Kim Karr: Mended

“No. I don’t need my little brother to fight my battles. I’ll talk to her if I feel the time is right. Do you hear me?”

“Whatever you say. Look, I have to run, but I want to discuss this later. And, Xander . . . you don’t know he’s an asshole. Just because Dad said his name once doesn’t mean shit.”

“Right. Okay, see you tonight,” I say and end the call. My head is spinning from knowing that after all these years I’m actually in the same place she is. I want to talk to her, tell her everything, but I can’t see how that would change anything anyway. Glancing behind me, I catch another glimpse of the two of them that turns my stomach. He’s such a slimeball. Since his father was hospitalized and he took over the business, he’s been scooping up labels, tearing them apart, and rebuilding them with bands he thinks are better fits. My guess is he picked up Jane’s label—that’s why he’s here. I heard they were having some financial difficulty, and he’s just the kind of bottom-feeder that would want to capitalize on being not only Jane’s agent but now also her producer. The sight of him touching Ivy makes my skin crawl.

Damon Wolf, now turned music mogul, is the agent to a select few stars. Damon Wolf—two of the last words my father spoke to me before killing himself, and I never knew why. Of all the guys in the world Ivy had to end up with—why him? I look up and they’re gone. I’m anything but relieved, though. Rubbing my chin, I’m antsy, agitated, pissed as hell, but I feel more alive than I have in years.

Our breakup is permanently etched in my mind—it’s something that, although done, was left unfinished. What matters the most is that she didn’t stay in LA for college. She got away from her mother’s influence and didn’t go into acting. She ended up right where she belongs—in the music industry. I felt at peace with what I did when her career started to take off. I was even okay with the fact that somewhere along the way she traded the alt-rock edge for the pop culture route—following in the path of Britney Spears instead of Alanis Morissette. However, whenever I watched her perform I did notice she seemed uncomfortable, unsure, and uneasy with the show she was putting on. Perhaps if she had taken the other route her comfort level would have been there, but who knows? I have to admit, though, that Damon Wolf did help create Ivy Taylor the vocalist, as the world knows her today. She may not have been at the top of the charts but she certainly wasn’t at the bottom. She was made for the spotlight—and I really want to know why she stopped performing.

The resort club is filled with staffers, managers, agents, musicians, and reporters sipping their drinks and talking—all waiting to hear the news from the label about the fate of Next Records. I’m on my second Jack and Coke when I notice Ivy enter the room. Damon surprisingly isn’t by her side. Gorgeous and alone—she looks incredible. At five seven, she is perfectly proportioned from head to toe. She joins a group of people on the dance floor. Her pin-straight hair moves across her bare shoulders as she sways among the guests. Her short black dress shimmers under the lights and accentuates her curves in the best possible way. It’s tight—longer in the back than the front, showing an edge only she could pull off. And my rebel girl has turned in her combat boots for thigh highs—flashing a bit of leg that is sexy as hell, but maybe just a little too much skin. No matter what she wears, I’ve never been able to take my eyes off her. And now, my mind can’t turn off how I once felt about her. But the large diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand signals a reminder that she’s not mine anymore.

I make my way around the room, networking, talking about the band, but somehow I never lose track of where she is. She catches my gaze at one point, but I’m unsure what she’s thinking. I wonder if what I did killed what she once felt for me. Just seeing her has made me want her all the more, and I know I have to talk to her. When I’m standing next to Amy and the guys, I notice Jane pat her on the shoulder. They move off the dance floor and close enough to where I’m standing that I can just barely hear their conversation. I can’t help but eavesdrop.

“It’s so good to see you. I’ve heard nothing but great things about that successful whirlwind tour of yours!” Ivy tells Jane. Hearing her voice puts a smile on my face. Her tone is still soft, but she seems more confident. It makes me feel somewhat proud.

“Well, you could be the next major tour to hit the road, but I heard you and Damon are actually thinking of starting a family,” Jane responds.

Hearing those words cripples me.

I turn to Amy. “I’ll be right back.”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

My feet are already moving. I have to get away. I don’t want to hear Ivy’s response. I dart outside, needing some air. I wonder if she’s already expecting a baby. Fuck. His baby. My head spins. I haven’t seen her in so long and now everything I’ve pushed away, locked away, is back. So many emotions I never wanted to feel again. When I thought we’d be together, there was a life I envisioned I’d have with her. I’ve never thought about that life with anyone else since then. I haven’t let myself—I let her go and my dreams went with her.

Wrenching my mind from the past, I reenter the room and look around at everyone shooting the shit, dancing, and flirting. I look for Ivy, but Amy finds me first.

“How about a drink?” she asks, unfazed as to where I’ve been.

“Sure,” I answer and lead her to the bar—I need another drink.

Soon I’m leaning against the bar facing the crowd and Amy is sitting on the stool next to me. Ellie is on the other side of her, talking to Garrett.

We’re talking about Lou Reed and Metallica cutting a new studio album and the buzz that the artists’ collaboration is perfection, but when I glance up and see my brother and his wife walking in, I smile for the first time all day. I can’t believe I’ve missed that pain in my ass and the muse, too. I haven’t seen Dahlia in a few months and I have to say River was right—she looks amazing. Seeing his happiness means everything to me. Years ago I promised my grandfather I’d look out for him and not let the same things that happened to our dad happen to him. I did the best I could and then I had to let him make his own decisions, and I’m glad to say I think he’s much happier because of it. I know my grandpa would understand, and I think he’d be proud.

Amy must see me staring because she turns around on her stool. Twisting back, she’s smiling too. “You didn’t tell me Dahlia was pregnant.”

“Sorry. With everything that happened last night, I never even thought about it.”

“How far along is she?”

“Three or four months, I think.”

“She’s got the cutest baby bump. She really makes pregnancy look good.”

I have no clue about pregnant women, so I just nod my head in agreement. River sees me and heads toward the bar with what I swear is a protective shield around Dahlia. Honestly, I feel sorry for Dahlia, because his overprotectiveness will probably reach a level of insanity. Ivy crosses his path before he reaches me and I can tell she recognizes him right away. He seems to play it cool. Giving her that same look he always gave her—the half smirk that seems to put girls in a frenzy, the one I used to think meant he was hot for my girl and the millions of other girls who were on the receiving end of the look. It actually wasn’t until River brought Dahlia around that I figured out the look didn’t mean anything. The look my brother gives his wife, the one with a full smile that brings out his dimples, is the one that matters. I realize now it’s the same look I used to give Ivy. He introduces her to Dahlia, who appears to be gushing. I watch as the two ladies seem to hit it off. Ivy points to Dahlia’s stomach and then Ivy is the one gushing.