Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) (46 page)

“It’s important to me,” I said. “Someone’s coming to hear it. A producer and a record exec. And the composition, Gabby wrote it. I laid the lyrics over after…”

“Okay, okay.” She handed back the sheet. “You’re fine. Have fun. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Rhee.” I dashed back to the dressing room. I’d played for Rhee earlier in the week to prove I could manage lyrics and music at the same time. I was only halfway into “Under My Skin” when she stopped me and told me I was fine to go back on my old schedule. I was happy for the distraction, but the feeling that Eugene Testarossa had been right, and Gabby had been redundant, nagged at the back of my mind. Some little guilt-inducing voice insisted that by playing her part, I was driving her deeper into the grave.

The dressing room was like a second home anymore, but it was lonely and my anger at Jonathan wasn’t good company. I put on my makeup and hummed my new song. When it was time to go into the dining room, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “I hope you get carpal tunnel and a frog jumps down your throat.”

It wasn’t the same, but it was the best I had.

JONATHAN

N
othing moved. The Jag was caught between a bus and a silver SUV. I should have brought the bike. I could have gone between the lanes and been there already. Even though I knew she wasn’t going anywhere, I wanted to see Monica right away. Had to. First, she was angry with me, and that fact bored a hole right through me. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to rush to her. Second, the surveillance equipment across the street just turned the dial up on my concern. That equipment wasn’t a joke. Someone was watching her. I didn’t know why, or who, but I could buy those answers with money and time. One, I had plenty of. The other, I’d have to manufacture.

“Margie,” I said when my oldest sister picked up her phone. She was fifteen years my senior and had been more of an aunt to me. Her law firm had a huge criminal litigation division and billed thousands of hours keeping celebrities from going to jail.

“Jonny, you never call anymore.”

“Because I don’t have any problems.”

“But tonight? You have a problem?”

“Are you sitting?” Western Avenue opened up just as I had to turn down Santa Monica Boulevard. Too bad all the money in the world wouldn’t buy me a flying fucking car.

“Sure, I’m sitting.”

“There’s a woman.”

“You just gave me a migraine. That poor girl. What did you do to her?”

I’d squirmed when she litigated my divorce and I had to tell her it was about sex; what kind of sex and how I’d been rebuffed. She needed details and received them only after I’d drunk half a bottle of scotch.

“It’s not that,” I said. “She and I, we’re good. It’s something else.”

“Where does one find a woman who likes—”

“Enough.” I knew all the wisecracks already. “I’m not in the mood, Margie. I found a camera outside her place. Temporary surveillance inside a car. I need her house swept for more. I think you might know someone who could do it.”

“Do you have access?”

“No, and irony of ironies, I just had new locks put in.”

“You’re not doing that controlling thing again, are you, Jonny?”

“Just round people up and I’ll get you access. Okay?”

“
She
might like it when you’re bossy—”

I hung up. My sisters knowing I had a kinky streak wasn’t easy. Another thing I could thank Jessica for.

I got Hank on the phone at the next red light.

“Jaydee.”

“Did you burn those drawings?”

“Not yet.”

“Can you pack them up and have them to my Wilshire office tomorrow morning?” I asked.

“You want them packed to archiving standards?”

“No. Put them in an envelope. No more. I’ll let you know how to proceed.” I hung up.

I was sure it was Kevin. He’d been at the funeral and could have planted cameras then. Video of Monica entering and exiting the house would be perfect for an installation, especially with her music over it. Another homage to a breakup. He knew her well enough to know that once he presented her with the footage in the completed work, she’d buckle and let it happen for the sake of art and her career. Or he’d neglect to mention it until the show was installed. She’d be even less likely to gripe since her name would be on the thing already. A humiliating stab in the back. If there were cameras inside the house, I would have to kill him.

I felt as if every cell in my body needed to be near Monica. To protect her from whoever watched her and to soothe her anger at me. I just had to brave the traffic and the ridiculous synchronization of the lights on Santa Monica Boulevard.

MONICA

W
ith Gabby gone and the promotional machine at a standstill, the room’s body count went back to normal. It was the same-sized crowd as the first night we’d played: just tables and a few people waiting at the bar. Any buzz we’d had about our shows died with Gabby. Basically, I was starting from scratch, which was fine. I didn’t think I could take much more than that without her to lean on.

The table by the warm speaker had a RESERVED sign. Jerry and Eddie were meant to sit there, if they came at all. I said hello to some lovely couples by the front and asked if they had any requests, which I’d play if I knew. A group of frat boys had heard about me and come for dinner. They were half drunk already, and their appetizers hadn’t even arrived, so I didn’t linger. I made a last visual sweep around the room and cast my eyes to Rhee. She was leading two women to a table in the corner. I recognized both of them. One was Jonathan’s sister Deirdre. One was his ex-wife.

My skin burst into tingles and my throat closed. I couldn’t feel my fingertips. Then I remembered I was playing that song. Jonathan’s song. I hadn’t shown it to him or told him about it yet. Jessica would hear it. And she would know.

She would
know
.

I wasn’t ashamed of what I was doing with Jonathan, but letting her hear my fears as if I’d whispered them in her ear was sickeningly intimate. A cold trickle of regret ran down my back. I should never have made the thing, never written it down, never set it to Gabby’s music. Though I wasn’t hiding it from Jonathan, at the very least, I should have shown it to him before playing it publicly. I hadn’t even thought of that.

I sat down at the piano and touched the keys. No, I’d skip it. Play something else. Jerry wasn’t there, so no one would be the wiser. Rhee didn’t really care. I started playing. Yes, I’d hide behind Irving Berlin, then Cole Porter. I’d stay safe. I’d still paint them the colors of Jonathan. I’d still feed them his lust, his touch, his voice. But Jessica would never hear it because I was protected by dead men’s lyrics.

I was coming off “Someone to Watch Over Me,” the middle of my set, when I saw Jerry with two men at the bar. He tipped his glass to me. They weren’t sitting at the table. Stopping by, maybe? Well, shit. I’d have to play it.

With the lights in my face, blinding me to half the room, Jessica didn’t loom as large. After warming up with the standards I knew so well and hiding behind that shiny, black baby grand, I didn’t feel as vulnerable. I could play that song.

I could do it. I could belt it out. Fuck her. Fuck her to Sunday. Fuck her with the lights on. Fuck her fuck her fuck her. It was my room. My song. My audience. My rules.

Rule number one? Fuck her.

I hit the keys, owning them, and I launched into Jonathan’s song as though he was naked and I was jumping him.

We wove words under Popsicle trees,
The ceiling open to the sky,
And you want to own me
With your fatal grace and charmed words.
All I own is a handful of stars
Tethered to a bag of marbles that turns

Oh, her ears would burn off at the mention of Popsicle trees and a ceiling open to the stars but guess what?

Fuck her.

My questions and fears were pregnant with heated longing, a desire for encouraging answers, begging for appeasement. My list of acceptable and unacceptable behaviors became a list of exciting possibilities.

Will you call me whore?
Destroy me,
Make me lick the floor,
Twist me in knots,
Turn me into an animal?
Will I be a vessel for you?

Slice open our lying box
Through a low doorway for our
Shoulds and oughts.
Choose the things I don’t need,
No careless moments, no mystery.
And you need nothing.
My backward bend doesn’t feed.

And just to call to her, just because she’d hurt me, and just because I could, I changed the last chorus on the fly, turning questions into statements.

I will own you.
Tie you.
I will collar you
Hurt you,
Hold you, and take you.
You will be a vessel for me.

For all my inner ferocity, the song had to complement the rest of the set, so I didn’t scream or wail. I didn’t hit the top of my range, but the ragged emotion was there as I hit the last note at low, dinnertime volume. A whisper even. I moved right into “Stormy Weather.” The lights blacked out for half a second. Jerry and his buddies were leaving, blocking the spots. I felt a core of relief. I didn’t think I could deal with managing them and Jessica.

I finished my set, thanked my audience, looked humbled for the applause, and strode back to the dressing room with my chin up. I didn’t start shaking until I got the door closed and locked. My breath became ragged and my eyes filled. Jesus, fuck, what was she doing there? With Deirdre? Who was going for gold in the family Olympics, for fuck’s sake? God damn it. Which lie was incoming? Which bomb would she drop? I would stay in the dressing room. I’d tell Rhee I was too upset about Gabby to do the good-byes, and I’d stay in there until the bar closed.

That actually seemed like a viable plan, but when I scrolled through my contacts so I could text Rhee an apology, I slid past Debbie’s number. Her words came back to me as if whispered in my ear.

Be a woman of grace.

Yeah.

Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe if I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong and if I stood by my right to be with any man I liked, I didn’t have a reason to hide in a filthy dressing room.

I texted Rhee.

—I’m a little upset about Gabby—

She got right back with a bloop.

—Can I do anything?—

—If you could bring back two Jameson’s? One shot and one on the rocks for my nerves? And I’ll be out right after—

—Sure sugar—

I straightened my dress, wiped mascara from under my eyes, and reapplied my lipstick. A waitress came. I cracked the door to thank her for the drinks and remove them from her tray.

Once the door closed, I knocked back the shot. The other one was my prop. I looked in the mirror and tried out my customer service smile. Awesome. I was just smashing. And fuck her.

I went out to do my job. I entered the room and said a few hellos, smiling and graciously accepting compliments. Deirdre was at the bar. Jessica was alone at the table, half paying attention to her phone and half pretending she didn’t see me.

I went to the bar and squeezed next to Deirdre. “Hi, I think we’ve met,” I said.

She was more polite than before and nodded, a noncommittal smile playing at her lips. “Yeah. Nice singing.” She tucked a strand of tight curls behind her ear. They bounced right out.

“Thanks. I, uh, I don’t want to launch into this and be rude, but I couldn’t help but notice you came with someone?”

“Yeah. She’s family. She wanted to see you. I knew where you were, so…” She ended with a shrug.

“She’s borderline malevolent.”

“She’s my brother’s wife.”

“Not anymore.”

“You have a lot to learn.” She tried to put the hair behind her ear again, but it sprang in front of her eyes.

I took a deep breath. She was one of seven, and I was alienating her. “I’m sorry. I just don’t understand.”

She considered me deeply. There was something about her, some sadness, a touch of melancholy. She had a deep spring of sorrow. I saw it in her eyes and the way she fought a losing battle with the strand of hair that wouldn’t tuck behind her ear. “Like I said. Family. A man is meant to marry one woman. One life, one wife.”

I wondered for a second if Deirdre lived in the twenty-first century, then I saw her crucifix necklace. I got it then. She was saving Jonathan’s soul by serving Jessica.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll go say hello. You walking over there?”

“In a minute.” She smiled at me. I couldn’t read it. Besides the spring of sadness, I couldn’t read Deirdre at all.

Jessica pretended to see me for the first time when I was halfway to her. Quelling a tidal wave of hatred that would surely overcome even the power of my customer service smile, I sat at the edge of her booth. We were equals. I wouldn’t stand over her as if I was her waitress.

“Nice to see you again,” I lied.

“Same here,” she lied back. “You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

“And your voice is heavenly. You’re an artist.”

I put my elbows on the table and fondled my glass of whiskey. “Is there something you want? Being here? Because I do believe in the odd coincidence, but not this one.” I was all smiles. If Rhee saw me, she’d assume I was making friends with a customer.

Jessica looked down at her own drink, a half empty clearish-brownish thing with soda and lime. “You played a song in the middle I didn’t recognize. I mean, let me correct myself. I did recognize it. I asked myself many of the same questions.”

“Were you as honest with yourself as you were with me?”

A smirk played at her lips. “I deserve that.”

I could have pounced, but I didn’t. She wasn’t there to get beat up. She wasn’t there to apologize, and she certainly didn’t come to see me sing. She came to get Jonathan back. As far as I was concerned, I was pissed as hell at him, but I hadn’t decided I was finished with him. So I stayed silent, waiting for her to explain. She didn’t move a muscle unnecessarily. Her face gave away nothing. She didn’t twitch or fondle a glass like I did, and she didn’t have a customer service smile. She had an expression that went deeper. It was more practiced, more ingrained. She had the grace Debbie tried to instill in me. In spades.