4
Kristopher
The cat likes her. Well, there’s no accounting for taste. He likes anyone that scratches his head. I can smell my breakfast. I had hoped to eat before she got here, but whatever, I made enough for me and the cat, so I suppose we can share.
“You eat yet?” I ask, ignoring her question of if I’m drunk. Sure my coffee has a shot of hone whiskey, but that’s for flavoring.
“Yeah, I eat after my seven am workout. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself.” Heading into the kitchen, I continue. “You can follow or have a seat, but I don’t work until ten and have a full belly.”
“What exactly are we working on? It’s not like you gave me many details other than my appearance.”
I plop my sheet pan breakfast on the stovetop before grabbing two plates. “Cliff says you don’t wanna be a Pop Princess anymore. Said Starling took your name and your royalties for the most part. Can’t say as I’m surprised, really. So tell me what you want. I’m presuming it has something to do with switching your genre.”
“Uh, well, I grew up on country. It’s what I know. When I was younger, I—it was just Pop and I a lot. Music was sort of our thing.”
“Then how the fuck did you wind up shakin’ your ass for the cameras with autotune instead of doin’ you? I mean, I hope that you can actually sing. I mean, Cliff says, yeah, but from what I saw last night on Youtube….” I put a plate on the table next to mine, and the cat squirms out of her arms. Up onto his chair, he goes. My hand over his plate, I drop my head, say a quick prayer, and sit with my food.
“It was their way. Dancing is hard on me, but I wanted this, so I did what they told me to do. Pierce and Pop told me to go along with it.” She shrugs at me as she sets a lunch box on the table beside her.
“Peirce.” I chuckle. “He tries so hard and falls short.” I make a height comparison with my hand. “Eh, but he means well, though I like Cliff better.” In goes a mouthful of runny eggs and hash. Cat has his paws up on the table though his body is in the chair. I taught him good manners. I have to turn his plate as he empties a section.
“Pierce is the only way I’ve ever known him, and he’s always been good to me.” Nikki looks around. “I assume it’s just the two of you.”
I give a curt nod, glancing around. My mind starts to wander back, back to the accident, the machines beeping. The cats cry quickly, bringing me back. Grabbing my plate, I stand, walking past her. I dump the barely eaten food into the trash. “So you didn’t tell me what you want from me.”
“Pierce says you’re supposed to teach me. He didn’t say what but told me to open myself to the new experience.”
I chuckle. “Cat, behave.” I look to the scarfing feline and then to the girl standing in my dining room. “Let’s start with some basics, but first, you want a drink or something?”
She opens her lunch box, pulling out a water. “Pop took care of that. We didn’t figure you would have much good for me, but thanks.”
“It’s not like my place is full of cocaine and whiskey. Sheesh.” I cover the rest of the food to ensure the cat doesn’t get into it. “Follow me. The studio is downstairs.”
“Can I put this in your fridge first?” She holds up her snack pack.
“Bring it. I got one down there too.”
“Lead the way.”
Down the hall and around the corner, we head. I spent half the night cleaning it up and the other half in a bottle of Jameson. I’m pretty sure I got all the embarrassing stuff out first. Hell, I even emptied the ashtrays for a change. I open the door, and she gives a fake ass cough. I glance back at her. “Problem?”
“Just a running joke that I’m sure Pop and Pierce are going to love.”
“Okie Dokie, come on then.” Through the door, I go, flipping on the overhead lighting. “The basement is completely finished and soundproofed from room to room. Mind the shelves. A few are tipsy. I haven’t gotten around to reinforcing them.” I look around. All of my vinal is on display behind glass, and my instruments are scattered around. “You play something, I assume?”
“No, actually, I—” She clears her throat. “don’t. Can we open a window or something? I’d love to finish out my twenty-first birthday without a trip to the cardiologist.”
“It’s your birthday?” I say thoughtfully. “Twenty-first at that, you should be at the bar starting a crawl, not here.” I sit at the piano and proceed to sing Happy Birthday.
“Thank you. I’ll have a glass of red wine with dinner.”
I head to the doors opening them to let some air into the room. “Sure, you could do that, or you could do a real shot and usher in a new era of experience.” Grabbing one of my bottles of Jack from the cabinet and two shot glasses, I crack the seal. “C’mon, I insist. Can’t work with a person that won’t have at least one drink with me.”
“Kris, I don’t think it will be good for me and the medicine I’m on.” She walks over to the door breathing in the fresh air. “I know they have portrayed me as the party girl, but I’m not.”
“Medicine? What are you on? Do I need to be monitoring something? Nobody told me anything about that.” I watch her from my spot by the record player.
“No, you don’t have to monitor anything. I’ve been taking them since I was ten. I have a watch that checks everything regularly.” She holds up her wrist at me.
“So it’s like what? A sugar thing?” I say, tossing back the two shots. Can’t put um back, and pouring them out would be a waste of good whiskey.
“Immunosuppressants and sometimes others to prevent infection.” She runs her hand over her chest. “Yesterday, when I got rid of your cancer stick, I was serious. I don’t want to die. Been there, done that. Sure as hell not ready to do it again.”
I watch her hand. A heart transplant? Christ, what the fuck has Cliff gotten me into?