Just One Lie Read online

  I’ve barely stepped inside the dressing room when I hear Traci bounding up after me. “Are you really tired, M?” she asks as she catches up with me and reaches for her purse, left by the door.

  “Yeah,” I say with a fake yawn. “This has got to be the amateur night of all amateur nights. No point in fighting crowds of idiots when last call is less than an hour away.”

  “Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Traci chides as I turn away from her to get my own bag, finding space inside for the disposable camera. She gently takes hold of me and rests her head between my shoulder blades. “It’s the new millennium,” she continues. “We are literally only a year away from HAL going haywire on us. It’s time to live for today!”

  “Another time,” I promise as I pull away.

  “You’re not going to have one of your Cobain-esque brooding fits, are you?”

  She says the words lightly, but I can hear the undercurrent of concern. Traci’s the only person I currently know who’s seen me during the times when I feel so low I can barely find the motivation to comb my hair.

  “No, no brooding.” I shrug into the biker jacket I recently picked up at the flea. The stiff leather feels like much-needed armor. “Only sleeping. Promise.”

  “Got it,” she says, eagerly accepting my reassurance. “But if exhaustion’s the problem, I’ve got the solution!” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a small plastic bag filled with white powder. “Benji hooked us up. We’re rock stars, M!” She giggles. “It’s time we started acting like it.”

  For a second I feel my heart accelerate as new memories take hold. That gorgeous feeling, that intensity and clarity that can come from just the lightest sprinkling of white powder. “No,” I say quietly. “I really just need a bed.”

  “Then we’ll find you one!” Traci’s almost pleading now. “One with an Antonio Banderas look-alike in it, accent and everything.”

  I give her a playful smack on the arm. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

  “In trouble? Baby, I am trouble! Tonio’s the party and Benji’s the hookup. That’s what you call division of labor,” she calls after me with a light laugh.

  That used to be me, I think as I walk downstairs, then to the corridor leading to the employee exit, waving good-bye to Tonio, Benji, and Rick as I do. That carefree girl with a Ziploc full of fun used to be Melody.

  And now? I stop several feet from the door and check to make sure none of my bandmates are watching me before changing direction and heading back into the club. Now things have changed. I stand near the edge of the dance floor, unsuccessfully trying to be inconspicuous. But several people spot me and stop to give me their compliments. “You rocked it!” “You were great!” “Man, you need to let me buy you a drink, girl!” and so on. But I’m not here for that. I’m looking for him.

  He’s not next to the beam anymore. I don’t see him on the dance floor or at the bar. My eyes scan the room quickly as another guy asks if he can get me a glass of champagne, but I wave him off with the flick of my hand. Where is he?

  Not here. The awareness hits me with the force that always comes with extreme disappointment. He’s disappeared again. It’s what he does.

  God, maybe he was never here at all. Maybe it was a hallucination. Like those acid flashbacks I keep hearing about. Maybe I’m finally losing my mind. Considering the hell I’ve been through, that would hardly be surprising. Of course, Ash doesn’t know anything about the avalanche our night together caused, how just his touch had sent everything in my life spiraling out of control. His crime is more of a negligent homicide than a murder. An unintended hit-and-run. Still, blood is blood and mine is on his hands.

  Defeated, I head back to the exit and out to the alley behind the club as I search my purse for the two Hershey’s Kisses I know are in there. Chocolate is one of those vices that I will never give up.

  “Melody.”

  The word startles me so much I jump, slamming my back against the now-closed door. He’s standing not ten feet away.

  Ash.

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see me tonight.” He unzips his black biker jacket as he approaches.

  I should probably pretend I don’t remember who he is. That would be good. But instead I find myself scoffing and shaking my head. “No, I didn’t expect you. Coincidence is a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, but coincidence is lazy.” His stubble is a few days old and forms a very light goatee. It gives him a vaguely devilish appearance. “But us meeting here, in a different state at the beginning of a new century? This feels like the more proactive maneuverings of fate, don’t you think?”

  I laugh nervously. I had forgotten his eloquence. No, no, that’s not right; what I had forgotten is that his poetry can be sweet as well as bitter. I had almost forgotten that he could do more than just make me cry.

  “I don’t go by Melody anymore,” I say, trying to keep it cool. The weak lighting in the alley forces me to strain to see his details. Are his eyes as green as I remember? His hair as black?

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I reach into my bag and pull out my license. What about that cut on his calf, has it healed? Has it left a scar? “I had my name changed.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice casual. There’s so much I can’t see! But I can feel him. Even now I can feel the lazy way his fingers ran up and down the back of my neck as we sat on that city bench in Seattle, talking philosophy, music, and dreams. I can feel his lips against mine during that first kiss.

  I hate that.

  “Mercy Raye,” he reads as he takes my license from me. “As a singer, don’t you think the name you were born with is a better fit?”

  “None of us are born with names,” I say irritably as I take the license back. “At best a name is just the first gift we’re given by our parents. What we’re born with is personality.”

  “And you threw it away, your parents’ first gift to you.”

  “My life, my decision,” I mumble as I busy myself replacing my license in my wallet.

  “It’s that easy?” He’s only a few feet away now. “You can change who you are, like that?” He snaps his fingers in the air, bringing my attention to his hands. Those hands had felt rough and capable against the small of my back when he drew me to him.

  “No, not just like that.” Our second kiss had been in an alley. We were wild and out of control. He had pushed me up against a wall and I had dug my fingers into his flesh as he pressed his mouth against mine. He had tasted like citrus and whiskey. “But I did it,” I continue. “Melody Fitzgerald is dead. I’m a new woman now.”

  “And what brought this on? Did things go further south with your folks?”

  “If you were interested in my life you should have kept your word and called me.” The words shoot out of my mouth before I can think them through. It would be better if he thought I didn’t care, that I barely registered his absence.

  “I lost your number,” he says quietly.

  “You lost my number.” Amusement tinged with rage floods through me as I flash him a menacing smile. “How very original of you.”

  “Melo—Mercy, I know it sounds—”

  “Like bullshit?” I ask, cutting him off. “Yeah, it does. And you know, if you’re going to bullshit me, it would be better if you at least showed me the respect of putting some effort into it.”

  “I see.” Ash raises his eyebrows questioningly. “And what exactly should I have said?”

  “I don’t know, be creative,” I snap. “Tell me that you were just out of a relationship and you didn’t know if you could handle anything serious. Tell me that you were afraid that anything as awesome as our night together couldn’t be built to last and you worried that if you called me you’d only end up spoiling a perfect memory. Tell me you have issues, self-doubt, something that kept you from picking up the goddamned phone and dialing me up!”

  “In other words,” he says, leaning back on his heels, “I should tell you it’s not you, it’s me.”
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  “Oh for God’s sake, enough with the fucking clichés!” I shake my head and adjust my purse on my shoulder. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I gotta go. But this has been fun. Really. We should meet up again next millennium.”

  I start to walk away but he puts a hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me back against the door. “I was just out of a relationship and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for anything serious.” His voice hovers between a growl and a song. “I was afraid that anything as amazing as our night together couldn’t be built to last.” I look away. He has no idea what kind of chaos he left me to deal with. I can’t buy into his game.

  But then he takes hold of my chin and guides my face back to him. “I worried that if we continued I would ruin a perfect memory.” He runs one finger up and down the length of my neck. I can feel my anemic willpower reaching for the white flag. “I have issues, self-doubt, and . . .” He winds his fingers into my hair and brings his lips to my ear. “I lost your number.” His breath both tickles and chills. Slowly he pulls back and gives me a smile that makes my heart speed up to an unnatural rhythm, “But I found you. That’s what’s important, don’t you agree?”

  I don’t move. My body is itching for action and yet my mind can’t figure out what that action should be. Should I hit him? Throw myself at him? Run away? “I don’t know,” I whisper, and then, finding my voice, I say just a little louder, “I don’t know if that’s what’s important anymore. A lot of time has passed and things are . . . they’re different.”

  “Yeah.” He looks down and nods his head thoughtfully, causing his hair to fall forward in an almost feminine manner. “Last time we talked you told me you wanted to sing onstage. Now here you are.”

  “I said I wanted a lot of things. You did, too.” That night he had whispered his ambitions as I traced the curves of his half-sleeve tattoo with the tip of my tongue, the salt of his skin bringing to mind images of the seashore.

  “I did.” He reaches forward, taking my hand, and without a word he pulls me away from the club and unhurriedly leads me down the alley toward the street.

  “Where are you taking me?” And why am I letting you lead? But the thought is lost in a brewing storm of less practical emotions.

  “To an adventure, Mercy.” He keeps his eyes on mine as he continues to guide me. “Where else?”

  When we get to the street there are revelers everywhere. People running down the street with party poppers, metallic foil horns, and silly hats. It’s a happy chaos and yet none of it seems real. Like these partiers are nothing but ghosts dancing around Ash and me. Like we are the only ones here tied to the limitations and longings of the flesh. It’s not until he leads me to our destination, a parking meter on the corner, that I’m able to look away from him and see what he’s showing me. I feel the corners of my lips twitch as I take it in. “You got your motorcycle.”

  “I did.” Again he pulls me to him, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he takes a spare helmet out of a canvas saddlebag. “I think it’s time we go for a ride.”

  CHAPTER 3

  IT SHOULDN’T SURPRISE me that he has a sports bike. He had spoken of it that night, when we had been sharing both our affection and our greed. But he couldn’t bankroll a new bike at the time, so we had found other ways to indulge.

  But now? Now we’re whipping through the streets of LA, flashing by the drunken Angelenos spilling out of clubs. All I’ve had is that small sip of celebration at midnight. There’s nothing in my blood that will help me turn off my brain. I can’t stop thinking about the way my breasts are crushed against his back as he sits between my legs, the way it feels to have my arms wrapped around him, literally holding on for my life. And his leather jacket is so smooth I want to tear this helmet off and rub my face against it like a cat. The bike is a Ninja, faster and more agile than anything else around us. Everything about Ash tonight speaks of risk and strength . . . and . . . well, money. The man I met all those months ago couldn’t have afforded any of this. So perhaps our time apart has been more prosperous for him than for me.

  That feeling is only reinforced when he pulls over to a liquor store minutes before it’s about to close and comes out with a pricey bottle of champagne and a paper bag filled with other goodies he promises to show me later. “Where are we going?” I ask again.

  He pauses a moment, standing in the middle of the parking lot as I try to steady myself by holding on to the precariously balanced bike. There’s something in his stare . . . a hunger, a need that I think I understand.

  Slowly he moves closer, opening the saddlebag again, where he places his new purchases. “I knew you’d be there . . . I saw the promotions.”

  “The . . . the promotions for the performance? At Apocalypse?”

  “A man handed me a free drink card for Apocalypse a few weeks back, and on it was a picture of a woman I didn’t think I’d ever see again,” he says with a confirming nod. “But I swore that if I did see you . . .” He takes a deep breath as if steeling himself for a blow. “Let’s not do this here.”

  I look around and note that there are about half a dozen cars in the lot. Two of them have people in them, waiting for their friends. I could ask him where we’re going again, but what would be the point? No matter what he says I’m going to go because . . . because I want to!

  The realization is a little startling. I thought I was less impulsive these days, less led by my moods and whims. But seeing Ash . . . I don’t know.

  And so I get back on the bike and let him take me away into the night.

  And it feels like we drive forever. Past the clubs, the late-night restaurants, the closed stores, the houses, everything, until we’re just flying down Highway 1 along the ocean. And when I’ve totally lost track of where we are he stops, right where the sand meets the pavement. The ocean looks like a giant black shadow, roaring for us as we find a little corner of beach to sit on, the champagne and brown bag held in Ash’s hand. He reaches inside and pulls out two plastic flutes and a small bottle of vodka.

  “Vodka?” I ask as he pours a shot into each glass.

  “Not quite as cold as I’d like,” he admits as he expertly loosens the cage around the cork of the champagne and then opens the bottle with only the slightest pop so he doesn’t spill a drop. “The champagne will take care of the temperature.” In a moment he’s filled the rest of our glasses with bubbly. “It’s called an Arctic Kiss,” he says with a little smile before lifting his flute and handing me mine. “What should we drink to? New beginnings?”

  “To new discoveries,” I counter.

  “To passion!” he rallies, making a game of it.

  “Umm . . .” I struggle to come up with something new. And then I look out at the dark sea. How can something be so ominous and so enticing at the same time? My lips curl into a sad little smile as I clink my plastic glass against his. “To the end of the world.”

  He graces me with a slow, deviant smile as I take a long drink and continue to watch the waves.

  “I see you’re still captivated by nature.” He reaches over, tucks my hair behind my ear. “You don’t walk around with blinders on, you notice—”

  “I don’t know you,” I interrupt him with a whisper.

  He pauses, studying my profile before offering a reply. “Maybe not.” He refills our glasses even though they’re still more than halfway full. “But I bet you haven’t stopped thinking about me.”

  I bark out a genuine laugh. “Well, look at the ego on you!”

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, either,” he continues. In the distance I can see the flames from a bonfire, but whatever celebrations are going on over there are muted by the sea.

  “I’ve been thinking that I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he continues. “Someone who gets off on both risk and knowledge. I remember listening to you talk about philosophy and music, and you could quote books that you hadn’t read in years, rattle off the birth dates of famous composers, name the capitals of every cou
ntry, and I remember thinking, fuck, this one collects facts like other girls collect shoes.”

  “It was just trivia, that’s all. I’m good at that.” I take another sip, my smile fading. “But I mean it, Ash. Hanging out for one night . . . we don’t really know each other.” And you don’t know what that one night cost me.

  “Alright, if you say so.” He digs his fingers into the sand. “Do you do this often, then?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle? Let him take you to remote places where none of your friends can find you?”

  “No!” I laugh as I drink a bit more. “But you’re . . . I mean it’s not like . . . you’re not exactly . . .” I stumble and falter as I see the trap.

  “I’m not what?” he asks with false surprise. “A stranger? What are you saying, Mercy?” He draws my name out teasingly. “That you do know me after all?” He chuckles and tips his glass.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Name one thing you know about me,” he presses.

  I reach forward and take off my shoes, letting my toes sink into the cold sand. “I know your favorite movie is Malcolm X.”

  “And yours is Pretty in Pink,” he says. Back on the road I can hear cars passing, momentarily breaking the illusion that we are truly alone in the world. “I know that you think Jimi Hendrix is the best guitarist of all time.”

  I roll my eyes and lean back on my elbows against the sand, carefully balancing my glass between my fingers. “Everybody thinks that. It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact.”

  “And you think the second greatest guitarist is Dave Davies,” he adds.

  I look up, surprised. I had forgotten I had told him that, and I’m shocked that he remembered.

  “I know that you didn’t go to college,” I say quietly. I don’t know why I chose that particular bit of info to throw out at him. Maybe I want to hurt him . . . if only just a little.

  “You didn’t go to college, either,” he says. His voice is light, but I can hear the edge of defensiveness.