by Karen Booth
Bring Me Back
by
Karen Booth
Bring Me Back
Copyright © 2013, Karen Booth
Digital ISBN: 9781622371013
Editor, Suzanne Barrett
Cover Art Design by KJ Jacobs
Digital Release, January, 2013
Turquoise Morning, LLC
P.O. Box 43958
Louisville, KY 40253-0958
www.turquoisemorningpress.com
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher, Turquoise Morning Press.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC.
Dedication
For Steve, Emily and Ryan. With you, my world is a beautiful place.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people for making Bring Me Back possible.
Steve, my husband, who bites his tongue when I’m acting crazy, smiles when I’m happy, listens when I’m sad and loves me always. Sara, my cheerleader, who believed in Christopher and Claire from the first word and begged me to keep going. Karen Stivali, my critique partner, who pushes me to get better, understands every writer’s frustration, and is available when needed to yank me back from the brink. Celia Rivenbark and Margaret Ethridge, who are always generous with authorial expertise, friendship, and the occasional off-color joke. The dedicated and talented women of Turquoise Morning Press, especially Kim Jacobs, Shelley Rawe, and my amazing editor, Suzanne Barrett. The legion of early readers. I couldn’t have done it without your help and feedback. Karrie Adamany, Angie Mack, Lisa Kaylie, Evette Horton, Christie Oppliger, Mairead Maloney, Laurie Cochenour, Amy Barefoot, Smudge Spooner, Jill Mango, Sarah Austin, Jennifer Resnick, Ashley Mattison, Monica Shelton, Annette Pratts, Diane Badzinski, Kelley Amrein, Maura Partrick, Shannon Murley, Jenn Prenda, Tema Larter, Jennifer McCafferty, Jane Greathouse, Susie Lektorich, Rita Robbins, and Diane Tameecha. Thanks also to Dad, Mom, Judy, and Margaret, who only got to read the first chunk of the book because I was too nervous to let them read the sex parts. Also, to the supreme givers of advice and encouragement: John Strohm, Sarah Dessen, Heather Ross, Jay Faires, Pat Cudahy, Jared Resnick, Sam Stephenson, Nic Brown, Django Haskins, Tom Maxwell, David Dunton, Andrea Somberg, Regina Joskow, Billy Maupin and David Menconi.
Special thanks to Peter Case for writing the lyric that inspired my title.
Reviews
“Fast-paced, sexy and altogether irresistible, Bring Me Back is made all the more appealing by Karen Booth’s inside knowledge of the music industry. A flat-out fabulous read!”
~Celia Rivenbark, NYT Bestselling author
“In Bring Me Back Karen Booth shifts every girl’s adolescent daydreams into the sharp focus of adulthood and proves that reality can be even better than fantasy.”
~Author Margaret Ethridge
Bring Me Back
Music critic Claire Abby is a single mom dreading her daughter’s departure for college and worried that turning forty will leave her career running on fumes. She’s floored when she lands a Rolling Stone cover story on 80s British rock legend Christopher Penman. She spent her teenage years fantasizing he was her boyfriend.
In person, Christopher is everything Claire feared he’d be—charming, witty and unwilling to address the rumors he’s dodged for a decade. Still, she contains her adolescent fantasies and manages to earn his trust, unearthing the truth and the devastating secret behind it. His blockbuster story is her first priority when she returns home, a nearly impossible task when Christopher starts calling and flirting. She knows she should maintain a professional distance. She knows she should focus on the story. She knows it would be best to simply walk away. But how can she say “no” to the man she could never forget?
March 7th, 1986
Dear Diary,
Scott from next door gave me a ride home from school today because I missed the bus again. (I know, I know. Big surprise.) I was kind of excited since he has his own car, but he was such a creep when we got home. He asked me about Banks Forest, which he knows I love because everybody knows they’re my favorite band. I told him how I can’t wait to see Banks Forest in concert and he put his hand on my boob. I told him he was gross and he got all mad and said I shouldn’t dress like Madonna if I don’t want boys to grab my boobs. He’s such an idiot. I haven’t dressed like Madonna since 9th grade.
Speaking of Banks Forest, (when am I not?), I rearranged my BF posters after school. I figured out that if I put the best poster of Christopher Penman (the medium sized one, without his shirt) on the wall next to my closet, it looks like he’s lying next to me in bed if I’m on my side and squint my left eye. What a babe. I look at him and I just want to die. Why can’t he go to my school? Wouldn’t that be amazing? If he was a senior, but still a super famous rock star and he was my boyfriend. The mean girls would hate me even more than they already do. My life would be perfect. I wonder if there’s any way I will ever meet Christopher. There has to be some reason that he and I are both on planet earth at the same time. It just doesn’t seem like that would be totally random.
XO
Claire
P.S. Only 27 days until Banks Forest live and I get to see Christopher Penman in the flesh! We will be in the same place, breathing the same air.
Chapter One
Twenty-two years later
After an extra-long morning run, also known as procrastination, I plopped down at my creaky desk and picked up the phone to call my dad. It was a task I’d put off for two days, even when I knew that every minute I delayed was only ammunition for him to guilt me about not staying in touch. The voicemail tone buzzed in my ear and I cursed myself for waiting so long. Crap. He beat me to it.
There were two messages, fewer than ten minutes apart, both from Patrick Collins, senior music editor at Rolling Stone. I’d long had the nagging suspicion that Patrick was humoring me, which made the desperation in his voice seem more like a practical joke than a plea for help. He’d never, in all my years of pushing for more than a token assignment, wanted a call back ASAP.
“Claire,” he answered, before there’d been a single ring. “I’ve been trying you for an hour.”
“I went for a run. What’s up?”
“Another writer pulled out of an interview that’s scheduled for Monday. Are you available? I’d need you here in New York.”
I flipped through my planner, hoping the sound of paper would make it seem as if I was impossibly busy and therefore, in demand. “I’d have to find someone to stay with my daughter for the night. Who’s the interview with?”
“Christopher Penman, from Banks Forest.”
I nearly choked on my own breath. “He agreed to an interview?” A long-forgotten hum surged through me, dotting my arms with goose bumps. “You’ve got to be kidding. He hates writers.” Everything I’d ever thought or read or seen of Christopher Penman brewed a frothy chaos in my head. “I mean, really, really hates writers.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I think he’s hoping for some good publicity. He’s got a new record coming out.”
And there it is. I knew there had to be a catch—a new solo album. His first outing without his band had been an unlistenable flop, panned by everyone, even me.
“It’ll be the cover if you can get him to
talk,” Patrick continued.
“The cover?”
“Yes, the cover, but I need an answer now.” He clicked a pen at his usual neurotic pace. “You know, you’re always begging me for something meaty.”
Meaty? You have no idea. “Let me think.” Would I be able to form coherent sentences? Would I remember how to put one foot in front of the other without making an ass of myself?
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I need someone with your experience. We both know that you’ll have to ask some uncomfortable questions. I don’t see him trusting one of the younger writers.”
“Oh, okay.” I’m thirty-nine. When did I become one of the older writers?
“I could really use you.”
“Uh…” This will never work. “Yes, of course. I’ll do it.”
“Great.” He blew out a breath. “I trust that you know this is a big deal, Claire.”
Thank you for the understatement of the millennium. “Yes. I’m well aware of what I’m up against.” The question is whether I will survive it. Or him.
“And you know that I need you to ask those difficult questions, right? We need the whole story.”
“Yes. Got it.” Every last unbelievable drop.
“Okay, then. Christopher Penman is all yours.”
I hung up to silence, or perhaps I hadn’t noticed in all of the confusion that my brain had swelled and plugged up my ears.
Oh. My. God. Christopher. Penman.
I was seventeen when I fell ass over teakettle for Mr. Penman—madly, deeply in love. He was the dreamiest guy in the world—tall and handsome in a skinny boyish way, although there’d been no question that he was a grown man. He had a scrubby head of copper-brown hair, perfect for digging fingers into, and his bright white smile came as a flash, potent enough to melt me into a puddle, quivering and eager to surrender. I squandered embarrassing amounts of time gazing at pictures of him, captivated by his freakishly green eyes.
I’d been a devoted fan of his band, Banks Forest, and spent hours every day in my bedroom, high on ditz and hormones, listening to their music. My preoccupation coincided with a few sub-par report cards, but I’d felt that homework time was better spent writing my married name, Claire Louise Penman, in my best cursive. My dad had made no effort to understand me at all. My argument that he should encourage my appreciation of the arts never seemed to get me anywhere.
Christopher was my respite at a time when boys were a constant disappointment. He was the ultimate imaginary boyfriend, fiery and intense during the dreamy liaisons I concocted in my head, with an uncanny ability to satisfy my every need, emotional and physical. Although I had far less real-life experience than I would have liked, Christopher taught me everything I needed to know and I was a quick study under his skilled tutelage. He was always tender afterward, making me laugh and telling me that I was the most incredible girl in the world. Everything about our illusory love story had been perfect; no-birth-control-necessary sex on a puffy cloud.
Of course, Monday would be anything but a day-dreamy frolic through cumulonimbus. Agreeing to interview Christopher Penman was the professional equivalent of jumping out of an airplane with a second-hand chute. He was notorious for his secrecy and he hated the media, writers and photographers at the top of the list. You couldn’t blame the guy; he’d suffered through years of rumors and innuendo about his private life, drugs, and his nightmare of an ex-wife. I wasn’t being sent in to help his situation at all. Despite what Christopher’s agenda might be, nobody would care about the new solo record. People would only want to know if the filthy personal stuff was true.
****
My cranky Volvo station wagon wasn’t a grand statement about individuality, it was more a product of my finances, but it had helped me stubbornly dodge the modern definition of suburban mom for years. Granted, I would have needed a husband to fully participate in that stereotype. Lining up behind the minivans at school, at least I could take comfort in the fact that I had resisted the temptation to assimilate.
My darling Sam, flanked by her best friend Leah, sauntered through the double doors, her buoyant blonde curls responding in time to every step. The pair was a flurry of conversation, but came to a halt the instant a pack of boys crossed their path. A seemingly undernourished boy in baggy-butt jeans stopped to talk and the girls smiled in gleaming white, long enough for their lips to stick to their teeth.
Sam was a junior, recently seventeen. Knowing we had only two more summers together before she went off to college was more than a thorn in my side—it made me queasy. I’d felt too young to become a mom at twenty-two and now I was unquestionably too young to live out my days in a nest for one.
“Hey, Mom,” Sam said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Can I sleep over at Leah’s tonight?”
Leah waited at the curb, cheeks turning red from the blustery March day. She granted me half of a wave as she checked her cell phone.
“Sure, honey.” Another Friday night alone, but at least I could work on my Christopher Penman interview without the motherly guilt.
Sam gave Leah thumbs up and slammed her door.
“How’d the English test go?” I asked. A mom in an Escalade, yelling at her brood to get in the damn car, blocked my path. I considered laying on the horn, but decided I didn’t dare risk my already tenuous social status with the PTA.
“It was fine,” Sam said. She took a piece of gum from her backpack and crumpled the wrapper before dropping it in the cup holder. “I think I did okay, but I won’t find out until next week.”
“How was the rest of your day?” I asked, turning out of the school parking lot. Whenever I could convince Sam to take a ride home after school, those ten-minutes were a gift, a veritable parental goldmine. She found my thirst for knowledge less menacing when it was acceptable to avoid eye contact and I, happily, deflected the title of grand inquisitor.
“Okay.” Her deep blue eyes found mine for an instant. “Remember Andrew Mills? He hung out with Leah and me at lunch for a while. I forgot how funny he is.”
“Gotta love a funny guy.” I regretted my choice of words as soon as they left my mouth. Any enthusiasm on my part might sour her opinion of the unsuspecting Andrew.
“He’s cuter since he got his braces off. He started a band with some guys from school. They’re practicing this weekend.”
I was a predictable sucker for any guy in a band when I was Sam’s age, which made me assume that Andrew would be a shoe-in, but I didn’t push the subject once we got to the house—our cute and tidy, albeit tired, nod to a normal life—white with faded black shutters.
I’d purchased the house when I moved to North Carolina and Sam was a baby. The down payment had come as an uncharacteristically lavish birthday gift from my dad. I’d feigned refusal, but he insisted that my mom, if she’d been alive, would’ve wanted it that way.
Once inside our Fifties-era kitchen that I’d decided long ago was retro and not run-down, Sam rummaged through the fridge. Her cell phone buzzed and I caught her fighting a smile.
“Change in plans?” I flipped through the mail and set aside several letters for her from far-off schools.
“No. It’s, um…” She beamed at her phone. “It’s Andrew. He wants me to watch his band practice tomorrow.”
“Sounds like fun. I’ll drive you. I haven’t talked to his mom since our book club imploded.” I hadn’t laid eyes on Andrew in two years. A reconnaissance mission was in order.
“Mom, please. Can’t I take the car by myself?”
“No way. I’m still recovering from the trip to the grocery store last weekend.” I caught her reaction and reminded myself that the eye roll was nothing personal. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when we need to leave.”
I had an hour until Sam would need a ride to her sleepover, so I tucked one leg under the other, typed “Christopher Penman” in my browser’s search box, and settled in for the start of what would likely be a sedentary weekend. The official Banks Forest we
bsite had what I’d expected, a discography and a timeline, details I’d memorized long ago. There were hundreds of old photos too, including the quintessential shot of the band, Christopher with his shirt blown open by a tropical breeze to reveal what made a perfunctory appearance in every video Banks Forest made—his smooth, broad chest.
That image in particular was as familiar as my own family photos, the shots of my sister Julie and me at the Grand Canyon, both of us wearing striped orange and brown tank tops and khaki safari shorts. Julie had her lustrous golden hair in braids, but Mom made me wear my dishwater blonde in pigtails. She’d spared us the tube socks, but otherwise dressed us like boys, a hippie theory of hers about not forcing gender rules.
The Christopher Penman website was next, complete with a scheme of smoke and mirrors to prop up his first solo outing. In the interest of journalistic thoroughness, I carefully studied every image in the photo gallery. I’d forgotten how sublimely his well-made jaw paired with the mole on his left cheek.
The search results that followed were an ocean of muck: fan pages, gossipy entertainment sites and links to tabloid articles. I was already at a disadvantage; I’d only sporadically witnessed the more dubious years of Christopher’s public life. Banks Forest had released the first of their two “Best of” albums well after I was out of college and they were no longer legitimate in my burgeoning writer brain. He seemed to embrace every Rock ‘n’ Roll cliché during that time, much of it captured quite poignantly by the paparazzi. He and his then wife even made a couple’s trip to rehab.
“Mom?” Sam popped her head into my office with a bulging purple duffel bag over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go. We decided to catch a movie. Leah hates it if we miss the previews.”
Sam and I ducked through icy rain, tiny pellets hitting the back of my neck as we dashed to the car. The heat refused to kick in and I was forced to steer with my knee while warming my hands in my jacket pockets.