Leed
It's been a rough few days.
Real rough.
I've had the acupuncturist here every day. Ravi and his crystals. A massage therapist. A reflexologist. A fucking faith healer.
None of it has helped. Ashlynn is still in bed. In the dark. She's only been up to pee, and yesterday to say good-bye to Ollie when Ben came to pick him up. I was so glad it was Ben, and not Tam, because I was shocked to see her trying to keep her head up in the light of day. Her hair is stringy, her balance is off, her words are coming slow. None of that bothered me as much as her expression.
It was like...dirty glass.
Every day, I've asked what I can do. Every day, she shuts me out. She's tolerated all the people I've brought in, but she hasn't showered or eaten anything but a few containers of yogurt. She says the water is too loud and chewing hurts too much. She's picky about what over-the-counter pain meds she will use, but the couple she's willing to try haven't touched her pain.
Today is day four of Ashlynn's incapacitating headache and fear is creepin' all the fuck over me now. Because she's hurting so much I want to give her drugs.
Last night I went to Sawyer's room and found his party stash. I sat on his bed, rolling the baggie between my hands, contemplating crushing up half of a vike and mixing it in her yogurt. Maybe she wouldn't feel the effects, but maybe it would be just enough so she could get some relief to eat a little, or get up and take a shower.
Then I got so pissed off at myself for even considering undermining her sobriety that when Sawyer got home, I went the fuck off on him for having pills in the house. Just so I could yell and scream. He apologized and flushed the pills, but I was too amped to back down.
I fired him.
I've fired him a couple of times before, in a fit of pissiness, and asked him back the next day. This time I might let it ride. I'm not sure.
After he left in a huff, I walked around the pool trying to think of what the fuck else to do. Every time I passed the slider to my darkened room, and I saw my Sunshine eclipsedâan undefined lump beneath the mountain of blanketsâI felt more and more...caged. Caged and fericious.
I had to do something about something. So I called up the private investigator Riley hired to look into Ash's Dom. I told him to jump on the guest list for the Vision Video Party.
I'm not stupid. That fucker was there. I know he was, and I've wanted to call her on the lie since she uttered it three nights ago.
No, he was not there. It was the set. Seeing the restraints, the tools.
Bullshit. I've seen all the way to Ashlynn's soul, making love to her. She thinks I can't see when she draws the shades with a lie?
Even if she didn't feel like my damn soulmate already, I would still have seen the lie. I watched her when she was married to Trace. Watched her the days she was sober and the days she was high. Watched her lie to him about that, and so many other small things, just to avoid married arguments.
She doesn't even realize, I know her tells. She's got a pretty good poker face, I'll give her that. But when she lies, blush creeps up her chest and she tries to look the person in the face too directly. She doesn't use contractions. Her denial is emphatic. Just like last night when she said, "He was not there."
I knew it the minute she lied to me. I let it go, because we all lie. We all run. Mac couldn't admit she loved Adam for the longest time. Trace can't admit he needs a goddamn hug from a sober and sorry Ross Gallant. Bodie can't admit sometimes he still feels poor and like he's running from the cops, or maybe running scared from a thug that shoved a gun in his mouth and turned him into a drug dealer. And me? I look at Ash and I know I'm hiding from a truth that scares the fuck out of me, too.
One of the few things I've learned for sure is you can't force someone to speak their truth before they are ready.
Ash is not ready. I know that.
She's not ready to name him, but he was there last night and his mere presence made her afraid. That's what got her jonesing. And maybe that's even what has caused her headaches to recur. Maybe she got so stressed, it caused her to have micro seizures.
More than ever, I have to know who he is. I have to neutralize him, if I can.
I think about how Slade killed Arabella's career, and she doesn't even know it yet. I wonder if Riley and I could accomplish something like that. If we could call in enough favors, bribe enough people, throw enough influence to disappear somebody in our industry. Definitely, if the guy is just a working joeâa sound tech, a studio musician, or an A&R scout. Maybe, even if he's a producer or an mid-level executive type. Probably not not, if he's a celebrity or an old Hollywood money. Or an entrepreneur type with a lot of connectionsâsome music festival promoter, or PR guy.
Yeah, killing this guy is all I've been thinking about since last night. In the proverbial sense. Actually, that's a fucking lie. I've thought about killing him in the very real sense, but it would be pretty shitty of me to bail on Ollie, and Ash, and Mac, and the guys, by trading my stage wardrobe for prison orange.
Yeah, I can't lose my head. I have to be smart. But first, I have to know who he is.
What sleeping I did last night was on the couch. I was too restless to sleep in the bed with Ash. When I refilled her water this morning, she didn't comment on me being MIA last night, she just grabbed my wrist and squeezed. I wasn't sure if that meant, "missed you" or "thanks for the water." It's frustrating for me, living a muted life, but I try to stay silent because obviously talking only makes her pain worse.
Now, I'm by the pool again, soaking up the spring sun, but it's a piss-poor substitute for her smile. My chair is turned toward my room, so that I can see if she moves from beneath the covers.
My phone rings. Riley. He knows what's going on with Ash, but he's also got a job to do and he's wanting me to do mine. I've been ignoring his calls. And Moran's. Riley's got me lined up on all the talk shows next week, and Moran wants me at some new music network launch party this weekend. I can't think about all that shit right now.
All I can think about is Ashlynn. It's fucking consuming, loving her. But I couldn't walk it back now, if I tried.
I push out of the chair and pace around the pool deck some more. It's my new favorite hobby. Pacing back and forth. Yeah, I'm a lion on a real short leash right now, and that slumbering girl in there holds my invisible tether.
Some time later, my phone rings again. Trace.
Him, I'll answer.
"Hey, man," I start out casual, but he's not having it. He's grilling me immediately. Kat says Ash hasn't answered her calls or responded to her texts in three days.
"She's down with a headache, isn't she?" he growls. "Fucking Cam. I knew this shit was going to happen. Taking care of his sorry ass has run her in the ground. I should go down to Emory and jack him up for roping her into this..."
"Fuck Cam. I'm much less worried about Dr. Limp-Dick than Ash, alright?" I tell him how none of the holistic therapies are working.
"Look man, I've seen this with strung-out Ashlynn and with sober Ashlynn. The headache eventually goes away, either way. It's just...when she gets knocked down like this...it's a hard climb back up. Sometimes it takes her days to realize she's not hurting so much anymore, because she gets so low and sad from all that time in deep darkness, you know? Sometimes you gotta force her to put her big girl panties on. Look...just...put her on the damn phone," his voice is harsh.
"I don't think that's a good idea. You only have two modes when it comes to Ash. Exasperated and Bitchmaster," The edge in my voice could slice his in two.
He sighs. "That is really unfair, man. You think I don't know how to deal with her when she's hurting? I was married to her, for Chrissakes."
I'm on edge already, but nothing sets me off like Trace playing the husband card.
"No, I do not think you know how to handle her well when she's sick," I snap back. "Your marriage sucked so bad it pushed her into the play room of a goddamn psychopath."
"Fuck you, Leed."
He sounds like he actually means it.
"Fuck you too, Trace."
I'm sure I do.
I hang up. Five minutes later, my thumb is hovering over his contact, but he calls back first.
His voice is more measured this time. "I'm sorry, okay? I know this is rough on you. I know exactly how frustrated you feel. You wanna punch something, right?"
"Yeah. You would do, just fine."
He laughs. "I hear ya, brother, but try to punch something that doesn't punch back. Your face is too valuable...and you need to be at that damn network party this weekend... "
"I know, I know...fuck..." I groan.
"Look, I really am trying to help. She's my family, and nobody has dealt with this as much as me. Except Cam. So you want my help or his?"
"Fuck."
"Just put her on the phone. I'll be as sweet as sugar, I promise. I want to talk to her about her pain level...she might respond to me better out of habit, you know?"
I creep into my room and coax her quietly. She puts a pillow over her face to block the light of the phone and speaks to him with muffled sounds that range in a wave from monosyllabic replies to whisper-sobs and back again.
Whatever she said to him, I couldn't hear because of the pillow, but the way she kept the pillow over her face and silently thrust the phone at me after she ended the call?
That shit hurt.
I don't want to force her to talk to me, but I miss the fuck out of her. She hasn't said two dozen words to me in four days and she talked to him for five minutes. I almost want to call him back and ask him what she said, but he texts a few minutes later:
We're taking the first flight out in the morning.
Give her some space.
She hates you seeing her like this.
I text back:
I've got this.
I'm not going anywhere.
Send Kat.
Stay there and handle your house remodel.
Three dots play for a long long time. Whatever lengthy reply he was making, he replaces with a terse one:
She asked me to come.
Sorry.
I can't believe she wants Trace to take care of her right now. I know we are new, but we're...bigger than time. She's not just my girlfriend of a month. She's...she's mine. I pace around the pool for thirty minutes after that, because I have to walk this off. There's no way I want to bring hurt and anger to her right now. It's not about me.
Walking it off isn't exactly working for me right now. My shit is so fucked up that I find myself doing the very last thing I would have ever imagined. I'm pulling out my phone, dialing Dr. Douche-Who-Wants-My-Girl.
"Martin, here."
"Hey man. It's Leed..." I plow ahead before he can get a word in, explaining Ashlynn's setback and how nothing is working. I swallow my pride and tell him, it doesn't sit wellâthe way she's shutting me out by. I ask him what it was like, when he was taking care of her.
He sighs heavily. "Just like that. She shut me out, too. Except she didn't use an ex-husband to do it. She shut me out by using her pain meds."
"So what did you do?"
"I fucked up. I let her."
I'm silent so longâthinkingâthat Cam finally says, somewhat reluctantly. "Look, I feel like shit. I feel like Ash maybe spent too much time focusing on me and not herself and I'm the reason her headaches are back. I'm on thin ice here, being the cancer guy in my rotation, but I could maybe get a couple days emergency leave and come out there."
"Naw, if she wanted you, she could pick up her phone," I say with irritation.
"I feel like I owe it to her...plus...taking care of people is what I do."
"This ain't about you, Martin. This is about her. She does not need a fucking entourage right now. It's bad enough Trace will be here tomorrow."
"Fine. What are you gonna do?"
I watch her unmoving form through the glass. I think about Ollie when he was sick with fever a month ago, and how hard it was to let the doctors cause him pain. My stomach feels weak, but my voice is firm when I say, "Better than you. Better than Trace."
It takes an hour to get my guts together. I had to call Sawyer back after all, because I needed him to run some errands, since I don't want to leave Ashlynn alone.
When I enter the bedroom, I by-pass the bed, instead heading for the bathroom to start the shower. I return to her bedside. I peel the covers back from her head. She winces, but reaches for my hand with her eyes closed.
"Come to bed." she says hoarsely.
"It's time to get up," I return her whisper, smoothing her limp hair carefully from her face, trying not to rake her scalp.
She swallows heavily and shakes the tiniest no, but I refuse to give up. Back and forth we go, with whispers.
"Is your head still hurting?"
"It's almost not hurting," she mumbles.
It's better, but she's afraid to move, afraid to bring the pain back, I realize.
Another swallow and a weak cough. I give her a sip of water, and then I put the soft, flexible sunglasses and the sound-canceling headphones in her hand that Sawyer brought. "Put these on."
"Why?"
"Because it's time to get up."
"Leed..." weak exasperation trails my name. She lays the sunglasses and headphones on the bed. "Just...let me sleep, okay? Until Trace and Kat get here. They're going to take me home."
"You are in the house you need to be in," I tell her. "And it's time to get up and get back your routine that keeps you headache free. Because if you don't, the headaches will become your routine."
"Leed..." she protests weakly again, and tears leak from her eyes.
Fuck, don't cry baby. Just take a step. One step toward me and I will do all the rest.
"Ashlynn, when you went to rehab in Florida, was your head hurting a lot?"
"Yes."
"Did you lay in the bed there?"
"No," the sound is pinched, nearly a sob.
"Right, because they wouldn't let you. They made you participate, even when you felt like shit. And what happened?"
A long pause. She slowly raises the heels of her hands to her eye sockets, like she's holding back tears. "I felt better. But...it's hard."
"I know. We'll fight together."
"This isn't your fight," she whispers. "It's mine. Do you see now? It's a losing battle, no matter what I do."
"That's okay. I don't just love you when you're winning. And you're wrong about whose fight this is. All you have to do is put your hand in mine, and it becomes my fight too."
"It's not fair to you."
"Fuck fair. I don't want fair. I want you. I'll do whatever it takes to feel your light, even if we live in the dark some days."
Her lips press thin at that, and tears leak down her temples from beneath her palms, but I don't give up. "You love me? Really love me?" I challenge.
"Yes."
"Then fight for me. Fight for us. Be the hero, baby, because I can't be it for you. Not in this."
She reaches for my hand, pulling it to her lips, kissing my fingers and then using my arm to pull herself slowly to a sitting position. With her eyes still closed, she pulls my forehead to down and kisses my third eye. No matter how many times she does that, it's always the same.
I see horizons. Breaking dawns. A world wide open.
I would give her the world, for the one she shows me with that brush of her lips on my forehead.
I help her put on the sunglasses, and noise canceling ear-muffs. She moves slowly to the shower. I hold her in the warm stream for a long time, and I feel her breathing expanding, like she's returning to life. Eventually, she pulls the sunglasses and ear muffs off, and reaches clumsily for shampoo.
I help her wash her hair, bathe and dress. Eggs and avocado toast are next. Along with a couple of good shots of espresso because caffeine is as good of a headache medicine as anything she can get over the counter.
The first yoga session is hard. Her body is stiff, and she's shaky in relatively simply poses. I partner with her, becoming her balance. We do fifteen minutes and then we meditate. She doesn't want to go outside, but I coax her with the sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat, and we walk a little around the pool.
Over the course of the morning and afternoon, I get her back in the yoga studio three times, doing short sequences, and her body and brain are finally awake. Her head still aches, but she's talking in fluid sentences.
She says a lot of stuff. That's she's sorry. That she appreciates me. That she doesn't want my life to be taking care of her. That it won't even work in the long term, because a music man doesn't stay on hiatus forever, and she knows me nowâhow crazy I'll be out there on the road if I think she's sick at home. She says she thinks we should cut our losses. She says she loves me too much to steal my joy.
When she says that, it's the most confusing shit I've ever heard.
We're sitting on the couch now, watching some travel channel show while I try to make sense of it all. I wrap my arms around her tightly. "Jesus, Sunshine. Is this what you've been thinking about, lying in the dark for days?"
She's silent in my arms, looking down at her hands, destroying a gel nail like she does when she's upset. I still her hands. "All that shit you just said is completely backwards logic. The only way you steal my joy is walking away and ripping my heart out. But if you stick with me, it keeps pumping and I keep breathing. And as long as I'm breathing with you by my side, there is no sickness, no work bullshit, no obstacle that can take my joy."
I take her head in my hands as carefully as the first time I held Ollie. I smile at her and sing the one song I haven't sang to her yet.
You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine.
You make me happy, when skies are gray...
Afterwards, I kiss her tears and tell her to shut the fuck up about cutting losses and force her back to the yoga studio for another mini-session and then another hat-shaded-sunglassed walkâthis one down the street.
ââââââ
When Trace and Kat arrive the next day in the late afternoon, they come bustling in like business.
Only to find Ash and I relaxing by the pool underneath the sunshade, me playing December Dawn on the guitar, her flipping through a magazine.
Kat flies across the pool deck towards us with Trace strolling behind. For once, Kat doesn't fling herself on Ash or squeal. She sits quietly on the end of Ash's lounge and reaches for her hand. "Are you okay?" she asks mildly.
Ash pulls her sunglasses off and smiles, looking tired but more like herself than she has in days."I'm feeling...much better, thanks to Leed shutting down my pity party and rolling me out of bed. I'm sorry you rushed back."
Kat shakes her head. "No, it's okay, I was dying to get back but Trace was trying to play Super-son-in-law. He and Dad hired a crew of dayworkers to come give both houses an external spring cleaning. They've been supervising and bonding, doing random projects like installing video doorbells and stuff. Plus they've been interviewing an Atlanta PA that's going to keep the bandhouse party ready and moonlight for Mom and Dad, if Mom should need a little more help..."
"That's great, really, but..." I'm surprised, but so happy, to hear a light peal of laughter float from Ashlynn as she lays her head back and squints at Trace with a cute grin. "God, Trace when did you turn into such a brown-noser?"
"Hey. It's so rare that I do something Mike approves of, I have to milk it for all it's worth," he grins.
Ash smiles at him. "It's kind of strange he's so thrilled to have the Neighborhood Terror back next door."
He gives her the chin tip. "I think they've finally accepted the idea they aren't getting rid of me." He reaches down to give Kat's shoulder a squeeze as she puts her left hand up to pat his.
Ashlynn lurches forward so quickly that at first I'm worried, but I understand the second she reaches for Kat's hand.
Kat's got some new blingâan open circlet with pave diamonds, but the unusual design and the way they sparkle...it's no Zales special Trace picked up on a whim at Lennox Square. I'd bet this month's royalties that ring came custom-designed, in a little blue Tiffany's box.
Ashlynn's voice is excited for the first time in what seems like forever as she inspects Kat's hand. "Oh my god! What is that?"
Kat laughs and lifts her hand dramatically straight over head, waggling her fingers in front of Trace's face. "Baby, remind me what this is again?"
"It's a promise ring." Ever the rock star, Mr. Cool-As-Fuck meets my eyes, then shrugs. "I had to promise never to spend another entire Saturday watching football with her dad."
I laugh, but Kat smacks his lips lightly with the back of her hand. "Shut-up." She bounces over into my lapânevermind my guitar or anythingâand thrusts her ring my face for inspection.
"Sparkly. Fun. Perfect. Just like you, Ballard B," I slide the guitar away and hug her. "Congratulations on your new ball and chain."
Ashlynn's face is doing weird things...rolling her eyes at me, smiling at Kat, and scrunching at Trace. Finally, she decides to direct her comments to Trace. "She's eighteen. You've only been dating ten months. You're supposed to wait at least a year before you give someone a promise ring."
"Who asked you, Miss Manners?" Trace sneers. His expression changes entirely as he pulls Kat from my lap and circles her with his arms. "And anyways, I've been waiting since the moment I found her kissing that punk Deacon behind the poolhouse and realized I never wanted her kissing anybody but me."
I awwwww and snap pictures, directing them like an obnoxious photographer as they kiss and Ashlynn giggles. Christ, I love that sound coming from her. I'd spend the rest of my life acting like a clown to keep it going.
Ashlynn pulls her hat off and rises...gracefully, but a little more slowly than usual. She pulls her sister into a long hug and I can tell by the way her shoulders draw up she's fighting tears. "Sorry, it's just a habit to give Trace a hard time. It's wonderful, Kat. A perfect way to wear his love. I'm so happy you are so happy."
Kat looks down at the ring and at Ashlynn, then at Trace. They make a beautiful trio. I snap another picture. Kat says, "There was a time I wasn't sure I could ever be happy here, with both of you, like this. I was wrong. When I put this ring on, my promise to Trace was that I've really forgiven...everything. I'm glad he fake-married you, Ashlynn. I'm glad he tried to help you and keep you safe the only way he could figure out how..."
Ashlynn cuts her off, hugging her again. They stand in silence like that for a long time, because sisters don't really need words.
Finally Ash pulls apart and takes a long cleansing breath. "Well, you know what this means. We have to celebrate your promise to each other! Let's get all dressed up and go to dinner."
Kat beams. "Yay! But wait...are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure."
She turns to me. "Think you can get us in at Redbird? Riley took Kat and I once, we love it..."
I cross my legs on the lounger. Trace and I exchange a long glance. He cracks his neck and strokes his jaw, but he gives me a shrug. I have to ask, though. "That's no problem, but...are you positive you want to go into the city tonight? Isn't your head still hurting?"
She shrugs, "A little, but it's probably hurting now because I haven't eaten in five days. I'm starving. Be prepared to shell out big bucks for multiple entrees."
"You're really sure?" I probe.
"Yeah." She leans over the lounge chair and kisses my third eye again. "Aren't you the one that said I have to fight for my life? Sometimes you have to fight your way through..."
I slip a hand along her jaw, capturing her face before she can move away. "What a fighter you are, Sunshine."
She smiles against my lips and despite the balmy LA spring, for the first time in days, I feel the Sun on my face.
A few quick smooches and the Sun is retreating as she puts on her hat and glasses for the trek out of the shade. She grabs Kat's hand. "Come on, let's go home and pick out dresses. Text us a time to be ready, boys..."
Kat is doing a little dance. "Our first public double date! I told you we were gonna slay these rock stars..."
They wander toward the house. "Take the Mercedes, the window tint is darkest on that!!!" I call, and Kat raises "deuces."
Trace follows them, probably to have a private word with Ash, to make doubly sure she's up for this, but I don't mind. I realize now, every person that truly loves herâcares about her welfare, wants to protect herâ is fine with me. Trace is definitely in that category.
He returns with two Corona's, complete with limes, handing me one and clinking his bottle to mine. "Good job, brother. That was a quick recovery. How the fuck did you do it?"
I push the lime down in my beer and sip. "Yoga, mostly, I guess. But she did it. I just helped her keep her balance."
Trace sips quietly. "It's not just the yoga. It's the love. You two are really something special. Like powerful Universal hippy-dippy written-in-stars-shit, huh?"
I take a long draw before I answer. "I already told you I love her, man. Anyways, you're the one making promises. Why are you busting my balls?"
He gets the pissed off grin. "I'm not. I'm trying to say...seeing Ash back home, acting all uptight and stressed like she used to, and now seeing her with you, especially seeing her bouncing-back from dark days with you...I was wrong, Leed. You are exactly what she needs. I'm sorry I've acted like a douche about the whole thing. I'm just...overprotective."
I grin at him. "Well, you're a douche alright. Who gives a girl a promise ring? Either man the fuck up and go for the real bling or just let it ride until the time is right."
He flips me off. "Dude. First of all she's eighteen...it's too soon for more. Second, this forever-love shit is a head-trip. I'm tryna ease down the road, you know what I'm sayin'?"
I raise my beer. "Fair fucking point, brother. I'll drink to a slow trek down the trail."
We kill the beers and I slink to the kitchen for two more. When I get back, Trace has my guitar in hand, but to my surprise, he thrusts it at me. "What was that you were playing earlier?"
I finger the opening of December Dawn. "This? A song I wrote for Ash..."
He lights a cigarette with a swoop of zippo and gives me the chin tip. "That chorus sounded promising as fuck, play it again."
I play the slow, bittersweet verse and open up with a little energy on the chorus. Halfway through the second verse, he shakes his head and gestures for the guitar. "That's a good fucking song, but it ain't nearly as sad as you are playing it."
"Well, I was sad when I wrote. Ashlynn was pissed off at me." I retort.
"Yeah, but the lyrical idea is a fresh start, right? How do you feel about picking it up a little?" He replaces my melancholy fingering with a jaunty chorded opening. "Adding some pianoâsomething emphaticâmaybe some Beatlesque backing vocals...hey, hit the chorus here and go happier on the second verse..." he instructs me as he makes my chorus transition perfectly, after only hearing me play the song one time.
Genius bastard.
I sing as instructed and he adds some slightly psychedelic harmonizing soundsâ"aaaaaahssss" and "oooooohsss." I grin. It works. I pick up the pace on the second verse, waffling slightly to find a better melody at the new pace. Trace chimes in and suddenly it solidifies. He's fucking amazingâhow he just hears it every time.
When we finish, he restarts automatically. It's better the second time. After the third, Trace strums a hard finish and gives me The Grinâthe one he always makes for Soundcrush victories.
He hands me my guitar back and slaps me hard on the arm. "Congratulations. You just wrote an alt-rock song that people are going to play at weddings. Why the fuck don't you write more?" He's already grabbing his beer up and heading to the house. He turns around...giving me an impatient head jerk.
"Jesus, come on. We gotta get this laid down and send it to the guys so they can mess around rhythm and keys. I'll have Riley book us a day in the studio during the Grammy rehearsals. Fuck this hiatus shit, let's drop a single."
I follow him, shaking my head, marveling at how the darkest days can clear into blue skies.