by Jae Dawson
Shit, I was a mess. Walking chaos.
Gran’s memory deserved better than this. So did Gramps.
Tucking my hands in my pockets, I ambled toward the front door. Nightshade pawed the door at my approach and Deloris called to him sweetly to back away so I could enter. Not that he listened.
Nightshade spun in happy circles as I stepped inside.
I angled past the excited dog and into the foyer. Deloris had heard about my arrest on the local police scanner and rushed over to stay with Gramps while I was in jail. And again today. And every Tuesday and Thursday until my community service was complete. No judgement from her either. Only care and concern and shenanigans.
“Dinner’s on the stove.”
I smiled. “You’re an angel.”
She patted my cheek then grabbed her coat. “I know.” I held the door as she squeezed past. “Sorry to dash. My girls are waiting for me. Bunco night.”
“Kick their asses.”
She waved over her shoulder and I shut the door, then peered toward Gramps. Did he know what I had done yet? And why his antique pickup was in the shop?
I picked up Shade, unsuccessfully avoiding his exuberant licks to my cheek. Gramps smiled at me, lowering his glasses as I walked into the living room. I craned my neck around the wiggling dog in my arms to study the puzzle he worked on. A half-naked pinup girl? I chuckled. Gramps winked at me. A whole new appreciation for Deloris settled in my tight chest.
I needed this. Gramps’s smile, this feeling of normalcy, even though nothing would ever be normal without Gran. Maybe I needed Hallmark Channel for a while, too. I put Shade on the floor and pulled up a chair.
In this moment, I knew I made the right decision. I would survive the embarrassment of the public’s scrutiny, the silence of my friend, and the tornado that was Bella Pagano. For Gramps.
Chapter Eight
Bella
I rolled into Thursday’s rehearsal like I was preparing for battle. My armor—one of my cutest dresses—sleeveless, navy fabric peppered with colorful umbrellas, cinched tight at the waist, paired with my worn-in camel oxfords. My weapon—the full script and score for Little Shop of Horrors. My army—well, they were mostly lounging in the orange velvet seats of the auditorium, scrolling on their phones. I could work on them.
And my enemy. Looking devastating as ever in black jeans and a loose gray tee, surrounded by a pack of giggling senior girls. He would be so much easier to hate if he wasn’t so easy on the eyes.
I tore my gaze away from the delicious sight of Cade Owens as a bolt of tension jackhammered my temple. This was going to be a long forty-five days.
“All right guys!” I clapped as I strode down the aisleway and up the stairs onto the stage. “Can I have you all here in the front two rows? Let’s go, let’s go!”
My soldiers—er students, who normally moved with the speed of extras in a bad zombie movie—flew to the front of the stage. Only the girls who surrounded Cade—Alyssa, Tess, and Brittany—seemed glued to their spots.
I spotted Jeremy shuffling down the aisleway, hands in his pockets, before he plunked himself into a seat six rows back. That was fine. At least he was here.
Cade had moved off to the side of the stage, but all eyes had followed him like flowers tracking the sun. I realized, with a sinking feeling, how truly difficult it was going to be with him here. I needed to nip this in the bud.
“So,” I announced. “You may have noticed we have a visitor.” Suppressing my distaste, I motioned Cade over closer to me. I was grateful when he obliged. I may not like the guy, but we needed to cooperate in front of the students. “This is Cade Owens. You may know him as the lead singer of Burning Umbrage. He’s also an alumni of this school. And he’s going to be here helping us get ready for the musical every Tuesday and Thursday.”
Pause for explosion of excited whispers.
I held up my hands. “Now, some ground rules. First. No photos during rehearsal. That includes not-subtle secret selfies, Garrett.” I jogged down the stairs and stood before Garrett Anderson with my hand out for his phone.
Garrett, a shaggy-haired kid in the chorus, handed over his phone with a groan.
I strode back up onto stage. “It’ll be up to Mr. Owens if he allows you to take pictures with him after rehearsal. Please respect his space. He is not just a celebrity. He is a human being.” Or, at least, did a decent job of impersonating one.
“Now, I’m sure you all have questions for Mr. Owens. We can take a few minutes for you to get those burning questions out of the way, so we can focus on the show for the rest of our two hours.” I looked his way questioningly, and he gave a curt nod before striding across the stage to stand next to me.
“Hey. Just call me Cade.” He gave me a sidelong glance. Was that a shot across my bow about the formality I’d insisted on in the principal’s office? Screw you, Cade. I mentally cocked my weapons as he continued. “We’ll be hanging out during practice the next few weeks, cool?”
An adoring chorus of “okay’s” and “yes’s” rang out. God, I wish I could command their attention like this. But I had to admit, Cade’s stage presence was magnetic. When he performed, it must be . . . compelling.
“Who has a question for me?” he asked. “And tell me your name when you ask it. I’ll try to remember everyone.”
That was a nice touch, I conceded grudgingly.
One of the junior boys raised his hand. “Marcus here. Were you really drunk driving?”
I winced.
But Cade just smiled, and in a way that seemed regretful. “Yeah, Marcus. Stupid decision. Don’t do it.” Then his whole demeanor changed: a wrinkle between his brow, a slight frown at the corner of his lips. “If any of you decide to be an idiot like me, you’ll be lucky if you only just hit a light pole. Not worth it.”
The way his eyes unfocused for a moment, I almost started to feel bad for him. Almost.
“Hi. I’m Amie.” The junior girl in the second row laughed nervously. “I can’t believe you’re here. Burning Umbrage is my life. Just ask my friend”—she pointed to the girl next to her—“I have all your albums. Saw you in concert last year, but couldn’t afford the VIP pass, so I didn’t get to meet you. But oh my god, now you’re here and—”
“Amie. Your question?” I interrupted.
“Sorry, Ms. Pagano.” Amie laughed nervously again. “So, according to burningforcadeowens on Insta, you’re forced to stay in Hartwood. Sentenced or whatever. And that’s why you’re here. You have a parole officer, right? I heard they follow criminals around, everywhere. That would be so annoying. Last question. Promise. Do you have an ankle bracelet thingy? You know, so like you can’t leave Hartwood?” She leaned back with another nervous giggle, a starry-eyed look on her face as she awaited his answers. Then she sprang forward, her eyes wide. “Oh! And is your next album really delayed?”
All eyes swiveled back to Cade. And he just chuckled. I guess he was used to gushing teenage girls and their flood of excited questions and nervous, rambly chatter.
“Hey Amie. Yeah, I was sentenced to community service here in Hartwood.” He shrugged. “You didn’t ask, but I had other options. I wanted to be here with you guys. We’ll have fun, right?” He winked at the class with a sly smile. My students quietly laughed, all grins. “I do have a parole officer for the next sixty days. No, she doesn’t follow me around. No, I don’t have an ankle bracelet. Moonlight is still slated for February.”
Paloma raised her hand next. She was bold, brash, and playing our lead, Audrey. “My name’s Paloma Salvator. If you want to be here with us, why did you tell Ms. Pagano to kiss your ass in the parking lot?”
Cade’s eyes flicked to me; his teeth clenched. So, the man could get flustered. I wasn’t particularly inclined to rescue him, but it was a question about me too. “Let’s stick to questions about Mr. Owens’s career and music.”
But Cade responded. “That was another stupid decision and had nothing to with my choice to be here.” H
e paused a moment. “Paloma, you’re the one from the parking lot, right? The one who recorded us on her cell?”
Paloma turned beet red and I had to suppress a smile.
The questions continued, turning to only slightly more appropriate topics. What was it like living in Los Angeles? Pretty great to live on the beach and be surrounded by cool, beautiful people. How much money did he have? Chuckle. A lot. Had he really dated Demi Lovato? Just dinner.
As the questions went on, my stomach twisted with increasing distaste. Cade’s answers were as vapid as they come. Bragging about parties, meeting other important people, traveling the world. Nothing about the music, his bandmates, the interesting collaborations they had done with other top groups. Certainly nothing about the pitfalls of the rock star lifestyle.
More and more, he reminded me of Jason. I couldn’t help it as my mind flitted back to the past. I’ll never forget the moment I first saw Jason on stage at one of the crowded little clubs in Greenwich Village, crooning into the microphone, his fingers picking a haunting melody on his Gibson. It was like a movie, when everything slowed, and the world fell away, until it was just me and him.
My friend Chloe and I had waited outside in the cold after the show with a dozen other fans; his band, The Surprise, wasn’t big, but was quickly developing an underground following. I remember when he looked at me before he signed my ticket. Flashed his thousand-watt smile. And I had that feeling again. Like we were the only two people in the world. Then, walking away, Chloe gasped, grabbing my ticket from my fingers. “He wrote down his phone number!”
I blinked away the memory. I was now a tragic cautionary tale. The “it-all-falls-away-because-it’s-meant-to-be” feeling is complete and utter bullshit.
Cade was just finishing up an answer about his favorite venue he’d played at—Red Rocks in Colorado, of course—way to be basic, Cade—and so I held up my hand. “That’s enough for today. We need to get some rehearsing in. I want to run through the start of Act II.”
Okay, so maybe Cade wasn’t terrible to work with. I handed him an extra script and he stood aside while we worked through the scene. He remained quiet, in the shadows, which I appreciated. For half of the rehearsal, I forgot he was there. All I saw were my students, the lines coming to life, the blocking, the emotional beats. It wasn’t until we moved away from lines to practice Suddenly, Seymour, the main love duet, that he materialized from the shadows. And he actually had some decent tips for the kids. I mean, not surprising, given his profession. But the way he adjusted an alto harmony to ease vocal strain and pitchiness during Audrey’s building chorus was perfect.
When he hopped off the stage, I did my best not to track the way he sauntered up the next aisle over. Or the way he softly jerked a few stray strands from his eyes. Instead, I threw myself back into the scene’s choreography.
A movement up in the sound booth drew my eye a few minutes later, however, and I squinted into the lights. It was Cade and—my eyes widened. Jeremy, who was beaming like he just won the lottery. Cade seemed to be explaining some of the equipment to him.
Jeremy laughed. My eyebrows shot up. I didn’t think I had ever seen him laugh before.
I turned back, disconcerted. How could I reconcile the Cade Owens who bragged about partying with Riven Black, another popular top-charting band, with the Cade Owens who took the time to teach an at-risk teen how to use a soundboard?
I swore under my breath. I didn’t need to reconcile anything. I didn’t need to figure out the mystery that was Cade Owens. He was nothing to me. And it would stay that way.
Chapter Nine
Cade
Stretched out across my bed, I stared at the ceiling, tapping my thigh to a forming beat in my head. A chorus. The first chorus in this blasted song I was under contract to write. This mental block was a pain in my ass. The pressure wasn’t helping either. Under my breath, I quietly sang to the walls of my old room.
Something, something and moonlight,
my poison and my night.
Something, something and moonlight,
will I ever get these lyrics right?
Groaning, I rolled over on my side to grab the notebook and pen precariously perching on my nightstand. Bix was breathing fire down my back. Even a studio exec from Corinth Records was calling me now. Everyone was calling me but Devon.
Maybe I should call him and end this standoff.
But I wasn’t ready to yet.
I scribbled down the lyrics and placer words, itching to pluck out the melody. My guitar leaned against the far wall, a custom-made dark koa wood acoustic Taylor with an electric pickup, an ebony wood neck, and abalone fret markers.
The summer of my seventeenth year, I had worked endlessly to buy this piece. I needed four grand. An absurd amount of money for a teenager to fork over on an instrument. But it was my dream guitar and I refused to settle for less. At summer’s end, I was two hundred dollars short. Gramps had pulled me aside and slipped me the cash, telling me not to say a word to Gran. I never did. This guitar followed me everywhere, my piece of home and family and my first big purchase. I refused the new ones Corinth threw at me or the ones guitar companies offered, hoping to use me as a living advertisement. Bob, the ridiculous name Devon gave my guitar, was now an iconic piece of my public image—scratches, dents, and all.
I rolled to a sit and yawned, stretching my arms above my head. It was near time to wake Gramps from his late mid-day nap before Deloris arrived and I left for drama practice. A four-mile walk, and it was misting outside. To me, that was the worst kind of Seattle area rain. Corinth insisted I hire a driver, for my own safety. But that would draw far more attention. Better to be some rando walking the side of the street in a hoodie and sunglasses. Especially since the paparazzi were already bored with me. Another celebrity scandal now dominated the tabloids. That was a relief.
A loud buzzing sound grated on my ears—my cell phone. But I couldn’t see it. Where the hell was my phone? Not on the nightstand, or on my dresser across the room. The sound was slightly muffled. Rolling off the bed and onto my knees, I peered under the bed. There, rattling against my guitar’s hard case and flashing an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. A deep sigh left my chest. Better to get this over with.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Owens?” a woman asked.
I drew in a slow breath then rose to my feet. “Who is this?”
“Carly Roberts from Candlewick Retirement Center.”
“Thanks for calling me back.”
A pause. “Of course. However, I regret to inform you that we don’t have any openings for your grandfather. Every apartment is occupied.”
My shoulders deflated. “Any recs for nearby homes?”
“Have you tried Kensington—”
“Yes.”
“I see. How about Rose—”
“Called them too.”
“Sounds like you made quite a few calls.”
A headache was blooming behind my eyes. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Owens. I wish both you and your grandfather luck.”
“Thanks.”
I ended the call, grinding my teeth. What was I going to do now? That was the last local retirement residence on my list. In a fifteen-mile radius, all assisted living homes were full. Every. Single. One. The only choice was to look outside of Hartwood and vicinity for something farther away from Gramps’s lifelong friends. But that seemed cruel. Not that I had much of a choice anymore. I had even tried to pull celebrity status to earn Gramps an apartment a few times. All I got were fangirl giggles or older people saying they’d never heard of me—but no confirmed openings.
My fingers combed through my bed-mussed hair. I resisted the urge to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I pocketed the electronic messenger of perpetual doom, then trudged into the living room to where Gramps soundly slept with his glasses still on and Nightshade curled up on his lap. Today was a bad day. His tremors were so
rough that he hadn’t been able to hold his fork at lunchtime. And he was weaker than usual, even needing help into the bathroom once—an awkward moment for us both. After three weeks in Hartwood, his health had declined to the point where I was looking into hiring an in-house caretaker. But when I’d mentioned it to Gramps, he’d gotten all fired up against it. Gran had always taken care of him, and I think the thought of someone clinical replacing her was too much.
How could I leave him this afternoon? What if he needed assistance in the restroom again with Deloris here? God, I needed to find help and soon. I would give up the band if I had to. It’s the least I could do. But Gramps would never forgive me if I did so on his account.
Kneeling before the old man, I gently placed a hand on his arm. “Hey, Gramps.”
“Cade?” he mumbled while stirring awake. Nightshade lifted his furry head only a second or two before returning to the warmth of Gramps’s wools sweater. “I thought you left already.”
“Not tonight. I’m staying in.”
He readjusted his glasses, then studied me. “You’re worried.”
“What sounds good for dinner?” I gave Nightshade a scratch behind the ear then stretched to a stand once more. “I think there’s still some takeout leftovers.”
“Cade.” Gramps said my name softly and I drew in a shaky breath before twisting to face him, my eyebrows raised. “Go.”
Hot tears pricked the back of my eyes again. Eyes that were already pained from a dull headache. This swirling grief never seemed to let up. But I needed to push the stress and heartache back, otherwise I might dissolve into my heavy emotions and reach for another drink, like before. And I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t. Gran’s memory deserved better.
“You haven’t met your community service hours yet, right?”