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“Not relevant.” Lauren forced the words out through a clenched jaw.
“Not relevant my ass,” Ox said, glaring at her.
Lauren launched herself out of her own seat. “You got something to say to me? Any of you? Then say it. If not, stop being a bunch of little bitches! After your second divorce, Ox, did I bail on you? Have I bailed on any of you? No. We worked through it no matter what kind of shit we had going on.”
“No, you didn’t,” Stevie said. “And we supported you while you got your shite together in rehab.”
“And I appreciate that. So maybe you could all cut me a little fucking slack. Problems don’t just disappear; they stick with you for a while.” She found another pen and went back to scribbling in her notebook.
The tension between Lauren and Ox continued to simmer. It lurked in the shadows and followed them back to Velocity the next day. Everything came to a head when Lauren tore into Ox over a minor disagreement, and he laid into her just as hard in response. Augie walked out of the studio and into the control room to get a little space. Behind him, a string of expletives erupted, followed by a loud crash and more curse words as a stool went flying backwards.
Ox stalked out, shoulders tight, his mouth compressed in a thin line. Augie glanced through the open door in time to see Lauren tear up several papers and fling them around the room.
“Calling her a ‘crazy-ass, control-freak bitch’ didn’t exactly improve her attitude, Ox,” Stevie said, following the bass player out.
“Púdrete!That’s exactly what she is,” Ox, who was normally as patient as he was stubborn, sounded furious. “I get she’s hurting, and I’m sorry, but I’m not her punching bag. I ain’t putting up with that shit.”
Augie sighed and looked back at his cousin. Inside—and out of breath from her outburst—Lauren’s hands were clenched into fists. Her unruly hair was pulled back, and with it away from her face, the dark circles under her eyes were pronounced. She looked thin, and it wasn’t a healthy thin. Augie’s anxiety welled up.
Fists still clenched, Lauren stalked out of the booth. “I’m going home.”
“Good. Go,” Ox said. “At least when Taylor gets dumped, she gets some goddamn mileage out of it.”
“You are such an asshole!” She stormed out.
“Nice fucking job,” Augie said.
“Ox’s got a point,” DJ said, his worried eyes on the doorway where Lauren had vanished. “It’s never,never, taken us this long to do an album. We don’t even have something that resembles a hit—we’re exceling at mediocrity and she’s completely around the bend.”
“I’m not arguing that point, mate,” Stevie said. “But we’re not helping by talking to her like she’s washed up. What else can we do?”
“Only thing we can do. We wait,” Augie said.
“Come off it, Augie!” At this point Ox was yelling at everyone. “Stop covering for her. She’s not the only one in the band. We’ve been waiting and it hasn’t gotten us shit.”
Augie got right in Ox’s face. “Then what do you recommend we do? Come on, dude, I’m waiting. Lay it on us.”
Fitz shouldered between them. “Enough,” he said in a voice laden with disgust. “All of you get tha hell out.”
Augie backed up a step. “Fine. Let’s regroup Monday afternoon. That gives us five days to calm the fuck down. We’ll see how everyone’s doing Monday and do a full day Tuesday.”
“If you don’t buckle down after this break, our timeline is bloody well blown,” Fitz warned. “And I’ve never not delivered an album. Ever.”
“We’ll get it done. We always do,” Augie promised.
“Who’s going to tell—” Ox started to say.
“I’ll do it,” Augie interrupted. “For the next few days, you just keep your mouth shut.”
Ox grunted at him and stomped off.
When she left the studio, Lauren didn’t go home. She went into the city and wandered. Stuck in her own head, she didn’t pay attention to the people around her or even where she was going.
Her phone vibrated, and she glanced at it. A text from Augie said that the band was putting things on hold until Monday afternoon. She felt her lip quiver—she was screwing everything up. All the band’s problems were because of her. She didn’t respond to her cousin.
Several hours later, she found herself on the far side of Central Park. One of the wood benches with wrought iron arms was open, and she sat in the dead center, hoping that might discourage anyone from trying to join her. Pigeons and sparrows gathered around, hoping for crumbs. From behind her sunglasses, she watched people come and go. It didn’t take long for her to notice the young man several benches down who had a stack of newspapers next to him. He didn’t seem to be pushing the material on anyone but was more than happy to exchange one for money when someone sat down. All under the watchful eye of two of his friends who loitered nearby.
A stressed-out Wall Street type in a suit sat down and talked to the man for a minute. After he paid, Lauren caught the smallest flash of a plastic packet being tucked between the pages before it was handed over. She wasn’t surprised. She’d played that game plenty of times back in LA. Find your dealer, pay your money, and have your personal choice of poison slipped into your pocket or tucked in a newspaper. Then off you went. Or, once you got rich enough, the dealer would deliver right to your door.
