July 2005 

Adam looked down at the hotel notepad where he had just finished scribbling the lyrics running through his head. It was a disturbing song. Just a tiny bit unhinged. He tore the paper off the pad and balled it up, preparing to chuck it in the wastebasket next to his bed, but something stopped him. It would make a hell of a video. So what if it was dark? He smoothed out the crumpled paper and looked at it again. It wasn’t like anyone would ever guess what it was about.

Wake up call.

Caught you in the morning with another one in my bed.

Don’t you care about me anymore?

Don’t you care about me? I don’t think so.

Six foot tall,

Came without a warning, so I had to shoot him dead.

He won’t come around here anymore.

Come around here? I don’t feel so bad.

He thought back to the night before and the events that had put these words in his head. It had all started in the VIP section of a club in Santa Barbara – the afterparty for their last show, their last night on the road after three continuous years of touring.

***

Adam took a gulp of his drink as he scanned the room, feeling the air vibrate with the pounding bass from the dance music. The club was filled with crew members and roadies, and a lot of friends from LA had made the trip down for the show tonight. He even caught a glimpse of a few celebrities in the crowd. He and his bandmates were the cool new kids in town - or something like that - ever since they won the Grammy a few months ago for Best New Artist.

“New artist,” he laughed to himself. Nevermind the grueling three years they’d spent on the road, promoting the album. Nevermind the ten years before that, since he and Jesse and Mickey and Ryan had first started playing together. Hell, if they wanted to call him a new artist, he wasn’t going to argue. That had been another party, that night after the big win – his phone going off every five minutes with another friend calling to congratulate him. He’d kept his phone in his hand all night, watching the caller ID light up over and over. Another number. Another call, but not the call he was waiting for.

He saw a figure out of the corner of his eye, and his head snapped around to get a better look. She was standing at the bar with her back to him. A little brown-haired girl, ordering a drink. It wasn’t her, he told himself automatically. Couldn’t be. He squinted at her back, willing her to turn around.

“Hi!” he heard a voice with a slight southern drawl and looked down to see a curvy blonde sipping her drink through a straw. It was Jessica Simpson, he realized with a jolt. It still came as a shock to him when someone famous - some face he'd only seen on magazine covers - came up and starting talking to him.

“Hey, what’s up!” he shouted back at her, straining to be heard over the din. He didn’t want to talk too much. His throat was raw and burning after the strain of the performance.

His eyes flitted back toward the bar for a moment. The little brunette was still there, saying something to the bartender. There was no way it could be her, he told himself again. It had been four years now since he’d last set eyes on Jane. She probably looked completely different by now. Anyway, she was probably off somewhere, married and pregnant. She’d been in such a goddamned rush to have kids. He wondered if the guy she married looked like him.

The girl at the bar turned around finally, and a pair of unfamiliar eyes met his.

She was cute. What was she doing ordering her own drink? Was she here alone? Not that it mattered, he told himself, as he raised his bottle to salute the girl from across the room. He took another swig of beer, forcing his attention back to Jessica. She was twirling a lock of yellow hair around her finger and bouncing gently to the beat of the music.

“It’s great to meet you! I’m a huge fan!” she shouted, leaning in toward him. “We should do a collaboration or something!”

“Definitely!” he yelled back, shooting her a grin. “You wanna dance?” He took the half-empty glass out of her hand and set it on a table, then grabbed her hand and started pulling her through the crowd toward the dance floor. He could feel the warmth of her body on his back as she pressed close behind him.

He passed the bar and caught sight of the little brunette again. She was talking to someone now. A guy. Dark hair, six feet tall. She was laughing. Were they together? He saw her go up on her tiptoes, and the two of them started making out. Yep, definitely together. The guy was practically sucking her face off. He felt an irrational urge to go over and punch him in the mouth.  

He turned back to Jessica. Wasn’t she married or something? He put one hand on her hip and started to move with her to the beat, careful to keep his eyes focused on hers. She wasn’t twirling her hair anymore, and he saw her run the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. He willed himself not to turn and look over toward the bar again. This party was getting lame.

“C’mon,” he said, leaning forward and brushing Jessica’s ear with his mouth as her body rocked against him. “Let’s go back to your place and collaborate.”

***

Adam looked around him, disoriented. The music was still throbbing, but the club was empty now. No, not empty. The girl was still there at the bar, making out with that asshole. Adam knew he should look away, but he didn’t seem to be in control of his own body anymore. He felt himself walk over and tap the guy on the shoulder. The man turned around, and Adam saw the girl up close – her hair disheveled, lipstick smeared. Her eyes went wide with shock as she looked at him.

It was her, after all. It was Jane.

Adam felt something cold in his hand. Not a beer bottle. Cold steel. He looked down curiously and watched as his hand rose and his finger squeezed around the trigger. The other man fell to the ground, and Adam looked on in silence as a crimson stain blossomed on the front of the man’s shirt and slowly spread.

Adam turned his head toward Jane. She met his eyes for a moment, and then she turned away, frantic. They were in a hotel room now, and she was tearing the room apart, looking for something.

“The phone!” she cried. “Where’s the phone?”

He heard it – the shrill ring growing louder and louder, matched by the growing desperation in her voice. “Adam, why don’t we have a phone?”

His eyes sprung open, then, but the ringing continued. It was coming from the bedside table. He groped blindly for the source of the sound, eyes slitted against the glare from the lights he hadn’t bothered to turn off when he crept back to his room a few hours earlier.

It was a dream, of course. He felt a wave of relief, mingled with disappointment. She wasn’t here. Wherever “here” was. A hotel. Another hotel. Another phone. Another call, but not the call he was waiting for.

Just an unfamiliar female voice, saying the words he’d woken up to so many times before:

“Mr. Levine, this is your 7:30 wake up call.”

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