Taking the Lead(38)

Taking five guys to Home Depot is never a quick trip. But it's not like we were in a hurry.

Ford's dad dropped by while we were sticking up the egg crate foam and invited us over to his place for dinner. We declined-I think we all wanted to play all night if we could-and instead ordered a pizza, and Chino went out and picked up a couple of crates of Mexican beer. And that meant a third trip to Home Depot, this time for a refrigerator, and then we pretty much had a rehearsal setup we could live with for the next couple of months.



       
         
       
        

We hadn't played together since the Grammy performance and I think everyone was really eager to get back in the saddle. When you're in a band, it sounds corny to say it, but it's kind of like being married to a bunch of guys. Sometimes you want to kill them, but you miss them when you've been apart.

"You guys ready to rock like Grammy winners?" I said when everyone was finally picking up their instruments again after we got the fridge running.

Chino played a little drum fill. "What should we start with?"

"How about 'Short Fuse'?" Ford suggested.

I shook my head. "Let's start with something that doesn't push the high notes first thing. How about 'If This Car's Rockin'?"

There was general agreement on my choice and off we went, playing through a couple of our older songs-"Gravitate," "Hold Fast," "Don't Look Away"-to knock the rust off before we started tossing around ideas for new material.

Around two in the morning Christina called my phone to harangue us not to stay up all night.

I put her on speaker and laid my phone on top of an amp. "You guys," came her tinny voice. "It's two a.m."

"We know," I said. "That's why I picked up the phone. I figured it was something urgent."

"No, just reminding you to go to bed."

"What are you, our mother? Why should we go to bed?" I motioned to the other guys who made noises of agreement with me. "Seriously, Chris. Do we have to be somewhere tomorrow?"

"No," she admitted. "So did you start writing anything new yet?"

"It's our first rehearsal, Chris. We're still knocking the rust off."

"Well, remember, this is the album that will make or break your careers. A one-hit wonder is great, but you need to have this one not only break big but break big internationally. And if it doesn't, well, that's all the more reason to set up this separate deal for the UK. I can basically double the money up front if Rothschild will go for it, you know."

Mal was rolling his eyes. He was as un-thrilled about trying to figure out what the British pop charts would like as I was. As if writing songs wasn't hard enough as it was. "Christina," I said seriously. "We love you. But leave us alone when we're writing, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Just wanted to remind you. Well, don't stay up too late!"

I got the feeling she felt we already had, but I laughed and said, "Bye, Chris. Don't call too early tomorrow. None of us will pick up."

We didn't actually play all night, only until about four, and then we went off to our various places to sleep. Samson and Ford were both staying at Ford's dad's place in Laurel Canyon, which had a couple of spare rooms. Chino-I'm not sure where Chino went. I went back to Mal's in Santa Monica where I'd converted his couch into a blanket fort because the morning sun could be kind of bright. 

All of which means I didn't re-read the article or call Ricki about it until well into the next day. I texted her first in case she was in the office.

Saw the piece in TTT. You doing okay?

The answer came quickly, as if she already had the phone in her hand.

No. I'm stuck here on media blackout.

Oh? Here=home?

Yes.

Great. I called her. I was lying on the couch, the blanket under me now, and I could hear Mal in the shower. "Hey. Want me to come over and relieve your boredom?"

"Who says I'm bored?"

"You used the words 'stuck here,' " I pointed out.

"True."

"I've got rehearsal, but I'll beg off after a couple of hours to save my throat if you want to see me." I didn't think the guys would be too pissed at me. They'd get over it.

"I don't know, Axel  … "

I knew there was a ton of reasons why the article might make her feel bad about herself and about relationships and about kink. But I played it light: "Don't know what: if you really want to see me or if you want to put up with my horny magnificent self? I can be good, you know."

"I don't know if it's a good idea for us to  …  keep doing what we're doing."

Uh-oh. I hoped she meant the dom-sub thing and not the whole relationship.

I kept my cool. "I don't know, either. Why don't we get together and talk about it."

"This is going to sound corny, but  …  it's good to hear your voice."

That did not sound like a woman who wanted to kick me to the curb, did it? "I'll come by late. Nine or ten, okay?"

"Okay."

I was distracted and jittery all through rehearsal. Granted, some of that may have been the coffee. LA is a driving town. Everyone drives everywhere. Having a car of my own, even if it was a rental, was kind of a new experience for me. Having a car of my own in a town where there was drive-thru everything-including coffee-was even newer. So I had picked up coffee at a drive-in window, at one of these places where the names of the sizes are all translations of the word large. Which means they don't indicate how large. They should probably be translated as giant, gigantic, and gargantuan if the state of my bladder was any indication. Next time get merely massive, Ax.

But the guys were also not fooled. Let's put it this way: I knew they were onto me when they started working on a song called "PW." For Pussy Whipped. I think Chino was the one who suggested it, but I was too distracted thinking about Ricki to pay attention to them making fun of how distracted I was. Let's face it: there's not much you can hide from your band. They know you too well and when you play music together  …  not to be too woo-woo or anything but  …  you sense each other's emotions.

They knew what was what. Mal threw me out after a couple of hours with the admonition to work on some lyrics by myself while they jammed. He was angry but I knew it was also his way of doing me a favor.

I probably should have been more worried about him being pissed at me but honestly I couldn't feel anything other than happy I was about to see Ricki. It was that stage of puppy love or new love or whatever you want to call it where the surges of emotion are so strong they get in the way of actual thought. So although I knew she was upset and was having some second thoughts (or maybe third thoughts), all I could feel was euphoria at the fact I was about to see her.



       
         
       
        

At the gatehouse to the Governor's Mansion, the guard gave me directions on how to drive through the grounds to the private garage. I wasn't sure what would happen if I made a wrong turn and I didn't want to find out. They had a fair bit of land and it was hilly; from the gate you couldn't even see the house.

When I pulled up to the garage door set in the side of a hill, it opened automatically and I eased my car in.

The suited man I knew as her head of security was there to greet me. "Mr. Hawke, I'm Reeve. Ms. Hamilton is awaiting you in the kitchen. I'll show you in."

"Thanks. I think maybe we passed the kitchen on my first time here but I wouldn't bet on me being able to find it again."

He gave me a tight smile and led the way.

She was in the kitchen making something, her back to us. I was half expecting a butler to announce me. But Reeve was like a ninja, totally silent, and he faded into the background once I stepped into the kitchen. I slipped onto a stool at a counter island that looked like it had come right out of a home and garden magazine. I guess when you can afford the best, you get the best.

I could hear the whisk in the pan.

"Don't you have servants to do that?" I asked, then felt a little guilty for startling her, because she jumped.

When she turned around she pretended she wasn't startled, though. "I don't keep the kitchen staff here this late," she said. "Besides, I don't need a chef to make me hot chocolate."

"I dunno, Rick'. It can be tough work to break up all the lumps in Swiss Miss."

She gave me a critical look.

"Isn't it a little warm out for hot chocolate?"

The look intensified. "Sometimes a woman's need for chocolate has nothing to do with the temperature."

"No argument here."

She went to fetch what was on the stove. She set two mugs on the counter between us, drizzled liquid caramel from an unmarked squeeze bottle into them, and then from the saucepan poured a dark liquid striped with beige foam. The mugs were each filled about two-thirds of the way and she gave me one.

"I didn't know when you were coming," she said, as if apologizing for the scant amount.

I had the mug halfway to my mouth. "Whoa, whoa, you aren't giving me chocolate you intended to drink yourself, are you?"

"I can always make more if I need it," she said, coming around to the stool next to mine. She took a sip and closed her eyes, a long sigh of relief coming from her as it went down. It was like her body relaxed as the chocolate seeped in.