Page 86 of Caught in a Storm
“Goddamn, girl,” Nikki says. “You played the shit out of those songs. I missed that sound. You’re like a thunderstorm.”
Margot doesn’t know how she’s supposed to be feeling or what she’s supposed to do. Last night, Lawson accused her of disappearing to punish them—him and Nikki. He was wrong, mostly. The two of them feeling shitty was part of it, sure, a bonus. And yes, as Margot told Billy last night, she’s doubted herself and her own ability inside and out. She doubted that she was talented enough or hot enough or whatever else enough. Typical artistic neurosis. But the real reason Margot walked away from it all was so she’d never have to face Nikki again. It took her a few years of being a rock-and-roll recluse to realize that. She was hiding from her former best friend. And now here she is.
“By the way,” says Nikki. “Are you and Lawson, like—”
“No,” says Margot. “He just showed up, like you did.”
“Oh. So, the kinda-cute piano-teacher guy, then, with the swollen face?”
Margot lifts her eyebrows, an expression that says, Maybe, but also, None of your business.
“I can’t tell you how thrilling it is to see you two together,” says Axl. “To hear you talking again. I’ve dreamed of this.”
If her feelings for Lawson and Nikki have softened, time has only made her hate little Stuart Albee even more. Maybe that’s unfair, but whatever. His ridiculous ponytail looks even more asinine now than it did back then. She would be pissed at him for that goddamn thing alone.
“I’d offer you an espresso,” says Margot, “but I have no idea how that thing works.”
They look at the machine. It takes up a significant portion of the counter space, like a grounded alien spacecraft.
“Sorry to just drop in,” Axl says. “But, well, you were being elusive.”
“I’m not sorry,” says Nikki. “I should’ve dropped in years ago.”
“You were, what,” says Margot, “seven miles away?”
Nikki smiles, touches the Steinway’s middle F key. “You know I hate Chelsea.”
“Things have been moving fast, ladies,” Axl says. “That’s how it is now. Things were glacial before. You needed completed albums, radio stations. Now mountains get moved like that.” Axl snaps his fingers.
“What are you saying?” Margot asks.
“Remember how I used to talk about striking while the iron’s hot?”
Margot and Nikki look at each other. It was practically the man’s mantra.
“Well, that shit’s hot again, girls. Red-hot. As Rebecca told you and you for some reason ignored, Margot, Google wants to put ‘Power Pink’ in a phone commercial. Fucking Google. It’ll air in every country on the planet. TV, the web. Print. Even an outdoor campaign.”
“What’s an outdoor campaign?” asks Margot.
“Billboards,” says Nikki. “Big pink ones, probably.”
Margot laughs. “Billboards,” she says. “Jesus.”
“And then, boom, we drop an album,” says Axl. “We can record in the city—over at Threshold, like before. A single first, for the streamers—maybe a YouTube tie-in. A tour after that. A reunion tour. Twenty cities—the big markets—then more. Burnt Flowers is back, baby. Thanks to you, Margot. I simply cannot express to you how big this could be.”
“I’ve got songs,” says Nikki. “Enough for an album, easy. You wanna hear some?” She puts her hands on the keys.
“No,” says Margot. “Not…not right now.”
“Okay, yeah,” Nikki says. “I’m not warmed up anyway. But they’re good. I can feel it. And with you? And with Jenny and Anna? Together? We could make them great.”
She doesn’t want to look at Nikki being vulnerable, because Nikki is never vulnerable, so Margot looks out the window onto the driveway. Billy’s Champagne Supernova sits, dented and unwashed. She wishes he were here, helping her through this with his wholly unearned confidence in her.
“It wouldn’t have to be like before,” says Axl. “We could come up with a whole new working arrangement. A partnership. A democracy, whatever you wanna call it. The four of you voting on everything. Lockstep.”
Margot isn’t a kid anymore, signing her name at the bottom of some dizzying contract. She knows that anything that comes out of Axl’s mouth is rancid bullshit. She imagines the music, though, the sound the four of them would make together. Because that’s what she misses. The push and the pull. The fight. That sound.
“Margot,” Nikki says.
