Bad For Each Other

by Kate Hathaway

  Chapter 1

  Charlie "Kick" Cochrane shoved his Stetson back and rubbed a hand across his brow as he headed for the dressing room. God, he was bushed. He wanted a beer and a bed, in that order.

  He needed a break. The whole band did. They'd been on the road, town after town, night after night, for months. But he hadn't been able to turn this gig down. It was for the hometown crowd.

  When old lady Shanahan had approached him about a benefit to repair the high-school library that had flooded out when the Ohio breached its banks, she'd found his weak spot. His senior English teacher at that consolidated school, she'd been one of the few to see beyond the reckless, feckless boy he was, to the man he might become. Early on, she'd recognized the hunger, beneath the swagger and the grime. She'd caught on to his thinly disguised interest in anything by Tennessee Williams and quietly steered him to Faulkner and Thomas Wolfe. And there, immersed in the cadences and rhythms of the Deep South, he'd found his voice.

  He had a voice that was made to sing hurting songs. A quality, an edge, that captured precisely that hollow hour of the night when the trees sighed and the wind moaned and the heart broke. It was to his great good fortune that hurting was the meat and potatoes of country music. From the moment he'd exploded on the scene, he'd been a star.

  But Wheeling was home. His experiences here had molded him, its steel mills had forged his character and his resolve. These people were his people.

  There were fans who believed the "Kick" came from that little jump he made with his hat in the air at the end of a show when things had gone especially well. Others, who'd known him longer, claimed it started with his days as the kicker on his high-school football team, when he'd led the Ironmen to the state championship. But you had to go way back to remember when his mother, pregnant with him, would roll her eyes and pat her abdomen saying this eighth of what would be nine children, whether male or female, would be known as "Kick." People in the audience tonight went way back.

  Some had thought, when the recruiters came scouting, that he'd go on to college. But he'd followed his father and brothers into the mill. And he'd played the smoky, raucous bars in Wheeling and its environs at night. All he'd ever wanted to do was write his songs and sing them. He didn't need anybody to teach him how to do that.

  "Hey, Kick."

  He looked up to see Harlan Atkins, the drummer for the band, rounding the corner from the loading dock where he'd been seeing to their equipment.

  "Yeah, Harlan." He wished he had a smoke. He was tempted to bum one, but resisted.

  "You gonna make the party?"

  "Nah. I'm beat. I'm gonna sneak out and spend the night with my folks." He gave a weary laugh. "Don't let it get around how the country star spends his wild nights." He started down the hall when another thought halted him.

  "Keep an eye on Shooter." He referred to the man who played pedal steel and Dobro for the band. A class musician, but a nasty drunk. "That little lovely he was ogling is jailbait if I ever saw it. We don't want another ruckus like we had down in Bluefield."

  "Will do. Speaking of jailbait..." Harlan indicated with a jerk of his chin the slight figure standing in the shadows at the end of the hallway near the dressing room door.

  Squinting, Kick could just make out that the figure was female. The hips gave her away, even with the clipboard clutched to her chest. He turned back to Harlan.

  "What's this?"

  The other man gave an offhand shrug. "She wants to interview you for the high-school newspaper." At the scowl that quickly lined Kick's brow, he hurried to explain. "It's your school, too, Kick, or it was."

  Hands on hips, Kick let out a long, disgusted breath. "Aw, hell, Harlan."

  Harlan raised his hands, palms out, defensive. "Now, I had nothin' to do with this. Her daddy talked to your daddy. Nobody's gonna tell your father 'no.'"

  Kick crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall behind him, eyeing the girl from under the brim of his hat. She had edged closer in what could only be described as hopeful hesitancy. With a last, rueful shake of his head he made his decision. "Come on," he said, grabbing his friend's elbow. "You're gonna play nanny. You know how I feel about entertaining unchaperoned young ladies in my dressing room."

  "You're not gonna need me," Harlan mumbled.

  Kick sent him a sidelong glance as they approached the teenager. He extended his hand while Harlan made the introductions and the girl gave him the moon-eyed, trembly-chinned smile he seemed to engender in much of the female population.

  "What do you mean, I won't need you?" he muttered to Harlan under his breath.

  "There's someone else waiting in your dressing room. Now, don't go off half-cocked! I didn't have anything to do with that, either. The manager let her in."

  At Kick's questioning glance, he continued. "She told him you wouldn't mind. Guess she was convincing." He started to move away. "Lo-o-o-o-ong drink of water she is, too, and kinda plain. Not your usual type. Got breeding."

  Kick's answer was a short laugh. He doubted Harlan would recognize breeding if it reared up and bit him on the nose. The other man's parting words caught him as he turned to open the door.

  "Come to think of it, I don't believe I've ever seen you with a redhead."

  As a warning, it wasn't much, but it was all he was going to get. He knew at once who waited for him beyond the door. There'd only ever been one redhead in his life. Molly Doyle had left Wheeling years ago. What brought her back now?

  His hand tightened on the doorknob as waves of shock, anger and something akin to regret washed over him. Schooling his features to an impassivity he didn't feel, he pushed open the door, gestured for the girl to precede him into the room, and followed her.

  "Hello, Molly." Deliberately, he shut the door behind him, buying himself time. "This is a surprise." Bombshell would be more like it, but he'd be damned if he'd let her know she'd thrown him. He only hoped he was better at fooling her than he was at fooling himself.

  He watched her eyes flick from him to the girl—Sarah, was it? Sally? Something like that—and read the disapproval in her glance. Nothing changed there. She'd pegged him as a skirt-chaser a long time ago. Course, he hadn't figured she'd counted cradle-robbing among his many sins. But then, she'd know better than most. He'd been hot for her since she was fifteen.

  "Charlie."

  Nothing changed there, either. She had the same husky way of saying his name that brought to mind every time she'd breathed it in his ear, just that way, and he'd gone off like a Roman candle. That wasn't what she had in mind right now, though, he could tell. She wasn't aiming to get on his good side. Not with her hair skinned back like that, the way he didn't like it.

  "I know this isn't a social visit. What's on your mind?"

  Her eyes flew to the girl again. God, he should have bummed that smoke. Here she was back after, what? eight years and picking up right where she left off.

  "We need to talk...privately, Charlie."

  The years hadn't been kind to her. She was twenty-eight, he knew. Three years younger than him, but she looked older. There was strain around her eyes and a tight, pinched look, like she was barely hanging on. She was thinner all over. Still had a chest, though, and still trying to hide it. She'd never been what you'd call a flashy dresser, but her clothes had always been quality, not like this shapeless excuse for a dress she wore now.

  His gaze dropped to the hands knotted in her lap. Still bit her nails, too, and he watched as she curled her fingers into her palms to conceal that. Despite himself, he felt stirrings of sympathy for her. He hoped she wasn't going to try to hit him up for money. Considering the animosity that had flared between them when they'd parted, that would be too embarrassing for both of them.
/>   "I can't imagine what you'd have to say to me in private after all these years, Molly. You were never much concerned with privacy when you had a bone to pick with me anyway, as I recall."

  He pulled a slatted-back chair away from a mirrored table and propped a foot on it, removing his Stetson and placing it carefully on the table. He rested an elbow on his raised knee and tunnelled fingers through his hair, ruffling it up where it had been flattened by the hat. When he looked at her again, she was more the Molly he remembered.

  Her spine had stiffened and color flooded her cheeks. Heat simmered in her whiskey-brown eyes. He'd lost himself in those eyes before he'd ever tasted whiskey. It was more than a little unsettling to find they could still affect him.

  "I need to ask a favor of you, Charlie." She darted another quick glance at the girl. "It's...personal."

  This time his gaze shifted to the girl. "Moon-eyed" didn't begin to describe the look on her face as her eyes swung from him to Molly. He didn't kid himself that it was his charm that brought that look on, either. She was getting an earful. Probably saw "scoop" written all over this confrontation. Maybe he should get her out of here. Maybe if he hadn't been feeling so damn tired, put upon, and downright ornery, he would have. As it was, he straightened from the chair, crossed his booted feet at the ankles, hooked his thumbs in the frayed pockets of his faded jeans, and favored Molly with his best good of boy drawl, the one he knew would set her teeth on edge.

  "You need money, Moll?"

  She still had fire, no denying that. Her full lips flattened to a thin line as her color heightened even more. She shot a final glance at the girl, then pinned him with the accusatory look he'd seen countless times before.

  "We have a son, Charlie. He needs you."

  Before he could manage a response, he heard the sharp intake of the girl's breath. He turned and watched her scramble to catch the clipboard as it slid down her body toward the floor. All the while his mind scrambled to make some sense of Molly's words. He'd been hit with paternity charges before—it came with the territory—and none of them had ever amounted to anything. But from Molly? What was her game?

  Whatever, she was right about one thing. This demanded privacy. One look at the youngster's stunned expression and he knew he'd just given the fine people of Wheeling another juicy topic to chaw on over breakfast. Enough was enough. Taking her elbow, he summoned up his most fetching smile and murmured apologies as he hustled her from the room.

  He leaned against the closed door, staring at the floor for just a moment before heading to the little refrigerator tucked under the dressing table. Pulling a bottle of beer from inside, he popped the cap and took a long swallow. He swiped a hand across his mouth, raised the bottle to Molly in wordless invitation, and nodded when she answered with a quick shake of her head. Of course not, not his Molly. What was he thinking? He took another swig, hitched his hip on the table, and tapped the long neck against his thigh, eyeing her.

  "Okay," he said at last. "I'll play. What's this all about?"

  Molly unclenched her hands and took a deep breath. The minutes he'd spent getting rid of the girl and swilling his beer had given her time to compose herself. And compose herself she must. She could not risk his wrath. She would do whatever it took to get what she needed from him. It wouldn't inconvenience him for long. He'd be back to his parties and his women in no time.

  "Molly?"

  She was wasting time. She took another breath and set her jaw determinedly. "I told you. We have a son. He needs—"

  "Excuse me for being so crass as to mention this, Moll," he interrupted, "but you and I haven't been—" he made a suggestive motion with the bottle "—you know, in a long while."

  Flustered, she reached for her purse on the floor beside her chair and withdrew Tobie's school photograph, taken the previous fall. She held it out to Charlie, making sure their fingers didn't touch when he took it from her.

  Not that it mattered. She remembered his touch. It had only taken his crude remark to bring back with a rush the feel of his lips on her skin, his fingers in her hair, his tongue on that sensitive spot below her ear.

  She studied him as he looked at the picture. She knew what he saw. The same thing she had seen when Tobie had brought it home so proudly all those months ago. The same laughing black eyes, the same unruly hair, even the same missing teeth. It could have been taken twenty-five years before.

  And like an ambush, the past was upon her....

  She sat on the tree stump in a sulky heap, chin resting on her fists, elbows planted on her knees, glaring at her dusty sneakers and trying to ignore the boy on the bike. Round and round he went, down the long gravel drive, over the warped one-by-twelve that spanned the little back stream off of Big Wheeling Creek, weaving under the crab apple and seckel pear trees behind the house, across the railed footbridge and back again. Just like he belonged there. She didn't feel that way, and it was her house.

  She heard his approach, turned her head to avoid the spray of gravel as he came to a crunching halt in front of her. He stopped just a foot or so away and toed the ground with his scuffed boots as he straddled his bike. Pointy-toed boots like the cowboys wore. He always wore boots.

  "Hi, Red."

  She scowled up at him. "Don't call me that."

  He grinned. "Why not? Your hair's real pretty. I like it."

  He smiles with his whole face, she thought. Ear to ear and his eyes crinkling up into slits. She didn't know anybody else who smiled like that. He was one of the Cochrane boys, but she wasn't sure which. They all looked the same. Wild black hair and wild black eyes. He was one of the younger ones. A couple years older than she was. Eight, nine maybe.

  "I don't like it."

  He twisted the black rubber grips on his handlebars. "What should I call you, then? Margaret Mary?"

  She frowned even more fiercely at his shirtless chest.

  Her momma called her Margaret Mary, and teachers the first day of school. No one else. "Call me Molly," she said, looking away into the dirt.

  He shifted on the seat of his bike and toed the kickstand down. Why doesn't he just go away and leave me alone? She sneaked a peek at him through her lashes, but his gaze was fixed above her head on the house behind her. When he looked back at her, there was pity in his eyes.

  "They fightin' again, Molly?"

  Oh, fine. He didn't even know her name, but he knew about her momma and daddy fighting. Everybody knew. There wasn't a soul in all Wheeling her daddy couldn't get along with. Except her momma. Especially when he was drinking.

  Her throat felt tight and swollen. She hid her face in her hands and willed him to go away.

  She heard him sigh and drag his boots through the gravel. He wasn't going to leave.

  "So," he said. "You wanna go for a ride on my bike?"

  She looked up at him, unable to believe her ears. "I don't know how to ride a bike yet."

  He shrugged his bony shoulders. "On the handlebars, then. I'll take you."

  She was so tempted. "I'm not supposed to go with strangers," she said, wavering.

  He gave her half a grin, which was almost as nice as the full-face kind. "I'm not a stranger. My momma cleans your house."

  She nodded her recognition. "You're Cleeve." "Nah, not Cleeve. He's older. I'm Kick." "Oh, Charles."

  He slitted his eyes at her then, the first time he'd looked anything less than friendly. "I'm Kick." He booted the kick-stand up. "You can call me Charlie, if you want. Nobody calls me Charles." He propped his foot on the pedal and challenged her with a jerk of his head. "You comin'?"

  She had never been able to resist him, not from that first meeting on. He'd ridden her, laughing and squealing, over his favored path. That rickety board over the creek had been their undoing. He'd told her to sit still, quit bouncing, but it was too exhilarating, too exciting. They'd ended up on the rocks lining the streambed. She never did learn what happened to that bike. He'd carried her back to the house, scared, dirty and hutting, one of her bran
d-new permanent teeth broken off and poking through her bottom lip.

  That was the first time folks had said they were bad for each other. It hadn't been the last.

  "What's his name?"

  Charlie's words brought her back with a start. He glanced up from the picture, his acceptance of the truth in his eyes. Unsnapping the flap over the left front pocket of his shirt, he slipped the photograph inside. Close to his heart, Molly thought, and wondered at the curious notion even as she did so.

  "Tobias...Tobie." Behind his stony features, Molly sensed

  his rage. Had it never occurred to him over the years that she might have borne the child he hadn't wanted, might have kept him, might love him? Apparently not.

  "What else?" At her questioning look, he added, "Tobie what?"

  "Doyle. Just Doyle. I didn't give him a middle name."

  Charlie's eyes glittered hard as the steel tie-rods he'd spent years making. "Good. Doyle can be his middle name then, when I give him mine."

  At his words Molly felt the first subtle inkling of uncertainty, the first vague suspicion that the situation was not exactly as she believed it to be. He seemed angry, not because she had come to him now to make demands for their son, but because she hadn't done so before. But that was impossible. Unless...

  "What made you decide he needs me now, Molly?"

  His question cut into her thoughts and she pushed her doubts aside, her concern for Tobie once more foremost in her mind. "He's sick, Charlie, seriously ill. A condition called aplastic anemia. He has to—"

  "I've heard of that. Jase's sister—you remember Jase? Plays keyboard?"

  Molly gave a quick nod of recognition. Jase was an original member of the band, with Charlie since high school.

  "Jase's sister died of that, some five, six years back." He frowned and took another long pull on his beer. "Are you saying Tobie might die?"

  The idea was one she hadn't been able to give voice to. Even now, with his question hanging between them, she couldn't say it. "He's very sick. He needs a bone-marrow transplant. I'm not a match."

  "And you're hoping I am."

  "Yes." She faltered just a little on the word. His voice was deceptively soft, silky, in contrast with his granite-hard expression.