All Strung Out Read Online Free PDF Page B

Halfway through, though, I hear Mark yelling at someone on the phone. I stop chewing to see if I can make out what he's saying. He must be in the laundry room for me to hear him from the kitchen.
    "You think I'm going to jail over a stupid assault charge? Hell, no," he says. "I'll just be a fucking fugitive for the rest of my life. All I did was knock out an idiot who was begging for it."
    I wait, my fork poised above my plate.
    "Give all the shit to my lawyer. He'll get it to me."
    Another few seconds pass.
    "Yeah, fuck you, too, you goddamned ingrate. Call me when you're sober."
    I keep eating and playing on my phone so Mark won't suspect I was eavesdropping. He storms into the kitchen and almost yanks the handle off the fridge. I hear thick glass clank together inside.
    "Everything all right?" I say, knowing it's a useless question.
    He turns to look at me. "Peachy fuckin' keen," he says. "Where'd you get that omelet?"
    "You have to ask Cole for one when he's here."
    Mark sticks his head back in the fridge and comes out with an energy drink. That's probably the last thing he needs right now, but I'm not going to be the one to tell him. His temper seems to be on a hair-trigger.
    As he passes me, he pulls me over roughly to kiss the top of my head. "Later," he says.
    He leaves me with an uneasy feeling in his wake. I've never seen him quite that amped up. His every movement was sharp and jerky, like gravity suddenly released some of its grip on him.
    I go up to my studio after I finish breakfast. The last time I tried to get in the creative mood, Mark distracted me. Once he wraps himself around me, my brain goes offline. I'm physically incapable of resisting him. I try to remind myself that I barely know this guy, but my body refuses to listen when he's next to me, touching me in all the right places and whispering everything he wants to do with me.
    Today, though, I want time to myself. Even if it's no longer my house, I still have a right to my privacy. I lock both doors to the room.
    I warm up my fingers and brain at the piano for a few minutes before going back to the keyboards. As I find my flow, everything seems to open up in my mind, and I can breathe better. It doesn't take me long to find a short melody that will be perfect in a dance song. The phrase "one of these days" keeps popping into my head, too, so I lay down a simple vocals track to mix. I'm not the best singer, but I can do the simple stuff pretty well. When I need a real singer, I bring in my friend Lisa, who can belt it out like her lungs are three sizes larger than her body.
    Within half an hour, I have a working mix that sounds decent. As I listen to it, I can't help smiling. This is the first thing I've created since my father died. I'd forgotten about the high I get when I bring something into the world that wasn't there before. I never could understand people who don't create anything at all in their lives. For me, it's the essence of being human. It's as important as breathing.
    I keep tweaking the song for the next hour. Around eleven, I see the light come on in Lang's studio. Mark walks in quickly, like he's looking for something. His face is unusually red. He goes from guitar to guitar, checking something on the back of each one. He sets some of them down roughly, sometimes missing the stand altogether. I stand up to protest, but at that second, he comes to my studio door. I have trouble hearing him through the thick glass of the door, so I go over to open it. As I get closer, though, I can see that something is wrong. He's sweating and fidgeting, unable to stand still. He's rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. His fists are clenched, and the expression on his face reads pure fury. Every warning bell in my brain goes off. I don't know what the hell's going on, but Mark is not himself.
    I back away from the door without unlocking it, trying to decide what to do. Maybe I'm overreacting. He can't really be dangerous. That would be