Chapter 67: Bad Girls Leave You Three Inches Shorter

Mac

I sing the last note, wait for the record light to go off, slide the headphones down around my neck, and wait for direction.

No one even acknowledges me, except the sound engineer giving me the thumbs up that the take was clean. The control booth is full of people no one bothered to introduce me to—D-Thrill's posse, I guess. All smoking weed and laughing. Not unusual...not like the guys and I haven't partied in the control room after the tracks were down for the day, but it's not even noon and that was my first take.

It's only a four line hook, not that big of a deal, and I nailed it technically, so I guess no one is stressin' this. I could do it all kinds of ways—but I have no idea what D-Thrills and his producer are really looking for in my performance. I've only heard the rap three times and all I had to go on for the hook was a hastily played melody and D-Thrills', vague encouragement. "Something like that, ya know? Old school. Bring your bad-ass vibe."

"Guys?" I ask pleasantly in my mic, and D-Thrills' producer gives me a hazy leer  gesturing to D.  I can't hear their conversation. I probably don't want to, if I want to keep my cool.

Finally, D-Thrills leans down to and flips on the mic. "That's ghouda, Baby. Let's try a few things, though. Can you do it again but sound like Camila?"

I go again, dialing back the funk and bringing the sex-kitten. Then they tell me do it like Lourdes, and I go for intensity. Then Katy—sunny and whimsical—then Lily Allen—understated and bitchy—then Sia—all out club style. The whole time, my new "team" stands in a corner and watches me with hawk eyes.

I'm not sure I like my team...I feel like they see nothing but my abdomen, and they are really giving me a complex. I still felt sexy until one of the video guys suggested that we could always go high-tech and digitize me some abs for close ups while using a body double for wide dance shots. I'm trying not to constantly check my reflection in the sound booth glass.

After my Gaga, Bebe, and Halsey approximations, I claim a break for myself. D-Thrills throws an arm around me when I enter the control room and offers me his blunt. I just laugh and slide out of his grasp.

"Bad for the cords," I remind him, sliding my hand down my throat. "I'm not done."

"You right," he croaks out, as he exhales. He pursues another grasp, sliding a hand around my waist, his fingers splaying across my hip and toward my lower belly. "'Preciate you keeping it tight, Shawty."

It takes everything in me not to shudder. I don't know if it's the way he's touching us—both me and Babycakes—or if it's the way he's claiming the name Adam always calls me, but I have a strong desire to elbow him in the face.

I don't. He's really not that bad, not any worse than most guys in the game. It's me that's changed. I don't want to play anymore. I want my husband here. I want him not to be two thousand miles away, angry with me and trying like hell not to be. I wonder if it's just for the sake of Babycakes that he's trying to calm his anger. I'm not sure.

Our goodbyes after the show were very strained. He said nice things—that he understood why it needed to be this way, that he would respect my decision without fighting me on it— but I could feel the hurt and anger he was trying desperately to keep closeted inside. The two conversations I've had with him today have been no better—short, and distracted. He's asked me only if I got any rest, if I've eaten, if Dawes is treating me right, only the practical stuff. I assured him everything was okay, and then there was nothing but silence after, until I asked him how things were going with Arabella.

He and Bodie and Arabella are riding on one of the crew buses. He had the crew set up two synthesizers for her. Bodie has a couple of drums and Adam has his base and they are pre-rehearsing to make sure she can actually swing subbing for me. To Adam's tremendous surprise and relief, she's a good keyboardist and she already had a grasp on the songs, so he thinks it will be okay, although she seems less interested in improvising than flirting with Bodie.

"I guess we'll cut the jams short, until I get her with the program," he sighed.

"Hmmm, Trace will not be happy," I murmured

"He'll deal. Don't they say that a successful compromise means nobody is happy with the outcome?"

His bitter tone reminded me a little of twenty-one year old Adam, the boy that used to slam doors and snipe at me on our first tour when I refused to sleep over in his suite, but the call ended softer, with a murmured 'love you.' I noted the lack of the word 'I' in front of it. I don't know why it felt different, but it did.

I pull away from D-Thrills again, with the excuse of seeking a drink. A quick gesture to my throat is all it takes to have Dawes snapping his fingers at my new PA, Kelsey, bitching at her for not anticipating my needs. She tosses down her Ipad and phone where she's busy putting together my schedule and taking care of some small tasks I set her—getting in touch with Sawyer and getting food stocked at Leed's house— and scrambles out to the kitchen area for my herbal tea.

"Be nice to her, it's her first day," I admonish him.

"I don't know why you hired that girl Riley sent," he grumbles. "The guy I brought you—"

"You mean the one that stared at my tits half of the interview? He would only get under Adam's skin, and you knew it," I snap back. "Dawes, I trust you to keep me safe, and I trust you to do right by my career, but don't fuck with me and Adam, do you understand?"

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Speaking of fuckery, I'm shit-over this session already. If these guys want Halsey or Bebe or Camila, they should go out and get Halsey, Bebe or Camila," he growls low in my ear. "This doesn't serve you, we have your own EP to think about. Your style is unique. You're going to be the biggest Dark Alt-Pop Queen that's ever been. They need to respect that."

I sigh. "What do you want to do about it? Moran says get the features done."

Dawes watches D-Thrills and his producer, speculating. "I'll be back," he says abruptly. "John, you have the asset, don't let anybody break her," he nods at my security guy as he stalks out. I pick up my phone and shoot a text at his retreating back, because I'm not going to yell at my "manager" in front of D-Thrill's team, but he pisses me off, how he goes from paying me a compliment one second to demeaning me the next:

Fuck you, Dawes. I am not a thing.

He shoots back: Why don't you just be a good girl and stop mouthing off? It's bad enough I have Adam riding my ass every five minutes.

I blink. I didn't know that—that Adam was communicating with Dawes. I wish he wouldn't. Nothing good can come of them trying to deal with one another. They hate each other. I briefly consider shooting a text to Adam to tell him just that, but we are tense, and I don't want him to take it the wrong way—like I am shutting him out of my solo career.

I want him to be a part of it. Hell, I want to record the song he wrote for me. I'd even want him to produce my songs, but I've been "assigned" a producer that I would be a fool to turn down—Kaspar, the world's premier dj-turned-dance music-producer. Everything he touches is gold, and I'm actually unbelievably honored that he wants to work with me. It's not an opportunity I can turn down. There will be a lifetime for Adam and I to make music together—Kaspar is probably a one-shot deal.

My ten-minute requested break turns into an half hour bullshit session. I wouldn't mind—I'm not paying the studio bill—except I know I have a another studio session tonight with the Grayson Puckett—whose is stepping out on Broken Spoke for a solo album.

When Moran told me I have to work with Puckett on the plane last night, I nearly lost my shit. I was barely able to keep it together, because he's the jerk who made me the Unsuspecting Other Woman by cheating on his wife with me, when I young and "innocent" in my early LA days.

With as much self-respect as possible, I explained to Moran that I'd really prefer not to feature with him, and I told him why—that I'd had a brief fling with Grayson about two years ago, and Grayson had misrepresented himself as single. Moran rubbed his face with the long-suffering exasperation of a man who'd heard it all before and told me although he sympathized, that it was just one of those things in the business.

"I need you to be professional, MacKenna," he'd said. "If you do the hard things now, it will all pay off in the long run for your career, and I will be there for you one-hundred percent when you are the one with the star power. There will come a day when no one—including me—asks you to do things you don't like doing. Today is not that day."

Which was code for, You are in no position to ask for favors. Knocked-up is a big fuck-up right now, Sweetheart.

So I nodded, and consoled myself with the fact that I am saving me and the guys from a huge hassle with the promoters and our finances, and restoring goodwill with our label at the same time. I can swallow down my pride for Soundcrush.

I haven't told Adam I'm putting out a feature with one of my ex-lovers. Our Rules of Engagement with ex-lovers don't exactly prohibit that, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to go over well. If the song hits, it will mean I will be tied to Grayson forever, musically, and make it much more likely that our indiscretion will come to light at some point.

I'm back in the booth, three more takes in, when Dawes comes back. To my surprise, Dev Blu sways in, swaggering in an oversized leather jacked and jeans bunched up around his thousand dollars sneakers. Shit, he must be recording here right now. He nods at me, then he's dabbing up D-Thrills and his crew.

They all gesture to me, and D-Thrills is eye-fucking me as he talks. Dev gives whatever he's saying a disdainful eyebrow and a grimace. When the take is finished, Dev switches on the mic.

"'Allo love," Dev bobs his head at me and his blue-tipped spikes shake. "Thrown me over for my boy D, have you?"

I shrug and smirk. "I've been a bad girl. I'm in trouble with the label, so now I have to go where they tell me."

"Funny, that. I just talked to Moran, and told him no one but you would do for the song I'm laying down right this very minute, in the booth next door. Told him I've been trying to get you in my mix for six months. That demo I sent you...remember? He agreed, if you are willing..."

I'm sure Moran agreed, period. Whether I'm willing or not. It's Dev that's giving me the option, not Moran.

I consider. Am I willing? It's true that Dev gave me a panic attack the first time I met him, but looking at him standing next to D-Thrills, I'm suddenly not bothered by Dev at all. He seems like a lesser of two evils, for sure.

"I remember. It's a great track," I affirm. "Well, now that the label has made the time for me, I'm happy to help you out," I tell him.

Dev is truly handsome when he smiles sincerely. He gives a little bow of thanks.

"Come along, then. We'll set my booth on fire right now. I told D he has had more than his share of your time and talent."

D-Thrills leans down. "Yeeeaaaah...and I told Blu that I don't mind sharing my Thottie, but he's gotta wait his turn."

Thottie? Fuck it. I'm done playing nice with this motherfucker.

I bite my lip and cock my head at D-Thrills, throwing a hip out. That's all it takes to get his eyes stuck on me with rapt attention. "Call me that again, D, and I will get you so fucked up that you forget you never, ever, ever want to let me anywhere near your dick," I say sweetly.

D-Thrills grins at the mention of his dick, but he looks a little confused. "Naw, Shawty, I'm sure that ain't right. You could get all over my dick and I wouldn't mind." All the guys laugh, and Dev squints a little, wondering where I'm going with this.

"You're so wrong, player. Cause I ain't your Thottie, or your Shawty. I gotta man." I hold up my heavily weighted left hand. "And if you ever call me either one of those things again I promise you, I will take a big bloody bite out of you. I will leave you three inches shorter, ya feel me?"

D drops his grin as his crew double over in laughter and slap at each other. Dev tucks back his smile. "I heard they call you the Maneater, Ms. Lawson. The reputation is well deserved, I think."

I shrug, preparing to put my headphones back on. Dawes holds up a hand and gives me an imperceptible shake of the head. Dev winks at me and turns to D-Thrills, leaving the mic on. "Seriously, D, why don't you snuff this spliff and come over to my booth? Let me borrow Mac for half an hour while you guys check my chronic and my rhyme. Then the Maneater can come back and finish you off."

"Yeah, alright," D agrees easily, eager to get his boys off laughing at the way I busted his balls and onto Dev's apparently superior stash.

It takes a bit longer than half an hour, because Dev doesn't have the feature written, just a single line of melody in mind, and some scraps of lyrics. "I've been waiting for you to change your mind, hoping you'd come up with something special," he tells me, without the slightest bit of flirtation. The song is a typical rap song...a little about his rep, a little bit about his father's castle—his literal castle—about Dev's aristocratic upbringing and his servant class mother and his rap rebellion.

And then there's the girl. Isn't there always?

While D-Thrills and crew bake on the couch, I listen to the lines about his muse, whom he never names but describes as: high-born fuck-lorn tiara-dispaira/flying in my bed/lying in her head/rich girl/switch girl/bitch girl/make-me-want-what-I-can-never-hitch-girl/my never queen/my severed dream.

"Some Duke's daughter steal your heart?" I ask.

"She might have, but I'm a fucking fortress," he says with a dark smile, and he's not kidding. "Never let her breach the gate. No point really. Her daddy wasn't the type to let her slum for more than a season, and she wasn't the type to rebel for real," he says with a wink. "She married a Marquess's son this summer. Lovely affair," he says. "I got fucked up and made a goddamn huge spectacle. You didn't see in the tabloids back in June, a bit before I met you?"

"Sorry, I was busy getting knocked up right about then," I laugh. He raises his eyebrows.

"So those rumors are true."

"They are not officially true until I can't conceal it anymore, but since we are friends, I'm just letting you know..." Code for: I'm really married. And really pregnant. Don't hit on me if we want to stay cool. Dev nods, as if he reads the between the lines.

"I feel ya, Love," he smiles.

"And I feel you. About keeping your shit on lock-down. Or I did. Until I realized surrendering the fortress was my victory," I smile at him and flash my ring.

"Surrender...victory...there might be something there...for the hook..." he looks into the distance and then at his scraps. Suddenly he blinks. "Fuck me, where are my manners," he says, taking my hand, inspecting the ring. "That's quite impressive, and I've seen a lot of bling on the hands of Duchesses and Countesses," he smiles. "Sincerest congratulations. On the marriage and the baby. Hope it's a boy. Heartley deserves to pass that punch on to a son." He rubs his cheekbone in reference to the suckerpunch he got when Adam thought he was defending me from Dev's unwelcome advances.

We write the hook from his Tiara-Despaira's perspective, if she had been his real deal. I wonder if she would have defied her high-born traditions if Dev could have opened up to her. I think of what it must have been like for Adam to be with me, when I could only give him my body and not my heart. Most of the words are mine:

It's not the come

that keeps me coming back,

It's the beat behind your walls

My low, My lord, My leap

I'll rage for you

Crusade for you

To throw your shade

And ride your pride

I'm not retreating

Hear your heart beating

I'm the siege you'll never weather

I'm the victory in your hall

Baby take me make me

Queen of your rising fall

I fill in the melody, but it's not quite right until he schools me a little with a better rhythm, speeding the words a little faster in places than I would naturally sing a little slower. Then we slow the lines my low, my lord, my leap to give them the space for some effect mixing and ten seconds after I've sung the whole hook through twice to his satisfaction, he's pushing me into the booth and I'm losing myself in his rhyme, feeling the his conflict, his shame, his broken pride. I let loose with my own power and conviction that he will not always feel so low.

He was right...the whole damn track catches fire—in my heart that breaks a little for him, and in my soul that wants to sing a kindred self-doubting spirit into softer strength.

When I open my eyes after the last note, Dawes, D-Thrills, and his producer are all on their feet, staring at me through the glass.

Dev is grinning like the the goddamn devil on hot summer night. "Motherfucking brilliant, love. One fucking take and done!" He punches the air and tags D-Thrills on the shoulder. "That's what you want, D. You want MacKenna fucking Lawson feeling you."

"Yeah, yeah," D says earnestly, nodding his head and rocking two hooked fingers at me. "Do my track like that, Baby. I mean, without the kings and castles and shit."

Dawes is nodding at me with a smile like I've never seen on his face. Then he corrects it and says. "Well don't just fucking stand there, MacKenna. Get your ass back to Dillinger's booth. We've got Puckett at 7 and I promised your fucking husband to shove some food down your throat before then."

——————————————

It's midnight when John carries my bags into Leed's house and Sawyer twists to look at me from where he's watching TV on the couch. Kelsey will not be a live-in PA, but I don't need her to be, since Sawyer is here house-sitting while Leed is on tour. He gives me a grin and shuffles forward to hug me but I put up a hand as my phone rings. It's Adam. We've been missing each other all evening, and I'm eager to here how the show went.

"Hey Baby," I say a smile coming unbidden to my lips. "God, I miss you. How was the show?"

"It was fine," Adam says a little too evenly. His words are marred by loud music pumping in the background.

"Leed having an afterparty?" I ask with a frown.

"Naw. At some fucking...fuck...dunno. Some bar. Or frat hall. Or house party. Fucking dive is all I know." he laughs, and I realize he's very drunk. I hear a girl's peeling giggles and Bodie yelling, "Three more! Three more! One for the back, one for the belly, one for the boobs!" and Adam swearing. "Christ, fuck no! Put your goddamn shirt back on, girl!"

"Adam, what the fuck?" I yell, dropping my bag on the floor. "Are you doing body shots off fangirls!?!?!"

Silence, from Adam. For a beat all I can hear is the shouting and then in the background. Then, "Of course not," he hisses. Then, apparently not to me. "Bodie, fucking chill, man. This is a public place, even if it is a goddamn rathole. This is not your damn hotel room. Bells, Jesus, girl, c'mon. You're killing me. I told your Uncle I'd look out for you."

Okay, now I get it. Bells is a handful, Bodie is wide-open, and Adam is babysitting them both at a bar somewhere. But I'm tired and hungry and my throat hurts and all I wanted in the world was to crawl into bed and have a quiet conversation with Adam, so I'm less than happy about it.

"Adam," I say, and when he doesn't answer I say his name again.

"Hold on," he snaps at me. I hear him making blustery sounds while he's moving around and muttering incomprehensibly. He's drunk. Really drunk.

"I'm going out back," he says to someone. "Do something with them."

I hear a harsh laugh I identify as Trace's and a labored moan of protest that belongs to Leed.

"You are all out at a bar?" I say in surprise.

"Yeah," Adam replies and suddenly the background is silenced and I know he's gone outside to a quieter area. "Well, no. We were at a bar. It's four am here. Bars closed."

"So where are you?" I ask.

"Fuck if I know. They said it was a private club, but it's really more like a frat house," he laughs. "Fucking boonies. Where the fuck are we, anyway? West Virginia?"

"Pennsylvania," I remind him. "Why are you guys still raising hell at 4am?"

"Fuck if I know," he grumbles. "Cause we can, I guess. Cause you aren't here."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I nearly screech. "That I'm holding you guys back from your party?"

"That's not what I meant," he growls. "You think I wouldn't rather be in bed with you right now? Fuck, this is...fucking fucked!" he complains.

I sigh. Like most alpha-males, Adam's vocabulary narrows considerably when drunk and angry.

"Adam, are you okay? Like, you aren't somewhere where you're going to get robbed, are you? You have security with you?"

He sighs. "Yeah, yeah. It's fine. Just a bunch of college kids. It's bullshit, but it's fine. Was okay, til a couple of hours ago. Now I'm just...fucking over it. Guys just thought...long time since it was just us guys. Trace's idea to cut loose, you know. Forget our worries..."

That stings. I guess that's how they all view me. One of their "worries" that they need to cut loose, unburden themselves from. Without even thinking, suddenly I'm spewing venom. "Except it's not just you guys. Sounds like you are all passing Bells around, doing body shots off her like she's your number one fangirl!"

"Jesus," Adam groans. "Shortcake, you know that's not what's happening here. She's all about Bodie, and apparently Bodie is all about her. Don't know how fake this thing is really going to be. Leed and Trace are trying to drink each other under the table, having some kind of heart to heart about how good Ashlynn is doing, how to get her and Kat talking again, and I'm trying to keep Arabella's clothes on. By force of threat. Not by touching her," he adds, his thoughts a little disconnected.

I breathe in and out. I know without a doubt that Adam is telling me the truth. I trust him. It's just...I feel left out. Even though the guys and I are together all the time, the last time we went out as a group was New Orleans—three months ago at the start of the tour, and that got all kinds of fucked up. Adam and I being together, and me hiding my pregnancy has changed our group dynamic. Adam and I were holding onto our secret so tight that we shut the guys out. Now the truth is out, and the guys are trying to come back together—without me.

I have a gut-sinking feeling that this is what it's going to be like from now on. Me, on the sidelines, a world away—in LaLa Land, in my Solo Artist world or in Babyland—it doesn't matter. What matters is that they guys of Soundcrush will still be the guys. We almost crashed and burned without Trace the week he was off-tour, but apparently they've replaced me with Arabella without missing a beat. Fuck, the didn't just keep the beat—they picked up the pace.

Tears are burning the back of my throat. "Okay, so I'm really tired. So..."

Adam groans. "Mac. Please, baby, don't. I get it. You're there alone and we are all here...and fucking Arabella...I get it. But please don't. Don't shut me out. Tell me about your day. How did the studio sessions go?"

"Fine," I let out a breathe, fighting to do better than that. "Actually, pretty good. Things didn't start out great with D-Thrills. They didn't really have in confidence in my sound, or brand or whatever. But it turned out Dev Blu was laying down a track there too, so Dawes and Moran worked that up with a handshake deal. I actually wrote the hook with Dev and I think it turned out really well...after that D-Thrills and his producer were more open to my style."

"D-Thrills wasn't feeling you and Dev Blu just happened to be there and smoothed it all over? With a handshake deal? Really?" Adam's tone is hateful. "I'd bet my fucking bank account that was no accident, Mac. Dawes is such a fucking manipulator," he hisses.

"I don't really think so, Adam," I frown. "Not this time, anyway. You weren't there. It just...worked out that way. And I'm actually kind of glad it did. I was right, thinking Dev and I could collaborate. The track turned out really well. I think it will probably be a hit."

"So the label is gonna promote it as a single? Videos, live performances?"

"Not sure yet. But I kinda hope so," I concede.

"That's not good, Mac. I don't like the idea of you with that fucker on a frequent basis," Adam warns, alcohol blunting his speech.

"He's not a fucker," I sigh. "He's decent."

"Anybody that gives you a panic attack just from being in his presence is a fucker to me," Adam retorts.

"Well he doesn't trigger me now that I've gotten to know him. I like him, so get over it," I snap. "He's ten times better than fucking Grayson Puckett."

"Grayson Puckett," Adam repeats, and I regret what I said immediately. "What the fuck? You see him today?"

I'm cursing myself in my head. "Mac!" Adam says sharply. "What the fuck happened with Grayson Puckett? You run into him somewhere? That fucking prick say something to you?"

"Okay, don't freak," I begin, "I handled it..."

"Tell me," Adam growls.

"He copped a feel and I popped him in the nose. Not hard. Just shocked the shit out of him and he bled a little. He actually laughed about it, and he apologized, and we are cool. I mean not cool, I still think he's a lying cheating piece of shit, but he's not going to say anything to label about me hitting him..."

"He fucking touched you!?!?! Where?"

"Down there," I admit and Adam lets loose a tirade of fucks, peppered with a few threats to Grayson.

"Adam, calm down. I handled it."

"Why did you have to handle it? Where the fuck was John, that Grayson Puckett got close enough to you to touch you any fucking where, much less crotch grab you?"

"Well..." there's no way around telling him. "We were in the booth together. So obviously John was not there."

"In.The.Booth." Adam repeats, each word punctuated with anger. "In the fucking booth? You are featuring for Grayson fucking Puckett? You've got to be fucking kidding."

"Adam, I tried to get out of it," I tell him. "I even told Moran why I didn't want to. He told me to suck it up. In the nicest fucking way possible, of course. I didn't have a choice."

"You always have a choice, MacKenna," Adam says coldly. "You could have refused."

"I guess I could have," I shoot back. "But I'm trying to make this shit work."

"Really? Doesn't feel like it." He means us, not the label shit

"That's not fair," I whisper. "And not true."

"I know. Fuck. Sorry. I know that's not true," he huffs, like he's collapsing into a chair. I try to picture where he might be, and I hate that I don't know.

We collapse into silence, not sure where to go from here.

Sawyer has been skulking around in the kitchen and he comes to the door as I lapse into silence on my phone call with Adam. Going to bed, he mouthes. You need anything?

"No, I'm good," I mutter to Sawyer, and he nods and strolls back to his room as I sink onto the couch.

"Who were you talking to? Your new PA? What's her name? Kelly? How is she?" Adam asks wearily, trying to redirect to some normalcy.

Fuck, I've stepped on another land mine named Sawyer. "Kelsey. She's nice. Energetic. Competent. But no," I sigh. "She's not here. She has a little girl. Her husband works from home so she is flexible, but I told her she could work mostly straight hours, unless I need her for a late night appearance or travel. So that was Sawyer, I was talking to."

"Sawyer," Adam's tone is almost blank. "You mean..." he makes a sound of exasperation. "You're at Leed's." He laughs. "You're still at Leed's. Of course. With your ex." More laughter, but it doesn't sound happy at all.

"Sawyer is not my ex. We were never together together, you know that."

"Anybody you've fucked is an ex, Sweetheart. I guess we should have put not making music and not living with our exes in the rules. I kind of thought those things went without saying, but I forget you don't know right from wrong."

Adam's venom takes my breath. He hasn't spoken to me with that much spite in years. When I find my voice again, I whisper, "Don't fucking talk to me like that, Adam. That is over the line."

He grunts, frustrated, in pain. "I'm sorry, I'm just...I'm really fucking...I'm blown away right now. Why the hell are you still at Leed's with Sawyer?"

"I'm not here with Sawyer, Adam. It's where I live. It's where he works. That's how it is."

"That's exactly my point! You don't live there anymore! I get why you stayed there when you got home late last night. But we are married. We have a home that you agreed to live in months ago. Why aren't you there?"

"All my stuff is here." It sounds lame even to me, and Adam counters it immediately.

"And you have a stylist and apparently two PA's at your disposal. You're telling me they couldn't have packed you a few bags today? Seems like maybe that would have been priority."

"I...I...fuck, honestly Adam I didn't even think about it." That's a lie. I did think about it. But I'm on edge, and I wanted to be here. In my own room. In my space. Not in Adam's house that doesn't feel like my home yet. And I think my husband—my understanding, loving, patient, and generous husband—would understand that change is hard for me, because of my PTSD.

But my husband isn't on this phone. This is the angry, drunk, punk rock star that I knew two years ago, that bristled like a porcupine and threw his quills at every offense.

"Bullshit, Shortcake. If you are at Leed's, you are exactly where you want to be," he says flatly. A cacophony of sound bursts through the line, like someone has reopened the door to the party.

"Get your drunk ass up," Trace says jovially. "Car's here. We're going. Good night, Macaroni!" He shouts and the door bangs shut, silence again.

"Go," I whisper. "Just go. You're drunk. I'm exhausted. This is all fucked up. We aren't making it better tonight."

"Yeah," Adam says grimly. Then wearily, as if it's a burden already to even say the words, he says. "I'm sorry. Maybe you're right. Maybe this is all because...I'm drunk, and I'm not happy with the way things are, and I'm taking it out on you. I don't want to be angry at you, Mac. I really don't. But I guess I am. You chose all this...and I didn't get a say."

"I know. I'm sorry, too," I choke.

"Okay," he sighs. "So, let's just call it a night. Try to love each other better tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay," I agree.

"Love you." Adam's words are flat.

"Love you, too," I whisper back.

The line goes dead.

________________________

Two weeks later, Adam and I are still having the same fight. Maybe it's partly because of the sudden increase in the SCIC partying, thanks to the influence of Arabella fucking Burns. Or maybe it's because I am jealous of their renewed enthusiasm for the old party days, and I'm feeling abandoned by Leed, Trace and Bodie, none of whom have even bothered to keep in touch with me beyond an occasional text or picture. Of the partying.

The fights are always the same. They start with Adam's general pissy attitude. Babysitting Arabella and Bodie seems to have cemented it as his baseline mood. Before the fight is over we will have covered Dawes' manipulations, the video and appearance tapings that keep putting me together with Dev and Grayson, Sawyer's continued daily presence in my life, and my flat-out refusal to move into Adam's house. At this point, it's probably spite keeping me from moving in. But Adam pisses me off nearly every day, so why would I want to cry myself to sleep in his goddamn house?

Nearly every phone call ends in my tear-soaked frustrated cursing at him, telling him to get his shit together, stop getting fucked up and calling me just to disrespect me. Followed by Adam's strangled, frustrated, swearing apologies, that he doesn't want to fight like this anymore, his promise that he's trying to work through his temper and his anger.

Every call ends with the wooden and weary "love you's."

Never have two words that are supposed to be sweet felt so terrible.