Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  … I’m just saying if you want someone to give you an insider’s tour of the beach, there’s this great spot your daughter would like more than the crowded tourist places…

  …Or not. It’s totally fine if you don’t want us along. We don’t want to intrude on your family time, just if you’re open to it Aaron and I aren’t doing anything and can…

  …If you want just send me your address and we can even pick you up. We have plenty of room.

  I groan through a rescan of the texts and wish desperately I could retract them all. Wait, is that a thing?

  “Hey, can you unsend texts?” I ask Aaron. He glances over with a look that makes me wish you could unsend verbal exchanges as well. “Never mind.”

  His gaze swings back to the screen and the stupid reality TV show he’s watching. “Just let me know when you hear from him because if we’re not doing the beach thing, I want to go meet up with Mitch and Tivo.”

  The beach thing. God, why couldn’t it just be “the beach thing” in my messages to Mason? “Hey Mason, Aaron and I were talking and realized you don’t know your way around LA yet. If you want us to show you some cool spots, let us know.” All I had to say. Then he could say, “sure, sounds good.” Or “no thanks, we’re good.” Then we’d see each other tomorrow at rehearsal and smile and everything would be fine. Instead…

  After pouring a glass of seltzer, I squeeze in a lime, wishing it could be something stronger. No alcohol. You might have to drive in a bit. Will I, though? Because I’m pretty sure once he sees his phone he won’t want me anywhere near his kid. Is that why he’s not responding?

  My screen lights up from the counter, and I grab the phone. Adrenaline sparks through me when I see Mason’s name. Shit, shit, shit. I can’t look. Of course I’m going to look. I peek through one eye and immediately relax at the laughing emoji. Opening the text stream, I wait as he continues typing a response.

  How can I say no to that offer?

  Here’s my address. Around 6? Have to be back by 8 to get Brooklyn to bed.

  We pull into Mason’s apartment complex just after six. The buildings are older, but appear to be well-maintained.

  We were surprised to see where he lived when we looked him up. Not the worst neighborhood by any means, but definitely not the golden gates of our posh condo community in Pacific Palisades. This place definitely doesn’t have a concierge desk and underground parking.

  “Building F. Do you see it?” I ask, scanning the cluster of identical buildings.

  “There, I think.” He points to the one furthest to the left.

  Inside, the structure is no more impressive. Walls, ceiling, floor. Yep, it’s a building with all the essentials and nothing more. Aaron and I exchange a look but don’t say anything as we climb the stairs to the second floor. Apartment 217 is an end unit at least, but there are a lot of doors and not a lot of hallway. These rooms must be tiny.

  I knock quickly, hoping Aaron doesn’t notice my hand shaking. Why am I so nervous? We’re visiting a bandmate, no big deal. And his kid. And the kind-of in-laws?

  “What’s that smell?” Aaron asks, sniffing at something toward the other end of the hall.

  “Someone’s cooking tonight, apparently,” I say with a smile. He scrunches his nose and focuses back on Mason’s door when we hear the latch. I swallow to control the pounding in my chest, but it’s no use. When the door swings open, it’s like my lungs just forget what air is. Stop it, Lib. What is wrong with you?

  “Hey,” Mason says, all sexy-casual in a relaxed state. Interesting. Is this what he’ll be like when he gets used to us and our world? “Thanks for coming.” He waves us in and shuts the door behind Aaron. “Sorry for the mess. We’re still unpacking.”

  Mess? There are maybe three boxes in the family room, along with a couch, a worn end table and a TV. The TV isn’t even on a stand but balanced on a small card table. Is that safe for kids? What’s the age when they pull shit on themselves and stick their fingers in outlets? My answer comes rushing into the room with way more commotion than that little body should generate—and wow. Four-year-olds are older than I thought. Also, this one is absurdly adorable. Geez.

  “Brooklyn, these are Daddy’s friends, Ms. Liberty and Mr. Aaron. Can you say hello?”

  The little girl attaches herself to Mason’s leg, peeking out from behind to eye us with suspicion. Well, I don’t know. She looks suspicious to me.

  “Hi, Brooklyn, it’s nice to meet you,” Aaron says, squatting down to address her. She seems to like that and takes a step out from behind Mason. Wait, how did Aaron know to do that? “You want to go to the beach with us?”

  Her eyes grow two sizes, almost as big as her smile. She looks up at Mason with such excitement and adoration that, for a brief second, I kind of get the kid thing. He gazes back with the same look, ruffling her hair with familiar ease. Maybe it kind of melts you a little. Brooklyn focuses back on Aaron, now fully emerged from behind her daddy.

  “Did you know that we can’t see oct-uh-pies at the beach, though?” she informs Aaron gravely. “They don’t even wear swimsuits.”

  To his credit, my brother doesn’t budge, just sighs and nods sadly. “Yeah, probably not gonna happen. But you might see a seagull or something.”

  “We will?” She glances up at Mason who shrugs.

  “Never know. Why don’t you go tell Grandma and Grandad that we’re ready to go. Do you mind if they come as well?” he asks us. “Sorry, but they’d like to see Brooklyn’s first experience with the ocean. I can drive. We’ll all fit in my van.”

  Ah, the van. Yeah, we’ve seen that piece of crap in the parking lot of our rehearsal building.

  “Totally fine if they come, but we can drive,” I say. “We have room.”

  “And a car seat?” Mason asks with a smile.

  “Shit, no.” I clamp a hand over my mouth. “Sorry! I mean.” I cast a guilty look down the hall to make sure Brooklyn didn’t spontaneously combust from hearing that. No visible flames or debris drift from that section of the apartment.

  Mason laughs and guides us toward the kitchen. We follow, and I notice Aaron taking in our surroundings as well. He lifts his brows when our eyes meet. Maybe we’re not paying him enough?

  “How many bedrooms you have here?” he asks casually. I was wondering the same thing, but doubt my version would’ve been so smooth. So far, the entire main section of their apartment would fit in our living room, and the hall doesn’t seem to extend far enough to give them the space they’d need for four people.

  “Two,” he says, grabbing a gallon of milk off the Formica countertop and cramming it in a small, white fridge. “Rose and Gary have one, and Brooklyn and I share the other.”

  I manage to keep the smile plastered on my face. “Cool. You like it here, then?”

  “Yeah, it’s great. Maybe not the curtains,” he says with a laugh. “Brooklyn loves them though so we kept them.” He flicks the frilly purple doily surrounding the small window above the sink.

  “Well, hello there.”

  We all turn at the greeting, and find ourselves staring into warm expressions straight out of a Christmas movie. This couple just looks like people you’d want to be your grandparents.

  “Rose, Gary, these are two of my bandmates, Liberty and Aaron.”

  “It’s so great to meet you,” Rose says, coming forward. Oh, she’s going in for a hug. Okay, then. I return it awkwardly, but settle into it by the end. In fact, it was kind of nice. Our parents are polite, but they’re not huggers. Not really big on any kind of connection except professional, actually. Gary gives us a more formal handshake, but even that feels sincere and friendly.

  Brooklyn groans loudly behind them, one hand on each of their shirts, trying to drag them toward the door. Mason looks on with a grin and exchanges an amused look with the older couple. Yep, there goes my heart, melting into straight-up goo. How can it not when I’m crammed into a tiny kitchen with relative strangers, totally overcome by an odd warm
th I’ve never experienced? Frilly purple curtains and all, I’d live here in a heartbeat. You didn’t just think that, Liberty.

  “Ready?” Mason asks, following the others from the kitchen.

  I toss him a smile and nod.

  The biggest sandbox in the world drops into the biggest swimming pool in the world, according to Brooklyn’s huge baby eyes and tiny baby voice. She doesn’t even let Mason put her down at first, clinging to his neck as if that giant swimming pool will swallow her up if she lets go. I thought I’d seen wonder. I tour for a living so I’m accustomed to amazed looks and shocked reactions, but watching a four-year-old encounter an ocean for the first time, that’s a whole other level of awe. I almost feel like I’m intruding on the moment. Maybe Aaron feels the same when he shoots me a crooked smile as we hang back to give them some privacy.

  “Remember your first time at the beach?” he says to me.

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  In the distance, Brooklyn shrieks and buries her face in Mason’s shoulder when he inches closer to the water. He laughs and whispers something to her that makes her lift her head and tilt toward the crashing waves ever so slightly.

  “Kind of makes you wish you did though, right?” I say.

  He shrugs, but I can tell I’ve struck a chord.

  “Thanks for coming, bro. I know it’s not the ideal way to spend a Saturday evening, but I think it’s good for Mason to know we support him and are cool with his situation.”

  “His situation?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Twins know too much stuff about you and are too freaking good at guessing the stuff they don’t.

  “Yeah, I do. That’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He rolls his eyes toward me. “You know what I mean,” he echoes.

  Actually, I don’t. I keep the question on my face until he grunts. He hates these conversations, but oh well. He started it.

  “You just got your heart ripped open by Chris,” he says finally, and my stomach convulses a little at the reminder.

  “Really? I did? You sure that was me?” I return dryly.

  “I’m just saying, your head is kind of mess and you need to be careful about what it tells you.”

  I glare over at him. “Putting that psych degree you don’t have to good use, I see.”

  “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to read what’s going on.”

  “And what’s going on?”

  “You’re comparing everything about Mason to Chris.”

  “What? No, I’m not.”

  “Uh, yeah, you are. You’ve had him on trial since the day he walked in for the audition. And when he shows something different, you reward him. If it’s the same, you punish him.”

  “Punish him? What are you talking about? I’ve been nothing but supportive of Mason.”

  “You didn’t even want to hire him. We had to fight you. Hard.”

  I scowl at my brother, not interested in this stupid conversation. It’s so not true. In fact, it’s insulting because, “I was cautious at first. So what? Of course I was. It was a huge decision. And in the end, I agreed, didn’t I? Besides, I’ve only encouraged him since.”

  “Oh, you mean like the meltdown at the photoshoot the other day? You’re telling me that had nothing to do with the photographer’s camera crush on Mason?”

  My eyes narrow, heat radiating through my body. “Are you serious? If anything, I felt bad for him. He wasn’t ready for that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do!”

  “Yeah? Because you read guys so fucking well. And why are we here now? To support him, really? Because it feels like we’re spying.”

  “What?!” Have you ever wanted to choke someone you love? “You are so far off, I can’t even—”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that he’s family now. We need him. I don’t want to lose him, Lib.”

  “And why would we? What are you saying?”

  “Just…”

  “Aaron!”

  He sucks in a deep breath and concentrates hard on the ocean. “Look, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, hell no. What are you actually saying right now?” I hiss.

  He turns his dark eyes on me and bores them into my soul. I love my brother more than life itself, but right now I hate him for what I see there.

  “You blame me for Chris leaving, is that it?” The words hurt so much, my voice can only project them as a whisper.

  “No, of course not,” he forces out. “It’s just. Gah!” He runs his hand through his hair. “Don’t make me say it, Lib. I love you.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to, because I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  His response is cut off by Mason’s shout from the water. We look up to see him motioning to us with a bright smile on his face, oblivious to our argument about him.

  “We can talk about it later,” Aaron mutters, starting toward the others.

  Except we won’t. Because I read that part too. He regretted voicing his concerns, so whatever red flags are blasting through his head are going to stay there. I watch him go, my gaze sliding from my brother to our frontman wading in the surf. Maybe he doesn’t have to explain. Maybe he already said the most important part.

  “Your head is a mess and you need to be careful about what it tells you.”

  Who needs a doctorate when you have a freaking twin?

  CHAPTER 13

  Ugh! What a horrible, disgusting asshole! I didn’t think I was capable of hate until tonight. Rob Patrick is quite possibly the most despicable human being on the planet. I don’t know why Mason puts up with him. Maybe he’ll finally kick him out of the band after this. He better!

  MASON

  Things have been weird with Liberty again since the beach trip a week ago, but who has time for that when your name and image blow up the world. And man do people like to explode shit.

  “Crap,” I mutter, staring at my phone.

  Rose looks over from the eggs she’s scrambling (squished kind). “Everything okay?”

  “Not really. I have to run. Can you take Brooklyn to school today?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” I squeeze her arm as I pass and drop a kiss on Brooklyn’s head at the table. She looks up from her cereal, a tiny oat circle stuck to her cheek. How did it even get there?

  “I have to go, sweetie. Grandma is going to drop you off at school, but I’ll do my best to pick you up later, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy. We’re going to read more about women bugs today.”

  “Women bugs?”

  She nods and returns to her breakfast.

  Huh. Okay. I rush back to my room to finish getting ready and figure out how to survive this day. What’s appropriate attire for life implosions again? I settle on a t-shirt and jeans like every other day and stagger a hand through my still-wet hair. Oh wait. Lady bugs. That’s what Brooklyn is reading about at school. Women bugs, heh.

  Grabbing my keys, I throw my daughter another kiss on the way out. She catches it and deposits it next to the Cheerio on her face.

  Crisis.

  Breathe.

  Deal.

  “I don’t understand why they’d say all that bullshit about Mason,” Liberty hisses, throwing up her hands.

  “Because they’re assholes,” I mutter. Why am I the only one not surprised Eastern Crush would climb through their private Hell-portal to stir things up for me? I warned the suits, all of them, when they insisted we didn’t need to strategize about this as well. That their plan to limit my history with my former band wouldn’t work. What would I know about it? I only formed—and broke—the damn band.

  “Aren’t you pissed?” she says, turning on me. “I’d be livid.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I shrug and study the shiny black conference table. Sam sits calmly at the head, the rest of
us lined up on either side in varying shades of anger. Guess we’ve transitioned from a Cinderella story to Snow White and the Seven Publicists.

  “Is any of it true?” Aaron asks, all eyes shooting to him in surprise. He shrinks a bit with an apologetic expression. “Look, I’m just asking. We should know what we’re up against, right? Not saying it matters to me, but it will affect how we approach the situation.”

  My gaze hardens on the table, my fists clenching beneath it. Is any of it true? All of it. None of it. What does true even matter?

  I can’t look at him as emotion builds in my chest, the truth pressing hard on my lungs. The truth. Is that really what they want? No one seemed interested in that last week.

  “I know this is hard, Mason, but Aaron’s right,” Sam says gently. “They made a lot of serious accusations. We should figure this out amongst ourselves before the meeting with White Flame.”

  My gaze flickers over to hers before landing back on the unnaturally shiny table. Why would you want your table so shiny? Isn’t a conference room the last place you’d want to see candid reflections?

  “The truth?” From the venom in my voice, maybe I didn’t recover from Eastern Crush’s betrayal as well as I thought. “The truth is that they stole my songs, not the other way around. I didn’t have a career after they split, so what would I even do with stolen songs? But hey, if we’re keeping score, six of the tracks on their debut record are mine. They didn’t mention that, did they.”

  “Wait, what? They stole your songs?” Liberty sounds more surprised than angry now. Maybe still angry. At me.

  I finally look up, regretting it the second their shocked faces pelt me with a barrage of “how could you let that happen?” The answer? God, I haven’t even started with the real truth that explains why I wouldn’t put up a fight when they left me in the dust and stripped me bare. I concentrate on the shiny table again. My distorted reflection stares back, screaming in the silence.

  “Yes, they did. And I didn’t kill my girlfriend,” I say to my warped image. It almost looks like I’m smiling. Like I’m the demon who slithered in to incite this mess. “I wasn’t drinking that night. The other car swerved into our lane.” My fingernails arc into my palms, pushing, pushing until pulsating waves extend through my arm. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill Katrina. Tears bubble in the dark basement of my head where I keep them bolted. Secure. Invisible to strangers, and especially the people who matter because I fucking need to survive. I need… I clench my eyes shut, praying the tremble in my soul hasn’t spread to my limbs. I didn’t kill her. It wasn’t my fault. That’s what everyone tells you. That’s what her parents say and the therapists and the cops who grill you like a murderer before resting a hand on your shoulder and being so very sorry for your loss. Sorry for my loss? Try the universe’s. Try the baby sleeping at home who has no idea her father just didn’t kill her mother.