by Anne Calhoun
He unzipped one suitcase and flung the lid back. The thick, spiral-bound notebook Cady used as a diary and scratch pad for songwriting slid out of the unzipped mesh pocket, onto the floor. Cady crouched down and gathered it up, tucking it back into the pocket along with an assortment of cocktail napkins and scraps of paper.
“Working on anything new?” Eve asked, helping her gather the loose paper. She’d been around Cady long enough to know that her process was firmly twentieth century.
“I am,” she said, shooting a defiant glare at Chris across her suitcase. With a total disregard for her privacy, he rummaged through a stack of underwear and her nightie, shifting heels and Converse, and two of her favorite T-shirts, in search of her scarf and coat.
“She’s always writing,” Chris said, extracting the thick green scarf and her down jacket from the bottom of the bag. “Put these on. Hot water with honey. Bed.”
“I know the routine,” she said. She shoved her arms into the coat sleeves and wound the scarf around her face and throat.
“Part of the routine is me reminding you to take care of yourself,” Chris said.
“I know,” she said, this time softly, in apology. Snapping at Chris was a sign of her exhaustion. He’d been her manager and agent, her advocate and supporter, since the day he saw her singing on a street corner outside a Harry Linton concert, tracked down her YouTube channel, and signed her.
He smiled back and zipped up the suitcase. Properly mummified, Eve opened the door again. Em’s Corolla was idling by the arena’s loading dock. Matt and Chris stored the suitcases in the trunk while Cady slid into the passenger seat. Heat blasted from the vents, almost making up for the cold air billowing in the open door.
“I’ll call you,” Chris said, leaning over the frame. “We need to talk about your security.”
“No, we don’t,” Cady replied.
“My flight’s at four,” he said implacably. “I’ll call around ten.”
“Fine,” she said absently. She wanted to ask Eve’s Matt about Shoulders, but couldn’t think of a way to do it that wouldn’t set a bad example for Emily, so she called, “I’ll see you soon!” to Eve and Matt, and closed the door on Chris’s yelp about not raising her voice.
Emily zipped out of the parking lot and turned onto Tenth Street, then braked hard at the red light. Cady’s shoulder harness jerked. She shot Emily a glance, but her sister stared straight ahead. In the streetlight her eye makeup was starting to smear. Cady couldn’t even imagine what her face and hair looked like. After a show, her face could resemble melting plastic as the lights and sweat worked away at enough makeup to animate her facial features.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
In that tone of voice, something was obviously wrong. “Em,” Cady said.
No response. The light changed and Emily accelerated into traffic. Her sister’s expression, shrouded in darkness broken only by the dashboard lights, was still a little lost, a little mad. She reached across the console and hugged her sister. “I’ve missed you.”
The car swerved in the lane before Emily corrected. “Knock it off, teen driver here,” she said through giggles as she lifted one hand and hugged Cady back. “Mom just started letting me drive with other people in the car. If I get in an accident now, I’ll be in so much trouble.”
“When you move to New York, you won’t need to drive,” Cady said. “Have you sent in your application?”
A junior in high school, Emily was applying to Parsons School of Design. It was all she could talk about, and based on the state of her fingernails, all she’d been worrying about while Cady was on the road. “Not yet.” She drove a little more smoothly out of the downtown neighborhood. “I’m still working on my portfolio. Maybe I can show it to you tomorrow, before you abandon me for your new big fancy house?”
“Sure,” Cady said. “Thanks for getting the house ready for me. I’m so excited to see it. How about we plan on having you sleep over this weekend? You can help me decorate.”
Emily’s face lit up. “Ugh, I’ve got homework, stupid finals coming up, the application, but we can hang out when I’m off.”
“I remember what December’s like when you’re in high school,” Cady said with a laugh. “It’ll be fun. Like old times.”
The drive through the back streets into one of Lancaster’s older neighborhoods took Cady back in time. Her mother still lived in the house she’d bought after their dad left. It was small, but refurbished inside and out. The house was from the fifties but recently renovated top to bottom, three bedrooms, a full bathroom she’d shared with Emily, a three-quarters bath off her mom’s bedroom, a kitchen with an eating area that overlooked the backyard and a den. Lights burned brightly over the front and side doors, but her mother’s bedroom window was dark.
Her sister grabbed the bigger, heavier suitcase and started lugging it toward the door. “What’s up with you and Harry?”
“Nothing,” Cady said as they hauled the bags through the front door. Thank goodness. In hindsight, starting a relationship with an international superstar just before her first album dropped was great for her visibility and pretty disastrous for her heart.
“That’s too bad,” Emily said. “He got you a ton of publicity when you were dating.”
“We weren’t dating.”
“I know that’s the official line, but still. He was cute, too. Want some Maud juice before bed?”
“I can make it,” Cady said. Exhaustion seemed to seep from her pores, but she needed to take care of her throat or Chris would worry.
“I’ll do it. You unpack.” Emily strode into the kitchen.
Cady got her bags into what had been her room until Emily converted it into a studio after she left, using a big piece of plywood to transform the single bed into a cutting board. Emily had moved the wood to the sewing station that took up most of the floor space. The wall above the sewing table was plastered with images torn from magazines: Vogue, the New York Times Style inserts, some that were obviously printed from the social media feeds of up-and-coming designers. Mixed in with the high fashion photo shoots were images of a teen star Cady recognized from a show featuring teenage werewolves in Manhattan. Her current crush. Which made her think of Harry, and try to figure out how long that had been over. Months and months. Which meant it had been a very long time since she’d gone to bed with anyone, superstar or not. Adrift on a sea of exhaustion, she found herself staring at the narrow bed, wondering if there was any way she could fit herself and Shoulders, aka McCormick, into that bed.
That wasn’t going to happen. It was a random encounter with a man doing his job, nothing more. She left the bags where they were and walked back down the hall to the kitchen, where Emily was drizzling honey into steaming water. A cup of hot cocoa sat on the counter.
“Does that happen often?” Em asked.
“What?” she asked, still distracted by the memory of Shoulders’ muscles flexing.
“Crazy drunk guys coming out of the shadows.” Emily held out the mug.
Usually security prevented them from doing much more than shouting from the public areas. To avoid worrying her mother and Emily, she’d kept the details of her security from them.
“Meh.” Cady shrugged in what she hoped was a casual way and held out her cup for Emily to clink in a toast. She sipped the drink that was as much honey as water, and let out a sigh. She’d shed Chris, her stylist, her bodyguard, the band, the roadies, the fans, and was finally alone and home, the place she’d been longing for. Everyone thought she was home for the holidays, catching up on sleep and Netflix.
Emily was watching her over the rim of her mug. “I’m serious, Cade.”
Cady gave her a tired smile and sipped her honey water. “Forget about him. I have, because it’s so good to be home.”
CHAPTER TWO
Connor McCormick drove through the gate in the six-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire encircling McCool’s Garage and pulled into a
n empty parking space. When he opened his door, the November wind bit through his denim jacket, so he flipped up the sheepskin collar, shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, and trotted around the corner of the building, ignoring the door labeled OFFICE in favor of the unmarked one next to the bays. The sound of an air-powered socket tightening a bolt covered his footsteps.
His closest friend, Shane McCool, stood under Conn’s ’69 Camaro ZL1, cursing steadily as he cranked away at the car’s undercarriage.
“Hey.”
Shane jumped about a mile, barking his knuckles on the transmission housing when his grip slipped. “Jesus Christ,” he said, his smile softening the words. “A little warning?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your fuel pump, that’s what’s wrong. You need another new one, and you need to race this beauty more than once a month.”
“I’ve been busy,” Conn said. “Work.”
“Then let me put on an aftermarket fuel pump.”
“You know the rules,” Conn said. “Nothing on this car changes. The weight needs to stay exactly the same.”
“Yeah, except when something else falls off,” Shane quipped. He reached into the backseat and hauled out an alternator. “If I’m making another trip to U-Pull-It, want me to find one of these, too? For when this one breaks.”
“Yeah. At least my Dad drove a Camaro. He could have raced a Model T.”
“You know,” Shane said, “you probably did more damage to your times by gaining twenty pounds of muscle than I would by putting on an aftermarket fuel pump,” Shane said.
“I weigh what Dad weighed,” Conn said as he ducked under the Camaro and peered up into the undercarriage. “She’s leaking oil, too,” he observed.
“I can see that,” Shane said testily. He was shorter than Conn’s six foot five by three inches, and carrying more fat, but enough muscle to threaten. “You’re a couple of races away from blowing the head gasket. I’ve had a couple of offers to buy her…”
Conn ignored the suggestion. “Not yet,” he said. “We’re coming up on the best part of the season. I’ll beat his time.”
His father’s dial-in time was 9.99 seconds. The closest Conn had come to his father’s best time in the ZL1 was ten even. Less time than it took to blink. He was racing the car his father raced, with the same components, at the same weight. At this point the only difference was driver reflexes. Conn could live with the car being the reason he couldn’t beat his dad’s time, but it wasn’t. Every time his time flashed on the scoreboard felt like a backhand to the face. A reminder he couldn’t get out of his head.
Quick reflexes aside, in the rest of his life his dad had been a small-time loser more invested in his own ego than in his family. He’d skipped town more times than Conn could count, chasing the next scheme, the next big thing, until finally he stayed gone for good, leaving Conn to bounce among his extended relatives, none of them all that excited about raising a deadbeat’s kid, all of them relieved when he joined the army straight out of high school. Conn had enough psychology classes under his belt to know why he wanted to beat his dad’s time. He just couldn’t figure out how to do it.
Shane tucked the socket wrench back into its slot on his massive toolbox. “Fine. I’ll go to U-Pull-It and freeze my balls off finding you a part that will blow in two races, max.”
“You need a self-confidence course.” Conn grinned as he turned a shoulder into Shane’s halfhearted punch. “This one lasted three.”
McCormick and McCool. In every elementary school classroom they’d been seated in the same row, Shane with his shock of white-blond hair, angelic face, and burning desire to repair cars like his dad. He sat in front of Conn, with his dark hair, motor mouth, and burning desire to race cars like his dad. After a while all they knew was that if they came up with the idea together, it was a bad one, but they’d sure as hell have fun until the shit hit the fan. Until he left the army and joined the LPD, Shane was the only person Conn trusted, the only person Conn counted as family.
“I’m off today. We’ll freeze our balls off together.”
“They’re your balls,” Shane said. “I’m out for lunch,” he called to the two mechanics who worked for him, the words barely audible over the air compressors. Thumbs-up from both of them, then Shane pulled on a Carhartt jacket, grabbed a travel toolbox, and clomped after Conn. They drove out to the junkyard and spent an hour searching for the part, then another hour getting it out. By the time they finished, Conn had grease all over his hands and clothes, and Shane’s face was as white as his hair.
They drove to an East Side dive diner known for giving customers heart attacks and ordered chicken fried steak lunches, warming their hands around cups of coffee while they waited for the food.
“Have you ever considered that you just might not be able to do it?” Shane said finally.
He knew exactly what Shane meant. “All the time,” Conn answered. “Can you get the fuel pump in by the race this weekend? “
“Yeah, only because you’re buying lunch. And because I like your sorry ass, for reasons that still aren’t clear to me.”
“Thanks.”
Shane wiped his mouth with his napkin and stretched one arm along the back of the booth. “What’s new?”
“I worked security at some concert over the weekend.”
“The Maud Ward concert?” His eyebrows popped toward his hairline. “You worked that?”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
Conn shrugged and shook pepper all over his fries. “It was a girl singing pop songs. I was working.”
“You do know who she is, don’t you? She’s from Lancaster. Spent years going from club to club, singing for anyone who would listen, posting videos online. Some famous manager saw her performing on the street one night and got her a recording deal.”
Conn swallowed his mouthful of fries and signaled the waitress for more coffee. “I just work security.”
“You work security at concerts all the time—”
“It’s an off-duty job that pays good,” Conn interjected.
“And you never pay attention to the concert.”
“I’m working,” Conn repeated patiently. “Surveilling the crowd for threats. Making sure people are safe. You know. Being a cop. A drunk guy somehow got through security and headed for her backstage. He was halfway into his declaration of undying love and devotion, but we took him down before he could, you know, show her his songs.”
Shane laughed. “You stood in the way of true love?”
Conn snorted.
“I bet she probably hears that all the time,” Shane said. “What’s she like up close? Pretty?”
Conn considered this. Sleek, poker-straight hair. Wide brown eyes rimmed with enough eyeliner to make her look like a manga character. Skin and bones. “She looked like every other celebrity you see,” he said. “Hair, makeup, clothes, they all look like they ordered from the same shiny catalog. She handled herself pretty well, though. Kept him focused so me and Dorchester could sneak up on him.”
“You have all the fun,” Shane said.
“You want to do this job?”
“No way,” Shane said with a chuckle. “I’m happy where I am.”
Shane didn’t need the police department like Conn did. Shane had four brothers and extended family spread out all over Lancaster. His mother had been including Conn in family holidays and big celebrations since junior high school, but while Conn always went, his real family was the police department. All the dynamics were right: brothers and sisters doing the job every day, father figures in his training officers, stern maternal ones in the women who’d fought the first battles for equality, the offbeat ones you avoided. The McCools included him, but the department was like the McCools on crack, and steroids. Most cops felt the same way. Family was family, but the department was blood. It’s why working the job tended to run in families, sons and daughters following in their fathers’ footsteps. It drew you in, formed your thin
king, your feelings. Once you were in, you stayed in. Very few cops quit for other jobs, because very few jobs provided the same high, or the same connection.
It was the only family Conn counted as his own.
As if he could read minds, Shane said, “Mom’s expecting you for Christmas.”
Conn’s phone, silent through the meal, buzzed. He picked it up and read a text from the duty sergeant. The Block. Now.
Something big must be going down for him to call Conn into the East Side Precinct on his day off. He wasn’t detailed to the undercover unit, but had gotten a reputation as a useful officer for street work. Clean-shaven with his hair slicked back, he looked like a cop. Tousled, unshaven, in a stretched-out, grimy wife-beater, he looked like a guy fresh out of prison looking to score a hit. Hawthorn didn’t hesitate to use him when he needed him.
“Work calls,” Conn said.
“Me too,” Shane said. “I’ll have that fuel pump in by the weekend.”
“Thanks.” Conn paid the bill, then drove Shane back to his shop. After a couple of years on the job and a few run-ins with sergeants, he lost the jitters that appeared any time he got called on the carpet. But something about this had his stomach kicking around the chicken fried steak.
Underneath the layer of Christmas cheer—garland, lights, a decorated tree sheltering toys for the boys and girls club—the precinct was business as usual with civilians filing reports, uniformed officers catching up on paperwork, detectives making calls. Even in the age of email and texts, the phones still rang constantly, doubling up on each other. It was a familiar sound, one Conn walked through without thinking much about it. He was in a place where he didn’t have to listen for the unexpected, where he could turn down the preternatural alertness he’d learned early in life.
He rapped his knuckles on the duty sergeant’s office door, waited until the guy looked up. “Hey, how’s it going?”