Unforgettable (3 page)

“Time for you to get out of my life.”

“Don’t be that way. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

The other woman was awake now, her Kewpie doll mouth open in surprise, but otherwise she lacked any expression of chagrin. If anything, she looked triumphant.

It was then, over the woman’s shoulder, that Rett saw the mirror, razor and remnants of white powder. The realization hit her harder than anything else that had happened, and it literally knocked the breath out of her.

Trish knew how she felt about drugs. Trish supposedly felt the same. Drugs were for losers on a one-way trip to Loserville. Trish had agreed.

Everything she’s ever told me was a lie, Rett thought. Even that she loved me.

She struggled to find enough breath to speak. “I’m serious, Trish. It’s over.”

“Rett, honey, you don’t mean that. I’ve embarrassed you. You’re upset.”

“Embarrassed me?”

The other woman spoke up. “I’m so sorry to be the bone of contention —”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Rett didn’t want to look at the woman, let alone talk to her. “Now’s a good time to get dressed and get out, because this doesn’t concern you.”

Trish nodded when the woman looked at her. They waited while she dressed. Rett did not fail to notice that Trish mouthed, “I’ll call you,” at the woman as she left.

Trish began to get dressed herself while Rett stood in the doorway. After Trish pulled a tight muscle shirt over her head she looked up at Rett. “Have you eaten?”

Rett’s laugh was incredulous. “We’re not done.”

“Yes, we are.” Trish tidied her short hair with her fingers and then met Rett’s gaze in the mirror. “God, I’ve missed you.”

No, she thought, I’m not going to let this happen. Traitor body — how could she still want Trish?

Trish turned from the mirror, all muscled legs and shoulders. “I think I got dressed too soon.”

She was letting Trish get too close. Trish’s breath was whispering over her ear. She could smell… she could smell sex and couldn’t help her own response. To get in their bed where Trish had been with someone else, to make Trish prove how much she still loved her by obliterating the memory of another woman — she was dizzy with the temptation.

Trish lightly touched her lips with one finger and Rett wanted to nibble at it.

I am not my mother. I will not make her mistakes. Rett had carried that litany with her from the moment she had left home, and yet she knew she was on the verge of making one of her mother’s mistakes — settling for any kind of love as better than none at all.

She stepped back and whispered, “No.”

Trish looked dumbfounded. Her sexy air faded and her voice was like steel. “Am I going to get a reason?”

Rett had to clear her throat. “You know the reason.”

“I’m sorry Cheri was still here.”

“This is not about whoever that was or any of them. It’s about Disney.” Cheri — cute little name to go with her cute little ass.

“We got the callback, babe. I’m just waiting to find out when. It was going to be a surprise.”

“They canceled, babe. Because I’m a pain in the ass to work with. Because Rett Nobody Jamison demands limos and buffets.”

“Those shits! They do that for the person who walks Mariah Carey’s dog. It was a perfectly reasonable request.”

Rett shook her head in disbelief. “This was the biggest break of my career and you don’t seem to realize that you fucked it up.”

“We don’t need them if they don’t know how to treat us.” Trish shrugged as if that was all that needed to be said.

Rett’s voice was squeaky with anger. “I need them."

I 
needed this job. This isn’t about how they treat us, it’s about me getting the break of a lifetime. You fucked it up — why? Was Cheri coming along for the ride as foreplay? Were you going to introduce her to me as a fresh, young voice who needed the invaluable experience of seeing a working studio?”

“You’re jealous of Cheri and you shouldn’t be.” Trish was turning up the pheromones again. “You know how I feel about you.”

I am not my mother and I will not make her mistakes. Rett took a deep breath. “I know what you want me to think. But it’s over. You’ve fucked up my career and you’ve brought drugs into the house.”

“That?” Trish rolled her eyes. “It’s Cheri’s. Though it wouldn’t hurt you to try it. It would let your hair down a little.”

“It’s over, Trish.” Rett felt as if she was looking at a stranger. “I don’t know you anymore. I don’t trust you to handle my business anymore. I don’t respect you anymore.”

Trish’s expression was mulish. How had she ever mistaken it for sultry? “You’re from nowhere and heading back there on the fast track. Who the fuck are you to throw me out?”

It was like her mother’s voice out of the past. Rett gritted her teeth. “I’m the owner of this apartment. The one who pays the bills. The one with a career that now needs some major repair. I’m taking the career back to Naomi and I’m looking forward to one person in my bed, not three.”

“That bitch — I knew she was behind this. She’s had it in for me since the start. She tells you lies and you have a hysterical fit!”

Rett’s anger made her feel intensely calm. “I’ve realized I trust Naomi more than I’ll ever trust you. Naomi doesn’t use me. I know that we agreed no monogamy. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t see the hotel charge receipts on the credit card I pay for. Five-star hotels for you for a roll in the hay, but I’m always at Motel 6 when I’m working.”

“This is all about money.” Trish lounged against the wall in the leave-me-alone-come-get-me manner that had brought Rett running four years ago. Rett thought it viciously unfair that those dark eyes still made her weak in the knees.

“You know, I’ve just realized that it is. It’s all about how much money I can make to keep you in the style you’re accustomed to. You don’t spend a dime of your percentage on anything related to me and our home or your car.” She waved a hand at the paraphernalia on the bedstand. “For all I know, you’ve been putting it all up your nose. It doesn’t matter. The free ride is over.”

“You don’t have a problem living the good life.”

Rett’s lips tightened. Her voice fell to its deepest level. “I’m the one with the three-octave vocal range and a flawless memory. I’m the one who does the actual work that pays the bills. I’m the one who spends two hours a day practicing. I’m done with your making everything my fault. I’m not taking the blame for your arrogance. The only thing I’ve done wrong is let this go on too long.”

Trish ran one elegant hand through her short, dark hair. She looked at Rett through her lashes and said nothing. Rett could sense the pheromones again. Her body reminded her how much she had been looking forward to being with Trish. The feel of Trish inside her and her mouth finding the places that she knew would make Trish tremble … it would be very easy to say yes.

I am not my mother I will not make her mistakes. Rett stood stock-still, afraid even the slightest motion would betray her unwanted desires. The rest of her life was more important than a quick fuck. Otherwise what was the point of working so hard for a future?

When the silence got too hard to bear, Rett dragged one of Trish’s suitcases out of the closet. It wouldn’t hold all of Trish’s things, of course, but the significance was important. She filled it with polo shirts, underwear and chinos, put Trish’s toothbrush on top, zipped it shut, then crossed the room to hold it out to Trish.

Trish stared at the case as if it were a snake. “You don’t really mean this.”

“I do.”

Trish moved so quickly that Rett couldn’t do more than let out a startled yelp. She knocked the suitcase from Rett’s hand and seized her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

Rett arched her neck back so she could look into Trish’s eyes. She found her most scathing tone. “Is this where we clinch and I forgive everything? You’re not macho enough for this move.” She knew that Trish could feel how hard she was shaking. She was still angry and now the electricity of Trish’s touch was threatening to change anger to lust.

Trish was looking down at her with an expression that Rett didn’t recognize. Was it contempt? Did Trish really feel so little for her? Had she been mistaking contempt for love all along?

For several heartbeats Trish just held her tightly, then she put her mouth on Rett’s. Rett turned her head away as far as she could, trying to not dignify Trish’s caveman tactics by struggling.

“Let go of me. This is ridiculous.”

“Who are you to dump me?” Rett glanced back into Trish’s eyes and didn’t recognize what she saw there. In that instant, Trish shoved her into the wall so viciously that Rett saw stars. Just as her muddled vision cleared, Trish slapped her, hard.

In that instant, Rett was sixteen again, hearing the crack of some boyfriend’s hand across her mother’s face. I will not be a victim. I am not my mother.

All her rage boiled to the surface. She did what she had learned to do when the kids picked on you because your mom was a lush and you had no idea who your father was. Didn’t include you because you dressed in garage sale clothes, because you weren’t interested in boys or getting drunk. Called you names because, even in strange clothes and with a tramp of a mom and not liking boys and never getting drunk, you could still sing the national anthem and bring the crowd to its feet on the word free all without a microphone. She grabbed Trish by the back of her hair and pushed her face into the wall hard enough to bruise.

“If you ever, ever touch me again, you’ll need a plastic surgeon. What did you think — I’d crumple up and cry and beg you to forgive me? I’m nobody’s victim. It won’t work anymore!”

“Let go of me!”

Rett let go and stumbled back several feet. Her tunnel vision was receding and so was the adrenaline rush. The hand she put to her slapped face was shaking.

Trish had her hand on her face, too. “I know you plenty well. So you can sing. You’re still trash. You don’t get the big gigs because everyone knows it.”

“You hit me and I’m the trash?”

She saw Trish swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I … lost my temper. I should be punching Naomi.”

“As if this is her fault. As if punching someone could settle anything. Naomi was ready to walk away from me, you know that? Your fucking up my reputation was more than she could bear to watch.”

“Well, you’re not going to listen to anything I say. Four years and that’s it.”

Rett was stricken with guilt, then she stiffened her spine. How did Trish do that? Trish had slapped her and degraded her and somehow ended up making her feel like the guilty one. “You don’t love me. I don’t love you. What’s the point of it anymore? What could you say that could possibly change that?”

“You’ll never know, will you? I’ll be back for the rest of my stuff.” Trish snatched up the suitcase.

Rett followed her to the door. For what, she didn’t know. A tender good-bye after that exchange of violence? Just to be sure she was gone?

Trish turned from the open door. “By the way, if you think what we had was love, think again.”

“If it wasn’t love at the beginning, what was it?”

“A means to an end. After that, it was just pathetic.”

“You’re half of that story,” Rett said hoarsely. Emotion and exhaustion had taken their toll on her throat. “If it was pathetic then you get half the blame.”

“Sorry, sweetie.” Rett wondered distantly if Trish knew just how unattractive that sneer was, and how much worse it would be if she ripped Trish’s face apart with her bare hands. “I was the one who laughed about your sad little libido with other women. Lots of them.”

Rett closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting Trish to see the knife going in. Then she fixed Trish with an unwavering gaze. “And I’m the trash?”

Trish didn’t answer. She swung her suitcase as she went through the door, knocking over a little table laden with mail and papers. She slammed the door behind her and a picture nearby slipped off its nail and shattered on the tile.

In pieces. Rett gasped for breath. She struggled against the tears. Crying ruined her voice and her face. Then she remembered she wasn’t singing in the near future.

She cried about loving and not loving Trish, and for losing the woman she had thought Trish was. She cried because she wasn’t who she had hoped she’d be by now and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to start over. She cried because she could.

“How come you won’t go out with the boys who hang around here? You too good for them?”

“I don’t like boys, Mama. It’s none of your business anyway! You bring enough men into the house for both of us!”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, young lady. I can still pull you over my knee and I don’t care if you are Miss Artsy Fartsy in your third-rate school play …”

Rett woke up on the couch. The VCR clock blinked 8:30. For a minute she was too disoriented to know if that was A.M. or EM. It was EM., the same miserable day. The echo of her mother’s voice hissed in her ears.

She reached for the phone to call Naomi, then stopped herself before the call went through. What was she going to do? Dump her mess on Naomi’s lap and expect her to pick up the pieces? That was weak and unprincipled. She thought of old friends she could call for comfort. Friends she’d let drift away because Trish didn’t like them. She couldn’t call them just because she suddenly could use a good shoulder — she was not going to be one of those people that used friends as standins between lovers.

Today, Rett vowed, she was done with being weak. Maybe Trish was a manipulative bitch, but as Eleanor Roosevelt had discerned, no one can make you feel inferior without your help. She shoved all thoughts of her mother into a mental closet and visualized padlocks on the door — that was where she belonged.

She glanced at her ravaged face in the mirror. She could still feel the sting of Trish’s slap. Tears threatened. You’re no Eleanor Roosevelt, she told herself. But you’re going to have to try harder. You gotta be strong, you gotta be tough, you gotta be wiser.

She felt a little less hollow after a large glass of milk and some ibuprofen. A hot shower removed the sticky airplane feeling and the unclean aura of the scene with Trish. She threw away the paraphernalia, stripped the bed and put the sheets in the washer, then dug around until she found her old ratty chenille robe. She’d always liked it better than the silk kimono Trish had given her one Christmas. She wandered into the den that served as her home office. She wasted an hour playing Myst, then clicked onto the Internet to check her mail. It was then that she realized this was the first problem she had to confront. Trish had her passwords, and Trish’s screen name account was through Rett’s online membership.