She rubs her lips together. They’re plump from the kissing. “The song is my answer.” Her voice is no longer raspy—it’s husky sweetness. Honey and silk. She meets my gaze steadily.
Pepper
When I was home in L.A. it was the first time I’d been alone.
Ever.
Like the Wonder Twins, I went on the road at sixteen. I was catapulted into instant fame, which means the last seven years have been non-stop recording, events and tours.
So being alone for more than a few hours was a major event for me. I got to really listen to my own yearnings. Figure out what I wanted to do to fill my time, what I wanted to eat, how I could nurture myself.
Every minute was spent grieving for Tony—for what could’ve been. What couldn’t be. And yet it was still a deeply healing time for me.
I took baths. Ordered takeout.
I wrote music. I slept. I centered.
And knowing I could be alone, that I’d make it without even one single other person directing my life, makes choosing to be with Tony even more of a gift.
Because I do choose him. He thought he was soulless. I know the truth.
He’s all heart.
He’s loyalty and love. Yes, he comes from a violent world. But he uses it to do good. To restore balance. To defend the weak.
To defend me.
My acoustic guitar is in my suite, which has been sealed off by the police, so we go down to the theater and I strap on my electric.
I turn on the sound system and get a mic, set it up like a concert for one.
“You sit down there.” I point to the theater seats.
Tony goes without question.
I wrote him a love song. Two, actually. But the one I play for him now is more about dark burning need. It has a driving punk beat inspired by The Sores, and dirty lyrics.
I was dead when I met you.
Sealed into wax, unable to blink.
You shocked me out. Shocked me up.
No time to wait. No time to think.
Plastered on the wall, wrists in your fist,
You flipped the switch, You flipped the switch.
Bring it to me, bring it to me, bring it to me now.
Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me how.
I need you. I need you.
I riff with it, finding the joy of improvisation and creation. By the time I’m done, I’m lost in the pleasure of music, wrapped in the inspiration of Tony. Everything he means to me, even after such a short time.
I open my eyes—yeah, I guess I closed them at some point—and peek at my audience.
He’s leaning back in the chair, one knee crossed over his leg, his mouth covered with his hand.
He doesn’t say a word.
I slowly set the guitar on its stand, trying to control the palpitations in my chest. Was it terrible? Did he hate it? Did he expect more? Maybe I should’ve sung one of the love songs.
I lean into one hip. “What?”
He lunges out of his seat to the edge of the stage and tugs my ankle forward until I topple off into his arms. “Fucking genius.” His voice breaks. “You wrote that for me?”
Oh Jesus, is he blinking back tears?
“I wrote some other ones, too.”
“Don’t play them now.” He turns slowly with me in his arms, like we’re in one of those movie scenes where the camera’s circling the couple.
“Why not?”
“Give me a chance to get myself back together, baby. You’re killing me.”
I touch his face. “Killing you softly?”
“Yeah. Exactly.” He smiles and I know he gets the reference to the Fugees song.
“I love you.”
He drags in a shaky breath. “I love you, Pepper Heart. I would get down on a knee and offer you forever right now if I didn’t think it would scare you off.”
My vision blurs as I laugh. “Yeah, maybe it’s a little soon. Would you consider the manager position?”
“Manager. Bodyguard. Giver of orgasms. I’m whatever you need me to be. Every time. I’m all yours, songbird. However you want me.”
Epilogue
Junior
I didn’t fly out to be a nice guy. That’s never me. But Tony came home to bring his mom out, so I figured I could go for the last concert, too.
Officially, Pepper Heart, Inc. finished paying off its debt to me last weekend. This last concert is a fundraiser to help rape victims. Pretty classy, considering the shit that went down with Pepper and her manager.
I still can’t believe Tony’s letting that asshole keep breathing, but I guess they say he’ll be locked up for a good long time. The police have evidence of his payment to a known hitman—deceased, killer officially unknown—as well as eyewitness accounts of him rigging the lighting to fall on Pepper, and multiple rape victims from his past coming forward after Pepper went public with her story.
I straighten my jacket and walk past security to the special box seats Tony reserved. I could’ve grabbed a pretty girl from the casino to take in on my arm. It would’ve taken no effort at all—sex is pretty much a given in Vegas. I’m not even sure why I didn’t.