All Shook Up (3 page)

I wipe my hand over my face. I was sentenced to ninety days in rehab. Technically, by leaving early, I've broken the terms of my probation. Going home doesn't feel like the wise choice right now. At home, everyone knows where I live. Everybody recognizes me instantly on the street. I'd be hauled off to jail within two seconds of unlocking my front door.

"You have to wait," I say. "What's the new recording schedule?"

Braun snorts. "Dude, you don't get it. There is no band for you. You're out. We just need you to sign the fucking legal papers."

Out of the band.
Yeah, it's cliche, but it feels like I'm the only person alive who's been sentenced to this punishment. I roll over and stare at the ceiling, acid seeping into my veins. How the fuck could they kick me out of my own band? I'm the most serious one there. I write all the goddamned songs.

"Who'd you tell?" I say, calmly.

"Everyone knows."

"Terrific," I say, envisioning a mob scene outside the hotel. At least I didn't tell Braun where I am. He loves talking to the press, no matter how sleazy. The guy loves to talk, period.

Braun starts up again, but background noise drowns out his voice. He's at a party. I give up and end the call. He calls back three times. On the fourth call, I throw my phone against the television, cracking the touchscreen and scratching the TV screen. I'm proud of myself. Two months ago, I would have put my fist through the TV.

A few hours later, I give in to my insomnia. Four fucking o'clock in the morning. A time that shouldn't even exist.

Without turning the lights on, I find my jeans and t-shirt, and then my shoes. At this hour, I don't bother with the old hat-and-glasses routine. If someone recognizes me this early, they deserve the fucking autograph.

The elevator plays the same pseudo-smooth jazz that it apparently plays twenty-four hours a day. If I could find the speakers, I would smash them, too. What's intended to be soothing is a grinding of gears in my brain. Loud, I understand. Quiet, why bother? It's an irritating tickle.

As I walk through the mostly empty lobby, an annoying little voice reminds me that I did feel better after the first two weeks of rehab. The first two weeks were pure hell, but when I started eating and exercising again, I regained my strength quickly. Of course, without the coke and alcohol clouding my head, abstaining from sex was barely possible. I'm a goddamned saint to have made it this long.

When I pass the front desk, the girl behind the counter gives me a huge smile. These gorgeous creatures are everywhere. Why am I expected to ignore them? Sex is natural. Sex is a good thing.

And if I don't stop thinking about it, I'll explode.

The Winter house is two miles from the hotel. I take off in that direction, promising myself I will turn back and go to bed when I wear myself out. It doesn't happen. The longer I walk, the more awake I feel. By the time I reach the iron gate of the house, I feel like I could run the next five miles. To where, I have no idea.

I grasp two of the vertical iron bars and leaned forward, peering between trees to see the house. The yard is more trashed than the house, though. Between the trees, the ivy, and the overgrowth, you can't even tell a house is back there. I have to imagine what the house and grounds could look like with some attention. Honestly, though, it could be a tar-paper shack, and I would still want it. As long as Lang Winter took a breath inside the place, I have to have it.

I laugh when I realize that I look like a voyeur, hanging off the fence like this. So, this is what it's like on the other side. Doesn't seem that exciting to me.

For the next two miles, I think about how to change Sophie's mind. The house is symbolic of Lang's talent, yes, but his daughter is his blood, his spirit—no matter how much she thinks she hates him. Buying the house would be useless without her in it.

And I already have too many useless things in my life.

Scene 6 ~ Sophie

Friendly Neighborhood Real Estate Agent Mary has left me twelve voicemail messages in the past twenty-four hours. I haven't responded. I have nothing to say to her. Nothing she wants to hear, anyway.

With the exception of Mary's calls, my phone is eerily silent. What the hell is that about? It's the first day I've been truly alone in the house without Hondo, without anyone. Did Mark "Deal of the Century" Dillon scare off all my friends? Or did Hondo tell everyone to leave me alone?

I wasn't paying enough attention to his band, Never More Alone, to know that Mark had taken a break. Well, it has left him looking healthier than I remember from the magazine photos. In every one, he was painfully thin, with black circles under his eyes. I remember thinking that he looked so much older than he was, even though he was only five years older than me. Yesterday, though, Mark filled out his t-shirt and jeans quite nicely. The black circles under his eyes were gone. He had dimples when he smiled.

Why does any of this matter? I won't see him again. People like Mark don't ask twice.

I glance up the main staircase. Lang's studio is there, first door on the right. I'm not sure I could even find the key now. The day he died, I closed that door, locked it, and walked away, like it was a private burial for my father's most prized possessions: his guitars.

Now, I want to see them. I have to go in. I rummage through the kitchen junk drawers to find the key. Bills, old mail, dried-up pens, and rubber bands. No key. I move to the next set of drawers, feeling more and more desperate as I go. I've ignored that room for six months, but now that I have this itch, I have to scratch it immediately. Pulling drawers free from their tracks, I upend each one, creating a pile of crap in the middle of the kitchen.

Finally, a key lands on the tile floor with a
plink
. I snatch it and jog up the staircase. The stairs made me short of breath—cardiovascular fitness hasn't been on my priority list for a while—but I don't let it stop me from sliding the key into the lock and turning it.

The lights come on automatically as I step through the doorway, like they were waiting for me to return. I shake my head. Why do I think stupid things like that? Lights don't wait on people, and a room doesn't capture the essence of its owner at death. The truth is, the guitars lining this room would score me a small fortune if I auctioned them. It wouldn't be nearly enough to save the house, but maybe it's time to let go and move on. I should have sold them six months ago, when their value would have been the highest. That's what people do, right? As soon as someone dies, they go shopping, like they can buy a piece of the dead person to last forever.

Isn't that what Mark wants, too? A bit of Lang to fix whatever's wrong in his life? I've seen it over and over my whole life, though. People always wanted to be close to Lang, as if his charisma would cure them of their frustrating lives. Maybe it's that way with all of the famous ones. I don't know. It just seemed like Lang couldn't be in a room without ten other people there, too. And often, I wasn't one of those ten.

I turn to leave the room on that anticlimactic note. A flash of blue catches my eye, though. Despite myself, a smile tickles the corners of my lips. I go to the acoustic guitar and pick it up, running my hand over the peacock blue surface. Next to every other guitar in the room, this one is worth absolutely nothing. A starter instrument. No collector would give it a second look. No one ever took notice of it at all, except me. And that's what makes me smile. Lang put so much of our lives out in the public, I treasured the secret things that were left for me.

I give the guitar a tentative strum, and then tune it, feeling the familiar vibration of the wood. I try again to play the strings, but my hands are shaking too much. I set the guitar back on its stand.

"Your favorite?"

I flinch so hard at Mark's voice, I knock over the next guitar, a silver Strat that's probably worth two thousand bucks. He catches it before it hits the floor and puts it back in place.

"Where's Mary?" I say as I place my guitar back on its stand.

"She's not here."

I can't believe he came back on his own. Maybe this is a new sales tactic Mary dreamed up overnight.

"How did you get in the house?" I say.

"I watched Mary put in the codes on the gate and key box. I have this knack for remembering numbers." He grins like a naughty kid.

"So, you broke into my house." I cross my arms, trying to scowl at him but failing. "Are you stalking me?"

He grins again, and I have trouble pulling my gaze away from those dimples. His eyes look tired, though.

"In my defense, I rang the bell ten times."

"I didn't hear anything," I say.

"Maybe you weren't really listening," he says, nodding toward my blue guitar.

I practically push him out of the room and slam the door behind us.

"That," I say, locking the door. "Is private."

I slip the key into the front pocket of my jeans and stomp down the stairs, hoping my hands will stop trembling by the time we reach the kitchen.

No such luck. I perch on a stool next to the island and fold my hands in my lap, out of view.

"Why are you here?" I say. "I haven't changed my mind."

"Why don't you want to stay here?"

I wait for Mark to smile, but apparently, this is a serious question. Nice try. I don't owe him an explanation.

"You first," I say. "You're the one committing a misdemeanor. A felony, if you have a gun in that bag."

"Fine." He pulls a stack of paper out of the black leather messenger bag. "I asked Mary to draw up the paperwork, anyway. My offer stands until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours."

He rummages in his bag and comes out with a pen, which he sets down diagonally on the stack.

"I can't help you, you know," I say. "I'm not sure what kind of magic you think I can do, but I don't have it. And can you just imagine the stories in the tabloids? They would say you locked me up to be your sex slave."

"Nobody has to know about our terms."

I open my eyes wide in disbelief. "When has that ever happened in the history of stardom? My birth video is on YouTube, all right? People actually comment on it like it's a joke. It just goes downhill from there."

"This place seems private enough. Why don't you want to be here?" he repeats.

"Because apparently, the ghosts here are louder than door chimes."

Mark catches my gaze for a moment before walking to the front door. "Tomorrow," he says. "Please think about it."

"Yeah," I say, shaking my head.

After the door closes behind him, I stand in the foyer, watching the door as if I expect him to come back through it.

Scene 7 ~ Sophie

I wish Hondo wasn't at work right now. I want to talk to him. But he has a real job. He's a graphic artist, super talented. We met at college, where he was a year ahead of me. Seeing each other for the first time was like one of those dramatic scenes in a movie. Our eyes met from across the university commons, and somehow, each one of us knew we were supposed to find the other. We just weren't sure what to do after we met. So, he moved in.

This wasn't unusual for the Winter household. All my life, people have moved in and out of here like it's an extended-stay hotel. When Lang was touring, he didn't bother hiring a nanny because so many people were here with nothing better to do than play with me. Later, of course, I realized why they were so much fun. They were high all the time. It was a good thing I was a pretty self-sufficient kid.

I decide to go to my closet to think. I don't know why I'm still even considering Mark's offer. When he doesn't get what he thinks he will, he'll throw me out, anyway. I should save him the trouble. I can't sit still, so I get up and start sorting laundry. Things are a little too ripe in here, even for me. Thirty minutes later, I realize I've been in zen mode, thinking about nothing but the color and care instructions for each piece of clothing. I have four piles of clothing now: colors, whites, blacks, and hand wash. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I've accomplished something by my little self.

I also feel the telltale symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. My hands are shaking, my stomach hurts, and I feel dizzier than usual. Time for my medicine.

I put a pile of clothes in the plastic laundry basket and take it through the living room to reach the laundry room. I pause in the kitchen to pour a small glass of vodka. I'm trying to make the pour smaller each day, but I've kind of lost track of the amounts.

In the laundry room, I pile the clothes into the washer, add detergent, and set the cycle. It's so easy, I'm not sure why it seemed insurmountable before. Maybe I'm finally growing up.

I take my vodka and sit on one of the leather sofas in the living room. With my bare legs curled under me, I stare out the back floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors. As always, I fixate on that green cesspool and think of Lang.

Hondo was the one who found Lang drowned that day. I raced home as soon as he called me. He didn't tell me why I needed to come home immediately, but what else could it be? I knew my father was either seriously injured or dead. I don't remember now if anyone else was there. Just Lang, Hondo, me, and the police, gathered around that deadly crystal blue water.

They told me it was too late for CPR when Hondo pulled him out of the pool. He'd probably been floating face-down in the water for a while. They kept gesturing toward his body, but I couldn't look. It was there at the corner of my vision, but I couldn't look straight at it. Anger crackled in my head, searing holes in the blanket of shock that kept me from screaming right away. I went back into the house and stayed there until they finally took the body away. I still remember the clang of the gurney and the bump of the wheels on the tiled floor. They were so loud, I covered my ears.

"Hey, come here," Hondo said as he reached out to me.

I swallowed back stomach acid and shook my head. I couldn't touch Hondo at that moment because he'd touched Lang. The dead Lang. I sat with my fists clenched at my side, unable to utter a word, even though thousands of words were shooting through my brain. This wasn't just a death. This was a celebrity death. I knew exactly what would happen next, and I decided to not be sober for it.