Opening Act (14 page)

In the meantime, he'd do whatever he could to cultivate pockets in his life where he could be himself—places where Pernita's influence couldn't be felt. Fortunately, music was one of them. Pernita professed to be a fan of the band, but she seemed curiously uninterested in their actual material. Shay thanked God for that, imagining the hell his life would be if, for instance, Pernita wanted to collaborate with him on songwriting. And by “collaborate,” of course, she'd mean do it all herself and then validate it by adding his name.

Thinking about songwriting and about private pockets of his life, his mind turned to Loni. She'd actually unnerved him with her critique of his abilities. He'd felt stripped naked when she'd done that, and not in the good way. It was like all his innermost insecurities about his talents—the ones he'd learned to bury deep and ignore—were all suddenly served up to him on a platter. He blushed now to think of the interviews he'd given in the local press, where he'd said he found songwriting “easy” and “as natural as breathing.” Loni would snort in derision at that, no doubt. In her opinion, of course it was easy for him, because he wasn't trying to do anything but the bare minimum. Just produce tunes with a couple of hooks and a smattering of commercial appeal. And the music wasn't even his; it was Baby's and Jimmy's. He was just the lyricist. Which meant he wasn't an artist; he was merely a tradesman.

He rolled over on the couch, but a new position didn't ease his discomfort. He'd been stung by Loni's assessment of him and wondered why he didn't despise her for it. He usually didn't like people who exposed his insecurities and vulnerabilities. But there was something about Loni…he couldn't put his finger on it. She seemed insecure herself, vulnerable even. It was like she was speaking about something she knew firsthand. She intrigued him. “Tell me more,” he'd written to her. And he
wanted
more.

Remembering the friend request, he found he couldn't wait to see whether she'd accepted it. He abandoned his nap, got up, and went to his laptop. He checked his Facebook page and there were a number of notifications, mainly from people congratulating him on the previous night's gig, but no new friends. He checked the status of his request and was astonished to see it had disappeared. Searching for an explanation, he figured maybe he must have missed a confirmation button or something, so he went back to William Blake's page to try again.

Except he couldn't get to William Blake's page. It wasn't showing up.

Which meant either Loni had shut it down, or…

…or she'd blocked him.

He sat back and stared at the screen.

His jaw hung open.

She'd…she'd
blocked
him.

Him.

Shay goddamn Dayton.

Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Not since…Jesus. Eighth grade?

His shoulders slumped.

“The
bitch
,” he said aloud.

But it was a reflex. He should be angry. He
wanted
to be angry. He
wanted
Loni to be a bitch. To be the kind of woman so afflicted with a sense of entitlement that there was no man, no
anything
, on earth that could ever satisfy her. He wanted to be able to slot her into that category, close the lid, and dismiss her. Shove her to the back of his mental shelf and forget about her.

And he did try, for all the good it did him. He went online. He hopped around YouTube, watching videos of people falling off rooftops or car-crash compilations. Over his shoulder, he heard her say, “
This
is how you honor your talent?”

How had she gotten in his head? How had she
done
that? He hadn't spoken to her for more than five minutes.

He plopped back down on the sofa and sighed. He took his phone from his pocket, and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself dialing home.

God,
he thought,
if anyone ever found out I got sad and called my mommy…

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said as she picked up the phone. “What's the matter?”

He threw his free hand in the air. “Come on, Ma. I can't just call to shoot the breeze?”

She laughed. “Just tell me what's going on. I have to leave in five minutes for my Zumba class.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Had our farewell concert last night.”

“I know, honey, and I heard it went well. They showed some footage on the TV this morning.”

“They did?” He was mildly impressed.

“Just a few seconds. But the man said it was a big hit.” She paused. “Dad and I are so sorry we didn't come into the city for it.”

“It's all right,” he said, slouching down. “Not really your scene.”

“Oh, now, you wouldn't know. You should've seen us during the eighties. We were total punks.”

He definitely was
not
in the mood to have
this
conversation again. “I know, Ma. Sorry. And yeah, the show went well. But I'm kinda…well, wondering now whether we're ready for a tour. Whether we're up for it. We might just be local boys.” He thought of Trina. “And girl.” He thought of Trina again. “Boys.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. What's brought this on? You're not usually one for self-doubt.”

He crossed his leg and scratched idly at his instep. “Just…got some feedback that made me think, is all. I know we're talented…but maybe. I don't know. Possibly I've been coasting. A bit.”

“ ‘Feedback,' ” she repeated, with meaning. “Meaning, someone didn't totally entirely worship you the way you want. Probably a girl. Am I getting warm?”

“Ma, that doesn't make a difference, I just—”

“
Definitely
a girl.” He could hear her laughing. “Honey, I'm going to remind you of something. Do you remember at your first junior high talent show when you got a standing ovation from the whole auditorium for that song you did from
Les Mis
?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, scratching his other foot.

“And then two days later in the school paper there was one letter with a negative review, and you fell into a gloom for an entire week?”

He could feel his face reddened. “It wasn't a week.”

“It was at
least
a week. And do you remember what I told you then?”

“Even if I could say yes, you'd tell me anyway.”

“I told you then, and it's still true, that the problem with you is, you can be in a room filled with a hundred people who adore you and one who doesn't, and all you'll be thinking about is how to get that one person to see the light.”

Well, hell. Mom had slam-dunked it there.

“So, how do I get over that?” he asked.

“At your age? Probably too late. You either just learn to live with it. Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or get that person to see the light. Listen, honey, Jess Niklaus just pulled up. She's my ride.”

“Right. Lay down some righteous Zumba, Ma.”

“Oh, honey, won't I ever. Love you.”

“Me, too. Bye, Ma.”

He slipped the phone back in his pocket, feeling marginally better even though his mom's advice wasn't really practicable. “Just learn to live with it.” That was easy enough to
say
. It was like just learning to live with a hornet in your house.

And then there was the other alternative. Equally hopeless. There really wasn't much chance of getting Loni to see the light. She'd thrown up some serious barriers. Walking out on him. Blocking him.
Erasing
him from her history.

Unless…

Unless that had been a challenge.
Could
it have been a challenge? He'd grown so used to women hurling themselves at his feet that he'd forgotten some women liked to be fought for. Some women liked to be
won
.

Was it possible? Loni's behavior had such a resounding finality about it.

But if he didn't at least
try
…

He took his phone out again and texted Lockwood.
Hey bud how'd the rescue go?

He waited for the reply.

And waited.

“Come
on
,” he said, growing impatient. Then a slight vibration, and it appeared:
1477 londale blvd

He blinked, then texted back,
Huh?

A moment later the reply came:
Ur obviously texting to get her address so there it is

Shay made a little exasperated noise. He was getting really, really tired of everybody knowing him better than he knew himself. He texted back
Thx
and then got to his feet.

What the hell. No time like the present.

On his way across town, he stopped and bought a rose from a kid selling them in the middle of an intersection. “Kinda dangerous to be standing out here,” he said as he forked over three bucks.

The kid grinned a toothy smile. “Worth the risk, mister.”

Shay took the rose and, as he strode away, thought,
Ain't it the truth
.

CHAPTER 8

“What are you doing here?” Loni asked. She tried to keep her tone neutral, but a hard edge crept into the last few syllables—her wariness getting the better of her.

He got up and smiled at her. “Hey. I was just thinking that…y'know, maybe if you didn't already have a stalker, I'd give it a go.”

She readjusted her backpack on her shoulder. She didn't need to; it was just to distract her from smiling back. “I don't think stalkers are supposed to greet you at your door with roses. I think they're supposed to go through your garbage bins. Steal your mail, call your parents on the phone. All that.”

He shrugged. “It's my first time. I'm not very good at it. Give me a chance. Promise I'll get better.”

They stared at each other for an awkward moment. Then Loni nodded at the rose. “I take it that's for me.”

He looked down at it, then extended it and said, “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” As she took it from him, he added, “It looked better when I bought it. I'd get a refund, but the kid's probably changed intersections by now.”

“He saw
you
coming,” she said, sniffing it. “Never mind. I think roses smell sweeter when they're dying.
Ow
,” she said, and she passed the rose from one hand to the next, then shook her finger. “Damned thorn.”

“Pleasure and pain,” he said, not missing a beat. “I aim to provide the complete experience.”

She gave him a dubious look. “I haven't signed on yet. You're still just a stalker wannabe.”

He shifted his feet, then looked suddenly serious. “Look, I'm sorry if I offended you last night or anything. But what can I say? I don't give up easy.”

What was he talking about? Give up what? They'd only chatted for five minutes. “Um. Okay,” she said. “I guess.”

“I didn't mean to come on too strong. Creep you out.”

Again, what? Five minutes in a kitchen? “No, no.”

“I mean, I get the message. You like your privacy. But. Y'know. I like
you
.”

She felt a little flurry of doubt. She couldn't understand what he was talking about, and it alarmed her a little. “Well. Fine. That's…fine.”

He seemed to sense he was losing her. “Look,” he said. “The truth? I get women hanging all over me, all the time. I mean…not to brag or anything.”

“No, of course not,” she said in a slightly mocking tone. “I think of humble, I think of Shay Dayton.”

He laughed. “No, really. I'm always getting told what a god I am. Sorry, but that's the word they use. Your roommate—she used it last night. I'm a ‘god.' It gets a little…old.” He ran his fingers through his hair. It was a very erotically charged gesture. Loni wondered if he knew that and did it on purpose. Probably. “You're the first woman—really, this is not bullshit—the first one who's ever told me I'm a slacker, I'm not doing it right, not taking it seriously, I should be ashamed of myself.”

She felt her face redden. “That was an asshat thing to say,” she apologized. “I was—it's just, I didn't know anyone at that party, I was feeling a little insecure, so I went all Xena to cover it up. Really. I have no business telling you to be ashamed.”

“No,” he said, waving down her apology, “you had a point. I haven't been able to get it out of my head. And since you blocked me, I thought the only way I could get any clarification from you was to come in person. I hope you don't mind.”

She didn't know what he meant by “blocked” him. She presumed it must be some hipster term for rejection, though she couldn't remember rejecting him, either. Unless that's how he saw her leaving the party after he'd marked her as his property for the night. But she wasn't supposed to know he'd done that. “I don't mind, I guess,” she said. “I'm not sure what you mean by ‘clarification.' ”