He took my hand. “Ignore him, Lily. A little too much Saturn in this one sometimes.
Killjoy.”

Tristan stared at him, open-mouthed.

AC thrust out his arm and stuck his finger in between Tristan’s lips, moving it to
punctuate his words. “It. Is. True. Chill. The. Fuck. Out.” He removed his finger,
and placing it in his own mouth, swirled it around. “Not bad. I think I need another
glass too though.”

I started to jump up to get the bottle and their glasses. AC put his hand on my shoulder.
Tristan nodded to him. “Stay there, Lily. I’ll get it.” Tristan slid up off the floor,
long legs unfolding. “Do you need a pillow?”

“Yes, please,” I answered. AC smiled, an approving little smirk on his lips.

Tristan came back with the wine and a couple of pillows. It was getting late, and
you could feel the silence coming off the windows, almost as if the absence of sound
was shaking the glass. The lights in the other bungalows and rooms were scattered
now, and the overhead illumination on the pool had been turned off. It was very quiet.

AC drank some of his wine and put down the glass, and picked up the guitar again.
“So which song? ‘Wuthering Heights’?”

I thought for a minute. “I don’t know. I guess I know the words to most of them. ‘Babooshka’?
That’s a good one.”

AC smiled. “That is a good one. Tris? We can work this one out right?”

He was leaning back against the sofa, his eyes closed, his full lips slightly wet
from the wine, his neck long and curved. “Sure,” he murmured. “You guys do this one.
I’ll listen.”

AC nodded. “Ok.” He began something that sounded so much like the first three piano
chords, even on guitar, and then ran out the tripping upwards notes that followed,
and began to sing. In the middle of the third word, he stopped. I’d been sitting there,
silent. “Come on, Lily, help me out here.” He gave me that slow smile he had, the
warmth in his eyes liquid and intuitive. Both he and Tristan had eyes that seemed
to have seen much more than the average person, wearing the scars of having existed
in places most people weren’t able to survive. He nodded to me, as though I’d said
yes out loud.

AC began again. The chords wanted to foretell something serious, weighted and measured.
He started singing the first line, “She wanted to test her husband…” and I took a
deep breath and joined in. “She knew exactly what to do.” And we were off. Thinking
of the words took my mind off Tristan. I could almost feel his intensity, the concentration
he brought to the music, to anything. Then the next verse was already there, the story
and the song spinning together. Finally it came, the “uncanny how she,” the climax
of the song. AC caught my eye and wouldn’t let go, and the feeling hit just right,
the strange rhyme, and our voices, and his careful strumming on the guitar. “I’m all
yours, Babooshka ya ya.” Foolish, serious words. We both let the notes carry as AC
precisely hit the unexpected power chords at the very end. I could feel the hair standing
up at the back of my neck as the sound finally died away.

I looked up at AC. He grinned at me, then looked over my head to Tristan. I turned
to follow his gaze, and finally faced Tristan. He had this odd expression on his face,
halfway between confusion and something almost like the tightness right before the
tears. He bowed his head, his dark hair partially obscuring his eyes, before he ran
his hand through his hair as usual, his lips a thin line. He blinked. He started to
speak, then stopped, and just reached out for my hand, looking back over my head for
AC.

AC played a little arpeggio. “I told you, mate. Not even the surface.” Then he bent
down, the guitar flat on his thighs, and kissed the top of my head. “And you. You
can sing. Who said you couldn’t?”

I looked at the window. More lights had been extinguished now. I wondered what time
it was. A memory of another night, long ago, came without warning. A girl looking
out the window on to a dark road, wondering how long it would be before a car came
along once more, yellow headlights a quick triangle of light brightening up the darkness,
the red lights the eyes swallowed up in the distance. Another set of words chasing
her up to the cold, unfinished room, words always said so low. That girl had been
days away then from escape, days away from packing up what little she had, and taking
her chances far away, somewhere else. Trying not to look back.

AC couldn’t have known what he was asking. Between Tristan’s decisive insistence and
AC’s gentle intuition, the two of them could open up every wound I’d tried so hard
to plaster over.

AC’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Lily? Are you ok?”

His eyes were green, so green. Like the Northern Lights on a cold, star-filled night,
or forest ponds filled with moss, or the last of the light in the sky before a momentous
storm. I rubbed at my eyes. “Yeah, yes. Sorry. Been a while I guess.” I tried a weak
little smile. “Another one? Now that we’ve started, and all?” I felt Tristan take
my hand, and squeeze it. I squeezed back. He knew. He always knew.

We sang a few more songs, and finally Tristan joined in, and it felt good. Weirdly
good. We were just finishing up a medley of 80s classics, when Tristan looked at his
phone. “Fuck. 3 a.m. Car coming at 7. Maybe a couple of hours of sleep?”

So we all hugged, and Tristan and I headed to the bedroom, while AC made up his little
bed on the sofa. I washed my face, carefully avoiding looking at myself in the mirror.
Too much had happened. I didn’t need to see the traces of it all scrawled across my
face. I threw on the nightdress I seemed to be wearing to bed these days, and crawled
in under the sheets, next to Tristan, who had already flung himself into bed, naked
except for his silky underwear, uncovered. He was already half asleep, but he pulled
me closer to him. “You have a wonderful voice,” he whispered. “You must sing more.”
Then he turned on his side, his face on my shoulder, his eyes closed. “My mother used
to sing to me, all the time. My father hated singing, once she died.” Then he rolled
over on his back, his eyes suddenly open, staring at the ceiling. “He wasn’t all that
keen on it before.” I knew how much it had cost him to say those words. I placed my
head on his chest, and let it rise and fall with his breathing.

“These memories. That we think we are over. Dealt with. Then the ambush.” I sighed
as I said it.

Tristan pulled me up to him, and then we were lost in a kiss, loss and pain and life
there, his warm skin, his mouth on mine. All that couldn’t be said.

And there was a little cough. We broke apart, and looked at the end of the bed. There,
standing in his boxers, the light from the living room making a halo of his tangled
hair, was AC. Tristan sat up. “Mate? Are you ok?”