Control (Songs of Submission #4) (14 page)

“Little hardcore, sugar,” Rhee said. “Collar? Licking the floor?”

“It’s metaphorical.”

“I figured that.”

Of course she did. What woman would have to lay that out for a man literally?

“It’s important to me,” I said. “Someone’s coming to hear it. A producer and a record exec. And the composition, Gabby wrote it. I laid the lyrics over after…”

“Okay, okay.” She handed back the sheet. “You’re fine. Have fun. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Rhee.” I dashed back to the dressing room. I’d played for Rhee earlier in the week to prove I could manage lyrics and music at the same time. I was only halfway into “Under My Skin” when she stopped me and told me I was fine to go back on my old schedule. I was happy for the distraction, but the feeling that Eugene Testarossa had been right, and Gabby had been redundant, nagged at the back of my mind. Some little guilt-inducing voice insisted that by playing her part, I was driving her deeper into the grave.

The dressing room was like a second home anymore, but it was lonely and my anger at Jonathan wasn’t good company. I put on my makeup and hummed my new song. When it was time to go into the dining room, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “I hope you get carpal tunnel and a frog jumps down your throat.”

It wasn’t the same, but it was the best I had.

       
CHAPTER 16.
        
 

JONATHAN

Nothing moved. The Jag was caught between a bus and a silver SUV. I should have brought the bike. I could have gone between the lanes and been there already. Even though I knew she wasn’t going anywhere, I wanted to see Monica right away. Had to. First, she was angry with me, and that fact bored a hole right through me. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to rush to her. Second, the surveillance equipment across the street just turned the dial up on my concern. That equipment wasn’t a joke. Someone was watching her. I didn’t know why, or who, but I could buy those answers with money and time. One, I had plenty of. The other, I’d have to manufacture.

“Margie,” I said when my oldest sister picked up her phone. She was fifteen years my senior and had been more of an aunt to me. Her law firm had a huge criminal litigation division and billed thousands of hours keeping celebrities from going to jail.

“Jonny, you never call anymore.”

“Because I don’t have any problems.”

“But tonight? You have a problem?”

“Are you sitting?” Western Avenue opened up just as I had to turn down Santa Monica Boulevard. Too bad all the money in the world wouldn’t buy me a flying fucking car.

“Sure, I’m sitting.”

“There’s a woman.”

“You just gave me a migraine. That poor girl. What did you do to her?”

I’d squirmed when she litigated my divorce and I had to tell her it was about sex; what kind of sex and how I’d been rebuffed. She needed details and received them only after I’d drunk half a bottle of scotch.

“It’s not that,” I said. “She and I, we’re good. It’s something else.”

“Where does one find a woman who likes—”

“Enough.” I knew all the wisecracks already. “I’m not in the mood, Margie. I found a camera outside her place. Temporary surveillance inside a car. I need her house swept for more. I think you might know someone who could do it.”

“Do you have access?”

“No, and irony of ironies, I just had new locks put in.”

“You’re not doing that controlling thing again, are you, Jonny?”

“Just round people up and I’ll get you access. Okay?”

“
She
might like it when you’re bossy—”

I hung up. My sisters knowing I had a kinky streak wasn’t easy. Another thing I could thank Jessica for.

I got Hank on the phone at the next red light.

“Jaydee.”

“Did you burn those drawings?”

“Not yet.”

“Can you pack them up and have them to my Wilshire office tomorrow morning?” I asked.

“You want them packed to archiving standards?”

“No. Put them in an envelope. No more. I’ll let you know how to proceed.” I hung up.

I was sure it was Kevin. He’d been at the funeral and could have planted cameras then. Video of Monica entering and exiting the house would be perfect for an installation, especially with her music over it. Another homage to a breakup. He knew her well enough to know that once he presented her with the footage in the completed work, she’d buckle and let it happen for the sake of art and her career. Or he’d neglect to mention it until the show was installed. She’d be even less likely to gripe since her name would be on the thing already. A humiliating stab in the back. If there were cameras inside the house, I would have to kill him.

I felt as if every cell in my body needed to be near Monica. To protect her from whoever watched her and to soothe her anger at me. I just had to brave the traffic and the ridiculous synchronization of the lights on Santa Monica Boulevard.

       
CHAPTER 17.
        
 

MONICA

With Gabby gone and the promotional machine at a standstill, the room’s body count went back to normal. It was the same-sized crowd as the first night we’d played: just tables and a few people waiting at the bar. Any buzz we’d had about our shows died with Gabby. Basically, I was starting from scratch, which was fine. I didn’t think I could take much more than that without her to lean on.

The table by the warm speaker had a RESERVED sign. Jerry and Eddie were meant to sit there, if they came at all. I said hello to some lovely couples by the front and asked if they had any requests, which I’d play if I knew. A group of frat boys had heard about me and come for dinner. They were half drunk already, and their appetizers hadn’t even arrived, so I didn’t linger. I made a last visual sweep around the room and cast my eyes to Rhee. She was leading two women to a table in the corner. I recognized both of them. One was Jonathan’s sister Deirdre. One was his ex-wife.

My skin burst into tingles and my throat closed. I couldn’t feel my fingertips. Then I remembered I was playing that song. Jonathan’s song. I hadn’t shown it to him or told him about it yet. Jessica would hear it. And she would know.

She would
know
.

I wasn’t ashamed of what I was doing with Jonathan, but letting her hear my fears as if I’d whispered them in her ear was sickeningly intimate. A cold trickle of regret ran down my back. I should never have made the thing, never written it down, never set it to Gabby’s music. Though I wasn’t hiding it from Jonathan, at the very least, I should have shown it to him before playing it publicly. I hadn’t even thought of that.

I sat down at the piano and touched the keys. No, I’d skip it. Play something else. Jerry wasn’t there, so no one would be the wiser. Rhee didn’t really care. I started playing. Yes, I’d hide behind Irving Berlin, then Cole Porter. I’d stay safe. I’d still paint them the colors of Jonathan. I’d still feed them his lust, his touch, his voice. But Jessica would never hear it because I was protected by dead men’s lyrics.

I was coming off “Someone to Watch Over Me,” the middle of my set, when I saw Jerry with two men at the bar. He tipped his glass to me. They weren’t sitting at the table. Stopping by, maybe? Well, shit. I’d have to play it.

With the lights in my face, blinding me to half the room, Jessica didn’t loom as large. After warming up with the standards I knew so well and hiding behind that shiny, black baby grand, I didn’t feel as vulnerable. I could play that song.

I could do it. I could belt it out. Fuck her. Fuck her to Sunday. Fuck her with the lights on. Fuck her fuck her fuck her. It was my room. My song. My audience. My rules.

Rule number one? Fuck her.

I hit the keys, owning them, and I launched into Jonathan’s song as though he was naked and I was jumping him.

We wove words under Popsicle trees,

The ceiling open to the sky,

And you want to own me

With your fatal grace and charmed words.

All I own is a handful of stars

Tethered to a bag of marbles that turns

Oh, her ears would burn off at the mention of Popsicle trees and a ceiling open to the stars but guess what?

Fuck her.

My questions and fears were pregnant with heated longing, a desire for encouraging answers, begging for appeasement. My list of acceptable and unacceptable behaviors became a list of exciting possibilities.

Will you call me whore?

Destroy me,

Make me lick the floor,

Twist me in knots,

Turn me into an animal?

Will I be a vessel for you?

Slice open our lying box

Through a low doorway for our

Shoulds and oughts.

Choose the things I don’t need,

No careless moments, no mystery.

And you need nothing.

My backward bend doesn’t feed.

And just to call to her, just because she’d hurt me, and just because I could, I changed the last chorus on the fly, turning questions into statements.