Unforgettable (5 page)

“Oh, Rett, oh my lord. I can’t believe the way you make me feel…”

She couldn’t get her hand any farther down the tight jeans. She pulled it out and fumbled with the snap and zipper.

Cinny’s hand captured hers, then Cinny was trying to sit up. “I can’t… Rett, I can’t do it.”

Rett bent her head to Cinny’s breasts again and for a moment, when Cinny sighed and offered them, she thought Cinny would relent.

“I really want to, but… I just can’t, Rett.”

She found enough voice to mumble, “I can make it really good for you, I promise.”

“I know you could … but I can’t…”

Cinny’s voice faded into memory and Rett put a hand on her stomach. She had begged Cinny until Cinny got mean. Rett had tried more than once to leave Cinny alone. After a week or two Cinny would always suggest they “see” each other and then she would ask for a hug to show they were friends again. A hug always led to kisses, kisses to touching, touching to Rett’s sexual frustration. All through their junior and senior years in high school they’d repeated the dance. Even when Rett knew Cinny was going all the way with her steady boyfriend, she would still come running when Cinny wanted to see her. Cinny always said yes, then Cinny always said no. It had been pathetic.

‘ Rett shook herself out of her self-condemnation. How was she supposed to have known any better? She was the pervert, and perverts didn’t deserve to get laid — or so she had thought then. It had been easy when she’d left Woton to think of Cinny as a manipulative tease, but all these years later it occurred to Rett that Cinny probably just hadn’t been able to cope with her own sexuality. Proving to herself that she could say no to Rett had probably bolstered Cinny’s desperate need to believe she wasn’t gay. She couldn’t blame Cinny for being confused and afraid, not when “lesbo” was a worse insult than “slut.”

Begging for sex — Cinny was the last time Rett had ever done that. Then Trish had almost manipulated her into that place again. It had felt rotten at seventeen, and even worse at thirty-nine.

Now Cinny was married. Rett wondered what would happen if… No, she thought. There’s no point to that what-if scenario. Finding out was not worth at least a week in August, temperature and humidity at ninety-nine and mosquitoes the size of sparrows. It would mean almost certainly having to see her mother and endure God only knew what kind of verbal abuse for the sake of nonexistent filial devotion.

She pushed the invitation to the back of her sock drawer. All dealt with, she thought. No need to think about it anymore.

The next week passed too slowly and Rett got too much rest, practiced too little and spent too much time thinking. She imagined going to the gym more than she actually went and discovered the comforting properties of fettucine Alfredo takeout from a nearby restaurant.

Her first meeting with Naomi as her manager again had been depressing. She graduated from the Alfredo to carbonara della casa. Even after the steps she’d taken to clean up some of the financial mess, Naomi had said she would have to pull in an accountant to make heads or tails of it all. The worst news was that Trish had moved her investment accounts around a lot and Rett had paid and repaid load charges. The accounts had earned nothing for the last two years as a result. Naomi had also reminded her about the car Trish was still driving. Rett sent a short e-mail requesting its return within five days.

Trish never called, not that Rett wanted her to. She didn’t even call to arrange to pick up the rest of her stuff. So Rett spent all of one day boxing up Trish’s clothes and odds and ends. She put the boxes in the guest bedroom where she didn’t have to look at them.

She exhausted herself moving furniture around and didn’t like the results. She ate far too many Snackwells, knowing full well that low in fat did not mean low in calories. She broke every promise she made to herself about going to the gym. Thank goodness she had a gig that night. She felt unwanted, unappreciated, unloved and just plain unhappy.

It did not matter that the gig was completely volunteer, “starring” at a Friday night karaoke event at Monica’s, a women’s coffeehouse by day and bar by night. It was a good deed combined with an opportunity to perform with a live audience. She had her own karaoke CD for her numbers. It had cost a bundle but in the end was far cheaper than hiring a keyboardist to accompany her every time she needed live practice. Her ego could certainly use an appreciative crowd.

She could have driven to the bar — many Angelinos would have preferred a four-block drive and then a skirmish for parking that cost nine dollars an hour and still meant a two-block walk to the final destination. But she knew the short walk would clear her mind and cast off the self-pitying blues refrain she’d been hearing in her head.

Within a few minutes she was glad she was on foot. Fabulous hibiscus the size of dinner plates hung over walls like springtime flags. Roses were blooming all along the boulevard, leaving the night drenched with their heady scent. The cool air was bringing out the heavy aroma of watered soil and greenery. Nights like these made her forget that most of Los Angeles was a concrete freeway. By the time she got to Monica’s she felt less like she had been put through an emotional meat grinder. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da.

“Rett, you doll!” Monica Green hugged with her whole body. Given her size and tendency to wear flowing caftans, it was always an enveloping experience. Rett emerged from the fluttering fabric slightly mussed and smelling of rosewater. “How do you want things to go tonight? Like the last time?”

“Well, I thought you could —”

“About forty minutes for the amateurs, right?” Monica pushed her yellow-blond curls out of her eyes. The fix lasted no more than a second. “Then a set for you — thirty minutes. Is that too long? I think you went longer than that last time.”

“No, I—”

“Then amateurs for the rest of the night. Could you host the first part? You know, sing along when people chicken out, that sort of thing?”

“I was planning to —”

“Then we’re all set.” Monica was beaming. “I have room-temperature water set aside for you. I’d have never known how important it was if you hadn’t told me. I’d have thought iced water was better. Is it for your throat or your vocal cords?”

“I’m not sure, it just works—”

“This is Camille Masterson. She’s the D.J. and she’ll be more than happy to help jolly people up, won’t you?”

Camille just nodded. Rett decided Camille knew that actually talking to Monica took more energy than any one person could maintain. Rett nodded back and added a belated smile. Camille was all in black with short-cropped white hair and a body that looked like she spent half of each day doing Tae-Bo workouts. Just looking at her made Rett feel slovenly and overdressed in her jeans, denim vest and what now seemed like an ultra-femme linen shirt with poetically full sleeves. If she was looking for a diversion, Rett was sure Camille could make her forget all about Trish.

Yeah, that would be a good step, she thought. A little meaningless sex so you can feel guilty for weeks for not calling and then avoid all places where D.J.s might hang out. Better yet, move to another city just to avoid any chance encounter. That would put your life back on the right track.

The seats were starting to fill and Rett felt the familiar rush of anxiety and adrenaline that always accompanied a performance. This space of time was when Trish would do something to distract her — chat about nothing in particular, or discuss some minor business matter. It took the edge off, but was a piss-poor reason to start missing Trish.

“Your disc is in the machine.” Camille was lounging next to her control panel. “Do the numbers cue by themselves or should I do it?”

“I prefer to have them cue automatically, but if you could stand by to pause if necessary, that would be great.” She had forgotten to give Camille the selection numbers. So much for her head being on what she was doing. “Thanks for reminding me, though. There’s a few tracks I don’t want to cue up.” Like “Lost Without Your Love.” She wasn’t going to sing any come-back-to-me, I-can’t-survive-without-you songs tonight.

The cabaret area of the bar was standing-room-only and Monica flitted about scattering song lists to people. Camille cranked up “We Are Family” for background until Monica clambered onto the low stage and waved her arms for silence.

“We are so lucky tonight to have Rett Jamison hosting our evening. She’s going to do her own set, too!” Monica paused and the crowd oohed on cue. “Thank you all for coming. Part of tonight’s cover charge is going to the Santa Monica women’s shelter program.” Monica fluttered into the audience so Rett took that for her cue.

There was appreciative applause, which Rett let subside before she breathed into the mike in her sultriest voice. “Ladies … someone has to go first. Tonight you can be a … virgin. So come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Thankfully, a quartet of tipsy friends was willing to start. They gave a rendition of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” that made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in pitch. The next forty minutes was a blur of pop hits and laughter. The crowd was in good spirits — whenever someone faltered everyone would join in to finish the piece. Rett didn’t have much to do except chatter while Camille cued up the next song. She kept to easy topics: Xena, Ellen and Anne, and women’s sports.

“Okay, ladies. We’ve reached that point in the evening where you should refill your beverage of choice and set for a spell.” Rett adjusted the standing mike to her height and nodded to Camille. The gentle opening piano work of “Color My World” flowed out of the speakers. Rett nodded appreciatively when someone turned down the lights.

The energy was good and the clatter from the bar didn’t overly intrude as she worked from a low, dreamy beginning to “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” then picked up a little with “Superstar” and another Carpenters hit, “Top of the World.” She stayed in a light country mood for “Back to Georgia,” then segued to a husky version of “So in Love,” a favorite Cole Porter number. She kept up the trick of making eye contact with two or three women, which made the rest of the audience feel as if they were making eye contact as well.

She was sinking into the deep, final “my love, am I” when she realized that the tiny dark-haired woman she was singing to looked familiar. Just a little. Like someone she’d maybe sat next to on an airplane — but not recently. Her hair might have been longer. The momentary distraction was annoying, so she redoubled her concentration for the opening of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

Her concentration was broken again when she heard Trish’s voice just to the left of the stage. As the song reached for its climax she could just make out phrases like “not as sharp as it used to be” and “possessive is an understatement” and “willing to work hard or you’ll end up singing in places like this.”

The crowd was friendly enough to whistle and cheer as she ended the song, though Rett could not remember the last time she’d sung in such a distracted state.

She tried to empty her mind of the refrain “bitch, bitch, you bitch,” but it wasn’t working. The intro to the next song was already starting. Fine, she thought. If I can’t get you out of my head, then I’ll sing this one for you.

The song was “Unchained Melody,” and Rett felt the tickle of a smile as she sang about hunger and need and the power of a touch. As she sang she thought about all the love and devotion she had to give. Trish had wanted the sex and the life, but never all of her. All this passion and desire could have been hers, but now Rett would have to save it for someone else.

Her voice was resonating in her chest and sending prickles all along her arms and back. Suddenly it was easy to forget about Trish. She sang for the someone she hadn’t yet met, the someone who would treasure what Rett had to give. In the throes of the closing verse, she sang for the audience. She gave it her all. You didn’t know I’d been holding back, did you? Here it is, everything I have to give. She infused all the emotional power she could command into the final lines, then let her moaning voice fall to a whisper as the orchestration faded away.

She was aware that the noise from the bar had stopped and the silence, even as brief as it was, rewarded her for what she’d given into the song. The room erupted into hoots and hollers as Rett stepped back from the microphone and bowed.

As the applause died down, Rett stepped up to the mike again and said, “That concludes my portion of the evening —” and was gratified by the ensuing groans and calls of “Encore!”

Camille leaned into the mike’s range and said, “I think we’re owed at least one more.”

Rett wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to give a token protest when someone said loudly, “I’ve heard plenty.”

Bitch, Rett thought. She saw Camille’s surprise at the rudeness, so she covered the mike and said, “My ex, as of last week.”

Camille glanced in Trish’s direction. “The she-woman type, I see.” She pursed her lips for a split second, then said, “Let me handle this. Just follow my lead.”

Camille favored the room with a conspiratorial grin. “I think what we need now is a little competition. D.J. — that would be me — versus songbird — that would be her. Loser buys winner a beer.”

“Hey,” Rett said loudly. “I didn’t agree to this.” Her feigned outrage drew a few chuckles from the crowd.

“What can I say? I’m thirsty,” Camille said. “So I’m going to pick a song and if she doesn’t know the words, I win.”

“That’s not fair,” Rett protested, even though she realized she had an advantage Camille knew nothing about. “You could pick anything.”

Camille muttered, “It’s a small price for you to pay for what you get to do next.” To the room she said, “Are there any boot-wearing girls out there?” There was a loud hoot of yeses. “Well, if you know the boot scoot line dance, I want you down front, ‘cause Miz Rett is gonna sing us a boot tune.”

“Don’t I even get to know the title?”

“Nnnnnope.”

A half-dozen women slid into a line in front of the stage as Rett shrugged at the crowd. “I guess she’s making all the rules.”

“Like I said, I’m thirsty.” Camille’s fingers played over the karaoke machine’s control panel.