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Though, wow, I’d been doing some research over the past week, and I’d learned some interesting stuff.
Pearl necklaces weren’t always bought at the Tiffany counter. Who knew?
Well, evidently lots of people did. I had not. Now I was armed with knowledge of many carnal delights, and if I had my way, by God, I was going to live them out.
Maybe I’d even make up a few new sex positions, just for the hell of it. The flexibility of my thighs was the limit.
That and if I could find a willing male to help me. Not a willing male.Thepigheaded, jackass, hot as hell man who’d saved my bacon by the side of the road then took me home to fry it up.
Or something way sexier than that.
First, I had to deal with my mother. At least I was fully fortified by a raspberry latte. I’d had to get one. It matched the whole pink theme I had going.
I knocked on the door and pushed it open once my mother instructed for me to come in. Sandra, the maid, had let me in and told me that my mother was indisposed, but that was nothing new. All that meant was that Pauline Pryor had probably been sweetening her coffee with too much Irish already, despite the fact that it was barely eleven a.m. Most likely my father was doing the same, except he’d be drinking down at the club.
“You’re out and about early today, Peyton.” My mother was already slurring her words. That meant this would be a conversation for the record books.
“Yes, well, I have a—”
“Show tonight. Yes, dear.” She pulled at an invisible thread on her pale orange suit. She looked like a creamsicle, all cool and fresh. “Are you excited?”
This was our usual dialogue. Talking about banal, surface things was safe.
“Yes, I am.” Which my mother knew. I always enjoyed performing. It was an oasis in the center of my crazy life. No matter what chased me off-stage, onstage I was happy and free. Somehow the approval of all those fans helped smooth over the rough spots inside me.
Funny how I’d discovered one man’s approval mattered even more in just a few hours.
“That’s good, dear. I’m pleased to hear you don’t intend to go off wild-cocked again.”
“Halfcocked, you mean? I didn’t take off when I was due to perform. My schedule was clear.” As clear as it ever was.
“Mmm-hmm,” my mother replied, telling me exactly what she thought ofthat.
I forced back a sigh as my mother stared blandly out the window at the manicured grounds while she circled her silver teaspoon in her cup of “coffee”. “I have something to talk to you about.” I sat on the leather ottoman in front of my mother’s wingback chair. “I’m going ahead with some different material. I’m debuting two of the songs tonight. I don’t want you to be surprised.”
Telling her ahead of time was a courtesy. My parents wouldn’t come to tonight’s show. They would only grill me about it once the footage and articles surfaced.
There would be all the usual questions about why I was trying something new, and probably speculation that I was doomed to fail. After all, I’d failed on my last aborted attempt to spice it up a little.
The couple of singles off the album that had been moremethan any other had done abysmally. As soon as I’d gone back to my usual material, my sales had rebounded.
Even increased.
Branching out was a big risk. One I had to take. I couldn’t stay locked up in a cell of my own making any longer. I’d loved music once. I wanted to love it again.
Being with Jed for that one solitary night had shown me that I’d repressed so much of myself. And for what? Yes, I wanted to make other people happy, but not at my own expense. It wasn’t fair to anyone.
Hopefully, my fans would understand and grow to like my new stuff too. If not, I’d still play the songs that they loved—and I would continue trying to win them over, one listener at a time.
My mother’s hand rattled the cup in its saucer. “Not again, Peyton.”
“Yes, again. I’m growing older and you can’t expect me to still sing songs about first love until I’m middle-aged—” I broke off, realizing how ridiculous that particular argument was.
Unless I was very mistaken, I was experiencing my first love now…at twenty-three. Not at the sixteen of the girls in my songs, but still. There were plenty of parallels.
More than ever, I related to the nerves and thrills I sang about, wondering if he would call—he hadn’t—or if he was thinking about me—hard to say—or if what had happened between us mattered as much to him as it had to me—doubtful.
My belly wrenched as it had every few hours over the past week. Walking away from Jed had been beyond difficult, and worse, it had felt as if I was leaving a section of my heart behind. Turning my back on happiness after finally getting my first true glimpse was nuts.
