He stares at me intently. “Who’s your informer?
“I don’t need an informer. I can see the bulge in your pants.”
A slow, sensual smile slips across his mouth. “How do you know it’s not just my dick?”
I laugh in spite of myself. “Oh, you mean … is that a bag of pot in your pants or are you just glad to see me?”
His sexy look turns into a straight-up grin. “Something like that.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to damage your man-ego, but I’ve been around the block a few times. I know the difference between a bag of weed and a cock.” The c-word flies out of my mouth before I can reel it back in.
He nods, the sneaky smile back. “Cock, huh? Dirty girl. Dirty, dirty girl.” He reaches slowly into his pocket and I hold my breath, almost thinking for a second he’s going to show me it isn’t weed in his pants. But then some plastic comes out and the brownish green stuff inside it becomes visible, and I let my breath go.
“What? You thought I was going to show you the money?” he asks, chuckling at his own joke.
“Yeah, right.” I play it off, grabbing the bag from his hand. “Go eat, would ya? You’re too skinny.”
He runs his hands from his chest down to his abs, watching them go down. He looks over at me when he’s got his hands on his pelvis. “What? You don’t go for the emaciated rocker look?”
I shake my head. “No. I go for the healthy artist look, personally. But I guess since you got Jelly knocked up, it doesn’t matter what I like, right?”
I want to slap my own face for saying it. I don’t know what possessed me to take the fun we were having and throw it into the shredder like that. Maybe he was getting too close, or maybe I was getting too close to him. Either way, I did it and I don’t want to take it back. I cannot afford to let anything happen between us, and neither can he, whether he knows it or not.
His face drops. As he walks away, his head hanging low, I hear his mumbled reaction. “Fuck you.”
Hearing it brings the sensation of being stabbed in the heart with a very sharp and painful weapon.
Chapter Eleven
DURING DINNER I GATHER TARIN’S inner circle around me, now focused on talking strategy. Scott’s at my right taking notes. There are nine friends at the table with Scott and I making eleven. Jelly’s in the house being tended to by a housekeeper of sorts.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us to discuss our plans for the next thirty days.” Almost everyone nods, but not Tarin. He’s looking a little too shell-shocked to be able to contribute much. I don’t mind; it’s the people who care about him who will be the most help to us right now.
“First of all, I just want to give you a quick overview of what we’re doing. Number one is healthy living. Tarin’s going to be on a strict diet and exercise program. Any of you are welcome to join us, and some of you I will expect to be there.” I look at the bodyguards. “Zach and Leonard, you two need to be involved since some of this stuff will be happening in public and Tarin will need security.”
“Count us in,” says Zach. “We exercise everyday anyway.”
I nod, silently thanking them for their enthusiasm.
“Count me in too,” says Ricky. “I need to get in shape.” He looks down at the giant piece of cake in front of him and puts a big bite onto a fork. “Might as well enjoy it while I can.” Winking as he puts it into his mouth, he gets the table laughing at his good-natured joking. I’m happy for the levity.
“Good. Anyone else?”
The band manager gives me an uncomfortable look. “Actually, not that I want to bail on this whole deal, but I had a big vacation planned starting next week. And I was going to work in some meetings while I’m out of town, too, so I wasn’t planning to be back for almost three weeks.”
Stick nods. “Yeah, with the tour coming up, we were all going to take off.” He looks over at Dave and Randy, and all three of them are nodding like bobble head dolls.
Scott and I exchange a look before I turn my attention back to the table. “It’s no big deal, actually. As long as I have security and a driver, we can take care of the rest.”
“We’re all in, so it’s good, right?” asks Ricky. He’s still enjoying his cake, but it’s almost all gone. He looks at Zach and Leonard. “Security and a driver.” He nods at me.
“Yep, we’re good. The rest of you enjoy your time off and when you come back, Tarin will be almost where he needs to be.”
“Chicken shits,” Tarin says in a low tone.
Everyone ignores him, but I can tell from their expressions he’s made them uncomfortable.
“Now’s your chance to give me some insight into Tarin’s life. Into his psyche. We’ll use the information to help put together a gameplan.”
Tarin glares at everyone, and I laugh.
“Don’t let him intimidate you. He’ll eventually realize you’re doing it to help him, not hurt him.”
“Well, maybe you can have him leave the table, then, because I don’t particularly want to get punched in the face,” says Dave.
Randy nods silently.
“No, I think it’s better that he hear it coming from the people he cares about.”
“Fuck that,” says Tarin, trying to stand.
I grab his arm and squeeze it. “Stay. I want you to hear this.”
He looks down at me, glaring at me. I refuse to be intimidated by it. “I insist. Take a seat.”
Letting out an annoyed sigh, he flops back down into his chair, slumping back and lowering himself down. “Fine. Hit me with your best shot.” He looks out over the back lawn like he could care less about what’s about to be said.
“Who will go first? Give me some insight into Tarin as a person.” I scan the faces at the table, waiting expectantly.
No one says anything. This is normal. It doesn’t dissuade me in the least.
“Okay, I’ll start,” I say. “I’ve noticed that Tarin has a great sense of humor. He likes to tease.” I smile at his friends. “How’s that? Did I get him right?”
Everyone nods, a few of them smiling. “Yeah, that’s about right,” says Randy. “He likes to play practical jokes on people, especially the crew.” He pauses, some of his smile slipping. “Some of them quit over it, actually.”
“So what you’re saying is that sometimes his jokes have sharp edges to them, is that it?”
Randy doesn’t want to respond, but eventually his head wins out over his heart. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
A long hiss comes from Tarin, but he’s still staring out into the distance.
“He doesn’t realize it, though,” says Randy, trying to do damage control. “He just gets wound up and gets carried away sometimes.”
I look at Stick. “What do you think? Do you find Tarin getting too wound up sometimes?”
He sticks his lips out like he’s thinking or doubtful. Then he shrugs. “Maybe. I mean, he’s an intense guy. I guess … I get the impression he’s a little tortured, you know? Like the jokes are a form of self-therapy.”
Tarin whips his head around and glares at Stick. “What the fuck, man?”
Stick is angry now too. “What? Are you saying it ain’t true? Because you’re a fucking liar if you do. Come on, asshole, don’t make this harder than it has to be on everyone else. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
I shake my head. “You let it get this far, though, didn’t you?”
Stick stands up. “Listen, whatever your name is … sorry, I already forgot it … I get what you’re trying to do here, but I’m not going to sit here and take the blame for Tarin’s shit, okay? The guy’s a fuck-up. He doesn’t show up for practice, he’s forgetting lyrics at shows now, and he’s got terrible taste in women. None of that is on me. None of it.” He throws his napkin down on his plate. “I have a plane to catch in the morning, so I’m outta here. Good luck with everything. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He leaves the table after bumping fists with Randy and Dave. No one else even gets a second look, not even Tarin.
r />
I chance a look at my client and he’s just sitting in his chair stunned. Now’s my chance.
“Okay, that was some good stuff. Honesty. That’s what Tarin needs right now. Who’s next?”
“He doesn’t write anymore,” says Randy. “All the new stuff we’re getting is coming from Stick.” He lowers he voice and his head to finish. “And no offense to Stick, but it’s not half as good as Tarin’s stuff was.”
“I wrote something two weeks ago, what the fuck are you talking about?” Tarin’s trying to defend himself, but it loses some of its force with his weak delivery.
“First of all that was like two months ago, not weeks … and to be honest, it sucked balls. We’re not including it in the next album.”
“Fuck you, we’re not.”
“No, dude, we’re not. Seriously. We took a vote, but you weren’t there of course, so that’s why you don’t know about it.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t come to our sessions anymore,” says Dave, sounding sad. “He’s too busy partying.”
Tarin grips the arms of his chair and leans over, practically spitting in his friend’s face when he responds. “You’re one to talk about partying, you fucking H fiend. You’re the one I’ve been partying with! How can you stand there and tell me I’m too busy partying? Fucking hypocrite.”
Dave stands up, looking both frustrated and guilty as hell. “Whatever, man. I’m just doing what she asked.” He gestures at me with his fork before dropping it on his plate. “I’ve got my issues, yeah. Okay, I admit that. I’m going to deal with that too. But this was about you, and you might not want to hear it, but I love you, man. You’re like a brother to me, and watching you throw your whole life away is killing me. It’s half the reason I try to escape all the time.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” says Tarin, his voice going snotty. “Now I’m to blame for you being a fucking user. Nice.”
Dave looks at me. “I think I’m going to schedule a stay at a clinic. I appreciate what you’re doing here, but I don’t think I can stick around and try to participate on the side. Sorry.” He turns to leave.
“Good luck, Dave,” I say, sincerely hoping by clinic he means a rehab place.
“You love me but you’re fucking running away!” yells Tarin at his back. “Nice! With family like that, who needs enemies!”
Dave flinches but he doesn’t respond or turn around. He disappears into the house through the terrace doors.
“That’s not nice, Tarin,” says Mel. “You really need to think about what you’re saying before you let it out. Some things you can’t take back.”
“There’s only one thing I’ve ever said or done that I wish I could take back, Mel, and that ain’t it.” Tarin gets unsteadily to his feet. “I’m going to bed. Ricky, take me home.”
Ricky looks to me for my input.
“Don’t look at her! Look at me! I pay your paycheck.” Tarin shoves his chair back so hard it flips over backwards and lands against a fountain behind him.
“Not right now, you don’t,” I say. “Right now, I run the payroll. But I’m fine with him taking you home to sleep off whatever it is you took.” I stand too and look at Tarin’s bodyguards. “Will you please go and make sure he doesn’t take anything else? Tomorrow’s going to be enough of a shock as it is.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not standing right here next to you,” says Tarin. He’s breathing like a bull, huffing and puffing with his anger.
I face him, taking in his rage and hurt expression. “Okay, fine. Tarin, you need to go home and sleep off your high. Zach and Leonard will go with you and watch over you to make sure you don’t get into any more trouble until tomorrow when I move in. Ricky will drive you home and nowhere else. Jelly will not be going with you. Tonight, you sleep alone and without the aid of medication.”
“Move in?”
I smile. Of all the things I’ve said, that’s the one he’s clued in on. He looks afraid. “Yes. Scott and I will be moving in to your house. We’ll be with you twenty-four/seven with around-the-clock supervision.”
“Sounds like prison.”
“It won’t be. I promise. Just consider us like boundaries.”
“Boundaries. What the fuck.” Tarin turns around. Halfway to the door, he turns back. “Well come on, fuckers! If you’re gonna babysit my ass, might as well get moving away from the goddamn cake.”
Chairs scrape back and everyone’s standing. “Good luck, everyone,” I say. “See you tomorrow morning early.”
“Later!” Ricky jogs away from the table, trying to outrun Tarin to the car. Zach and Leonard are even faster, reaching Tarin before he gets to the back door.
I’m left with Mel, Scott, and the band manager.
“Well,” says Mel, breathing out long and slow, “I guess that went okay. At least he didn’t throw anything at anyone.”
“He wanted to,” says the manager, holding out his hand. “Best of luck to you, Ms. Barnes. Call me if you need me. I don’t know how much of a signal I’ll have, but I’ll try to check voicemails from the hotel.”
I shake his hand. “Thanks. Don’t worry about us. Tarin’s going to be fine.” I truly believe this, which is why my smile is so confident and strong. I feel high on life right now. Tarin not flipping the table and throwing dishes is indeed a step in the right direction.
Mel moves off to join his wife and some of the crew members by a chocolate fountain, leaving Scott and me alone at the big empty table.
“Get some good notes?” I ask, leaning over to look at Scott’s pad.
“Yep. I have a great profile all built up.” He looks down at his chicken scratches. “Rude, angry, hurt, undependable, short-tempered, and a man-whore drug user.” Scott looks up and grins at me. “The only thing he hasn’t done that I can tell is kill someone.”
I grin back. “Then we’re all good, aren’t we?”
He puts his arm over my shoulder. “Austin would be proud of us, I think.”
I’m choked up, but I answer anyway, my voice a little raspy. “I know he would be. Come on. Let’s go get some cake.”
“Awwww, yeah buddy,” says Scott, dropping his pad in his chair and abandoning me for the dessert table.
I follow behind him, my heart beating slow and sure. I feel like Austin’s spirit is guiding me every step of the way and it makes me strong.
Slow and steady wins the race babe. You got this.
Chapter Twelve
SCOTT AND I SHOW UP at Tarin’s front door at five the next morning. Ricky lets us in, dressed for our morning’s activities in navy blue basketball shorts, a white t-shirt and glowing green running shoes. He and Scott look like they’re on the same sports team, their clothes are so similar in style and color. Scott’s shoes aren’t nearly as flamboyant, and I catch him staring at Ricky’s with envy. Normally I can count on Scott to keep the footwear interesting, but Ricky wins today in that department. I make a mental note to add bright green shoes to Scott’s Christmas list.
“Looking good,” says Scott, holding out his hand to Ricky.
“Thanks, man. You ready to hit the pavement?” They exchange hand slaps and knuckle bumps. Scott has tried several times to teach me that intricate set of maneuvers that they all seem to know how to do instinctually. He’s given up on me ever learning, but I haven’t. I study their movements and try to memorize them for my next attempt.
“As ready as I’ll never ever be,” says Scott, dropping his duffle bag on the floor in the front entrance and looking around at the opulent foyer. He’s not a huge fan of exercise. Like me, he does it as part of the job, but he’s one of those guys who doesn’t have to do anything to look lean and fit.
“Can I get that for you?” Ricky asks me, gesturing to my bag.
“Sure. There’s another in the trunk, but you can leave it there. Is Tarin up?” I eye the stairs leading to where I assume his bedroom is.
He smiles. “Yeah, but it ain’t pretty. He’s in the kitchen having some coffee.”
I smile back a little evilly, a piece of me happy we’re making him work for this. Stupid jerk, getting that ding dong pregnant. Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough if she’s really pregnant, if I have anything to say about it. “How’d last night go?” I ask Ricky as he takes my bag from me.
“Good, I guess. Jelly had a fit and Tarin kicked her out after listening to her for a hour. Nobody gave him any trouble after that. He went to bed early. Early for him, anyway.” Ricky puts my bag on the bottom stair and then goes to the front door.
“What time did he go upstairs?” I ask.
“Two in the morning.”
I roll my eyes. “Great. He’s going to work out on three hours of sleep and a hangover.”
Ricky talks louder to be heard from out in the front valet area. He’s disregarded my offer to leave the other bag in the car, pulling it out of the trunk. “The caffeine will get him to lunchtime. Maybe he can take a nap or something before we do anything later.”
I don’t commit to anything. I’m going to play these first few days by ear. I pray to any god listening that Tarin’s drug use hasn’t messed him up too bad. I’m still fairly confident he’s not a drug addict, even if he is addicted to bad behavior and destructive users.
One thing at a time - first the physical health, then the mental health. Rome wasn’t built in a day. It wasn’t built in thirty days either, but I’ve been called a miracle worker before for good reason. This is what I was meant to do. Rescue party, reporting for duty.
Scott is in another room, but his exclamation of happiness makes him easy to find. I walk into a big family room to find him glowing with joy, staring at a huge television screen and a boatload of stereo and video equipment.
“Did you see this?” he asks, his voice an octave too high and cracking like it used to when he was fourteen. “Every single awesome video game known to man … it’s like a frigging video store in here!” He’s staring into a cabinet that goes from floor to very high ceiling. “I’m pretty sure I’ve just died and gone to heaven.”
“Oh yay,” I say with zero enthusiasm. “Now you can kill off a few million more brain cells.”