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Table of Contents
Cover
Synopsis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by Renée J. Lukas
Dedication
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Bella Books
Synopsis
Rolling Stone is about to get the scoop of a lifetime. Rock star icon Adrienne Austen finally wants to tell her story, including what happened between her and former Governor Robin Sanders. Rumors of an affair with Adrienne sent Robin into hiding, but the publicity did nothing to diminish Adrienne’s continued rise to fame with her band, Eye of the Storm.
Was Adrienne truly the bad girl that everyone believed her to be? Was she really involved in Robin’s disappearance? Find out the answers in this revealing sequel to the best-selling Hurricane Days.
Copyright © 2017 by Renée J. Lukas
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Bella Books Edition 2017
eBook released 2017
Editor: Medora MacDougall
Cover Designer: Micheala Lynn
ISBN: 978-1-59493-543-5
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Bella Books by Renée J. Lukas
The Comfortable Shoe Diaries
Hurricane Days
Southern Girl
For Beth
About the Author
Renée J. Lukas is a novelist, screenwriter and cartoonist who lives in Massachusetts with her partner and two sons.
Chapter One
Cory
My name is Cory Watson. I’ve been a reporter for Rolling Stone magazine a couple of years now. I write decent pieces, but nothing to get me noticed by anyone so far. So I flipped out when they gave me this assignment. I’d interviewed record execs, but since I was still new by their standards, I’d never interviewed a real star yet. And this wasn’t a star—she was an icon.
At sixty-five, Adrienne Austen was still touring with most of the original members of her band. She had jagged blond hair and could rock a pair of leather pants like you wouldn’t believe. She was my grandma’s age, but my grandma couldn’t wear pants like those. I don’t even want to picture that.
I was going to meet her at her apartment in Greenwich Village that afternoon. She’d been living in New York for the past ten years or so. She’d said it provided better access to the entertainment world and, at the same time, was a better city to be anonymous in, something she craved after all of the scandals surrounding her. She did admit to missing Boston, though, the place where she and her band had become underground rock sensations.
I was a nervous wreck, because, c’mon, she was an icon. I went over my interview questions again, repeating them in my head, refining them until they sounded natural.
In the elevator, I kept clearing my throat. All of a sudden I had rocks in my esophagus, threatening to make me sound like a pre-pubescent teen. I pulled at my already loosened tie, needing some air. The truth was, Adrienne Austen was my idol. I had every CD she ever put out. I didn’t want to just download the songs, like my friends did; I wanted the album art and CD covers too. I was one of those quirky guys who collected CDs and even vinyl if I could still find it. I loved haunting music, the darker the better. All the notes of longing, of unrequited love—I suppose I related to that since that described my entire adolescence. Adrienne’s voice—and her band, Eye of the Storm—were the voice of my teen years. I’d lock myself in my room and play Eye of the Storm for hours on end, scaring my parents. Add to that the fact that it was widely known how she preferred women, which only added to the intrigue. It would’ve been so much easier had they given me someone else to interview, like the folk-rock guy, Ed Fudge, or the rapper Ping Pong. But my first celebrity interview would be with the woman I’d adored since I was thirteen. At this point, she’d become a legend in my mind, and I was a little afraid to meet a mortal woman who could disappoint me or change the image I had of her.
With each floor the elevator passed, I took a deep breath. I had to keep it together and not act like a star-struck schoolboy. I knew Ms. Austen didn’t look the way she did in her twenties or thirties, but unlike some female singers who get a lot of unfair shit for growing older and their looks changing, somehow nobody cared about this with Adrienne Austen. I’d be out with my guy friends, and if the subject came up, they’d be like, “She’s a real badass.” I guess it was that she had the same attitude she always had, and that’s what mattered most. I wouldn’t tell my friends, but I found the extra lines on her face sexy; I even thought being older made her sexier, the way I think we all get sexier with our experiences. But I’d never tell my guy friends that. They’d laugh at me.
When the door slid open, I fo
llowed the directions on my now-sweaty Apple watch. Reporters like me took pride in holding on to vintage artifacts like those, but the truth was, I was too lazy to take it off. The watch told me to take a right out of the elevator. It was less than a minute before I was there—face-to-face with Adrienne Austen’s door. I thought I’d crap myself.
The door opened, but I didn’t recognize the woman.
“Elaine Ford,” the woman said with a tired smile, shaking my hand. “You’re here for the interview?”
“Yeah, yes,” I responded. “Cory Watson, Rolling Stone.”
“Come in.” She gestured to a long hallway. It opened into a wide living room with an impressive view of the city. I imagined it was really romantic at night, all lit up. “Would you like something? Coffee?”
I glanced around, remembering that she was still talking to me. “Uh, no. I’m good.”
“I’m her assistant,” Elaine said. “Let me know if you need anything.” She was polite, but seemed as though she was already late for something.
“Thanks.”
“She’ll be out in a minute.” Elaine exited down another narrow hall, leaving me to my anxiety.
I tried to get comfortable in the stuffed chair near the sliding glass door. I kept staring at the view of a quaint balcony, and all the electric cars filling the street below—all clones of each other, and getting smaller every year. Somehow, the colors lime green and white had become the favorites. Looking out, all I could see was a sea of lime green and white. I stuffed my iPhone 2036 into my pocket and sort of hoped that the chaos below would lull me into a meditative state. It was impossible, though. I’d never been so amped to talk to someone.
The apartment was turn-of-the-millennium décor, which had come back in style, with old-fashioned wood floors, a ridiculously high ceiling and open kitchen looking out into the living room. There was a loft right over my head with a glass floor; I imagined the bedrooms were up there. The place was inviting, with a hint of cigarette smell. Flushed with anticipation, I waited for what seemed like eternity. Just as my shoulders had begun to relax a little…
A throaty and familiar voice cut the air.
“You smoke?” It was her.
“Uh, no.” I jumped up immediately and extended my hand. “Cory Watson…” It was a strange question. Hardly anyone smoked anymore; that vice seemed to be reserved for rock stars and a few actors.
“Rolling Stone.” She lit up a cigarette, not taking my hand. Her almond-brown eyes crinkled in that same smile, the one I’d seen many times before on the downloaded videos that had played on my bedroom wall when I was growing up. Her hair was darker, a caramel color streaked with blond highlights, and a little shorter, just above her shoulders. She brushed some jagged bangs to one side and looked curiously at me.
Or maybe it wasn’t curiosity at all. Suddenly I realized—she’d met a million me’s in her lifetime, and I was not as exciting to her as she was to me.
* * *
We sat at the little table on the outside balcony. Autumn was kicking up some cool breezes out here. I kept trying to smooth my hair so I wouldn’t look like a complete slob. Suddenly none of my rehearsed interview questions seemed good enough. Dammit, Cory. Remember why you’re here.
“Your tour,” I blurted. “Some are speculating that this will be your last tour. Is that true?”
She took a drag off her cigarette, sat back and appraised me. She was probably wondering how I’d gotten as far as I had. “My last tour will be the one right before I die. Is that really what you want to talk about?”
My mouth went dry. The wind caught the silver silk shirt she wore, and the collar flapped up on one side. It was a freeze-frame moment, reminding me I only had one chance to get it right.
Obviously, she was a person who could see through bullshit. My best bet here was honesty. She might even like me for it, since hardly anybody tried it anymore. She knew what my real question was, but it was rumored that she never wanted to talk about it. So I struggled.
Why would she tell me, a nobody, when she wouldn’t tell anyone else? I reminded myself that she hadn’t granted interviews in a long time, and by agreeing to this one, she might be willing to talk about…it.
“I’m sorry,” I said plainly. “I know I don’t have a reputation yet.”
Was I really apologizing for myself? Apparently so.
“I didn’t have a reputation either,” she said, “until guys like you noticed me.”
Oddly, her remark put me at ease, as if she understood the struggle of a guy trying to make a name for himself at a top magazine, one of the rare few still in print. Of course she understood the struggle. She’d lived it.
I smiled a little, thinking about what I really wanted to know, what everyone wanted to know. It would be a more interesting angle than a piece about whether or not this tour was her last. But my editor assumed that would be all I could get. She wouldn’t believe it if I could land a bigger story.
“Okay,” I chuckled, double-checking that the “record” option was set on my watch. I braced myself and dove off the cliff… “Did you kill her?”
My voice was surprisingly soft, but the question was indelicate, to say the least. Of course I was referring to the famous politician, Robin Sanders, former governor of Georgia, who went missing after a rumored lesbian affair with Adrienne Austen. Before Adrienne could respond or kick me out, I added, “I don’t believe it, you know. But it’s one of those mysteries that still kind of hangs on.” As if she didn’t know.
“Is that what people think?” she asked with apparent surprise.
“It’s about half and half.” I’d assumed she knew.
She crushed the remainder of her cigarette in the ashtray and gazed out at the murky skyline, expressionless. “Whatever sells.”
“So you didn’t?”
She turned to me, a slight smile escaping her lips. She leaned closer, as if she was going to spill a big secret. She looked at my recording watch. “Turn it on. I’ll give you the real story.”
Chapter Two
Adrienne
I used to be cautious with reporters, only telling them what I wanted them to know. But something about getting older…maybe I wanted to reveal more, wanted, needed, to be understood more. Whatever the reason, I didn’t tell Cory Watson everything, but I ended up telling him way more than I’d intended to.
I came from a small town in central Florida. No beaches, but miles of orange groves and bright, electric sky you’d swear was so close you could touch it. I never talk much about my hometown because it was uninspiring. A flat, dead place. When people talk about where they come from, it always seems like the place they grew up is a part of them, something they carry with them. Not me. Miles of monotonous orange groves never became part of me. And the sense of hopelessness, sameness—people getting up, going to work and drinking themselves into the daylight—nobody lived there, only existed. You didn’t belong there if you had plans or, even worse, dreams. And as it happened, my dreams were just too big for that place.
My favorite memories were of lying in the grass in front of my house and watching clouds drift by like puffs of smoke. Those are the good memories. Whenever my dad yelled “Adrienne!” because I hadn’t cleaned my room good enough or he was blind drunk…those aren’t so good.
My mom skipped out when I was about six or seven. I don’t remember her much except for the two grueling years of piano lessons she forced me to take. After the first lesson, it was obvious I wasn’t going to be the next Chopin, but Mom had delusions of bringing high culture into our white trash family. At least that’s what it seemed like when I remembered her. She said things about me making something out of myself, and because I could play music by ear, she assumed I had a gift for music. Honestly, I could pick out a tune after hearing it, but I didn’t care much for the piano.
After Mom left, Dad said I look just like her. I always thought that’s why he hated my guts. I reminded him of a tragedy, everything he thought went wrong wi
th his life. That’s probably why he preferred to look at me only through the prism of amber light from his bottle of Jack Daniels.
In high school I was that girl who loved the attention I could get from guys. If you were a boy, I was your worst nightmare, a black widow, trying to get you to fall in love with me, doing whatever it took, especially if you were a “challenge.” Then once I had you, I was done, on to the next one. I’m not proud of it now, but back then I was.
I had this friend, Gwen Tolbert, senior year. I didn’t like “like” her; she was just a fun friend who could get into more trouble than I did, which impressed me.
On the side of my house was an old treehouse left there by the last owner. Since Gwen lived only one street away, she used to come over and we’d hang out and smoke up in the treehouse. My dad was hardly ever home, so I usually got away with it. One Saturday afternoon, she told me to meet her up there, said she had something she wanted to show me. I remember it was a really hot day. I was wearing jean shorts, but the sun, the thick air, stuck to my neck and arms. I felt drops of sweat sliding against my inner thighs as I climbed the ladder.
The treehouse was basically a one-room enclosure with walls and one window. We lay on a worn-out rug covering the wood floor, facing the doorway so we could see if anyone was coming up. There was no door. It sucked when it rained, because rain blew right in. I’m surprised the thing stayed up; I think the wood was rotting. What I remember most is that the rug smelled really bad.
Anyway, we lay on the rug and Gwen showed me a couple of issues of Playgirl magazine.
“Where the hell did you get this?” I asked.
“I subscribe,” she said with a proud swagger.
“Your parents know?” This was back in the days when, if you ordered something, it came to your mailbox, and, depending on who got the mail, you could be grounded for weeks.
“I have a post office box, silly,” she said.
In Her Eyes Page 1