by RB Hilliard
That afternoon I purchased a pair of scissors and a box of black hair dye. Just the thought of cutting off my auburn hair that reminded me so much of my mother brought tears to my eyes. With each passing day I found a new reason to despise Conor O’Brien. My list was getting longer by the minute.
That night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in a motel in nowhere Alabama with tears streaming down my face as I cut a large piece of my past from my life. Once the deed was done and the dye had fully processed, I stared at my reflection. Green eyes filled with heartache and regret were the only thing that remained of Gillian Gallagher. Nothing could touch the loss of Gavin, but this was a close second.
The next morning, I was on a bus heading to New Mexico with my bag on my shoulder, cash in my wallet, and a horrible looking dime store hair-do.
“Rowan, the doorbell is ringing!” Maeve called from downstairs.
“Got it!” I called back as I stared at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. Nothing had changed. I was still that broken hearted girl. I just had a better haircut and had gotten better at hiding it. Get it together, Ro, I thought as I exited the room and headed down the stairs. Per Nash’s instructions, I lifted up onto my tiptoes and peered through the peep hole. At first glance, I didn’t see anything but the front porch and walkway, both of which were empty.
“Who is it?” Maeve asked from behind me.
“No one.”
“Are you sure? The bell rang three times.”
“No one’s there. Look.” I stepped back and gave her room to look.
“That’s strange. No one’s there,” she stated.
Neither of us thought anything of it until later that night when the back door alarm was triggered. We were watching television when it happened. Even though the cameras didn’t show anything, we decided to let the police search the property. They felt it was most likely an animal, but Maeve and I thought different. Animals don’t have opposable thumbs. The only way that alarm was triggered was if someone was trying to get inside the house.
Marcel called right as the police were leaving. Evidently, the alarm company had called him as well. While I ushered the police to the door, Maeve explained what had happened. We were spooked, but Marcel talked us off of the ledge. When it came down to it, he was probably right. We didn’t have proof of anything. The person at the door could have gotten tired of waiting and given up. The alarm could have been triggered by something hitting the door. To tell Nash would only make him worry. He would insist on coming home, so we decided against it.
When Nash called that night and asked about our day, I wanted to tell him. Selfishly, a part of me wanted for him to drop everything and come home. That same part of me wanted to throw caution to the wind, to finish what we’d started the night of Grant and Mallory’s Christmas party. I wanted to hear the end of his song, to taste his lips again, but most of all I wanted to stop being so afraid. I needed to finally start living my life. There was just one problem. I wasn’t a selfish person. So I took what I could get, and I prayed that one day I could have more.
Two days later, Maeve had an Oncology appointment. Afterwards we planned to go to lunch, and if she still felt like it, an afternoon movie.
The appointment was a disaster. While Nash was home, Maeve mentioned on more than one occasion how wonderful she felt. Cancer was a tricky thing. Some days were better than others. She wasn’t feeling as much pain because, per her doctor’s instructions, I’d slowly been upping her pain medication. My job was to make her as comfortable as possible. I wasn’t keeping it from her. In fact, I thought she knew. Her diagnosis was stage four, terminal cancer. As it turned out, she didn’t know. She thought she was getting better, as if maybe she’d been misdiagnosed. The look of betrayal, not to mention horror, on her face when the doctor explained how she wasn’t going to get better, but only worse, shattered her.
The moment we walked out of the doctor’s office, she demanded we go home. No lunch. No movie. No laughter. No nothing, but the sound of silence that accompanied us most of the way there.
Finally, not able to stand it any longer, I said, “I’m sorry, Maeve. I thought you knew.”
“It’s not your fault,” she answered as she stared out the window. I couldn’t see her face. I really wanted to see her face. My job wasn’t easy, but never had it been this hard. This was just another example of how far I’d stepped over the line of professionalism. I knew better than to get emotionally invested. My head knew this, but my heart was a completely different thing.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the movies?” Her eyes hit mine and I had to swallow back the tears. She was empty, defeated, done. “Maeve,” I whispered.
“Just take me home. I’m tired.”
I’d barely placed the car in park, when she was out the door and inside the house. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I try and talk with her again? Should I call Nash? What should I do?
Before I made a decision, Maeve poked her head out from her bedroom and glared at me. “If you call Nash and tell him what happened today I will fire you so fast it will make your head spin. Do I make myself clear?”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat long enough to answer, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Now, I’m taking a nap.” She all but slammed the door in my face, and I tried not to be hurt. I really did. Denial was normal. Depression was normal. I knew this. But still, her lashing out hurt.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and made my way upstairs. As I reached my bedroom door, I glanced down the hall and noticed that Nash’s door was open. Nash’s door had been closed since the day he’d left to go back on tour. Yet, there it stood, wide open. I was suddenly engulfed by a hair-raising sense of fear. Someone had been in Nash’s room. Maybe they still were.
“Nash?” I called out. When I got no response, I took a deep breath and tried to shake off some of the fear. My pulse beat a frantic dance through my body as I slowly crept down the hall toward his bedroom. “Are you here?” I called out as I neared his open doorway. The room was empty. It smelled faintly of cleaning agents, and that’s when I remembered. The cleaning lady! Air gushed from my mouth as I collapsed onto Nash’s bed in relief. Today was cleaning day. Duh.
“I’m losing my mind,” I said to the empty room. I’d been inside Nash’s room a million times before, but never alone. Other than a few pictures tacked to a cork board, the room was rather sterile. Guilt washed over me as I glanced around. This was Nash’s house, and I was sleeping in what should have been his room. Something on the floor caught my eye. A picture must have fallen off of the cork board.
With a sigh of regret, I pushed myself off of the bed and snagged the picture from the floor. Nash and Mallory stood in the forefront. I recognized her dress from the Christmas party. Standing off to the side, behind Nash and Mallory, was me. It was only my profile, but clearly it was me. Grant must have given this to Nash. When I went to pin it back on the board, I noticed writing on the back. It said, GOT YOU, in capital letters. The words made me smile.
I pinned the picture back on the board. When I reached Nash’s doorway, I turned back and gave his room one last look before closing his door and escaping back to my room.
A heavy sigh escaped as I flopped onto my bed. I sure wish I had you, Nash Bostwick.
Chapter Nine
Just Call Me Crazy
Nash
“For the fifteenth time today, you’re off tempo! What the hell is up people?” Grant’s shout sounded like reverberated gibberish through the microphone, but we understood the tone. He was frustrated. Hell, he should be. Reentry after Christmas break had been a bitch. Tonight we were playing our New Year’s Eve show in Ohio. According to Blane, this and the New York shows were the moneymakers of the tour. By the way we were practicing Ohio was going to want their money back. Grant wasn’t directing his anger at anyone specific, but as usual, Chaz took it personally.
“My tempo is just fine, douche munch.” He
pointed one of his sticks in my direction. “Why don’t you talk to Nash? He’s the reason we suck ass. He’s playing like shit.” Chaz was right. I was playing like shit, but I wasn’t the only one. His tempo was definitely off. I waved my middle finger at him, and he grabbed his crotch. Ever since we’d returned from break Chaz had been a giant cocksucker. He was always somewhat of a dick, but he’d become almost unbearable to be around.
“Let’s take it from the top, again!” Grant shouted. After three more rounds and several pep talks, we finally nailed the set.
On our way back to the dressing room, Chaz announced that he was writing a song.
“Awww, is it about Paula?” Grant teased.
Chaz’s head whipped around. “Who?” he growled.
“Your girlfriend, or did you two break up?” I replied.
“What are we, twelve? My personal life is none of your fucking business.”
Grant shot me a look as we watched Chaz walk away, and I shrugged. Who knew what was up with the guy? Chaz Jones was a total enigma.
Grant dropped back next to Evan and clapped him on the shoulder. “After tonight’s show, I think we should celebrate. What do you say? You boys interested?” He eyeballed me over Evan’s shoulder.
Over Christmas Grant and I had discussed offering Evan a permanent position with the band. He wasn’t as good on the keys as Luke, but he was definitely a skilled musician and an all-around good guy. More than that, he was an excellent fit for the band. His Zen attitude about life was polar opposite of Luke’s attack-first-ask-questions-later approach. As far as I was concerned Evan Walker was just what we needed.
“What about Mallory?” Evan asked.
“She’s in New York. That reminds me. Hey, Hank! Did Mallory call?” Hank was standing at the end of the hall talking to the interns.
“She said to tell you she landed, and to call her whenever you get the chance!” he responded.
As a Christmas surprise, Grant had flown Mallory to Lake Placid, New York to spend New Year’s with her parents. The cat was away, and now the mouse wanted to play. I wanted to resent him for what he had found with Mallory, but I couldn’t. He deserved to be happy. Hell, we all did, even ass-head Chaz.
“I’m definitely in,” Evan said. From the look on his face, he could use a drink. The polite thing would be to ask if he was okay. Too bad I wasn’t feeling polite. All I could think about was home, and Rowan’s lips, and the way she felt pressed against me.
“Do you think we should ask the interns? I kind of feel sorry for them,” Grant said.
“It was your idea to hire them,” Chaz replied from behind us, “and what are we asking them?”
“Grant wants to party tonight,” I told him. Chaz shot Grant a scathing look.
“Let me guess, the old ball and chain has flown the coop,” Chaz drawled. Grant got that I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face look, and, even though Chaz could use a fist to the face, the band didn’t need any more drama right now.
“My wife filed for divorce over Christmas,” Evan announced out of the blue. Way to diffuse the situation, I thought. Evan winked at me, and I shot him a look of thanks. He shrugged as if it was no big deal, but it was a big deal. Luke’s death had left a giant hole in our lives. Slowly, inch by inch, Evan was closing the gap.
Grant sidled up next to him and gave him a sideways hug. “I’m sorry, man. That sucks.”
“Wait. I thought you were going home to reconcile?” Chaz asked. This was news to me. By the surprised look on Grant’s face, it was also news to him. Evidently Evan and Chaz had been talking, which was strange because no one really talked to Chaz. We put up with him.
“I was. We were. It’s complicated,” Evan replied.
“No one needs that up and down shit. Cut the bitch loose,” Chaz advised.
Grant looked like he was going to punch Chaz again, but before it got that far, I asked, “Why don’t you get Paula to come tonight?”
“Who?” Chaz asked.
“Your girlfriend,” we all three responded in unison.
“Whatever,” Chaz mumbled, and walked off.
“Is it just me or is he acting strange?” Evan asked.
“He is strange,” I responded.
We had two hours to go before we had to be on stage. While Evan and Chaz entertained the Melties in the dining area, I called home. Mom sounded tired, which worried me. When I asked Rowan about it, she admitted that Mom was slightly down, but attributed it to a change in her medication. Still, it made me worry. Rowan and I talked about everything but the giant elephant hanging over our heads. We both had feelings. Neither of us wanted to admit it. The distance fucking sucked. As usual, I hung up with mixed emotions and a hard dick. As I turned to go find Hank, I barely avoided running over intern Maggie.
“Damn, girl, announce yourself next time,” I ground out.
“Sorry,” she said with a wince. “I just wanted to thank you in person. I mean, I know I emailed you and all, but thanks to you, I really enjoyed my break.” She spoke the words so fast that it took me a moment to string them together and extract actual meaning from them.
“I’m glad you had a good time. Have you by chance seen Hank?”
“Oh, uh, he’s in the lunch room.”
“Thanks.” As I started for the door I remembered my earlier conversation with Grant and Evan. Grant was right, we should invite the interns. I turned to ask, but paused when I saw the hurt look on her face. She looked like a lost puppy, and I felt like an asshole. “I’m really glad you had a good break. Do you have plans tonight?” Her eyes bugged in her head. The girl really needed to get a grip.
“Me?” she squeaked.
“And the other interns. We’re planning on partying somewhere. You can join us if you’d like.”
“Oh my gosh,” she gushed.
Before she did something really crazy, like cry, I made a run for it. I found Hank in the hallway talking to Marcel. When I caught up with them I asked if we had any free time coming up. After consulting his calendar, he told me two weekends from now was free.
When he asked why, I slapped him on the back, and answered, “Because I’m going home.”
“Time to get ‘er done!” Grant called from the dressing room. Cheers erupted from everywhere, and fans started pouring into the hallway.
“You’d better check with Blane,” Hank warned. “He might have something planned.” Fuck Blane. With or without his permission, I was going home.
Because it was New Year’s Eve, Blane had doubled the number of people he normally allowed backstage. The crowd tonight was drunk and pumped, a dodgy combination. Ever since Grant’s vomitus stage dive, we’d adhered to the no heavy alcohol before the show rule. A beer or two was fine, but that was about it. Tonight was no exception. We could party later, but in the meantime, we had a show to put on. Once security was in place, we started down the hallway to the stage. Onlookers jostled for autographs and fist bumps. Tits were on full display. The crowd was definitely in rare form tonight, and I loved it. The lights flared as we reached the stage, and our audience went ballistic. Excitement flowed from the stands. The energy pouring from the crowd was tangible, electric, a fucking adrenaline dump of epic proportions. I was living the dream. We all were.
* * *
Five hours later…
“I really think we should write a song together, you know, like we used to back when Luke was alive,” Chaz slurred.
“We’ve never written a song together,” Grant pointed out.
“My point exactly,” Chaz countered. “We need to.”
The show had gone better than expected, with no major mishaps. We’d finally managed to stay on tempo throughout the entire performance for once. Instead of partying in the VIP lounge, we decided to rent out a local bar called Spanky’s for the night.
“What would be the name of your song?” intern Angie asked. She was velcroed to Chaz’s side and starting to annoy the hell out of me. I searched for Paula and found her sucking face with som
e dude across the room. What the fuck? Did Paula and Chaz break up, or was she cheating on him again? Maybe that’s why he’d been such a dick lately. Well, if she thought that she was making him jealous, she could think again. Chaz hadn’t given her a second look the entire night. The guy couldn’t even remember her damn name.
“I would name it Ramble On,” Chaz announced.
“Isn’t that a Led Zeppelin song?” a guy at the bar next to us asked.
Chaz scowled in the direction of the comment. “There can be two songs with the same title,” he stated in a very disgusted tone.
“I’m pretty sure there can’t,” the same guy argued. Grant and I shot him a dirty look. Chaz was a belligerent drunk. When he’d first joined the band, he would get hammered every Saturday night and pick fights with anyone who disagreed with him. We’d learned that the only way to pacify him was to agree with whatever spewed from his mouth. An inebriated Chaz knew how to take stupid to a whole new level, and tonight he was on a roll.
“Fuck Led Zeppelin. My Ramble On will be so epic that no one will ever want to listen to theirs again.”
The guy looked over at us, and asked, “Is he for real?”
“Why don’t you ask me to my face?” Chaz snarled.
“Is that Gwen Stefani?” Evan asked.
“Where?” Chaz’s eyes darted excitedly around the room.
“Over by the bathrooms.” Before another word was spoken, Chaz was off of his bar stool and barreling toward the bathroom. Grant and I stared open mouthed at Evan, and he laughed.
“You’re the fucking Chaz whisperer.” Grant statement only made Evan laugh harder.