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“Not…really?”
“Do you fucking use the internet?”
“Uh, yeah—”
“Did you use the internettoday?”
I’m confused.
“Yes?”
He laughs.
“Christ, kid. When’s the last time you talked to your mother?”
Not as long ago as I’d have liked.
“Here.”
He drags his laptop over, opens it, and bangs on the keyboard before spinning it so that we can both see the screen. Up on it is Rolling Stone Magazine’s website. And there, front and center on the main page…
Is my mother.
Giving an interview in a video clip to Connor Newsome, a top Rolling Stone columnist.
“Ah, well, we used to have quite a time back then, Connor.”
My mother chuckles a cigarette-ash laugh as she lights one. She exhales slowly, in what I’m sure she thinks is a glamorous way, before nodding at the interviewer.
“But you were saying?”
“Well, Judy, I was just commenting that you were publicly linked to quite a few infamous music legends back in the day.”
She grins.
“Oh yes, oh yes. There was Mark Cooper. Leighton James from Soul Scream.”
I grit my teeth. It all comes back. The relentless teasing in school about my mom fucking every rock star of the last twenty years. Not being able to walk into a single bar or coffee shop without hearingsomeonesinging who’s been romantically linked with Judy.
“Brian Cummings. Slade. Will Cates, from Velvet Guillotine, of course.”
“Of course,” Connor nods. “Which is detailed pretty extensively in your book, if I remember.”
“That’s right, Connor.”
I roll my eyes, going numb.
“Her” book—her “tell all memoir”. As in, the book that a team of four writers working for a publishing house wrote before putting her name on it in order to sell copies.
“And Jackson Havoc, too.”
Connor blinks. So do I.
Wait, what?
“Sorry, did you just say Jackson Havoc?” Connor’s brows lift as he leans closer to my mother.
“That’s right, Connor.”
