Late
It’s my phone that wakes me up.
As I roll onto my side, I feel a deep vibration that I can’t ignore. I groan, forcing my face into the pillow. Eventually, the vibrating become to much for me to ignore that I sit up, grasp at it, and, eyes crossing, try to make sense of the screen.
An alarm. It’s just my alarm. Not even knowing what it’s for, I turn it off and toss the phone to my feet. I attempt to get comfortable again, snuggling against the pillow.
It’s then that I notice I’m not alone.
Not only am I not alone, but I’m surrounded by three other people. I shoot up, my head swimming. I press my fingertips against my temples, but it just makes my head throb. Last night. It dawns on me: it must have been some night.
It’s not the first time I’ve woken up surrounded by strangers, but my mind is so cloudy that I have to close my eyes to think, trying to recall last night.
I remember starting the night with weed--a lot of weed. But weed always makes me sleepy, so I’d probably done a few bumps of cocaine. And I’d definitely been drinking.
I open my eyes back up. As I look around, I do notice one thing: I know where I’m at. I’m in one of the guest rooms at Lynn’s house, meaning I’m in the Valley. ’Yep,’ I think to myself, ’last night was definitely fun.’
Even if I can’t remember it.
I wiggle off the bed. My bones feel heavy, but my head feels light, and when my feet touch the ground, I collapse upon impact. I take a few moments to steady myself. After reaching for my phone, I look at the people still fast asleep. They hadn’t even moved. Rubbing my eyes, I leave the room.
My feet drag as I make my way down the hall. I need to pee, and, as I yawn, I realize I’m also in desperate need of mouthwash. I find the nearest bathroom, lock the door behind me, and plop down on the toilet. My stomach starts to turn, but I ignore it. Washing my hands, I look at myself in the mirror.
Well, it could be worse.
My hair, recently lightened a golden shade of honey, somehow looks a shade or two darker. My eyebrows, practically tattooed on, look flawless, but my eyeliner is even more smudged than usual. My lipstick, too, is halfway off my lips, a thin trail of it running across my face. Clearly, I’d been drooling.
I run my fingers through my hair. I rub off my lipstick but leave everything else. I’ll take care of it when I get home. I adjust my dress and make my way downstairs. Next task? Finding my shoes.
I don’t get too far along in that quest.
“Whoa, I’m surprised to see you up so early.”
I turn to my right. Looking annoyingly as fresh as a daisy is Dean. Even though I’m squinting, I notice how nice his eyeliner looks, like it’s been freshly applied. I pull my hand to my face and give him the middle finger.
He laughs. “Good morning to you, too.” He makes his way down the hall and I reluctantly follow. “Sleep well?” he asks as we walk into the kitchen.
“Maybe?” plop down at the table. “Can’t tell.” My body heaves, forcing me to backtrack. “No.” I groan. “No, I did not.”
He laughs again. “Want something to eat? Lynn’s still passed out as well, but that has more to do with her schedule than a drunken stupor.”
Though I don’t want to know, I need to ask. “How bad was I?”
He takes a moment before responding. “I’ve seen worse.” Huh. Okay, maybe I hadn’t been as bad as I thought. “But, then again,” he continues, “I party with pornstars and rockstars and we both know I’ve seen a thing or two.”
I huff. Shit, that could mean anything.
Though I’ve known Dean for just a few years, he’s honestly one of my best friends. Not only are we both in relatively famous bands, but we have a nasty habit of speaking our minds when our mouths should be firmly closed. He’s honest, sometimes to a fault, but also incredibly sincere. The one thing, though, that’s far more interesting than all of that?
The fact that he’s dating Lynn Page--the pornstar.
Lynn’s not her real name, but it’s the only name I know her by. She’s very nice--super sweet with a body anyone would envy. She’s covered in tattoos, has complete looks to kill, and every inch a rockstar’s girlfriend. I don’t hang out with her much, but when I do, we always have good time.
“Did I do anything to embarrass either of you?”
He opens the fridge. “Nope.”
“Did I do anything to embarrass myself?”
“Yeah.” He pulls out some food. “Most likely.”
I groan. Wanting to bang my head against the table, I lean forward. The sudden motion makes me feel queasy, though, and I pull back, hand over my mouth. I need Advil and a small pick me up--something other than food.
“Actually, I’m surprised you’re still here.” I ask him what he means. “Last night you kept going on and on about not overdoing it because you had something today.”
I do? I try to think.
“You said you were fine to stay but that you were going to catch an early cab.”
What do I have to do for today? There’s the interview later this week, but that’s not for a few days.
“You were out fast, though. Like, barely made it to the bed. I told you that you could crash in our room but you said something about not wanting to ‘interrupt the fucking.’ We didn’t even fuck last night. Weren’t planning on it; that’s why I told you it was okay.”
“Shit!”
And, just like that, I remember where I’m supposed to be.
I jump up. “I gotta go.” I start looking around. “My shoes. Have you seen my shoes?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dean watching me. Slowly, I turn to him. “Well?” I ask.
He asks, “Where are you supposed to be?”
“Band practice.” And if I’m late, I’m going to be in so much trouble.
It takes some time, but eventually we find my shoes. Apparently, I’d deposited them on the staircase last night. Leaning on Dean for support, I strap them on. He then hands me my bag, and, as he does, I look inside.
I need my notebook. As long as I have my notebook, maybe they’ll forgive me for being late.
I spot it and zip my bag back up. I sling it over my shoulder and start down the stairs, but, after a moment, stop, look down at my clothes, and turn back, staring up at Dean.
“I can’t go like this.” When he asks me if I’m going straight to the studio, I nod. “I won’t have time to stop.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, Lynn probably has something. What do you want?” After telling him that I don’t care, he walks away. In his absence, a random person comes walking down the stairs. Clearly more hungover than I am, he doesn’t even notice me. I step out of his way, holding my breath as I do. And I thought I smelled bad. What, did he throw up on himself?
Dean returns and I take the clothes. I don’t even bother to look at everything, instead kissing him on the cheek. “One in a million,” I tell him over my shoulder.
By the time I’m outside, I’ve already requested an Uber. Getting from San Fernando Valley all the way to the studio is going to cost a pretty penny, but there’s not much I can do. Maybe for the next party I suggest everyone comes to my place instead of me being the one who travels?
Of course, there aren’t that many people I’d invite to blowout. What, it would be the band, Dean, and Lynn? Dean and Lynn are the ones with all the friends and acquaintances, not me.
I tell the driver hello as I slide into the car but otherwise don’t say anything. Now’s not the time to talk. I look down at the clothes in my hands then glance up at the review mirror. With the driver’s eyes on the road, there’s only one thing for me to do:
I start taking off my clothes.
I peel off the dress and follow it with my bra. I take a moment to stretch before hastily pulling the shirt over my head. It’s huge, probably meant to be oversized, but absolutely way too big for me. I figure the shirt is long enough to count as a dress, so I decide against putting on the shorts. Pulling a hair tie out of my bag, I look back to the front. Caught red-handed, the driver focuses back on the road. I roll my eyes, pull back my hair, and try to relax for the rest of the ride.
As I feel the car slowing down, I hear him ask,
“Do you have the code, young lady?”
The gate. We’re already at the gate. “Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s sixty-two four.” He rolls down the window and punches the keypad. The gate, old and creaky, opens and we pass through.
I stare out the window as he drives down the road. The further along we go, the bigger the houses get. No matter how many times I come through here, it always feels like my childhood. There are secrets in this neighborhood, more than everyone would care to admit. Still, it’s home.
Even if I no longer live here.
He pulls into the driveway. I push on the door and say, “Thanks, five stars.” I get out, slam the door behind me (further agitating my head), and watch him go. Once he’s out of sight, I turn and head towards the front door.
It takes me a moment to find the right key. I can easily ring the doorbell and wait, but, instead, I fish through my purse. I find the key, unlock the door, and, burping, step inside.
The first thing I notice is how quiet it is, meaning everyone’s already in the studio or none of them are here yet. I check the time and sigh. Nope, they’re definitely here already. And I’m about to get an earful.
I tiptoe through the house. I’m not sure who all is here, and I really don’t want to get caught in the state I’m in. Sure, my bandmates have seen me in terrible shape, but I don’t need anyone else seeing me like this.
Walking through the house, I notice how clean everything is. Even the white marble floor, which is usually pretty clean to begin with, is sparkling. It’s so clean that I can practically see my reflection. I pause for a moment, wondering what’s going on.
I reach back into my purse. Out of habit, my fingers graze cold metal. I don’t even think as I pull out the small, thin case. I’m so focused on looking around that, as my body stops and I bend forward, I don’t realize what I’m doing until it’s over. I snap open the case, stick my nail into the white powder, sprinkle it onto the back of my hand, put a finger over my right nostril, and, finally, inhale.
It’s a small bump, but one that will work for now. I sniffle and rub my nose before closing the case and tossing it back into my purse. I take a moment to compose myself, cough, and continue on my way.
The studio is quite a distance from the house. As I walk out the backdoor, I force myself to smile. Maybe they won’t be pissed this time. If I can just convince them that I overslept, not that I had been out the night before, having a good time...
When I walk into the studio, I’m surprised by what I see. Instead of warming up, they’re all camped out on the couch, each one looking more annoyed than the last. Freezing in the doorway, I stare at them. My stomach drops. I don’t know why, but I feel like something’s wrong.
It’s Dave who notices me first. Lips pursed, he stares at me.
I swallow hard. Truth be told, Dave sometimes intimidates me--actually, he used to really intimidate me. Back when we were still looking for a drummer and he’d been suggested, I’d wanted to say no. As a teenager at the time, there had been something terrifying about how tall he was. His dull, hazel eyes that never seemed impressed and a mop of black hair that always obscured some of his face, I just hadn’t been able to handle him.
Of course, that was before I got to know him. I’m not so intimidated anymore, but, the way he’s looking at me now, I can’t help but stiffen.
“Hi, Shadow.” He somehow manages to sound both bored and sarcastic at the same time.
I wiggle around for a moment before walking over. “Hey guys.” I try to sound cool. “Sorry, I know we wanted to get here early. I just, uh, my alarm. Didn’t go off.”
“Really?” It’s Wyatt that speaks this time. “That’s what happened?”
“Yeah.” As I turn to him, I notice that he’s staring at the clothes I’m holding onto. His eyes trace my body, landing at my feet.
Crap. The shoes always give it away.
It doesn’t stop me from trying to cover myself, though. I clear my throat. Plopping my bag and the clothes down on the floor, I say, “Yeah. Left it on vibrate.”
Wyatt continues, “I thought you said it didn’t go off.”
I shrug. “Same thing.”
Under his gaze, I begin to squirm. Not that he’s intimidating like Dave, but Wyatt has this certain... look. He always looks super serious, although most of the time he’s not. When I first met him, he would always confuse me, trying to figure him out. Often, whenever he speaks, he pushes his blond hair out of his face, leans back, and looks you dead in the eye. His tone always stays the same, and sometimes I still struggle to figure out if he’s being serious, sarcastic, or something in between.
Right now, though? I know I’m in trouble.
“It’s okay, Shadow. We weren’t waiting too long.”
I finally look at the fourth member of the band: Ethan Walsh. As I turn to him, there’s a forced smile on his face, and I can tell he’s trying to best to be calm. I can tell he’s trying to be calm because he’s drumming his fingers against his knees--a nervous habit. He’s about to play peacemaker, a role he’s held many times before.
Sitting down in the swivel chair across from them, I’m ready to end this conversation before it even begins. “Well, again, I’m sorry. You guys ready to get started?” None of them say anything. They glance at each other as if deciding who should speak up first. I sigh. “Okay, fine.” I lean back. “I went out last night, got a little carried away. I set a couple of alarms but only heard the last one. It won’t happen again.”
They still don’t respond, so I decide to be a bit more honest.
“Okay, so it won’t happen again anytime soon.” I pause. “What’s the matter with you guys? You act like someone just died.”
Eventually, it’s Dave who speaks up. “Shadow, we have an album to make.”
“Yeah, I know.” I reach for my bag. “I have lyrics,” I say, taking out my notebook. “They’re not fully done, and I haven’t set them to guitar or piano or anything but--”
“We have a deadline.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I know.”
“He’s trying to say you should have had the lyrics done a while ago.” I turn to Wyatt. “We need to start looking for a producer and we can’t do that unless we have an idea of the direction we’re going.”
He has a point. We do need a producer, but I also don’t want to rush into it. The last one... Well, firing him had been a long time coming. He’d worked with us for all of our other albums, but when we’d started talking about another one, I’d put my foot down. He had to go, and though the guys had initially resisted, I’d convinced them. And though I’m happy I don’t have to work with him ever again, replacing him isn’t going to be an easy task.
“It’s coming together,” I tell them. “It’s just going to take time. My dad always says--”
Dave cuts me off. “I love your dad--you know I do--but I’m not sure he’s going to take your side on this one.”
I tilt my head. What on earth is he talking about? “Okay, I just meant that he’s been through this, so...”
My voice trails off.
My dad. The one reason I’m even in the music industry. I’d grown up around it--heck, I was born into it. Back in his day, my dad had been in his own band, The Nixers, and he’d fronted that band throughout their seven-year run. I’d popped out about halfway through when the band was on the decline. Having a famous dad, at times, had been hard on me growing up--I knew way more about him than I’d ever wanted to know--but the good outweighed the bad.
Plus, in times like this, I actually know what I’m talking about.
I clear my throat. “I think it’s normal that we’re trying to figure out the direction we’re going. It happens to every band.”
“Yeah,” says Wyatt. “But the ones who survive are the ones who figure it out fast.”
I roll my eyes. Wyatt and Dave are making a big deal out of nothing. I doubt Ethan is concerned; he’s barely said two words. He’s--
“We’re just a bit worried.” His voice snaps me out of my own thoughts. Worried? What could they possibly be worried about? I frown, turning to him.
“Everything’s going to be fine. You’re worried over nothing.” I sniff. Man, I should have taken another bump. I feel jittery and on edge, not like I can conquer the world.
Heck, I don’t even feel like I can get through the morning.
“He’s not talking about the band.”
I look at Wyatt. He’s leaning back, legs stretched out in front of him, cowboy boots crossed at his ankles. He’s not looking at me, but I can sense how tense he is.
“Well what are you guys talking about, then?” No one speaks; I snap my fingers. “Hello? Either tell me why you’re so pissed, or let’s get going.” They’re mad at me for being late? Okay, fine, I get it. But now they’re just stalling, taking up more time than we’ve already lost.
“Tell us about last night,” says Wyatt, his voice flat. I glance at the others. “What’d you get up to?”
“I caught up with Dean.” For some reason, I’m mumbling like I’ done something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong, though; partying isn’t a crime.
“What’d you do?”
“Went to a party.” Why does the room suddenly feel hot? I start to squirm in my seat.
“What’d you do at the party?” asks Dave.
I scoff. “What are you, my dad?” It’s meant to be a joke, but no one laughs. I roll my eyes. “It was a usual stuff. I got a little more drunk than I meant to, but, c’mon, you’ve all been to Lynn’s. You know what those parties are like.”
“So you were high, too?”
“Of course?” My response comes out as more of a question than an actual answer. I watch as Dave looks over at Wyatt and they both shake their heads.
“You have a problem, Shadow?”
“Huh?”
“You were supposed to be here over an hour ago.”
“And I apologized! God, what’s with all of you?” They’re acting like none of them have ever been late for anything.
I snatch my bag up off the ground. Rooting through it, I say, “Are we going to start working, or what?” I pull out a joint and search for my lighter. “I have lyrics; we can look through the lyrics.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to smoke it here?”
“I’m going to go outside!” When I realize I’ve just yelled at Ethan, I pause, staring down into my bag. I sigh. My fingers find my lighter. Head bowed, I stand up. “Here.” I toss my notebook on the couch. Usually, it’s for my eyes only, but what else can I do? “I’ll be back.” Without another word, I leave the studio.
I grumble to myself as I close the door behind me. I’m so focused on mentally cussing them all out that I don’t even see someone walking over until the sun is blocked, a shadow crossed over my body. When I look up to see who it is, it’s the last person I would have expected:
My dad.
