Page 11 of Chronicles of a Rockin' Mess

“When I hired you, you said you weren’t going to pursue music anymore because you knew you wouldn’t be good enough, so you were just looking to be part of the music scene. But you’re wrong, dead wrong. You should have told me,” he says in a low voice. I can see a look of hurt on his face.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you…I just…it’s a silly dream,” I say to him. I’d been rejected by a number of record labels. Most took one look at the overweight gal from the Midwest who knew nothing about stage presence and wrote me off immediately. I’d been singing at some coffee shops for three years, working on building up my confidence but that night on stage with Magnolia Tear was a game-changer. It’s the first time I’d seriously thought about singing in a long time.

“It’s not a silly dream,” he says angrily. At first, I think he’s mad because I just called his dream silly, but then he speaks again. “You could be big, Lark. Your name is perfect. It fits you because you sing like a songbird. Don’t throw away that dream, Lark. Don’t throw away that dream working for me. I could help you. Introduce you to people at the label. Ask them to listen to your music. Heck, I could invite you on stage to sing with us.”

I shake my head. “No, this is fine. I’m fine with my life, Lincoln,” I say. OK, that’s a lie. I’m not totally fine with it, but I don’t want to be away from Lincoln, and I’m too scared to sing on stage with him in giant arenas.

I see a look of intense sadness cross his face, but he doesn’t say anything as he walks across the room slowly.

“I can’t find that shirt you said you had dry cleaned,” he finally says as he sits down in a chair on the far side of his room.

I sigh. I want to tell him where he can stick that shirt. But instead, I walk into his closet and begin rummaging through the mess he clearly created looking for it before texting me.

I’ve never wanted to quit anything, but right now, I’m so done. I don’t know when it all changed but…fine, I know exactly when it all changed. The night I knocked my head and fell into his arms.

I snort to myself as I dig through his shirts. Freaking Gretchen Danner was supposed to be here any second. Lincoln had been extra showy with her. He was practically flaunting her at the paps and my face daily. Every morning for the past two weeks had been a press shitstorm. And the fucker knew it.

“Gotcha,” I say as I pull the coveted shirt down. I frown, it was like it had been purposefully stuck in between two suits. I know I wouldn’t have put it there, and I’m one hundred and ten percent sure that Maria wouldn’t have done it.

I walk out of the closet, still staring at the shirt. I open my mouth to give him a smart-ass statement, when…I see her or rather him…or rather them.

Gretchen is on her knees in front of Lincoln, her head bobbing up and down. Lincoln isn’t watching her though, he is staring at me with a smirk on his face, his jeans down around his ankles.

I can’t breathe. He wants me to see this. He wants me to know I can never have him but fake-boob, cotton-for-brains Gretchen can. I can feel my eyes begin to sting with tears of hurt. It’s when he places a hand on the back of her head and forces his cock down her throat that my hurt turns to seething anger.

I leisurely lift my arm and let go of his shirt.

“I found your shirt. Perhaps try keeping it with the shirts, instead of the suit jackets,” I say loudly causing Gretchen to choke. My eyes narrow on his, which dance with amusement…and that…is the final straw.

I exit the room, slamming the door, and walk calmly to my quarters. Considering I came to LA with practically nothing three years ago, and have bought very little since then, it takes me all of an hour to pack my room into four large suitcases and two backpacks. I look around and nod. I heave the first three bags down to the front door. I can hear Gretchen and Lincoln arguing upstairs, but I don’t give a fuck. I am all out of fucks.

I call for a car, while I bring down my next three bags. I wait till I see the car pull up to the gate. I buzz it in and quickly open the door and haul my bags out. The last thing I hear is more arguing from upstairs. The driver gets out and helps me load everything into the car.

As the car pulls up to the gate, and I punch in the code for the last time, I turn and see a very pissed-off Gretchen storming out the front door, followed immediately by Lincoln. The gates open, and the car pulls through. I hear my phone ping with a text. It’s from Lincoln. I turn around, and I swear I see the anguish in his eyes.

I type two little words, “I quit,” and hit send. Then I block his number.

“LAX?” the driver asks, confirming my destination. For a long moment, I’m unsure, and then I pull up a number in my phone and nod at him.

I hit send, and wait, and pray that he answers.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he answers in his soothing Southern drawl.

“Hank?” I ask as I try not to cry.

“What’s wrong, sugar pie?” he asks, his voice suddenly laced with concern. And that is my undoing. The tears start, and I have to take a few breaths before I can answer him.

“I quit,” I whisper in the phone.

“Oh?”

I nod and then realize he can’t see me. “Yes,” I say quietly.

“Well, you best be getting on a plane and headin’ down here then,” he replies without missing a beat.

“Mimi, honey, make up the guest room, we’re gonna have some company!” he calls out to his wife. “Oh, she’s gonna be so tickled that you’re coming to stay with us. Now, when’s your flight?”

“Uh, um…hold on,” I say as I pull up an airline app. I find a red-eye that is not too unreasonably priced and buy a seat. Then, I decide to say “fuck it” because I’ve barely spent a dime since working for Lincoln, so I upgrade to first class. “I’ll be there at six tomorrow morning.”

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