He removed her bag and placed it on the ground. Next came a package, wrapped in matte paper the color of a violet and tied with a glossy blue bow. Brian handed the box to her without comment. The colors matched those on her L&E business card. Oh, no.
She accepted the gift, those few pounds of weight a boulder of shame in her hands. He’d bought her a present. She was officially awful, the worst.
“Brian, I’m sorry. You’re right, one-hundred percent. I’m a Russian nesting doll of pathologies and maladaptive behaviors, and God help whoever finds whatever twisted gremlin lives in the little one. I don’t open up or show myself easily, or at all really. I have one close friend. One, and I almost managed to sabotage that. And I have no family. But I’ve made gains. I’m capable of change and growth and getting close to people in my own way. My yoga training was not a cure-all, true. But if only you’d seen the freak show I was before I started yoga. I’m not asking you to take a chance on me, but just to hear whatever you can.”
His eyelid twitched. “Apology accepted. I wish you wouldn’t bite my head off, but I understand you’re under extreme duress. I’m here for you. Try to remember that I care.”
“I do. And I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll have you know I met heaps of interesting people on that tour, broadened my horizons and mind, talking to men and women from all walks of life and all over the world. I’ve learned volumes over the years from people. And what gives with the slam about me shagging groupies? I thought I redeemed crucial points from you when you saw that my bus wasn’t a den of sex and drugs.”
“I guess nobody’s tried to figure me out before, not in the way you have. And you’re doing A-OK with points from me. Not that points from me are valuable currency. I should be begging people for points, not doling them out.”
“I started to view them as badges of honor once I realized how difficult they were to accrue.”
“You’re so competitive about everything. Admirable. But breaking through this…” she hoisted the package under one arm and waved a hand up and down the space in front of her body, “and finding the sweet and mushy goodness underneath the armor might be an insurmountable challenge.”
Brian stepped in, closing a couple feet of distance between them. Moonlight and ambient flickers from his mansion reflected in his eyes. “So you’re challenging me to get close to you?”
“I don’t want to set you up to fail. Nobody else has gotten in.”
“Nobody else besides me can claim three separate, original, diamond-certified albums in the States. Not the band you cited. Not anyone’s rock band but mine.” His nostrils flared. He smelled male and cut a swaggering, I-own-the-town presence in the Hollywood night.
“Impressive stats, yes, but trust me. This is harder.”
The upward jut of his chin paired well with a slow nod. “Okay. Challenge accepted, Helen Britney Schrader.”
Brian strode to his front door and keyed in a string of numbers. A click issued from behind the grand entrance of dark wood.
Compelled by an ongoing respect for Brian that continued to build, Helen stepped to the threshold and laid a hand on the small of his back. “We’ve got this. And thank you for the gift. I can’t wait to open it.”
“We’ve got this,” Brian said with confidence.
A sprinkle of fleeting peace rained over her, and she looked into Brian’s eyes, speaking to him with that emotional cousin of telepathy they both understood.
“You’re beautiful, Helen.”
She permitted a little taste of the meaning to enter her system and let go of some crap. No need to deflect, deny, joke, or retaliate. The compulsion to guard, parry, attack, and defend eased. For one sweet moment, she wasn’t bitter. Or split or wounded. Brian saw the best of her, and she let him. “Thank you.”
He dropped a kiss to her temple and opened the front door. Monotonous club beats accompanied by Germanic vocals streamed through the foyer of his grand home. Their tender bit of synergy drained into whatever weird shit was going down. Never a dull moment.
“My daughter’s acting out. One moment.” Brian walked inside at a brisk clip, wheeling Helen’s bag behind him. “Tilly, what’s going on?”
Helen followed him into the mansion. Vaulted ceilings carried the eye high, tempting the guest to gawk upward like a first-timer in the Big Apple. The airy, open layout engulfed her, and gleaming bamboo floors, a sectional couch in white leather matching his car seats, and a baby grand piano presented spoils of fame. Platinum and gold records lined the walls. Several shoebox amplifiers and guitars in floor stands occupied a corner. A slim bookcase boasted a plethora of shiny awards. It was a lot.
The old cramp of being an interloper in someone else’s sanctuary clenched her lower belly. At least they’d more or less acknowledged the impermanence of their situation, meaning she didn’t need to feel bad that he would never invite her puny self to join, in any permanent way, the fabulous life he’d built for himself. Which was fine. She didn’t belong in this prestige den, this pinnacle of architectural and interior design paying splendid homage to one of history’s most famous, beloved, and renowned rock musicians.
The teen girl from the Denver pictures came bounding down a streamlined, angular metal staircase. A sloppy pile of clothes and shoes spilled from her arms, and she galloped like her bare feet couldn’t move fast enough.
“Hi, Daddy.” Following her chipper greeting, she breezed past, on route to the front door.
Brian caught her upper arm, causing a pair of hot pink jeans and a shoe with a heel shaped like the business end of a revolver to
