11. Zak
“You can get a little closer to him, sweetheart,” the photographer said. “We’re all friends here, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dallas murmured. “Real close friends.”
“Would it kill you to shut the fuck up?” Zak said through her teeth.
She shuffled a half step toward Chase. At this point, a centimeter more would squish her tits against his arm, so she had no clue what kind of group picture the marketing team was looking for. Yesterday, Trevor had told her she was too unattractive to be seen with Chase. Today, she was primped and posed at his side like a pin-up doll.
A fickle industry run by a bunch of fickle idiots—the less glamorous side of the life she had always dreamed of.
She repositioned her forearm on Chase’s shoulder and tried to display the closed-lip smile the photography assistant had practiced with her in front of a mirror. It still felt like a grimace.
The photographer’s arms fell to his sides. “Did you even move?”
“Chase, I must say,” Alex said, “you do look great in that shirt. Doesn’t he, Zak? Very tight.”
They were about to be stuck on a tour bus together for months on end, and Zak was going to make sure every last one of them regretted messing with her. Including Edge, who hadn’t yet said anything, but whose abdomen she could feel jerking with laughter. Encouraging, in many ways, was worse than partaking.
Chase’s dimple popped up on his cheek. “Here.” He placed a hand on Zak’s hip and pulled her in. “Better?”
“Thank you. These aren’t your middle school yearbook pictures, people.”
The photographer took a few massive strides onto the set and handled the details himself. Arranging every finger on their hands, every strand of hair. The arch of Zak’s back and the angle of her chin. Until she was, indeed, pressed between Chase and Edge. Her arms draped over the former and her back arched until her ass bumped the latter.
“Hold it!” the order came.
How?
It was difficult enough to morph her posture into a shape meant for bendy straws—not the human spine. More difficult, yet, with all her body weight shifted onto a single pencil-thin heel. And even more difficult when Chase was hell-bent on joining in on the fun between camera flashes. As if she had the skill to carry on a conversation during a photoshoot when she didn’t have the skill to tackle the photo-taking part on its own.
“So, you don’t like the shirt?” Chase asked.
“It’s a plain black T-shirt. Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“Would you be more impressed if I took it off?”
It wasn’t the shirt that impressed her, it was the person wearing it. Even when that person was a pain in her ass.
She scowled at him. “Of course not. Been there, seen that.” Two can play at this game. “Dragged my tongue over every square inch of it.”
Chase quirked his head as he smiled back at her.
“?Qué chingados te pasa, Zak?” Edge cursed.
“Oh, so you all start it, and I can’t finish it?”
A loud clap called off their side conversation. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk when we’re done, people.”
So, they all shut up and resorted to leering, instead, as they took a variety of group shots. Chase at the forefront, Chase and Zak at the forefront, and then Chase and Zak alone.
It turned out the only thing worse than the distraction of her friends’ mockery was having no distraction at all.
The photographer pointed to her. “One foot up on the amp… yep, there you go. Lean forward. Head up. Chin out. Open your mouth a little… no, not that much. Okay, now Chase. Sit. Yep, like that. Now play around with it. Give it some motion.”
“What does that fucking mean?” Zak grumbled.
Chase ran his hand up her shin. If it weren”t for the prohibitive fit of her latex pants, she would have jumped back.
“You know how to move. You did last night, at least.” He said the last part so low, she wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t been reading his lips.
“You’re terrible. No matter how good you look.”
“My songwriter.” He looked up at her. “That’s the adjective you’ve got for me?”
“Oh, I’ve got others. But I’m trying to be professional here.”
“I’m hurt, that’s all.” He squeezed her lower leg and guided her hand to his shoulder. “‘Cause I’ve got more than one word for your ass in those pants, angel, and none of them are just good.”
The camera flashed, capturing whatever borderline pornographic look was on Zak’s face, but the photography team seemed to be eating it up.
A few more rapid snaps fired off.
In the short time these people knew her, they had figured out the window in which she was capable of looking decent through a lens was incredibly narrow. She had done such a bad job posing for individual portraits, the photographer ended up plugging her in and having her play solo for an hour so that she didn’t have to pose.
So, this made sense. This back-and-forth with Chase was the only thing that came as naturally to her as playing the guitar. For the first time since they had ripped the instrument from her hands, she was comfortable in front of the camera.
But a newcomer to the closed set smothered every fleeting spark of joy.
As they stepped away for a water break, the dryness in Zak’s throat subsided.
Scott Lee stood in the back of the room by the office cooler where he had not been moments prior. Curiosity tore her in half—one side begging her to spare herself any further heartache, and the other side contemplating Chase’s suggestion last night.
What should have been one of the most exciting moments of her life—picturing her band gracing billboards and magazine covers around the world—had turned into her remembering the billboards and magazine covers she had crossed over the years. Postcards that allowed her to watch her father age while he hadn’t watched her grow up.
This was a pivotal moment in her career, and despite the discrepancies along the path, she was following in her father’s footsteps.
The similarity of their lives made her think of all the possible parallels. Had he felt the same way she did, on the cusp of success? Did he know his life was going to change forever? Was it everything he ever wanted?
Was it worth leaving me?
“Are you going to talk to him?” Chase spoke quietly, breaking into her thoughts like someone had handed him the key.
She had, she supposed.
“I don’t know,” she answered. Though her brain shouted, No.
Even if she did want to talk to Scott, what was she supposed to do? Waltz over to him with a, “Hey, Dad, I’ve got five minutes. Wanna talk about the time you abandoned me as a child?”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
She considered the alternative, and there was a high likelihood that, without supervision, she would either start crying or screaming expletives the moment she came face-to-face with Scott again. She’d already done both, and past the initial endorphin release, she only felt shittier afterward.
Reduced to the child who had laid awake at night—listening to her father leave but not knowing it would be for the last time—she took hold of Chase’s hand. Then, remembered she wasn’t allowed to hold his hand in public, and dropped it. Better to get used to that again, while the stakes were low.
“Would you mind?”
Chase gave her an encouraging nudge. “Are you kidding? You went to one of my family dinners. I owe you at least five more awkward parental encounters in exchange.”
Zak chuckled. “You wouldn’t be saying that if we were going to talk to my mom instead.”
“Good thing nobody’s keeping score.” This time, instead of a joke, it sounded like a gentle reminder.
Maybe no one was keeping score, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she owed Chase. That she was still using him. Relying on him to help her sort out her emotions, all while shoving his into a box small enough to fit conveniently within her heart.
“You can do it,” Chase said. “You’re tougher than anyone I know, and I used to get knocked around by some pretty burly guys for a living.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried I’ll kill him.”
Scott Lee seemed worried about that too, as soon as the sharp toes of her shoes pointed in his direction.
Zak tried not to read into the shock sweeping her father’s features as she walked to him. Tried not to get riled up about it because everything—every, single, thing—he did pissed her off.
Why did he bother coming here if he didn’t expect to talk to her? Was it all just another part of his job? Had he never determined, in his self-appointed infinite wisdom, that his job was not the only thing that mattered?
Oh. That sounded familiar.
Fuck him for passing that trait onto her, then.
“Zak,” Scott said once she was in earshot.
A thick wave of white-hot heat crashed into her. “What? Seeing how it sounds? Have you finally realized that was a stupid fucking thing to name your daughter?”
Whatever he’d been about to say, it fled as he stared back at her.
She pressed her fingers to the throbbing vein in her forehead. “Forget it. That’s not what I came here to say.”
“What did you come here to say?” He’d seemed more hopeful at first than he did now, which was understandable, but pissed her off even more.
What right did he have to hope for anything other than unfiltered, seething rage?
“I’ll accept your offer,” she said as plainly as possible.
Was Chase proud of her? She couldn’t tell from her peripheral view of his side profile.
Scott stood eerily still. Like she was a feral animal he was trying not to provoke. “My offer?”
“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Or coffee. Or whatever the fuck else I said no to earlier.”
“Okay.” He dragged the word out like he was waiting for her to change her mind. Which she would, if he didn’t hurry to make those plans concrete. “Okay, how about tonight? Once you’re done here? I can pick you up at—”
“Don’t bother.” She held up a hand. “I know how the subway works.”
“Okay,” he said yet again. “Okay, good.”
Zak reached for a paper cup and filled it from the nozzle, embarrassed by the way her hand defied mental orders to stop shaking. She felt Chase’s touch on her back, through her frayed nerves. She shouldn’t be nervous. Scott should be nervous.
Where was this conversation supposed to go from here? She’d done it. She’d accepted the invitation. But that minute had felt like an hour, and they still had four actual hours left in this painfully open room. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to break down and scream into a pillow.
“You don’t remember where your name came from?” Scott asked.
Jaclyn’s voice rang out in response. “Why would I give you a lady’s name? You certainly don’t act like a lady.”
“I didn’t think it came from anywhere.”
She thought he was going to tell her, but he simply relaxed back on his heels. A creak sounded at the back of his throat. “You kept it, though.”
“Yeah.” She drained the last of the water and crushed the cup in her fist as she tucked her arms beneath her chest. “People used to tell me the guitar was a boy’s instrument. Found out that was bullshit when I learned how to play it. It didn’t take long for me to connect the dots. My name is Zak, so Zak doesn’t have to be a boy’s name.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Scott said.
She didn’t need compliments from him. She certainly didn’t need his approval.
So why did it feel so good to have it?
Zak shouldn’t have agreed to meet her father over food.
Her stomach hadn’t stopped churning since she had approached him at the studio, and though it likely wouldn’t help with the nausea, all she wanted was a cigarette and a glass of whiskey.
They would have been better off meeting at a liquor store and hashing out the past over straight numbing agents. But instead, Zak followed Scott’s written directions to a colonial-style building on the outskirts of the city.
Outside, snow sparkled under the lampposts and ice crunched on the concrete beneath her boots. Wind howled through the columns leading up to the front door, where the valet side-eyed her for arriving on foot, and the hostess disapprovingly audited her outfit.
“Hey. I’m meeting Scott Lee?”
The hostess gave her a dubious look as she selected a menu card. “Right this way.”
The woman made stuffy conversation about the wine selection as she led Zak to the dimly lit, secluded table for two where Scott awaited.
“Your guest, Mr. Lee,” the hostess said, clearly expecting some variation of, “I’ve never seen this woman before, please call security,” in response.
But all he said was, “Thank you.”
The iron legs of the chair scraped against the wood flooring as Zak pulled it out.
She settled in, sinking into the plush ivory cushions as the linen tablecloth draped, thick and finely woven, over her fidgety knees. A napkin folded into the shape of a rose sat atop the gold-rimmed appetizer plate in front of her. And beside it, on either side, was enough cutlery to serve a family of six.
Zak looked across the table at her father. Time hadn’t changed his appearance in any significant way, but it had seen her become a woman. It had jaded her. Given her thoughts and opinions and the voice to speak them out loud.
“This isn’t what I had in mind.” She lifted the crystal glass of cool water to her lips. “This place is…”
Scott observed her in disbelief. Maybe he couldn’t believe she showed up. Or maybe he couldn’t believe how ridiculous it had been to request this meeting in the first place. “Formal?”
“Expensive.”
The last time she’d gone anywhere with her father, it had been to a dive bar. They’d eaten lukewarm fries instead of… whatever the fuck “seared foie gras with lingonberry jam”was. There had been fountain sodas and beers on tap, not five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine, and they’d sat under a dangling exposed lightbulb instead of a crystal chandelier. And she had been happy. Which turned out to be the most glaring difference between then and now.
“Discretion comes at a price,” he said. “You learn to be careful about the places you go. When you go there. Who you go there with.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to waste seventeen years of concentrated effort put toward making sure the world never knew you had a daughter.”
Her statement took a sledgehammer to the wall of normalcy between them.
She felt the urge to reach for the water glass again, something to calm her nerves, but if Zak put any more liquid in her stomach, there was a solid chance of it coming back up.
“I don’t care if the whole world knows I have a daughter. I meant for you. If you wanted to keep it hidden for the sake of your career.” Scott toyed with the stem of his empty wine glass. “My career is over. It’s beenover.”
“And why do you think I want to keep it hidden?”
There were many reasons, but she wanted to hear what he thought.
“Because I had nothing to do with getting you here.”
She stared at the flickering candle centerpiece. “On that, we can agree.”
A lanky waiter in a crisp white button-down came to announce the specials, by memory, in a practiced, modulated tone free of the New York accent she’d grown accustomed to. Not that she’d had the chance, or desire, to use the menu for anything other than a diversion during the silences punctuating her and Scott’s conversation.
Scott ordered one of those exorbitantly expensive bottles of wine, and then they were left alone again.
“You really are extraordinarily talented,” he told her, point-blank.
I must have missed that, in between you trying to sabotage my chance at a recording contract and warning me to stay out of the music industry.
She gritted her teeth. “I work hard.”
He opened his mouth, but seemed to think twice before saying, “It shows.”
More than a beat of nothingness passed before the waiter returned with wine. He poured them each a glass, and Zak waited for him to disappear again before picking up the bottle and filling hers to the brim. She forced down a hefty swig—she hated wine, Malbec especially—and let that warm, tingling assurance weave its way through her exhausted body.
Eye to eye, she stared back at the man who had ruined her life and made her someone she was proud to be. The man who had devastated and inspired her.
“You wanted to talk,” she said. “So talk.”
Now, it was Scott’s turn to absorb his money’s worth in courage from the potent glass of deep red to his right. “I don’t know where to start.”
Zak swirled the glass. Viscous streaks of wine dripped from the veil that coated the sides. Tart cherry and smoky cedar accompanied the sharp burn of alcohol to her nostrils. “You left me with her.” She steadied her voice. “You knew what she was like, and you walked out, and you never fucking came back. Why?”
Scott winced against the explosion of shrapnel that was her words.
“Yeah. You think that’s hard to hear?” Her eyes burned in stubborn resistance to tears. “Imagine livingthrough it.”
It was the beginning, it was the end. It was the only thing that mattered as far as she was concerned.
“I don’t know where to start,” he repeated, “because nothing will change what I did. It doesn’t matter that I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“How could you possibly have thought you were doing the right thing?” Her bottom lip quivered. “I needed you. But the world got their idol, so that’s all that matters isn’t it?”
“You were the only thing that mattered. You are,” he said, finally abandoning the vague words, the impersonal compliments, for something real. “I know your mother wasn’t a good woman, but I wasn’t a good man, Zak. I was irresponsible. Strung out. I probably remember less of your childhood than you do.”
Her heart collapsed, as though he were crushing it beneath the sole of his boot. Screaming or crying, she’d expected one or the other. But either way, she thought fury would be fueling the reaction.
Fury was not the sensation that ripped the air from her lungs. It was something else, something she’d never felt before and never wanted to experience again.
His eyes softened. Under the glow of the candle, that look seemed almost as loving as it did remorseful. What a goddamned joke. “You would’ve only gotten hurt around me. Hell, you wouldn’t have had the chance, because no court in their right mind was gonna award me custody.”
He swiped a hand over the rough stubble on his cheeks. “By the time you were two years old, I’d been to jail four fucking times for dealing drugs and beating the shit out of the guys who didn’t pay for them. I didn’t become a musician because I wanted the spotlight. I became a musician because my only other option was getting paid two-fifty an hour under the table till the day I died.”
“You never came back.” Her voice cracked. “You could’ve come back.”
“Shit, Zak, I—” he fumbled for the words, and in those breaks, she realized her cheeks were wet.
She was a big, polyester-clad baby, crying all over Egyptian cotton in the corner of a restaurant overrun by celebrities and stockbrokers. Droplets splashed into her wine glass. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. This was embarrassing. She let out a shuddering breath. “You, what?”
“I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am for the pain I’ve caused you.” His eyes now glistened, too, but what he said next overshadowed every ounce of guilt he was trying to sell her. “I got out of rehab last January, you know. It was my fifth stint. I’m still in therapy.”
Unbelievable. Somebody, hand this man an award!
“And what do you want? Congratu-fucking-lations. You’ve taken the first step toward becoming a functioning human being. Something I had to figure out when I was still wearing ducky pajamas, thanks to you. I’ve been living on my own for eight years. I’ve got a graveyard of voicemails from Jaclyn trying to guilt trip me into seeing her again, but not one from you in all that time. And I guarantee you, she has fewer connections than the famous Scott Lee.”
“I’m sorry I waited so long. I’m sorry I didn’t seek you out. I’m sorry I didn’t call. But I’m not sorry that I didn’t put you through knowing me all those years ago. I had no business coming back into your life before. I was a dead man walking. I had more money than anyone needs, and I still would’ve traded anything to get high. You have no idea what it’s like to…”
His voice trailed off, the thick weight of silence settling between them once more.
“To what? To live with an addict?” She wiped her tears with the sleeve of her sweater. “I think it’s time for you to ask me. Go ahead. Ask me where I’ve been the last seventeen years.”
Her father met her eyes, his brows knit in misery. And it wasn’t enough. She wanted him to hurt. She wanted his blood spilled to right the balance of her tears cried.
“I said ask me.” She slammed her fist on the table, rattling the fine china.
“Where have you been?” he acquiesced, softly.
“Living with fucking addicts.”
Diners at neighboring tables turned their heads indiscreetly.
Now Zak knew exactly why he chose this meeting location. So she couldn’t make a scene. Her father must not have understood that where she lacked parental guidance, she also lacked manners, dignity, and shame.
“I was a live-in nanny to one. I was homeless. Then I was a roommate to another. And I was never, ever a child, so I don’t know why you felt the need to shield me like one.”
“Because you’re my child,” he said.
“No.” She finished the wine in one acidic gulp. “I am nothingof yours.”