Amber

by Elle Casey

  “Yeah,” he says. “And we’re in Toronto right now, too.”

  Say what? My brain is spinning. I was so busy drinking the champagne and chatting about nothing in the car on the way over, I wasn’t paying attention to any of the signs we must’ve passed. “We’re in Toronto right now?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t you see the sign at the airport? Wonder why that woman took our passports?”

  “No. Oh my god.” I look around at everybody. “These people are Canadians?”

  He laughs. “Some of them, probably.”

  “The band is here?!” I smack him on the chest.

  He jumps, startled but still smiling. “Yeah. The band is here. I think I’ve said that, like, three times already.”

  I slap him on the chest again. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

  “I just did!” He’s laughing outright now.

  I smack him one more time. “You know what I mean. You sneak-attacked me!” Panic fills my chest and makes me feel like I’m choking on it.

  He has the grace to look ashamed as his mirth fades. “Would you have come if I’d told you all the details?”

  I’m so desperately sad that he deceived me like this. I totally trusted him. “Of course I would’ve come. That was the whole point of me being in New York in the first place. I thought I wasn’t going to meet them until tomorrow morning.”

  “Because nobody thought I could get you here.”

  When I see the look on his face, my heart plummets into my stomach. “Are you telling me that this was some sort of little game for you? Some sort of challenge?” I feel like the world’s biggest fool. All those moments of camaraderie—or what felt like it could be something else, something special—were just an illusion. God, I must be desperate to have been so easily fooled.

  “No. It’s not like that,” he says, his expression losing all humor and tenderness.

  I’m so angry I can’t even stand to look at him anymore. “Yeah, right. I bet this was really funny for you . . . trick the hippie chick into coming on a plane with you. Put her on a helicopter and scare the shit out of her. Fool her into coming to see the men who are trying to manipulate her.” I slam my glass down on the bar so hard the stem breaks. “Well, you can go make toast in a bathtub for all I care, Ty Stanz. I’m out of here.”

  Without another word or care for what he has to say, I slide out between the bodyguards and push my way through the crowd. There’s no way Ty can follow me because the minute I make a hole in his little barrier, fans rush in and plug it up, which is perfectly fine with me.

  I can’t believe I was feeling sorry for him and his poor nightmare of a life before. Boo hoo. Please. He has women with their boobs falling out of their shirts worshipping the ground he walks on and men ready to mow these ladies over just to exchange a hello with a guy they think is cooler than life itself. He could probably get a blowjob right there at the bar if he wanted to. His life sucks like my life does. NOT. I’m so much better off on the farm than with any of these jackasses who don’t value honesty or forthrightness. My decision to remain there is looking better and better every second.

  I’m fuming, weaving through strangers, trying to get as far away from Ty as I possibly can. I am such an idiot. I let myself believe there was something of substance to that man, something worth getting to know. Ha, ha. Joke’s on me! The big city gets another one over on the hippie chick.

  At least I still have my telephone. I could call my sisters and whine and vent about what an idiot I am, but that’s not going to help me right now. How am I going to get out of here without enough money to pay for a bus ticket? Rose and Em don’t have credit cards either, and I’m pretty sure it will cost more than what I have left in cash to get from Toronto back to New York.

  “Amber!” Somebody grabs my arm and yells in my ear. “Amber, you’re here.”

  I glare at this person who wants to die, otherwise known as the man grabbing my arm. It’s Lister. Asshole number one.

  I yank myself free. “Don’t talk to me.”

  “What’s wrong?” He’s stunned.

  I face him, so angry I want to jab one of my chopsticks up his nose. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is this little game you guys are playing. I don’t appreciate it one bit.”

  His face turns into a mask. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You challenged Ty to get me to this place? Why didn’t you just be up-front with me and invite me yourself? You knew I wanted to meet with them as soon as possible! I would have said yes!”

  He looks lost. “I didn’t challenge him to get you here. I asked him to invite you. What did he do?”

  “Well, he did what you asked him to, all right. And he tricked me into getting onto a helicopter and a jet so we could fly here without him telling me where we were going or who was going to be here.” I poke Lister in the chest with my finger. “You told me that I was going to meet the members of the band tomorrow morning, not tonight.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but this thing came up at the last minute. It wasn’t even supposed to include a performance, which is part of the reason why Ty wasn’t here.”

  Those terribly inconvenient feelings of protectiveness toward Ty rise up again. “Why wasn’t he invited? Regardless of whether there was supposed to be a performance or not, he’s in the band. He should have been here.”

  “It was supposed to be an old-school fan hangout with just the original members, but then it morphed into something more involved. Things changed and we needed Ty to participate. And since he was coming, I figured you might as well tag along too. I was trying to make the meeting between you and the band happen sooner because you didn’t look too thrilled about having to wait until tomorrow.”

  My anger is starting to fade in the face of his explanation. “You should have said something to me instead of letting Ty pull all those shenanigans on me.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry you got dragged over here without the full story. I should have handled it myself, but Ty assured me he’d take care of it. Normally, he’s completely responsible and serious. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.”

  I look around at the huge crowd, imagining the amount of time and planning that obviously went into this event. “This party does not look like it came together in the last few hours.”

  “No, you’re right about that, but the fact that Ty had to come and the idea that we could get you here to speed things along, that came up very recently. I swear it.” He holds up a hand like he’s making a pledge.

  He seems like he really wants me to believe him, but it makes no difference whether I do or not. What’s done is done. I don’t belong here, and I don’t belong around people who couldn’t tell the truth to save their lives. “This is not my scene. I’m leaving.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder much more gently this time. “How are you going to get back?”

  I seriously want to cry, not only at the fact that he has a point but also because he’s feeling sorry for me, and I hate being pitied. “What do you care?”

  His mask slips away and his face twists angrily. “Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how upset my clients would be with me if you took off and nobody knew where you were?”

  The ferocity of his response takes me aback; he’s always been so mild-mannered. “You people don’t own me.” He’s somehow managed to make me feel like the bad guy in this scenario. How does he do that?

  “Yes, that’s true. Nobody is saying that they do. That doesn’t mean they don’t care about you and your welfare.”

  I nearly scream at that load of bull. “Care about me? Are you kidding me?! We are talking about the same men who blew off my moms and didn’t bother to find out about me and my sisters for twenty-five years, aren’t we?”

  He stiffens and his jaw pulses out several times before he answers. His mask is back in place. “You haven’t heard the entire story. I suggest you give them a bit of your time so that you can hear it before you
start judging like that.”

  Alarm bells are jangling in my head. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to see him and I don’t want to know what he’s hinting at. But anger builds in me so strongly, it won’t let me back down. “You’d better not be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That my mothers have lied to me.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. But you know as well as I do that there are always two sides to every story. I dare you to listen to the other side.”

  I can’t believe he’s actually daring me. This guy has a really big set of balls on him. “Fine. Where are they? I’ll hear them out right now.” Not that I’ll buy the bullshit they’ll be selling.

  He looks over his shoulder. “I don’t think now is a good time.”

  As if on cue, lights suddenly come on and illuminate a stage. It’s got instruments and microphone stands poised and ready.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, as the crowd surges forward in unison, carrying me and Lister with it.

  “Free concert,” he says, trying to resist being jostled around. It’s messing up his precious suit. “Some of our sponsors put it together. It’s for a special cause.”

  I’m torn; I want to get the hell out of here and tell all these people, including Ty, to screw off, but I’ve come all this way, and I even flew on a damn helicopter to get here. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit curious about seeing Ty, that jerk, onstage.

  I shrug in defeat. “Fine. I’ll watch, but then I’m leaving.”

  He takes me by the elbow, trying to lead me away from the stage. “Come on. We have a private viewing area. It’ll be more comfortable for you than standing in this crowd.” He looks around distractedly, like all of these people dancing, jumping, and screaming are annoying him. He’s probably worried they’re wrinkling his clothes.

  I pull myself from his grip. “No, thanks. I think I’ll be happier down here.” I turn my back on him and face the stage.

  I want to stay angry and offended, but it’s really hard not to get caught up in the moment with all these people smiling, cheering, and holding up their beers, phones, and lighters. I was never a Red Hot fan, but my moms sure were, and I know they would pee their pants and possibly pass out if they were standing next to me.

  My moms aren’t here physically, but they are here with me in spirit. I wish more than anything they and my sisters could be here sharing this moment with me, because even though there are at least two sides to this story, I know our mothers did everything they could to give us a wonderful life—and Red Hot is their favorite band by a mile.

  It’s too dark to see details of the people walking out onstage, but they’re picking up instruments and chatting among themselves. It must be them. My heart is beating wildly at the idea that one of these men could be my father. I see outlines of teased mullets in the mist that’s being pumped out from the sidelines. People are starting to cheer loudly, voices already going hoarse. I’m both thrilled and sickened in equal measure. I’ve never experienced such opposing emotions together before. It’s literally making me dizzy.

  The last person up onstage is Ty. Unbelievably, there are some who pause their cheers to boo. But then someone strums a guitar, the drummer taps out a short but complicated rhythm, and the spotlights pop on. The lead singer takes center stage. I know who he is: Redmond Wylde, otherwise known as Red Hot Wylde, according to my mother. For the first time in my life, I’m staring at this man and wondering if he’s the one—the man I’ve always wondered about. Talk about surreal. I look for clues that might tell me he and I share DNA. He’s tall and lanky, his long, teased hair brown with reddish highlights. There’s no way for me to tell if it’s dyed, though. His face is thin and his nose hawkish. I almost reach up to touch my own face but stop myself. My nose isn’t that big. His cheekbones are high and his chin strong. I sense he’s a stubborn person by the set of his jaw; my sisters would say he and I have that in common.

  “How’re y’all doing tonight?” he asks, his aged voice sounding nothing like the one that sang the songs I’ve memorized.

  The responding screams are deafening, drowning out my thoughts about shared facial features and personality traits. Everyone forgets that they’re not thrilled by the fact that Ty is standing on the stage with his gorgeous hair, his jacket off, and his sleeves rolled up so you can see his tattoos with a guitar slung over his shoulder. They scream for their idols, who are about to play a song that dates back over twenty years, probably about the time that many of these people here were living their glory days, just like my moms.

  I don’t really care what these old buffoons onstage are going to do. All my attention is on the lead guitarist. To be honest, I go a little faint seeing Ty standing there. I think I’m getting a small taste of what my mothers felt when they watched this band rocking out all those years ago.

  The music starts, and it’s so loud, it feels like it’s playing inside my chest, forcing my heart to pump blood through my body with the rhythm they’re setting. Something sneaks in under my defenses and settles into my bones. The opening lines of the song wash over me.

  “Hello, lady, dangerous lady, have I got a song for you . . .”

  As the song progresses, Ty’s fingers move across the strings, his instrument practically a part of his body. The complex fingerings seem like child’s play for him. The sound is pure and perfect, every note crystal clear and sharp. His guitar rests on his thigh, and he bends and flexes his body to the beat, the music and his passion taking over his expression. The emotion he feels for the band and the music is right there for everyone to see. I wonder if they know what it means when his face goes all dark like that. No wonder my mothers followed these guys all over the place. I get it now. I totally get it.

  Oh shit . . . what?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I want to say that the band sucks, but I find myself singing along to every song they play. I’ve probably heard each one of them over a hundred times . . . maybe a thousand times or more in total, so it’s no surprise that I can. I picture my moms dancing around the house and singing at the top of their lungs, hugging one another and collapsing into giggles on the couch. Red Hot music always made them so happy. It makes me sad that they had to leave that relationship behind for my sisters and me.

  I stare at each member of the band, trying to pick up clues as to who might be my father or Rose’s or Em’s. I don’t see any resemblance to any of us, but maybe it’s because they have so much makeup on and that hair . . . Oh my god, that hair. What on earth are they thinking?

  I know big-hair bands are coming back in style, but these guys are not pulling it off. I don’t think my critical feelings are coming from the fact that they’re family-abandoning jerks either, especially when some girl standing next to me is pointing and laughing at them.

  When the band pauses between songs, I heed the call of my bladder and go to the bathroom. I’m in a stall listening in on people’s conversations to pass the time.

  “Did you see that guy singing?” one girl says.

  “That’s Red Hot Wylde,” another girl says.

  “But his hair . . .” She giggles. “He needs some extensions or something.”

  “I know, he’s thinning on top.” They both laugh and then snort in synch. They sound drunk, but the alcohol is working as a truth serum; the guy is definitely going bald, and his attempts at teasing his hair to hide it are bordering on pitiful.

  “What about that guy on lead guitar?” the first girl says.

  “I know. Who is he?” her friend replies.

  Another woman speaks up. She sounds older than these two I’ve been listening to. “That’s Keith James’ replacement, and not much of one if you ask me.”

  My hand hesitates on the door of my stall. I’m ready to unlock it and have a conversation with this woman. I mean, I’m no expert, but I know good guitar playing when I hear it, and I know all the band’s so
ngs by heart; he didn’t miss a single note.

  “What do you mean?” one of the girls asks. “He’s totally hot.”

  “He may be hot, but he doesn’t belong in the band.” The woman is clearly angry about this.

  “Because he’s too hot.” The two girls laugh again.

  “No, because he doesn’t get it. He wouldn’t look like that if he got what we were here for.”

  “I’m just here for the free booze,” one girl says.

  “And I’m here for the music,” the other younger girl says. “I like the music. But I could care less who’s playing it. They sound better on the radio when you can’t see their faces.”

  “Word up,” her drunk friend says. I hear two hands hitting together—probably a high five.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You missed out when they were playing in their heyday. There was nobody better. They could pack an entire stadium in ten minutes of ticket sales, and that was before we had the Internet. We camped out for days to get those tickets.”

  “Yeah, but that was then and this is now,” says the drunker of the two girls.

  I can’t sit there and listen anymore. I leave the stall and find all three women checking themselves out in the mirror. I was right—two of them are younger and the last one looks to be about the same age as my mothers.

  The young girls leave and it’s just the two of us outside the stalls for a few moments. “So you really love the band, huh?” I ask the older woman.

  She applies lipstick very carefully to her bottom lip. “Yep. Have most of my life.”

  “My moms too.”

  She looks at me funny. “Moms? Plural?”

  “Oh, I meant my mom. Singular.” I usually remember not to do that when I’m in public. Not that I’m embarrassed, but it usually requires an overly long and awkward conversation with a stranger that I’d like to avoid tonight.

  “They were amazing,” she says, sighing as she puts her lipstick away.

  “Aren’t they still, though?” I smile, trying to cheer her up. Those idiot girls harshed her mellow big-time. I could imagine my mothers going off on someone saying that stuff about their favorite band.