Pivot Line

by Rebel Farris

  With a nod of my head, I veer back toward my desk and fish out an old journal I used to use for writing. I pull it out and freeze as the old doodles and stickers on the inside cover open the floodgate of memories. I press my temples and breathe, but I’m mildly shocked that the memories aren’t as painful as they once were.

  The spine creaks as I flip through the first pages of music notes. Chord diagrams and hand-drawn bars of music fill each page as I search for the first empty page. The journal is about three-quarters full and contains all the music I’ve written over my lifetime—which is sad that there isn’t more at this point in my life.

  I set that on the coffee table and walk over to the guitar. I brush my hand over the old Fender. I smile, thinking about the day I put it up in here.

  “I want you to sign this,” I said to Stevie.

  His chin drew in, and his face smushed into a half smile, half frown. “You don’t want me ruining that old beauty.”

  “Stop that,” I chastised. “It’s not ruining anything. It’s already valuable because it’s a classic, but it’ll be priceless when the original owner—and badass blues musician—signs it.” I grinned.

  A grin stretches my face as my fingers trace over his signature. I pull it off the wall and pluck a string, cringing at the weak, out-of-tune wail it produces. I sit on the couch and begin the process of tuning, playing, and writing my music. I get lost in the process and only stop when my stomach growls. I check my phone and see it’s already lunchtime.

  I play the last song again while considering where to order lunch from when my door opens. I freeze. Asher strides in, dropping his bag by the door. He removes the guitar from my hands and pulls me from the couch to wrap me in a tight hug.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod because I can’t talk with my face smashed into his chest like this.

  “Really?” he asks again, pulling me back by my shoulders.

  A smile tips the corner of my mouth as I take in his tired face. “I am. What’re you doing back? How did you even find out?”

  “Unlike Holly, the rest of your friends happen to like me. Both Dawn and Bridget called to give me an update. They were sure you would overlook it. Plus, they know you as well as I do.” He grins.

  I huff. “Whatever, it’s been a day. I haven’t slowed down…” I drift off as I realize I could’ve called him anytime in the last few hours. Jeez, I’m a bad friend.

  His brows draw together, calling bullshit on that line. “That’s not it. Why didn’t you tell me about all the other stuff that happened before I left? He’s back, isn’t he?”

  I break away and sit back down with my guitar, holding it like some kind of shield. “Maybe… maybe I didn’t want to drag you back into this. Someone should have some peace after everything that happened. And if you can stay out of it, I was going to let you.”

  “You know a reporter found me in Atlanta? Started asking me about that night again…” he murmurs, looking out the window. “I had no clue why anyone would be interested in digging that up, and told him so, but now I know…” He turns back to face me, his eyes pinning me in place. “You can’t keep anyone out of this, Mads.”

  I swallow heavily. Asher sits in a chair across from me, rubbing his face with both hands. His hands fall away and he looks exhausted. We both stare at each other for a drawn-out moment.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t,” he says, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to be. I know you were trying to help, but you can’t protect any of us from this. Like it or not, we’re in this together.”

  I can’t think of any valid argument to that, so I sit there, not knowing what to do.

  “You’re writing?” Asher leans forward to pick up the journal off the coffee table between us. He’s silent as he flips through the last couple of pages. A smile tips his lips. “This is good stuff. Play this one for me.”

  He pushes the journal back across the table in front of me and gets his bag from the floor, pulling out drumsticks. It brings a smile to my face.

  “You still carry sticks with you everywhere?”

  “Of course.” He glances at me with a wry twist to his lips. “I play every chance I get. Which isn’t much these days, but it keeps my skills fresh.”

  Guilt floods me as I remember Chloe’s comment yesterday about him wanting to do something more creative. I can’t help but feel I’ve been letting him down in a way.

  “Don’t do that.” His voice interrupts my reverie. He sits across from me, eyes astute. “That guilt is written all over your face, but you shouldn’t feel that way. After what happened, well, it’s completely understandable. I wasn’t playing for a while either, but you knew him better than me… I just get it. That’s all.”

  “I just feel a bit ridiculous, Ash,” I say with a sigh, plucking a string on my guitar. “It’s like I’m waking up and realizing I’ve been asleep for three years, while everyone else kept living. I just—I let you down—I let so many people down. Why do you—why would anyone still care?”

  “Are you serious?” he asks, his brows drawing together.

  I nod, wide-eyed.

  “You may feel like you’ve been asleep or whatever. But you’re still here for every one of us in your own way. Shit, you gave me this job. I love the travel and the music. It’s an awesome job. You still treat everyone like family. Just because you aren’t playing music doesn’t mean you’re letting us down. Is that really how you feel?”

  “No—yes—I don’t know. It’s just that I keep finding out little things that I haven’t paid attention to, like Chloe saying that you wanted to do something more creative.”

  He huffs. “I only told her that I missed performing. And that was at your birthday party after we were onstage. We were talking about you, actually.”

  My eyes narrow as I watch him cross over to my desk and empty out my pencil cup and grab a few other items. He sits a stack of files on the coffee table in front of him, turning over the pencil cup, and taps on each with his sticks. His head tilts to the side, listening for the tone. I watch him, debating with myself to question what they were saying or leave it alone.

  “You gonna start?” he asks.

  I stare at him for a few seconds before I decide to leave it. I nod and look down at my notes to see what he wanted me to play. It’s one of the newest ones that I wrote this week. If I had to give it a word to describe it, it would be hopeful. Which just seems weird, that I’d write something like that in the midst of all this turmoil. I wish I could delve into the deep recesses of my mind to see how everything works because sometimes I don’t even understand myself.

  A smile fights to break free on my face, and I start playing. Asher drums out a beat along with me on his makeshift kit. I play on autopilot, just watching him with a bit of awe. He’s talented. The beat not only complements the music I wrote but challenges it, too. I start hearing other instruments in my head as we play along. My smile grows, and we get lost, playing song after song.

  Asher’s eyes light up. I feel a pang in my chest as I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him this happy. We laugh and play, and everything else melts into the background. He suggests a few adjustments, here and there. Asher’s not just a drummer. I don’t think there’s an instrument he can’t play, but drums are where his heart lies, like me and my guitar.

  “We should get Nate,” I say, feeling lighter after we wrap up another song.

  The door pops open, and I shriek, jumping from my seat, almost dropping my guitar. “Goddammit, I think my heart just stopped.”

  “You’re too easy.” Nate shakes his head. “I’ve been standing here outside the door for the last ten minutes. This glass wall isn’t exactly soundproof.” He grins. “I was afraid to come in and break the spell.”

  “There’s no spell to break,” I say. “Come in. We want to get your feedback.”

  Nate crosses the room in a few quick strides and sits in
the seat at the end of the coffee table to my right. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he has a chance, a soft knock at the door stops him.

  “Come in,” I call.

  The door opens, and a man enters, carrying a laptop. “I’m just here to set up the computer. Don’t mind me,” he mutters as he darts to my desk.

  There’s something itching at the corner of my mind. A familiarity that keeps my eyes locked on him. He’s a heavyset guy, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face, and he keeps his head turned down, so I can’t see him. If it were any other time in my life, I wouldn’t question it. With everything going on, my senses are on high alert.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “What?” he asks, still not looking up.

  Nate’s brows drop, and he turns to look at the newcomer. “That’s Brad. He’s our IT guy. Been with us since the expansion.” Confusion is stamped on Nate’s face as he looks back to me. “You haven’t met him before?”

  “Brad,” I murmur, trying to place the name. Why is that ringing a bell? I gasp as he looks up and familiar brown eyes meet my own. What in the ever-living fuck? “Brad Boyd?”

  Then

  “You look beautiful,” Sloane said, pulling back from doing the final touches on my makeup.

  “You’re not bad,” Priscilla said to Sloane. “I was skeptical about you.” She turns to face me. “You know hiring friends usually isn’t a good idea in this business.”

  Priscilla, who we affectionately called Press-zilla when she wasn’t around, was my publicist. She was a bitch, with very little redeeming qualities aside from being good at her job.

  “You ready?” Asher asked.

  He didn’t seem much different than normal. Sloane had dressed him, but she had stuck with his usual grungy rocker look. Aside from the expensive price tag of his clothes and the fancy haircut we both were subjected to, he hadn’t changed much. Me, on the other hand—my hair was short for probably the first time in my life. She had also dyed my hair to bring out the red tones in my natural color. I was officially a redhead.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We were sitting in the greenroom for a late-night talk show. We weren’t performing, because Jared wasn’t back yet from his tour. He was due to come back soon. I wasn’t sure how he was going to handle all the changes. Our lives had done a one-eighty while he had been overseas. I mean, I was sitting in a greenroom for a national network talk show in New York City. This was only the second time I’d ever left the state of Texas.

  “We’ve gone over your talking points already. You did okay in rehearsals. Just try to be charming. The world is rooting for you,” Priscilla said to Asher and me. “Promote the album. Tease the tour you’ll start when Jared returns. And get personal on the separation, how much you miss him. They eat that shit up.”

  “Okay.” I nodded.

  I caught Asher’s eye and pretended to hang myself when she wasn’t looking. He smiled and turned out the door. We walked down the hall to the side of the set. I could hear the murmur of the crowd, see the glaring stage lights.

  “This is surreal,” I whispered.

  “I know.” Asher grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  “Five minutes,” a guy with a headset on whispered at us as he rushed by, doing whatever it was he did back here.

  The talk show host started his monologue as the house band’s song came to a close. The audience cheered and clapped, then finally quieted down. I’d watched this show from my home many times growing up; I never in a million years thought I’d end up on here as a guest. They interviewed famous people, and I was still having a hard time with the fact that people knew who I was. Strangers talked about me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever wrap my head around it.

  “Oh, shit. He’s talking about us,” I said, feeling light-headed as the talk show host started his bit to introduce us.

  Asher squeezed my hand again before letting go. The dude with the headset popped up next to me from out of nowhere and motioned me to walk past the curtain. I swallowed the startled scream and plastered on a smile, striding out with Asher right behind me. The audience wasn’t as large as they sounded, and I relaxed a little. This was just like performing with One Dollar Bet, but with talking and without the tiny skirts.

  The crowd clapped and cheered. There were a few hoots and hollers before they quieted down, and we began to talk. It started with small talk, pleasantries, easier questions like how we found out that our song became a hit. I told him the story about finding out in derby practice. He asked about derby. It all kind of flowed and wasn’t near as hard as I’d imagined it to be.

  “But I think it’s fair to say that everyone wants to know how you’re holding up. Have you spoken to Jared recently?”

  “Yeah, about a week after all this blew up, he called. It was an awkward conversation to tell someone that they were famous. I don’t believe it myself most of the time.”

  “How does he feel about it?”

  “I don’t think he believes me. They don’t get a lot of news out there, so I’m pretty sure he’s convinced that this is just another practical joke.”

  “You guys do that a lot?”

  “No. Yes.” I laughed and scrunched my nose. “We’ve been known to pull one over on each other from time to time.”

  The audience laughed.

  “You have to tell me about these practical jokes,” he pleaded.

  Priscilla had prepped me for this. We had decided to go with the story about the bikini and the girls’ birth, and after telling it once already in rehearsals, it wasn’t nearly as nerve-racking as I imagined. I got animated, and the audience was laughing. I relaxed even more. This wasn’t bad at all.

  “He gets back from overseas in a few months. Do you guys have any plans?”

  “Other than starting our tour, no.”

  A few cheers rose up at that. Whoa, people are excited about that? That blew my mind. He talked to Asher some. We played a little game that the show was famous for, and then it was over.

  “The tour starts in March, and from there you’re making thirty-two more stops across the US?” he asked, and I nodded. “Their first show will be on March eighth in Houston, Texas. Be sure to check out Stateside’s website for more tour info. Well, I wish you the best. I look forward to seeing your concert when you make it back to New York.” He smiled.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Asher thanked him, too, shaking his hand.

  “Asher Cross and Laine Dobransky of Stateside,” he said, and the band started playing to commercial.

  Now

  “I’m sorry, Maddie,” Brad says. “I should’ve told you years ago. No. I should’ve talked to you before I accepted the position. But I needed the job, and you were leaving to go on tour. Then all that stuff happened to you. I didn’t want to stir up anything. I’m sorry.”

  Asher and Nate’s heads look back and forth between Brad and me. I’m rocked to the core, tongue-tied as a thousand thoughts fly through my mind. I can feel the blood drain from my face as the worst one of all occurs to me. Could he be my stalker?

  Nate’s brows inch toward his hairline. “You two know each other?”

  “You could say that,” I say, trying and failing to keep the bite out of my voice.

  Asher leans forward, watching me. Brad looks down again but pulls the baseball cap off his head, rubbing his hand over his short hair. He wrings the cap in his hands. I honestly don’t know what to do with this. I mean, it’s not like I can just ask him if he’s been stalking me. If he was, I doubt he’d just tell me.

  “Why would you even take the job, knowing that this is my company?” I ask.

  He takes a deep breath and looks back up at me. “Because I needed the job.”

  “Why wouldn’t you just work for your dad?”

  “He sold the company years ago,” Brad says. “Right before I graduated high school. Lost all his money gambling.”

  Oh. I take
a breath. I don’t know what to do with that information. Normally, I’d feel sorry for someone in that situation, but I’m finding it hard to muster sympathy for Brad fucking Boyd. Even though I still feel responsible for my mom’s death, a part of me would always blame him, too. Both him and Lisa. When they decided cheating was a better option than just being honest… I massage my forehead with my fingers as I stop that train of thought. I don’t want to have to deal with an unwelcome blast from the past.

  “I don’t think I’m the only one wondering,” Asher says, glancing to Nate. “How do you two know each other?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “We used to date,” Brad says at the same time.

  I roll my eyes to the heavens. Asher laughs, and I cut him a look. His face goes blank.

  “We were preteens—it hardly counts. I sincerely hope you don’t go around telling everyone that, considering what you—”

  I stop myself. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t need everyone in the room to know about it. And he knows full well what I’m talking about.

  “Nah.” His mouth twists into a wry grin. “Outside of people we went to school with, no one would believe me.”

  I hold back a snort as I look him over. The years haven’t been kind to him. He has a stain on his shirt, one that’s missing a button and has half come untucked. He looks tired. An awkward-as-fuck silence fills the room. Asher shifts positions in his seat, but no one speaks for what seems like an eternity.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know this already, Maddie. He’s been with us for, what? Four years?” Nate asks, turning to Brad.

  “Yes, sir,” Brad answers. “But to be fair, she doesn’t come near my office, and I’ve actively been avoiding her.”

  “Where is your office?” I ask.

  “Back in the original building. I think it used to be the kitchen?”

  Oh, well. That does explain a lot. That’s right next to… I shake my head, trying to derail that train of thought. It’s silent for a moment, but I don’t think anyone has anything left to say about that situation. I don’t. Brad walks back to my desk and resumes setting up my computer.