Chapter 13: Jason

Chapter 13

Jason

♪ Make You Mine | Public

I couldn’t get Sloan out of my head, which was unfortunate, because I also couldn’t get her on the phone. She didn’t return my good-morning text until 1:00 in the afternoon, and when she did, all I got was a quick smiley face.

I unpacked and did laundry. Had a phone call with my new publicist, Pia, to schedule a meeting. I had a ton of media to do before my upcoming tour. TV, radio, magazine interviews. Sirius XM wanted an a cappella recording by the end of the week for its Coffee House channel. Saturday Night Live was biting, and I had to audition a drummer for the tour. The one I’d used on my album wasn’t able to travel. Then I’d have to do rehearsals right up until hitting the road.

The next few weeks were going to be exhausting. Today was such a waste. I had nothing scheduled and I could have been with Sloan the whole day.

It had taken me twenty-nine years to meet someone I was this into, and when I finally did, it could not have come at a worse time. In three weeks I’d be gone for four months.

I’d meant what I said, that she should come see me on the road. But I knew even now that it wouldn’t be enough. Yesterday hadn’t been enough. I was already used to talking to her and texting her constantly and neither held a candle to seeing her now that I’d met her. Going cold turkey today felt like withdrawals.

I played with Tucker for an hour, sitting on a reclining chair by the hot tub, tossing a tennis ball into the pool. He seemed depressed, and I actually debated taking him to Starbucks for one of those puppuccino things to cheer him up. I think he missed Sloan, a sentiment I was quickly beginning to share.

I shot a text off to her with a picture of Tucker looking sad, his head on his paws. She didn’t reply for over an hour.

Sloan: Awww. I miss him. Give him a kiss for me.

I typed, smiling.

Jason: He says for ME to give YOU a kiss from HIM. So what are you doing today?

Sloan: Just running errands.

It didn’t feel like errands. She was too distracted today, almost evasive.

For a brief moment, I wondered if she was dating someone else.

Instant jealousy.

We’d never discussed whether or not she was dating. She’d been so opposed to dating me I’d just assumed she wasn’t on the market. But what if I was wrong?

Jason: What kind of errands?

She left me on read.

I used the gym in the pool house, trying to distract myself from my wandering thoughts about Sloan dating other people. Now I was shamelessly grateful she found my stage persona so impressive. I needed all the advantages I could get.

A few hours later I was sitting on a lawn chair in front of my trailer trying out a new capo on my guitar when Ernie made his way across the yard.

Tucker was so depressed he didn’t even raise his head to greet him.

Ernie loosened his tie. “Spent my morning with the bloodsucking lawyers. She wants her alimony adjusted.”

I opened the beer with a pith. “Which wife is this?”

I chuckled.

He pulled his shoes and socks off and put his feet in the grass. “Excited about the tour?”

The funny thing was, I had been excited about it. But now?

I laughed. “What, I can’t do both?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Nope. Not if you wanna do either thing well. This is not the time to be anchoring yourself with a girlfriend, my friend.”

I shrugged and took a sip of beer. “I’ve headlined tours before.”

He swatted at a bee buzzing around him. “Who is she anyway? Monique or Monica or whoever the fuck? Oh God, tell me it’s not Lola. Man, you really screwed the pooch on that one—no pun intended. I mean, I get it, she’s fucking hot, but damn is she nuts.” He took a swallow of beer and looked over at me. “She still calling?”

I laughed a little. “Yup.”

I snorted. “Not funny.”

He tipped his beer at me. “You hear she put a golf club through Kanye’s windshield last week? Climbed the hood and then pissed into the crack in the glass. She’s gone fucking unhinged. Talented as shit but completely off the deep end.”

He scoffed. “She’s a superstar, this business happened. The price of fame. If you let them, they’ll bleed you for every damn drop, and once you’re dry, they try fucking your corpse.”

I looked over at him. “Do you think it’s drugs?”

I blew a breath out through my nose. I had to agree about the waste thing—my current situation with her notwithstanding. Lola was brilliant. A lyrical genius. I never met anyone that musically talented in my life. “You know she plays like seven instruments? And has a four-octave vocal range. Fucking effortless.” I shook my head. “We got along too. She was cool—I liked her.”

He snorted. “I bet you did. This is what happens when you mistake creative chemistry for actual chemistry. I did that once and ended up married to wife number three. Worst nine days of my life.”

I scoffed. “Well, to say I regret it at this point would be an understatement.”

I shook my head, looking out over the pool. I’d spent a week with Lola at her beach house writing, and she’d been perfectly fine the whole time. Focused, polite. Charming even. We’d hit it off immediately. We’d had some drinks to celebrate finishing the soundtrack, and one thing led to another—then it was like a switch flipped. Keeping me up until 5:00 in the morning while she wrote gibberish on legal pads, dragging me out to the beach to swim naked, not eating. Then sleeping for a whole day, and I couldn’t get her out of bed.

I shook my head again. “I was so worried about her I’d called her manager to come get her. That really pissed her off. He got there and she completely lost her shit, started throwing furniture off the balcony.”

Ernie snorted. “Well, to be fair, that guy’s a dick.” He bobbed his head. “Actually so is Kanye.”

I laughed a little.

The day after the furniture thing, the harassment started, and once it started, it didn’t stop. I didn’t know what the hell to do about it. She was relentless. Calling all hours of the night, crying and screaming into my voicemail, then calling back to apologize, texting nonstop, showing up at my recording studio and causing scenes when I wouldn’t buzz her in. Nothing I did would make her back off. I’d resorted to ignoring her, hoping she’d eventually get bored, but all she ever got was new phone numbers.

My jaw flexed. “I’m glad somebody thinks it’s funny.”

Lola had written a fucked-up, piece-of-shit song about us having sex on a beach. It was everywhere. It had even popped up in the truck with Sloan during the car wash.

She didn’t use my real name. She called me “Snow Bird,” and she’d never publicly confirmed it was about me, but it made me fucking furious. The thing was like a leaked sex tape set to music. I grimaced even thinking about it. That’s the moment when my concern for her finally turned to irritation. It had been half a year of this shit now, and I was officially over it.

Ernie undid the top button of his shirt. “So when did you meet this girl you’re thinking of taking on tour?”

He sat up. “Are you fucking insane?”

I shrugged. “What? I like her.”

He set his beer down and faced me. “Here’s the deal. Listen closely because I’m about to tell you something that took me five marriages to figure out. It takes a woman six months to show you her crazy. Six months, my friend. I don’t recommend ever taking a girlfriend on tour, but if you absolutely must, it should be someone you’ve known longer than ten minutes.”

I laughed.

He sighed. “Well, I can’t say that surprises me. You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. And what do I know, right?” He picked up his beer and stopped with it halfway to his mouth. “Just please, use a fucking NDA and condoms. Don’t end up like that last idiot. What a fucking shit show.”

I chuckled. “Still pissed about what’s-his-face, huh?”

I laughed. I loved Ernie. He was one of the best agents in the industry. He’d been a big-name musician himself in the eighties, so he’d seen it all. He was a little cynical when it came to women, though.

I checked my phone. Sloan still hadn’t texted. I stared out over the pool. “This girl feels different.”

I drew my brows down. “Wait, what? What overseas tour?”

He gave me a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t you get the email with the dates? Eh, Christ, my assistant is shit.” He shook his head. “They’re extending your tour to the UK. Adding two more months here, eight months there. Pia’s working on the media blasts now. You’ll be home for the holidays for five weeks.” He looked over at me. “You’re welcome for that, by the way. They wanted you singing in Paris for their Christmas thing and I told them to go fuck themselves so you could see your family. They might even keep that promise, though I wouldn’t count on it,” he mumbled. “They wouldn’t put it in writing. Then you’re off to Dublin and London and wherever the fuck else.” He tipped his beer at me. “Congratulations and long live the queen.”

I sat back in my chair with my beer between my knees. “Jesus. Fourteen months on the road?” I’d never done more than three without a long break between.

I dragged a hand down my mouth. Well, it was what I wanted. I’d dreamed of making it since I was five and I’d worked my ass off to get here. Ernie was right, though, the timing sucked. The timing really sucked.

He glanced at his watch. “I gotta get going.” He stood and turned to me. “Hey, I don’t mean to be a downer about the girlfriend thing. I’m sure it’ll all work out and you’ll ride happily into the sunset. I’ve just been around the block a few times and I’ve seen how hard this business is on relationships.” He slapped my back. “But you guys are different. You two are gonna be fine. Just don’t take her on tour.”

I laughed, and Ernie made his way back to the house, his shoes dangling from his fingers. “Don’t take her on tour, Jaxon!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Fuck, I didn’t see how I could even if I wanted to. Fourteen months, minus the little break for the holidays—that was over a year on the road. That was a commitment. A huge commitment. A leave-your-life-behind commitment.

But I was getting ahead of myself. At the moment I couldn’t even get a damn text back.

For the next few hours I just fiddled with my guitar, keeping my phone close in case Sloan called—which she didn’t. Finally at 8:00 I bit the bullet and I just called her, even though she hadn’t responded to my last text.

It went to voicemail.

Now I felt bad for every woman I’d ever left hanging, waiting for a phone call. This shit sucked.

Tucker and I were quite the pair. I was brooding and irritable and he wouldn’t get up except to raise his head occasionally and whine.

When my phone finally rang at 10:30, I jumped for it. It was Sloan. Any thoughts of giving her a hard time for making me wait all day flew out the window. “Hey, you’re alive.” I smiled into my phone.

But there was no reply. Then I heard crying.

I stood. “Sloan? Are you okay?”

She was drunk. No mistaking the slur in her voice.

I breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t driving or somewhere unsafe.

I felt the weight I’d carried all day in my chest lift. “I was thinking about you today too,” I said gently.

I smiled softly. “I like your mess.”

She didn’t reply.

I was in motion before she finished her sentence. I grabbed a backpack and started throwing things into it, cradling the phone with my shoulder. “I’m on my way. Sloan? You have to unlock the front door. Do it now, while I’m on the phone.”

I smiled at the compliment. I understood what that meant to her to say that. Then the line went dead.

She didn’t answer when I called back.

Ten minutes later I pulled into her driveway and jogged to the front porch. Tucker had his nose pressed into the crack of the door, and when it opened, he tore into the house like he was retrieving a duck. But I stopped in the doorway with my mouth open.

The living room looked like a tornado had gone through it. Black trash bags everywhere and stacks of men’s clothing strewn all over the floor. A knocked-over lamp and hangers in a pile, men’s shoes scattered on the carpet.

Brandon’s clothes.

A tumbler sat in a small clear spot in the middle of the mess with an empty bottle of tequila and wads of balled-up tissues next to it.

I followed Tucker’s excited noises through a bedroom and into an adjacent bathroom. Sloan lay crumpled by the toilet on a white floor mat, her cell phone next to her. I crouched beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Sloan? Can you hear me?”

She groaned, but she didn’t open her eyes. I sighed and scratched my beard. Completely wasted.

I got a damp washcloth and cleaned her face. She’d been sick at least once. I flushed the toilet and wiped the seat with toilet paper.

She’d thrown up in her hair. I lifted her and moved her to rest against the bathtub, pushing her shower curtain aside. A cotton ball was taped to the inside of her elbow like she’d had blood taken. I peeled that off and threw it away. Jesus, what had she been doing today?

I managed to wash her hair with a cup by letting it fall over the lip into the tub. Tucker sat in the bathroom doorway watching the activity. He seemed to know I was helping her. At one point she started to cough, and I turned her to the toilet and held her hair back while she threw up again.

She muttered some apologies, vaguely aware I was there. Then she went back under.

I towel-dried her hair and brushed it back as best I could, pulling it into a messy ponytail and carrying her to bed. She nuzzled her face into my neck and clutched my shirt and my heart pounded. I had to laugh. Even sloppy drunk, this woman had me.

Tucker jumped up and snuggled next to her as I tucked her in. She threw an arm around him and hugged him to her with a soft, “Tucker…”

No wonder he was disappointed to be home with me. If I got to sleep like that every night, I’d be pissed to be back with me too.

I walked through the house and locked up, turning off lights and collecting the empty bottle and tumbler, stepping around piles of her dead fiancé’s personal effects. I got a bucket from the garage and a glass of water for her and left them by the bed. I collected her phone from the bathroom floor to plug into the charger on her nightstand, dropping a few pills next to her water for the morning. She’d need them.

Afterward I went out to my truck and got the parts for her sink. I went about fixing it so I could wash the dishes, checking back in on her when it was done. She slept peacefully.

A large photograph of Sloan hung over her bed. I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was a portrait of her from the side, naked and balancing on the balls of her feet, with her tattooed arm covering her breasts. It looked like a professional photo, one from a tattoo magazine. Maybe she’d done modeling before. God knows she was good-looking enough. It was a fantastic shot.

Pictures lined her dresser. Mostly her and another woman, who I assumed was Kristen. Sloan looked like the colorful one of the two, even though I knew she was more conservative than her friend. One frame showed them at Disneyland wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Another was them outside the Pantages Theatre with a Wicked poster behind them.

There were photos of Brandon too. I recognized him from the picture on The Huntsman’s Wife. He’d been a good-looking guy. He and Sloan had matched.

He had a Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm. In one picture he wore a T-shirt that read BURBANK FIRE DEPARTMENT on it. There was a photo of him with Sloan on a beach, standing in the surf. Another one in a Tough Mudder frame showed him with Sloan, racing bibs pinned to their shirts. She wore knee-high socks and pigtails, smiling, covered in mud.

It was ridiculous to feel jealous of a man who’d been dead for two years, but I did. I wondered how I measured up. I was a very different person than he was. Just from these photos, I could see we had lived very different lives.

I went back out to the living room and lay down on the couch to spend the night in case she needed my help.

Who was I kidding? I was staying because I wanted to stay.

Something must have really affected her today, and I wondered if I had anything to do with it. She’d said she’d been thinking about me. I thought about what she said earlier on the phone, that she was in an in-between. I didn’t care where she was.

I wanted to be there with her.