"Whatever," Jake said, draining the last of his drink. "Disclosures and misrepresentation and all that other lawyer crap are your department, not mine."
The limo pulled onto Hollywood Boulevard and started working its way through the thick traffic. Pauline glanced ahead for a moment, seeing that the Hollywood Hilton was only three blocks away. She could already see the lighting equipment that had been set up by the media covering the premier. She turned to her brother, who was staring at the ice cubes in his glass.
"Are you okay, Jake?" she asked him gently.
"I'm fine," he said, perhaps a bit more testily than intended. "I just want to make it clear that my music is my music."
"I get that," she said. "You've pretty much driven that point home. What I want to know is if you are okay. I'm a little worried about you."
"About what?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Where should I begin?" she said. "Your girlfriend left you less than a year ago and it looks like you still haven't recovered emotionally from that. You've been in a constant battle with Matt over the past eight months. A friend of yours just died — a death that I'm sure you feel at least partially responsible for, despite what you insist — and you weren't allowed to go to the funeral. The band you've been in since 1980 has just broken up under less than pleasant circumstances and you're now free-floating professionally. A man who used to be your best friend — or at least one of your best friends — is now maligning you in the entertainment media and accusing you of murder. Why don't we start with those things?"
Jake shook his head a little and slumped in his seat. He lit another cigarette despite the fact that his last one was still smoldering in the ashtray. "It has been a hell of a year, hasn't it?" he said.
"To say the least," Pauline said.
"I'm handling it though," Jake assured her. "You don't need to worry about me."
"I am worried about you, Jake," Pauline told him. "And with good reason. Take a look at yourself these past four weeks. You're chain-smoking cigarettes to the point that your voice is starting to get raspy. That's your singing voice, Jake! For Christ's sake, do you want to destroy your vocal chords, the anatomical feature that put you where you are today?"
"I'm planning to cut back soon," Jake said. "Just as soon as I..."
"And you've put on weight," Pauline said, interrupting him. "At least ten pounds over this last month."
"Putting on weight?" Jake asked incredulously. "I don't think so."
"You don't think so?" she asked. "You haven't been working out since you came home from the tour. You're eating nothing but high calorie and high fat foods and you're drinking like a fish. You don't really think the dry cleaners shrank your tux do you? Did they also shrink your blue jeans and your shirts?"
With a start, Jake realized that his pants and shirts had been getting a little tight lately — tightness he had blamed on Elsa using too much hot water when she did the laundry. "Uh... well... maybe I have put on a little weight," he was forced to admit. "But I'm going to start hitting the gym again next week."
"Uh huh," Pauline said. "And what about your drinking?"
"What about it?" Jake asked, refusing to meet her eyes as he said so.
"You're drinking a lot, Jake," Pauline said. "Much more than is really healthy for you."
"Has Elsa been talking to you?" Jake asked, angry.
"She doesn't have to," Pauline said. "Don't you think I can tell when you're drunk by listening to you? Whenever I call over to your house now, no matter what time of the day, night, or morning, you're slurring your words and I can hear ice clinking in a glass while you're talking to me. All of your grocery and expense sheets pass through my office before they go to Jill. Don't you think I see how much vodka, whiskey, beer, rum, wine, mixers, and tomato juice you're buying each month? You're spending three grand a month on booze, Jake, and that doesn't even include what you drink when you're out at the club or a social event."
"All right," Jake said, anger flooding through him now. "Enough of this shit."
"Jake..."
"No," Jake said. "Enough of this shit. I'm a big boy now and how much I drink, how much I smoke, and how I spend my money is my business, not yours. You're my sister and I love you, and you're my manager and I respect you on that level, but you're not my mother or my nanny and I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my personal life."
"Jake, I don't want to see you destroy yourself," she said. "You're heading down a road you don't really want to travel."
"What's the matter?" he asked her. "Afraid your meal ticket is gonna stop bringing in the money?"
Pauline recoiled as if struck. Jake was immediately sorry for saying that.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for."
"Apology accepted," she said tonelessly. "And I'm sorry I'm nagging at you. I'm doing it out of concern for you, not because I'm afraid you won't make me richer."
"I know," he said, taking a drag off his smoke. "And I can even see where you're coming from... a little. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm dealing with the shitstorm I've just been through the wrong way. But don't worry. The worst is over now. I'll get my shit together. It's what I do."
"I hope so, Jake," she said. "For your sake, not mine."
The limo pulled up in front of the hotel and Jake and Pauline emerged into a sea of flashbulbs, microphones, and shouted questions. Most of the questions were centered on the recent break-up of Intemperance ("are you really going your separate ways?") or on what exactly Jake was doing here ("did Greg Oldfellow invite you, or are you crashing the party?"). A few asked why Pauline was his date ("no new love interests, Jake?") and a few of the rookie reporters — those who had never been to a press conference regarding one of Intemperance's exploits — actually asked if Pauline was a new love interest ("who is the woman with you, Jake? Ma'am, can you identify yourself for the record?")
They both ignored the reporters and made their way to the VIP entrance where Jake showed his engraved invitation and was allowed entry. They were led to a grandly decorated ballroom complete with a live orchestra, two open bars, and half a dozen hors d'oeuvre tables. Scantily clad servers circulated with trays of champagne. The men were all dressed in black ties and the women in formal gowns. Jake recognized most of the attendees as actors, actresses, producers, and directors. As far as he could see, he was the only musician in the room — besides Celia that is. He immediately began to feel out of place and to wonder if coming here had maybe been a mistake.
That feeling was compounded by a factor of ten when he neared the front of the receiving line and saw Mindy Snow standing next to Greg, Celia, and Michael Stinson — Greg's best man at his wedding.
"Holy shit," Jake muttered, just loud enough that Pauline was the only one to hear him. "What the hell is she doing here?"
"It seems that someone invited her," Pauline said. "Is this going to be awkward?"
"I hope not," he said.
Jake hadn't seen or talked to Mindy since the night she'd attended the first concert of the Lines On The Map tour in LA with her now-ex husband — the man who had tried, and failed miserably, at exacting his revenge upon Jake the night of the Grammy Awards. Nor had Jake had any desire to see or talk to her after finding out that their entire clandestine relationship had not been so clandestine after all and, in fact, had been nothing but a farce designed to blackmail her husband into disregarding their prenuptial agreement when she divorced him.