My Heart's Beat (Hard Love & Dark Rock #2) (3 page)

Chapter 5

Anne

I watched Trace turn and head back through that door, the sound of the music and chaos blaring loud as the door opened, and then dying down again when it shut.  My lips still seemed to tingle from his kiss, my heart beating hard in my chest, my face flushed with heat.

God, this night was turning into an emotional rollercoaster.  One moment I was soaring high, ecstatic and thrilled.  The next I was plunging into terror and panic.  I wasn't sure how much more I could take.

I looked over at Becca.  She'd been on a similar ride, maybe even with a few extra leaps and plunges.  She'd already been intimate with one boy tonight, and then had started things moving with another, and then the first boy had smashed into the second in a pretty terrible and spectacular wreck.  One ended up with a knife to his throat, the other in convulsions on the floor.  Not exactly a walk in the park.

But that might have been true of her life in general.  On a typical night I was in our dorm room with my books and my writing, and Becca was out in the city, having adventures.  She lived closer to the edge than I did, and she'd probably seen higher highs and lower lows than me.  She was wilder than me, too, more impulsive, more prone to exhilaration and melodrama, and more expressive of both.

It occurred to me that there were two different paths being shown here, and that I was trying to comfort Becca for walking in a world, and dealing with its unique pitfalls and pleasures, when she knew that world a lot better than me.

I looked back at the door.  Someone had twisted the deadbolt out while the door was still open, and now that deadbolt kept the door from being able to fully close.  There was a little gap at the edge of the door, a half-inch strip of shadow.  The rest of the hallway was quiet and bright.

In the suite it was noisy and raucous and sexy and wild.  Out here in the hall it was sterile and lifeless.  And safe.

Did I want to go back in there or not?

I looked back at Becca.  She was wiping the tears from her cheeks, sniffling to clear her nose.

"You still don't think we're in over our heads, here?" I asked.

She turned her clear blue eyes to mine, and for a moment we just looked at each other.

And then she shook her head, and said "Maybe."

The door swung open, abruptly flooding the hall with the noise from the party—screaming laughter and blaring music.  And then Bernstein and Trace came through with Joey, each of them holding one of his arms over their shoulders.  He sagged between them, his head lolling down so that his hair fell over his face, his feet dragging on the floor like he was exhausted.

Trace met my eye as they passed.  "I'll be right back," he said.

"Okay," I said.  Despite my doubts, I felt a little rush of pleasure at the notion.

A few feet farther down the hall, Joey lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder.  He had a rogue's smile on his face, and his hair fell over one eye, but even as they dragged him farther away, he called out to Becca.

"Becca!" he said.  "After the doc checks me out, you should come by my room."

"No no no, my friend," Bernstein said.  "You've had enough commotion for one night.  At this point, what you need is to stay in bed."

Joey's head swiveled over toward him.  "Who said anything about getting out of bed?"

The manager made some response, but by that point they'd moved too far down the hall for us to hear it.

I looked back at Becca.  Despite the redness in her eyes from crying, an amused little smile had returned to her mouth.

"Gotta hand it to that guy," she said, "he doesn't let much sway him from his course."

"Seems like he might want to give it up for tonight, though," I said.  "The way his eyes rolled back in his head when he collapsed—god, that scared the hell out of me."

"Me too," she said, her voice in a whisper.

I put my hands on her arms, squeezed her gently.  "Becca, do you think we should get out of here?  Do you want me to take you home?"

She cleared her throat and swallowed, took a big breath and let it back out.

"Didn't you just tell Trace you were going to stay?" she said.

"I did.  I said I'd stay for a little while."

"And don't you want to?"

I thought of Trace's eyes again, looking into mine.  I thought of the way he'd kissed me, the way he'd gone down on me.  And just the thought of it made my hunger for him start to rise again.

"I want more time with Trace," I said.  "But I think I've had my fill of all the rest of this scene."

"Not sure if you can get the rock star without the rock scene, Anne," Becca said.

"That's what I'm starting to worry about."

She looked at me.  "Well, he said he'd be right back.  You wanna go back in for a few minutes at least?  Maybe have one more drink?  I sure could use one."

"I guess I can handle one more drink," I said.  "But if Ronnie shows up again, or if the guitarist tries to stab anybody else, I might just have to call it quits.  Think I'm reaching my tolerance limit for crazy."

She smiled.  "You're not the only one, Anne.  You're not the only one."

We turned back toward the door.  I reached for the handle and pushed it open, letting the noise and the booze-perfumed air wash over us.

-

We found two empty spots on the couch.  I took a seat, and Becca went to get us something to drink.

For a few minutes I sat there, looking around, trying not to feel intimidated by the chaos around me.  But it was far enough along in the night that there were plenty of examples of people who'd already crashed and burned.

On the couch beside me, a young couple had fallen asleep, the girl curled up in the guy's arms, her head on his chest.  I felt a pang of longing when I looked at them, envious for the closeness they shared, the comfort they seemed to take in each other's company despite all the noise and commotion swirling around them.  I wanted that sort of comfort, that sort of closeness.  Could Trace and I have something like that?  Or was it just a ridiculous dream?

And then someone sat down on the couch beside me, opposite the sleeping couple.  I turned, expecting it to me Becca.

It wasn't Becca.  It was the Belletrist keyboard player, Sara Sounding.

Even though I'd been hanging out with the band all night, even though I'd already shared a private, intimate moment with the band's biggest star, I felt a rush of nerves when I realized who'd sat down beside me.  Sara Sounding was sort of a cult hero amongst certain crowds.  A rocker girl who played with one of the biggest bands in the world, an artist that not only thrived in the men's world of rock, but who also earned the respect of the music industry for her musicianship and public persona—she wasn't just a celebrity, she was a living legend to a lot of people.

And it wasn't just that, either.  Earlier in the show, she'd shoved her keyboard over and ran off the stage in hysterics.  And now that she'd sat down beside me, I could see the haunted look in her eyes, the startling prominence of her cheekbones in a face so thin it looked nearly emaciated.  I could feel the shocking-thinness of her leg pressing against my own thick thigh.

I'd already had too much drama and craziness that night, and now I was worried that a whole heap of it had sat down right next to me.

So my surprise was even bigger when she met my eye, and gave me a warm smile.

"Hi," she said.  "I'm Sara."

She stretched her hand out to me.  I took it, feeling the delicate bones under my fingers.

"Um, hi," I said.  "I'm Anne.  I really,
really
like your band.  Your music means a lot to me."

"Thank you, Anne.  Is tonight the first night you've seen us play?"

I nodded.  "It was an incredible show."

"It was," she said, her eyes going distant.  "Honestly, it was the best show we've played in a long time.  This was the fourth time we've played in the past two weeks—all of them secret little shows in small clubs.  But tonight was the first time that playing didn't feel like a sad mistake."

Her eyes came back to mine.

"The band's been sort of in a bad place for the past year," she said, the haunted look coming back into her eyes.  "Honestly, I was starting to think about quitting.  But tonight… tonight gives me hope."

She put her hand on my bare knee.  It felt as cold as ice.

"And I think you're the reason for it."

"M-me?"  Suddenly my throat felt painfully dry.  I licked my lips and swallowed, trying to moisten it.  "Um, why?"

"Do you know what happened to the band a year ago?" she asked, leaning in a little.  There was an eerie, intense look in her eyes, and she stared into me, unblinking.

I shook my head, feeling my heart start to accelerate.  I'd been curious for ages, and part of me was desperate to know.  But, suddenly, another part of me was terrified of what Sara Sounding might tell me.

"No," I whispered.

She leaned in just a little farther, her eyes boring into mine, still unblinking.

"My sister," she said, "Trace's girlfriend… she died of an overdose."

A sudden thought flashed into my mind: the reporter from the SF Chronicle, asking me how old I was, mentioning Trace's other girl.

"She was in bed with Trace when it happened," Sara said, her words slamming into me like quiet bombs.  "He woke up next to her dead body.  And then he tried to kill himself."

A sudden, whirling vertigo took hold of me, the room spinning.  Sara's eyes were the only thing I could see, her low voice the only thing I could hear.

"He slit the artery in his wrist, the one you touch when you're checking someone's pulse."  Her voice was nearly a whisper.  "Every beat of his heart made him bleed, pumping more of his blood out through that cut.  When the police got there, the bed was soaked with blood—both Trace and Lucy were covered in it.  He almost bled to death."

The rumors I'd heard were true.  And somehow—now that I'd shared a momentary intimacy with Trace, now that he'd lain in bed with
me
—it made it all more terrible.

"Trace loved my sister," Sara said.  "And I thought that love would kill him.  He hasn't admitted it, but all the music he's written in the past year, all the songs we've been playing, have been about Lucy.  And every song is darker than the last.  I felt sure that darkness would eventually overwhelm him, and then not only would my sister be dead, she'd be a murderer too."

For a moment her eyes seemed to shine, manic light glowing within them.

"But now you're here," she said, her hand clutching my leg.  "And Trace has a light in the darkness.  For the first time since Lucy died, he looks like he's got something to live for."

She patted my knee, smiling.  I felt another shiver run through me.

"You want to hear a secret?  There's this look Trace used to get, this look in his eyes.  They'd seem darker, bigger—I'd look at his face and his eyes were all I'd see.  When Trace was with Lucy, I saw that look on his face all the time."

She leaned in even closer.  Or maybe her own eyes got bigger, until the blue of her irises seemed as enormous as a desert sky, ready to swallow me up.  Her boney fingers clutched at my knee.

"And now I see it when he looks at you."

Oh.  God.

Before I'd even realized it, I was on my feet, stumbling for the door.  My heart was thundering in my chest, my eyes had filled with tears so that my vision was all a blur.  More than anything else, my mind was possessed by a single thought: escape.

I caught a glimpse of Becca in the kitchenette, chatting with Sergio, giving him a coy smile.  After all that had happened tonight, she looked just as ready to party as ever.

I didn't stop for her.  If she wanted to stay, let her.  I just knew—with an urgency that bordered on panic—that I needed to get out of there right away.

I yanked the door open, the tears spilling over my cheeks, and sprinted down the hall toward the exit.

Chapter 6

Trace

Bernstein's doctor friend was a little guy with wire-rimmed glasses and tight, curly hair.  He did a quick examination on Joey, deciding that the seizure had probably resulted from a combination of mild brain trauma and too much booze and coke.  He gave Joey some anti-seizure pills, and told him no more booze or drugs because they could further the swelling in his brain, and no more vigorous activity or mental stimulation.

Basically, Joey was supposed to lie in bed with a cold washcloth over his forehead—the lights dim and the room quiet.  And—no surprise—Joey didn't want to do any of that.

"This is bullshit, man!" he said, trying to sit up in the bed.  "I've taken worse hits than this and kept on rocking."

"Joey, take it easy for once."  I pushed him back down on the bed.  "It's not gonna kill you if you skip the party for one night.  But it might kill you if you don't."

"You're such a drama queen sometimes, Trace.  I mean, it's great for writing big, emotional songs.  But it's a bit of a drag when you let it turn you into a worried old lady."

He tried to sit up again.

"And speaking of ladies, it's not polite to leave them unattended, you know.  We oughta be back there with our girls, man, especially you.  I'm pretty sure Becca can handle herself, but your doe-eyed chickadee might up and run if you leave her on her own with that pack of wolves in there."

I felt another little glimmer of worry, and nodded my head.

"You might be right.  I'd hate it if she did leave, I admit."

I raised my eyes, my mind drifting.

"There's something about her, Joey.  Something special.  I look in her eyes, and it almost takes my breath away."

"Plus, she's got really banging tits."

I frowned at him.  "God, I don't know why I'm wasting my time trying to explain this to you, especially when I could be back with Anne right now, getting to know her better."

"I don't know either, man.  If I were you, that's what I'd be doing.  Getting to know her, inside and out."

"Oh, forget it," I said, standing up.  "Get some rest, Joey.  You're brain is already a goddamned disaster.  You don't want to screw it up even more."

"Go find your lady, man.  And if you see Becca, tell her I'll be back there as soon as the room stops spinning, and the jackhammer in my brain takes a fucking break."

"Rest," I said, and gave him my best glare.

He gave me a toothy grin in response.

Bernstein and the doctor were out in the hall, talking quietly and smiling to each other like old friends at a reunion.  I shut the door behind me and turned to face them.

"You convince him to lay low for a while?" Bernstein asked.

"You know Joey," I said.  "It's next to impossible to convince him of anything."

He shook his head, his mouth pulling tight at the corners.  "Crazy and reckless is alright when you're young and resilient," he said.  "But the older you get, the harder it is for the body to keep up.  Joey will be thirty-one in another few months.  He needs to learn to be more careful, or he won't make it to forty."

"Honestly," I said, "Joey doesn't think very far beyond the present.  I'm not sure if he ever even thought he'd make it to thirty.  He's already living past his expectations."

"Well, for this night at least, he needs to take a break.  I'll stay here for a little while, to make sure he doesn't try to sneak back to the suite."

"Thanks, Bernstein."

"No need to thank me, Trace.  Looking after the band, it's what I'm here for."

He met my eye, and smiled a gentle smile.

"Speaking of which," he said, "why don't you get back to the party, yourself?  It's nice to see you engaged with the wider world, for a change."

I smiled back at him.

"You're a sensitive soul, Trace," he said, "and it makes for great art.  But not all art comes from suffering.  Sometimes, great art comes from joy.  And tonight, for the first time in a long time, you looked like you might have been feeling some joy—or at least the yearning for it."

He put his hand on my shoulder, hairy knuckles and all.  But I could feel the warmth of it through the cotton shirt.  And that warmth seemed to echo in my heart.

"Thanks, Bernstein," I said again.

This time he just nodded and smiled.

I turned and started walking up the hallway, back to the party.  Back to Anne.

-

I could hear the sound of the party from twenty yards down the hall.  The voices had reached a level of shrillness, loud and excited—people yelling back and forth instead of carrying on a regular conversation.  Lots of raucous laughter, too, and excited screams.

I pushed the door open and walked in.  Anne's friend Becca was in the kitchenette with Sergio and Angel.  They were laughing and leaning on each other, a half-empty bottle of tequila on the counter, a handful of lime rinds in the sink.  A big package of Morton's salt had fallen to the floor, scattering salt.

"Hey Becca," I said.

Her eyes met mine, watery, swimming a little in her head.  She smiled.

"Hi Trace.  Wanna shot?"

"No thanks.  Where's Anne?"

"Isn't she with you?"

"No.  I just got back from Joey's room."

"Oh," she said.  "Is Joey alright?"

"He's okay.  The doctor says he's supposed to take it easy for the rest of the night."

She swayed a little, and I reached out to steady her.

"You might want to take it easy, too," I said.  "I wouldn't recommend trying to keep up with Sergio and Angel.  They've been drinking tequila since before Sergio even knew how to play bass."

"Too late," Becca said, blinking her watery eyes.  "I just took two shots, and I can already feel it.  Tequila is no joke!"

She giggled.

"Becca," I said.  "Where's Anne?"

Her eyes came back to mine again.  "Isn't she with you?"

"No.  I already told you that.  I just got back from Joey's room."

"Oh.  Is he alright?"

I just looked at her for a second, shaking my head.  "He's fine.  Where's Anne."

"Dunno.  Last time I saw her she was talking with that freaky Skeletor chick, the one who threw her piano on the floor in the middle of your set."

"Sara?  Our keyboardist."

"Yeah.  She and Anne were talking.  Carlos here offered me a drink," she pointed at Sergio, "and I figured I'd give Anne a minute to chat with one of her rock-star heroes.  She really loves your band, man!  She's been creaming in her shorts over you guys ever since I met her."

I took a step away back, peering into the living room.  I saw Sara sitting on the couch, rolling a cigarette, but I didn't see any sign of Anne.

"You didn't see her leave or anything?"

"Trace, since I came in here to get a drink, I haven't seen anything but Tequila and limes and these two hot Mexicans, Pancho and Anchovie."

"Sergio and Angel."

"Huh?"  She gave me a confused look.  And then her lips stretched into a broad grin.  "Hey, wanna do a shot?"

I shook my head again.  "Sergio, Angel, make sure she drinks some water or something, alright?  I'm gonna go talk to Sara, see if I can find Anne."

Sergio looked at me.  "Right on, Trace."

I guided Becca to the counter, leaned her up against it, and then walked into the living room.  I stood there for a moment, my eyes scanning the room, looking for Anne.  Of the thirty or so people in there, about a third seemed to be on the verge of passing out, or were already asleep.  There were people slumped in chairs, sitting down on the carpet near the corner, leaning up against the walls with their eyes shut as if they were asleep on their feet.  The other two thirds of the folks seemed just a few steps away from blacking out, too—clinging together, slapping each other on the back, making oaths and declarations of brotherhood.

The party was reaching its crash point, and I didn't see any sign of Anne.  The urgency I felt ratcheted up another few click.

I walked up to the couch, crouched down beside Sara.

"Hey Sara."

She looked up at me, her big blue eyes peering out from deep in their sockets, and managed a fragile smile.

"Hi Trace.  I'm almost done with this cigarette."  She raised her hands to show me, the tobacco laid out in the paper like dirt in a white canoe.  "It's organic tobacco, hand grown by Native Americans in Virginia.  Wanna taste?"

"Thanks, but I'll pass.  Hey, you know the girl I brought back from the show?  Anne?"

She nodded her head, her smile growing brighter.  "Yeah.  I
like
her."

That surprised me.  I paused for a moment, processing it, before I asked my next question.

"Do you know where she is?"

She furrowed her brow just slightly, a small wrinkle appearing between her eyes.

"I thought she went to find you," she said.

"That's what her friend Becca said, too.  But I haven't seen her.  I was at Joey's room with Bernstein and his doctor buddy.  I told her I was coming right back, and she said she'd wait for me.  But now I can't find her."

"Maybe she went to your room?"

"My room's past Joey's, at the end of the hall," I said, considering it.  "I guess she might have slipped by while we were all in with Joey, but we weren't in there for very long.  The doctor only examined him for like ten minutes, and then he and Bernstein went out to wait in the hall.  I was probably only in there for another ten minutes or so."

"Maybe she got lost?"

"Maybe," I said.  "She didn't say anything to you before she left, did she?  Becca said the two of you were talking."

"Yeah, we talked a little," she said.  "I told her about Lucy."

My ears pricked up at that, a queasy feeling coming to life in my belly.

"What—" I stopped myself, and then spoke the next words carefully.  "What did you tell her?"

"I told her that Lucy was my sister, and that you and Lucy were together, and that she died.  I told her how much I missed Lucy, but how I worried about you.  I told her that I worried you might not get over Lucy's death, that it had killed something inside of you, and that the band wouldn't survive."

The queasy feeling in my stomach abruptly intensified, and suddenly I felt sick.  Sick, and afraid.

"But then I told her that tonight was the first night in a long time that I'd felt hope, and that she was the reason."  Her big blue eyes were fixed on mine, as clear as a cloudless sky.

"How did she react?" I asked, my voice low.  "What did she say?"

"She didn't say anything, but she looked like she was about to cry.  I thought she was moved.  I thought she'd gone to find you."

A rush of feelings swept over me, fear and shame and panic.  I put my hand on the coffee table to steady myself.  I took in a deep breath, trying to draw on the numbness I'd learned to use as a shield since Lucy's death.

"Trace, is something wrong?"

I took another deep breath, and then looked back at Sara.

"No.  Nothing's wrong.  She probably just got lost trying to find me.  I'll go see if she's at my room.  I'll talk to you tomorrow.  Don't let these folks get too crazy."

She looked around at the crowd, the people nodding off on the other side of the couch.  She snorted.

"Not much chance of that," she said.  "It's barely after three in the morning, and people are already crashing and burning.  Not like the parties we had in our old days, right Trace?"

"Right, Sara," I said.  "Goodnight."

I made my way back to the door, opened it and stepped out into the hallway.  And then I fell back against the wall, holding my head with my hand.

Sara had told Anne about me and Lucy, and Anne had ran off so quickly she didn't even stop to tell her friend she was leaving.  She'd fled me like I was a house on fire, or a plague.

I looked down at my wrist, at the ghostly scar bisecting the tattoo there.  Had Sara told Anne about that, too?  About me trying to kill myself.  About me being locked up in the psych ward?

Suddenly, I realized that Anne was right to leave.  One woman I'd loved had already died at my side, in my bed.  I didn't deserve the chance to infect someone else's life with my own.  I didn't deserve to be with anybody.

For a year I'd taken pills and gone to therapy and tried all sorts of treatments, and for a year those efforts had been moderately successful.  I'd armored myself with apathy, escaping pain by losing myself in numbness.

But tonight, tonight I'd felt a glimmer of hope.  And my heart had moved toward it.  And now all the despair and self-loathing that had been lying in wait beyond my armor—like a beast hiding just beyond the campfire's light, waiting for the coals to turn to ash—it had all come rushing in to swallow me whole.

I bent forward, covering my face with my hands, trying to block out the hallway light.  I didn't want to see anything.  I wanted blackness, nothingness.  I wanted to lose myself in it.