Taking the Lead(16)

"I can't tell if you hope they will be or won't be."

"Well, if they've forgotten about it by tomorrow, that's bad. On the other hand if the reason they haven't is because they want to run you out of town with pitchforks, that would also be bad."

"Okay  …  And what would be good, then?"



       
         
       
        

"Good would be they're in a frenzy over the idea that there might be something going on with you and her!" She elbowed me. Chris was not subtle.

My stomach sank. I didn't see any way that could be good for my prospects of getting something real going with the aforementioned heiress, given how gun shy she was about anyone knowing. I tried to smile, though.

"She's okay with it, right?" Christina asked, eyeing me closely.

"She didn't banish me from the party, anyway."

"Oh. Is she mad at you?"

Well, that was true enough. "A bit miffed, yeah."

"You want me to talk to her?" She craned her neck, looking around for our hostess.

"No! No, it's fine, Chris, really. She knows it was  …  just a publicity stunt. She's busy. Don't bother her."

"If you're sure. Who's her publicist? I should check in with them."

"I don't think she has a publicist."

"What? What famous Hollywood person doesn't have a publicist?" She clucked her tongue. "Maybe I should give her my card  … "

That was about as much private conversation as I got. What I really wanted, of course, was to happen upon Ricki and, you know, make the magic apology that would make it all okay, or luckily find out that she was feeling less bitter and angry. It was excruciating knowing that the woman I couldn't get out of my mind was somewhere right nearby-but given how she'd banished me from her presence, I was pretty sure that if she had laser beams for eyes I would be crispy-fried on the spot. Would it be bad form to kidnap her twice in one night? It gnawed at me that she wasn't glued to my hip where she belonged. I know, I know, in what universe did a peon like me own a princess like her? But that was how it felt, like she should have been there to receive the congratulations with me, like she was already a part of me.

Like she was mine.

I tried not to show it, of course. Winning a Grammy shouldn't be taken for granted. But I couldn't help but feel that although I'd gained something amazing and unexpected that night, I'd also lost something. I'd had Ricki in my grasp and then she had slipped away.

I told myself I'd get another chance, though. I had to. Right now the best strategy was to let her cool down. We both had public faces to put on. We both had obligations to meet.

So I hid my frustration and palled around with my bandmates, being the carefree playboy they were used to.

"Group photo, group photo!" Christina said, trying to get us together in front of a fountain outside in the courtyard. This mansion was fancier than the fanciest hotel we'd ever stayed in. We lined up dutifully, each holding a Grammy. "Oh, so boring! You guys, do something more interesting." 

Chino is always the one with the off-the-wall ideas. "Human pyramid! Hey, Sun-Lee, come get in the picture, too!"

The K-Pop star we'd met that night came over. "What is a human pyramid?"

"You know, like this." Chino got down on all fours, and gestured to me to do the same.

"C'mon, Mal, you, too," I said.

"This looks less than dignified," Mal said skeptically. "Surely Christina wouldn't-"

"Get in, get in!" Chris said, shooing him toward us.

So Mal got down on his hands and knees also, and Ford and Samson got on top of us, and then Sun-Lee climbed on top. And then Chris balanced a Grammy on each of our heads like a hat. Which took some doing. Those things are heavy. But when you've had enough champagne anything is possible, I guess.

A little later Chino instigated an impromptu dance party by the swimming pool and I decided that was a good time to go looking for a restroom. Last I saw of him he was on the diving board, dancing between two women I didn't recognize. Dirty dancing. That's quite the feat with multiple partners, you know. Especially on narrow, bouncy fiberglass a few feet over water. Chino was a risk-taker, though. That's why me and Mal got on so well with him.

Inside the house it was quiet. A staff member pointed me to a restroom immediately, giving me no chance to "accidentally" run into Ricki in the kitchen or somewhere. I'd have to figure out some other way of reaching her.

I was making my way toward the parlor again when I came across the grand piano. The foyer was two stories high, dominated by a huge chandelier and a sweeping spiral staircase that curved around the piano from a landing up above. Paintings of her ancestors lined the wall up the staircase like some kind of royalty. I think we played nightclubs smaller than that foyer when we were getting started. Curiosity got the better of me and I discovered the piano was in working order.

I'm not much of a pianist. Samson, our keyboard player, openly laughs at me when I try to play anything serious. But at one point when I was a scrawny, pimple-faced kid and my family was doing a stint in a small military town, there was a piano in the chorus room at school, and I used to go in there to avoid the bullies and the idiots and play. My mother had made sure I had formal piano lessons whenever we could get them, up until I was about fourteen, when I started playing the guitar.

My fingers still remembered what they could do. And once I started to play and sing, I didn't have to talk to anyone. I didn't have to remember anyone's name. I didn't have to wonder whether what I was saying was going to be good or bad for my career. And I didn't have to pretend I wasn't scanning the partygoers constantly for Ricki's face. A crowd quickly gathered.

I would've loved to play one of our songs, like "Everybody Wants, Everybody Needs," but I didn't know it on piano. Instead I played what I knew-what had stayed in my fingers from when I was a kid-mostly pop songs and oldies I had learned. I improvised a little at first, feeling my way through the chords, but this thing happens in music, where your muscle-memory takes over and your voice almost feels like it's coming out on its own. When that starts to happen, it's like my entire body vibrates like a guitar string. From deep in my gut where hunger and lust reside comes this sound: my voice. Maybe that's why my voice draws people to me. They sense it. Like the pack knows on some primal level to listen when they hear that howl.

One thing that had probably been true for decades and was definitely still true: the Beatles are a surefire hit. After a couple of songs where I sang by myself, I started in on The Beatles and, voila! Instant sing-a-long. Now everyone's voices were raised together, and that was another experience, a kind of magic to have total strangers come together and raise their voices with me.



       
         
       
        

I don't know how long I played. I played anything I could remember. For a while Mal sat down on the bench next to me and sang, too. He's got a much deeper voice than mine. I wasn't even really paying attention to the people around us, only in the sense that they were a crowd and they were singing along. I was caught up in the music and in performance and letting it all flow, almost as if it were someone else's hands and not my own hitting the piano keys.

And then the bubble burst. I ground to a halt with a laugh and said, "That's all folks! That was every song I know!" I stood on the bench to take my bows as they showered me with laughter and applause. Ah yes, that is me, a jester, a traveling jongleur, here for your amusement. So glad to be of service.

That was much better than shaking hands with people in suits and diamonds. It would have been the perfect cap to the night had I not glanced up from my bows to see Ricki, poised at the top of the spiral stairs, looking down at me with an air of disapproval.

She was alone. I saw her shake her head and start to descend.

I excused myself quickly from the crowd, hoping I might be able to intercept her this time.

* * *


RICKI

My feet were killing me and my head hurt from trying to remember the names of all the people I was supposed to know, and it wasn't even midnight.

You know what I should have done? After I'd made a round of greeting and glad-handing, I should have taken myself back to my room straightaway with a mug of cocoa and hidden for the rest of the night. Once Gwen had emerged-which she did, looking more radiant than any of the starlets there-I should have handed off the hostess duties to her and fled.

But I didn't. I kept hoping maybe I could pick up my interrupted conversation with Meyers. I tried to keep tabs on the catering.

And I kept circling past Axel Hawke. I confess. I wanted to see if he would put the moves on Sun-Lee. Or even Sakura. If he did, I thought, that would give me all the ire I needed to burn the idea of him out of my mind, proving the "playboy" thing was real. So it was confusingly disappointing when, from what I could tell, Axel Hawke was a perfect gentleman to everyone around him. Including Gwen, who I introduced to one of the other band members and who took her over to meet the others. He didn't even take her hand, just nodded and half-bowed, and then I lost track of watching him while his manager caught up with me. Thank goodness she agreed with me that the "just a publicity stunt" angle was the best and she thanked me for playing along. Ha.