Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (47 page)

“M
s. Conterra? Just checking if you need anything?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You’re on in ten minutes. I’ll send for you then.

 Scarlette nodded, maintaining her poise, but the second the gentleman left her alone, she wound her arms around her body to ward off the sudden chill.
Shock
. It was fine. She would be fine. It was only the waiting. Her eyes roved the ‘green room.’

Straightening from the couch, she paced, stopping once to swipe one of the mini bottles of water from a tray. After wetting her throat, she capped it and set it down. It was fine. She would be fine. She glanced at the door to the restroom, wondering if she had time. She’d already had one nervous pee, but she hurried through another.

The second she emerged, her escort arrived. Her legs shook, but somehow managed to carry her through a small maze of narrow hallways. It was fine. She would be fine. After several of these talk shows, she was a pro. Right?

She tripped and caught herself on the wall. Her escort had been a couple of steps in front of her, leading, but now he paused and fell into step beside her. The double doors were just ahead. The light above them flashed from red to green. A woman was stationed at the door, and she smiled at their approach. She and the gentleman each held one door open wide, and Scarlette passed through. Only from prior experience did she keep from squinting in the stage lights.

 “Scarlette Conterra, ladies and gentlemen!”

A splatter of enthusiastic applause greeted her. She counted the steps. One. Two. Three. One eye on the guest chair and one eye on the show’s host. She was fine. It was fine.

And then it wasn’t…

A catcall hooted amid the applause. And then another. A whistle.

Something told her this wasn’t a reaction provoked by her skinny jeans and modest blouse. Her face was on fire, but she put her hand out to her host. They shook and then she lowered herself to the seat closest to his desk as they had run through in the green room.

The applause and whistles died down and she concentrated to hear the host over her pounding heart. After the pleasantries were exchanged, the conversation drifted to her life during the time she’d dropped from the Hollywood grid.

“Belize? Do you like it there?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful. And everyone’s friendly. A great place to live.” She refrained from mentioning that she had just moved the rest of her belongings to L.A. within the last week.

“And you’re…” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “You’re about to graduate college.”

“Yes. I’ve got a few courses to wrap up.”

 “Uh, huh. Medicine then?”

 “Yes.” She chewed the inside of her lip, unwilling to open the allopathic dialogue, which only a fraction of the population seemed to embrace. She was proud of her studies. However, since she was already being tagged as another dumb, rich bimbo with a sex tape out, it was not the time to be even more of a hipster. “I’ll have my B.S. in nursing.”

“That’s wonderful. So many people look at a face like yours—and everything—and don’t see beyond that. Women like you are proof of beauty and brains.”

The remark seemed sexist, and she gnawed her inner lip again while curving a tight smile. “As opposed to what? Ugly men who are stupid?”

His look sharpened on her face, understanding completely her game, and his amused smile and slight shake of his head seemed genuine. With a twist of his chin, he took in the audience and elicited a round of laughter.

 As if the stage was a giant chessboard and they were the pieces, he cunningly played his next move. “So you’ve had some excitement lately.”

“Yes!” Ignoring the cat and mouse atmosphere, she attempted to segue into the documentary—the reason she was on the show. “My first red carpet event.”
That she could remember
.

A photo fluttered through her mind. Her dad carrying a baby. Her mother beside him. A backdrop behind them. Red carpet beneath their feet.

“The documentary... I was at the premiere. The piece is truly a work of art.” He lifted a DVD case from the desktop and then discarded it for the moment. “But you’ve had your own movie recently.”

 Her head seemed heavy and fell to the side as she regarded him. Was he really going there? Even after she’d done her damndest to thwart the subject?

When she didn’t speak right away because she was too busy weighing her words, he went on with a chuckle and a glance at their audience. “It’s a work of art too.”

Laughter erupted as spontaneously as if a prompt sign had flashed, but she was betting it hadn’t. This particular host was known for his humor and expressive face.

“Well, I guess someone would have to watch to know.” Deciding to roll with it, she pulled her own playful expression and looked from him to the studio audience, including those on the balcony. “But whether it is or isn’t, it’s been stressful. And the timing is unfortunate. It’s taking focus off the documentary, you know?”

“You shouldn’t stress. It is art. And you can’t say that about just anyone’s… um home movie.”

“Well, thank you, I think.” Her neck heated, spreading to her face again. “But I can’t believe you’re going to sit right there across from the person in the video and admit to watching it.”

“I could say I didn’t watch. But everyone would know better.” He gestured into the studio audience. “Is there anyone who hasn’t watched? I dare you to deny. Because face it. This may be better than Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t have the rack.” She countered, but kept her gaze demurely on the cables and cords lining the stage floor. “But anyway, enough about
that
movie.”

“You’re too modest. Your rack is stacked. And your… costar can certainly compete with Tommy Lee.”

“Who raised you?” She retorted, settling back in the chair with a false air of leisure when she wanted to jump and run. Especially when the shock wore off in the next second and the reality set in.

First, she was mortified the conversation had taken this turn. She should have foreseen the possibility. This host had annihilated Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan and had put many A-List celebrities in this same hot seat. Second, she was terrified. If he was being this relentless about such a delicate subject, he could take the next leap at any moment to her and Gage’s step-relationship.

“Don’t talk about my mother.” His quip was joking and flippant, but he fidgeted, picking his notecards up, stacking them, and putting them down. “She can’t help if she raised a black sheep.”

The audience laughed as they were meant to, and although she wasn’t feeling it, she did too. As if everything was cool. But she was affronted. Embarrassed. And livid.

“Okay. I’m just playing. And you’re being a good sport.” He looked from her to his captive audience and encouraged their participation. “Isn’t she? She’s delightful, isn’t she?”
Applause
. “So for anyone who doesn’t know who this lovely young woman is… Scarlette Conterra is Tyler Conterra’s daughter. And the movie she’s here to talk about…” Deliberately, a showman, he trailed off long enough to cue laughter and more catcalls before holding his hand up. “Is ‘Conterra Chronicled.’ This is a documentary of Rock Icon Tyler Conterra. As I mentioned, I had the privilege of being at the premiere. Very moving film. This is the brainchild of Willard Acker. What did you think of him?”

“He’s brilliant.” Again, she shoveled the shit aside—like the hard feelings she harbored for the documentary content that she’d barely stopped in time—and instead she concentrated on the end result and the small amount of time she’d watched and been impressed by his work.

“His previous documentaries have won awards, and I have to say, this might be his best work yet. The cinematography is amazing, and the soundtrack brilliantly pulls it all together. Some of it is unreleased tracks?”

“Yes. They’re actually holding back on the soundtrack because the unreleased recordings will be on an album coming out later this year as well as the soundtrack.”

“Has your father’s band’s music always been a part of your life?”

“Yes. I love their songs.”

“You’re in good company. It’s transcended decades, hasn’t it?” When she nodded, he went on. “The interviews in the film are extremely moving. The questions and answers are very candid.”

She nodded. “He—Mr. Acker—did reach in, grab the gut, and twist with many of the subjects.”

“Would you indulge a couple of more questions?” At her nod, he shuffled his cards again. “When did you know who your father was? What age did someone sit you down and say, hey, this man was your father. Or was it a surprise realization?”

“It was definitely one of those cartoon-light-bulb-flashing-on moments.”

“Do you mind sharing?”

“We were living in L.A. My mom had a boyfriend. This particular one came around anytime he was off-tour.” She paused remembering how he would show up and hang around for a bit and then be gone for a bit. And being shuffled off to her maternal grandmother who was still alive at the time when her mom joined him on tour for a week or more at a time. Both scenarios were common with man after man in her mother’s love life. “I was around six or seven, I guess. My mom and I were watching a concert on one of the music stations. He sat down on the couch with us, and I remember wondering what his problem was, because he was being such a—so moody. He finally lost it and demanded she change the station. And my mother said, quote, ‘No. Scarlette wants to watch her daddy.’”

“And that’s when you knew. You understood?”

“I asked her a lot of questions in the days to come, but yes. I felt the connection the second she said it. Like a missing piece had suddenly completed me.”

“In the documentary, you play your father’s guitar. What’s your interest in music? Have you ever wanted to go that direction as a career?”

“The life of a musician is a dark ride. A lot of stress and uncertainty. I’m more of a stable-schedule-each-day-for-the-next-year type of girl.”

“When you watched the documentary, was it emotional for you? Or were you too young to associate those scenes with your life? What feelings did you have?”

“The one consistent emotion when watching it—and when thinking about everything—is regret that I don’t remember him. Even when I think as hard as I can, there’s not one real memory. My memories come from seeing him in pictures my mom has, or the media.”

A clip of the documentary was shown, and they talked for a few minutes more. He stood when she got to her feet to leave, and they shook hands. Turning to the audience, she sent a quick wave and she was met at the stage entrance and escorted back to the green room...

 Where she closed herself in the restroom, clasped her hair at her neck, leaned, and heaved.

The moment she reached her hotel room, she ordered room service. Suddenly ravenous, she chose generously from the menu while watching from thirty-eight stories above Broadway as the Big Apple city lights began to glow in the falling dusk.

Feeling an absurd need to wash the last couple of hours away, she stripped off her clothing and jumped in and out of the shower. After wrapping in the complimentary robe, she collapsed on the bed and texted Gage. When he didn’t text or call right back, she knew he was busy with one of his rehab activities. After all, it was three hours earlier in Utah. She flipped on the television, but dangled her feet from the edge of the bed while staring at the crown molding bordering the ceiling. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt this alone.

Is this what being on tour was like? From what she’d gleaned from Gage, tour was an extreme of never being alone, or being too alone.

The knock from room service startled her. She let the butler in and flipped through the television channels while he set up. When she was alone again, she ignored the extravagant place setting. Instead, she grabbed the plate of stuffed crab appetizers and the soda. Detouring by the wet bar, she set the china down long enough to dig out a couple of tiny whiskey bottles. Then she settled in the middle of the bed just as the news ended and the night show was coming on.

It was airing Gage hadn’t answered her text. Maybe he would forget this thing was airing. Watching herself onscreen was as surreal this time as the few others. If they’d cut anything in the quick edit before taking it live, she couldn’t tell.

The second it was over, Gage rang her phone. “Hey, Scar Darlin’.”