Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I wasn’t sure he understood that he was getting on the bus and I wasn’t, so swept up he was in talking to everyone around him. When I stopped moving and grabbed him, yanking him into my arms and hugging him tight, he clutched me back and gave me a quick kiss, but then eased free.
Standing there, watching him walk away, I had a sinking feeling that we were done. It was surreal. I knew he loved me, and I knew I was important to him, but the fact of the matter was, what he wanted more than anything was to be a star. There was nothing as critical as that, and I could not compare.
It was strange going to the airport alone. I felt disconnected, like the tether that had been holding us together had snapped. I went through the motions of checking in, boarding the plane, but it didn’t seem real. Only when I got home, with the familiarity of everything, did I begin to feel like me again.
“It’s weird,” I told Simone that night, “but the whole visit felt like a goodbye.”
“No,” she assured me. “You’re just sad because you’re missing him already.”
But I wasn’t wrong, and I wasn’t at all surprised that he didn’t call. The few times I tried, all I got was his voicemail. It made sense in a way, because even though I’d helped him, I was still a distraction. His focus needed to be singular, and I finally grasped the fact that there was no place for me in his world where he was on the road, making music, chasing his dream.
Three months later, when the second album was released—the one he’d completed while I was with him, Gasoline Under a Desert Sky—and then later was certified platinum, I was healed enough to be happy for him and even called to give him my congratulations. I only got as far as his manager’s assistant, but that was all right. I’d put forth the effort, and that was enough. What I always loved about him was that he stayed true to who he was. He never hid that he was bisexual, but because his manager, his agent, all his people surrounded him with beautiful women, and no one ever saw him with a man, it didn’t seem to be much of an issue. What had turned out to be a huge problem over the next year, amid endless tour dates, the creation of a third studio album, and the promotion that went into that, was the continual drinking and the drugs.
I suspected that when you were constantly out on the road, touring with no end in sight, that perhaps the vices were inevitable. But I couldn’t say; my calling was so much smaller than his. I had a little life in comparison, which I found myself liking more and more with each passing year. The stability of my present situation grounded me, and I, in turn, made life possible for everyone who worked for me. I loved that La Belle Vie could be a sanctuary for many. A lot of servers came and went, but I could honestly say that they always left for something better. And if they weren’t ready to fly, they stayed safe in the nest. When they went, they moved on stronger, with a direction and a purpose. I wanted more than anything to continue to be that port-in-the-storm for our staff, which was why we needed patrons to spend money, and for that we needed live music. And there had never been anyone better than Dawson.
At present, I was having trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that he was, again, back in my club in New Orleans. And while I thought I would see him again someday; I had always thought it would be in concert somewhere. I never imagined that he’d be close enough to speak to.
“Hey,” he greeted me as he crossed the floor to us, the warm, mellifluous, whiskey-smooth sound of his voice the same as always.
That walk of his, the swagger, the rolling movement liquid and deliberate, made me draw my breath in deep. He knew what he looked like with his broad shoulders, wide chest, and the long, roping muscles under his tan skin. His T-shirt was straining around his biceps, and I had a flash of memory of having those strong arms wrapped around me tight. I breathed in through my nose, girding myself for whatever it was he was going to say.
“Mr. West,” Evie blurted out, rushing by me to reach him, hand out in offering.
He turned to Xola, who was closest to him, and held out his guitar case to her. Demure like she never was, she took the handle reverently so he could shake Evie’s hand.
“I understand that when your last tour ended, you split with your management company,” she said quickly, looking like she was holding on for dear life as she flushed a very becoming pale rose.