Page 101 of Rockstar Baby
“Not really. Just dulls the edges so nothing is as vivid or as sharp. I’m not a happy drunk like you most of the time. You’re the table dancer, not me.”
I snorted and dropped my feet to the floor. Clearly, I was too restless to sit. “I have pictures that say otherwise.”
“Those might as well have been a lifetime ago.”
“Right, back when you were a single lad and footloose and fancy free.”
“Footloose? I was a bloody mess. Women tossed me their numbers and I couldn’t even consider taking them up on their offers. I’d gone to banana.”
“What?”
“You know. Soft serve. Couldn’t get it up for anyone but Zoe.”
I did know. All too well. And it royally brassed me off. Not that I wanted to get it up for anyone else. I couldn’t even look at other women. Every one I passed, I compared to Ivy and rejected. Too tall, too short, too thin, not ginger enough.
Just not Ivy.
“Must you rub in your love life at every turn?”
“Who’s rubbing? Sounds like you might need to though. You’re crankier than usual.”
“Hell yes, I’m cranky, because you think I can just pick up and run to New York whenever you get the yen to bother me. I have clients, you know, and work that doesn’t include you.”
“I get that, and I have songs with others that I didn’t intend to include you on either. But I wanted you to be part of this EP just as you were the last. If you’re too busy, that’s fine. I’ll make do.”
I stabbed my fingers into my eyes. They were gritty and hot from too many long nights spent fiddling with melodies and writing pages of lyrics that didn’t go anywhere. “Look, I’m in a mood.”
“What else is new?”
“Worse than usual. I appreciate you wanting my input, truly I do, but Jesus, there’s a million other producers who could—”
“A million others who aren’t you. If you don’t want to come back to New York, why don’t you just say so?”
I slammed my hand against the side of the console and swore under my breath as it wobbled on its legs. Shoddy workmanship. When I got my real place, I’d make sure—
Right, because this was all temporary. I’d moved into this apartment two years ago, thinking I’d be gone in a year. Instead, it had stretched into another while I searched for my dream home. Even with plenty of money at my disposal, and a mind full of ideas, I couldn’t seem to find what I wanted. LA and its surrounding suburbs had everything I could ever imagine. It didn’t make sense I couldn’t find a place to suit.
Unless I hadn’t been meant to find a place here at all. Searching forever in the wrong spot wouldn’t lead to the fucking pot of gold, no matter how many hours I invested.
“It has nothing to do with New York. Wait a second, you’re back there already?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my fiancée’s family is here, perhaps? Did you fall out of bed while reaching for your Pepto and hit your head on the floor?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. It was encouragement Ian didn’t need. Ivy might’ve called me Lucky Charms, but Ian was the one who made people happy. Not me.
I rubbed the stitch in my side. I was a dour bloke who probably would need Pepto if I didn’t stop mainlining coffee like it was water and not getting any rest.
And let’s not forget the medicinal qualities of sex. I missed those too.
“We just left there weeks ago.”
“It’s been more than a month. Heading toward a month and half. We went home, handled what we needed to there, and came back to the farm. Zoe wants to be here for the baby’s birth and she can’t be flitting about until the day of, you know.”
No, I didn’t know. I wasn’t an expert on childbirth. Why would I need to be? I didn’t even intend to have kids. Or a wife.
