A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (67)

Ricki’s jaw dropped, an icy chill rolling down her back. Feeling dizzy, she grabbed on to the counter for support. It couldn’t be. She’d never even mentioned to him that she played that album every day of her life.

“Chaka Khan’s ‘Ain’t Nobody’? The fire-red moon in Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Voodoo Chile’? The title itself? Me. In ’67 I was gigging at Atlantic Studios, and I overheard Aretha rehearsing Otis Redding’s track ‘Respect.’ Her band was calling her by this nickname, Re-Re. I thought it would differentiate her version from Otis’s if she sang ‘Re-re-re-respect’ on the chorus.” Ezra glanced at Ricki. “Worked, you could say.”

Ricki couldn’t speak. All she could think of was Tuesday sharing the Chaka Khan anecdote at the Sweet Colette party. And hearing the Jimi Hendrix story in the documentary at Ms. Della’s house.

God help me, she thought. I’m going crazy. Just like him.

“I’ve been around for decades, Ricki, slipping in and out of memory, places, lives, and music. It’s been a lifetime of loss. Everyone I’ve ever cared about is gone. And it never gets easier,” he said, his expression strained. “It’s nasty work, tricking folks into thinking you’re normal… for a week, two weeks. Because you start to believe it, too. Then you wake up and realize you’re standing in a life half-lived. Just going through the motions in the dark.”

As Ezra walked over to her, Ricki took a long breath. He was softening her edges. Her heart was at war with her brain; all she wanted was to run into his arms, but then she’d be just as crazy as he was. Ricki stood still, backed against the kitchen counter, as he closed the distance between them. This time, she didn’t push him away or scream or threaten him with heat tools. Grasping her shoulders, he spoke with a helpless melancholy.

“I’ve seen beautiful things and terrible things. Until you, I didn’t know that they’re two sides of the same feeling. I want you, Ricki. Actually, it’s not a want. It’s an uncompromising, inconvenient need. But it’ll ruin us both.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, hot and sharp. She dug deep inside herself to find the strength to not fall for this. To not get sucked into some dude’s madness, like all the times before. Her father’s admonishment, You let things happen to you, was imprinted on her brain. But she’d changed.

Ricki would dictate the terms of her own story. No one else.

“You need to leave, Ezra,” she said, tears flowing. “Do yourself a favor and seek some psychiatric care. Get help. I believe you’re a good person. But I can’t ever see you again.”

Ezra understood the conversation was over. He grabbed his jeans and shoes and then realized he was bare-chested.

“Um. Can I have my… Would you mind…” He gestured vaguely at her wearing his shirt.

“GET OUT.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Yeah, of course, you keep it. I’m gone.”

He was out the door in under sixty seconds.

After he left, Ricki stood frozen in place for what felt like an eternity. At some point, she crawled into the bed and curled in on herself, tucking her knees into Ezra’s shirt. His warm, clean scent enveloped her like the sweetest embrace. And then she cried herself to sleep.


Much later, Ricki woke to frantic knocking on her back door. She stumbled from her bed and caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror. Not good. Mascara-tear streaks, tangled bedhead, pillow-creased cheeks. A hickey was blossoming just under her jaw, and her lips were still raw from kissing. She was not presentable. But the person at the door was banging with such force, there was no way to ignore it.

“I’m coming.” Ricki yanked on joggers and checked the peephole. It was Tuesday, with a crazed look in her eyes. She burst into the studio.

“Thank God you’re alive.” She swept Ricki into her arms ferociously. Then she stormed around the apartment, opening the shower, checking the closet, peering under the bed. Her energy was bonkers.

“Where is he? Where is that motherfucker?” she bellowed. “I’ll kill him!”

Chasing after her, Ricki said, “Ezra? He’s gone; he left hours ago.”

Tuesday paused in front of Ricki, in the middle of her tiny hallway, breathing hard. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. Where have you been?”

“My phone’s in my purse.” She slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor. Tuesday sat next to her. “It was the best twenty-four hours I’ve ever spent with a man. And it all just imploded with the galactic force of a dying star.”

“A dying star, huh?”

“I’ll never speak to him again.” Ricki dropped her cheek to Tuesday’s shoulder, drained. “He’s batshit. Seriously. This man believes that he’s immortal.”

Tuesday blinked. “Girl, what?”

“Forget it. What’s wrong?”

“You know I know how to spot a shady man,” said Tuesday. “I knew Ezra was hiding something. So I broke into his house yesterday.”

With a groan, Ricki drew up her knees and buried her face between them. “Tuesday, I’m hanging on to my sanity by a very thin thread. Please tell me you didn’t commit a felony.”

“I absolutely did,” she admitted, unashamed. “First of all, I was sitting at home with writer’s block and needed an activity to distract me. And second, what I’m not about to do is allow some slick stalker to savagely murder my bestie. Or worse.”