by S. L. Scott
At twenty-six, I’ve not had to show up for a nine-to-five ever. Nope, this band thing has worked out pretty well, keeping all three of us out of trouble, for the most part—we don’t discuss the minor arrests among us, at least not much outside of teasing each other—and paying our rent since we started The Crow Brothers band seven years back. Tulsa was barely a junior in high school, but he had college chicks lined up like groupies every night of the week. I made him promise to go straight home from the gig. That’s what my mom would have wanted. Tulsa is hardheaded, though. Mom always said he was a lot like my dad.
And he’s a lucky bastard to have such cool big brothers.
Tonight, as I look around the packed bar and listen as the chords come together, making my melody come to life, I know I’m the lucky one.
We’ve been through hell and back together, but here we are, building something out of nothing from pure determination, and I’ll toss in some talent for good measure.
We’re booked almost every night of the week. We choose where and when we play, setting our own schedule. Rivers is just as good about managing us as he is playing guitar.
The only issue we have is keeping a drummer. With egos as big as ours, it’s easy to get lost in the noise. Also, the pay is decent but not great. We can pay our rent, and that’s about it. We play for the love of it, but it’s time to get the payoff.
Leaning in the shadows on the back right side and across from the bar, Johnny Outlaw, front man of the legendary band, The Resistance, and rock god, drinks a beer while catching our show. I didn’t see him come in and have no idea if he caught the opener, but he’s been here for four songs since.
I heard he started Outlaw Records and is scouting bands to add to his new label. Scouting. Scouting us? Our song ends, and I turn around while tightening a string. “Johnny Outlaw is in the audience. Don’t screw up.” The pressure to impress him looms heavy. He could give us the break we need to not have to play downtown Austin every night. He could be our ticket to a full-length album and tour. He could be the ticket we need to hit the big time. Fuck, don’t screw this up. I tap my pedal and lean up to the microphone.
It all comes together like it should—my tone, the melody, the rhythm, and the beat. I close my eyes and get lost in the music that bleeds from me. When I finish the song and look his way, Johnny’s gone.
Fuck.
I try to save my soured mood and finish the show, but fuck if I’m not bummed. It was right—the sound, the song, and the crowd. I don’t tell my brothers. I let them play their hearts out, hoping it makes up for the loss of mine at the moment.
All is not lost when I lean in to sing and a pretty woman at the bar catches my eye. I know that sweet face. It’s one I never thought I’d see again.
Hannah.
I only ever got the one name out of her, but it’s hung on at the outskirts of my thoughts, hoping to get more than one night.
Six months of silence has given me the distance to let her go while still having her cross my mind too often for my liking. Seeing the brunette beauty again has tempered my disappointment of Johnny Outlaw leaving in the middle of our gig.
She’s not drinking, and there’s no smile while her eyes stay on mine, never deviating far from me.
The last chord is strummed, and I thank the crowd as I set my guitar on the stand.
Rivers says, “Outlaw left.”
“I know. Give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
Tulsa says, “Grab me a shot while you’re at it.”
I flip him off and hop off the stage. Hannah’s eyes are set on me like mine are set on her. As I work my way around a few tables and through the crowd to see her, I’m grabbed, claws poking the underside of my bicep. Marcy, a bad habit of mine, is whispering in my ear. “You look so good tonight, Jet. When you sing, I get so we—”
Extricating myself from her hold, I go easy. “Sorry. I can’t tonight.”
When I turn, I’m face to face with the woman I want to see. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she replies as her gaze lifts over my shoulder.
Marcy comes around, standing next to us, and looks Hannah over. “Maybe later, Jet?”
“Can’t. Sorry, Marcy.”
“Too bad.” Her full lips press against my cheek, and her hand squeezes my ass before she saunters off, showing off what the good Lord gave her.
Hannah watches the exchange but doesn’t say anything. When Marcy is gone, I ask, “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No. Thank you.” I find her discomfort makes me uneasy. I shove my hands in my pockets and say, “I’m glad to see you. I didn’t think I would.”
“Yeah, about that. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I had a good time.”
Whatever mission she was on, her body softens, giving me a little peek into that woman who I once shared whiskey and an unforgettable night with. “I did too, Jet. Look,” she says and then pauses. “I wish this was a social call—”
Reaching out, I touch her wrist. “You’re here on business?”
“I couldn’t find a phone number.” Glancing at our connection, she doesn’t seem to want to pull away, but then she does anyway. “In my research.”
“Research?” When I tilt my head, thinking I must have heard her wrong, her expression becomes as serious as her tone. “What’s this about?”
“Your son.”
“I don’t have a son.” Wait . . . my mind fumbles through the one night I had with Hannah and back again. Running a hand through my hair, I ask, “Are you pregnant?”
“No. We used protection.” The relief I find is short-lived when she adds, “You have a son.”
This time, I laugh, but I’m really not finding this conversation very funny. “What are you doing, Hannah? You show up here after six months dropping bombs like they’re raindrops. I don’t have a son, so I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but it’s not funny.”
I turn to leave, but stop when she says, “You have a six-year-old son named Alfie.” Her words become white noise in the crowded bar.
“Dark hair like yours . . .
Green eyes . . .
Cute . . .
Wants to meet you . . . Jet?”
Slowly, I turn while trying to recall seven years back when I struggle to remember a week ago. One thing I’m sure of is that I don’t have a kid. “You’re going to need to fill in some blanks for me. Why are you here telling me about some kid that I supposedly have with another woman some seven years back?”
“I understand this is news to you, but you are a dad. Don’t worry, though. I’m here to help.”
“I don’t need help other than you telling me what the fuck is going on.”
“It’s late, so if you have a few minutes, I can explain while you sign some paperwork.”
My annoyance is hitting a high. First, we lose Johnny Outlaw’s interest, and now, this girl I thought was a pretty cool chick is here making up some crazy bullshit story. “Paperwork? For what?”
“For custody. Clearly, this is unexpected. I’m sorry to barge back into your life like this, but time is of the essence. I just have the paperwork in the car—”
“Slow down. Come with me.” I go back to the stage and hop up. Looking back, I tell her, “Meet me out back in ten. I need to load up our equipment.”
She nods, and I see her making her way behind Rivers. As I wrap my cord in a circle, my mind reels over the thought of having a son. I can’t. I would know. Six fucking years is a long time to raise a kid and not tell the father. And how the hell would Hannah know? Who is she?
Tulsa grabs the last amp and asks, “What was that about? It didn’t look good.”
“I don’t know. I’m going to need a few minutes when we’re done in here.”
“Don’t take long. I have a girl waiting for me.”
“Use a condom.”
He stops in his tracks. “Um, don’t you think I’m a little old for sex advice?”
“No,” I state firmly. “Use a fuc
king condom every fucking time.”
As I walk to the side of the stage to leave, he follows close behind. “What the fuck are you talking about? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.”
When I go outside, Hannah is standing off to the side of Tulsa’s old ’81 Ford Bronco. I help secure the equipment and slam the tailgate shut. Rivers leans against the side. “I’ll help him unload into the garage. My 4Runner should be out of the shop this week. This loading and unloading the same night is bullshit.” He glances at Hannah. “What’s going on? Taking her home?”
“No. Hey, don’t say anything to Tuls, but . . .” I nod behind me at Hannah. “She says I have a kid.”
“What?” he spouts too loud for my liking.
“Keep it down.”
“Sorry, but fuck, Jet. You knocked her up?”
“No. It’s not hers. Look, I don’t know the full story. I need to talk to her and get it.”
“Yeah. Guess so. I’ll help Tulsa unload. Fill me in later.”
“Maybe tomorrow. It’s almost one. I don’t know how long this will take.”
We shake hands, a handshake that comes with two slow slides, three fist bumps, and a quick chest hit as we bring it in. “Talk tomorrow, bro.”
I walk around to the driver’s side where Tulsa sits. “I’m going to grab a coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“She’s hot. Looks familiar. Have I hooked up with her?”
“No, fucker. I have,” I reply, walking away as he starts the engine.
My brothers take off, leaving Hannah and me standing in the alley alone. A good fifteen feet is between us, but neither of us makes a move to close the distance. Looking at her now, I’m reminded of how beautiful she was that day as we said goodbye. The wind blows, and she shivers. I say, “There’s a coffee shop on the next block. We can talk there.”
She comes toward me, and we start walking when she catches up. “What’s your last name?” I ask, tracking the cracks in the cement.
“Nichols,” she whispers loud enough for me to hear.
I glance over at her. She’s just as pretty as my memories held, that haunted sorrow still residing in her eyes. She was more confident that night and a free spirit the next day. Now, she’s the bearer of news that could be good or bad. I’m unsure what to think, so I just say what’s on my mind. “I have a son?”
A flicker of a smile crosses her lips but leaves even quicker. Reaching over, she touches my arm, and we both stop. “I didn’t know who you were when we slept together.”
“And you know now? You know me, Hannah Nichols?”
“The world has a screwed-up way of working sometimes. I was never told your name—”
“What were you told and by whom?”
“I was told you walked away.”
Anger rises inside me, my chest heating. I start walking, hoping I can cool off enough on the way so I don’t take it out on her, though she seems to be the most likely recipient since she’s bringing these lies to me. “I wouldn’t fucking leave, so whoever your source is lied to you.”
“I’m not here to argue.”
“Why are you here, and who’s the mother?”
“I’m here because of Cassie Barnett.”
Hearing Cassie’s name after all these years is sobering. I know the name well. I knew the woman better. It was a short-lived love affair. I broke her heart before she had a chance to break mine, apparently. I was twenty and didn’t know a good thing when I had it. “Cassie Barnett.” I say her name just to taste the sound of it again. But nothing makes sense. “How do you know her?”
“She’s my . . .” She sucks in a jagged breath and looks away while tilting her head back. If I’m not mistaken, her eyes are suddenly glassy with tears. “She’s my cousin.”
Whoa. This world just got a little too small for my liking. “You’re cousins?”
“Yes. We were.”
“Were? I’m confused. Just spell it out for me.”
“I have temporary custody of Cassie’s son, Alfie,” she says, stopping again. When I turn back to her, she adds, “Your son.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply, scoffing at the thought. “Cassie and I broke up a long time ago. If we had a kid, she would’ve told me, so I think you have the wrong guy.”
She seems hesitant and looks down. Tucking some hair behind her ear, she lowers her voice. “I need you to sign paperwork formalizing custody. This shouldn’t be an issue since you’re claiming he’s not yours anyway.”
Something is off, not sitting right in my gut. A lump forms in my throat, my thoughts jumping to conclusions I’m not ready to face. “Where’s Cassie? Why do you have custody of her kid?”
She looks away, her hair falling to the side and hiding her face from view. “She passed away a few weeks ago.”
After that punch to the heart, I’m left speechless and staring at the woman in front of me. “Cassie . . . She’s gone?” The deafening cheers from the bar still ring in my ears as her words rumble around my head. “How?”
“Mr. Crow, it’s late.”
Mr. Crow? “One in the morning, but here we are, Ms. Nichols.”
“I was given . . . we—”
“We?”
“My aunt and I.”
“Cassie’s mom?”
“Yes.”
Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I remember Cassie’s mother well. “She never liked me.”
“I’ve heard.” It’s not a hateful response, but factual. I hurt Cassie, so I’m not surprised that she and her mother didn’t have nice things to say about me.
“We only have seven days left to locate Alfie’s next of kin and get the paperwork signed.”
“Or what happens?”
“He’ll be removed by Child Protective Services. We’ll have to start legal proceedings to get him back.”
Her pain is evident. Sighing, I feel bad that I can’t help her. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine how horrible this is for you, but I can’t sign custody over when I’m not his dad. Cassie would have told me if we had a kid.” I think. Surely, she would have . . .
Hannah’s smile is as tight as her grip on her handbag. “Time is running out. All you have to do is sign the papers for us to get custody. You’ll never have to hear from us again.”
Before tonight, I would have loved to hear from Hannah again. But this? A son? Why didn’t she tell me?
“Hannah, if the kid is mine, I’ll take him. If I’d known I’d had a kid, I would have been a part of his life. Cassie would know that, too. But I haven’t heard from her in years. That’s why I’m finding it hard to believe he’s actually mine.”
She shifts, glancing at the back door of the bar and then to the opening at the end of the alley. I might be as uncomfortable as she looks, which makes me think we’re not going to make it to get coffee. When she turns back, she says, “I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m here so Alfie’s life isn’t ruined. Will you sign the paperwork?”
“Cassie and I broke up well over six years ago, so I can’t . . .” Doing the math, I remember she said the kid is six. “We weren’t together long, but would she really withhold something so important?”
Determination crosses her expression, and her chin lifts. Stubborn little thing. “I don’t know what to believe, but I’m caught between what I’ve been told and . . .”
“And?”
“And the man I once spent the night with.”
“I’m still that man, Hannah.”
“We shouldn’t speak as if we actually know each other. We don’t. That night was—”
“Amazing. I won’t let you call it anything less than what it was.”
Her demeanor relaxes before me. “I won’t because it was amazing. But that doesn’t change what we need to discuss. Alfie’s your son, but he doesn’t know you, and you don’t know him. Will you please just sign the paperwork, Jet?”
“I can’t sign paperwork that could be false. If he is some oth
er man’s child, I will be committing a crime by denying a different man access to his son. If he is, in fact, my son . . . If he’s mine . . . I was never told about him. I wouldn’t walk away, not like that.”
“We don’t want to disrupt his life more than it already has been. I’m asking you to sign custody of him over to me. That was Cassie’s wish in her will. And he’s all my aunt has left. I’m her niece, not her daughter or her grandson.”
Shifting so she’s out of my shadow, I’d forgotten how small she was until it felt like I was towering over her. “I’m sorry to hear about Cassie, but if he’s my son, I won’t just sign my responsibility over in a stack of legal paperwork.”
Her eyes reflect not just her sadness, but also the desperation to get this deal done. The only problem is, this isn’t a deal to close, but a life to discuss.
2
Hannah Nichols
Jet Crow is too handsome for his own good. His good looks have become a distraction to my purpose.
The last time we were together, I got so close to falling for his lines and good time that I cut the ties starting to bind us together before it was too late. I’ve made the mistake of falling for a musician before, so I refuse to date or trust another musical Romeo. They’re all the same. Players who don’t understand the definition of commitment, much less live by it. Even when they say they love you, don’t believe it. I was a fool before. Not anymore.
Regardless of how amazing our one-night stand was.
But here’s Jet Crow with that dark hair and soul-soothing eyes staring into mine. Lips that once kissed me everywhere are licked just before he realizes we are now on opposing sides. With large hands, hands I remember holding me together after falling apart from ecstasy, hanging at his sides, I can tell he’s in shock, trying to process how his world just got flipped upside down.
I thought this would be easy. Jet walked away years ago. He wouldn’t want to take on a kid now. He’d sign Alfie over. End of story. But no. Just my luck. He wants to pretend to take the moral high ground.
Something in his eyes makes me want to believe that maybe he didn’t know. That makes no sense, though. My aunt wouldn’t lie to me while her daughter was on her deathbed, would she? Would Cassie just go along with some story where he’s painted as the villain? Or is he the bad guy?