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THE MORNING AFTER MEETING KEITH, I decide I need a project to distract me. I’m in the garage refinishing the coffee table and making a hell of a mess with the sander. My clothes, my safety goggles, and my mask are all covered in sawdust; the bandana I’ve tied around my head does little to keep my hair clean. I don’t really care too much, though. I am sure I look like hell: I barely slept last night and have bags under my eyes. I kept dreaming about the photographers; Keith’s voice—echoing in my head, asking me, “How could you?” over and over again—kept waking me up. I focus my attention on sanding the legs of the table and try to get my mind to go blank with the loud buzz of the sander vibrating in my hands.
Tim went into the shop to get some paperwork done, which is fine with me. I want to be alone and let the tension from last night work its way out of me. He’ll come back in the afternoon, and then we’ll spend the rest of the day together. Maybe we’ll ride our bikes down to the town beach and go for a swim. There’s a new ice cream stand that opened near there, and I’m craving a waffle cone.
When I stop to put a new piece of sandpaper on the sander, I see Tim pulling down the driveway, and he’s not alone: there are two other people with him in the truck. I take off my safety glasses and rub my eyes a bit. It’s not until he pulls up to the garage that I see who his passengers are: Keith Kutter and Greg! Tim has that “I am annoyed but trying to be polite” look on his face.
“What’s going on?” I ask when they get out of the truck. Suddenly, I am embarrassed by my appearance and try to brush myself off. The cloud of dust makes Greg sneeze.
“We rented some motorcycles so we could explore today,” he explains, “but mine was starting to misfire. The rental place isn’t picking up, so we called Tim’s shop.”
“I thought they’d be more comfortable waiting here while Jimmy and I fix them up,” Tim says. I take that to really mean, “These guys are driving me crazy. They belong to you, so will you please entertain them?” But it’s the look on Tim’s face that says it all. He doesn’t really like it when people stand over his shoulder and ask him all kinds of questions while he’s working. I can’t say I blame him.
“Keith, listen, about last night...” I begin.
“You wanted to get some notoriety out of having dinner with me,” he says. “I understand.” He takes off his leather jacket and flings it onto the half-sanded coffee table. Tim cringes as the jacket lands in a cloud of dust.
“No, I didn’t,” I shoot back. “We had nothing to do with that.”
“When you live a life like I have, you become suspicious of everyone,” he says, dismissing my attempt at an explanation. Where is the Keith who laughed with us last night? He’s completely shut down.
“Well, I don’t live a life like yours. I don’t go around setting up paparazzi, Keith. Do you seriously think I had anything to do with that?”
“I wouldn’t know what you go around doing, Brenda,” he says. Great, I think. So, this ass-clown is going to come into my home and insult me now? How rude.
“Bren, did you eat lunch yet?” Tim asks, trying to change the subject. “What do you say we go inside and get some sandwiches?” I glare at Tim. I get it. He wants me to entertain Greg and Keith while he slips out the back and goes back to the shop.
I am pissed, but I figure I can at least get them inside and explain. “Come on in,” I say. “Would you like a sandwich? Or are you suspicious of the cold cuts in my fridge, too?”
Greg shrugs his shoulders at Keith. He doesn’t say much; he and Keith seem to have a lot of nonverbal cues. They follow me in from the garage and into the kitchen, where I fill a few glasses of ice and water. Greg gulps down half of his while Keith asks where he might wash up, and I point him in the direction of the half-bath off the kitchen.
I lay out slices of bread on the cutting board while Greg watches me from the end of the counter. He fidgets in the silence; I can tell he wants to say something to me but feels awkward.
“Here,” he says, taking the bread from me. “Let me make Keith’s.” I shrug. “Keith insists that I prepare his food in situations like this. You never know.” Glad to see he’s gotten over feeling awkward. But I am still pretty offended. Who the hell do these people think I am? Some media whore/assassin?
I stand with my fists propped on my hips and my eyebrows raised. “Are you kidding me? Do you think I have a bottle of poison in the fridge, just in case the illustrious Keith Kutter stops by?”
“It’s nothing personal, Brenda.” Um, yes it is.
“Whatever,” I mumble, sighing. Obviously he and Keith have a system. Who am I to mess with it?
“Do you have any peanut butter and jam?” he asks.
“Really? I have better things to eat here, like turkey and roast beef, tuna,” I rattle off.
“I make Keith a PB&J when he’s in a foul mood. It comforts him.” I pull the jar of Skippy from the cupboard and hand it to Greg, along with the blueberry jam from the refrigerator. “Blueberry? That’s his favorite.”
“Yeah, I think I read that in the fan club newsletter,” I drawl sarcastically. “I guess I figured a PB&J would be too American for Keith.” Not very gourmet. I don’t have any Chateau What-the-Fuck to pair with it.
“He fell in love with an American exchange student when he was at Uni. He got the taste for them from her.” Greg puts his hand on a drawer and cocks his head as if to say, “Is your silverware in here?” I nod. He takes a knife and spreads the peanut butter onto both slices. I am surprised he’s not using Keith’s reserve set; maybe it’s still dirty from last night.
“How long have you worked for Keith?”
“Since July of ‘87,” he replies, spreading the jam over the peanut butter. He licks his finger and smiles. “Mmmm...” He glances at the label on the jar. “I’ll have to pick up a few jars of this before we go back. He’ll love this.”
So, he knows what kind of peanut butter Keith would like. It must be a strange job, having all your waking hours consumed by the likes and dislikes of another person, entirely devoted to keeping him safe. I’ll bet Keith has no idea what foods Greg prefers. “It must be an interesting job,” I say to him. “How does one become a bodyguard for a rock star?”
Greg’s a tall wall of muscle, the kind of guy whose arms are so muscular, he can’t seem to put them down all the way. His shaved head catches the light from the window, and I can see a flame tattoo peeking above his shirt collar on the right side of his neck. I wonder if his whole body is engulfed in the flame. “Are you looking for a career change?” He laughs. “I moved to America when I was a child. My dad is Australian and my mom is American. They divorced when I was young, and I came to the States to live with her. I served in the Marines after high school and then went back to Sydney after my discharge. I lacked any other skills, so I signed on with a bodyguard-for-hire agency. I couldn’t get an assignment immediately, so I took a job as a roadie at first. It was a cool way to get to see the world, when I wasn’t carrying gear around. Then I got assigned onto a detail guarding Keith.”
“So, you must have gotten to know him pretty well, then?”
“When you’re with a man constantly, you do get to know him a bit.” He laughs.
“Listen, Greg, about last night...,” I begin.
“Forget it, Brenda. What’s done is done.”
“Yeah, it is done. But I didn’t set that up.”
Without responding, Greg takes the plates from the cabinet. I wonder how many times he’s had to fend off rabid fans. Does he think I am one? Surely he must know that I am pretty normal. “Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to a bowl of apples on the counter, without even acknowledging what I’ve said. I see he’s avoiding the subject. I nod. Greg peels an apple. “Brenda, you and Tim seem like very nice people. My job is to protect Keith. It’s my responsibility to assess the situation and determine where the threats are. Last night, his safety was threatened, and it’s my job to keep him safe.”
Greg isn’t hearing me, and I don’t think I can get him to listen, but I have to try. “I get that. But I didn’t set up those photographers. I am certainly not a threat to his safety. You’re in my house right now, so you obviously know that I am no threat here.”
Before he can respond, Tim comes in the back door, and Keith walks in from the bathroom. Greg and I set the plates on the kitchen table. While Tim scrubs his hands in the kitchen sink, Vito bounds over to Keith’s feet and proceeds to sniff his boots.
“I’m allergic to dogs,” Keith says, stepping back in alarm. Vito stands on his hind legs and places his front paws on Keith’s thighs so he can get a better look at him. He sniffs Keith’s legs.
“Vito! Down!” I command. “How can you be allergic to dogs? Didn’t I read in Colors Fade that you had one?”
“Keith’s allergic to dogs that aren’t his,” Greg jokes. Keith glares at Greg for a moment. “Am I lying?” he asks with a smile. Vito sniffs at Keith’s shins, and Keith gingerly steps around him.
“Oh, please. Vito’s harmless,” I say, deadpan. “When’s the last time you heard of a beagle mauling someone?” On cue, Vito rolls on to his back and requests a belly rub. Keith seems to warm to the idea of Vito, grins, then obediently bends down and rubs.
“Another falls victim to the beagle belly,” Tim says, laughing. Keith scratches Vito’s stomach and ears and chatters to him. Did he just use the phrase “sexy beast”? Vito has a very keen sense about people and knows precisely how to defuse an awkward situation. Keith’s mood is noticeably lighter after playing with Vito.
“So, how are the bikes coming along?” I ask.
“Well, I need to go back,” Tim replies. “Jimmy’s gonna come pick me up in a few minutes, and we have to go down to the distributor to get some parts.”
We sit at the table and start in on our sandwiches. I watch Keith’s face as he takes his first bite of his peanut butter and jelly. The expression on his face softens, and his shoulders relax. Greg catches me watching and raises his eyebrows as if to say, “See? I told you.” I smile and then bite into my turkey.
Now that Keith is relaxed, I can take advantage of the moment and explain that we had nothing to do with what happened last night. I want to get back to the fun Keith Kutter, not the suspicious one. But just as I open my mouth to say something, Jimmy’s truck rolls down the driveway. We watch him through the window as he gets out and walks toward the door.
Keith stands and swipes his mouth with his napkin. “If you don’t mind,” he says, heading for the stairs, “I am going to make myself scarce while Jimmy is here.”
“Keith! Wait!” I leap in front of him at the base of the stairs. Tim and Greg look at each other, puzzled. I can’t remember if we made the bed this morning, and I frantically scramble up the stairs, practically shoving him aside. He walks into the bedroom just as I am straightening up. I grab my bra off the floor and hide it behind my back. I sidestep to the hamper and toss it in. Keith smirks at me and then assesses our bedroom. I want to ask him what his in Sydney is like. Would that be weird?
“Brenda, I wouldn’t have cared,” he says with a laugh.
“But I do. It’s not every day that I have a famous person in my bedroom.”
“What a shame,” he says, laughing again. “I have one in mine all the time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Angelina Jolie is a regular in my boudoir,” he says, still laughing. Then he crosses the room to examine the pile of books on my bedside table. I am glad I have important-looking books there, and not some trashy novel. “What do we have here? Brenda! I am shocked. You got my book from the library? You couldn’t even be bothered to buy it?” I checked it out again so that I could re-read it before the dinner.
“What can I say? I’m frugal,” I say with a shrug. “Make yourself at home.” I pat the corner of the bed. As I walk out of the room, Keith picks up another book off the pile and sits on my side of the bed. Inside, I squeal a little: Keith Kutter is sitting on my bed! Reading my library books! Yeah, I am so not returning that one.
I walk downstairs so I can say hi to Jimmy. I hope Tim offered him lunch.
When I walk in, Tim and Jimmy are deep in discussion over Keith’s bike. I know nothing about inlet valves or whatever the hell else they are talking about. Jimmy’s nice enough to pause and explain things to me. But it’s okay: I don’t really need to know. Jimmy has such an intuitive sense about engines. I watch as they continue their discussion, knowing that Jimmy will probably figure out the problem faster than Tim.
The talk about German engines versus American ones gets boring, however. Greg isn’t interested, either. Tim apparently senses this and takes it as his cue to leave. He walks out the back door with Jimmy and smiles at me as he closes the door. I can tell he’ll be relieved to work on the bikes uninterrupted. I feel a bit bad, though, knowing his Sunday afternoon has been derailed by work.
Greg stands and calls from the base of the stairs, “The coast is clear, princess!” I hear Keith laugh from the bedroom. A moment later, he bounds down the stairs and sits at the table.
We all sit down to lunch again, not talking at first. Then Keith looks out the window. “Oh, look at those ugly clouds.”
Just as I turn my head, I hear a clap of thunder. The nasty dark clouds roll across the sky and instantly begin to dump a heavy swoosh of rain all at once. The trees sway in the wind; the sky is an ominous gray green. I leap from the table, throw aside the sliding door, then grab a clothes basket from the floor where I left it earlier and run outside to the clothesline. Of course, my clothes have been instantly soaked through. I frantically begin pulling our laundry off the pins, throwing everything into the basket. Then I look up and see Keith on the other end of the line, draping our wet clothes over his arm. My black lace bra is in his hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, running over to him. “Give me that!” I yank the bra out of his hand, but the elastic snaps back at him, slapping him on the chin with the underwire. He chuckles then tosses the bra into the basket. It’s embarrassing, though it is pretty cool of him to come out here in the pouring rain to help me take in the laundry.
“I’m helping,” he says good-naturedly. “It’s the least I can do, Brenda.”
“Go inside,” I call to him over the sound of the rain. “You’re getting drenched.”
“It actually feels quite nice.” He tips his head toward the sky, and I watch the rain stream down his cheeks and neck. His wet shirt clings to his body, and I can see his well-defined chest and abs. I smell his sweat being washed away. I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help it. Keith was never conventionally attractive when the band was in its heyday, but he’s definitely pretty hot now, with the rain streaming down his face.
I turn my attention back to the laundry and try not to look up at him again. Then I cheat and sneak another peek. His hair, soaked with rain, clings to his forehead. He runs his hands through it and groans as he rubs the palms of his hands on his cheeks. I finish taking down what’s left of the laundry, and he carries the basket back to the house for me. Of course, my one pair of granny panties is on top of the pile; as if the bra fiasco hadn’t been enough.
“I’ll take it from here,” I say when we get to the back door, holding out my arms. He places the basket in my hands. “Thank you.” I shove the panties under the other clothes, and he smirks.
I scramble through the back door, soaked, with the basket of waterlogged clothes weighing me down, but Keith doesn’t come in with me. I look back and see him still there on the porch. What the hell is he doing? The smirk on his face is gone; I see his eyes lose their luster as he gazes at something far away, his mouth falling into an expressionless horizontal line. I crane my neck back out the door and am immediately pelted by the windblown rain. I see that he’s staring at the wind chimes hanging by the back door. They are ringing rhythmically in a perfectly steady time. Keith fixes his attention on them, his eyes glazing even more as he taps his hand against his thigh.
“Keith? Are you okay?” I ask from inside the door. Is he having a seizure? My mind goes back to all the exacting preparations that Toni made before he flew to Rhode Island to meet me. At the time, I’d thought it was a bit much, but now I’m struggling to remember if there was any mention of epilepsy. He’s standing outside in the pouring rain, transfixed, but he holds up his hand to silence me and closes his eyes. I set the basket down and watch him. I am not sure what is going on, but it is absolutely fascinating.
“Brenda,” he whispers urgently, “where’s your guitar? Quick. Please.”