She wanted to stay. God help her, she wanted to stay.
Instead, she put the car into gear and escaped down the rutted, bumpy gravel road.
* * *
THE BOYS WERE jamming in the studio.
Calling them boys was a stretch; every one of them was old enough to be her father. Hell, one of them was her father. But Dad had always called them The Boys, capital letters and all, and the name had stuck. They were the steadfast, the faithful. Local guys Dad had hand-picked a couple of decades ago, guys who had day jobs, who played rock and roll for love instead of money. After all these years, they were still with him. When Dad wasn’t on the road touring with his band, Rocket, he and The Boys jammed together regularly. They weren’t trying to do anything earth-shattering or unique; instead, they played covers, some of them the same songs Dad had played when he was nineteen and in his first band. They did it for fun. For love of the art form. Because they couldn’t not play. Every so often, they’d play a gig at some local event. To Dad’s delight, most of the people in the audience had no idea that the tall, lanky guitarist with the flyaway hair and the magic fingers was the legendary Rob MacKenzie.
From fifty feet away, even through the solid walls of the building, Dad’s playing was clearly recognizable. He had a style nobody had ever been able to copy, a style that had brought him money and fame and, more important to him, critical recognition. For Dad, only a few things mattered: he had his music, he had his woman, and he had his family. Everything else was window dressing.
The song was familiar: some good old-fashioned head-banging KISS. No matter what changes the decades brought to the music industry, she could always count on Dad and The Boys to be playing the classic rock that had been the soundtrack to her childhood.
She’d sung with these guys, off and on, since she was fifteen years old. Tonight, like a drunk to his drink, she was drawn directly to the studio. She needed to let off steam, needed to forget that she could have died in an instant if that inebriated old fool had decided to pull the trigger. Needed to forget that if he’d asked, she would have climbed Mikey Lindstrom like a cat in heat.
Tonight, she needed to lose herself in some hard, driving rock.
When she walked in, faces lit like Times Square at midnight, and the music stumbled to a stop as greetings came at her from every direction. “Hey, Paige, good to see you!” “Get yourself a mic, girl, and get over here!” “Paaaiiiggge!” She amiably endured hugs, handshakes, affectionate punches to the shoulder. Like a cadre of proud uncles, they’d watched the growth of her career, from nervous teenager futzing around in Dad’s studio to international entertainer raking in so much money that only her accountant and the IRS knew what she was worth.
But this—roots, man. Roots. One thing Dad taught her that had stood her in good stead: Never forget where you came from. Never let the money and the fame go to your head until you think you’re better than the schmoe running the cash register down at 7-Eleven for eight-fifty an hour. Dad lived his life by this philosophy. This home-grown, grassroots band was proof. It was the best advice anybody had ever given her. Always, it was about the music, about her love of it, her need for it. About reaching out and sharing it with other people. The money, and the lifestyle it provided, were perks. And Paige, like her father before her, like most musicians she knew, would have done it even if she wasn’t being paid.
That was love, dude.
Somebody tossed her a mic, and after a little conferring, they jumped into Goodbye to You, an upbeat Eighties tune from Patty Smythe and Scandal. She threw herself into the vocals, did a little dancing, got hot and sweaty as she breathed in the magic. It was good for her heart, good for her soul, good for her body. From Scandal, they segued into a little Clapton—Cocaine and Layla—and on to Van Halen, Seger, and even a little Beatles. Like most people of her generation, she was more likely to associate Twist and Shout with Ferris Bueller than with Lennon and McCartney, but it was all good.
By the time they quit at midnight, the bad juju she’d carried in with her was gone. Her clothes were drenched, her hair was a wreck, and she probably smelled like a baboon. But she was happy, in a bubbly, blissful way she hadn’t experienced in forever. She’d known, since the time she took her first steps, that this was her purpose in life. Her mom had owned a massive record collection, and had played them for her over and over. Had told her stories about her dad, some of them true, some not so true. She’d come here fourteen years ago believing one thing, but that thing had turned out to be wrong. Because of that belief, her relationship with Dad had been rocky at first. For no explicable reason, Mom had lied about him, and that knowledge, mixed with her grief and rage, had been a bitter pill to swallow. But no matter how she felt about her father, she had always, always, loved his music. And she had always been grateful to him for passing on his talent to her.
Now, it was just the two of them, both weary as they walked shoulder to shoulder from the studio to the kitchen door. “Ice cream?” he asked as they climbed the steps.
“Are you kidding? I would never turn down ice cream.”
Inside the kitchen, he pulled a container from the freezer. “Wild Maine blueberry sound good to you?”
“Dad! What happened to fudge ripple?”
“Big changes at Casa MacKenzie. Take it or leave it.”
“That’s treason. You’ve been eating fudge ripple for as long as I remember. And yes, I love blueberry.”
They settled at the kitchen island with bowls of blueberry ice cream. “You came in late tonight,” he said.
She raised both eyebrows. “Perhaps you have me confused with Emma? I’m twenty-nine years old, Dad. I’ve been on my own for a decade. I sing in a rock band. I’m a responsible adult. I have employees. Many, many employees. Ten p.m. is not late.”
“Point taken.” He concentrated on his ice cream for a time. “You’re doing better,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“To my surprise…yes. I think I’ve moved past being hurt and angry, and gone directly to annoyed.”
“It’s a step up.”
“Less messy, anyway. I’m still pissed off about the dogs. He won’t give them back.”
“And you’ve made threats? Legal threats?”
“A letter from my lawyer, asking him to play nice and return them. Ry’s not having any of it. He’s the one who made threats, through his own lawyer. I’m ready to show up at his door with a baseball bat. The little shit.”
“Maybe it’s time to let them go. Let him keep them.”
“Come on, Dad. Would you?” She saw the answer in those green eyes of his, the ones he’d passed down to all three of his children. “I thought not.”
“You looked wonderful tonight, Paige. Singing.”
“It felt wonderful. I’ve missed it. It’s an addiction, isn’t it?” He was the only one who’d understand.
“It is.” He finished his ice cream, stood and rinsed his bowl in the sink. “I’m heading to bed. Casey has this crazy notion that when I’m not on tour, I’m supposed to be in bed with her at night.”
“Like you’d be anywhere else.”
“Music’s a demanding mistress. Casey knows that. She’s lived the life for enough years. First with Danny. Then with me.”
“If you had to choose between the two, which would it be? The music, or Casey?”
“That’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked me. And the easiest to answer. She’s the other half of me. Of course I’d pick her.” He raised his arms above his head in a long, slow stretch. “And whatever you’re doing, kiddo, keep on doing it. You look positively radiant tonight.” He reached out and patted her cheek. “G’night.”
And he wandered off, to sleep by the side of his wife, leaving Paige alone in the kitchen, wishing her choices were as easy as his.
MIKEY
RACHEL CAME TO him that night in his sleep. Big decisions, Mick, she said. Big decisions.
I don’t need to make any decisions.
You�
��re at a crossroads. There are choices to be made. You need to make the right one.
I’m not ready.
Doesn’t matter. Life won’t wait for you to be ready.
He opened his mouth to respond, but she was gone. Rachel! he called. Rachel, come back! But there was only emptiness where she’d been standing.
He woke up crying. Not a manly thing, not something to be proud of, not something of which the Marine Corps would approve. But as she’d so succinctly put it, doesn’t matter.
His mood was sour as he showered, as he dressed and headed off to work. He picked up coffee and a couple of jelly doughnuts at the Dunk’s drive-through, hoping the caffeine and sugar would shave off his rough edges.
It didn’t do much for them. He plunked the cup and the doughnut bag on his desk, sat down, pulled up Google, and typed in the name of the woman who was plaguing him: PAIGE MACKENZIE.
The first thing he brought up was a shot of her with that yahoo she thought she was in love with. A real pretty boy, the kind of guy who looked like he went for regular manicures and would have passed out cold if somebody asked him to do any actual work. Another photo showed them with two small dogs. The pilfered pooches.
That was followed by a more recent photo of Mister Wonderful with his new wife.
Vanessa Ortiz-Legend (yes, she’d taken his name) was dark and sultry, with huge brown eyes and blinding white teeth, so many of them that it was a miracle her mouth was big enough to hold them all.
He snorted. Two glamorous idiots who probably didn’t have a whole brain between the two of them. They’d make great parents. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance. Then again, they had enough money to pay for a nanny, so maybe there was some small hope for the kid.
Paige must have a website. These days, everybody had a website. Mikey took a sip of coffee, set it down, and tried the most obvious address.
Bingo.
It was a little slow to load, probably because the site opened with a full-page photo of her, a studio shot, guitar in hand, her eyes a deep emerald green, all that wild golden hair tumbling down her back. She wore a sleepy-eyed, just-got-out-of-bed look that was sexy enough to inspire hot fantasies in the mind of any man who looked at her.
Goddamn it.
He paged through the site. More photos, upcoming tour dates, news about the album that was scheduled to drop in December. Links to interviews, her discography, a brief bio that highlighted her early music education at Berklee and the years of hard work she’d put in to get to where she was now. He found a couple photos of her with her dad, captioned with an affectionate acknowledgment of the man who’d passed his musical talent on to his daughter.
Stomach churning, Mikey backed out of the website. Sat for a moment, trembling, then slammed both hands down on the keyboard with so much force that Greta sat up straighter and said, “You okay, Lindstrom?”
“I’m going out on patrol.” He snatched up his coffee and one of the doughnuts, and headed for the door.
It was just a ruse. There really wasn’t much patrolling that needed to be done. So he could legitimately say he was working, he drove Main Street, end to end, then went out on the main drag, followed that to the town line before turning around and going back to where he’d started.
As he approached Gunther’s place, Mikey drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, jiggled his knee up and down. His decision made in a split second, he abruptly turned into the parking lot and shut off the cruiser. Through the store window he could see Roy Crane, a retired locksmith who opened for Gunther a couple mornings a week, sweeping the crooked wooden floor.
Car keys in hand, he went around the back, pounded on the door, then let himself in. He found Gunther at the kitchen table, nursing a hangover and a cup of black coffee. “We need to talk,” he said.
“Stop yelling.”
“I’m serious. We need to talk about last night. How much of it do you remember?”
Gunther rubbed his grizzled cheek and turned bleary eyes to him. “Enough,” he said.
“I took the key to your gun safe. I’m not giving it back until you clean up your act.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. I don’t want sorry. I want you to get help.”
“Maybe I don’t want help.”
He braced his hands on the back of a wooden chair and leaned over the table. “You know damn well that when you mix weed with booze, the paranoia sets in. Every. Fucking. Time. You think you’re back in Vietnam. Add a loaded gun to the mix, and it’s not pretty. You could’ve killed her.”
“I didn’t.”
“One false move. One itchy trigger finger, and I’d have been picking up pieces of her. That’s not acceptable behavior, Gunth. You can’t play this game any more.”
“You think it’s a game? Are you that goddamn stupid?”
“I think you don’t give a damn any more. I think you’ve thrown in the towel. I think you’re headed for total destruction. And if that’s where you have to go, I can’t stop you. But I’ll be damned if I’m letting you take Paige with you.”
Those shrewd eyes studied him. “Damn,” Gunther said. “You have feelings for this girl.”
Mikey wheeled around, stalked to the window, stood there, staring silently at the rooftops of downtown. His hand clenched, and he didn’t bother to relax it.
“It’s been two years, Mike. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You gotta move on sooner or later.”
After a minute, he turned away from the window and said, “This isn’t about me. This is about you. It’s about alcohol, and weed, and a goddamn hunting rifle.”
Gunther wrapped his bony hands around his coffee cup. “Coffee’s gone cold,” he said. “I can make more. You want some?”
“I have to get back to work.”
Gunther stood, shuffled to the stove, turned on the burner under the teakettle. “Do you think Rachel would expect you to grieve for the rest of your life? Do you think she’d expect you to die right along with her? Or do you think she’d want to see you with somebody who makes you happy?”
He thought about Paige, thought about the heavy sexual tension in the cab of his truck last night. Thought about how close he’d come to kissing her and destroying both their lives.
“Fuck you,” he said, and strode back out the door.
PAIGE
IT HAD TAKEN some fast talking to get Emma out of the house for the day. She was still on Dad’s shit list after the debacle with Beth and the Washburn kid, and he’d been leaning toward keeping her locked up—possibly in a chastity belt, just in case—until she was thirty-five. Paige had managed to talk him down off the ledge by reminding him that she’d be heading back to L.A. eventually, and how much time did she really have with her baby sister? One of these days, she’d blink her eyes and Emma would be graduating from high school.
“Don’t remind me,” Dad said.
“Besides, with Emma gone with me, and Davey off fishing with the cousins, you and Casey will have the whole place to yourselves.” She waggled her eyebrows in a dead-on imitation of him.
For some reason, he wasn’t amused. “I know you’re almost thirty,” he said, “but I’m still not ready to discuss my sex life with you.”
Paige grinned. “Fine. How about this? I promise to keep her away from the head shop and the tattoo parlor. But I’ve heard there’s a place at the mall where they teach belly dancing, and I thought we’d probably stop in there for an hour or two.”
“Someday,” he said, “you’ll have kids of your own. Casey and I have been praying for the last fourteen years that they’ll turn out just like you.”
“Something to aspire to. So can I take her?”
“Fine, but if anything goes wrong, expect to be hearing from my lawyer.”
So here they were, two sisters out for a fun-filled day of girl talk and retail therapy. Paige had pulled her oh-so-recognizable blond hair back into a single braid, then covered her head with a Red Sox cap. Sans makeup, in a pair of Dave
y’s jeans, a plain white tee shirt that belonged to Casey, and a pair of Dad’s old sunglasses, she was unrecognizable.
“So,” she said, toodling down the highway in her little yellow car, “they really read you the riot act, huh?”
“I got it from both sides,” Emma said. “Double-whammy. Dad was ready to strangle me. Mom was more into the whole guilt trip thing.”
“You mean the ‘I already lost one daughter’ guilt trip?”
“That would be the one. And really, I never gave that any thought. Which sounds awful, but you just don’t think of your parents as people. I mean, you love them and all…but mostly they’re background to your own life. There when you need them, annoyingly there when you don’t. You don’t stop to think how it would affect them if anything ever happened to you.”
“That’s a very mature outlook.”
“Don’t tell Dad that. He’s still treating me like a naughty five-year-old. I really wasn’t out joyriding with that nimrod. I think he’s an idiot. But he wanted Beth to go for a ride, and she was clearly going, with or without me. I thought somebody with some common sense should be along for the ride. If I’d known he’d be flying over that ridge doing eighty, like the Dukes of Hazzard, with his wheels barely touching the ground, I might’ve told Beth she was on her own. But then, if anything happened to her because I wasn’t there, I would never forgive myself. We’re not just cousins. She’s my best friend.”
Ah, adolescence. She wouldn’t go back for anything. It was too painful, too intense. “Beth really likes this guy?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “She needs to pick her tongue up off the ground and roll it back into her mouth. The drooling is getting obnoxious. I’ve told her that, but she doesn’t want to hear it.”
“She’s got it bad?”
“Bad. I don’t think there’s anything—” Emma paused, suddenly seeming to realize she was talking to an adult.
“Anything?”
“Anything she wouldn’t do for that jerk.”
Oh, this wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. “She’s not, um…”
Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1 Page 21