Page 64 of Songbird: Black Kite
Charlie loved me, I fuckin’ knew it.
“Mornin’, Charlie,” I deadpanned, my laughter belaying the innocence I was attempting to portray. “Something the matter?”
“You know exactly what’s the matter, you shit,” he growled, striding over to the coffeepot and arranging himself a cup. “And even though I know you do that shit on purpose, I’m still going to remind you, once again, how important it is to keep your doors locked at all times. Just because you have a state-of-the-art security system does not mean that someone can’t bypass it and get to you.” Taking a sip from his mug, he winced a bit before continuing with his lecture. “It’s all fun and games until a stalker makes their way into your bathtub, remember?”
“There’s no one out there who wants to stalk my washed-up rock star ass, Charlie. I’m safe, I promise. I only keep you around these days for your incredible company and your sparkling sense of humor.”
Charlie harrumphed, but said nothing, downing his coffee in two quick swallows before he set it in the sink and turned to me.
“Are you ready?”
Draining the last of my own coffee, I placed my cup next to his and nodded, resigned.
“Absolutely. You know there’s nothing I like better than these delightful sunrise runs with you. Really starts the day off on the right foot, you know?”
“Does your ass get jealous of all the shit that comes out of your mouth?”
I snorted, pulling a baseball hat down low on my head before heading out the door knowing that Charlie would follow.
And lock up behind us.
By the time he joined me on the street, I was already stretching, working my way through the set of movements he’d shown me when he first started dragging my ass out on these stupid fucking runs.
It had been right after the divorce proceedings started, when shit had really hit the fan and everything had fallen apart. Charlie didn’t know the half of what had gone on—none of the guys really knew, even to this day—but he’d seen that I was struggling, and he’d thrown me a fucking lifeline.
Now we met three mornings a week, Charlie acting like a drill sergeant if I wasn’t moving quick enough for his liking, but I held my own pretty decently most mornings.
Not like in the beginning, when I’d basically crawled and puked my way around the block, so fucking hungover some mornings I didn’t even know what fucking day it was.
Charlie had been patient, waiting while I barfed my guts out in the tidy neighborhood shrubs, giving death stares to any of the local busy bodies who thought they might want to complain about my actions...or take a photo.
It took a few weeks, but I eventually clued into the fact that drinking my face off the night before a run was not the best idea and, slowly but surely, I began to improve.
Enough that Charlie stopped going running for a second time after he dropped my sweaty ass at home, saying that he needed more of a workout than I had offered him.
Now when we ran, we ran together, side by side, and I matched him step for step. He may have been in his fifties, but Charlie never let the routines from his time in the military deviate even and inch—because he was so fuckingmeticulous—and so he was still the fittest bastard I knew. Keeping up with him was a source of pride for me, and I busted my ass every time to make sure I didn’t slow him down.
Heading out from my gated community, we started with a light jog, working our way through the winding streets to Mulholland Drive and our regular halfway destination, The Narrows Overlook. The roads along the way were green and lined with well-maintained foliage, the tall shrubs hiding the massive homes from prying eyes.
And when I said massive, I meant fuckingmassive. Some of the places at the farthest end of my street were worth at least ten times what my place had cost, and I’d put down a pretty fucking penny on it, no lie.
As we reached the top of Oak Pass Road, I was starting to feel the strain, that deep burning sensation in your chest that let you know you were nearing the point where sane people would choose to quit.
Five years ago, I would have.
Today, I shook it off, took a deep breath, and pushed harder.
But the trouble with living in Beverly Hills was all the fuckinghills. By the time we’d circled the park and made it back to my house, my thighs were on fucking fire and my knees were like rubber. Going straight out the back door, I opened the mini fridge in the outdoor kitchen and snagged two bottles of water, tossing one to Charlie who still looked as though he could run five more miles on top of the eight we’d just completed.
“Good job today,” he complimented, sipping his water slowly as he stared out across the backyard. Charlie never really said much, but his approval meant a lot to me, so I grinned at him.
“You’re just getting old.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, his bald head shining in the sunlight. “But I could still kick your ass with one hand tied behind my back, so I’m alright.”
Laughing, I settled into one of the chairs at the shaded dining area, the breeze off the canyon cooling the sweat that was still pouring down my face. I would need to shower soon, hating the itchy crust of salt that was starting to form as I dried off, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I had been going over some ideas for the label, and I wanted to run them by Charlie before he left.
He may not have been in the industry, so to speak, but Charlie had spent the last twenty-five years following my ass around, and I knew he was an observant fucker. He would pick up on things that no one else would. Charlie could look at a situation and see a dozen different outcomes and perspectives that I would never have considered.
