Day Nine without Jonah. Day Five without booze.
I watched the bubbles dance in my champagne flute but I didn’t drink it. Not a drop since that last drunken night in the Denver hotel room. Every nerve ending in my body screamed for a sip, but I only turned the delicate glass around and around. Did they give sobriety chips for making it five days? I doubted it, but they should. Every fucking hour where I didn’t give into the need was a battle.
I sat in a huge, half-moon booth with ten other people in the VIP section of some club. The music was loud and relentless; I could feel the base thudding in my chest. Bodies writhed on the dance floor one level below. In our booth, talk and laughter zig-zagged around me. The girls from RC were flirting with the guys from our new opening act. Everyone was happy our latest set of shows had gone well, but all I could think was I was in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing with the wrong people.
I sat wedged between Jimmy Ray and Phil Miller, the owner of this club and, no coincidence, the Pony Club in Las Vegas. He turned to me now, shifting his bulk toward me with a gust of sweat and too much cologne.
“So you’re my little trouble-maker, are you?” he said.
He smoked a cigar that smelled vaguely like licorice. I hated licorice. My shoulders flinched up and stayed there. I had four people on my right, five on my left. I was stuck tight at the middle of the booth.
“You know, it’s gonna cost me a small fortune to fix up my green room.”
“Sorry about that,” I muttered.
Jimmy turned our way. “Come on, Phil. Let’s not jump right into business without a little pleasure first, right?” He slung his arm around me, his hand grazing my bare arm. I was wearing a silk tank top layered over another, tighter tank top, both low cut. Phil’s gaze seemed permanently glued to my cleavage. “Kacey likes to have fun, is all. Sometimes a little too much fun.”
The Pony Club’s owner chewed on the wet mouth of his cigar. “Hell, I can’t blame you, sweetheart. I like to have fun too.” His right hand landed on my thigh over my leather pants. I brushed it off, humiliation and anger heating my face.
Phil and Jimmy exchanged a look I didn’t like, and then Jimmy whispered in my ear. “A lawsuit would be really bad right now, kitten. Our label doesn’t have the deep pockets of a Sony or Interscope.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’d be doing us all a big favor if you put Phil Miller in a really good mood.”
My head turned toward him slowly. “And how, exactly, would you like me to do that, Jimmy?”
He leaned back a little, laughing. “What’s with the blue steel glare? Just…have a few drinks with him. Maybe a dance or two. See what happens.”
“See what happens.”
Suddenly, sitting in that booth, surrounded by people in a crowded club, I felt utterly alone. If Jonah were here he’d break Jimmy’s nose and Phil’s grabby fingers. That’s what would happen.
But he wasn’t here. I had to stand up for myself.
I didn’t punch Jimmy in the nose—I didn’t want to hurt my own hand that I needed to play guitar and write songs. Instead, I grabbed Jimmy’s gin and tonic and tossed it in his face. The others at the table ceased their shouty conversations and went silent under the pulsing music, staring at us, or—in the case of the guys from the opening act—laughing.
Jimmy pulled out a handkerchief. Small ice cubes and gin glittered on the lapels of his coat. “That was a little hasty, kitten…”
“It was overdue,” I said, and shouldered my small purse. I climbed onto my chair, my boot heels digging sharp furrows in the upholstery, and then onto the table. Glass toppled and spilled as I picked my way across.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m quitting, what’s it look like I’m doing?” I hopped off the table and landed without breaking an ankle, which would have put a serious damper on my exit, and strode out of the club. Voices shouted after me, Lola the loudest, but I kept going without looking back.
I left the club and hailed a taxi. The ride to the hotel felt like ages, minutes ticking by, more time spent out of touch with Jonah. Not a word in nine days, or even a text. My muted phone lit up with texts galore from Lola, from Jimmy, and then phone calls from both. I ignored all of them.
In my suite, with the door shut and locked, I sat on the bed, my heart pounding. Phone in hand, I looked to the purple glass bottle on my nightstand. It now held a few ounces of my favorite perfume.
I inhaled as my finger picked out Jonah’s number, but my finger hovered over the call button. It was two in the morning on a Friday.
He might still be at work. He might not be able to talk. I could text instead.
What if he was doing better now? Maybe he’d moved on, gotten back to his schedule, focused and on-track without me to distract him.