by B. B. Miller
I shake my head and twist the cap from the bottle, the familiar aroma drifting up and taunting me. “Tell me when we were in the gym last.”
Tucker smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sure, it’s been a while, but I think I can still take you.”
Lifting the bottle to my lips, my heart hammers against my ribs as I feel the first drops hit my tongue. It’s like I’ve been in the desert for days with a thirst quenched by one thing and one thing only.
He forcibly lowers the bottle from my lips. “Come on, what do you say? We’ll go a few rounds.”
My eyes cut to his as I jerk my arm back, my grip tightening over the neck of the bottle. “The only rounds I want are coming from this bottle.”
“Kennedy . . .” His voice is quiet and void of the usual smartass tone he uses. “I’m asking you to try. Please.”
Holding his gaze, I lift the bottle back to my lips, tilt it up, and savor a few long, healthy sips. I welcome it all: the burn, the heat that radiates through my chest, the wave of calm that rolls through me.
Disappointment washes over his face. I’m pretty good at eliciting that particular reaction today. It’s the same look Abby gave me, and with that thought, I take another pull from the bottle.
He lets out a frustrated huff, pacing across the room. Gone is the commanding presence he typically has, replaced with an air of defeat. I can’t afford to lose Tucker. He’s one of the only people left I truly trust.
I place the bottle down beside the others. The words leave my mouth in a rush. “Which gym?” He stops mid-stride, turning back to me. “I can’t exactly just show up downstairs and hop on the treadmill. You’d have a riot on your hands.”
He grins, and I see something I haven’t in a long time. Hope. “I know a guy.” He eyes me cautiously.
“Of course you do.”
“Come on, Lane!” Tucker has barely broken a sweat and looms over me with that annoying grin I only wish I could wipe off his face. I’m the one sprawled out on the floor of an aged and stinking boxing ring for about the twentieth time.
If it’s possible, I’m sweating alcohol, and while Tucker tells me it’s a good thing, I feel like shit. My hands are clammy and wrapped in a protective lining of tape, and further, the leather boxing gloves he insisted I wear. “Can’t have the musical genius injuring his most prized possession,” I think were his exact words.
Tucker, of course, doesn’t need gloves. He’s doing just fine delivering kidney punches with his bare hands. I’m going to feel this for days. Bruises on top of my bruises. I also know he’s going easy on me. Tucker could pulverize me if he wanted.
It’s a bit shocking how weak I actually am. We used to work out quite a bit back in the day. A few times a week with weights, sparring, running. It’s a good way to pass the time, and when I was first starting out, fuck knows there was a lot of time to pass. Everything was different then. I could go to the gym or out for a run, and no one really knew who I was. You don’t realize the power of anonymity until you no longer have it.
I’m a lot slower in this area anyway. Give me a guitar, things are different, but trying to dodge Tucker? Forget it. I’m the picture of pathetic as he hauls me to my feet yet again.
I see two of him for a minute while I try to regain my balance. My legs feel like they did this morning—like Jell-O. And this is supposed to be an improvement over a hangover?
“Enough. You made your point,” I say through a panted breath.
“Did I?” He’s enjoying this way too much.
I surprise him with a right hook to his ribs. He winces only slightly before I hold my arms out to him. He starts to work on the laces of the gloves, tugging them from my hands before going to work on the tape.
“There may be hope for you yet, Kennedy.”
Leaning against the railing that lines the expansive terrace of the penthouse, I take in the night as it falls over San Fran. The private chef that is part of the price tag I now know could help fund at least one of Parker’s treatments is busy preparing some masterpiece.
For the bulk of the day, Tucker has been intent on playing Let’s Keep Kennedy Busy. He’s pulled out all the stops. Challenged me to a couple rounds of pool in the billiard room, thrown on my brother Adam’s latest NASCAR win on one of the televisions, tried to get me interested in the suite’s library, even not so subtly left the file folder of lyrics next to my phone.
He means well, even if it does feel like I’m being treated like a child. I also know he’s doing this because he doesn’t trust me.
I’m restless, and while I should be relaxing and enjoying these last few days of freedom before embarking on this whirlwind of a tour, I’m keyed up and edgy. The sting of my meeting with Abby is fresh and raw.
My phone buzzes relentlessly from the table, and I scowl. Brodie doesn’t know when to leave it alone. He’s been texting all damn day. Sinking down to one of the lounge chairs, I see a message from an unknown number.
Mr. Lane.
I know it’s from Abby. So formal, even via text.
Attached, please find the video of your song. I hope the quality meets with your requirements. Our team will be in touch to arrange for the signing of the items for Parker. Please acknowledge receipt of this message so that I can delete the video and your number.
Regards, Abigail Walker
Opening up the video of the song I played with her at the piano, I close my eyes and listen. Inspiration fires like it did when she was here, and I’m drawn inside quickly; sinking down to the bench at the piano. Picking up right where the video cuts off, the melody and adrenaline take me to where there are no expectations, no demands, no temptations.
Stopping mid-chorus, I return her text with one of my own.
Don’t delete the video or my number. Don’t give up on me yet.
Abigail
Don’t give up on him?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I blink at his message in disbelief, my finger hovering over the delete button. Why would he want me to keep his number? Is this some sort of test?
Carefully, as if I’m defusing a bomb, I put down my phone and slump back into my comfy armchair. I don’t understand that man at all. Is he saying he’s still interested in doing more for Parker? I can’t let a drunkard around him. Besides, he made it abundantly clear he thought I was the one with the problem.
My blood boils again as I recall the arrogant tilt of his head, and the smirk on his lips when he asked if a man had ever made me . . . “What an asshole!” I mutter as I bring my wine glass to my lips. Who the fuck does he think he is? Setting my glass down again on the side table, I huff a wry laugh. He thinks he’s an internationally known rock star who could probably get away with murder, that’s what. Women line up around the block for this guy. Hell, probably a few men, too. The people surrounding him do nothing but tell him how great he is all the time. No wonder he doesn’t think he has a problem.
To be fair, it would be difficult for anyone to say no for long when even the most forbidden temptations are constantly thrown in your face. And the sycophants who latch on to them . . . Well, they’d rather stick a fork in their eye than risk losing their plump, talented meal ticket by telling him or her the truth. At least until that ticket is spent, dried up, and on the skids. Then they move on to their next victim, er, “client”.
Restless, I brush a stray hair out of my face. Is there anyone in Kennedy’s life who will tell it to him straight? Does he have anyone who, at the very least, might suggest a shower and a change of clothes before a business meeting with a charity, for God’s sake? Apparently not.
Even as wrecked as he obviously was, he was one of the most alluring men I’ve ever met. How can that be? Closing my eyes, I recall the feel of his warm breath against my skin as he loomed over me, of his fingers tracing my ear. Damn. A shiver runs through me, and I shift uneasily in my chair. That sense of seductive danger I’d felt just by looking at his photos in a file magnified tenfold when I saw him in the fles
h.
The man should come with a health warning.
Laughing weakly, I shake my head in wonder, the surrealism of the day catching up with me. Already on edge in anticipation of the meeting, when I first saw Kennedy emerge from behind the sofa, I was struck speechless for one of the few times in my life. He sauntered over to join me at the piano with an intensity that was captivating. Tall and lithe, his hips moved fluidly with each stride. And his hands! Those long fingers that floated over the keys, producing the most glorious sounds . . .
Groaning, I snatch up my wine glass and take another sip. He must have laughed his ass off when he saw the recording; I’d been so nervous, I could barely hold the phone steady. It was just so sudden. One minute, my mother was trying to set me up with a pastry chef, and the next, a fuck-hot musical genius was asking me to record something he’s miraculously dreaming up at the piano.
I’m normally cool under pressure, but holy hell.
My phone weighs heavy in my hand, taunting me. Regardless of what he thought about my poor recording skills, he actually texted me back. But why? I’d expected only a resounding silence after our less than cordial exchange this afternoon. Is that how he thinks this works? He disrespects me, I insult him, and now we’re text buddies or something? He must be high—again.
Or . . . Maybe he’s saying he’s willing to meet my terms. Perhaps he’s willing to try to be what Parker needs? I snort and shake my head. It would take a miracle.
Instead of reopening his text, I tap my video app, and am instantly transported back to those few precious moments at the piano. I sink back into my chair, an unfamiliar longing coming over me as I watch the shaky image on the tiny screen. His commanding figure hunched over in concentration, his fingertips caressing the keys, his husky, smoky voice in the background promising to hold me under a sky of stars.
The ringing of my phone jolts me back to reality, and I’m surprised to find myself blinking back tears. What on earth is wrong with me? Fumbling with the phone, I answer automatically without looking to see who it is. “Hello, this is Abigail Walker.”
I’m greeted with silence on the other end. Quickly checking the caller ID, my temper flares when I see it’s an unknown number. “Who is this?” I demand. There’s a muffled curse, but nothing else. Suddenly, I wonder . . .”Kennedy?” I whisper in disbelief, not sure what I’ll do if it is him. The call ends abruptly.
Crap. I stare at the silent phone for a beat, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. It probably wasn’t Kennedy, I decide. I have his real number, after all, and he doesn’t seem shy about communicating. Which means my crank caller has my cell number. Damn it. I’ll have to get a new number, which will be a major pain in the ass.
Shaking my head in irritation, I gather my glass and carry it back to the kitchen, before readying myself for bed. “No more wallowing and mooning over crappy videos and impossible dreams, Abigail,” I tell myself sternly as I climb between the sheets. I don’t know what game Lane is playing, but I don’t play games.
“Have a good day, Hank,” I call cheerfully to the gripman as I climb off the cable car.
“And to you, Abby. Go get ’em, girl,” he responds with a wink, before pulling back on the lever and sending the car on its way. Hank is somewhere in his fifties, looks like a linebacker, and is one of my favorite people. He’s always got a kind word and a friendly smile to send the morning commuters on the Powell-Mason line off on a good foot.
I love cable cars. They’re one of the best things about living in San Francisco. Each weekday morning, I walk a few blocks to catch the California line at Van Ness, and then change to one of the Powell lines to get to Union Square. It’s a great way to start the day.
After stopping for a latte, I finally make it to my office and am surprised to find April skulking by Tess’s desk. “What’s with the scowl? It’s a little early to be in such a bad mood, isn’t it?”
“What’s with the Pollyanna smile this morning?” she counters as she follows me into my office and begins pacing in front of my desk with strides only as long as her pencil skirt will allow. “After blowing a dream fulfillment, I’m surprised to see you in such a good mood.”
Grimacing, I set my latte on my desk and sit down to change out of my sneakers and into my pumps. “You’ve talked to Nadia, I see. What can I say, April? The guy isn’t appropriate to be around a terminally sick child. That’s it. Besides, it’s not blown completely. He agreed to provide some signed gifts.”
“That’s it? Damn it. I wanted Redfall for a TV spot,” she says, waving her hands in exasperation. “If Mrs. Jensen had given permission to use it, and I think she would have, it would have been perfect.”
I sigh, knowing exactly what she’s thinking: shots of Kennedy and Parker interacting with guitars, maybe giving a mini-concert at the hospital, Parker’s face lighting up when he first sees his idol. Parker’s well-being is first priority, of course, but April’s job is to show the good work of the foundation to encourage more donations. Our ability to fulfill children’s dreams is only as good as the donations we bring in. It’s a never-ending cycle. I can’t blame her for being frustrated. I’m frustrated, too.
“I have every confidence that you’ll come up with something even better,” I reply decisively and stand up, four inches taller than I was. Thank you, Jimmy Choo.
She raises her nose. “Of course I will.” Turning to leave, she grumbles one last complaint, “But it’ll be hard to find someone as hot as Kennedy Lane.”
“Oh, for . . .” I roll my eyes. “Call the Patriots, for crying out loud. Surely, we need Tom Brady for something.” I smile to myself, hearing her blasé acknowledgement drift back to me, and open my email.
Kennedy
“GOOD AFTERNOON, SUNSHINE.” Adam, my older brother, equally an annoyance and an inspiration, glances at me from beside the elevator. He looks awake and alive—two things I know I’m struggling with.
“Fuck off, Adam. Sara, always a pleasure.” Sara Grant, Adam’s fiancée for the last million years or so, rolls her eyes at me as I limp my way over to them and lean against the wall beside the elevator. They both came to the standing room only acoustic session my band put on last night at The Fillmore. With Adam having another NASCAR race this weekend, they skipped the party last night.
I close my eyes, thankful the pounding in my head at least has been reduced to a dull, slow ache. The after party is a blur. Despite me telling the tempting Abigail Walker to not give up on me, I managed to put a dent into more than a few bottles last night. And now, not only do I feel hungover, I feel guilty. It’s not something I’m used to.
“Rough night, bro?” Adam asks, with familiar concern evident in his voice.
“You could say that.”
“Well, we had a great night. Took full advantage of that Jacuzzi, if you know what I mean.” I crack an eye open and laugh. Adam wags his brows and Sara hits him in the arm. “Ow! Babe, that hurt.”
“What’s with the limp?” Sara changes the subject, glancing down at my leg.
“Fuck if I know. The bottom of my foot is sliced. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“I took a broken piece of glass out of your foot the other night, remember? I used some antibacterial spray on it if that helps, Sara,” Tucker explains as he joins us.
“Huh.” I struggle to try to remember when that happened. Despite my trending habit of indulging after a gig, I never do before one. I want to savor the adrenaline, the high that feeds me, the electricity of the crowd. It lets me get lost in a place where I can’t feel the pain anymore. It’s unlike any combination of drugs or alcohol you can find.
The problem is, inevitably, that high fades and I’m left with a gaping hole once more, one I’ve been trying desperately to fill since the accident two years ago that changed everything.
Sara frowns at me, running her fingers through her long dark hair. “As much as I don’t want to look any part of your disgusting anatomy, I think you should get it looked at. It
might be infected with God only knows what disease you brought home with you last night. Are your tetanus shots up to date?” She can’t turn off the concern instinctual of being a nurse.
Adam met Sara when one of his early racing accidents sent him to the ER. A dislocated shoulder and a concussion led to a romance for the ages. She resisted him for a long time. But, if there’s one thing Adam doesn’t like, it’s hearing the word no. A challenge only makes him try harder. “Probably not. But I’m sure it’s fine.”
“That’s what they all say until a limb needs to be amputated.”
The elevator dings and Tucker gives it a sweep before letting us in. “There’s a couple of hundred fans outside. We can go out there and you can play nice before we go to the radio station for your interview, or I can get the driver to move the Hummer around to the service entrance.”
He passes me my sunglasses, and I slide them on. Thank fuck. The lights feel like they’re burning through my retinas.
“Service entrance.”
“Dude, they would love to see you. Come on. Sign a few boobs and get some brownie points,” Adam suggests as the elevator starts its descent.
“What are you, my fucking manager now?” I scowl at him as my stomach bottoms out with the movement of the elevator.
Adam is right, although, I would never admit to him. The album with my band, Redfall, is due to drop in a couple of weeks, and we’ve been relatively absent for almost two years until a few weeks ago when the marketing engine kicked into high gear.
I’m still not sure if I’m ready for the insanity that accompanies an album release and a world tour, but I also can’t deny I miss the adrenaline and the rush. I miss the real fans who know every single lyric and belt them out as if they are a part of their soul. But right now, my body needs rest and caffeine.
I think I may collapse if I have to stand and sign autographs for any length of time. My schedule is absolutely insane for the foreseeable future, and there will be plenty of time for autographs, so I take the easy way out.