Chapter 4 #2
Good lord. The beer is probably laced with hallucinogens, if it’s got her talking to herself. Fucking California.
She holds out her bottle. “Want some?”
Sometimes when musicians realize they can’t get you to stop giving them a hard time, they’ll switch gears and try to get you to join in. I call it the Corruption Solution. I need a new tactic. “I don’t know if you realize, but you’re probably getting those two bartenders fired.”
“What?” The smirk wipes off her face.
I point at them. “Those two guys breaking the rules for you? Yeah, Harry’s not happy with them. They’ll probably lose their jobs.”
“Tell him I forced them.”
I snort.
“I’m serious. Tell him it’s my fault. They protested, but I lied and said Harry was cool with it. Or held a gun to their heads. Whatever works.”
She rises and stalks in the direction of the bar. Surprised, I take off after her. “Where are you going?”
“To tell them to leave. Unless you want a drink first. I’m sure they can make something strong enough to remove that stick up your ass.”
“Stick up my—” I huff a laugh. “So what, you quit and leave your crew members out of work, but now you have proletariat sympathies?”
“They’re not out of work. Bowie has plenty of gigs for them. Stop being dramatic.”
“You’re the one on the verge of getting kicked out of a hotel in your own hometown. Hey—” Saying it out loud has made me realize. “Why are you staying at a hotel? Don’t your parents live here? Old friends?”
She doesn’t answer.
I sigh. “Fine. Maybe I should just let you quit and ruin your life. Because—I don’t know if you’re aware—but your commitment to self-destruction has earned you a bit of a reputation at Manifest. As an asshole. I should probably say good riddance.”
Hannah’s blue eyes flash, but she doesn’t slow down. “So do it already and stop bothering me.”
She weaves around a crowd of people dancing by the pool.
“Your contract with Manifest says you owe us one more album.” I hop over a wide drainage ditch, then turn to hold out my hands.
She stops short and studies them like they’re lethal. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you over.”
She ignores me and jumps over the ditch herself—though when she lands, she wobbles. We reach for each other at the same time. There’s a flash of surprise in her eyes as I tug her straight, then she drops my arms and keeps walking.
I grit my teeth. “If you violate your contract by not delivering an album, not only will the label sue you for your advance, but you have a noncompete clause. You can’t make music unless it’s for us. No indie albums. No new bands. No more writing for anyone to hear.”
This stops her. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
We’re close to the tiki bar, and the sounds of the buzzing blenders mix with the airy song playing through the speakers.
The light from the bar turns Hannah’s skin gold, and when she opens her eyes and looks up at me, I realize how close I’ve drawn to her.
That damn musician magnetism doesn’t turn off.
“First,” she says, “Roger should feel free to sue me.” The words are razor-tipped, but there’s a thickness to her voice that sounds like misery, not anger. “And as far as making music goes, I’m only doing it for myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Roger. The fans heckling. Everyone’s made it clear they don’t want to hear what I’m writing these days.”
“Jesus. If it’s about the kind of music you want to write, just keep making songs like ‘Six Feet Under.’ I’ll convince Roger.”
“You’re not getting it.” Hannah grips my shoulders, taking me so much by surprise that I step back. “It’s over for me, okay?”
“What’s over?” There’s a strange grimness to her face. Her jaw is clenched, as if the words hurt.
She drops her hold. “Everything. The band. The dream.”
“Hannah.” Why am I trying so hard to change her mind? “This isn’t you. In one of your interviews you said you were ‘put on earth to make music.’ I’m sorry—I don’t want to sound insensitive—but are you really going to throw it all away over your last manager?”
She goes rigid. Emotions pass over her face in quick succession— surprise, then pain, then anger. “Yes,” she says, with an eerie flatness. She starts to walk away, then stops. “And I don’t care how many of my interviews you’ve read. You obviously don’t know anything about me.”
Her disdain is a hot, sparking live wire, ready to ignite. This time, I let her go.
Across the rooftop, Harry Whittles stands, watching in horror as a group tosses condoms full of water, like wiggly, translucent jellyfish, over the roof.
At the tiki bar behind me, I hear Hannah say, “Thanks for your services, gentlemen, but you need to bounce. If your boss gives you any trouble, blame tonight on me. Take everything but the beer. We’ll serve ourselves. ”
I’ve lost control. I never lose control.
The whirring blenders cut out, and suddenly I get an idea. Harry may not appreciate it, and Hannah’s going to hate me even more than she already does, but maybe our relationship is beyond saving anyway.
I search the rooftop until I find the unobtrusive breaker box, crack it open, and flip the master switch. Immediately, the electricity cuts out and the rooftop is plunged into darkness.
I cup my hands around my mouth and bellow, “Party’s over! Go home!” to a chorus of booing. Someone yells back, “Fuck you, party police!” But I can make out the outlines of bodies picking themselves up and dragging themselves out of the pool, so at least they’re leaving.
I’m feeling my way around the pool in the dark, high on victory, when the clouds shift and moonlight illuminates Hannah’s face on the other side of the roof. Her eyes burn holes into me. The live-wire tension is now a stick of dynamite tossed into my hands.
I take a distracted step forward, gaze still locked with hers, but there’s no ground waiting to catch me. My foot hits nothing but air, and before I can make sense of what’s happening, I tip, arms windmilling, and fall sideways into the pool.
The cold is such a shock I don’t have time to catch my breath before I’m underwater, stinging chlorine shooting up my nose. I scramble to find my footing and surge to the surface, coughing, water streaming down my face, clothes clinging to my skin.
The first thing I see when I rub my eyes is Hannah’s face, grinning widely. Slowly—smugly—she salutes me. Then she turns and leaves.
I groan and sink into the water, looking up at the stars. Imagine what Bryan would say if he could see me now. Theo Ford and his self-defeating savior complex.
A gentle splash makes me glance over.
The topless woman from earlier swans by, powered by gentle backstrokes. She winks at me. “Hey, handsome. It’s our party now.”
God help me.