Heartstrings (8 page)

“It was very sweet of you to stop by,” I say rather primly.

“You’ve been very sweet, putting up with my bullshit,” he
says, leaning against my car. “I know I can be a lot to handle sometimes, but
know that I wouldn’t dish it out if I didn’t think you could take it.”

“I’m sure I can handle you just fine,” I say, before I can
stop myself. “As long as you can take it as well as you give it.”

“You have no idea how well I can give it,” he smiles. We
definitely aren’t talking about witty repartee anymore, that’s for sure. I play
with my keys, averting my eyes from his. He doesn’t look like he has any
intention of leaving anytime soon. What am I supposed to do now?

“Do you...want to come inside?” I ask, for lack of any other
idea. “I don’t have any whiskey, I’m afraid, but I think there’s some leftover
pizza and a couple of beers.”

“I have a better idea,” he says, “Let’s go for a little
trip?”

“A trip?” I repeat, “What kind of trip?”

“I’m playing a little show in Jersey, back at one of the
venues we used to play when we were nobodies. Do you want to come with me?”

“To your rock concert...in the morning?” I ask.

“It’s not really a concert,” he says. “You’ll see when we
get there.”

“I don’t think I’m wearing the right uniform,” I say,
looking down at my scrubs.

“Go change,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

“Why do you want me to come?” I ask, bemused.

“Because I like you, Julia. You make me laugh,” he says with
a shrug, “And you need to loosen the hell up. I want to show you that there’s
more to life than work and more work. You should have a little fun every once
in a while. This will be my repayment to you for being such a good nurse.”

“I have fun,” I say, pouting. “Last week, I organized my
garage...”

“That is not fun.” He cuts me off abruptly. “That is...I
don’t know what,” Slade says. “Go put on something a Jersey girl would wear and
get your ass back out here.”

“I don’t own anything a Jersey girl would wear,” I sniff,
baiting him.

“Philly girls and Jersey girls have at least one thing in common,”
he says, “They can’t say no to me. Now go change.”

I stick out my tongue and hurry past him into the house.
Every cell in my body is suddenly wide awake, the exhaustion of having just
finished a twelve hour night shift is completely gone. I vault over Gustav,
who’s waiting patiently on the stairs, and head for my bedroom. As I rifle
through my closet, the closeness of Slade to the place where I sleep starts to
excite me. Should I demand that he could inside? Give him the opportunity to
make a move, if he wants to? I peer through my bedroom window and consider how
easy it would be...But no. I want to see where the evening goes if I let him
drive a little longer.

The best I can do is a pair of insanely frayed jean shorts
and a loose white tank top that’s just transparent enough to show a little of
my baby blue bra. My hair is beyond saving, so I pile it in a messy bun on the
top of my head and swipe on some makeup. I look like I belong at one of those
music festivals where you’re stuck in a tent and can’t shower for three days.
But with this crowd, that might not be too much of a problem, I guess.

Gustav is waiting for me at the door, looking confused. I
crack open a can for him and give him a quick scratch behind the ears. He seems
offended that I’m cutting into his cuddle time. But for once, I have to chance
to leave my everyday life as a cat lady behind and go hang out with a rock
star. Gustav will just have to understand.

I walk back out to meet Slade, doing a little twirl so he
can see what I’ve put together. He smiles appreciatively. “Safe,” he says, “But
on point.”

“A little safety never hurt anyone,” I tell him, planting my
hands on my hips.

“But too much can kill you,” he says, “Spiritually, anyway.”

“What, do you moonlight as a philosopher or something?” I
ask.

“All musicians do,” he says, “All the good ones, anyway. Now
let’s go.”

He leads me across the street to a sleek black sports car.
It’s far more understated than I would have guessed, given his level of fame.
But I’m starting to think that there’s a lot about Slade that I simply don’t
understand yet. There are sure to be plenty more surprises waiting for me down
the line. I catch myself thinking about the possibility of Slade and I having a
future, but I very carefully remind myself that this is probably a one-night
thing. He’s probably just amused by me, wants to keep me around as a novelty
for a night. Come tomorrow, I’ll be spending my day off on my own once more.
But right now, I’m going to try my best to just live in the moment, and not
worry so much about what’s going to happen when I wake up in the morning. I try
to channel my inner Penny, who never seems to be the least concerned about the
implications of anything. But there’s only so much progress I can make in one
day. 

I slide into the car as Slade starts the engine. We peel
away from my house and head for the highway. I watch as my humble little
starter home fades away in the distance. It seemed so little when Slade stood
before it. I hope that my life doesn’t seem small to him, or unimportant.

“Will your entourage be annoyed that you’re bringing a
nobody along for the show?” I ask.

“You’re not a nobody,” Slade says, a scowl pulling at the
ends of his lips. “And you don’t have to put yourself down for my benefit. What
you do with your life actually matters, Julia. And if any asshole roadie or
whatever tries to tell you that what we do is better or something, you have my
permission to punch him in the eye. The world could do without rock stars, but
it couldn’t do without people like you.”

“Say it again, stud,” I smile.

“I mean it,” he says, “People build musicians and bands up
into gods or something, but we’re just people who get to do something
ridiculous for a living.”

“I promise not to let anyone talk down to me,” I tell him,
“But you don’t have to remind me to do that. I don’t take well to people who
are too self important for their own good.”

“I know you don’t,” he said, “You’ve already knocked me down
more pegs than I can count.”

“You deserved it every time,” I told him.

“Fair enough,” he said.

We lapsed into silence as Slade pulled onto the highway. His
car sailed over the bridge into New Jersey, his home state. Even though we
weren’t speaking for the moment, the silence that hung between us was wasn’t
uncomfortable. As I turned to look out the window, I felt the fingers of his
free hand close around mine on the arm rest between us. I couldn’t breathe
right while he was touching me. I tried to keep myself calm, taking deep
breaths and reminding myself the best I could that this was OK, that it was
actually happening, that it wasn’t all just a dream. I relished his firm grip,
the warmth of his hand in mine, and smiled out into the quickly lightening sky
beyond the window.

In no time at all, we were coasting through South Jersey. We
seemed to be on a never ending strip of car dealerships, gentlemen’s clubs, and
oddly enough, exotic bird stores.

“Your state is weird,” I mutter, leaning towards him cozily.

“It’s about to get weirder,” he says, flipping on his turn
signal. We swing off the main road, into the parking lot of a broken down pool
hall. The place is absolutely deserted, except for us. Still, Slade turns off
the engine and unfolds himself out of the car. I step onto the broken asphalt
beside him and cock my head up at the pool hall. It’s practically falling apart
before my very eyes.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, looking around for a clue
of some kind.

“This is where it all began,” he says happily. A dreamy look
has come over his eyes, which are practically glowing in the morning sunlight.
“This is where Flagrant Disregard played its first show, back in the day.”

“Here?” I ask incredulously. It’s a far cry from the kinds
of places I would expect to find Slade. He belonged in arenas and stadiums, not
dumps like this. “Well...What are we doing here, though?” I ask, confused.

“I thought it would be nice to stop for a visit,” Slade
says, popping open the trunk of his car. He pulls out a gorgeous acoustic
guitar and starts for the pool hall. “Are you coming?”

“Uh...Sure,” I say, scrambling after him. Hopefully the roof
won’t decide to fall down on my head while we’re inside, though I don’t want to
jinx it.

Slade pushes open the door of the hall with his strong
shoulder and steps inside. I follow, blinking in the dusty darkness. Though day
has finally come around outside, it might as well be midnight in here. We pick
our way over debris and broken furniture, squinting in the darkness. Slade
finds a light switch and illuminates a single Edison bulb. The whole place
glows with a spectral kind of light. It feels like we’re about to begin a
séance, or something.

“Right over there,” Slade says, pointing toward the corner
of the building, “That’s where they used to have the stage set up. It was just
a flimsy platform. It’s amazing that it held at all. The four of us were so
nervous...There were only about ten punks in the crowd, but that was still the
biggest audience we’d ever played for. I never sang in front of anyone but my
band mates and my little sisters. It was the most terrified I’d ever been.”

“I’m assuming it went well?” I smile.

“It was amazing,” he says, smiling at the memory, “People
actually put down their beers and listened to us. We had so much anger pent up
back then, so much rage and sadness. It’s powerful to feel that all at once,
especially coming from people as young as us. Before that night, we were all
just a bunch of half-orphans and losers. But after...We were a band. We had
each other, and we had something to give to people, something to prove. The
band saved my life.”

“It’s a good thing we came back then,” I say, touched by his
sudden moment of nostalgia.

“I thought I’d play a little something, cliché I know,” he
says, slinging the guitar over his neck and sitting down on a rickety chair. “I
hope you don’t think that’s indulgent and weird.”

“Not at all,” I say, perching on a busted pool table beside
him. “I’ve heard your music, a little, but I’d love to really listen to you
play.”

He gives me a quick smile in the darkness and then closes
his eyes. His hands begin to move, traveling up and down the instrument. His
fingers begin to pick out a sad, sweet melody. It’s not at all what I expected
to hear coming from someone so strong, so fierce and intimidating. Every note
falls perfectly, and the song builds on itself, complicates itself, until I’m
utterly engrossed. I can feel the sorrow that went into this piece, and knowing
that it’s Slade’s pain echoing through the chords, I want to lie down and weep.
The thought of him in pain is unbearable to me. I want to heal him, even more—I
want to make it so that he’s never had to know pain.

The song ends on a beautifully melancholy note, and he dives
into another. There’s an anger pulsing beneath it. The careful notes are sharp
as daggers as he sends them spinning out into the room. I find myself holding
my breath as the songs intensifies, and Slade begins to sing over the chords.
His voice is as rich and sweet as black coffee and dark chocolate. A sweep of
goose bumps flies over my skin as his deep growl echoes around the space.
There’s so much power in that voice, so much longing and determination and
strength.

I’m gripping the side of the pool table so hard that my
knuckles are white. He soars through the end of his second song and looks up at
me. “That’s not really my usual stuff,” he says with a grin.

“I didn’t think so,” I say, “But it was beautiful, Slade.”

“Why thank you,” he says, “It’s some stuff I’ve been working
on by myself.”

“Solo stuff?” I ask.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Slade says.

“Are you trying to get a solo thing going too?” I ask,
jumping down from the table.

“Never,” he says, suddenly fierce, “Ever since we started,
people have been trying to pull me away from the band. They love to talk about
how much money I’ll be able to make with a solo album, a tour, whatever. They
don’t realize that it’s never been about the money. Well, it was at first. I
needed to make a living to support my family. But past that, I could care
less.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you would ditch them,” I say.

“I know,” he says, “It’s just a touchy subject. I could
never leave those guys. They’re a second family to me. They’re the only reason
I managed to make anything out of myself.”

“You’re not one to let people down, are you?” I ask.

“Not at all,” he says, meeting my gaze, “Not when someone’s
important to me.”

He takes a step toward me, guitar in hand. I stand still,
wanting nothing more than to throw myself into his arms. Is that why he brought
me here? To fling me down on one of these old pool tables and have his way with
me? I image him pressing me down onto the green felt, the feel of his thick,
perfect body on top of mine. He stands before me, a look of serious intent, of
tamped down desire is burning in his eyes. I open my mouth to speak, to say
what I’m thinking...and to my utter horror, I let out a gigantic yawn. Slade
bursts out laughing, and I blush down to my toes.

“I’m so sorry!” I say, covering my mouth with my hands.

“It’s OK,” he laughs, “You must be absolutely exhausted.”

“No, I’m fine!” I say, letting out another huge yawn. “Now
that I’m thinking about not yawning, I can’t stop! I promise I’m not
disinterested or anything.”

“You just worked an entire shift, saving people’s lives,” he
says, “Trust me. I’m not offended. We should get you some coffee, I think.
Maybe some breakfast? What do you think?”

“Taking me out to breakfast already?” I say, “I think you’ve
got the order confused, here.”