by B. B. Miller
“Oh, she talked to them all right. But, I wanted to talk more about that boy’s dream with you—”
“Parker,” I correct. “His name is Parker.”
“Right. Parker.” He purses his lips and shoves off from my window to take a seat on the couch opposite my desk. “You don’t mind if I sit, do you?” He stretches his arm out along the back.
“Oh, excuse me. Please, make yourself comfortable.” I take a seat behind my desk, feeling the need to have some kind of barrier between us. The buttons of his shirt collar are undone, allowing a few silky strands of his chest hair to catch the light streaming in my window. I clear my throat with difficulty. “You were saying?”
“It’s just that a few signed albums, or even one of my old guitars, isn’t what that ki—Parker—wanted. The things you outlined, like a mini concert and whatever else, sound more reasonable. I could go along with that for you . . . for him. We could make it work.”
I can’t help the confusion that seeps into my voice. “Mr. Lane—”
“Kennedy. Call me Kennedy.”
I ignore his interruption. “I believe we went over all the reasons this wouldn’t work already. I understand, as your record label rep pointed out, that a full-on interaction with Parker would be very good publicity for you. But I promise you’ll still get some benefit from the signed gifts. Surely you understand.”
“Publicity?” The scowl I glimpsed earlier makes a reappearance. “You think I’m doing this just for publicity?”
“Why else?” I shrug. “Most of our donors do so because of an altruistic urge, of course, but they’re also usually getting something out of it for themselves or for their business. I’m happy to receive help wherever I can get it.”
He stares at me for a beat, frowning. “You’ll take help where you can get it, just not from me?”
“Mr. Lane, you are helping, and I assure you that I am grateful for your donations,” I begin, treading carefully. The last thing I want to do is piss him off again. If he changes his mind, we won’t have anything at all for Parker.
He shakes his head gently and snorts in amusement. “Look, we clearly got off on the wrong foot. We’d had a party, and I obviously took a little longer than usual to bounce back. I apologize for my appearance. Believe me, I’ve looked a lot worse.” He chuckles as if it’s some kind of joke.
“I don’t doubt it.”
His smile falters. “Well, I just wanted to show you . . .” Uncertainty flashes in his eyes before his smug confidence returns. “Since you seem to prefer a more conventional look. I can clean up pretty good.”
I peer at him, trying to look beyond his handsome face and cocky smile. His eyes aren’t as bloodshot as they were, true, and his pupils aren’t hugely dilated anymore. His clothes are impeccable, although I suspect they’re wildly out of character for him. The suit looks a little big on him, as if he’s lost some weight since he last wore it.
However, his pasty pallor and the deep shadows under his eyes diminish the healthy façade he seems to want to portray. Even more telling is his almost constant movement, the tapping of his foot or fingers. It’s more than simple nervousness. I wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.
It’s a painfully familiar symptom that I’m not going to disregard again.
The acute disappointment I felt returns as I look at him, and I wish he’d just let this go. “Mr. Lane, as I was saying earlier—”
“And as I said earlier, call me Kennedy,” he interrupts sharply, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he looks up at me. “All this ‘Mr. Lane’ crap is feeling suspiciously like a brush off.”
I mash my lips together to still the sharp retort begging to escape. Does this guy really think a little window dressing would persuade me to change my mind? Swallowing my irritation, I manage a professional smile. “I assure you that isn’t my intent. But I’ve already given you my reasons for why I don’t believe your participation in a more extensive dream fulfillment for Parker would be advisable. I don’t see anything today that changes that opinion. I’m sorry.”
I quickly stand, trying to forestall any impending outburst. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting starting in five minutes. Thank you so much for dropping by. I’ll make sure our Giving Team contacts your manager today.” Giving him a winning smile, I move to open the door, but he rises swiftly, blocking my path.
“I can’t believe this,” he growls in frustration, raking his hand through his hair. “You’ll really kill this kid’s dream just because you caught me napping and hungover.”
I’m barely able to hold on to my temper. “I’m not the one preventing his dream. And you weren’t ‘napping’. You were passed out on the couch in the middle of the day. Do you even remember how you got there?”
He looks away, the tips of his ears turning pink, before recovering his swagger. “You seem to be overly interested in where I sleep, Miss Walker.” He steps closer, his spicy, musky scent surrounding me. “Why do you think that is, hmm?”
“I . . . I’m not,” I stammer in barely restrained outrage. What is it about personal space that this guy doesn’t understand? “My next appointment is waiting—”
“I don’t get you,” he bursts, startling me. He spreads his arms wide in supplication. “Most people would do anything to have me associated with their organization. Don’t you know what I am?”
“I certainly do. You’re the one in denial.”
“I don’t have a fucking problem.” His eyes blaze, causing me to take a step back in spite of myself. But I stick my chin out and stare right back at him. I’m not about to let this pompous ass push me around in my own damn office.
“That remains to be seen,” I say evenly. “But until I’m proven otherwise, I can’t allow—”
“I can’t believe this.” He chuckles darkly, sending a shiver down my spine. “If I was a clean cut Boy Scout, you’d probably be falling all over yourself.
“What?” I blink, confused by his non sequitur. He takes another step, crowding me.
“That’s probably the kind of man who interests you. Mr. Boring Buzzcut. Solid, dependable, stable . . . safe.”
The breath catches in my throat as he trails one hand up my bare arm to my shoulder, setting my skin ablaze, before planting his palm on the wall beside me.
“You want the kind of man who’s never colored outside the lines in his life. Isn’t that right, Abigail?”
“You have no idea of what I want,” I snap back, bristling.
“Don’t be too sure.” His voice drips with disdain. “You seem so eager to judge me that I feel it’s only fair for me to do the same to you.”
I feel my face heat. “Do you honestly think a fancy suit and a shave is all you need to do?” I glower at his beautiful and angry face. “Kennedy, you can do whatever you want when it comes to your own life. I don’t care. But this kind of performance isn’t going to fool me, and it won’t fool Parker. Children are amazingly perceptive, and he’s too fragile right now to be exposed to your bull—” I swallow my sentence just in time and continue, my firm tone becoming downright icy. “Furthermore, my personal life is none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He steps aside and gestures grandly toward the door, mocking me. I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll make sure we work things out with your team quickly for those items. You’ll be starting your tour soon, yes? I promise that we’ll be out of your hair by then.”
“Did you keep my number?” His eyes bore into mine, challenging me, and I’m immediately wary.
“Against my better judgment, yes, I did.” I hesitate, suddenly afraid I’ve pushed him too far. “You haven’t changed your mind about donating the signed items, have you?”
“Of course not. Despite what you obviously think of me, I stand by my word.” Relief surges through me, and I don’t even mind as he reaches past me to open the door wide. Muscle Man snaps to attention as Kennedy steps out and pauses, obviously for Tess’s b
enefit. “Text me when you’re ready to talk about Parker. Oh, and Abigail,” he says, tugging at the waistband of this trousers, as if to ensure it’s fastened. “Thanks for letting me drop in. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”
My mouth drops open. Then with a wink toward Tess, he saunters confidently toward the elevators with The Hulk, leaving me seething and exasperated in his wake.
Kennedy
“YOU WANT TO talk about it?” Tucker sinks his colossal frame into the expensive leather seat across from me. We’re currently flying somewhere over heartland USA, and the convenience of a private jet is not lost on me. I’ve worked my ass off to get to this point, where—finally—I don’t have to fight the crowds, the paparazzi, and the ensuing mayhem that results when I’ve flown commercial.
Unfortunately, this time the flight, which usually serves to calm me, is doing anything but. I’m a fidgeting, edgy bundle of sheer energy. And I blame it all on Abigail Walker. I don’t know when I’ve ever met anyone as stubborn as I am. I didn’t think such a creature existed, but there she was today, testing me, throwing her opinions of my life in my face and daring me to prove her wrong. And the thing is, she doesn’t think I’m capable of that. She really believes there’s no hope for me.
I’m beginning to wonder if she’s right. I’ve doubted a lot of things lately. Whether I’m getting too old for this entire scene, whether I’ve still got what it takes to be relevant in a business that is constantly changing. I can’t seem to turn my mind off.
“Talk about what exactly?” I ask, desperate to stop the thoughts swirling relentlessly. Tucker darts his eyes to my bouncing leg.
“Do I really need to spell it out?”
“I need a fucking drink.” Eyeing the lure of the bar, Brodie lifts a glass to me. I turn away, looking out the window to the endless blue sky. How many fucking hours do we have left?
“No. You don’t need a drink. What you need is to talk.”
“I’ve had a shrink, thanks. Wasn’t much help, despite the shit-load of money I threw at him.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Mr. Lane?” The hired “attendant,” handpicked no doubt by Brodie, leans down to get eye level with me once more. Her voice drips sex, and her outfit doesn’t disappoint. Tight, low cut top, barely-there skirt, and cheap heels that have seen better days—standard groupie attire. She reeks of desperation. I doubt she’s even a flight attendant. She’s here for one reason and one reason only. She wants the experience, the certified mile-high rock star fantasy.
I give her my best attempt at a thankful smile. “I’m fine, thanks.” If she’s disappointed, it’s short lived. She drifts over to join the rest of the band at the bar. I’m reminded once again of just how shallow my life is. It makes me think more about the woman I can’t seem to get out of my head. Despite the general disdain for me, I don’t think deep down that’s who Abby is. You don’t devote your life to a charity like What’s Your Dream if you aren’t a compassionate person.
Even fighting a hangover, I saw how invested she was the minute she started talking about Parker. I know all about that kind of passion, although mine is found with a guitar. We have more in common than she realizes. The big difference is she’s doing work that actually changes people’s lives.
“What did she say to you this afternoon, hmm?” Tucker asks. “You’ve been more of a pain-in-the-ass than normal since we left that office.”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“Come on then, mate. Party’s just getting started over here.” Sean’s voice booms through the cabin, directed at me. My mouth waters as Sean waves a bottle of Jack at me, and my fingers tap relentlessly against my knee.
“I’ll get your guitar,” Tucker offers, his hand falling to my shoulder as he moves out of the seat and to the room at the back of the plane.
It doesn’t take long for Brodie to find his way over, a full glass of temptation in his hand. “Looks like you could use this,” he suggests.
I should’ve made him fly coach on some packed commercial flight. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re good at all.”
I want to tell him to mind his own fucking business. I want to tell him he’s the one that doesn’t look good, but I can’t seem to find the words. The ice clinking against the glass catches my attention, and my eyes fix on the condensation beading along the side. My hands are clammy, and I press my palms against my thighs, desperate to find a distraction. Fucking temptation is a bitch. But, if I’m going to stop drinking, I have to start somewhere.
Ignoring Brodie, I stare at my text message to Abby, asking her not to give up. An internal war rages in my head. If I go down this road, if, using her words, I try to prove otherwise, it’s going to require total commitment. There is no halfway with her. It’s all or nothing.
Tucker steps beside Brodie, shouldering him effortlessly out of the way. My Gibson acoustic, one of the few things I can actually count on in my life, appears in front of me, and my shaking hands know exactly what to do.
We arrive at LaGuardia, and I’ve had no messages from Abby. Stubborn little thing. Her biting words and those wide hazel eyes, and that air of defiance hint at something lying dormant, just waiting to be unleashed. It’s all been consuming me.
The streets of New York are alive and pulsing, blurring by as we wind our way to the St. Regis. With Brodie riding shotgun, I look at the band of misfits surrounding me. They’re feeling no pain, having demolished most of the alcohol onboard. I can smell it rolling off them in waves.
It’s rather interesting to watch the train wreck when you’re not on it. Tucker tries to tug Sean back into his seat. Typically, that would be easy given Tucker’s sheer size; but when Sean is lit, it’s almost impossible to divert him. He hangs his head out the window like a dog, letting out the occasional bark.
The “attendant” is perched firmly in Matt’s lap, wrapping herself around him like ivy. Let’s hope he hasn’t proposed yet. Cam is passed out, sprawled across the entire back row and snoring away. And had this been any other day, if I had never met Abby, I’d probably be passed out with him.
Instead, I’m overthinking and weighing the pros and cons of actually trying to get my shit together. At the end of the day, it all comes back to the music. It’s the thing that keeps me going when the world wants me to stop. Robin always used to say music was in my veins, that she couldn’t imagine me doing anything else. She believed in me regardless of the fucked-up shit I would get into. I wish I could talk to her now. I wish—
“Was some good shit you were playing on the plane.” This slur from Cam who, it turns out, isn’t passed out after all.
I push his boots off the leather seat, and he groans a response. “You’re loaded. I could’ve played Firehouse, and you’d think it was awesome.”
He snorts, flipping me off, his arm landing with a thud on his forehead. His intense hate of second-rate eighties hair bands is legendary. “Don’t get me started, man. Fuckin’ bunch of . . .” The whiskey swimming in his veins wins the battle once more, and he’s out cold again.
This is my normal, as fucked as is it. But sometimes it’s good to change things up. No more excuses. I pull my sunglasses down, snap a picture of myself, and start typing a message to Abby.
You want me to prove something to you? Stay tuned.
Abigail
Shutting my apartment door behind me, I heave a sigh of relief and sag gratefully against the doorframe, completely exhausted. I’m so friggin’ glad this day is over. My feet are killing me. I drop my coat, kick off my shoes, and set my grocery sack in the kitchen before marching straight into my bedroom to strip. My most comfortable pair of stretchy, baby blue pajamas is like a whisper over my skin, and I instantly feel worlds better. The next step is predictable—a glass of wine. I leave the bottle open on the counter.
Jesus God, what a day. Taking large sips from my glass, I set about putting my few groceries away, reserving the salad and jui
cy red pear that is to be my dinner. And a box of Cracker Jacks for dessert. I’ll feel guilty about the processed sugar later.
I wish Maddie were home so she could distract me with stories of compulsive coffee drinkers or shifty suppliers, but her fireman has the night off, so they are out painting the town. Since they’d reached the bedroom stage, with her usual alacrity, I only hear from her when he’s working. But she’s so stinkin’ happy with him, I can’t blame her.
Why did Lane come to the office today, really? Is it just that he’s heard the word no so rarely that he simply can’t believe me? Shaking my head, I refill my glass, gather my dinner and dessert, and retreat to my small dining table. This isn’t the first time a dream hasn’t worked out the way I wanted, far from it. I can’t recall another prospective donor who has been so pigheaded. His manager was obviously relieved that Kennedy would only have to provide a few signed trinkets, so why is the man himself being so persistent? I growl in frustration and take a savage bite from my pear.
He says he keeps his word. Well, he’d better, I think with a grim smile. Nadia mentioned this evening that Lane’s team hadn’t yet returned her calls to organize the signed items. My stomach drops, my worry returning. If I’ve screwed this up . . . no. He’ll follow through, if only to try to justify his anger with me.
Closing my eyes, I take another sip and savor the wine as I picture him standing in my office. God, the way that suit ghosted over his lean form and the devilish gleam in his blue eyes . . . Holy mother-of-pearl. If only the inside was as attractive as the outside.
I’m startled out of my brooding by the staccato trumpet notes of Flight of the Bumblebee, and I smile reflexively. It’s the perfect herald for my mother, considering her frenetic energy and eclectic thought processes.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Finally! I’ve been trying to get you all day,” she bursts, and I roll my eyes.
“I hardly think one call in the morning constitutes all day,” I say dryly, but with a smile.