On Edge

by Kim Cong

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, facts, sometimes random sentences are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in what she hopes is an entirely flattering but fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Kim Cong; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be distributed, posted, or reproduced in any form by digital or mechanical means, including via Instagram, Facebook or twitter, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Hang Le, www.byhangle.com

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing, www.hottreeediting.com

  Formatting by Fiona Dreaming Proofreading, fionadreamingproofreading@gmail.com

  Dedication

  To my husband - without you I would be less, with you I am so much more.

  Table of Contents

  On Edge

  Acknowledgements

  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

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Jetta

  “It’s Courtney Oliver!” The whisper hissed behind me. I was wearing faded jeans, a black t-shirt and black flip-flops. My hair was in a messy ponytail and my face was covered by really big sunglasses with thick black frames. I was tired and craving my extra-large hot mocha.

  “Where?” Another voice murmured urgently and I tensed. The line at the coffee place moved forward.

  The guy behind the bar was Joe. Nice, tattooed, tall, always with a smile and a laugh. His girlfriend worked there too and together they were the cutest couple I’d ever seen He glanced down the line worriedly.

  Crap.

  “There! In the black shirt!” The voices behind me slowly grew louder as their excitement increased.

  “No freaking way! How can you tell?”

  “Duh. She’s got that wrist tattoo! Though she’s definitely put on weight.”

  Ah crap. I resisted the urge to cover my art. The wrist tattoo had been a spur of the moment impulse. I’d been grieving the loss of my parents and had decided I needed to commemorate their lives. A small, yet incredible phoenix, flying wings outstretched with fire falling behind it. In the fire trail were music notes. I loved it. It was a reminder of how precious life is.

  The fat comment was pretty rude though.

  “No freaking way! Quick! Go over! I want a selfie!”

  I’d gotten to the front of the line. Joe glanced at the girls behind me.

  “Hi, Delores. How was the nursing home last night?” I smiled gratefully. Joe knew some of my background and was always willing to cover for me when something like this happened.

  “Hi, Joe, it was great thanks. Bingo nights are always extra fun and I helped Beryl dye her hair purple again. You know, just a bucket of laughs. I’ll grab my usual, thanks.”

  He nodded and pressed it in. The girls behind me watched in disappointed silence as I waited for my double-shot hot mocha.

  “Thanks, Winnie.” I grinned at the short brunette behind the coffee machine.

  “No trouble, Delores. See you tomorrow.” I nodded and moved out, relieved to be leaving the rude teens behind.

  It was a fairly nice day. The day was warm, causing people to dress in shorts and t-shirts in preparation for the hot day ahead. I wandered down the road, pausing here and there on my way back to my apartment.

  A magazine in a newsagent window caught my eye. The latest tabloid had a picture of my sister on the front with her latest conquest. The caption read Courtney Oliver – Her Secret Shame!

  I sighed, pulled out my phone and hit number one on speed dial. It was answered after one ring.

  “Finally!” My sister’s voice came over the speaker. “I’ve been calling your loft for hours. Have you seen this? They’re saying I’m a terrible lover. Can you imagine? ME! Bad in bed?”

  She continued her tirade while I walked home. I slipped my key in the lock and headed up to my apartment. I lived in an average area of town. The mortgage was decent and I liked the acoustics.

  When Courtney had moved out—uprooting to Sydney, which had a better night life, club scene, and ritzier parties than Canberra—I stayed where I was.

  Canberra was home for me. I’d sold the two-bedroom apartment Courtney and I had lived in and moved into the loft apartment in an older area of the city. It was within walking distance of the Canberra city centre, but near parks and offered quieter living.

  My little loft apartment was open plan. The wooden flooring was old, having been in the original building before it had been renovated and divided into the apartments it now housed. The thick brick walls meant my neighbours never got upset with the noise.

  I’d purchased it for the wide windows and sunny balcony. The kitchen was small and U-shaped with a gas cooktop and small oven. I didn’t own a dining table; instead, I’d found kickarse comfy wood and chrome stools for under my breakfast bar. My appliances were a mix-match of old and new. No sense spending money when a twenty-dollar toaster worked as well as a hundred-dollar one.

  My balcony was directly across from the kitchen. A small concrete and old wrought-iron feature, the double doors opened to the light, letting the breeze from the day in. I’d decorated the space with flower pots, herbs and a tiny glass table with two tiny chairs. There was barely any room, but sitting out on my balcony in the afternoon, sipping wine, was a pleasure I had missed when I’d lived with Courtney in our crappy old apartment.

  My bed was tucked behind the wall to the bathroom-come-laundry with a tallboy next to it, and a built-in on the other side. I had only one battered old side table with a cute lamp I’d splurged on a year back.

  I’d painted the walls a soft white and eggshell blue, with a few photos from the past few years hung about here and there. I had a small TV on the wall at the end of the bed, with a two-seater lounge in a soft aqua colour pushed up against the base of the bed.

  But the majority of my space was taken up by recording gear—amplifiers and other audio equipment, my mother’s grand piano, a few guitars, a keyboard, some ukuleles, a few drums and bongos, a saxophone and a violin.

  My little apartment was bright, cheerful and filled with everything I needed and not a thing more. It was also spotless, barring a few music sheets heaped on the grand piano.

  I couldn’t stand clutter or mess. Everything had to be in its place and had to have a reason for being there. It was one way I could bring control to my life.

  “If Dad was alive this would never have happened!” My attention was brought back to Courtney with a thud.

  My heart broke a little at her words. I knew Dad wouldn’t have allowed this to happen, because it would have been him or Mum gracing the front page of the papers if they were alive.

  My parents had lived large. They were the rock star cliché. Crazy parties, screaming matches, boozy nights out, brawls, destroyed hotel rooms. They had epitomised the rock-and-roll lifestyle.

  But after their deaths, I’d been forced to be both mother and father to a grieving thirteen-year-old and I’d ch
osen to live quietly—the opposite of my larger-than-life parents.

  So now here we were, ten years on. Courtney was twenty-two, nearly twenty-three, living her pop-star dreams, while I was trying to work out what to do with the rest of my life.

  “Anyway, let’s talk my birthday! I’m thinking 1940s burlesque. All feathers and bodice. You’re totally coming. I’m getting Manny to plan it. You know how fabulous he is at planning this shit,” she chattered while I kicked off my flip-flops and padded over to the small recording area in my apartment. I hit loudspeaker on the mobile and started shuffling papers.

  “So anyway, Jet, when are you flying in?”

  “For your birthday? Next Tuesday. I’ll probably stay a week or more. Depends on what Paul says about the latest stuff I’ve got for him.” I referred to her record label manager and pseudo-uncle.

  “God. As if Paul would turn you down. After Dad and Mum, he practically owes us.” I didn’t comment. Instead, I looked at the picture on my desk of our parents. Sadness filled me.

  “Look Ney-ney, I need to head off. I’ve got some work to do and I need to go and visit Mum and Dad.” There was silence on the other end of the line. I could practically feel her displeasure dripping through the speaker.

  “I told you not to remind me.”

  I sat down. “Ney-ney—”

  “No! I don’t want to talk about this! You’ve completely ruined my birthday buzz! God, Jet! How inconsiderate can you be?!” With that she hung up.

  I considered calling back for all of five seconds then pushed the phone away, heaving a sigh.

  Today was the tenth anniversary of our parents’ death. I spent every year remembering. Courtney spent every year trying to forget.

  My parents had been music legends. My mother had rubbed shoulders with people like Madonna and Sting. Her voice had been smoky and pure. She’d brought jazz back. My father was a rock-and-roll star. He’d partied with the Rolling Stones, hosted concerts with Pearl Jam and Van Halen.

  They’d met at a party and everyone told the story of love at first sight. They’d performed together a few times, Mum’s sweet smoky voice the perfect accompaniment to Dad’s growly rough rock. They’d toured together and then a year later, I’d been born. Five after that Courtney had popped out. They’d continued to tour but at a less frantic pace. Mostly it had been the four of us. My mum played piano, my dad guitar, I’d learnt both. Ney-ney had been our little diva.

  It hadn’t been easy. Dad had a drug habit he’d never been able to beat and Mum was a closet alcoholic. Instead of bringing out the best in each other, they’d been trapped in a toxic spiral. But their music benefitted and they stayed together because, according to my dad, “We fucking love each other.”

  Life on the road was tough. But a band was like an extended family and I’d had the best in the world. Dad’s band was made up of his bassist, Paul, Anthony, the drummer, and Marco, their rhythm guitarist. Mum had been a one-woman show with revolving back-up bands in every town. While there had been fighting, drugs, alcohol, and lots of dark nights, there’d also been love, laughter and adventure.

  I’d just turned eighteen and we’d been planning Courtney’s birthday do. She’d demanded to have it at Luna Park. As the mega-rich parents of this twelve-nearly-thirteen-year-old, mine hadn’t seen anything wrong with attempting to hire the damn place out for a whole day.

  They’d driven off to try to talk to the park manager. Dad was high, Mum slightly drunk. They’d hit another car and died. Courtney was my only remaining blood relative.

  People had offered to take Ney-ney. But I’d stood firm and demanded she stay with me. I’d done what I could for her, but at sixteen, Uncle Paul, who’d morphed from bass player to extremely successful agent, had discovered her singing ability. He’d transformed her into a pop princess, who was now constantly plastered on magazines and in newspapers. MTV and TMZ showed near constant segments on her life, loves and breakdowns, of which there were unfortunately many.

  I’d gotten the phoenix tattoo a year earlier and Ney-ney had decided she must have it. She’d gotten one too, not understanding its significance. I’d never said anything. Instead, I was the one who wrote her songs and listened.

  It had been hard. We’d had a rocky relationship—me trying to be mother and father to a child who only wanted her real parents back. But we’d made it through and were close. Sure she was a brat sometimes, but she was also loving, funny and caring. She was my little sister and I loved her beyond all reason.

  I had tried to be there for her as her career took off, but once she’d hit eighteen she’d told me it was time for me to have my own life and let her live hers.

  With twenty-twenty hindsight I could see I’d been controlling. I’d been worried about her and where she was heading. But I had done as she asked and our relationship was better for it.

  My parents’ grave was surrounded by flowers and mourners. I was wearing a nondescript tee and faded jeans. Rockers, jazz musicians and strangely a violinist were drinking around their grave. This I hated.

  I headed to the tomb and placed my usual offering. Roses for my mother; her perfume had always smelt of roses and she’d always told me that you knew you were a big hit when someone bought you roses. For my dad, it was a single lily. He’d always say you bought roses for someone you didn’t know and lilies for people who meant something to you.

  I sat down amongst the mourning groupies and silently filled my parents in on the last year. They’d have been so proud of Courtney. She was so talented, but they’d have gotten a kick out of her diva antics. I still didn’t know what they’d make of me.

  I loved music. It was my addiction. But I feared fame and its associated vices. Thus I lived in the sphere of the music world, but outside of its limelight. I was pretty happy and I hoped they would have been happy for me.

  Saying a silent goodbye, I got up and headed back toward my car. Someone had started singing my Dad’s hit My Baby. He’d written it as his love song to me after I’d been born.

  The lyrics were sung clearly as I shuffled past, tears burning the back of my eyes.

  “You came into my life,

  So innocent and small,

  You moved my heart with your eyes,

  Broke it with your tiny call.

  I’ll look after you my baby,

  I’ll be your daddy today,

  I’ll hold you in my arms my baby,

  Forever you will stay.”

  Grief hits at the strangest of times. Sometimes I’d hear a laugh that sounded like my mum’s and look over waiting to see her. Or I’d smell someone wearing Dad’s cologne and expect him to be there.

  Often in the middle of the night, I’d lie awake thinking about them on that road. My dad had died in hospital, my mum at the scene of the crash. I’d think about them, scared, hurt, probably hysterical. I’d feel overwhelming guilt that they had been alone when they’d gone.

  And I’d been about to make love to a guy.

  Paxton Elliot.

  God.

  I shook my head, throwing off that particular memory as I got to the car. I pulled the door open, tossing my small handbag in.

  A hand grabbed my arm, stopping me. I started and lurched, spinning to confront a man in a black suit.

  Cliché was the word that sprang to mind. He was tall, broad, and wearing black. Solid. Solid was the only word I could think of to describe his body shape. The man was built like a brick shithouse. His face was serious, but it was the ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe he gave off which freaked me out. My immediate thought was hot but scary.

  “Miss Oliver.” It wasn’t a question. I jerked my head back and bumped into my car.

  “No. You’ve got the wrong person.” Years of dodging the paparazzi and stalkers had taught me to be calm in any situation. I ignored the panicked beat of my heart.

  “Miss Oliver, you need to come with me.”

  I shook my head. “No. You have the wrong person.”

  He reached out
and turned my wrist around, holding up the phoenix tattoo. “Let’s go.”

  He started dragging me away and I began shouting for help, for Mr Suit to let me go. The deadhead rockers watched but no one intervened.

  I struggled as the guy in the suit pulled me along. As I tried to bite him, I caught sight of one of the onlookers lighting up his bong.

  “I’m being kidnapped, you motherfuckers!” I screamed as I hit and kicked out at Mr. Suit. He quite easily overpowered me, finally shaking off my efforts and wrapping me in a death grip. It was a bit of a joke really. I knew to look for a nut kick, but he didn’t give me any opportunity.

  As I bit down on his arm, the door to a black SUV swung open and I was roughly tipped inside. Mr. Suit slid in behind me and nodded to the driver. I was squished between Mr. Suit One and Mr. Suit Two.

  Both were broad, built, and wearing what I assumed was expensive shit. Having never been a label person I wasn’t sure.

  Calm be damned, I’d seen Taken – I couldn’t let them drive away with me. I didn’t have Liam Neeson to stage a rescue. I kicked out and tried to climb over the centre console to hit the driver in the face. I was ripped back and swung to face Suit Two.

  “You want me to hurt you? I got a Taser and a tranq. You sit quiet, you sit still—I don’t have to go there. You start this shit up, you get it. Your decision.” His fingers dug into my shoulders as he held me in place, facing him. His face was harsh, hard lines cutting across his skin, emphasising his displeasure. His cheeks were flushed red with angry, a small bubble of spittle caught on the crease of his lips.

  I nodded, and turned, sitting quietly. To keep the volcano of panicked fear under control, I started making a mental note of street signs and filing my captors’ appearances away. I took in everything I could. The police were going to need everything from me. We drove for close to an hour before they pulled off into what looked like a country club. In reality it was a giant house with immaculate gardens and lawns. We pulled up to the front of the circular drive and Suit One, the kidnapper, got out, assisting me with a surprisingly gentle hand.