Page 16 of Charm City Rocks
“It was inspiring, Billy,” says Grady. “You know, you shot your shot.”
Gustavo hums anmm-hmmwith his deep voice. “Billy Perkins,” he says. “Nice guy. Piano teacher. Local hero.”
As his friends and son eat pretzels and tease him, Billy looks back at Charm City Rocks. He hasn’t recovered yet from what just happened, so maybe he’s being overly romantic, but that cluttered little shop beneath his apartment will now forever be the place where he briefly met Margot Hammer. He replays the big moment in his head: going after her down Thames Street. To Caleb and Grady, it must’ve looked spontaneous. It wasn’t, though.
Nineteen years ago, less than a mile from here, Billy proposed to Caleb’s mom, Robyn. They were at La Scala in Little Italy, her favorite restaurant. Billy’s Caesar salad had just arrived. Robyn was eating crackers and drinking club soda, because morning sickness for her had been more like evening sickness. Billy took a deep breath and got down on one knee beside their table. His napkin fell on the floor. It’s funny the things you remember: a fallen napkin, a young waiter who was trying to grow a mustache.
The place went as quiet as a funeral home. Billy hadn’t planned on the fact that everyone in the restaurant would instantly know what he was up to and turn to stare. He also hadn’t planned on how small the diamond would look. He moved the box in his hand, hoping to catch the light and give it some sparkle.
Robyn stared silently at the ring. For exactly how long he’s not sure, because the passage of time is tricky when you’re on one knee. Then she said, “Oh Jesus, Billy,” and ran out of the restaurant.
He stayed there, the floor cold and hard through his jeans. Eventually, he sat back down at the table. He could practically feel the strangers around him urging him with their minds to get up—todosomething. He was hurt, though. Embarrassed, too. So much so that all he could bring himself to do was sit quietly and eat his salad.
That night, Billydidn’tgo after Robyn. For years, he regretted it. Then, he accepted it, the way we grudgingly move on from the dumb things we do and don’t do. Either way, few days have gone by since in which he hasn’t thought about it. So, thirty minutes ago, when Margot bolted from Charm City Rocks, Billy knew what he had to do. He’s been waiting to do it for nearly two decades.
Chapter9
She’s supposed to just be grabbing her stuff.
Rebecca was clear about the plan. “Let’s meet in the lobby in fifteen. We’ll head to the train station and G-T-F-O.”
It took Margot a moment to parse out “G-T-F-O,” like she was decoding Poppy’s text messages.Oh, right, yeah. Get the fuck out.
Five minutes after stepping into the cool, clean suite, though, Margot is stretched out on the bed, boots off. Her socks, she realizes, don’t match. It’s been forever since she’s been in a hotel room, particularly a plush one, and it makes her think of the days whenallthe hotel rooms were plush. When they were on the road, each of the four members of Burnt Flowers had their own rooms, but they’d inevitably pile into one until late to listen to music or to work on songs or to gently trash the place.
Nikki and Margot were the night owls. Anna and Jenny would slink back to their own rooms at some reasonable hour and Nikki would pour a last drink. Her real name isn’t Nikki Kixx, and Anna’s and Jenny’s last names aren’t Gunn and Switch either, but Burnt Flowers made a pact before their national television debut onLate Night with Conan O’Brienthat it was glam names only henceforth.
“Just you and me, rock star,” Nikki would always say, and they’dclink glasses of whatever it was they were drinking, even though Nikki was therealrock star. She was the one Margot, Anna, and Jenny stood behind in publicity photos. She was talented and electrifying and gorgeous. She was also the one who ruined everything.
—
According to the clock on the nightstand, Margot has five minutes to get downstairs. That said, what’re they going to do, leave without her?
The day has been a thorough clusterfuck and she’s tired and the bed is nice and the sun currently lowering itself over Baltimore through the window looks all right. If she had one of her notebooks, she’d write down something about that window or this hotel room, or about how it feels to be here alone. It wouldn’t matter, though, because she writes down things like that all the time and nothing ever comes of it. Her notebooks sit in their little pile, their insides slowly fading.
She feels dumb for being tricked, but she feels even dumber for how excited she was. She conjures up the image of those four little girls from Rebecca’s iPad. She’d have counted off for them—five, six, seven, eight!—and there would’ve been that divine instant just before her sticks hit the drums.
She climbs off the bed and goes to the mini bar, where she finds a bottle of white wine with a French-sounding name. It’s a twist-off, so it seems silly not to have some. She pours a glass and says, “What’s up, Baltimore?” in her best Nikki Kixx voice. She taps the thin remote, and the flatscreen across the room comes to life. It’s a smart TV, like her one at home, so the Netflix logo sits in the middle of a grid of other logos. Margot is surprised to find that she knows her login and password by heart.
The documentary appears immediately.The Definitive History of Rock and Roll. The description reads: “From the bands you know to the bands you should know: a comprehensive deep dive into the most influential rock-and-roll musicians of all time.”
“Oh, fuck off,” she says.
Margot was content to have the past remain firmly in the past, but then Netflix fucked everything up. Some faceless kid on the phone asked, “Do you, like, miss it?”and now she’s in a hotel room in Baltimore pining for the music she used to make.
And then she hears her name. Two muffled voices. One is Rebecca’s. It takes her a moment to recognize the other one, but when she does it’s unmistakable. Axl Albee.
The door next to the minibar is one of those pass-throughs that divide conjoined hotel rooms. It’s probably supposed to be locked, but when Margot gently turns the handle, it gives. She risks a glance and sees Rebecca’s laptop open to a video call. Axl’s hair is more salt than pepper now, but it’s still long and pulled back. “You said you got this all on film?” he asks.
“Yeah,” says Rebecca. “Todd was persistent.”
Axl laughs, dismissive. “Keep it. We’ll play it at the holiday party. The troops’ll love it. Now get back to New York. Return Margot to her depressing loft and put her out of your mind forever.”
Margot grips the doorjamb.
“That’s it?” Rebecca asks.
“For Margot it is. Foryou,you pitch me another idea Monday. And then another one Tuesday. That’s how this works. Next time maybe focus on one of our artists who people care about, though. Might improve your chances.”
