Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
JC
A castle in the clouds for my queen? Sold.
I sip my coffee, scrolling through one jaw-dropping photo after another of The Dolder Grand hotel on my phone.
Perched atop a forested hill, it commands a serious view of Zurich, and the only available suite is at a “fuck you, peasants” price, but whatever.
At a certain point in life, all you do is swap what you own for better, pricier things.
And I have money to burn, courtesy of Dad’s trust fund pumping five figures a month into my account.
I can splurge on the things that matter.
After booking the room, I kick my feet onto the coffee table, savoring the quiet.
Gia and the boys prowl Zurich, leaving me alone in the bus to catch up on emails: George Altman—all hot and bothered to work with me—and two indie bands with an ungodly number of generic songs pleading for me to spice them up.
Sawyer lands late tonight, and he’s angling for brunch with Gia and me tomorrow.
The Paris reviews are on fire, and he’s already planning to spin her trajectory straight into the heavens.
It’s coming, only a matter of time.
Gia’s charisma lands true. She’s authentic, someone you immediately want to watch win. Fans love that big, creative energy bubbling beneath her skinny jeans, her full-volume charm making her too easy to fall in love with.
And because chemistry is an alchemic thing, for reasons I don’t completely understand, this is where I find myself: captivated by a fireball almost half my age who’s blazed her way into my heart.
I recognize the danger; I’ve spent months guarding myself from her pull.
But Gia is where fantasy meets every day with a hefty dose of senseless obsession.
The formula tonight? Get my passion under control.
Shake off the apprehension of making love to pure white-hot zeal.
Not that Gia’s a maneater (okay, maybe she is, if I believe Tai and Brady’s wild stories), but every guy has trade secrets and signature moves.
Classified shit that makes us, us. No one’s complained so far, and I’d like to keep the bar high.
Hence, the over-the-top hotel.
No way we’re slumming it on our first night together. She needs to understand that she’s not some backstage fling. What I’m feeling is fucking real.
As real as the text notification that pops up on the screen.
Holy crap.
It’s Heath Lorrie, my old bassist.
We’ve kept in touch, do the LA lunch scene every now and then, but it’s eleven in the morning here and two a.m. LA time. He swapped the grind of music life for the classic three-pack of mortgage, wife, and kids, and is asleep before midnight seven days a week.
Or so I thought.
HL: Hey, bud! Looking good on the tour. Royal Albert Hall. Fuck, man, did that bring back memories!!!
JC: Why are you awake?
HL: Caitlyn swallowed a LEGO piece. Just got back from emergency. Four hours of hell.
JC: Shit. Is she alright?
HL: Already asleep. Fucking four-year-olds. Hate them. LOL.
I crack a smile. Heath loves being a father. It must beat his thankless job as manager of Pasadena’s fine dining haven, The Olive Garden.
JC: What’s up?
HL: Amber pinged me on Facebook. She asked for your number.
An icy chill runs down my back. Exes don’t just show up out of nowhere, but what the hell does Amber want to talk about after thirteen years?
HL: Is it cool to share? I know things didn’t end well with you two.
That’s an understatement. I sent our relationship to the great smashed hearts graveyard in the sky.
JC: What else did she say?
HL: The usual surface shit. Hi. Hope life is good.
HL: Haven’t replied to her yet. I can say we’ve lost touch. Whatever you want.
I take a long swallow of coffee. As much as I dreamed of us reconnecting during that one painful year, I’ve moved on.
So why was I on pins and needles during the meet and greet, gritting my teeth every time Shae opened the door for a new batch of fans to descend?
Even this text chain floods my chest with guilt.
More of it.
Before Gia took off with the boys this morning, she casually threw out—Hey, did you notice the older lady in the front row last night? She’s been tracking the tour.
It was a vague question directed at no one specific, although I knew it was one hundred percent aimed at me.
And I tried to sound just as casual. “The next Gia Barlow superfan.”
And she said cuttingly, “More like a JC superfan.”
Then Tai saved my ass with, “Maybe one day, Tai and Brady get a single fucking fan.”
I hightailed it into the shower to let the trio duke it out.
Classic middle child: I avoid conflict like shit on the sidewalk.
But I can't dodge Amber forever. Whatever she wants, I need to nip it in the bud.
I can't have her hanging over my head when Gia and I are this close to happening. And what’s next?
Ambushing me outside after a show? Hello fucking awkward.
My fingers fly across the phone to respond.
JT: I’m sure she just wants to catch up. Pass it on.
HL: Consider it done.
I pause, something else flickering in the recesses of my brain.
JT: What’s her Facebook handle?
Heath sends the link, and my stomach drops.
Like every other creeper, my Facebook account uses an alias name.
Why didn’t I think to look for Sally Marshall, the fake name Amber used whenever we checked into hotels?
There it is: a private account with fifty-four followers.
The profile picture is her old Ludwig kit.
My phone pings again.
HL: What’s the scoop? U in Gia’s band permanently?
Welcome to my existential crisis. Forget Sawyer’s Italian loafer on my ass, shoving me into the spotlight. Or that my interest in touring long-term is essentially nil. But the idea of Gia on the road without me triggers a black hole of jealousy in my heart.
JT: Not sure.
HL: You still have it, bud. We could’ve been huge. But no regrets. Ping me when you’re back!
I set down the phone, my hand trembling. Suddenly, I’m thrust into this: scouring through ancient news and raking over the sedimentary layers of shared wounds. Not high on my list of priorities.
Not tonight.
Our night.
But Dad always drilled into me: Be prepared for everything.
Like it or not, the ball’s in motion.
Unfortunately, defense was never my strong suit.
I track Gia down at noon in a funky bar on the Limmatquai, a trendy shopping street not swarming with stuffed-shirt bankers.
For noon on a weekday, the Swiss are remarkably alcohol-friendly.
The place is packed. And Gia looks like fine art reimagined by rock and roll—one of those untamed beauties of the Renaissance with a tumble of hair and secrets in her eyes, drinking rum and Coke.
I slide onto the barstool next to her and do a once-over of my surroundings. Chrome fixtures, heavy on the crisp white paint. A lone waitress juggling drinks and trendy hipsters.
“How did you find this place?” I ask.
“Google,” she says. “So far, worth the hype.” She tips her highball glass in my direction. “Better catch up; you’re two drinks behind me.”
I laugh. As if anyone could keep up with the rocket named Gia. “Better slow down, champ. Day drinking creeps up on you.”
“Did you get your nap on?” she asks, biting back a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you yawning during the show.”
“Is this where the old jokes start?”
“You’re not old; you’re classic.”
“That really helps.”
A bartender with over-sized sideburns shuffles over, checking out Gia while I order a Pilsner and another rum and Coke. Generic Euro pop warbles softly through speakers.
“Did the boys ping you?” she asks. “It sounded like they had debauchery on the brain.”
“Yeah, Brady tried to corral me. They’re checking out the red-light district.”
Gia tilts her head. “You passed that up?”
Read My Rights tore up this town, once upon a time. We tagged every hash bar and peeler joint, like any pack of teenagers cut loose in Europe would. Great memories, and not even one I plan to share at this juncture.
I shrug and spin a coaster on the marble-topped bar. “Been there, done that.”
“Even the live sex joints?”
I shoot her a look. “I have zero interest in watching strangers get it on.”
Gia props an elbow on the bar, resting her head in the upturned hand. I get the distinct feeling she doesn’t believe me.
“What?” I ask. “Are you surprised to hear that?” It slips out more aggressively than intended, all the Amber crap brewing in my mind. I tuck my hair behind my ears, a nervous tic that crops up whenever I feel pressure muscling around me.
“It’s a revelation,” she says. “You never talk about what’s going on in your heart. And I know you have one. I felt it pound hard the other night.”
The memory makes me a bit dizzy. The world felt like it was crashing around us in the bus. I was hers—fully, completely. I drop my gaze, but I am very aware of her watching as heat seeps onto my cheeks.
“Speaking of personal stuff…” I redirect the conversation back to her. “You haven't told me where the Terminator nickname came from.”
Gia lifts a brow. “Is this a tit for tat? I share first, then you?”
“Most of my life is splashed across the internet. You have an unfair advantage.”
Her velvety red lips curl into a smile. “Just the way I like it.”
“So, then, Miss Schwarzenegger…” I face her straight on. She's not getting out of this.
The bartender sets our drinks down, and Gia waits for him to leave before she starts in a low, measured voice.
“Our high school had this talent show every year. I applied in eighth grade. Mama wanted me to sing one of her original songs. Insisted I learn how to collaborate.” She sips her drink before continuing.
“I rehearsed it, got feedback from my music teacher.
She said the song was dated, not right for my voice.
Said I was good enough to win, but not with Mama's song.”
Her eyes slide to mine. I think I know what's coming.