Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Iris is an amazing mother when she wants to be. But she also loves the nightlife in Hollywood, and that sometimes gets in the way of her parenting. I suppose when you’re pregnant by seventeen and married at eighteen, you start to miss your twenties and need to relive them in your thirties.
“I do,” I tell the officer with an exaggerated sigh as I wait for him to tell me how much her bail money is.
“This is never easy to say. Iris Austin was killed in a car accident earlier this evening on the interstate.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” There is no way I heard him correctly.
He clears his throat and repeats his words verbatim as if he’s reading from a script. I let them sink in, only to realize he hasn’t said anything about my girls.
“My daughters? Were they with her?”
“No, the other passenger was a male.”
“Do my children know?” I ask.
“You were listed as Ms. Austin’s emergency contact.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Please don’t notify them or the media. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The officer gives me his number and tells me to call as soon as I’m in town. As soon as I hang up, I call Barbara, knowing that she sleeps with her phone on so she can tend to her needy clients like myself.
“It’s after three in the morning, Levi. You better be dying.”
My stomach heaves at Barbara’s statement, causing me to reach for the trash can that sits next to the table where the phone is. I barely tell her to hang on before I lose the contents of dinner.
“You’re sick? You called so I could hear you puking your guts out? A text would’ve sufficed, Levi.”
“Barb,” I say in between gagging episodes. “I need a chartered flight to L.A. immediately.”
“What’s wrong?” her tone changes immediately. I need to get to the bathroom to rinse my mouth and am mentally kicking my ass for not calling her from my cell phone.
“It’s Iris. There was an accident, and she didn’t make it.”
Barbara gasps and mutters “Oh God” before saying, “The babies? Are they okay?”
Since the girls were born, that is how she’s referred to them. It doesn’t matter that Stormy is about to be fifteen or that Willow is ten. To her, they’re her babies. Always have been.
“They weren’t with her, but I gotta get to L.A.”
“I’ll meet you at the airport. There will be a plane ready when you get there.”
This is why I keep Barbara around. She’s been with me since I signed my first deal, taking me under her wings and guiding me through the trials and tribulations of stardom. Barbara has been my rock and a mother figure to me.
After we hang up, I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth and make myself look presentable. Right now I’m going through a myriad of emotions and can’t pinpoint which one is making me feel worse.
Iris was my high school sweetheart, and even though we were no longer married, I hadn’t stopped loving her. I always expected that we’d find our way back to each other once she got this “thing” out of her system. Every time she called, I was there for her and never questioned when she was going to start acting her age.
Tears find me quickly as I pack my travel bag. My eyes land on a picture of Iris and the girls. Stormy must’ve been about eight and Willow three. They were on the tire swing together, and the sun was shining perfectly on them. I snapped the photo without them knowing and had it printed. Even when she left me, I kept the picture on my bedside table.
I don’t pack much. Just enough to change my clothes when I get there because Barbara will make sure that I have everything I need when I arrive in Los Angeles. I don’t care if that means a whole new wardrobe. I have to get to my girls. Before leaving I jot down a quick note to my housekeeper, apologizing for the mess I left in the trash can.
The drive to the private airport is done in record time. When I pull up, Barbara is there to pull me into her arms. She cries into my plaid shirt while I hold her.
“Leroy is going to take your truck home,” she says, motioning toward her son. He tips his hat at me and climbs into the truck, leaving Barbara and me alone. “What happened?”
I shrug and shake my head. “It was a car accident, that’s all I really know.”
“Do the girls know?”
“No, I asked them not to tell them. I want to do it. They need to hear it from me and not from someone they don’t know.”
“My poor babies,” she says. I guide her to the waiting jet and follow her up the stairs. I don’t make it a habit out of flying via a charter, as I like to fly commercial. It’s how I come up with my songs, by watching folks. Surrounding myself with different types of people is what keeps me creative.