Quentin glanced at Owen, expecting to see him jealous. But Owen didn’t emote much, and his face was the usual blank. Quentin could have sworn he’d sensed something real between Erin and Owen last night. But he’d been drunk. Or he was just no good at detecting the vibe.
He confessed, “Sarah wants to fake a thing with me until the concert, to get me back with Erin.”
Martin grumbled, “What kind of thing?” and Owen cursed, but Erin’s voice rose high above theirs. “What have you gotten yourself into? What have you gotten us into? Don’t you remember what’s at stake here? Owen, tell him what’s at stake.”
Owen recited the sales figures for In Poor Taste, the portion of profit that went to the Cheatin’ Hearts, the large portion that went to the record company, and the other large portion that went to the lawyers. Then the figures for Ass Backwards with the profit breakdowns for the band, the record company, and the lawyers.
After he finished, Erin declared, “I’m not fighting the record company and signing my life away to the lawyers again. I’m not going to do it, Q. This double life we’re leading isn’t worth the money.” Her diatribe escalated into a wail. “My grandmother thinks I’m a slattern!”
Quentin decided this was not the time to point out that they still had an awful lot of money. He allowed them to complete the ritual. Erin lectured and Owen recited the sales figures every time Quentin made a decision they didn’t like. That was fine if it made them feel better.
Then he said, “We don’t have much choice. Sarah’s a Jedi. She figured out the burly hick act is a put-on.” He explained the deal he’d arranged with Sarah, deleting their discussion of Martin’s heroin use. Also omitting Sarah’s opinion that Owen didn’t matter as much to the band as Quentin did. Owen was thin-skinned. Also editing out that his dreams last night had been filled with making love to Sarah, which was probably why he’d woken with his hand in her pants.
“That bitch!” Erin exclaimed.
“She makes me very nervous,” Owen agreed.
“That’s what she’s here for,” Quentin said to Owen. He gave Erin a reproving look. “And she’s not a bitch. She took a page out of our book. Look, y’all, I didn’t break a rule. I won’t get drunk again. I’ll pretend—pretend—to be doing the deed with her to make Erin jealous, just like Erin and Owen are pretending to do it to make me jealous. Hell, none of us are getting any. No wonder we’re all on edge.”
Martin stared at his untouched food. Owen laughed nervously, and Erin watched her fingers flying on the neck of her fiddle.
“We’ll put our energy into the album,” Quentin went on. “Come the Fourth of July, Erin and I will pretend to get back together. The Wookiee will see that the band’s not breaking up, and she’ll go back to New York or Tatooine or wherever the hell she’s from.”
He turned to Erin. “So you act jealous.” He turned to Owen. “And you . . . continue to say as little as possible. Grunt if you must.”
Owen grunted.
Quentin said, “And I’ll beat my head against the wall for nine more days.”
Late that afternoon, while Martin and Erin worked in the studio on Erin’s solo for “Barefoot and Pregnant,” Quentin and Owen lay on opposite sides of the sectional sofa in the den, watching Owen’s DVD of an old Masterpiece Theatre production of Crime and Punishment. Quentin had argued about this at first because he wanted to watch World Poker Tournament, but he’d relented after a few minutes. He’d come so close to getting kicked out of the band this morning that he figured he’d better tread lightly for a few days. Or just hours, maybe, depending on how things went.
Now he was sorry he’d given in. He’d only skimmed Crime and Punishment in college because he’d had a calculus midterm that same week. He’d convinced his girlfriend at the time to fill him in on the details of the novel so he could ace the test. Owen had started the DVD on episode two, and Quentin was thoroughly confused. He couldn’t remember how Raskolnikov had gotten himself into this guilt-ridden fix in the first place. Quentin hated being confused. “Why’d he whack those old ladies?” he asked Owen.
“Shut up,” Owen said without taking his eyes off the screen.
Martin appeared behind them with his phone in his hand. “Excuse me, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“Which one?” Quentin asked.
“Rachel just called,” Martin told them. “We got an offer to be on a late-night talk show in a few days, and Sarah turned it down.”
Owen actually peeled his eyes from the TV and turned to Quentin. “You see? That’s exactly why we don’t get involved with the record company.”
“I’m sure she had some reason,” Quentin said, strangely defensive of the pink-haired girl yet again. “She doesn’t want us to do badly. The record company brought her in, and they want us to have good sales. That’s how they make money.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Owen said. “We want to sell albums on our terms. She’s manipulating us on their behalf, and you’re letting her.”
Quentin held his hand backward so Martin could give him the phone. “I’ll call her and find out what’s going on.”
Martin’s steps sounded back down the stairs to the studio, and Owen and Quentin were reabsorbed by Crime and Punishment. Quentin found the story revolting but hard to stop watching. Like a particularly nasty gunshot wound to the abdomen with intestines spilling out that had come into the emergency room on his shift once. Anyway, it was a lot easier to watch this poor sod torture himself with guilt than to think about Sarah, the problem with Sarah, what he was going to do about Sarah.
“Call her,” Owen insisted, eyes glued to the TV.
“I have it under control,” Quentin said. It was early evening, and he half expected the phone in his hand to ring with the signal that she was at the gate in her car. He’d hoped all day, hoped and dreaded, that she would come back over to check on their progress on “her” album.
“Chop-chop! Where’s my album?” she said behind them, startling him. The phone flew out of his hand and hit Owen on the nose.
“Under control, eh?” Owen muttered, flinging the phone back at Quentin.
Quentin deflected it instinctively with his forearm. It flew in a high lob behind the sectional, where Sarah amazingly caught it with one hand. Quentin thought she’d spin it on her finger like a basketball next, but she just tossed it onto the kitchen counter.