Opening Act Read online

  Loni was somehow able to string together enough words to suggest that she thought it was a good angle, but she actually didn’t know much about David Bowie, only a smattering about Foucault, and nothing at all about old TV comedians. She wasn’t entirely interested in learning, either. She was too caught up in a sudden vision of herself in a few years, in Kevin’s position, coming up with some ridiculous premise on which to heap thousands and thousands of words and thus earn herself an extended stay in this idyllic little claustrophobic paradise.

  She found herself missing Zee and the nights that had always kind of bored her before, when they’d sit on the couch sharing a bottle of wine. Zee would relate in brutal detail all the indignities she’d suffered that day and whether, and how, she’d managed to give back as good as she’d gotten. Afterward they would go out to a bar or a club and erase it all from their minds with more cocktails, a game of darts, flirting, music. Loni had always considered those nights to be the equivalent of slumming for her, an almost anthropological exercise in seeing how normal people lived before she headed off to her ivory tower and spent the rest of her days in exalted research and inquiry. What an asshat she’d been!

  She felt such a pang of longing that she thought of texting Zee on the spot, but she could think of nothing to say.

  Byron had promised to bring dinner home, but then he called and said he’d be late. There was a thing with the provost that would be politically advantageous for him to be seen at, blah, blah, blah. Loni found herself not even listening. It was fine that he wasn’t coming straight home. She sensed she was in the kind of mood that would only annoy him, and she didn’t feel sufficient desire to modify anything about her current state of mind just to avert his anger.

  It had been nice in the beginning. He’d been so sweet, a kind of dutiful puppy dog who couldn’t wait to see her at the end of every day. But as the term went on, he became distracted by his classes, his workload, and his own razor-sharp ambition—something about him that had surprised Loni—and he’d begun to take her rather for granted. It was as though he had a checklist of things he wanted to accomplish at St. Nazarius. A regular sex partner was one of them, and having ticked that off, he’d now turned his attention to the other line items.

  After the first delirious couplings, sex had proven to be a kind of methodical thing, like their meals. No matter what she tried to whip up in the kitchen, and she’d taken on some serious challenges, he devoured it all as though it were a task to be gotten through, then thanked her and spent the rest of the night in front of his laptop. He seemed to be a man almost without a voluptuous impulse of any kind, an anti-sensualist. Food and sex were just there to propel him forward, but he never enjoyed them for their own sakes.

  This at least made it easier for Loni, because she never really had to pretend any emotional investment once the lights went out. She told herself she was glad of it. She told herself that quite often, actually. Like she was trying to convince herself it was true.

  Always, just off at the perimeter of her mind when she entered this particular realm of thought, were Shay Dayton’s steely limbs, his damp hair hanging in her face, his urgent breath, his marble butt cheeks, his narrow hips working like pistons…

  …but she’d retreat, force herself to back quietly away if she ever got too close to confronting those memories head-on.

  She was itchy and edgy and distracted now. She sat down before her own laptop and checked to see what was new on Facebook. Just the usual stream of cat photos, vacation pics, political slogans. Nothing that could hold her interest. Feeling utterly daring, she checked the Overlords of Loneliness fan page. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this since coming to St. Nazarius, but it was the first time she’d done it when she hadn’t had a few drinks first.

  There were some links to reviews of the tour so far, some concert shots, photos of events backstage and of the band members touring famous sites in the cities they visited. There were also a few videos. Loni found herself playing one.

  It was for a tune called “Come Down Hard or Die Easy,” which must have been new because she didn’t recall it from Zee’s constant playing of Grief Bacon. The video was a little grainy and the screen very small, but it seemed to her Shay had grown in gravitas since she’d last seen him. He seemed to have tremendous focus. He wasn’t strutting or preening or throwing his body around provocatively. He used it like a whip, jerking or snapping his head to accent the musical phrases. She listened closely to make out the lyrics:

  Only one way to play it

  ’Cause it isn’t really play

  Only one way to work it

  If it’s what you’ve got to say

  You won’t make friends

  You’ll only make foes

  But if you wanna be remembered, baby

  Everybody knows

  Come down hard or die easy

  Jump the barricade or quit the race

  Come down hard or die easy

  Live forever or leave no trace

  The video ended with an exultant Shay reaching out his arms to take in the rest of the band—God, that smile of his—while the audience applauded appreciatively (though in Loni’s opinion, not appreciatively enough).

  She blinked a few times, then considered replaying the video. But once was sufficient.

  More than sufficient, in fact.

  It was uncanny. It was as though Shay had somehow been attuned to her, been riding her wavelength. This song was exactly in accord with everything she’d been thinking about all day, and that had maybe, perhaps likely, been simmering beneath her skin for months now. It was about risk, about taking a chance, making a roll of the dice. Like Charlotte Dacre did. And William Blake. And Simone de Beauvoir. And Michel Foucault. And David Bowie. And Shay Dayton. Shay Dayton was jumping the barricade every goddamn day on this tour.

  While she hid. While she kept herself confined in this little rabbit warren where pale people like her pored diligently over the receding echoes of Charlotte Dacre and William Blake and Simone de Beauvoir and Michel Foucault. And, probably somewhere, David Bowie. As if that made for some kind of affinity. As if it made for some kind of equivalency.

  She felt a sudden surge of boldness—a willingness to throw the dice, to take a chance, to risk. And so she did something she hadn’t yet had the nerve to do. She went to the top of the Overlords Facebook page and pressed the Like button.

  She sat back in her chair, feeling the thrill of the moment stir her.

  And then…

  And then she laughed.

  If that was her idea of risk, she realized, it was the most pathetic thing she’d ever done. She closed her laptop, went into the next room, and flopped down before the TV where she half watched some documentary about the rise of Sinn Féin. There were lots of talking heads channeling intensity at the camera and occasional footage of explosions—enough to keep her from entirely disappearing into her own mind.

  Something about the scenes of violence triggered more resolve in her. Just look at the world, it seemed to be saying. The world where people believe that things—abstractions, even—are worth dying for. Where the phrase “life and death” actually means life and death.

  Was she so reduced, so benumbed by safety and security and the road ahead being paved and well-lit, that she was willing to go through her entire life without ever stepping out of line and grabbing for something she wanted—jumping the barricade?

  She bit her fingernail, bit it down to the quick, until it started to bleed.

  She got up to get a bandage, and as she was applying it to her fingertip, it hit her. The answer. The solution. It hit her just like that, the way the most audacious plans sometimes form during the most mundane moments of our lives.

  She looked up into the mirror over the sink, and she saw her new self looking back.

  CHAPTER 15

  Shay found Pernita already talking when he reached their hotel room on Michigan Avenue, and she didn’t slow down a beat when he entered. He t
hought she must be on her Bluetooth, so he ignored her and busied himself with hefting his suitcase onto the bed and starting to unpack. It was a full three minutes before he realized she was talking to him. What the hell? She must have started when he get off the elevator. Had she smelled him coming down the hall?

  He snapped to attention and tried to pick up the thread of what she was saying. By close listening and some speculative leaps, he managed to put together that she was extremely put out by an incident that had occurred in New York, where she’d thrown a small dinner party for a highly prized video artist, Monsieur Désastre, only to have him beg off at the last minute, claiming an illness.

  “…but I’ve just heard from Portia Brookington that she saw him out that night—out on the town, Shay. At Gisellina’s, in fact, dancing with Mitzi Planck-Overton, who of course wasn’t invited to my dinner party because of that stunt she pulled at Gstaad last year with the K-Y Jelly on my DPS Spoons. I almost broke my leg on the slopes! Can you imagine the gall it took to lure Monsieur away from my party in his honor? To induce him to lie to me out of petty jealousy and a desire for revenge? Because of course she’d have known the news would get back to me. You don’t go dancing at Gisellina’s if you don’t want to be seen and talked about. No, my finding out about it is the whole point. She’s throwing down a gauntlet, and all I can say is, fine, if she wants Monsieur Désastre that much, she can have him, and good riddance. I only put up with him for the cachet. I still haven’t forgotten the way he left Chloe Vassar’s powder room at her fund-raiser for ruptured silicon implants. I think the cleaning staff needed hazmat suits. Still, the insult, Shay. And the sense of betrayal. God only knows what Mitzi promised him to convince him to renege on me, though I can guess. And I’m reasonably confident her punishment will be a full course of industrial-strength antibiotics. But listen to me go on! This is no way to greet you after so long a separation, I know. I’m sorry, it’s just on my mind because I only got off the phone with Portia minutes ago. But how are you, sugar-pie? You look so wonderfully emaciated. I wish we could do that fashion spread all over again.”

  “I’m fine,” Shay said, willing himself not to go rigid as she closed in on him to give him a kiss. After she’d done so, she held him for a few moments, till he felt the need to break the silence—preferably not with a term of endearment. Finally, he settled on, “I have been eating.”

  She responded by squeezing his sides, which made him jump. “You’re skin and bone,” she said merrily. “But never mind, it’s a look that works. Very heroin chic, and you managed to achieve it without heroin.” She leaned back and gave him a searching look. “Right?”

  He rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Pernita. No. No heroin. Just a lot of traveling and performing and late nights.” He realized that last bit was possibly incriminating, so he added, “Burning the midnight oil, rewriting parts, changing lyrics.”

  She shook her head, as if in awe at his dedication. “Well, all that ends now. It’s the wrap-up to the first leg of your ascension to immortality, and I’ve got lots and lots planned for you, beginning with a major media cocktail party after the gig tonight.”

  “After the gig?” he said. “But we don’t even go on till, what—nine o’clock? It may be well after midnight when Strafer finishes.”

  She smiled indulgently at his innocence. “Poor baby. You’ve been on the rural back roads so long, you’ve forgotten that not everywhere in America shutters the windows and rolls up the streets at ten thirty. This is Chicago. There’s a whole stratum of nightlife here that doesn’t even get going until one o’clock.”

  “Hooray,” he said despondently.

  “But you should get some rest,” she said, breaking her grip on him with a final pat on his rump. “Long night for you, as you say. I’ll be happy to unpack for you.”

  “No, it’s okay, it’ll only take a moment.” The idea of her handling his things bothered him. She already had her fingers in too much of his business. Also, it was terribly transparent that she only wanted to snoop. This was a woman who never unpacked her own bags. Or packed them in the first place, for that matter.

  “It’s no trouble,” she said.

  “My point exactly,” he countered, and turned to begin the task.

  She stood behind him, hands on her hips—defeated, yet unwilling to give up entirely. Finally she said, “Well, as long as you’re going to be up a few minutes more, I’ll tell Daddy. He wants to have a word with you.”

  He whirled. “Your father’s here?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. Excuse me.” She was already dialing her phone. “Daddy?” she said, as she walked into the next room. “Yes, he just got here…he’s unpacking…”

  Shay felt a sudden jolt of wariness. He’d met the elusive Halbert Hasque only three times before. Once during their initial negotiation, then at a small cocktail party Pernita threw when the contract was signed, and the last time at a reception in New York before the tour began. Never on any of those occasions had he impressed Shay as particularly genial. He seemed always to be multitasking. In fact, at the reception in New York, which was ostensibly in honor of Overlords and Strafer Nation (who were also Hasque clients), he’d been preoccupied with trying to woo a legendary theatre actor to his stable. (The actor’s new play was tanking, and he reportedly blamed his management. Halbert, ever on the alert, had smelled blood in the water.)

  The idea that Halbert Hasque actually wanted to see him—had expressed an interest in actually addressing him face-to-face on some matter—was disconcerting, to say the least. He steeled himself for the encounter and forced himself to continue unpacking.

  At the bottom of his bag he found The Complete Poems of William Blake. Or, as he had taken to calling it in his head, The Complete Poems of Will-my-arm Break, because of its tremendous weight. He’d several times considered just jettisoning the book, but it seemed to be his only tether to Loni. And he felt the need for some connection with her, however slight or foolish. He flipped it open and sought out a shorter poem, one he could read before Pernita came back into the room. He settled on “The Lily.”

  The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,

  The humble sheep a threat’ning horn:

  While the Lily white shall in love delight,

  Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

  Whoa. That was a little uncanny. It was pretty close to how he regarded both Pernita—beautiful, alluring, inviting, but with jagged edges you had to watch out for if you got too close—and Loni—all openness, brightness, receptivity. Pernita was shields-up, all the time. Loni was a lowered drawbridge.

  He dropped the book and wondered if he was being a little too easy on Loni. After all, when he’d first met her in Baby’s kitchen she’d certainly been shields-up. She’d exhibited a “threat’ning horn.” But somehow he’d been able to see that for what it was: a rather endearing insecurity. Pernita’s shields were all about keeping you away until you proved your worth. Loni’s were about buying herself time to judge the risk to herself. Certainly once she’d gotten to know him, she’d relaxed, become all sweetness, all candor.

  And yet she’d been playing him, hadn’t she? She’d had another guy in the background the whole time. A guy she must’ve known she’d be moving to California with. She’d just been using Shay as one last no-strings-attached romp before she settled down to domestic life.

  Except…that had been what Loni was supposed to be for him, too, one final fling before the tour. But she hadn’t been that. Well, she had, but she’d also been so much more. He still had no idea how she’d managed to get so deeply into his head. But she had. She’d planted herself there like a seed, and her roots had been growing deeper inside him ever since.

  Was it so impossible that she might be feeling the same about him? Yeah, sure, she ended up going to California, but he’d ended up going on tour. If he’d done so only out of confusion about what else he could do, hell, maybe it was the same with her. In any case, he was just a co
uple of days from being able to find out. Back in Haver City he’d have more than a week to coach Lockwood on how to draw the info he needed out of Zee: whether Loni was happy out west, whether she was in love, whether this was a permanent thing, or whether she was already restless and trying to get out.

  And if that was true…if that was true…

  His thoughts were interrupted by Pernita’s return, still on the phone. “I don’t care who gets in the way,” she was saying. “I’ve told you what I want, so stop being such a whining little cretin and make it happen.”

  Shay felt the color drain from his face, and Pernita must have noticed it, too, because she lowered the phone and said, “Are you all right?”

  “Man,” he said with a nervous laugh, “I never knew you ordered your dad around like that.”

  “This isn’t Daddy, it’s Nancy Leboudreau.” Then she put the phone back to her ear and said, “Why are you still here, Nancy? Chop bloody chop.” There was a knock on the door and Pernita headed for it, saying, “Text me when it’s settled. Thanks, you’re an angel. Mmmwaah.”

  And with that, she slipped her phone back into her pocket with one hand while opening the door with the other. “Daddy!” she squealed, and she flung herself into Halbert Hasque’s arms. Shay grunted in distaste. You’d think she hadn’t seen him in months, yet Shay knew from an e-mail he had received from her that they’d had lunch together that very afternoon.