by B. B. Miller
“Well, it felt like it. How are you? Have you given any thought to my suggestion about Beau? When are you coming to visit?”
I laugh and feel some of the weight on my shoulders lift. “Fine. Not really—dating a pastry chef would make me gain twenty pounds. And I’m thinking of coming next weekend after I get back from my trip. How’s that?”
“Really?” Her excitement is palpable. “That would be perfect! We’ll have your room waiting for you. We just have to move a few things around, but I promise you’ll have a bed to sleep in.”
“Are you using it for storage again?” I tease, although I really can’t blame her. It’s been months since I’ve been to Napa and space in their bed and breakfast is at a premium this time of year.
“Just for a few cases of wine that couldn’t fit in your father’s cellar, and a few new quilts for the guestrooms. Really, the only thing I should probably move is our new tantric chair. It works best in your room since it’s at the far end of the house so no one can hear us when we get kinda loud, but I suppose we could move it to our room—”
“Mom!” I squeal in protest. “God! Stop!”
Her merry laughter rings out over the phone. “Oh relax. You know I’m just kidding. Sheesh. Lighten up, sweetheart!”
Sighing, I rub a hand over my face. She says she’s kidding, but with my mother, who knows? I wouldn’t put it past her to talk my dad into getting a tantric chair, and . . . Good for them, I suppose. My parents have always had a very loving relationship that has lasted through thick and thin. But a tantric chair isn’t exactly the type of thing I want to picture, especially in the bedroom they’ve reserved for me. Eww.
Her last words are uncomfortably similar to advice that someone else has given me lately. Someone who I wish I could stop thinking about. “Sorry, Mom. I’ve just had a really long day.”
“Oh, sweetie, what happened?”
“An unusual situation has developed with a potential donor,” I explain. I don’t really want to talk about Lane, but there’s a nagging part of me that really wants to hear my mom tell me it will all be okay. “He’s a, ah, a celebrity who won’t take no for an answer.”
“Wait, you’re telling him he can’t donate? Aren’t you usually trying to get people to donate?”
“Oh, he’s going to, but not to the full extent that we were originally planning. I’m not sure I can trust him. I suspect he’s like . . . Lucas.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Then you made the right decision,” she says finally, her voice full of quiet certainty. “Trust your instincts, honey. They won’t steer you wrong.”
I sigh pensively, reassured for the moment. “I just hope that he’ll provide the items he promised. I was rather blunt, and he didn’t take it well.”
“Addicts rarely do,” she says. “But, sweetie, you never have trouble with donors. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. You’re a professional down to your fingertips.” The unmistakable pride in her voice warms me, until Lane’s infuriating smirk dances in my mind again.
“He’s just so irritating.” I jump up to pace in front of my window. “I don’t understand why he won’t give it up. You’d think he’d be relieved that he’s being let off the hook. You know how it is. So many celebrities are only interested in doing the bare minimum, just so they can brag about their involvement on Twitter. But he’s being so obstinate. He showed up completely unannounced today to badger me. Apparently, he thinks because he’s tall and hot and looks good in a suit that he can simply charm me into caving—”
“He’s hot? I had envisioned some old crusty curmudgeon. Who is he?”
“Um, well,” I falter, caught off guard. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have Nadia deal with him from now on, that’s all.”
She hums, giving nothing away. “Well, sweetie, it is unusual to hear you so kerfuffled. What advice does Maddie have for you?”
“Oh, um, I haven’t told her.” I slump back down in my chair, feeling somewhat guilty. In truth, I’ve avoided talking to Maddie about the puzzling Mr. Lane.
She huffs in frustration. “You tell Maddie everything,” she says carefully. She takes a deep breath. “If you’re keeping this to yourself, there’s something wrong.”
I close my eyes. “Mom, there’s nothing wrong,” I reply not sure which one of us I’m trying to convince. “I’m sorry if I’m worrying you. Honestly, I’m okay. I simply haven’t had time to tell Maddie anything lately since she’s so wrapped up in her new man.” It’s not really a lie; Maddie has been scarce in the few days since I first met Kennedy. Luckily, it’s enough to distract my mother.
“Ooh, that’s right! Tell me all about the new man in her life.”
I chuckle, glad to be on a safer topic. “There’s not much to tell yet. Maddie and Dylan are spending a lot of time together lately, and she seems to be pretty happy so far. So, tell me what you guys have been up to lately. Has the tourist train slowed down yet this year?”
“Hardly! We just approved the final drafts for the ads about our “Live in the Vineyard” November specials,” she gushes, referring to the biannual music festival held in Napa. “You should see the packages we’re putting together!”
I listen as she prattles on about the coming season and the joys of being innkeepers, the sound of her voice soothing. It’s heartwarming to know how happy they are.
My dad, Frank, had grown up in a small town called Burlington up in northern Washington State, not far from the Canadian border. My Grandpa Walker had been a policeman, and Dad followed in his footsteps. Sadly, Grandpa was killed on duty—a burglary arrest gone wrong—not too long after Dad joined the force, leaving him and Grandma alone. But a few months after the funeral, my free-spirited mother had wandered into the area on her way to a nature retreat in the San Juan Islands. Mom had dropped out of Berkeley in her senior year when a drunk driver had plowed into her parents’ car, killing them instantly. Heartbroken, she turned to various spiritual remedies, searching for something. She hadn’t known exactly what she’d been looking for. Whatever it was, she had found it in my dad.
For his part, Dad had been smitten. Love at first sight, they told me. Anyway, with Grandma’s blessing, he followed Mom back to her hometown of Half Moon Bay, just south of San Francisco, and joined the police force there. It had been a nice place to grow up.
Everyone knew Grandma Walker was the Mary Kay queen of the region, but it wasn’t until she’d passed away we’d discovered just how lucrative eye shadow and lipstick could be. The inheritance the dear woman had left to my parents fulfilled their dream of owning a bed-and-breakfast in Napa, and provided a tidy, not-so-little trust fund for me. It allowed me to live comfortably in San Francisco and still be able to donate a chunk of my salary back to the Foundation. I had loved my grandmother dearly and was thankful for her gifts every day.
“By the way, don’t think I don’t know what you did there, young lady,” she starts sternly, but with affection. “I let you distract me. But I want the full details about your love life when you come to visit!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, giving a mock salute, before I let my voice soften. “Love you, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me.”
“I love you, too, sweetie. Be safe.”
I hit end and sink back into the chair, taking a long sip of my wine and feeling more relaxed than I have all day. I know I made the right decision regarding Lane. Besides, after today, I’ll probably never see him again. Nadia can handle it from here. Problem solved.
I’m just settling back into my chair with a full glass in my hand and a financial report to read, when my phone chimes with a text. Expecting a note from Maddie, I take a big sip and swipe my thumb across the screen to reveal the message . . .
. . . And spit my mouthful of pinot noir all over the neat rows of numbers marching across the page.
Oh, for the love of . . . Cursing under my breath, I drop my phone and frantically dab at the stained papers with my napkin, my brain awhirl. I set the report aside with a g
roan over the mess I’ve made and retrieve my phone to stare again in shock at the sexy, determined sapphire eyes peering at me from over dark sunglasses, above the message, “You want me to prove something to you? Stay tuned.”
After gaping at my phone, thunderstruck and infuriatingly intrigued by the challenge implicit in his words, I wearily slump in my chair and scrunch my eyes shut, my frustration escaping in a long, drawn out groan.
Kennedy
THE PAVEMENT IS unrelenting under my feet, jarring my bones and stealing my breath as New York greets the morning. I stop in the middle of the trail, surrounded by a lush green carpet of grass, skyscrapers stand tall in the distance as the sun starts to rise.
A group of runners blur past, with no hesitation, no curious glances at the pathetic, groaning idiot in their way. Somehow, I manage to stumble off the path, rip out my earbuds, and crumple into the cool grass.
Shutting my eyes, a vivid memory flashes of Robin, Adam, and me, collapsed in the snow in the backyard after one of our epic snowball fights. I can hear her laugh, infectious as it was, and the gaping hole in my heart opens a bit wider.
Feeling overheated and panting like a rabid dog, I sit up and check my phone for messages again. I would’ve thought by now, I’d have some sign of life from Abby, but there’s nothing. I’m not known for my patience. I’ve always gone after what I wanted regardless of what stood in my way. I wouldn’t be where I’m today if I had accepted rejection. You have to be driven. Breaking into this business, I got used to hearing the word no. I hate it as much now as I did then, maybe even more. So, Abigail Walker doesn’t have a clue the lengths to which I’m willing to go.
I slide the phone to video mode, hold it at arm’s length from me, and start recording. I don’t care that I look like shit. That I probably have dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and sweat is literally dripping off me. I need her to see me—raw and unfiltered—so she realizes I’m serious about this.
“You’ll be happy to know, I’ve just run—voluntarily. See the things I do for you?” I turn the phone to video the nondescript trees that line the path beside me. “It’s early in the morning, my band is still asleep and usually I would be, too, but I want to do this for Parker.” Flipping the phone back to me, I continue rambling, “I know I haven’t actually met him yet, but I will. I want to help with his dream, and I don’t mean just some posters and a couple of signed albums.” I look up as a few birds make their presence known in the trees above, screeching through the silence of the morning. “I want you to know that I get why you don’t think I can do this . . . That I shouldn’t meet him. I’m not a saint. I’m the first person to admit that. But I want to do this right. I want to prove to you I can. So just trust me. Okay?”
I send the video to her without hesitation, and spend a few more minutes in the quiet of Central Park.
“Give us a beat, Mr. Murphy. One that makes sense this time?” I glance at Sean from the microphone. He flips me off with a loud laugh from behind his drum kit before starting into Shake Down one more time.
We’re currently rehearsing in an empty warehouse just off Broadway before our stripped down shows later this week. These pre-tour gigs are a great warm-up for the insanity that is about to descend upon us. It’s more relaxed without the amped up light show and full throttle effects. Short of going fully acoustic, it’s as subdued as we can get when we’re playing together.
Roadies linger, checking and double-checking amps, adjusting sound levels, and replacing Cam’s strings when he breaks them multiple times over. Brodie leans against the soundboard with a cigarette dangling from his lips, constantly checking his phone and giving us the occasional thumbs-up. It’s organized chaos at its finest, fueling the adrenaline, and taking me to the only place in my life that seems to make sense.
Unfortunately, Sean is off this afternoon. I think I know why. The beat is more frenetic than it should be, and his timing slightly ahead. For anyone else listening, they probably wouldn’t be able to hear it, but we all do.
We compensate for him, trying to find where Sean’s insisting on taking us. The guitar comes to life under my fingers, and I close my eyes, belting out the lyrics into the mic.
“When the time comes, I’ll remind you
Of all the things we didn’t say.”
“Fuck! Hold up.” I step back, turning to face Sean. “What the hell are you doing?”
It takes him a few beats to recognize that the rest of us have stopped playing. “What?” He shrugs as sweat pours off him, soaking his T-shirt. His hair, freshly dyed crimson, is a wild mess, hanging down over one eye.
“Seriously? ‘What?’ That’s all you’ve got for me?”
“Mate, what are you on about?” He twirls his drumsticks between his fingers.
“I think that question is for you, mate. What is it this time, hmm? Coke again? Because this right here. This is how you were playing the last time.”
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he glares back at me. “I’m not on anything.”
“Whatever it is, get it the fuck together. We have a show later this week.”
“Ah, orders from HRH himself,” Sean bites back. “I’m truly honored to be in the presence of greatness.”
“HR . . . What the hell are you talking about?”
“HRH. You know? His Royal Highness. I must have missed the official memo where you lot all became saints.” He points his drumsticks at us. “Was it a nice ceremony? High tea and everything?” Typically, we’d all be howling at another one of Sean’s epic rants, but there’s nothing funny about it this time.
“Jesus, fuck. Can we just cut the shit and play already?” Cam hollers.
“I’m just trying something new,” Sean counters with a shrug. “Didn’t realize that was a crime.”
“I’m all for pushing the boundaries, you know that; but you’re not on even on the same map right now,” I fire back at him.
A drumstick sails past my head, landing in the chaos of cords that snake around the floor of the warehouse. “Fuck this. I’m out.” Sean upends his stool, and it crashes into his drum kit. He stalks to the metal side door, pushing it open with enough force that it slams against the side of the building.
Cam shakes his head, glancing back to me. “Whose turn is it this time?” While this group of dysfunctional misfits is like family, putting together four strong-willed and highly opinionated men for any length of time is going to result in a few arguments. Typically, we take turns talking each other off the proverbial edge, share a few drinks, and all is well again.
“Don’t look at me. I got this one last time.” Matt grins at me before starting into the bass line of the chorus again.
I pass my guitar off to one of the roadies, yanking out my earpieces before heading after Sean. “I got it.”
“Your turn, hmm?” Sean sits at the aged wooden bar inside a dingy pub, swirling amber liquid in his glass before draining back the contents. It was easy to find him; even in New York City, he tends to stand out.
“My lucky day.” I slide onto the stool beside him, glancing back at Tucker who stands near the door, his expression grim.
Thankfully, the pub Sean has decided to grace with his presence for the afternoon is fairly empty. It’s your standard watering hole: grunge classics crackling through a sub-par stereo system, dark wooden tables, sticky floor, back of the mirrored wall behind the bar lined with temptation. The smell of liquor is overpowering, my mouth waters as I try to focus on why I’m here.
“Indeed.” He motions to the bartender, a bald, tatted, middle-aged man who looks like he spends too much time in the gym. “Just leave the bottle, yeah, mate? And another glass for my dear friend here.”
Silently, a clear glass slides into my view. “You want to share your secret?” Sean fills up his glass.
“My secret?” I try to look anywhere but at the glass. A bar isn’t a good place for me to be right now.
“Don’t think I’ve missed that you’ve been avoiding the dr
ink since we’ve been here.” Sean’s voice brings me out of my wandering thoughts.
“You noticed that?”
He nods and brings the glass back to his lips. “Hard not to when you’re typically in the thick of things.”
“Maybe I’m getting too old to party like I used to.”
“Now, I’m going to have to call bullshit on that one. I’m older than you,” Sean says, swirling the liquid in the glass.
“Only by a couple of months, old man.” He snorts before taking a long sip. “And take a look at you.”
He leans back in the stool, turning to face me, waving his hands over his torso. “You only wish you looked this good.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“So, spill it.” His tired eyes meet mine, any trace of his usual humor gone. This is what he needs. Maybe it’s a distraction, a way for him to cope, or maybe me talking about it will actually help, and that’s why I’m here.
“You know that charity I was telling you guys about?”
“The one with the sick kid?”
I watch as he drains another glassful. “Parker, yeah.”
“I thought you had that all sorted?”
“Everyone else thinks so,” I reply. “Apparently, what I think doesn’t matter.” My gaze falls to the empty glass in front of me.
“And what do you think?”
“He deserves more than a couple of signed pictures.” Sean refills his glass and turns to me. “He could’ve asked for anything, you know? And he wants to spend a day with me,” I continue.
“I spend 24–7 with you. I could’ve saved him the trouble, told him what a treat you are.” He laughs. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any to lay off the booze for a while, I guess.”
“Yeah . . .”
He narrows his eyes, studying me. “There’s more, though.”
“The woman who—”
“Aha! There’s pussy involved,” he shouts, shoving my shoulder. “I knew it.”