Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (6 page)

“Yes.” I chewed the inside of my lip, unwilling to open the allopathic dialogue, which only a fraction of the population seemed to embrace. I was proud of my studies. However, since I was already being tagged as another dumb, rich bimbo with a sex tape out, it was not the time to be even more of a hipster. “I’ll have my B.S. in nursing.”

“That’s wonderful. So many people look at a face like yours—and everything—and don’t see beyond that. Women like you are proof of beauty and brains.”

The remark seemed sexist, and I gnawed my inner lip again while curving a tight smile. “As opposed to what? Ugly men who are stupid?”

His look sharpened on my face, and his amused smile and slight shake of his head seemed genuine. With a twist of his chin, he took in the audience and elicited a round of laughter.

As if the stage was a giant chessboard and we were the pieces, he cunningly played his next move. “So you’ve had some excitement lately.”

“Yes!” Ignoring the cat and mouse atmosphere, I attempted to segue into the documentary—the reason I was on the show. “My first red carpet event.”
That I could remember
.

A photo fluttered through my mind. My dad carrying a baby. My mother beside him. A backdrop behind them. Red carpet beneath their feet.

“The documentary… I was at the premiere. The piece is truly a work of art.” He lifted a DVD case from the desktop and then discarded it for the moment. “But you’ve had your own movie recently.”

My head seemed heavy and fell to the side as I regarded him. Was he really going there? Even after I’d done my damndest to thwart the subject?

When I didn’t speak right away because I was too busy weighing my words, he went on with a chuckle and a glance at the audience. “It’s a work of art too.”

Laughter erupted as spontaneously as if a prompt sign had flashed, but I was betting it hadn’t. This particular host was known for his humor and expressive face.

“Well, I guess someone would have to watch to know.” Deciding to roll with it, I pulled my own playful expression and looked from him to the studio audience, including those on the balcony. “But whether it is or isn’t, it’s been stressful. And the timing is unfortunate. It’s taking focus off the documentary, you know?”

“You shouldn’t stress. It is art. And you can’t say that about just anyone’s… um home movie.”

“Well, thank you, I think.” My neck heated, spreading to my face again. “But I can’t believe you’re going to sit right there across from the person in the video and admit to watching it.”

“I could say I didn’t watch. But everyone would know better.” He gestured into the studio audience. “Is there anyone who hasn’t watched? I dare you to deny. Because face it. This may be better than Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t have the rack.” I countered, but kept my gaze demurely on the cables and cords lining the stage floor. “But anyway, enough about
that
movie.”

“You’re too modest. Your rack is stacked. And your… costar can certainly compete with Tommy Lee.”

“Who raised you?” I retorted, settling back in the chair with a false air of leisure when I wanted to jump and run. Especially when the shock wore off in the next second and the reality set in.

First, I was mortified the conversation had taken this turn. I should have foreseen the possibility. This host had annihilated Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan and had put many A-List celebrities in this same hot seat. Second, I was terrified. If he was being this relentless about such a delicate subject, he could take the next leap at any moment to my step-relationship with Gage.

“Don’t talk about my mother.” His quip was joking and flippant, but he fidgeted, picking his notecards up, stacking them, and putting them down. “She can’t help if she raised a black sheep.”

The audience laughed as they were meant to, and although I wasn’t feeling it, I did too. As if everything was cool. But I was affronted. Embarrassed. And livid.

“Okay. I’m just playing. And you’re being a good sport.” He looked from me to his captive audience and encouraged their participation. “Isn’t she? She’s delightful, isn’t she?”
Applause
. “So for anyone who doesn’t know who this lovely young woman is… Scarlette Conterra is Tyler Conterra’s daughter. And the movie she’s here to talk about…” Deliberately, a showman, he trailed off long enough to cue laughter and more catcalls before holding his hand up. “Is ‘Conterra Chronicled.’ This is a documentary of Rock Icon Tyler Conterra. As I mentioned, I had the privilege of being at the premiere. Very moving film. This is the brainchild of Willard Acker. What did you think of him?”

“He’s brilliant.” Again, I shoveled the shit aside—like the hard feelings I harbored for the documentary content that I’d barely stopped in time—and instead I concentrated on the end result and the small amount of time I’d watched and been impressed by his work.

“His previous documentaries have won awards, and I have to say, this might be his best work yet. The cinematography is amazing, and the soundtrack brilliantly pulls it all together. Some of it is unreleased tracks?”

“Yes. They’re actually holding back on the soundtrack because the unreleased recordings will be on an album coming out later this year as well as the soundtrack.”

“Has your father’s band’s music always been a part of your life?”

“Yes. I love their songs.”

“You’re in good company. It’s transcended decades, hasn’t it?” When I nodded, he went on. “The interviews in the film are extremely moving. The questions and answers are very candid.”

I nodded. “He—Mr. Acker—did reach in, grab the gut, and twist with many of the subjects.”

“Would you indulge a couple of more questions?” At my nod, he shuffled his cards again. “When did you know who your father was? What age did someone sit you down and say, hey, this man was your father. Or was it a surprise realization?”

“It was definitely one of those cartoon-light-bulb-flashing-on moments.”

“Do you mind sharing?”

“We were living in L.A. My mom had a boyfriend. This particular one came around anytime he was off-tour.” I paused remembering how he would show up and hang around for a bit and then be gone for a bit. And being shuffled off to my maternal grandmother who was still alive at the time when my mom joined him on tour for a week or more at a time. Both scenarios were common with man after man in my mother’s love life. “I was around six or seven, I guess. My mom and I were watching a concert on one of the music stations. He sat down on the couch with us, and I remember wondering what his problem was, because he was being such a—so moody. He finally lost it and demanded she change the station. And my mother said, quote, ‘No. Scarlette wants to watch her daddy.’”

“And that’s when you knew. You understood?”

“I asked her a lot of questions in the days to come, but yes. I felt the connection the second she said it. Like a missing piece had suddenly completed me.”

“In the documentary, you play your father’s guitar. What’s your interest in music? Have you ever wanted to go that direction as a career?”

“The life of a musician is a dark ride. A lot of stress and uncertainty. I’m more of a stable-schedule-each-day-for-the-next-year type of girl.”

“When you watched the documentary, was it emotional for you? Or were you too young to associate those scenes with your life? What feelings did you have?”

“The one consistent emotion when watching it—and when thinking about everything—is regret that I don’t remember him. Even when I think as hard as I can, there’s not one real memory. My memories come from seeing him in pictures my mom has, or the media.”

A clip of the documentary was shown, and we talked for a few minutes more. He stood when I got to my feet to leave, and we shook hands. Turning to the audience, I sent a quick wave and I was met at the stage entrance and escorted back to the green room…

Where I closed myself in the restroom, clasped my hair at my neck, leaned, and heaved.

The moment I reached
my hotel room, I ordered room service. Suddenly ravenous, I chose generously from the menu while watching from thirty-eight stories above Broadway as the Big Apple city lights began to glow in the falling dusk.

Feeling an absurd need to wash the last couple of hours away, I stripped off my clothing and jumped in and out of the shower. After wrapping in the complimentary robe, I collapsed on the bed and texted Gage. When he didn’t text or call right back, I knew he was busy with one of his rehab activities. After all, it was three hours earlier in Utah. I flipped on the television, but dangled my feet from the edge of the bed while staring at the crown molding bordering the ceiling. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt this alone.

Is this what being on tour was like? From what I’d gleaned from Gage, tour was an extreme of never being alone, or being too alone.

The knock from room service startled me. I let the butler in and flipped through the television channels while he set up. When I was alone again, I ignored the extravagant place setting. Instead, I grabbed the plate of stuffed crab appetizers and the soda. Detouring by the wet bar, I set the china down long enough to dig out a couple of tiny whiskey bottles. Then I settled in the middle of the bed just as the news ended and the night show was coming on.

It was good Gage hadn’t answered my text. Maybe he would forget this thing was airing. Watching myself onscreen was as surreal this time as the few others. If they’d cut anything in the quick edit before taking it live, I couldn’t tell.

The second it was over, Gage rang my phone. “Hey, Scar Darlin’.”

“H
ey.” The forlorn voice greeting him was what he’d been afraid of.

“What’re you doing?” Closing his eyes, he imagined her in a hotel room with the television muted on the network channel where her show had aired.

“Eating. But I’m done.”

“What did you eat?”

“Coconut shrimp. Macaroni. Um, some stuffed crabs.” A rustling sound came over the phone as if she was changing clothes or lying down. “Jalapeño hushpuppies.” Blowing out a breath, she added. “Cheesecake for dessert. Oh yeah, these little corn fritter things.”

“Damn. Hungry?” In her habits he’d learned so far, she abstained from eating when upset. This was new if she was eating because of how her guest appearance had gone.

“I thought I was. Really I just ate a couple of bites of everything.”

“There are kids starving in Africa.”

“I know…”

“I was teasing, Scar Dar’.”

“I know. Doesn’t change anything for those kids though.”

He wanted to reach through the phone, pull her in his arms. Miraculously, he was getting a phone signal in his room.

“Scar, what’s wrong?” He knew, but felt she needed to say it.

After watching along with millions of viewers the woman he loved being harassed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he was upset, and he knew she was as well.

“Just tired.” She lied to him.

“You looked beautiful.” Since she wouldn’t, he opened the dialogue of the show. “New jeans?”

“Kind of. I got them right before Big Sur.”

“I didn’t think it was possible for your ass to be hotter. But damn!”

Nothing from her side of the phone. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t make a sound.

And so he tried again. “Guess what? You were on the same stage where the Beatles performed for the first time in the U.S.”

“Really?” There was a pique of interest in her tone.

“Yeah.” He felt a smile tug one side of his lips. Scar could pretend a disdain for anything musician related, but lately that façade was cracking. “The Ed Sullivan Show.

Then two days later, they did their first U.S. concert.”

The silence stretched, and he wondered for a second if he had pushed his phone time in this room and his call had finally dropped. You still there?”

“I felt so cheap. Like just another stupid girl with her panties off gone viral…”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Nothing.

“I promise. You were classy. People are interested in you. And that’s part of you right now.”

“I was afraid—no terrified—he was going to go after the step thing next.”