Page 67 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Bernie lifted the instrument with a vague air, as though he couldn’t quite remember what it was. He raised it slowly, took a couple of deep breaths—or maybe it was just a stifled hiccup—and then he started to play.
It wasn’t jazz. It wasn’t blues. It wasn’t anything recognizable, and yet… there was something there. The notes stumbled out crooked, sluggish, tripping over each other, but they carried weight, flavor. Every pause felt like a door half-opened, then slammed shut.
Ryder watched him like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. When Bernie finally stopped—or maybe he just paused to take another swig of beer—Ryder shook his head, almost moved.
“He’s got truth in his breath!” he declared, with a conviction that made me suspect heatstroke or recent head trauma.
Tess nodded, as if that were the most obvious statement in the world. “Told you.”
I stayed silent, wondering exactly when we’d stumbled into an episode ofThe Twilight Zone.
39
The limousine slid through the Tampa night, city lights flickering through the windows in brief flashes. Bernie, of course, had already sunk into what at first glance might have passed for deep meditation… but I recognized instantly as third-degree alcoholic sleep.
Zane Ryder, seated beside him, balanced a laptop on his knees and said with the solemnity of a disciple, “Maestro, this is a track I’ve been working on. Tell me—what do you think?”
He pressed play. A guitar solo filled the car, followed by a swelling drumbeat. Zane stared at Bernie as if awaiting a verdict.
Bernie, eyes closed, let out a long, guttural grunt that ended in a snort.
Zane nodded slowly, as though he’d just received ancient wisdom. “I see… fewer structures. More room to breathe.”
I was about to speak, but Tess stopped me with a look.
A few minutes later, Zane tried again. “Maestro, what about the intro? Should it be sharper, more direct?”
Bernie inhaled noisily, rolled onto his side, and without opening his eyes, fumbled for a rum glass in the cupholder. He drank, then dropped the empty glass, exhaling something that sounded vaguely like “mmh.”
Zane, visibly enlightened: “Brilliant. A soft opening, then the bitter note at the end. It’s poetry.”
Tess and I exchanged a look.
When we arrived at the hotel, a doorman in full livery swung open the limo doors, and a wave of warm air perfumed with tropical flowers rushed over us. We stepped into the glittering lobby, all polished marble and chandeliers that seemed to dangle just inches from our heads.
Bernie, still in his Hawaiian shirt and moving with the gait of a cruise ship in rough seas, trailed behind us dragging Tess’s trolley diagonally as if it were a stubborn pet. He stopped in front of a massive orchid display, sniffed it, and without a word tucked the half-eaten bag of peanuts from the limo among the flowers, like an offering to some floral deity.
Zane led us to a private elevator and punched in a code. When the doors opened on his floor, a suite spread out before us so vast it could have competedwith a small airport: sitting rooms in sequence, hallways branching everywhere, and so many doors I wondered if one of them might conceal a minimart and a movie theater.
“Pick a room,” he said, as if he were offering us candy. Then he turned to Tess with a slow, confident smile. “Want to come to my room to say hi to Rimbaud? He’d be glad to see you again.”
She tilted her head just slightly, the hint of a smile on her lips.
“No thanks, darling.” She placed a light hand on his cheek, softening the blow. “I’m dead tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
Zane nodded, as if accepting a wise decision, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed the truth: this wasn’t rejection, just a postponement.
He gestured toward a hallway lined with identical doors. I opened one at random and found a small sitting room with an ocean view; Tess tried another and discovered a bedroom bigger than our entire Brooklyn apartment. We finally settled on a suite with a marble bathroom and a bed clearly designed for a family of six.
As soon as the door closed behind us, Tess spun toward me. “We need to bolt.”
I froze halfway between the suitcase and the minibar, one eyebrow raised.
“What?!”
“We need to leave, Bea.”
“Why?!”
