Page 15 of Taking His Diva

Those conversations have been fun over the past few weeks. Especially since I had to find new ways to get out of the apartment to avoid Lacy overhearing the plans we’d been making for our next album.

Guilt gnawed in my stomach, the churning from before morphing into nausea which quite literally steals the breath from my lungs. I’d been so close to coming clean before she received that call. But then, I’d been close a million times in the last month. Funny how fear of losing a little spitfire brat can make you freeze in your tracks. I can’t lose her. I can’t have her treating me differently.

No matter how I spin the justifications, the fact remains, I’ve long since passed the point of plausibility for why I’ve continued this charade about being a studio musician. She’s heard me play. Not the songs I’ve played with Malfeesance for the past two decades. New stuff. It’s stripped-down, bare-bones. Still rough and dark, but more in tone than theme. Lacy’s brought something out in me and my music I can’t explain.

Shaking myself from the thoughts, I refocus on the newest project. Lacy’s office. It’s the room next to the in-house studio I built. The walls are soundproof, so she won’t get disturbed while we’re playing. The huge desk along the other side of the wall where I fucked her just a few days ago mocks me. So, does her favorite feature in the room: the gold wall. A whole wall sparkling gold, with the perfect lighting to do her videos and product images for her influencer posts. She tried to get me to do a photo with her to show it, and me, off on her Instagram. I had to say no. I would have been recognized.

The finishing touches will go in tomorrow, mostly furniture and some knickknacks I picked up along the way. My favorite is a metal cut-out sign which saysbrat. I had it custom-made by the guy who does our tour stage designs. It’s rustic and badass, but he used some chemical treatment on it to give it this shiny almost red-gold hue. I have it hanging over her desk.

Just as I’m getting back to hanging more artwork, my cell rings from the kitchen where I left it. I spring to my feet and damn near break a land speed record trying to get the call before it drops to voicemail.

The name which flashes across the screen sends my stomach plummeting. Not Lacy. Geoff, my drummer. I punch the accept button, a little surprised the screen doesn’t crack from the force.

“What up fuck face?” Geoff’s bass voice damn near rattles the phone. Dude’s got enough testosterone coursing through his body to make the biggest, baddest, looking drummer on theplanet. But really, he’s a twelve-year-old boy stuck in the body of a giant. “I know we said we were going to lay low for the time being, but there’s low, and then there’s falling off the face of the planet.”

“Well, we can’t all be frequenting strip clubs on a nightly basis, asshole.” I set down the hammer I was using to hang some pictures and pick up my guitar, making my way down the hall to the studio.

“Yes, we fucking can. And we should. It is our god-given right as rock stars to look at naked tits as often as humanly possible.” Cymbals crash loudly in the background, signaling Geoff threw something at his drum set. Guy has no respect for his instruments. Half our tour budget went to replacing his kit every few weeks. “Man, you are a disgrace to metal. No tats. No more drinking and drugs. No strippers under your belt. Now, I hear you fucking cut your hair. I swear to god, if you start singing some Ed Sheeran shit, I’m going to cut your nuts off.”

It feels weird to laugh while also being on the edge of panic not knowing where Lacy is. But Geoff makes it damn near impossible to keep a straight face. I can’t look at him during shows, because I start cracking up right away.

“Actually, I’ve been working on something I’d like you to hear.” I prop my phone up on the console and switch over to Facetime. As soon as Geoff accepts the video call, I settle in with my guitar.

“Should I tell Brandt you’re itching to take his spot as lead singer?” A shirtless Geoff appears, sprawled out on his couch, empty beer bottles everywhere. He’s drunk, possibly high too. I see it now in the eyes that won’t quite stay open and the lazy way his head lists to the side. The fact I couldn’t hear his inebriation from his voice alone is frightening. Because drunk Geoff has become the default. I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw the man sober.

“Nah, I’ll stick to being the musical genius of the group.” I can sing, but don’t have the right chords for metal. Can’t get the deep guttural thing going like Brandt. “I’m not sure where this song is going yet. So, don’t give me a hard time about it.”

The chords start out slow, less chaotic than I normally play. Then I start in on the lyrics. It’s a love song, but a dark one.

A siren calls my name.

Her skin, her smile, call me home.

Wrap me in her barbed-wire arms.

Cut me quick with a lick of her tongue.

Damn the fate, I’ll drown for just a taste.

Beauty is her weapon.

I keep singing through the half-formed verses. They all center on Lacy and how everything about her, good and bad, pulls me closer. It might have been the most honest thing I’ve ever written. Ironic, considering I can’t be honest with the woman to inspire my words.

When I finish, Geoff lets out a huge belch and throws his empty bottle onto a pile off-screen. “Did you really write a fucking power ballad?”

“I know it isn’t our usual burn the world to the ground stuff, but it isn’t exactly Bed of Roses either.”

“Nah, man. It’s not bad. I can hear the whole arrangement in my head. Driving beats, shredding guitar, but all taken down a notch. It’ll get the panties wet, that’s for sure.” A naked pair of legs walk into the frame behind him, and I look away before I could see any more. “Hey man, my guest for the weekend just woke up from the orgasm coma I put her in. Gotta go. Next week, let’s get together and start arranging this. Maybe get the guys together and put out a teaser clip online.”

I don’t bother responding. Once a pair of legs are in front of him, Geoff forgets everything else exists.

After hanging up, I keep plucking at the guitar strings, trying to refine the words and notes tumbling around inside my head. It isn’t working. My eyes keep drifting up to the clock on the wall. Lacy’s been gone four hours. What in the hell could be taking so long?

Normally, I get lost in the music. I’ve been known to sit in my place and write for days without a break. When I’d been using and drinking, it could be weeks. But now, I want to have Lacy here with me. Write with her face and body and spitfire spirit in close proximity. She’s become my muse over the past month. I have a notebook full of lyrics that can all be traced back to her. Not all of them are love songs. There were some harsh words in there too. But I wouldn’t trade any of it for another woman.

The front door opens, quietly enough that it might just be my ears playing tricks on me. Wishful thinking and all that. Lacy doesn’t do anything quietly. She stomps, slams, and struts her way through life.

Still hoping it will be her, I leave behind my guitar and make my way to the kitchen, where she almost always heads first. She’s there. In front of the open fridge, staring inside like she’s not actually seeing anything. “Hey, Beauty. How’d it go?”

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