by Vivian Lux
Izzy was moving off the property now, into a little trailer near where the cult-people lived. My dad had told her she could stay, but the idea of living with the memories of Gideon was too much for her fragile nature, and she'd declined. Which meant that now all of Gid's instruments and equipment were being packed up in boxes. Izzy had mentioned maybe donating them to the school in his memory and the thought was nice but my mind rebelled at the idea of Gideon's memory being let loose, formless into the world rather than staying tightly contained in the place where he'd lived.
I had no right. I knew that. I wasn't so much of an asshole that I couldn't see that it was Izzy's choice to do with this stuff what she wanted. She was the one who had spent half her life with the uncle I'd barely seen in two years. But a hurt kind of anger, a childish sense of unfairness, was nipping at the edge of my rational mind. I didn't want to see him do it. I didn't want to help him do it. And I knew if I hung around the house there would be no way to avoid it. So I left the house.
Walking into town was like playing peekaboo with the creek. I left it at my parents' house, heading out along our road only to find it again as it dove under Davy's Bridge, the first of the three spans over it. Then it left me as it hooked out in a wide loop before making another sharp turn out there by the cult people and heading straight into town. I found it again, narrowed within cement banks, as the first scrappy stores that clung to the outskirts of town came into view.
I huffed out a visible puff of breath. My coat was too thin for this kind of damp cold. It was made for style, not for weather and right now the smell of snow was in the air. I could see it up there, the sky was fuzzy with it, but nothing was falling yet. Tonight it would, for sure.
The town of Crown Creek was really little more than a glorified intersection - which the locals loftily called 'The Four Corners.' Here the creek narrowed some more before taking a steep dive over three small series of rapids, baby waterfalls, but falls all the same. These falls were why the town had sprung up out here in the first place. The shells of old flour mills clung to the banks of those little falls, their grinding wheels long since rotted away,. They were old and worn and now looked like part of the landscape.
In the summer the falls would be roaring, but ice was already starting to freeze the creek into silence. A car went by, the tires noisy on the wet pavement, but otherwise everything was quiet.
It had been a long time since I had heard this kind of quiet.
I passed a few shops. A sad little pet store with a sleeping cat in the window that looked like it had given up on the idea of adoption and made its home right there. A shuttered art gallery. A dollar store.
Nothing I needed.
At the corner of Mill Street, I looked in on an empty storefront, the only thing left inside was a fallen over chair in the very center of the space. There was music leaking out of the building next to it and I did a double take to see a bar in front of me.
I turned in a slow circle, uncertain if I had somehow lost my bearings. I didn't remember a bar being at this intersection. Not that the name was much to go my. Crown Tavern. Everything around here was Crown this, Royal that. Even my family name fit with the theme of the area.
Crown Tavern. Slowly, the name brought up a faint memory of kids in T-ball uniforms. The kids with normal childhoods, the ones who didn't always know exactly what they wanted from the moment they could speak. This bar must have always been here and I was just too young to go inside.
I was old enough now.
I pushed my way inside. It felt overwarm after my freezing walk and I immediately shed my jacket. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air, although smoking indoors had been banned for ages now. It seemed to be seeping out of the walls.
I looked around, taking in the wood paneled walls, the cheap metal tables, the U-shaped bar with the video-trivia games bolted to the ends. There was a small, cleared out space in the corner by the window, with a raised, rickety looking stage sitting on small risers. It was smaller than even the ones I had played as a kid. I went over and took a seat next to one of the trivia machines and studied my frozen hands.
There was no nostalgia here. I had no memories sniffing around the back of my head like dogs trying to catch a scent.
I could relax. I did relax.
But only for a moment.
The man four seats down twisted on his stool. I could sense him studying me and wondering is he should say something. He wondered so long it was actually a relief when he finally spoke up.
"Sorry," he said. "But, you're Jonah King right?"
Instantly I was on the alert. After losing my manager and having my appearances cancelled, the last thing I could afford was a pissed of Tweet from some aggrieved civilian. Even though I was home, I still had to be extra sure to answer all autograph requests with a smile and a witty joke. "I am," I said, pasting my practiced smile into place. "How are you?"
But the man wasn't done talking. His face was familiar in the vague way every face was familiar in this town. "Yeah, you're definitely Foster King's boy. It's all in the eyes, that's for damn sure."
I blinked. It had been a long while since 'Foster King's boy' was how people knew me. "I've heard that before," I said carefully, still not quite sure where this was going.
He nodded and sipped his beer. "Sorry about your Uncle. Andrew was so excited about the spring musical."
I blinked, then remembered. Right. Gid was a music teacher. I looked at him again, inhaling sharply. "I remember you."
He grinned showing yellowed, nicotaine stained teether. "Yeah. Wondered if you were gonna. I'll save you the brain strain." He held out his hand. "Jack McLean. I was a year behind you and a year ahead of Gabe."
I nodded, feeling more at ease now. "Until we left, yeah."
"Now you're back for a little while, huh?"
I licked my lips. "I'm working on a new project," I lied smoothly. He raised his eyebrows, the impressed look on his face emboldening me. "Stripping it down, getting back down to my roots, you know?"
The lie must have sounded believable because Jack looked impressed. "Well if you're gonna be hanging around a while, you need to know what's what."
I took a drink and listened as Jack brought me up to speed with the town gossip. He was really gifted at summarizing. In no time flat I knew which of our classmates had ended up in jail, and which of those charges were 'complete bullshit.' I also learned who had ended up with six kids but never got married and who left town to become 'some big city hotshot.'
Through all of this, the bartender - who I was pretty sure was at Gid's wake but didn't say a word then and said more of that now - brought me an assortment of craft beers from the brewery down the road. I felt my shoulders unknot.
"Jonah fucking King."
"Jesus," I almost fell off my barstool when I saw Taylor Graham suddenly behind the bar. With a beard. "Tay. What are you doing here?"
He grinned. "I work here, what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off banging groupies somewhere?"
Taylor hadn't changed. Except everything about him had. The eager face was still there, but ringed with a giant, bushy blond beard that looked like it should be groomed using hedge trimmers. The same hopeful smile was hidden under all that hair, as well as an extra one hundred pounds and several inches. But it was still Taylor, still looking at me with that hero worship. He'd played with us a few dates back when we were doing local festivals. And honorary King Brother, we'd called him, until our slimy manager Bennett put an end to that.
I had to smile. "Need to rest sometime, don't I?" But anxiety settled in a knot right between my eyes.
"Been following your solo stuff," Taylor went on. "You seem like you want to move in a different direction."
"He's getting back to his roots," Jack piped up.
Taylor's smug expression made me instantly regret the lie. "I mean, I'm stripping down a list, yeah. But new direction?" I waved my hand. It was one thing to have self-doubts. It was another thing to let
Taylor know I had them. "Why fuck with what works though, you know? When you got a winning formula."
He nodded, wiping the same glass, spinning it around and around in his hand until it was streak free and spotless but still he didn't put it away. His smile was so wide it looked like it hurt. "Yeah, yeah well of course, man you're on top" He shook his head and seemed to suddenly notice the glass in his hand and set it down with a clang. "Shit, how long you in town? And sorry about your uncle but the way. But seriously, if you're around for a while we'd love to have you play a set."
I looked over at the small, rickety stage. "You mean, here?"
"No, Madison Square Garden," he deadpanned. "Of course here."
I grinned. "You want to put me on as opener or closer for the small town dreamers?"
"What, we're not good enough for you?" He was smiling, joking, but there was a hard glint in his eyes.
I laughed. "Sure man. I've been dying to play a half-empty bar. Just to switch it up, you know? I was getting tired of huge crowds of people screaming my name. It'd be nice to go back to being ignored in the corner of a bar."
A shadow passed across Taylor's face. I looked at him, and then Jack who was studiously looking away, draining his beer at a rapid clip. I swallowed and lowered my voice like I was letting them both in on a secret. "It's just... not many people know I'm in town, and we're kind of trying to keep things private, be there for my family."
"Nah sure, sure, I get it. Bad timing." He whistled between his teeth as he swiped the bar with his rag, but the friendliness had dissolved from his demeanor. "What can I get you?"
"Another one?"
"That's five dollars."
"Guess your drinks aren't on the house any more," Jack chuckled, having watched this whole exchange.
"He can afford it," Taylor said, smiling through a snarl.
I had fucked something up and I didn't know what it was. That was the fucking problem with coming home. These people all thought they knew me, but they had no idea.
I slapped down a twenty and stood up. "Keep the change."
Chapter Eight
Ruby
It was the last bag of kitten food on the shelf and it was marked reserved. "Looks like it's got your name on it!" Randi cackled. "Literally!"
I grinned at her pun. The bag did indeed have my name on it. Or rather, the name of my nine week old kitten. 'Reserved for Ginger Riley,' was written across the front in black Sharpie. "Thanks, Randi," I said. "You're a life saver."
"She's eating well?" The owner of Fur Real Pet Store was covered in cat hair the way any good pet lover should be, and she was very interested in Ginger's appetite. "My last litter of fosters took a while to get used to dry food."
"No she never stops eating," I sighed. "It helps fuel her mayhem."
"That's why we love them," Randi said, handing me my card back. "They help make life interesting."
"That's for sure," I agreed, hefting the bag off the counter. "Take care now. I'll probably be seeing you really soon!"
"Stay warm!" she called. "And make sure you shut the door all the way? Wind gets it and it goes flying open."
I nodded and braced myself before heading back out to my car. The damp threat of snow was hanging heavy in the air. Winter was coming on fast. Luckily there was a bag of yarn in my car, just waiting to be turned into a warm, cozy hat.
I was headed to my monthly knitting club, a ritual I held as sacred as a church service. The fact that I had to get cat food meant I was running late now, and that wouldn't do at all.
I threw the door open, and then caught it before the wind sent it slamming into the building. I lifted my knitted scarf up around my mouth and hurried, head down, to where I'd parked my car on the street a few doors down. I was rushing right past the Crown Tavern when the door of the bar swung open.
"Ruby?"
The wind was still whipping around me but I suddenly felt very warm for some reason. "Jonah," I said. "I thought you'd be gone by now."
It was a pretty bitchy thing to say, I'll be the first to admit. But it was the truth. Claire had told me he was leaving right after the funeral and here it was days later.
He walked towards me, a little stiff legged. Something about the glaze of his eyes and the set of his mouth made me wonder if he was drunk. At one-thirty in the afternoon. "Did you want me gone?" he asked, somehow managing to sound both arrogant and wounded at the same time.
I shrugged like it made no difference to me, but inside I was burning up with curiosity. Why was he staying? How long was he staying? And what happened? I couldn't imagine it was out of missing his family. He and his brothers had been fighting for years.
Jonah wrinkled his nose like he could read my thoughts. "Well I hate to disappoint you, but I'm not."
"Why not?" I blurted.
For a second a keen pleasure burned in his eyes. Like he was happy to have my attention. Claire always said he was a spotlight hog growing up and his behavior after the breakup of the King Brothers only proved it further.
But then his eyes dulled and his mouth turned down. He spoke like the words got stuck in his throat. "Change in management."
"Yeah?" That was interesting. The reason Gabe hated Jonah so much had something to do with management.
He nodded, looking me right in the eye. "He fired me."
I hoped like hell he couldn't see how funny that was to me. "Really? He fired you? He can do that?"
The corner of his mouth tugged up. "Apparently? I didn't know either."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Still trying to figure that out."
I looked at him again. Whether it was his connection to Gideon, or something wholly his own, I couldn't deny that there was some kind of connection with him. I felt like I could read hi, see past all the shiny rock and roll bullshit to the real guy lurking underneath. There was a story here and I was dying to hear it.
And he was dying to tell it too. I could tell by the keen gleam that shone in his eyes again. It was the same kind of gleam my kindergartners got when you got down to their level and listened to the story they were bursting to tell. I shifted the bag of cat litter in my arms. I was going to be terribly late for my knitting club meeting. "No, really, why'd he do it?"
He blinked. He wasn't expecting me to pry and that pleased me for some reason. "What?"
I lifted my chin. "I can see it all over your face. You're dying to bitch about what happened, so go ahead. But can I set this down in my car, first?"
Chapter Nine
Jonah
Stung, I followed her to her car, and as I did, I took another look at her. I thought I liked long hair in girls, but there was something about the way her thick, dark hair framed her face. She looked like some kind of portrait, especially with the way the wind pinkened her cheeks. The short hair added to her instead of taking something away.
I remembered how she used to look, that long thick hair tumbling around her face like a curtain. It was too much, I realized. Like gilding a lily or something.
She opened the back door of her bright green car and plopped the bag into it. Then she emerged with a woolen cap that she immediately plopped on her head. Once she pulled on matching mittens, she looked at me and folded her arms. "There," she said. "I'm ready now. Let's hear the story."
I was still stuck on what she had said a few minutes ago. "Dying to bitch about it?" I repeated.
She paused, hesitated.
"Is it that obvious?"
Her smile broke wide and spontaneous, like it caught her by surprise and she clapped her mittened hand over her mouth to catch her laughter before it took over. Then she eyed me warily. "You gonna get all pissy?"
"Do I usually?"
"Pretty much."
"What makes you say that?" I genuinely wanted to know. "You barely know me."
She took a breath and let it out. "I know everything I need to know."
"What, what my sister says?" I asked, incredulous. "What Gabe says?"
Her face har
dened a little. "I know you haven't been home in two years."
I was starting to get angry and the beer in my bloodstream wasn't helping matters. "Kind of hard when I'm always on a fucking plane, don't you think?" I snarled, more sarcastic than I wanted to be.
Her lip curled a little and I could tell she wanted to argue with me but didn't know enough about my life to protest. "So why did you manager fire you?" she pressed.
I looked down at her fierce little face. "Boy you like to twist that knife, don't you? You're supposed to be a kindergarten teacher?"
She ignored me. "Let me guess," she mused. "He wasn't up to your standards?"
It felt like she was deliberately poking at a sore spot. I laughed, a short, mirthless sound. "He fired me, remember?"
"Fine." She crossed her arms. "Okay, here's another idea. He wanted to do something different. Maybe go home for the holidays once in a while."
"He let me go because I had a shitty show!" I suddenly exploded. All the anger I'd been holding back - promising myself that I'd have my revenge by being an even bigger success now - burst out of me in a flood. Like she'd cracked a hole in a dam I'd only just erected. "One fucking shitty show out of like a million. One tiny slip up and that's all it takes." I looked down. "And it wasn't even my fault," I finished, aware that I sounded sulky and not caring for once.
I thought Ruby might throw me a bone now. Give me some sympathy, maybe pull me down into one of her nice hugs. I was having that feeling again. This moment wasn't dipped in several coats of memory. This was new. Brand new, and I wanted to keep feeling this way.
But she just kept looking at me with that disbelieving smirk on her face. "Not your fault? Whose fault was it then?"
"It was a storm!" I cried. "Blew up outta nowhere."
"So an Act of God got you fired by your manager," she said, sounding completely skeptical. "Really?"
"Listen, you can scoff all you want." I was freezing, but under my jacket collar I was burning up. This chick had some kind of nerve. "You stand here and pretend like you already know what I'm going to say because what? You hung out in my house when you were a kid? You read an article about me in the tabloids? You saw something on the internet that made you hate me?" I rolled my eyes. "Oh, I know. Maybe some asshole blogger made you believe I kick puppies for a living, right?" My shoulders sagged. "Or maybe you listened to Claire one too many times."