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“A man?” she asks. “Oh, a man with the tattoos?” She gestures toward her arms as she tries again. And then finally, she laughs, glancing at the wedding picture hanging on the fridge. “You mean a gringo!”
“They aren’t so bad, hija.” Mom smiles and looks at the picture again. “Not at all.”
I allow the silence to linger for a few moments in the air, knowing my mom is reminiscing on her marriage with my father. She gets a look in her eyes when she talks about him and her eyes light up when she looks at him. I love being part of their love. I’ve known for as long as I can remember that my parents share a rare love, one that hardly exists anymore in this world. And I know I want that one day.
My mind immediately flashes to Bordeaux, and I wonder if that’s a possibility for us. If we could ever be so lucky, and together.
“I’m happy if you’re happy, Isla.” She smiles softly. “He’s cute, too.” She gives me a wink.
Thirty-Two
Bordeaux
Eesome (adj.) pleasing to the eye.
___________
The only thing I can think about the morning after Isla finally released all control with me is her. I don’t know if it’s just the fact that I’ve never allowed myself close to a woman in an emotional way, or simply just Isla, but if I were a betting man, it’s just Isla. The moment I saw her, she sucked me in. Like a hurricane, she devoured me whole. My hurricane. I was honest with her when I told her I didn’t know if I would be any good at this, but we can’t refuse to try because we’re afraid.
We’re both broken people in different ways but together, I swear to God, we are something otherworldly. I can still taste her on my lips despite brushing my teeth this morning when I had to peel myself away from her. I could lay with her in my arms and die happy, and this is the most foreign, strange feeling I have ever had.
But dammit, I love it.
This morning when I got to the studio, the band and I cleaned up my mess from last night. Isla and I left in a rush to get to my place, not wanting to waste even one moment we had together. After cleaning up, I wrote everything down that she told me. Everything from the tragedy that happened to her, all the way to how she tastes and the things I did to her, what I still need to do to her. I have most of my songs on my notebook laptop, and I threw it all in there because it’s the only spot that I know I won’t lose it. I feel like reliving those feelings while I’m on the road will make me feel closer to her.
Once the band and I do a run-through of the set list Carleeta sent us late last night—that I just opened this morning—we head to a conference room in the studio to speak with the label as Carleeta requested. I’m on a high from last night, my body and mind not even realizing I got maybe an hour of sleep. The guys and Declan didn’t seem to notice either, but Miller made a comment about the candles, so I’m pretty sure it was clear to them what I was doing in a candlelit studio last night.
“It felt good to play again,” Declan says, grabbing a water out of the conference room fridge. “Seriously, you guys. I wouldn’t want to play these subpar songs with anyone else.”
Declan is one of my favorite people in the world. She’s sassy and spunky, never backing down to anyone unless they’re holding a contract over our heads. I feel like Isla and Declan would get along really well. Declan is her complete opposite physically, but they remind me of each other in every other way. She’s got short, bobbed black hair with straight bangs that only she could make look effortlessly cool. Her hair is different every other week. Sometimes it’s long, sometimes it’s short, sometimes blue, and sometimes black. She’s not someone who could ever be classified as predictable. Both her arms are covered in black-inked tattoos, and she loves punk rock music. Isla leans more toward the Lana Del Rey vibe while Declan is more Dead Kennedys. But they both have huge hearts that they protect with a fierce passion, and it’s something I love about both of them.
“I feel the same, man,” Miller says, tossing back the last few drops of his coffee.
“You write anything new lately, B?” Flynn asks me, penning something of his own in his notebook. He still likes to write old-school with pen and paper while I prefer my laptop. Flynn looks more himself today than he has in a while. He’s struggled a lot since his dad passed and a breakup with an ex, and he’s always had really debilitating depression, but despite it all, he’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.
I am so damn glad to call these three my best friends.
“I wrote something new last night, actually,” I tell him honestly. “Oh, speaking of writing our own music for a change, there’s a couple contacts we should talk to at the industry party tonight.” I forgot all about it with Isla taking up every ounce of my attention over the past weekend. This party is basically just a mingling session for people in the music industry, and Carleeta thinks it would be good if we go since we’ll be out on the road for the next few months. I guess someone at Hellfire is hosting it, so it would reflect poorly on them if we didn’t show.
Honestly, I wouldn’t show at all if I didn’t see the list of people who are attending. Two big names in the business, Ricky Max and Gina Fasa, are going to be there. Ricky works for Death Before Dawn Records and Gina works for Streamline Industries. They are both, from my research, insanely better than Hellfire—although, we thought Hellfire was going to be incredible, too. Part of me wonders if every label out there are complete shit, like the same villains under different disguises. But we’ll never know if we don’t try.
“I’m here!” Carleeta barges through the clear double doors of the conference room. “I don’t have much time, and the rest of the team are with a new artist, so here’s everything you don’t know yet, along with the things you do know.” She shoves various colorful folders at each of us. “Purple is your set list and everything you need to know for each show. Scratch the list I sent last night; this one has a few updates.”
I instantly grow warm with annoyance. Nothing stays the same for longer than two minutes around here, unless it’s the actual band that is making them money having no say in anything we do.
“Yellow is your accommodations, rules, regulations, and important times for pick-ups and drop-offs. Blue is individual maps of each of the stadiums, and orange is a bunch of miscellaneous shit that you’ll probably want to text me at all hours of the night to ask, but you can just refer to that folder and save us both time.”
She is the world’s biggest bitch.
“Randy will be your driver for this tour again, same as last time. Please, for the love of God, do not allow him to drink with you and then drive to our next destination. I will be in the bus directly behind yours so my eyes will be on that bus at all times.”
Declan sighs as I open one of the folders, shuffling through it.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Carleeta.” Declan rolls her eyes, shutting the orange folder and sliding it away from her on the table. “Is there some type of rule in our contract that states that we have absolutely zero control over anything in our careers? Because I’m beginning to think we missed that clause, and the more we have no say, the more I’m getting frustrated with this shit.”
This is going to be a great meeting…
* * *
