By Degrees (11 page)

“Just go for tonight, Jells.
 
I’ll come get you tomorrow.
 
I just have to do this meeting shit.”
 
Tarin’s words are slightly slurred and his lids are heavy.

I shake my head.
 
“Sorry, Tarin, but that’s not gonna happen.
 
I told you, I don’t give second chances.
 
I also told you no more booze or drugs.”
 
I look at her, my expression showing all of them what I think of her messed-up ass.
 
“She’s a bad influence, so she goes.”
 
I look at Brett.
 
“Him too.”

Brett looks at Tarin, incredulous.
 
“You’re gonna take that shit from her?
 
I thought you said she was just a consultant.”

Tarin’s chin comes out.
 
“She is just a consultant.”

“What the hell then, man?
 
You gonna let her talk to your friends like that?”

“You ain’t no friend, man,” says Dave.

Brett whips around to confront the drummer.
 
“Fuck you, dude.
 
You’re one to talk.”

Dave holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
 
“Yo, don’t get worked up about it.
 
I’m just sayin’ … friends don’t let friends … whatever it is you just did together before you showed up here.”
 
Dave looks at Tarin, regret in his eyes.
 
“I was a shitty friend too, Tare, but I’m gonna fix that for you, man.
 
For us.
 
For the band.”

As inelegant as the delivery was, I give him points for having his heart in the right place.
 
And he’s right about one thing for sure: Friends don’t let friends piss me off.

“Listen, Brett.
 
I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but Tarin’s about to make some big changes in his life, and one of them is cutting the dead wood. That means people like you.”
 
I look at the other people gathered, the ones who haven’t yet officially met me.
 
They share the same expression: confusion.
 
I can practically see the WTF word bubble over their heads.

“Heads up to everyone in the room … I have a contract that says I can fire and get rid of anyone who I deem in my sole discretion to be counterproductive to getting Tarin on the right track.
 
No second chances, no appealing to Tarin, Mel, the label, or anyone else.
 
You either get on board with helping Tarin
my way
or you’re out.
 
End of story.”
 
I pause for a moment to let that sink in.
 
“Anyone who has a problem with that can save us all a lot of trouble by walking out now.”

No one moves a muscle at first.
 
Then heads turn to look at Stick. Clearly they consider the guitarist to be the one making decisions for them.

I have to give him credit.
 
As against the idea of me as I know him still to be, he still does the best thing I could have hoped for.
 
He turns his head slightly to show them the side of his face.
 
“What she said.”
 
Then he looks back at me, giving me his full attention.
 
His snub of Jelly and Brett is bold and sharp.
 
Everyone is on pins and needles now, waiting for their response.

“Tarin, man, you gotta do something about this,” says Brett, laughing uncomfortably under his breath.
 
“We go way back, man.”

“Tarinnn,” whines Jelly, wiping her hands all over his upper arms and chest, “come on, let’s just go…” She tries to push him towards the door, but he digs his heels in, shoving her hands away again.
 
He’s upset, but he can’t seem to bring himself to either argue against me or make Jelly and Brett feel better.

“Go,” I say to Zach, softly so only he hears it.
 
There’s no need to rub salt in any wounds, and I don’t need anyone giving Zach a hard time for following my bold orders.

Zach and Leonard move forward, Zach gesturing toward the door.
 
“After you, Brett.
 
Jelly, come on.
 
Don’t make a scene.”

Brett points at me, his face screwed up in anger.
 
“Fuck you, bitch.
 
Fuck you!
 
You’re nothing, you hear me!
 
Nothing!
 
I’ll be back tomorrow and you’ll be fucking
gone!”
 
He looks at Tarin.
 
“I’ll call you, man. We’ll talk.”

I stare Brett down, saying not a single word.

Jelly’s crying, her fat tears causing her mascara to run down her face in bluish-black smears.
 
She looks a lot like she did in her mug shot, the only difference being that her hair is brushed this time.
 
I have a feeling it won’t stay that way for long the way she’s flopping all over the place as she tries to hold on to a struggling Tarin.

“Get off!” he says, turning his attention from her to Zach.
 
“Get her off me, would ya?”
 
He’s annoyed.
 
I take that as a good sign.

“But Tarin, I
love
you!” she screeches as Zach pulls her away.
 
She tries to hit him, but it’s like a piece of paper battling a hurricane gale.
 
She’s halfway to the door before she can get her next sentence out. “But I’m pregnant!
 
You can’t make me leave, I’m pregnant!
 
With Tarin’s baby!”

I’m instantly sick to my stomach.
 
I don’t know why, but I see my life flash before my eyes.
 
Why Tarin’s future as a father has any connection to
my
life, I have no idea; but this definitely adds a new wrinkle to the plan.
 
A big fucking hell of a horrible awful wrinkle.

The room goes mostly silent, the only sounds left to be heard being Jelly’s cries and struggles to get free.

Tarin’s face has gone white.
 
At the same exact time, both Scott and Tarin say precisely the same thing.

“No.
 
Fucking.
 
Way.”

Scott looks at me, his eyebrows practically up in his hairline.
 
“I totally called it.
 
I told you this shit was going to be bad.”

Chapter Ten

LEONARD ESCORTS BRETT OUT THE door and promises to watch over him as he removes his belongings from Tarin’s house.
 
It takes me a good half hour to calm Jelly down and get her to believe me when I say that I’ll let Tarin talk to her.

I’ve given up on cutting her out of the equation entirely, but for sure she can’t be here right now during this meeting, because otherwise I’ll get nothing accomplished.
 
She’s too big a distraction, although now in a much more complicated and heinously awful way.

Ugh.
I can hardly stand the idea of her and Tarin making a baby together, especially with her being such a drugged-out mess.
 
All I can picture is a baby in a stroller wearing a bustier and high heels while her mother blows cigarette smoke in her face.
 
Jelly does not strike me as the good mother type, and I should know; I was raised by a wingnut myself.
 
It’s partly what drove me into Austin’s arms in the first place.
 
He was my shelter from the storm that was my life.

Jelly finally agrees to let Ricky drive her home, and even though Tarin looks like he’s still in shock, I start the meeting up again.

“Okay, well … that was … unexpected.”
 
I wait for the nervous twitters to go away.
 
“So, as I was saying, we have a project ahead of us.
 
Getting Tarin back.”
 
I look over at him and he’s just staring out into space.
 
I don’t know if it’s the mood-altering drugs he’s taken or the life-altering confession of a girl named Jelly, but either way, he’s lost right now, lost more than usual.
 
I continue to address the group.
 
“Anyone here feel like they can’t support the cause?”

No one responds.
 
I look at each and every face in turn, trying to figure out if anyone’s playing games.
 
I see nothing but unasked questions and confusion. The only one with a hint of attitude is Stick, but I know for now at least that I have him on my side.

“Good.
 
Tarin starts a new program tomorrow at six a.m.
 
It continues for at least thirty days.
 
No drugs of any kind unless they’re prescribed by a doctor I’ve approved in advance, no alcohol, and no cigarettes.
 
Anyone who supplies him with any of the above is out, no questions asked, no second chances.”

“No cigs?
 
Man … harsh.”
 
Dave is shaking his head.

“Rots your lungs,” says Tarin in a distracted voice.
 
Everyone looks at him.
 
He’s staring at the floor, like he’s in a trance. “I saw a lung once.
 
In biology class. Remember that, Stick?
 
Black as shit.”

He’s traveling down memory lane, stoned.
 
I can only imagine the horrible images his warped brain is conjuring for him right now.

Stick smiles vaguely.
 
“Yeah, I remember.
 
Why do you think I don’t smoke?
 
That shit was nasty.”

“You think my lungs look like that?” Tarin asks him, finally looking up.

Stick looks sad.
 
“Nah, man.
 
Your lungs are fine.”

Tarin looks at me next, his eyes not exactly focused.
 
“You think my lungs are black, don’t you?”

I shake my head silently.
 
He looks positively tortured.

He’s almost in a trance as he speaks.
 
“Black lungs.
 
Black soul.
 
You think I have a black soul, don’t you?”

I stare at him, wondering what kind of mood-messing-up drugs he’s been taking.
 
He looks like he’s ready to jump off a cliff.
 
Moving forward, I take his hand.
 
It’s cold and clammy.
 
“I don’t think that about you, Tarin.
 
If I did, I wouldn’t be here.
 
We just need to get you on the right track.
 
You don’t have any black lungs or soul or anything ridiculous like that.
 
Trust me.”

“Trust you.”

“Yes.
 
I never lie.”

He smiles a little.
 
“What are you doing in L.A.?”

I smile back.
 
“I’m taking care of Austin’s legacy.”

His smile disappears in a flash, leaving a pale, fearful expression behind.
 
“Yeah.
 
How could I forget?”
 
He pulls his hand away and sighs heavily before facing his group of friends and co-workers.
 
“Yeah, so,” he says, stopping to clear his throat of its rust, “what she said … I, uh… I support it or whatever.”
 
He flops his hand in the air in my direction.
 
“Just do what she says and we’ll get through this shit, okay?”

Everyone nods.
 
A few people give him their verbal agreement.

“Happy?” he asks, looking at me.
 
I could swear he’s about to cry.

“Yes.
 
I’m happy.”
 
I look out at the group.
 
“Let’s eat!
 
Dinner’s in the garden.
 
Please no smoking around Tarin.
 
If you want to smoke, go around to the front of the house.”

I hold out my hand to Tarin, palm up.

“You want to hold hands now?” he asks, his expression tortured.

“No.” I give him my thousand-watt smile.
 
“I want your cigarettes and the pipe you have in your pocket.”

He slowly reaches into his front pockets and pulls out the items I could see outlined there.
 
“It’s not a crack pipe, you know.
 
I don’t do crack,” he says.

“Crack is whack,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“I just smoke a little dope every once in a while to relax.”

“Not anymore,” I say, motioning for him to give me more.

“What?” he asks.

“Don’t act like you’re not holding,” I say.

He stares at me intently.
 
“Who’s your informer?

“I don’t need an informer.
 
I can see the bulge in your pants.”

A slow, sensual smile slips across his mouth.
 
“How do you know it’s not just my dick?”

I laugh in spite of myself.
 
“Oh, you mean … is that a bag of pot in your pants or are you just glad to see me?”

His sexy look turns into a straight-up grin.
 
“Something like that.”

“Sorry.
 
I don’t mean to damage your man-ego, but I’ve been around the block a few times.
 
I know the difference between a bag of weed and a cock.”
 
The c-word flies out of my mouth before I can reel it back in.

He nods, the sneaky smile back.
 
“Cock, huh?
 
Dirty girl.
 
Dirty, dirty girl.”
 
He reaches slowly into his pocket and I hold my breath, almost thinking for a second he’s going to show me it isn’t weed in his pants.
 
But then some plastic comes out and the brownish green stuff inside it becomes visible, and I let my breath go.