Slower Page 2

  I headed west away from the tourists of Hollywood.

  The situation was a mess. If I told Jake the truth, I risked sounding ashamed of him. I also didn’t want to go down Memory Lane and give him the details of Dimitri’s and my relationship. He didn’t need any more fuel for his already hot-burning fire.

  Then there was Dimitri. There was not a doubt in my mind that he would tell his mom and/or Stella about Jake if he left Los Angeles pissed off.

  Merde, Stella. She would already be displeased by the situation; hearing the news from another source would be a slap in the face. It was pretty much the last way I’d expected the first day of Jake officially living with me to go. So much for a happy couple.

  My feet pounded the cracked and littered Hollywood pavement for forty-five hard minutes without finding a solid solution. The one thing on which I was crystal clear was that Dimitri could not be the one to tell Stella about Jake. Without even recognizing it, I had repeated the exact same sin that had torn apart her relationship with my mother. My mom had rushed into her marriage with my father—a man well below the standards of the tenacious Stella Forlini— in a place far from home.

  Keeping my ex quiet had to be priority number one. Risking my relationship with Stella was not something I was ready to do. I would ease her into the idea of Jake and deal with the rest of the shit storms as they flew into my face.

  When I got home, Richie was sitting on the couch with the remote pointed at a massive bright blue screen, but Jake was nowhere in sight.

  “Hey. Almost done here.” Richie tried a smile that read more uncomfortable than polite.

  “Where’s Jake?”

  “He left right after you did; it sounded like he was meeting Shane somewhere…” Richie shrugged and went back to thumbing the thin remote.

  Icing, meet the cake. I was finally ready to explain to Jake that I needed to buy a little time and he was with the one person who made my skin crawl.

  I swiped up the plastic bags and folded the cardboard while Richie finished. After he left, I showered, made dinner, and ate it alone. Around ten, I called Jake. But Shane, the horrible, terrible lead singer of my boyfriend’s band—who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to fuck me or my boyfriend—answered. That fucking Shane.

  “Louana, Louana, Louana. Tsk-tsk. I guess we’re not so perfect after all.”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed back the dinner crawling up for its release at the sound of his slithering voice.

  “May I speak to Jake, please?” Manners. Fucking manners.

  “Yeah… No. Jake’s decided he needs a minute before he can talk to you.”

  As my words were thrown back into my face, I identified them as Shit Storm Number One.

  “Will you please put him on?” I hated begging Shane almost as much as I hated Jake sharing our business with him.

  “I told you, he’s not ready. But thanks for the ‘please.’” That asshole was probably eating this up.

  “Do you know if he’s planning on coming home?”

  “Eventually.” There was no need to see his smug face to picture his wicked grin.

  Music played in the background, and thank Jesus it didn’t sound like a strip club.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “A lesbian bar in Echo Park.”

  “Really?”

  “No. Enjoy all your extra time to think.” He hung up.

  Holy shit, was Shane implying Jake was going to cheat on me? After one fucking day of living together and one surprise ex-boyfriend? I took out my cigarettes from their normally untouched spot in my kitchen drawer, headed out to the table where my shitty day had started, and smoked up my frustration.

  Later, as I stared at the ceiling above my bed until well after midnight, my thoughts raced and finished on every possible worst-case scenario. I heard Jake stumble in around three; his swearing and clumsiness confirmed his blood-alcohol level. But he was back. There was still some glue holding us together.

  2

  JAKE

  * * *

  I raked my fingers through my hair and closed my eyes to fully roll them. John sat with his new purple Fender on the other side of the glass. As soon as he’d hit the chord, I knew we were in trouble. And so did he. Fucking shit stirrer.

  Our bass player, Sam, sat on the black leather couch of the recording studio next to me and ran his fingers down his dark cheeks, then shook his head. We exchanged a knowing, bitter glance. I unscrewed my bottle of water and waited for the fucked-up Shane-and-John battle of egos to begin.

  It only took a second. Shane, with his buckles jangling from his black boots, marched to the console. He pressed the talk-back button and cut John off mid-strum. “Why the fuck would you play that key? You know I can’t sing it.”

  John swept away the dark hair that had fallen in his eyes and sat up straighter. He stared through the window at Shane. Finally, into the mic in front of him, he said, “Dude. Calm the fuck down. This sound is fucking so right. We can fix your vocals after.” John’s eyes darted over to our engineer, Ronnie, who lifted his hands in surrender and excused himself to the bathroom.

  But the anger show had gone from spark to fire in Shane. He spat, “Fix it in fucking post? That’s your fucking solution? Gee, thanks asshole. How the fuck am I supposed to go out and perform something every night when we’re on tour that I can’t fucking sing?” With that, he spun around to Sam and me with bulging eyes. “Little fucking help here.”

  Fuck. I hated taking sides with these two. No matter what I did, I pissed off one—who would inevitably hold it against me later. They were worse than children. Not that I had any idea what those were like. It didn’t help when John went back to playing the guitar, in a key that Shane Murphy absolutely could not sing for shit, and it echoed through the speakers of the control room. Sam stayed predictably silent, and the pressure of a successful sophomore album bubbled below the surface of all of our skin.

  But in that moment, I had to side with the singer. Not just because John had a new expensive toy and he was showing off, but also since Shane had listened to me bitch and moan about Louana’s perfect ex-boyfriend the entire previous night. And the fact that she’d avoided talking to me about it stung. Murphy and I had bellied up to a karaoke bar in Studio City, sure no one would recognize us, and he’d helped me drown my stupid sorrows. Hell, he’d even begun e-stalking Mr. Dimitri Le Clerc. Not that it had been particularly helpful when he’d said he thought Louana’s ex was hot.

  The thing was, though, he’d been there for me. He’d made me laugh, poked fun at me, and helped me forget I was a jealous idiot. So, I owed him one.

  “It’s fucked up. I agree.” I pushed into my knees, stood, and took another long pull off my water. “How are you not fucking hungover by the way?”

  Shane smirked and lifted one shoulder. “I started ordering you doubles at midnight.”

  “Aww, trying to get me drunk. You’re so sweet.” I forced a yawn and let out a cry to wake myself up. “I’ll go talk to him. Order me a pizza. I need some fucking grease in my stomach.”

  When I walked back to the control room, Shane held a dartboard and a large envelope.

  “Ha haaa!” He lifted both and shook them. “I have just what you need.”

  “Yeah, well me too. He’s changing the key.”

  “Good. Now help me hang this board somewhere.” Shane tossed the envelope onto the couch.

  Curious, I followed him to the wall where he’d positioned his new toy. “We need tools, Murphy. You can’t just find a random hook and hang a dartboard.”

  Shane looked over his shoulder, found the assistant and said, “You heard him. Get us some tools.”

  John’s new guitar part in an acceptable key played over the speakers, and my phone vibrated in my pocket.

  * * *

  Louana: You done punishing me?

  * * *

  She couldn’t be serious. Me? Punishing her? She was the one who’d fucking literally run off. She was the one wh
o never fucking talked to me.

  I plopped down on the couch and thumb-punched my reply.

  * * *

  Me: I’m giving you a taste of your own medicine. Nice, right?

  * * *

  Total dick move. Jesus, I sucked at being a boyfriend.

  * * *

  Louana: I’m sorry. He threw me for a loop, I know I handled it like shit. When can I see you?

  * * *

  Me: You know where I am.

  * * *

  The high pitches of a power drill spun behind me. Pizza would never be enough for this hangover; I needed a bottle of aspirin and my bed. My sacred place, where my life slowed down and somehow my girlfriend patched up my crazy.

  “Close your eyes,” Shane said, once all the noise had gracefully stopped.

  I arched an eyebrow. Twelve years in bands told me never to close my eyes when asked. You could end up with anything from a bag of dogshit in your lap to an STD. I was no sucker.

  I closed one eye and peered at him with the other.

  “Fine. Don’t.” He grabbed the envelope off the couch and pulled out a large poster. With the front hidden, he walked over to the dartboard and pinned it. When he stepped to the side, the face on the poster was revealed to be none other than the ex/soccer-playing douche’s.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Sam asked as he tilted to get a better look from the couch.

  “Dimitri Le Clerc,” Shane said in an accent that would have made Louana’s skin crawl. “Louana’s ex and feeder of Jealous Jake. We’re gonna dart-voodoo his fucking gorgeous face.” Shane beamed and kissed the poster. I had to admit I liked my bandmate just a little bit more. He pulled three darts out of the box the board had come in and handed them to me. “You first.”

  “With fucking pleasure.” I snatched the darts and hopped up.

  “Hold up,” Sam said. “We need a line.” He shot up off the couch, grabbed the masking tape from the console, and walked five long paces from douche-hole’s face to me. He bent down, taped a line on the wood floor in front of my foot, and looked up. “All set. You may now commence voodoo face-fucking.”

  Shane and Sam sat on the back of the couch with their arms crossed, ready to witness the first throw, practically rubbing their hands together with greed and excitement.

  With a faint smile on my lips, I lined up the dart, squinted and threw that fucker right into Dimitri Le Clerc’s forehead.

  “Ooooo!” my fan club cooed, and their shoulders scrunched in unison.

  “Murphy.” I turned to Shane. “I love you, man. This is much more civilized than beating the shit out of that French fuck.”

  “Yeah, well, remember that the next time fucko wants to write a song in a key I can’t sing.” Shane threw a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Deal.”

  As John shredded his guitar behind us, we shredded Dimitri’s face until there were only holes and strips of paper. After dinner, Shane ripped off the remaining bits of poster and declared he needed to take a shit.

  He walked away and there was zero doubt in my mind what he was going to do with that poster. My phone went off and interrupted my bliss.

  * * *

  Louana: I’m outside. Do you want me to come in?

  * * *

  I rubbed the back of my neck. The fun of the afternoon and evening hadn’t taken any of my real problems away, only lulled me into temporary memory loss. I told Sam I’d be back in twenty and went out to the parking lot.

  I climbed into Louana’s tiny car, and for the first time in our relationship, I hesitated to kiss her hello. Fuck, I was really punishing her.

  She shifted in her seat to face me and reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t know he would come. I swear.”

  My eyes finally met hers, and while I hated seeing her hurt, I hadn’t quite gotten the apology I’d been looking for. “That’s all you have to say? That you didn’t know he was coming?”

  “Well, no. We also need to talk about your jealousy. You have got to trust me.”

  “Whoa. Just … fucking whoa.” I pulled my hand from hers and swiveled to the driver’s side. “How about, you have got to fucking talk to me?” I glared out the window, then back at her. “First you go fucking mute for two weeks and tell me nothing. Not one fucking thing. Then you literally run off the minute another problem comes up. What the fuck am I supposed to think?”

  I knew raising my voice wasn’t helping, and the proof slid down her face in a single tear. What the fuck was wrong with me? I didn’t want the woman of my dreams crying.

  “I’m sorry. I know I don’t handle things well.” She bent her head, fiddling with her thin bracelet, and then looked back to me. “I don’t know how. My mom hates conflict and well, I just kinda accepted the terms of”—she cleared her throat— “my previous relationship without ever speaking up. For fear of losing him.”

  I let her words settle. She was here. We were talking. That was what I wanted. I softened my tone. “Well, it’s the opposite with me. I need to talk when shit isn’t right.”

  “Okay.” Her lips pressed together before she added, “Then can we please talk about your jealousy?”

  I sighed.

  Her brown eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flexed. “I watch you get hit on and pawed at by countless women all the fucking time and I don’t say anything.”

  True. Absolutely true. But not applicable. “That’s completely different. I didn’t have a relationship with any of those women.”

  Like a fan and an ex-boyfriend were the same thing.

  “You know, my relationship with him is the reason I can deal with it.” Her index finger made a loop. “All the shit around you.”

  She had to be kidding me. The only thing that fucker had prepared Louana to do was to run away. She’d moved halfway across the planet to get away from him. That had to count for something.

  “I don’t know what you mean but I’m not him. We’re”—I motioned back and forth between us—“not you and him.”

  Her jaw moved from side to side and she blinked hard. “Why would you tell our problems to Shane? I thought you said you were trying to keep your personal life out of the band.”

  “Don’t change the subject. This boils down to you not talking to me. It’s a pattern and it needs to stop.”

  A lock of brown hair brushed her shoulder as she shook her head. “Not just that. This also has to do with who you become when you’re jealous. Which is unjustified and childish.”

  I grumbled. My girlfriend made me fucking grumble like an old cranky ass man. She had a point, no matter how much I wanted to pin this whole thing on her.

  “And you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to turn our conversations into a one-way street. If you really want me to talk to you, you have to cut me a little slack. And you have to work on the ugly, brooding beast inside you.”

  Ugly, brooding beast? I had a feeling she’d been saving that insult for the right moment. I checked my watch. Fuck.

  “I need to go back in.” I reached for the handle. Sam didn’t have the backbone to manage John and Shane. They were basically unsupervised and had a special talent for fighting only to see if Sam would ever speak up. Which he wouldn’t.

  Louana grabbed my forearm and stopped me from getting out. “What happens now? I don’t want to stay mad.”

  “I don’t want to stay mad either…” My head dropped back and hit the seat behind me.

  “Can we please call a truce?”

  I rolled my neck in her direction. “Are you gonna see him again?”

  “I have to.”

  “Bullshit.” I pulled my arm way and got out of the car then turned around and stomped inside. A huge pile of fucking bullshit. Where was the woman who would hang up on me when she was pissed off? What kind of voodoo power did that assclown have over my girlfriend?

  When I got to the studio, my bandmates were grouped around the couch and our engineer was editing on the computer. “I need thirty minutes on the drums.”


  I banged out as much of my anger as I could and finished the day with The Spades.

  I wouldn’t justify Louana’s avoidance behavior, so, at mid-night, I went home. I didn’t know a lot about relationships. Okay, I knew nothing about relationships. But I did know I loved her. And she loved me.

  I found my way to my side of the bed, and instead of tucking her up into my stomach, I stayed on my back. I didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. Not the studio spats, not the stress of a second album, and certainly not Louana’s ex-boyfriend sleeping in a not-so-far-away hotel room. But most of all, that I was pushing her away when all I wanted was to pull her in.

  Louana turned on her side, bumped my arm out of the way with her head and gave a soft kiss to my chest. “I love you,” she whispered, as more as a confession than a declaration. “I won’t run away again. I promise.”

  The lavender scent of her lotion brought me home to her and I closed my eyes. We could do this. We were just learning. Maybe we had rushed into a relationship. But this was surely just a speed bump, a signal to slow down.

  “I love you too, baby.”

  I kissed the top of her head and she flipped to face the other way. She reached for my hand and brought it to her stomach. Without giving it too much thought, I interlaced my fingers with hers and hugged her tight.

  Speed bump, I told myself again. She wiggled into me and I held on to the moment. This was what I needed. This was what we were about. Quiet intimacy. Just us.

  3

  LOUANA

  * * *