Chapter 11 Joz
Joz
Okay, I admit it. I’m obsessed.
Whenever I was deep in the writing zone, I blocked out everything and everyone, going completely dark.
No phone calls, no texts, no visitors. I didn’t watch TV or listen to music, the latter being both a blessing and a curse.
A curse because music fed my soul, but when penning my own songs, listening to other artists interfered with my voice.
A little over five weeks had passed since Aspen turned up at my place, and the summer heat had finally given way to a cool, autumnal breeze.
Thank fuck. UK heat hit differently to other countries, and although I had air conditioning, it wasn’t found everywhere.
Despite the crappy summer heat, I wouldn’t choose to live anywhere else.
My inspiration came from these streets, from these people, from the vibrant and gritty music scene this country was famous for.
But this time it’d hit differently. I’d followed the same routines, cutting off the world around me to ensure I bled onto the page.
Except thoughts of Aspen had haunted me throughout the entire process.
More than one of these songs were about her.
My obsession with the one woman who’d made it clear she was off limits grew like a weed.
I’d given it the perfect conditions in which to thrive.
I missed her.
Her vibrant personality and sassy mouth. The way she twisted her hair around her finger when deep in thought. Her care for those she saw herself responsible for, even though they were grown adults who should be able to care for themselves. And her arse. Man, that arse should be illegal.
The album was written. Four weeks from today, I’d be in New York recording it, but I couldn’t wait that long to see Aspen.
Now that I’d done the work, the urge to connect with her, even with an entire ocean between us, enveloped me.
I checked the time. Twelve-fifteen, so seven-fifteen in the morning on the East Coast of the US.
Not too early, right?
Fuck it.
I turned on the phone I used for business for the first time since Aspen was last here.
I had a personal phone, too, but very few people had that number.
Only my mother and sister, Mike, who knew only to use it in case of extreme emergency, plus Kate.
That was it. As the phone booted up, reams of texts and missed calls poured in.
Journalists wanting an exclusive on why I’d chosen to sign with a small label when I’d had the bigger ones clamoring for my signature the second my last contract ended.
A local restaurant who wondered if I’d consider endorsing their new business.
A local music venue reaching out to see if I’d swing by one night.
Know who hadn’t called or left a message?
Aspen.
Yes, I’d told her I didn’t engage when I was writing, and she’d obviously respected my wishes, but I kind of thought she might have checked in anyway.
Calling up our last text conversation, I typed out a message, deleted it, then rewrote it another five times before settling on the lamest text message ever sent.
Me: Hey.
See what I mean?
After tossing my phone on the desk where I did all my writing, I traipsed into the kitchen to make a sandwich. I wasn’t hungry, but anything felt better than staring at a screen and waiting for the girl I couldn’t get out of my mind to reply to my shitty text.
I’d taken a single bite out of my ham and cheese when curiosity and, yes, hope made me return to my office. The lock screen displayed a message. She’d replied. I opened that thing so damn fast. Was this what pussy whipped looked like?
Aspen: Hey yourself. Am I to take it that you’ve finished writing? Or have you broken your own rule because you missed my wit and humor too much?
I clamped a hand to my chest. This woman owned me.
Me: Yes to both.
Aspen: That’s amazing! Well done. Roll on next month.
I couldn’t wait until next month. This would need careful handling given Aspen’s all-business-no-pleasure line in the sand. A line I’d scrub out, or at least smudge, if I had my way.
Aspen: Now you’re no longer “dark,” how would you like to come to New York on Saturday to lend your support to Presley? He’s playing his first gig over here. It’s only a small venue, around 500 seats, but I’m sure he would appreciate your support.
My in. I wasn’t sure I believed in a higher power, but I looked up to the ceiling anyway. “Good work, bro.”
Me: Love to. Why don’t I fly in on Friday and take you to dinner?
She took an age to reply, probably wondering how to tell me no. And if that no came, I’d respect it. I wouldn’t fucking like it. In fact, I’d hate it, but as I often told my sister, no was a complete sentence.
Aspen: I’d like that.
I almost punched the air, but as that was a fucking stupid move that only losers did, I held back.
Me: Great. I’ll book a restaurant.
Aspen: Let me deal with that. My cousin Penn owns a restaurant here I think you’ll like. It’s sold out months in advance, but I’m family, so he’ll figure it out.
Me: Sounds good. Here’s hoping Kingcaid Midtown has space, because apparently I’m not allowed to stay anywhere else.
Aspen: I’ve got you on that, too. Just get on a plane, and I’ll take care of the rest. What name shall I have the driver hold up at JFK?
Usually, I preferred to be the one in control, but there was something about a strong, independent, successful woman bossing me around that made my dick harder than a cricket bat. Or perhaps I only had that reaction for Aspen.
Me: Brian Jenkinson.
I’d used that name for years. Nondescript and unremarkable.
Aspen: Got it. See you soon.
Me: I’ll look forward to it.
She replied with a smiling emoji.
How the fuck was I going to keep myself occupied for five torturous days? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad and the time would go quickly. With any luck.
Yeah, luck fucked me over and then some.
Time crawled by like someone was getting paid by the second, but Friday eventually came around.
I settled into my first-class seat, tugged my baseball cap low, and informed the cabin crew I’d call them if I needed anything.
I flew with this airline a lot, mainly because they respected my privacy and treated me like a regular human being.
The thing was, I loved making music and was grateful for the opportunities afforded me over the years, but I fucking hated being famous.
Fifteen years in and I hadn’t ever grown used to the downside of fame.
A few more years, and I could slowly fade into the background and throw myself into my new career of talent scout.
Wouldn’t be long before people asked “Joz who?” and I couldn’t fucking wait for that day to come.
The flight was uneventful, and I passed through security at JFK without a single person recognizing me.
In the early days, before I’d perfected the art of making myself invisible, I hadn’t been able to take a piss without a fan asking me for an autograph.
Seriously, they expected me to hold my dick in one hand and a pen in another.
After a few years of misery, I’d come across an article of an interview with Marilyn Monroe, the fifties film star.
In it she’d said something along the lines of she could “turn it on,” which I took to mean if she wanted to move around unnoticed as Norma Jean, she could.
But the second she needed or wanted to become Marilyn, it was like flicking a light switch.
Once I figured out how to do that, moving through life while being invisible hadn’t been all that difficult.
Sure, the occasional sharp-eyed person saw through the disguise, but mainly, people were too busy with their own lives, thank Christ.
A tall dude towered over the masses of passengers dashing through the arrivals hall with my pseudonym scrawled on a white board. Keeping my chin tucked, I sidled through the crowds.
“That’s me.”
He nodded, took my case from me, and wheeled around, beelining for the exit.
Outside, the humidity of a late New York summer hung in the air.
To my right, a woman was doing her best to gather up her three kids while what I assumed to be her husband stood idly by and let her get on with it.
Fucking arsehole. Had his fifteen seconds of fun and now the result was her issue.
My mother dumped my father for a similar reason.
He’d been a useless piece of mediocre shit.
Violent, too. We never mentioned him these days, but growing up, Mum would metaphorically beat me over the head with her expectations of how to treat women, and my sister would nod enthusiastically and egg her on.
It made what I did to Caroline even worse.
Technically, I only ended a relationship that had already fallen apart, but when she’d called for help, I’d been too off my face to realize she meant it. By the time I figured out what was going on, it was too damn late for her.
On many occasions over the last eight years, Mum had asked me what happened, but I’d brushed it off as too painful. That happened to be the truth, but buried in there had always been a real concern that she would blame me for what happened as much as I blamed myself.
I just about managed to live with my guilt, but I could never live with my mother knowing what really went on that night and looking at me with disappointment in her eyes.
The car’s interior was cool, and two bottles of chilled water were in the drinks’ holder. I twisted the cap off one and downed it. As was always the case with Manhattan, traffic backed up for the entire journey. Ninety minutes later, the car finally pulled up outside Kingcaid Midtown.