by Jo Davis
“Jeez.”
Waking up gracefully, not to mention at the butt crack of dawn, was not her strong suit. By far. Her double gig as a bartender and lead singer in her rock band at the Waterin’ Hole kept her busy most nights, until closing at two a.m. more often than not. Her band played there only twice a week—a popular local country band ruled the roost the rest of the time—so she filled the remainder of her nights by slinging drinks. She didn’t really need the money, but she loved both jobs, even if the place was a little rough around the edges.
Max, however, had been extremely unhappy about her move from Los Angeles and her new place of employment. He continually tried to persuade her to come “home,” saying L.A. was where she needed to be if she wanted to make it big as a rocker. He didn’t understand that just didn’t matter anymore. As much as she loved music, she no longer lived for it.
Making Jenny’s killer pay had taken top billing.
Groaning at the shaft of pain at the memory of losing Jenny, and now Max, she pushed out of bed. She didn’t have time for more tears. Her agenda was packed for the day, and she had to get moving if she wanted to make rehearsal on time.
Reluctantly, she dragged her ass into the shower and let the hot water stream over her protesting body, loosening her muscles and lifting the fog. By the time she’d finished and stepped out to dry off, she was feeling much more human again. Something she was grateful for when her cell phone buzzed and she glanced at the caller ID.
“Just great.” She was tempted to ignore the call, but avoidance would only backfire, resulting in a barrage of messages and texts, each one more unhinged than the last. Steeling herself, she picked up.
“What do you want, Mel?” she asked, proud of keeping her tone cool. Unaffected, when she was anything but.
Melinda Evans was like a hungry shark—any scent of blood in the water and she’d attack.
“Mom, not Mel,” she said tightly. She’d lost that distinction long ago, but continued to mistakenly insist that biology made it so. “And what makes you think I want anything? Can’t I call my baby just to talk, see how you’re doing?”
Her grip tightened on the phone. “You could, but you don’t. Ever.”
“I only asked a simple question. You don’t have to sound so hostile.”
Cara barely stifled a bitter laugh. “I’m surprised you’re sober enough to notice.”
“Honey—”
“I’m not sending you any money, so you can save us both the pretense.” Stay calm. Deep breath. “You have a roof over your head, and I have groceries delivered every two weeks. That’s all you’re getting.” And more than you deserve.
Most children wanted to believe the best of their parents. Her late father had loved Melinda once, proving that love is truly blind. Especially when it came to his wife’s addictions. She had plenty of them, and he had the money to support a better class of loser. But when their father had died, she and Jenny learned that while love was blind, Dad wasn’t stupid.
Whatever relationship they’d managed to maintain with the selfish bitch vanished with the reading of Dad’s will—when Melinda had been left a minimal allowance to pay for modest niceties, and the bulk of the estate had been left to Jenny and Cara. Of course, Melinda didn’t use the money as Dad intended and frequently found herself broke. Any extra cash Jenny had granted Melinda went straight up the woman’s nose.
Then Jenny had been murdered. Cara realized that her so-called mother never had any intention of getting clean, and she’d put a stop to doling out the extra cash. Had tossed her in rehab for the first of four visits to date.
Cara wasn’t completely heartless—a cruel twist of fate had made this woman her mother, and she wouldn’t put her on the street.
Melinda’s soft laugh cut through her musings. “You’re wrong this time. I really am calling to check on you.”
“I’ll mark the date on the calendar.”
“So cynical.” The woman sighed. “Anyway, I also wanted to let you know that Max came by the house and was really upset. Said something about flying out there to see you.”
Cara lowered herself to sit on the bed, pulse pounding in her throat. “When was this?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday morning or the day before? I can’t really remember.”
“Think,” she ordered, staring at her bare toes digging into the carpet. “What was Max upset about? What did he say?”
“He yelled at me,” Melinda said in a small voice. “I don’t know why.”
Yelling at her now wouldn’t do any good, either. The woman’s brain was fried from too many years of using. Max had known that, too, which meant his visit to her mother, however futile, was important.
“You must have some idea. Did you try to contact your dealer? Maybe Max found out about it.”
“What? No! I haven’t in ages!”
That was up for debate. “Did you try to withdraw extra money again?”
“No.” Frustration colored her voice. “Nothing like that. Not really. I . . .”
“What do you mean, not really?”
“Nothing. I just wanted you to know Max came by, and he was madder than I’ve ever seen him.”
“Okay, listen to me carefully.” Cara paused, hoping she had Melinda’s attention. “Max did come here to see me, but he never told me why. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Somebody shot him in the head before he could talk to me,” she said hoarsely.
“Oh, my God!”
The other woman’s shock brought it all rushing back. Tears filled her eyes and her lungs hurt. “I need for you to remember what he said when he came to see you.”
“I—I just don’t, but I’ll keep trying.”
“All right. And stick around the house for a while, okay?”
“How come?” she asked, clearly puzzled.
Cara shook her head. Her mother no longer possessed any ability to pursue the thoughts that flitted through her brain. “Max went to see you and he was upset. He came here intending to see me and somebody killed him. Don’t leave the fucking house, Mel.”
“You don’t have to curse at me.”
Jesus Christ. “Are you listening? What did I just say?”
“Don’t leave the house, and I won’t. I’m not a child.”
That was irony for you—the child became the parent. “Right. I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Love you, baby.”
Thankfully, she hung up before Cara was forced to answer. And for that, she felt miserably guilty. She sat for a moment, collecting herself. The call was even more disturbing than usual where her mother was concerned. Why had Max gone to see her before flying to Tennessee? What the hell was going on? She wanted to head to the police station and demand to know what they were doing to find his killer. But that would mean questions about how she knew of the murder, and the possibility of revealing she’d been in his motel room.
It was clear she wasn’t going to get any more answers from Melinda than she’d gotten from Max’s phone the night before. The device hadn’t been password protected and revealed nothing but a few names she already knew and a few numbers she didn’t recognize.
“Shit.”
The phone. Pushing from the bed, she hurried into the living room and retrieved the device from the coffee table. She’d completely forgotten about it! Quickly, she disabled the tracking app and then shut the phone off. She didn’t know a ton about technology, but with any luck, that would keep anyone from knowing she had it in her possession.
Something told her the police were the least of her worries. She should go to them, tell them what she knew. Which wasn’t much. But fear held her back because she’d already screwed up, and, much more than that, she didn’t trust cops. Not one iota. Nobody could blame her for that.
After stashing the phon
e in her closet, she pulled on a pair of old, soft jeans and a T-shirt. Once her hair was dry and tamed, she applied just enough makeup to avoid looking too pale. No sense in wearing the heavy stuff before showtime.
Next she gathered her guitar, amp, and the backpack containing her cords and other equipment, and hauled them out the back door to her truck. Lowering the tailgate, she muscled everything into the back, then retrieved her purse and locked up the house.
As she stepped outside again, the sun’s reflection on the front of the truck caught her eye. Or, rather, it was the dent in the right front side that snared her attention. “What the hell?”
Incredulous, she jogged over and squatted, letting her purse drop to the driveway beside her. On close inspection, she could see the damage was slight. If the sun hadn’t been hitting the vehicle just right, she might not have noticed for days. As it was, she racked her brain trying to think when this could’ve happened.
Earlier in the week, she’d gone to the self-service car wash down the road and washed the truck. Was that Wednesday? She thought so. Distinctly, she recalled crouching, drying off the bumper with a towel, and it hadn’t been damaged then. She was certain. And she hadn’t done it herself.
Peering at the dent, she noted that the area wasn’t large, perhaps the size of a football and mostly on the surface. The chrome had taken a hit, as had some of the black paint. There was a slight scratch on the chrome, but that was all, thank goodness. She could probably pop out the dent herself. It wasn’t enough damage to alert her insurance company and risk the rate going up because some jerk had obviously backed into her truck sometime since Wednesday and hadn’t left a note.
With an irritated huff, she grabbed her purse, palmed the keys, and went around the driver’s side to climb in. People sucked. Even moving across the country hadn’t changed that fact.
Minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot behind the Waterin’ Hole. Shutting off the ignition, she glanced toward the back door and spotted a slight figure huddled against the wall, sitting on the asphalt. Blake Roberts. Her heart clenched in sympathy as she got out of the truck, trying not to stare at the young man’s ragged appearance.
“Hey, Blake,” she called. “Wanna give me a hand?”
As expected, he jumped up from his spot and shuffled over, eager to help. Or most likely hungry and desperately needing the twenty she always slipped him when he was around. He insisted on earning his money, though. No handouts for him.
As she turned to reach for the amp, he nudged her aside. “That’s too heavy. Let me get it.”
This despite the fact that she outweighed the nineteen-year-old by at least twenty pounds. But she let him, marveling, as usual, that he was stronger than he looked. The boy was too thin, his waiflike frame and adorable face making him appear younger than his age. Tangled brown hair fell to his shoulders, matching doe eyes that set off his delicate features.
And he was as sweet as he was pretty, which caused her to worry about his survival. How the fuck had a nice kid like Blake ended up homeless? She hadn’t known him long enough to get the story, but earning his trust was important to her for some reason. She didn’t want this boy’s life to go to waste if she could help it.
Grabbing her guitar case and backpack, she followed Blake inside. As she maneuvered past the bar and approached the small stage, the young man was already at work. Setting down her case and pack, she studied him thoughtfully as he buzzed like a bee, placing her amp exactly where she wanted it and then dragging out the extension cords. For the first time, she realized the guy paid attention to their setup and knew what he was doing. An idea began to form, and as her other band members arrived and started to lug in their equipment, Cara eased toward the bar and leaned against it, watching.
“Wish I could hire that kid.”
Cara turned to see Jess, the bar’s manager and her boss, studying Blake as the boy moved around efficiently. “Why can’t you? He obviously needs work, and he’s a good guy from what I can tell.”
“Couple of reasons.” Jess crossed his arms over his broad chest. “First off, pretty boy like him would get eaten alive in this place.”
“Only if he’s out front. What about cooking or washing dishes?”
“That’d work if I had an opening in the back, but I don’t.” The big man sighed. “The one position I did have, you filled it. I needed a bartender, and Blake didn’t have the cash to take the classes and get his license, even if I decided to give him a shot.”
“Damn, that’s a shame.”
“Yeah.” He gestured to Blake. “Thing is, I don’t know if he’d take the job if I had one to offer. The kid’s gonna have to swallow his pride and accept some real help if he plans to get off the street, and me slippin’ him a sandwich every day doesn’t count.”
She frowned. “Back up. Why do you doubt he’d take a job from you?”
“Blake struggles hard with seeing every kind gesture as a handout. He’s skittish, too. Keeps his head down and tries not to attract attention, even though he’s hungry for a chance and a connection with people around him. There’s this cop who’s taken a liking to him, struck up a friendship of sorts, and so far Blake hasn’t even let him help.”
Suspicion hit her hard in the gut and she found herself bristling. “Who’s this cop?”
Jess laughed. “Down, girl. He’s not interested like that, and he means well. He’s a detective—name’s Tate or something. Nice guy, on the up-and-up.”
“A cop with a heart of gold? As if.”
“I swear it.”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Right. I’ll put that on my list of surprises for the week.”
Just then, Blake came walking up. “Hey, Cara? I finished.”
She gave him a smile. “So you did, and it looks great. You’re getting pretty good at the setup.”
Blushing, he ducked the compliment and said shyly, “They’re ready for sound check. I can make the adjustments so you guys don’t have to stop what you’re doing.”
“That’s fantastic—thanks.” She nodded at the stage. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve done this before we met.”
He shrugged his slim shoulders. “Some. I was in a band in high school.”
“Awesome,” Jess put in. “What do you play?”
“Bass. It was fun, but nothing lasts forever, you know.” Almost reluctantly, he glanced at the small stage.
Nobody had to tell Cara the reason his dreams had crashed and burned. Even if she didn’t know the whole story, it was clear the young man’s support system was nonexistent. Someone, maybe more than one person, had dealt this boy a terrible blow.
But luck could turn on a dime.
“Well, I have a bass player right now,” she began. Blake’s face fell and she hurried on. “But what I don’t have is a good sound man. Before you started assisting me, it was taking forever to get things set up so we could move on to rehearsal and be ready for the show. I need someone I can count on to make sure we’re ready to go and that the show runs smoothly from beginning to end.”
The young man blinked at her, processing. “I— What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to hire you for the job.” Blake’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been helping with the setup, but this would entail you staying for the whole evening, manning the sound board, and breaking down the equipment afterward as well. It’s more responsibility, but, frankly, I think you’re ready.”
“Why me?” he managed. “I mean, it’s not because you feel sorry for me? I don’t take handouts—if I can help it.” He shot an embarrassed look at Jess, probably thinking of the food the manager sometimes gave him.
Cara shook her head and said firmly, “This is not a handout, Blake. Do I empathize with your situation? Yes, and I won’t lie about that. But working for a band is just that�
�hard work. What’s more, it’s a job I believe you’re well qualified to do, when so few are. What do you say? Will you be my sound man?”
The boy opened and closed his mouth, making an effort to keep his composure. “What nights would I work?”
She had him and they both knew it. “We play here two nights a week right now, Wednesday and Friday. We don’t normally set up this early, but we’re doing an extra rehearsal today. So count on being here around four on those days. We’ll do a run-through of the show, then be back onstage at eight. We play several sets with breaks in between, all the way until closing at two a.m.”
“That’s a long night.”
“Will the hours be a problem?”
“No, just thinking out loud.”
A light dawned. “You’ll need transportation.”
He studied his battered shoes. “I’ll be here on time, no matter what.”
“For the time being, I’ll pick you up wherever you’re staying and drop you off. And you will have a real place to stay before tonight is over,” she insisted, cutting off any protest he was about to make. “Nobody who works for me is going to be without a roof over their head, because that’ll make me look like a world-class cheapskate and an asshole to boot. You got it?”
A small grin curved Blake’s lips. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Aren’t you going to ask about your pay?”
“I don’t . . .” Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “What’s the offer?”
“Confidence—that’s good,” she observed in approval. “You’ll need that, working with my band. They’re good guys, but they’ll ride you at first to see what you’re made of. Give it back to them as good as you get and they’ll respect you. To start, I’m thinking seventy-five dollars a night.”
The boy hesitated and glanced at Jess, who arched a dark brow. “She’s lowballing you, kid. Four in the afternoon to two in the morning is a long-assed day, even with breaks. Don’t let her get away with that shit.”
Cara could’ve kissed Jess for latching onto what she was doing and for playing along. Blake’s face scrunched as he thought about the offer.