The duet, p.12
The Duet, page 12
“The coast is clear. Where were we?” She holds out her arms for me.
“You don’t get it. I have to go. Jess somehow knows about us, or at least suspects, and she’s going to go mental if I don’t go clubbing with them tonight.”
“Jess knows?” Lana’s eyes go wide.
“She must have seen us at the rest stop earlier. Or she might have just sensed a change in the air. I don’t know, but she reminded me of our long friendship and the repercussions on the band if you and I…” This all sounds so utterly crazy when spoken out loud. It’s not as if, when we started the band, we all swore an oath to never fall for the same woman. These things happen and people deal with it.
“Hey, calm down.” Lana puts her hand against my back and guides me to a couch over by the bed. “Let’s sit for a minute.”
“I don’t have time to sit. They’re expecting me downstairs.”
Lana sits as though wanting to lead by example. “There’s always time.” She reaches out her hand. “That club isn’t going anywhere.”
I take her hand and let her pull me closer. “I’m so conflicted.” I straddle her legs but keep standing. “If I were in Jess’s shoes, I’d be upset too.”
“Jess has absolutely nothing to be upset about.” Lana’s hands ride up the back of my thighs.
“I don’t see things the way you do.”
Lana nods. “I know, which is what makes you so wonderful to be around.”
“What do you suggest I do?”
“What do you want to do?” Lana’s tone is so casual, it irks me. She’s not getting how serious this could be—or at least become—for me.
“I want to stay here with you.” And pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.
“Then stay here with me.”
“But then I have to lie to my bandmates, and Jess will know.”
Lana exhales slowly. “Oh, Cleo. I wish you could see that this is all such bullshit.”
“Maybe to you, but all four members of The Other Women have hero-worshipped you for years. We’re all different, so we’ve all dealt with it in our own way, but when it comes down to it, I’m not that different from Jess. I’m just lucky because I’m the singer and I go out there with you on stage every night and it led to… becoming more.”
“You’re overthinking this in the worst possible way.”
“I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to be in a band. How intense that bond is, but also how fragile egos can be, especially on a long tour like this. We have more than six weeks to go and I’m not risking weeks of tension over…”
“Over what?” Eyebrows arched up, Lana inspects my face.
“We’ve had one night.” Oh, no. Am I actually saying this? “Maybe that’s all it should be, for the sake of my band and the peacefulness of the rest of the tour.”
“Cleo.” Lana pulls me closer, pressing her fingertips into the flesh of my behind. “Jess is a grown woman and she’s your friend. She’s not going to begrudge you sleeping with me forever. Do you want me to talk to her?”
“You’re the one who wanted to keep this a secret.”
“That’s true.” Lana pulls me down so I’m sitting on her knees. “Because there simply isn’t that much to tell. Yet. Because it makes things easier. Case in point with Jess.” Her fingers steal across my back. “Last night was amazing. For me, at least. It was… It meant something to me, Cleo. It really did. It didn’t feel like a one-off, hence why you’re in my room right now.”
“You know how I feel about last night. I left you that message.”
“Okay, so, in conclusion… we want to be together again. I’d very much like for that to happen tonight. I’d like to spend the night with you, unhurried, not tired from just having played a show, with no wake-up call in the morning. From what you’ve told me, you’d quite like that yourself.”
I nod, swallowing hard. I want nothing more than what Lana is describing right now. It’s the stuff dreams I never even dared to have are made of.
I nod again. I want to kiss her so badly, but my trepidation has not decreased.
“How about I join them at the club for an hour or so, and then come back to your room?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.” Lana folds her arms around my neck. “Now, don’t you think it’s about time you kissed me?” She gazes into my eyes.
I can only bridge the gap between our lips and slip my tongue inside her mouth. Lana’s hands drift up to my hair. She holds me close, as though she doesn’t want me to leave.
“Do you still want to go clubbing?” Lana whispers after we break from our kiss.
I shake my head. “No, but I have to.” I kiss her again until my conscience is blaring like a loud alarm in my head. Then I tear myself away from her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“You do what you gotta do, Cleo,” Lana says and regards me with an odd smirk on her lips.
Chapter 21
Lana
Because I don’t feel like waiting alone in my room for Cleo, I take the biopic manuscript to read in the bar downstairs.
Some of the older crew members are hanging out. I order a beer and join them to shoot the breeze, to blow off some steam—and to avoid actually reading that script.
“No party for you tonight?” Dave, a burly guy who must be around my age, asks.
I shake my head. “My clubbing days are over.”
“Sam and Deb seemed up for it.”
“Good for them. How about you?”
“Me?” he gives a hearty laugh. “No,” is all the explanation he gives. “I’m glad I caught you, though.”
“What’s up?” This, too, is part of the touring life. Impromptu conversations with people you’ve just met or that you’ve known forever—like Dave.
“I was just curious how you’re holding up. I was so stoked when I got asked to go back out with the Kings again. I wasn’t expecting it, to be honest. I know Joan’s death hit you hard.”
Dave’s not mincing his words tonight.
“She was my wife.” I glance at the ring finger of my left hand that still holds my wedding ring—I haven’t come across a compelling enough reason to take it off.
“That song you do for her, “The Better Part of Me”, it gets me every single night.” Dave brings his fist to his chest. “Right here. I miss her, too. Joan Miller was something else, all right. She was made of that special stuff. Obviously, you don’t need me to tell you that, but I just want you to know that she was special to all of us and we all miss her so much, especially now that we’re back out on the road without her.”
I glance at Dave’s beer bottle to ascertain what he’s been drinking. I’d better steer clear of whatever beverage made him so sentimental.
“It’s strange without her. The first few gigs, I kept looking over and expecting to see her there, you know?”
“Billie’s excellent, though,” he says. “She really is.”
“Yeah,” I confirm. For a second, I wonder how Billie and Cleo are getting on in the club—whether Billie is putting the moves on her. But it’s easy enough to drag my mind away from all that frivolity. When your wife, who had seemed perfectly healthy, had a stroke and died in front of you, you learn to see things in perspective—after a while. This is why I can’t get worked up about Cleo’s drama with Jess. I understand it, but I can’t put any energy into it. I prefer to reserve that for things that really matter, like playing—and, perhaps, being with Cleo.
“Can I tell you something else?” Dave tugs at his graying beard.
“Shoot.”
“I mean no disrespect to Joan, you, or the other members of The Lady Kings. I’ve been with you a long time and The Kings will always be my number one, but that song you do with young Cleo.” He whistles through his teeth. “Something special happens when you two are up there.”
Even Dave has noticed?
“Yeah. She’s good.” Cleo’s made of the same special stuff Joan was made of.
“Good?” He scoffs. “She’s sensational.”
I can only nod approvingly. What would a guy like Dave, and the rest of the crew, make of me sleeping with Cleo? None of these people are saints and many things happen on tour that might not so easily happen in ordinary life. Dave probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid. But that’s the thing with a tour. Once it’s over, all those shenanigans tend to fade automatically because they don’t hold up in real life.
I can easily see myself sleeping with Cleo in hotel rooms all over the country, but I can’t see her staying over at my house on Laurel Canyon, having breakfast with me in my kitchen, in Joan’s chair. That’s about a hundred bridges too far.
“Hey, Dave, you’re a movie buff, aren’t you?”
He nods. “I just caught the latest Jane Campion movie in a theatre downtown while you were all having dinner.”
I slide the manuscript in his direction. “Would you do me a favor and read this for me? Let me know if it’s any good.”
“Untitled Lana Lynch biopic,” he reads out loud. “Whoa. For real?”
“Yeah. Apparently, Faye Fleming wants to play me.”
“Hm. Yeah, I could see that,” he says, as though he’s seriously considering it. “Who wrote this baby?” He peers at the much smaller letters the writer’s name is typed in. “Charlie something. Oh, yeah. Charlie Cross. It’s going to be super queer, that much I can tell without having read one single page.”
“Am I supposed to know who Charlie Cross is?”
“Uh, didn’t Elisa Fox come to the show in LA? Underground is based on Charlie Cross’s books.”
“Really?” Suddenly, I’m a whole lot more interested in reading the script.
“That huge movie with Faye Fleming and Ida Burton that came out a while ago—when there was all this brouhaha about Faye and Ida coming out as a couple. Charlie Cross co-wrote that.”
At least the screenplay writer is queer. That’s something.
“You had no idea?” Dave asks.
“No, because I have no interest in a movie being made of my life. I’m only fifty-four. What this is…” I tap my finger on the pile of pages in front of me. “Is a movie about Joan dying. That’s what it will all boil down to in the end, and I couldn’t be less interested.”
“Fair enough.” Dave eyes the script. “Do you still want me to read it?”
“Yes. I would like that very much.” There’s plenty of time for me to read it after Dave is done with it. “Thank you. Let’s have another beer.”
“Right on, Lana.”
It’s not as if Joan and I were joined at the hip, despite living and working together, but even sitting here with Dave and the rest of the crew feels odd without her. I know my resistance to reading that screenplay, and even more so to the possibility of having that movie made, is me still resisting Joan’s death—it’s my last-ditch effort against making it even more final somehow, as though she can die more than once.
But it’s my prerogative, and I don’t care what anyone else has to say about that. If someone even dares to make a move on this production without my blessing, I will sue the pants off their arrogant booty. Who does this Charlie Cross think she is, anyway? Writing a screenplay about me without ever having spoken to me? Where does she get her information? It can only be a load of bullshit. I’m sure, if she were still alive, Joan would agree with me wholeheartedly.
It’s well past midnight when I return to my room. There’s no sign of Cleo yet. I could text her, but that’s not the kind of person I am. If she shows up, she shows up. If she doesn’t, too bad for her.
Before I slip into bed with an episode of Underground, I search the internet for a clip of our very last duet. The one before we kissed. I watch it a few times, because it’s hard not to play it again and again and get sucked into the magic of the moment. Until I realize it will be too bad for me as well if Cleo fails to show up in my room tonight.
Chapter 22
Cleo
“Billie, I’m sorry,” I shout over a loud drumbeat. “But this—you and me—it’s not going to happen.” I look her in the eye so this can’t be misinterpreted. “I have feelings for someone else. Okay?”
Billie’s eyes grow wide. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter who.”
“Someone on the tour?” She sips from her drink while keeping her gaze trained on me.
“I’m really not going to tell you.”
Billie nods as though she’s finally getting that I’m not interested in her. “I guess I’ll find out when and if things get serious.”
“Yeah.” Serious? Me and Lana? It seems too far-fetched, but who knows what will happen? Then Jess turns up behind Billie, bopping to the music, and I’m reminded of at least one reason things had better not get too serious between us.
“Friends?” Billie holds out her hand, suddenly looking rather geeky, instead of the slick guitarist of The Lady Kings.
“Friends.” I shake her hand. “Besides, have you seen all the eyes that are glued to your every move in here? All you have to do is snap your fingers, and you can have whomever you want.”
“That’s not quite true, though, is it?” Is that a hint of hurt in her voice? A smidgen of the old sting of rejection? “And, besides, those eyes you just mentioned—they’re all on you, babe. They’re all on you.” She tilts her head toward me. “You tell that person you have feelings for they are very lucky.”
I grin at her as I imagine me telling Lana how lucky she is. The mere thought of it is preposterous.
“I’m serious. Make sure they know,” Billie repeats.
“Hey.” Jess holds up three fresh beers. “I’ve got more drinks.”
At this rate, I’m never going to get out of here. But Lana’s waiting for me.
“Cheers, ladies.” Billie clinks her bottle against mine and Jess’s before disappearing into the crowd.
“Tim’s tearing up the dance floor, as usual. Shall we join?”
I can’t bring myself to tell Jess that I want to go back to the hotel, even though it means missing out on more time with Lana.
I follow Jess onto the dance floor and even though part of me would rather be with Lana and repeat all the glorious things we did last night, it’s not a hardship for me to dance with my friends, these three people that I love so dearly and have such amazing chemistry with—on and off stage.
The more we dance and drink, the more the thought of Lana dissolves, and the more I’m convinced that I’m meant to be here with Jess, Tim, and Daphne tonight, instead of with her. Because they’re my bandmates and, as my level of intoxication grows, my doubts about what Lana is to me—and what I am to her—grow ever bigger.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, I don’t even try to knock on Lana’s door. It’s deep into the night and I don’t want to disturb her. I crash into my own bed and only wake up when it’s almost time for lunch.
I check my phone, but there are no messages from Lana. There are a ton of Instagram posts about our bender last night and messages in the band’s WhatsApp group about how epic it was and the varying levels of headache everyone is experiencing.
I’m not sure if I should text Lana, but I should at least apologize because I said I would go by her room and I didn’t. If it had been the other way around, if I’d been waiting all night for Lana to show up and she didn’t, I imagine I’d be pretty upset. So I text her:
* * *
Sorry I didn’t make it last night. I couldn’t get away. Hope to see you soon. xo
* * *
I laze around in bed, checking email and replying to a few messages, but Lana doesn’t respond.
We have our soundcheck soon, so I get up and hit the shower, hoping that Lana will have sent me a message by the time I’m dressed, but she hasn’t. Maybe she’s done with me already. Maybe me going out clubbing made her see her error in judgement in sleeping with me, someone far younger than her. And then there’s the stuff with Jess.
According to the WhatsApp group, a bunch of people are at a diner across the street from the hotel. I need to eat something before we head to the concert venue, so I decide to join them instead of ordering room service and stewing in my own thoughts.
Tim and Daphne whoop when I walk into the diner.
“She’s alive,” Jess exclaims dramatically.
I hold my head, pretending to have a massive headache, while most of my hangover is made of regret for letting Lana down. I scan the diner for a sign of her, but Billie is the only member of The Lady Kings present. She gives me a thumbs-up.
What’s Lana doing? I can hardly text her again. How would that make me look? I need to talk to her, but I won’t have time before the soundcheck. Maybe she’ll be at the venue. Oh fuck, my thoughts are spinning out of control again.
Ravenous, I order a stack of pancakes with lots of bacon and a large pot of coffee. At least five tables are taken up by people on the tour.
Just as I get my pancakes, my phone beeps. Heart thudding in my chest, I check the message. It’s from Lana.
* * *
Don’t worry about it. I missed you, though. I hope you won’t be too tired tonight.
* * *
I can’t help my cheeks from flushing the brightest pink.
“Damn, Cleo,” Daphne says. “Did you get lucky last night? And did she just text you something not suitable for the brunch table?”
I quickly hide my phone. I fan my cheeks. “Just… hungover,” I mumble. “Nothing of what you are insinuating.” I’m just glad Billie’s not at our table. I probably shouldn’t have told her I have feelings for someone. What if she tells Lana? Or someone else?
I devour the pancakes, my body craving the sugar after last night’s excess. I need all the energy I can get. We have a show tonight. I have a duet to sing with Lana followed by… my cheeks burn again at the prospect of what might happen tonight.
“Chop, chop,” Tim says. “You know they hate it when we make them wait.”
