Punk and Zen (49 page)

I couldn’t believe how angry I was. ABC Maybe
the last few years had been my fault, but this current disconnect hadn’t been.
I knew that. The only thing I felt was betrayed.

“Nina?” Fran sniffed, then recovered. “Meet Ann R Key,
the bassist for Loose Dogs.” She swept her arm in the direction of what was
unmistakably, undeniably, Samantha, with a bass gig-bag slung over her
shoulder.

Samantha smiled at me, a cocky little grin that was a
quirk of her lips. It was only her eyes that looked sad, and for a moment, I wanted
to touch that mouth, lighten those eyes, but I shook myself. No.

“Do you still need a bassist?” she asked softly.

I looked from one to the other. One of them showing
up, maybe that I could understand, but both of them, showing up together, that
was too weird, like they were ganging up on me or something, and I didn’t like
it at all.

Was this supposed to be some sort of fucking game?
What the fuck were they doing? Whatever. I wasn’t playing.

I shook my head and ran my hands through my short
spiky hair. Then I took my guitar, and as quickly as I could without hurting
it, I slammed it into its case and yanked at the handle.

“What the fuck do you think you guys are doing?” I
asked, infuriated because I felt stupid for some reason, incredulous because I
simply couldn’t believe I was looking at either one of them.

“Six weeks. Six fucking weeks,” was all I said as I
walked past them to the wall that led to the corridor before I faced them.

The sense of betrayal persisted, I don’t even know
why, and all I could think was that I’d been so much better off, after all that
silence, without them. I mean, one breaks up with me, the other promises, what,
eternity? And breaks a date. What the fuck was that?

“How far do I have to go to get away from you?” I
asked, not knowing which of them I spoke to.

Fran took a step toward me, but Samantha stopped her,
grabbing her hand. Somehow, that little gesture, the implied intimacy of it,
killed me. “God, just leave me the fuck alone, both of you,” I snarled, and
stalked out.

I assumed one of the owners had let them in, and even
though he might not have understood the argument, since it was in English, I
was pretty sure my tone was loud enough to be understood. The club was empty as
I walked through it. Whichever guy it was had made himself scarce. I’d have
words for one of them later, that was for sure.

I went to the back stairway that led to the roof, to
my apartment, and when I got to the top and opened the door, ABC the
bright afternoon sun blinded me.

As I entered my apartment I glanced at the pool. A
refreshing swim seemed like a good idea—time to float and think, think about
nothing at all because I needed to cool off, literally and figuratively. Seeing
Fran again had set my heart to racing, and the completely unexpected revelation
about Samantha had just completely fucked me up. I realized I didn’t fucking
know her at all.

I settled my guitar in its usual spot and went to
change into one of my swimsuits. I’d been there long enough to acquire a nice
collection. I went with the turquoise string bikini I’d picked up when I first
arrived; it looked great with my tan, or at least that’s what Carlos said, and
that tan needed some maintenance. I slapped some sunblock on. Even though I
wanted to maintain the color, I was still naturally fair skinned, and the
afternoon sun could be brutal. That was something I’d learned the day my face
and shoulders matched my hair color.

I selected a towel and stepped into the kitchen,
opening a cabinet for some olive oil. Pouring a tiny bit into my palm, I worked
it into my hair—a neat little trick I’d learned from Enrique. He’d told me that
it would prevent my hair from getting dried out as well as preserve the color
for longer, and he was right.

Done with my sun preparations, I grabbed my sunglasses
off the table, tucked them into the strap along my hip, and stepped out onto
the roof. I tossed my towel down on one of the chaise lounges, walked to the
board, and dove in.

The water was warm, heated by the sun all day, but it
was still refreshing, I thought as I surfaced with a long stroke.
Automatically, I began to swim the length, focusing on my arms, the position of
my legs. I did about four laps before I decided to just float and let the sun
warm me.

I swam to the cement and brick edge, then pulled
myself out of the water. After dripping across the hot roof toward the closest
floating raft, I returned with it, dropped it into the water, then carefully
climbed on. A couple of strokes propelled me to the middle of the pool, where I
pulled my sunglasses from my hip and slipped them on.

I lay there for a while, the soft slap of the water
against the sides of the pool, the soft rock of the lounger and the warmth of
the sun lulling me into a light doze.

“
Y qué?
” Enrique’s voice cut across my peace.
And what?

Lowering my sunglasses, I looked at him as he stood
next to the pool, carrying two tall glasses and wearing the most popular form
of male attire—a Lycra Band-Aid. This one matched my bikini—and Enrique looked
good in turquoise. Frankly, Enrique looked good in everything. “And what what?”
I asked archly.

He brought a lounger over, dropping it into the water.
“Which one is the bass player?” he asked. He put the drinks down on the ledge
and swung his legs over, dipping his feet in the pool.

“The one with the bass, of course,” I answered,
putting my sunglasses back on.

I heard him splash in, then lift himself onto the
lounger, creating waves that lightly jostled me. “Here,” he said, and bumped
into me. I opened my eyes and took the glass he handed me.

“Thanks.” I saluted as I sipped. Hmm. Rum and Coke, or
Cuba Libre
—Free Cuba, as they called it. You know, I’m pretty sure that
I don’t know anything that I probably should about Cuba, but I thought it was
weird that they call the drink that in Spain; after all, they were once an
empire.

Enrique settled back comfortably into his lounger.
“Which one is the ex?” he asked, sipping nonchalantly.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, putting my glass
into the holder in the lounger’s arms. “The blonde,” I answered shortly, “the
devastatingly beautiful-didn’t-believe-me-fuckin’-dumped-me blonde.”

“Ah, a lover’s quarrel?” he said lightly. “And it was
over someone…another woman…” He let that hang in the air.

I considered how to answer. Since I hadn’t given in to
temptation, I hadn’t sinned, right? And truth to tell, if Fran hadn’t broken up
with me, I know, for a solid fact, that I would never have let anything happen
between Samantha and me, no matter what.

“There
was
no other woman, except in her mind,”
I answered finally. “Where’s Carlos?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
Usually we all ended up in the pool at the same time every afternoon.

“He’s downstairs, putting in some new equipment. Enzo
from Rude is setting up a new show.”

I digested that news quietly. There had to be
something else to it. I knew Enzo and the label were waiting to see what I came
up with. Graham had been really excited about the new material I’d developed,
and in a very real way, I was “his discovery.” Enzo had already more than
hinted that he wanted me out on tour before long—to hit the back-to-school
crowd, which didn’t really make sense. Standard industry practice was not to
release anything new between October fifteenth and January, going into
February, really—the entire biz revolved around established acts at that time
for the holiday rush.

Maybe he thought I didn’t know that, and honestly, I
hadn’t before Graham explained it to me.

“And?” I asked.

“And what?” Enrique returned, lightly mocking my
earlier answer.

“And what else did he want? I know Enzo. He doesn’t
call without at least several agendas, ABC no?”

“No…and yes, you are right,” he drawled, “he wants
something else.”

“Of course he does,” I said, more to the sky than to
Enrique. “Does he want a time line or a new demo?” For the last few weeks Enzo
had been really been pressuring me to give him something, anything. I knew he
wanted me to get back on the road. He was famous for saying “It’s good enough
for rock’n’roll,” which meant slapping some shit together and putting it out
there sometimes. But there were two things wrong with that, at least as far as
I was concerned.

It had always been drilled into my head that trifles
make perfection and perfection is no trifle. I wasn’t going to just put some
shit out there and attach my name to it—no fucking way. And I’d learned on tour
that with no product, the show doesn’t matter—you leave nothing memorable
behind. Before I went out on the road again I was making sure that I had enough
good music to perform and to sell.

“He wants you to work with Ann, thinks you’ll be a
good team.” He resettled himself on his lounger as I sat up to stare at him and
sipped on in silence. “Graham suggested it.” He shrugged casually.

Fuck. What the fuck are you doing to me
, Graham? I
thought. At least he’d hooked me up with an excellent bassist, I grudgingly
credited him.

“So, who was she?”

I sighed, resigned to playing the game. “Who was who?”

“The imaginary woman, of course?” he asked, eyes wide
like an innocent. Which, from the lift in the corner of his mouth, I knew he
wasn’t.

I settled into the lounger, set my sunglasses back on
my head, and picked up my drink. “The bassist,” I said casually as I took a sip
and closed my eyes.

“So the blonde is the one you were engaged to?”

“No,” I answered shortly, “that was also the bassist.”

I could feel his shock in the silence, then a sudden
splash rocked my lounger. I opened my eyes to see Enrique in the water, shaking
his head at me.

“
Muy chueca, chica
,” he said.
Very twisted, girl.
I saluted him with a small smile.

“I know,” I told him, that tight little smile on my
face difficult to speak through, “believe me, I know.”

“No, not just that,” he said, wading toward me and
pulling his lounger with him. “It’s just that Enzo asked if we had an available
apartment. And since the other one is being worked on and Graham said you girls
knew each other, we thought, well—”

“They’re staying with me,” I said flatly. Great.
Fucking great. Maybe I’d go back to New York early and find an apartment in
Brooklyn, no, Queens. Everyone got lost in Queens.

My displeasure must have shown on my face, and Enrique
misunderstood—he thought I was concerned about appearances, which, in
conservative Madrid, many
Madrileños
are. But I wasn’t a
Madrileña
;
I was a New York City punk, and that shit never really mattered to me.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “we only dress Catholic.”

“I thought gays weren’t allowed to believe in God,” I
shot back at him, still not exactly thrilled with life at the moment, but
willing to play with Enrique all the same.

“Someone better tell God that.” He grinned
maddeningly. “Besides,” he added, “this is Spain—and you should have more than
one lover. Damn, Nina, you should at least
have
a lover.” He studied me
for a moment. “Love is more flexible than you think,” he said softly.

I really didn’t want to get into that conversation
with him. For the record, the word “lover” in Spanish—
amante
—sounds a
heck of lot nicer than it does in English. It carries just so much more with
it, which is why I didn’t object to Enrique’s use of it. I still don’t like the
word in English.

I hung my glasses from the center strap of my bikini
top and decided to swim a few more laps to get my head clear of the adrenaline
that was pumping my brain full of mush; and in the end, I must have done a few
more than I thought, because Carlos and the girls came up the outside stairs
and through the gate.

Carlos was funny. He had them walk outside instead of
go through the club—I guess so that they knew the stairs were there or it was
his way of introducing long-term guests to the place. The three of them waited:
Samantha with her bass slung over her shoulder and holding her bag, Fran with
her bags in front of her, and Carlos, a smug expression curving his too-pretty
mouth.

I swam over to their end and climbed out, vaulting
over the ledge the way I liked to. Besides, it showed off my arms, and for once
in my life, I was aware that not only was I more than half naked, but that I
looked good that way, and I knew that both of them would notice.

And notice they did. Fran’s eyes cut across me before
she focused on Carlos, while Samantha chewed the corner of her lip, then stared
at the sky. Bad idea—it was way too bright out.

I ran my fingers through my hair, then pulled my
sunglasses free from my top and slipped them on.

“How long will this unexpected…visit last?” I asked
Carlos.

“Well, Nina,” Fran broke in with a Spanish
pronunciation that sounded slightly Italian, “we’re both here at the label’s
request. The studio I worked for bought Rude, and I’m doing their contract
fieldwork. Samantha’s the musician they’re lending you, and Enzo suggested four
weeks to do the demo and review the contracts.”