by B. B. Miller
“Thanks.” Leaving Maddie to her own devices, I retreat to my bedroom and change into my comfiest pair of yoga pants and a stretchy T-shirt. I may rock a suit at work, but I can’t get out of it fast enough at home.
Hearing Maddie call for me, I stroll back into the living area, rolling my shoulders as I walk.
“Tough day?” She hands me a glass of red wine.
“Just a complex day. And, thanks.” I raise my glass to her as she makes herself comfortable on my couch. “What are we sampling this evening?”
“We’re taking a trip north of the border tonight.” She reaches for the bottle sitting on my coffee table.
I perk up. “Canada?”
“Not that far north; just Oregon. Not far from my old stomping grounds, in fact. This is a pinot noir from the Willamette Valley—Domaine Drouhin.”
“Sounds pretentious.” I wrinkle my nose and take another sip. “But they can call themselves anything they want if they make wine this good.”
I close my eyes and savor the rich flavors of cherry and cinnamon that roll over my tongue. Maddie and I started Wine Wednesdays as a ritual back when we were broke college students. The quality of the wines has improved markedly since then, for which our palates are thankful. It’s a wonderful way to de-stress.
We chat about our respective days, and my spirits lift as my glass empties. Madeline Thomas and I met during our sophomore year at UC-Berkeley. Although I grew up in a little town not too far from here, Maddie hailed from wonderful and weird Portland. If there was ever a city that let you do your own thing, it’s Portland, and Maddie had flourished there. But, when college came, she needed to fly the nest. Seattle was still too close to her parents, so San Francisco won. She now manages Screamin’ Beans, a coffee shop two blocks away owned by one of our former professors. She’s not only managed to keep it from being swallowed by Starbucks, but there are even plans for expansion in the works.
I lean my head against the back of the sofa. Maddie had turned on the radio to that Honey person’s show while I was changing clothes, and it seems to have switched to an interview; the words are indistinct, but the man’s voice is husky and sensuous, providing a soothing backdrop. “So, how is your campaign with that coffee bean supplier going?”
Maddie frowns as she reaches for the wine bottle and refills my glass. “It’s not. Apparently, he’s got a girlfriend. You’d think he might have mentioned it at least once.”
“Well, maybe it’s new.” I nudge her playfully. “Not everyone likes to blab about their love life, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, giving me a wink. We both know that she has virtually no filter regarding her own dating life. “We can’t all be monks like you.”
My mouth drops open. “I’m not a monk!” I sputter. “I’m just . . . choosy.”
She laughs. “You know, Abby, you really should put yourself out there more. With that gorgeous brown hair and those big hazel eyes, you could have men lining up if you made yourself more accessible.”
“I’m accessible enough.” Jeez, what does she want from me? I went out last week with that Dante guy she set me up with from her yoga class. And I went to dinner three weeks ago—or was it four—with a nice guy I found all on my own. Okay, so it was kind of business related because he was a contributor, but still.
My head snaps toward the radio, the announcer’s words grabbing my attention. “You’re live with Redfall.”
My eyebrows shoot up as an abrasive squealing from a fan who has called into the studio emits from the speakers. “What is this?” I ask as my heartbeat inexplicably increases.
“It’s a replay of the interview from this afternoon with Redfall. I only caught a bit of it today and wanted to hear the rest. I didn’t think you’d mind. They were actually there in the studio. I guess the place was mobbed.”
I hum and take another sip of wine, my mind buzzing. I was hoping to put the raw encounter with Kennedy Lane out of my head, and now here he is—front and center in my own living room.
Maddie turns the volume up just as the man in question is finishing an answer about when he learned to play guitar. I can’t help it; the image of a shy boy trying to play a guitar bigger than him, his fingers tipped in bandages, brings a fond smile to my lips. The tone of wonder and warmth in his voice begins to do odd things to me.
The phone rings just as they break for a commercial, so I rise and answer it in the kitchen, but it’s just a dial tone. “Damn it,” I grumble, hanging up with more force than necessary. “I think you’re right. It’s time to get rid of my land line.”
“Another hang up?” Maddie calls from her spot on the sofa.
“Yeah.” I snag another bottle of wine from the rack and uncork it. “It’s the fourth this week. I’m getting them on my cell, too. They are seriously beginning to get on my nerves.”
I can hear the announcer’s voice again, so I swiftly return to the sofa, where Maddie holds her glass up for a refill.
“Did you hear Redfall’s last album? It was incredible! Can you imagine seeing Kennedy Lane in the flesh? God, I’d climb him like a tree!” I shift nervously in my seat. I haven’t told Maddie about meeting Kennedy yet, or his text to me—it’s still too fresh. Don’t give up on me yet.
I hear a few tentative notes plucked on a guitar before his warm, husky voice begins to sing. His words are full of such poignant sorrow and longing; it takes my breath away. The simplicity of the acoustic guitars fit the mood perfectly, and we sit stock-still, enraptured. I’m scarcely breathing by the time he finishes, and there’s a profound silence after the last notes fade.
“Damn. That was incredible,” Maddie moans beside me as they break for another commercial. I’ve never heard Redfall play an acoustic set before, and it’s a completely different experience.
“Wow. He sounds so . . .” I’m not sure how to put it into words, but she nods, understanding me anyway.
“I know. I hope they play another one.” But when the interview continues, we’re treated only to some caller asking Kennedy to marry her amongst the giggles of seemingly dozens of girls in the background.
The announcer wraps it up and the station switches to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, so I reach over and turn it down. “I can’t believe that last person,” I gripe. “She probably waited on hold for an hour, and God knows what she told the screener to get through, only to waste the one chance she’ll ever have to ask someone like Kennedy Lane a question.”
Maddie eyes me from her end of the sofa and smirks. “And what, pray tell, would you have asked him?”
I blink, momentarily thrown. Do I tell her? No. Not yet. “Maybe something about where he gets his inspiration? Does he have a muse? Shit, I don’t know, but it sure as hell wouldn’t have been about marriage.”
Her smirk becomes a full-blown grin, so I flutter my eyelashes and clasp my hands to my chest while trilling in a breathy falsetto, “Oh, Kennedy, you’re so hot . . . Do you like kittens and sunsets and long walks on the beach?” She cracks up, and I dodge the pillow she throws my way, managing to save the wine bottle in the process.
“You’re so full of it.” She chuckles. “Come on, I’ve got a meeting with a new distributor tomorrow morning. Let’s clean up.”
We recork the leftover wine—a rare occurrence in itself—and rinse out our glasses. Maddie gives me a hug and, with promises to talk tomorrow, she heads down the hall to her apartment.
Sometime after locking up, I lay in my bed listening to my Redfall playlist and mentally comparing his older songs with the new one he sang on air, and the snippet he played yesterday. It was raw and real, and just so damn sad. It’s amazing how different he sounds without the growl of electric guitars behind him. His voice wraps around me, infusing me with warmth.
I stare at the ceiling, remembering those haunting blue eyes that seemed to reach into my soul at the Fairmont. I squirm beneath my sheets, wondering what it would be like to look into those eyes again, but immediately squelch those thoughts
. What I should want to know is if he’s still willing to sign a few things for Parker’s dream. Disappointment washes over me again, because as much as I want to grant the boy’s wish, I can’t do it if it would do more harm than good.
With a huff, I roll over and punch my pillow. I need to stop thinking about this. It’s settled. I’ll let Nadia make the arrangements. Some posters, a few T-shirts and CDs, and Kennedy Lane will be out of my life and out of my head for good. With a deep sigh, I try to clear my mind, letting Lane’s sultry growl lull me to sleep.
Damn Kennedy Lane.
I glare at my office clock and blow a stay hair out of my eyes with a huff. It’s only three, but it feels like midnight. Between that damn radio interview, and his unexpected text, I tossed and turned all night. That voice . . . that sumptuous, rugged voice kept infiltrating my sleep, leaving me groggy and irritated.
I try to concentrate, but lack of sleep and frustration are killing my productivity. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him. Why is this bothering me so much?
Before I realize it, I Google his name. There are dozens of new pictures taken at the radio station. I shake my head at the crowd straining at the security line. It never fails to surprise me how normally rational adult women—and men, for that matter—become raving, hormonal teenagers in the face of celebrity. Not that I’m totally immune, of course. It’s embarrassing what an English or Australian accent can do to me. But you’ll never catch me—I peer at one photo more closely in disbelief—shoving my boobs at a perfect stranger to autograph. Does that woman have no shame?
Bemused, I examine the main subject of the photos. It’s like he’s channeling Johnny Cash. He’s the man in black, from his sunglasses right down to his heavy boots. The simple jeans and T-shirt hug his long, lean physique perfectly and his unruly hair looks like he just rolled out of bed. He looks delicious.
Just before closing the page, I spy a couple photos that stop me in my tracks. Kennedy kneeling with his arm around an adorable little boy who’s glowing with happiness. In fact, his enthusiasm reminds me of Parker. But it’s the look of sincere gratitude and enjoyment in Kennedy’s eyes that surprises me. His soft smile as he talks to the boy is poles apart from the cocky mask he sports when interacting with the other fans. Maybe he really gets it, I wonder. I click on another photo and can’t help the squeak that escapes me. Kennedy Lane making some kind of pinky promise with the little guy. Good God, if that doesn’t make someone’s ovaries explode, I don’t know what will.
If he can interact like that with a random fan, maybe we should give him another chance.
My heart twinges as I think of our dream candidate. Parker’s mother, Joyce, says he isn’t taking his latest round of chemo well, and she’s understandably worried. Parker’s doctor is trying different things to make it easier, but nothing seems to be helping so far. Joyce says the only thing that makes her little boy smile is his guitar.
I can only imagine the smile that would light his face if he were to be able to meet his idol.
There’s a light rap on my door, and Nadia sticks her head inside my office. “Are you ready? I just have a couple of things.”
“Sure, come on in.” I wave her inside and come around my desk to join her on the small couch against the wall. She lays the files she brought on the low coffee table and peers over the top of her glasses as she selects one.
“We’re having a little scheduling trouble with the Red Wings for the Simpson dream. I was hoping you could give their owner a call,” she begins. We work through the half-dozen cases that need a little extra finagling, and I’m surprised to see it’s past closing time when we finish.
Nadia restacks her files and rises gracefully to her feet. “Can we talk about what happened at the Fairmont?” she asks pointedly.
I take a deep breath. “I’m afraid our original fears may have been correct.”
An uncharacteristic scowl takes over her face. “He seemed distracted from what I saw, but maybe it was just a bad day. Maybe he just needs a different approach,” she says boldly.
My eyes widen in surprise at her bluntness. “And by that you mean what exactly?”
“Let me give it another shot, Abby. I’d hate for Parker to be disappointed just because you couldn’t make it work.”
I feel my face heat with anger. “Because I couldn’t—”
“Abby,” she interrupts, striding to the door. “This is what I do. I’m good at it. Just let me give it another try. For Parker’s sake. I’ll be talking to his management team about the signed donations anyway. It can’t hurt.”
I gape at her in disbelief. Nadia has never been so adamant about a dream fulfillment before, but I’m still conflicted. On the one hand, I see the photos of Kennedy with that little boy outside the studio, and I can feel the passion in his voice, see him at that piano. I can imagine Parker and the look on his face if he could meet his idol. I remember Kennedy’s text telling me not to give up on him. And then I recall how he was at the Fairmont, and my heart sinks. It’s too big of a risk. I can’t subject Parker to the kind of behavior I witnessed.
“Let’s just keep it to the signed items, Nadia,” I say, and she purses her lips in disapproval. “Unless he cleans up his act, I don’t want him anywhere near Parker.”
“Fine.” She glowers at me, her fingers tightening around the doorknob. “But you’re making a mistake, Abby. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As I listen to her footsteps fade away down the hall, I can only hope she’s wrong.
Kennedy
NO ONE PREPARES you for what this kind of fame brings along with it. The moments I’m on the stage make the sacrifice of a normal life, whatever that is, worth it. There is nothing like the rush of adrenaline that surges through you when the lights go up and an entire stadium explodes.
But it’s a lethal mixture designed to test you at every turn. You indulge because you start to believe the hype. You believe you are invincible. You hurt and love in equal measure, taking no prisoners as the train you’re on seems to be rocketing toward an unknown destination. You’re a passenger to the most intense ride of your life, and no matter how hard you try to take control; sometimes the train veers off into a place that you never expected.
For me, it took something I can never get back. Robin’s accident has left me trying to fill the empty void, needing to fill it, but no amount of whiskey can do that. I know this on some base level.
Robin was a constant in my life, the glue that held me together when everything around me seemed like it was spinning out of control. And in this business, something real, something tangible, is hard to find. And, without her, I feel like I’m drifting off the track once more.
Writing this album has helped somewhat. In my studio, with the notes and chords that speak to me, is a place where I feel safe and in control. The problem is, that doesn’t seem to last.
It’s Saturday night, and I’ve heard nothing back from Miss Abigail Walker after my text. It’s like we’re in some chess game, waiting each other out, seeing who will make the next move.
Tonight, I’m sitting behind the ropes of the VIP lounge at a nightclub in the heart of San Fran with rest of the band. Tucker has parked himself at the top of the stairs, ready as always to protect us should the need arise.
We’re currently on round I forget, being served by a waitress whose tight, black boy shorts and tied off white T-shirt leave nothing to the imagination, much to our pleasure.
“Would you just go dance or something?” Cameron complains as Sean’s leg bounces off nervous energy, causing the entire table to shake. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”
Sean looks horrified as he glances down to the pulsing dance floor below us. “I’ll get mauled down there, Three.” I laugh at his ridiculous nickname for Cam. He is after all, Cameron Louis Chapman, The Third. Cam claims he hates it when Sean calls him Three, although deep down, I think he actually loves it. He’s always tried to distance himself from his ove
rbearing family, and the nickname is just another fuck you to something he can’t escape.
“And that’s a problem because . . .” Cam starts.
“Just go get us another round,” Sean fires back at him, kicking him hard in the shin.
“That fucking hurt!” Cam flips a coaster at Sean’s head.
“I’ll go,” Matt says, his eyes roaming over our waitress as she leans over the side of the bar. She might as well be naked for everything those shorts cover.
“Just remember, she doesn’t love you. She’s just a good shag.” Sean offers his sage advice, another one of his famous Murphy’s laws, patting Matt on the shoulder.
“Her tits are pretty amazing,” Cam adds.
“Well, with that glowing recommendation how can you refuse?” Sean nudges Matt off the bench. “Go now, grasshopper. Fuck and be free.” Sean waves his hand in the direction of the bar.
“You’re an asshole,” Matt says, flipping Sean off before weaving his way to the bar.
“And another one bites the dust,” I murmur, watching the impending train wreck with amusement.
“We should cover that on the tour.” Cam turns his attention back to the dance floor below.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Of course it is. It’s mine.”
“A stripped down version?” Sean drums with his fingers a modified beat of the classic Queen hit against the tabletop.
“It’s a bass heavy song. We should ask Matt what he thinks,” I suggest, watching as Matt strikes up a conversation with the waitress.
“Too late. He’s a goner.” Sean raises his glass and shouts over the blare of the music, “Grasshopper! Drinks first, then fucking!” Matt ignores us, ushering the attentive waitress out the back of the lounge, away from prying eyes.
Over the course of the next several hours, we get well and truly wasted. It feels like I’ve drank my weight in whiskey. Our glasses never empty more than a few minutes. I’ve completely lost track of time and space when I see Brodie moving to the table. He slides into the booth beside me, wedging me between him and a pair of sorority sisters from Alpha Gamma something or other. They claim to be political science majors, although what they’re majoring in really doesn’t interest me. I pretend it does, though. I’m getting very good at pretending.