This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Jay Aheer
Prologue
Axton
Something isn’t right. It’s clear from the moment I step inside my home. The dim hallway leads to the living room where a half full wine glass waits to be finished. Everything is neat, orderly, normal.
The thud of my boots shifts to a hollow tapping where the hardwood floors give way to tile. The dishwasher hums, its little green light throwing a line across the opposite counter. A faint scent of garlic lingers, mixing with the sharp smell of the citrus cleanser the housekeeper uses.
Some unexplainable instinct grows inside me, pressing fear to the forefront, and the light that fills the room when I flick the switch does little to relieve it.
The kitchen is spotless. Nothing is out of place.
But it is.
Something is wrong.
Like a child petrified of the dark, I leave every room I visit illuminated, unable to bear the shadows behind me. Upstairs, the bedroom stands as always. I’m just becoming used to her side of the closet being empty. The sadness has been mostly overtaken by relief.
We weren’t good together.
Maybe this is just stress, the way my heart thumps out of rhythm, the dread washing my skin with sweat.
Light flickers from beneath the bathroom door. I’m not imagining things. Someone is in my house. Blood beats in my ears almost loud enough to deafen the rasp of my rapid breaths. A dark sense of foreboding rattles my hand as I turn the doorknob and inch open the door.
A scream grows and fades, pulses and echoes in a way that doesn’t seem possible. Who is screaming?
The hard floor slams into my ribs and hip, jarring me, but it’s carpet under my cheek, not tile. My brain gives no merit to what my eyes see. A dark blue room flooded with sunlight, the wooden legs of my nightstand, sprinkled with dust. Panic finally dissolves into comprehension.
A dream.
It was just a dream. The words carry little comfort with their half-truth.
It’s also a memory.
1
Axton
People and cameras. Two reasons I just want to get through this party and celebrate my own way. Bailing on your own band’s EP album release party would be a dick move, but I care less every second. We have one month of down time before the promotional tour and festival tour begin. This night can’t end fast enough.
“Freedom!” Jude drops into the seat next to mine at the makeshift bar. “A whole month off! You should be happy too, Ax. Liven your surly ass up.”
The bartender, a young blonde, bats her eyelashes at the flirty smile he gives her. Dick or dollar signs, you never know which they have in mind, but it’s one or the other.
“We’re still going to be working on some songs.” After I decompress and take some time to enjoy the new house I bought, but have spent little time in.
Jude slaps my back. “Yeah, by the pool while we get drunk. I don’t call that work. I wouldn’t expect Brysen for a few days though. He’s doing the family thing, you know.” He waves his hand.
A slight tremor of panic shook the band the year before last when Brysen became the first to get married, especially because he had a kid on the way. Our debut album hadn’t taken off yet—we had no expectation that it would—and we were still on shaky ground financially. Our sound had just come together and the last thing we wanted was to replace our bass player.
He made it work, and in the end, it paid off. It paid off for all of us.
It’s still a surreal realization. Especially during tours, when we wake in a new city, give interviews or do talk shows, rehearse a little, perform live, then pack it up and head to the next city. You barely have an hour of your own time before going to sleep. It’s easy to forget your dream is coming true. You’re living it in a fog of exhaustion by the end, but it’s worth it. I can’t imagine doing anything else.
“Hey sweetheart, let me get another rum and coke, then we can get out of here,” Jude says.
“I get off work in thirty minutes.”
That’s my cue to go. Drummers seem to pull their fair share of women, and Jude is proof of it. None of us have to look too far, but he’s usually drowning in offers. I have no interest in taking anyone home tonight. Once I’ve been here a sufficient amount of time, I’ll escape this social tedium.
Our manager, Milo, gestures to me from across the room where he stands with Elliot and a man I vaguely recognize but can’t place. May as well get this over with.
“Axton, meet Harrison Hall,” Milo says, giving me a warning look as I’m introduced. Harrison Hall, the music critic who tore our first album apart, denoting it as a sophomoric effort.
“Good to meet you,” I lie, shaking his hand. Squirrely little bastard wouldn’t know quality music if it fell out of his crooked hairpiece.
“And you, and you,” he babbles, releasing my hand. “Your new single is number one with a bullet. Impressive. I see good things for Tragic in the future.”
As much as I want to ask the kiss-ass where his crystal ball was two years ago, I shove a smile onto my face and watch Milo breathe a sigh of relief as I thank Harrison for his support. The next hour is filled with much of the same. Handshakes, photo ops, and sycophants.
“Hey, are you heading out?” Elliot calls, catching me when I’m almost to the back exit of the ballroom. Elliot is the friendliest guy I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry, upset, or anything over mildly frustrated. His guitar and keyboard skills are spectacular, and I have no doubt Tragic wouldn’t have made it this far without him.
“Sneaking away,” I confess.
“We’re working at your place next week?”
“That’s the plan.” A couple I don’t recognize walk past us, the woman giving us both a long stare.
Elliot grins and shoves a hand through his hair. “Number one, Ax. Can you believe it? I almost don’t believe it.”
His grin is contagious, and my lips lift in response. “We fucking made it, man. Believe it. Now get out of here before Milo pulls us back in.”
My car is parked in a garage on the next street. Skipping the valet means I won’t be recognized or harassed, and I can drive myself home in peace. We have a perfect amount of success right now. Money is rolling in, but we’re not quite famous enough to be on the A-list that attracts a ton of paparazzi, especially since we’re based in Indianapolis, not Los Angeles, Nashville, or New York. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll have that luxury though. It comes with the territory.
My new, ranch style, five-bedroom house waits for me at the end of a quiet street. The reason I chose this one over the other options was the size of the lot, and the fact that the lots on either side were empty and also up for sale. I bought them too. Not that I need a ton of space, but all my life I’ve lived in cramped neighborhoods, the houses so close together that you can see in each other’s windows. Now, my nearest neighbors are a good distance away, so there won’t be any complaining about loud music.
The place feels cold and lifeless when I enter, making a chill run over my skin. I haven’t spent much time here. My days are all spent at the recording studio or rehearsing. Most of the time, I let myself in and pass out on the couch, only occasionally making it to the bedroom.
Not tonight. Tonight, I’m celebrating. Our single did better than we ever anticipated and hopes for the full album following this EP album have soared. I have a month to chill out and relax before the madness begins and I’m going to take advantage of it.
Lights get flicked on and a few windows thrown open as I walk through the house, pausing to turn some music on. My other selling point was the inground pool and expansive patio in the backyard. Grabbing a bottle of bourbon, I slide open the patio door and flop into a
lounger.
A few stars shine overhead, but the city lights block most of the night sky, giving it a gauzy gray hue. That’s one thing I love about touring, seeing the stars in places where they burst across the world, saturating the blackness with pinpoints of light. Imbuing the darkness with a sense of solace.
For the moment, I’m satisfied to be right where I am, with a drink in my hand and music I didn’t make filling the night air. A month of this? Fucking perfect.
Grass sticks to my sweaty legs, but I don’t bother to hose it off before stepping inside for some water. It’s late spring, but the heat and humidity don’t give a shit about the calendar. Still, it felt good to get out in the sun, get some exercise that wasn’t in the gym, and a swim in the cold pool will feel even better now.
My phone rattles against the counter. Draining the glass of ice water, I swipe the extra off my top lip, refill the glass, and check the screen to see who the hell is calling me instead of texting.
Dani.
I know what this will be about. “Can’t you text like a normal human being?”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“I was cutting the grass.”
There’s a pause before she replies. “It’s Dad’s birthday.”
“I’ll rent the ponies if you’ll hire the clowns.” Frustration climbs into me, and I consider switching from water to alcohol, even if it is early. Just the mention of him can ruin my day.
Exasperation is clear in Danielle’s voice. “Axton, he’s not doing well. This may be his last one.”
“Not fucking likely. Evil dies slowly.”
“So, you won’t go to the home to visit him with me?”
“No. I’ve told you for years, Dani. I don’t care about him. He can rot there, in the end he created for himself. If you want to visit, that’s your choice.”
Her long suffering sigh should invoke some level of guilt, but it doesn’t. I long ago stopped caring about how I should feel and accepted my lack of most emotions as a gift. “Okay, are you still coming to the cookout on Sunday? Dustin and the guys will be here. They’ve set up a horseshoe pit in the backyard.”
“I’ll be there.”
Her silence screams that she has more she wants to say, but when she finally speaks, it’s with familiar resignation. “See you Sunday. Bye, Ax.”
I’ve barely set the phone back down when it goes off again, this time blinking Milo’s name. What the fuck does he want during my off month? If he thinks he can talk me into early interviews or some shit, he’s out of his mind.
“What?” I snap, pacing my kitchen.
“Ax, are you home? In town at least?”
“Whatever you’ve signed me up for, the answer is no. I get one fucking month, and I’m taking it.”
“It’s not about work. We received paperwork from a lawyer, and it’s a matter you need to deal with right away.”
A lawyer. What the hell? “Am I being sued for something?” My heart raps against my ribs. What if some fame seeking bitch cried rape or something?
“Do you know a woman named Deidre Glenn?”
My hand runs through my sweat soaked hair. “Sounds familiar. I can’t place it. What is this about, Milo?”
The word he utters next turns my stomach and clamps down my muscles until I can barely speak.
“Paternity.”
I’m no saint. I’ve had my fair share of women, but I’m always careful. I’ve never slept with anyone unprotected or had a condom break. I remember her now, and the couple of nights we spent together about a year and a half ago. It can’t be mine, and thank fuck, because things are going too well to have a baby screw it up.
“It’s not mine, Milo. She’s probably after money. Just call her bluff and tell her we’re going to do a DNA test. That will probably put an end to it.”
“It’s not that simple. She’s dead, died of an overdose, and there’s no family to take the baby. She had a will drawn up after it was born, and while she didn’t name you on the birth certificate, she did list you as next of kin and guardian of the child in the event of her death. The state has taken custody now, but as you can imagine, they’re eager to prove paternity and get the baby out of the system.”
Panic grips the base of my spine and the chair grates against the floor as I drop into it. I used protection with her. I know I did. But why would she do this? She’s not getting anything out of it. If it is mine, she had months to file and cash in, but didn’t.
“Ax? You there? Axton?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Have you talked to legal?”
“Yes, if you refuse to take the test, the state can compel you, subpoena you and force it. They advise you to get it over with so you know where you stand and can make a decision.”
This can’t be happening. It can’t be mine. I’ll take the test and it’ll show she’s a liar. “Fine. Let’s get it over with. Where and when?”
“I’ll set it up and get back to you.”
“As fast as possible,” I snap.
“I understand.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I add, “She’s a pro, Milo. Tabloids would eat that shit up.”
I hear him curse under his breath. “I’ll take care of it.”
I’m still standing in the kitchen trying to wrap my head around this nightmare when he texts me an address. His message instructs me to get my ass downtown, that the lab is staying open after hours and will usher me through a backdoor to preserve my anonymity.
The speed with which he gets back to me shows his level of concern. It just unnerves me more. Milo couldn’t give a shit about me, but we have a tour coming up, and a paternity scandal involving a prostitute isn’t something we want the press getting a hold of.
He doesn’t need to worry. It can’t be mine.
It just can’t.
Children shout and laugh, racing around me in a circle before darting for the pool. The scent of barbecue ribs and charcoal float through the air. Everyone is happy. I hate them. I hate every happy face and joyful noise.
The baby is mine.
It took less than a day for the verdict to come in that I’m totally fucked.
“All right.” Dani sits next to me at the picnic table in the corner of her yard, where I’ve spent most of the day. “What is up with you? You haven’t said two words to anyone—even the guys. Are you high?”
It takes me a second to pull myself out of my head and realize what she said. “No, I’m not high. I fucked up, Dani.”
She may be a few years younger than me, but she’s always been smarter. I don’t expect her to be able to help with this because there’s really no help for it. I already know what her take on the situation is going to be because unlike me, one of Dani’s goals is to have a family. She believes the whole white picket fence American dream shit can come true. If her boyfriend proposed, she’d leap on that and have a kid within the first year.
Concern etches her face, and she shoos away one of the kids who was approaching us. “Okay, what did you do? Is it the band? Did you guys get in a fight?”
“I have a kid.” The words spill out, and this time, she’s the one who takes a moment to comprehend my statement.
“A kid…”
“A baby.” She stares at me and listens without interrupting as I explain the events of the past few days.
“Boy or girl? How old? What are you going to do? Where is the baby now?”
Her hand clamps around my arm while I answer her rapid fire questions. “It’s a boy, ten months old. He’s in state care until I decide what to do. I have a few days before the paternity paperwork is processed.”
Sitting back, her horrified scowl burns into me. “Until you decide what to do? You have a son! What decision do you need to make, Ax? You should be on your way to get him!”
“It’s not that fucking easy!” I shout, getting to my feet. My hands run through my hair for the hundredth time today. “What am I supposed to do with a baby, Dani? You know I don’t want kids!”
And that’s the punishment for having kids, isn’t it? What you want, the life you want, doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve seen how it is, with Dani’s friends and with some of my friends. All your time and energy go to the kids, all your thoughts and worries are about them and what kind of life they’ll have. They lose who they were, trade in being a person with wants and needs and dreams for being Mom or Dad. It’s a nightmare I swore to avoid.
Yet here I am.
“I know,” I mumble, pacing the yard.
“Under the circumstances, can you break the contract with your label?”
Shock and disbelief pierce me, and my head jerks back. “What? I’m not breaking any contract! Do you know how long it took me to get here? How much money is at stake? My band is counting on me!”
Disgust crinkles her face. “Your son is counting on you! Do you plan to leave him in state care? Give him up?”
“No!”
The thought has crossed my mind more than once. He’d probably be better off with strangers than a father like me, but I know what it’s like to be left behind. I can’t do that to another human being.
“Then what? What’s your plan? Store him in the luggage compartment of your tour bus? Shove him off on a nanny like some rich asshole?”
Her ranting is born of pure anger, but she has no idea she has just answered her own question and helped me make a decision.
A nanny. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Sometimes I forget I have enough money to make solving problems easier. I’ll hire a live-in nanny that’s willing to travel with us when we go on tour. Hell, two nannies, if I need to. Then I’ll know he’s taken care of, and I’ll still be able to live my life.
Win win.
2
Naomi
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 309