“Excuse me… thanks… yeah… coming through…”
Trust me, guy with the man-bun and lady with the dog-purse, you don’t want to get in my way right now.
Roger’s back is turned as I approach, and I have to suppress the urge to land a cheap shot. It would be so incredibly satisfying to see that man prone on the marbled tile. But that’s not my style, and Callie would never forgive me.
Callie...
I manage to tap the shoulder I want to punch. Probably a good thing since my shower this morning reopened the bird’s nest wounds. Thanks for that, Marty Heilman.
Roger turns, some trashy brunette I don’t recognize hanging on his arm.
“Casey. Well hello—”
“What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean? Of course I wouldn’t miss my only child’s wedding.”
The bastard has the nerve to smile. I clench my fist.
“You weren’t invited.”
“I assumed that was an oversight.”
“You assumed wrong. You need to leave.”
“Oh my gawd! I love your music,” his girlfriend or whatever blurts out.
I blink, turning to her in disbelief. “Thanks.” Back to Father of the Year. “You’ve hurt Callie enough. You’re not ruining her—”
“Can you sign this? Oh my gawd, Roger! Casey Barrett is right here! Is Luke Craven here too?” she asks me. I stare at her, then down at the parking pass and hotel pen she’s holding out to me.
“I’m serious. You need to leave before I call security,” I spit back at Mr. Roland.
“And what would they do, Casey?” His calm voice only intensifies the malice in his eyes. Damn, I hate this man. “I’m a paying customer. You can’t keep me from renting a room.”
“With money you stole by exploiting your daughter. No fucking way, man. Get your ass out of my hotel.”
My fist. Keeps climbing. Shaking. Don’t, Casey. Don’t do it.
“I don’t believe it’s your name on the deed to this establishment.”
Is that a Rolex on his wrist? You have to be fucking kidding me.
“You don’t know whose fucking name is on the deed to this establishment, so I suggest you get the hell out before shit gets ugly.”
“So you won’t sign this for me?” the woman cuts in, puffing her balloon-lips into a pout.
I turn on her, fired up. “No. I’m not signing your damn parking slip. You want a souvenir? Here’s some free advice: Stay as far away from this parasite as possible.”
“Hey! Don’t you talk to my fiancée like that,” Roger snaps.
“Oh funny listening to you pretend to respect women. Just not your own daughter, I guess.”
“Excuse me, I love Callie—”
“Don’t,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Just. Fucking. Don’t.”
My fist is downright trembling at my side. I feel the crack of fresh scabs from the tension. Good. A little extra blood on someone’s face never hurt.
Flames burn in Roger’s eyes as his smug look morphs into hostility. “You’re not a father so you can’t possibly know what a father feels for his child. The inseparable bond of—”
“No, but I know what an asshole sperm donor looks like.”
“You can’t keep me away from my daughter.”
“Watch me.”
“What are you gonna do, hot shot? Call your beef-head babysitters with the sunglasses?”
“Sure, not a problem.” I pull out my phone. And shit, I’m not even sure how to call them. We’re kind of off-course here. I could call Kenneth, or text Luke and tell him to send one of the guys at the brunch over or… fuck that.
I grab his arm and pull him from the line.
“Hey! Let go of me!”
“Shut up. We’re done.”
Loving the blood on his shirt sleeve. Just wish it was his.
“Hey! Security! Security!” The sack of piss shrieks like a child, free arm flailing, which ushers in a freeze around us. Dozens of eyes zero in and turn the lobby into a stage. God, I hate drama, and here I am, starring in the worst pro-wrestling match of all time. I let go of his arm and step back when three huge dudes from hotel security approach. Good, they can take care of this leech.
My co-star jumps away, his hand shielding the left side of his face. “He hit me! Oh my god, he hit me!”
“What’s going on?” One of the men asks.
“This punk just punched me in the face!” Roarin’ Roger lies.
“What? No fucking way. I didn’t touch him,” I spit back.
“Yes, he did. I saw it,” the brunette says. “They were arguing and then he grabbed Roger and assaulted him.”
“I did not!”
“Liar! Look at me.” He pulls his hand away and… the fuck? Did that psychopath just punch himself in the face? Fuck!
One of the guards whistles. “Whoa. Hey, there.” The others grab my arms.
“I didn’t do that!”
“Right. He did that to himself?”
“Yes! I mean, I guess so?”
Roger moans in the Oscar performance of a lifetime.
“What’s this?” A manager I recognize marches toward us, her gaze assessing the scene. “Mr. Barrett?”
I find the name badge pinned to her blazer. “Brenda, thank god. Tell your guys to let me go.”
“You know him, Brenda?”
She continues to study us. “Of course. He’s the groom for our VIP wedding. What happened?”
“This guy says he hit him.”
Now, the idiot is hunched over like he just fell down a cliff. Fucking brilliant.
“Well, I didn’t. Check your cameras. I know you have them. I didn’t touch him.”
“Actually, we saw you grab him.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“So you did touch him.” The grips on my arms tighten.
“Only to make him leave!”
“And what right do you have to do that, sir?” The dude barks, all wannabe-cop-like. He looks familiar. Wait… is that the spider-incident guy? Uh-oh. “You think because you’re some celebrity you get to push people around?”
“What? No, he’s my fiancée’s father—”
“Oh, even better. What would she think about this?”
“She doesn’t even know he’s here.” Well that doesn’t help. “Wait, I mean—”
The other guy’s on his radio. Why is he on the radio?
“I think it’s best you come with us, sir,” he says, already walking me toward the elevator.
“What? No! I didn’t do anything.” I pull against them, which makes them tug harder. The third man closes in from behind.
“Brenda, can you take the victims to the office? We’ll be back for their statements.”
“Of course, Bill.”
“Okay, you’re making a mistake. I’m telling you. Look at the tape. Just look—”
“The best thing you can do right now is shut up and let us handle this,” Super-Fake-Cop warns, and soon we’re on a service elevator heading to “B.” Nothing good ever happens on Floor B.
“Well, can I at least message my fiancée and tell her what happened?”
“This is an active investigation, sir. No, you may not.”
“A what? You have to be joking. This is nuts.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
No. He looks like he’s overcompensating for something I have no interest in discussing.
At least the security office is as five-star as the rest of this place. We walk into a pristine nerve center of sci-fi activity. No flickering fluorescents or half-eaten salami sandwiches in this place, that’s for sure.
“Okay, we’ll need you to hand over any personal items, cell phone included,” Bill says, waving at the device in my hand.
“Excuse me?” I say. “I’m not giving you my shit. You’re not even a real cop.”
Wrong answer, apparently.
“Son, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he growl
s straight out of every Sixties western I’ve ever seen. This has already escalated to Crazyland, so I roll my eyes and hand over my phone. Pretty sure I can sue over this later.
“Wise choice. Sit tight while we call this in.”
“Wait, what?”
Strong hands shove me down to a chair from behind. Sergeant Bill consults with the woman at the desk who’s scanning a wall of screens. I strain for a peek but can only see what looks like a dumpster and auxiliary parking lot.
“This is crazy. I didn’t even touch the guy!”
“Well you did, though,” Bill sneers from behind the desk. I’m guessing the bravado is to impress the attractive female guard studying the security feeds. Too bad she looks as interested in a date as I am.
They’re on the phone now, and I hear enough police jargon to know I’m in deep shit. Assault, victim, suspect, blah, blah, more ominous-sounding crap. Fantastic.
I let out an exasperated breath and rest my elbows on my knees. Burying my hands in my hair, I stare at the generic square pattern on the carpet.
“Excuse me, Mr. Barrett?”
I look up into the eager face of a junior security guard. Wide eyes, goofy smile, and no hint that he’s about to explain why he’s gaping at me.
“Yeah.”
He blinks, still grinning.
“Do you need something?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay?”
He clears his throat.
“I play drums too.”
“Yeah? Cool, man.”
“I have a Pearl set.”
“Sweet.”
“Five pieces.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can’t play it though, because I live in an apartment.”
“Gotcha.”
“If I could I’d play your songs.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. The grooves are sick. I’d add my own twist. Like, bah-bah-bah-bap and stuff.” His arms fly with air sticks tapping out the imaginary beat. “I’d add more floor tom, too. I love the floor tom. It’s my favorite.”
“Huh. Okay.”
“What about you?”
“What?”
“What’s your favorite?”
“My favorite what?”
“Drum.”
“Um…” I glance at the clock. Damn, the cops can’t get here soon enough. Never thought I’d want to get arrested.
“Casey? Can I call you Casey?”
“Sure.”
“You probably have awesome IEMs.”
“I guess.”
“Can I see them?”
“My in-ears?”
“Yeah!”
Seriously? “I mean, I don’t have them on me, dude.”
“Oh right, sure. Of course. Probably best if you’re going to jail. Bet they’d get swiped real quick.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Brent!”
“Brent. Tell you what, I’ll sign anything you want if you go find me a bottle of Juniper brand sparkling water.”
His eyes grow three sizes, and I worry for the safety of the head bobbing on his neck. “Juniper brand! Got it. Thank you, Mr. Barrett. I’m on it!”
He takes off, and I breathe a sigh of relief, praying there’s no such thing as Juniper water.
It’s at least another ten minutes before two legit-looking police officers push into the security office and assess the room. I’m a clear target as the only one not wearing a hotel uniform, but my buddy Bill leaves no doubt.
“Officer Andy, good to see you. This pretty boy is our perp. We prolly got a felonious assault with intent to use a weapon.”
Intent to use a weapon? Is that a thing? By the look on Officer Andy’s face, that would be a no.
“Okay thanks, Bill. We’ve got it from here. Will you come with me, please?” The officer says to me, nodding toward a conference room.
Gladly, I almost mutter out loud. At least this officer looks sane, and I follow him and his partner to the room. When I take a seat, I realize our threesome is bloated with one extra fake cop.
“This guy’s a musician. You should probably check him for contraband, if you know what I mean,” Bill says, motioning toward his “colleagues” with conspiratorial hand signals. Yeah, we all know what he means.
“Thanks,” Officer Andy says. “We’ll check it out.”
“You know them celebrity-types. Always thinking the law don’t apply to them. Good thing we nabbed him before he took off on his jet.”
“Okay, well—”
“You laugh, but I seen it, Andy. Back in eighty-three when I just started this gig. I was just a kid outta school. Didn’t know the games these perps like to play. Oh I seen things on this circuit. Hotels attract all kinds of riffraff. I remember this one time—”
Andy’s fists clench at his side. “Got it, Bill. Hey, you mind grabbing us some coffee? You want anything?” he asks me.
I swallow. “No, thanks.”
Bill looks less than pleased at being demoted from superhero to beverage caddie but the hierarchy he worships has spoken.
Once he’s gone, Andy releases a sigh of relief that matches mine.
“He hurt you at all?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “Just took my phone.”
“He what?” The man grunts and bobs his head to his partner. The younger officer gets up and follows Bill’s path out of the room. “Sorry about that. He shouldn’t have taken your property. We’ll get it back.”
“Thanks.”
He takes the chair across from me. “So, you want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing really. This is all bullshit.”
He nods and pulls out a notepad. “Well, then you shouldn’t have any issues. Tell me what happened.”
I grunt and pull at the sleeves of my hoodie. “How far back you want me to go?”
“As far back as you think you need to.”
I let out a dry laugh. “You know I’m supposed to be getting married tomorrow?”
“Yeah? Congratulations.”
“Yeah. And every fucking thing has gone wrong so far. So okay, maybe I was less than civil when the asshole father of my fiancée showed up this morning to crash the wedding, but I didn’t punch the guy.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. I told him to leave. When he tried to bait me, I lost it and pulled him from the line and next thing I know security is on us doing some fake arrest bullshit.”
“So you did grab the man at some point?”
“Sure, but I didn’t touch him.”
“Except to grab him.”
“Well yeah, but I didn’t hurt him or anything.”
“No? So how do you explain the cuts on your right hand?”
I glance down. “Oh… Well, that… is… from a nest.”
“A nest?”
“A bird’s nest. Twigs and stuff.” I don’t know why I’m motioning as if that explains something.
He lifts a brow.
“Well, I mean it wasn’t an actual nest, more of a wreath.”
“You cut your hand on a bird’s-nest wreath?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Um.” The adrenaline crashing through my system is seriously messing with my basic math skills. “Yesterday. I think? In my room.”
“There was a bird’s nest in your hotel room?”
“Not a real one of course.”
“A fake one?”
“Yeah, it was a gift from Marty Heilman.”
“Who’s Marty Heilman?”
“Uh…” I chew the inside of my lip. “I don’t actually know.”
The officer lays down his pen, staring at me in silence like the lunatic I clearly am. “I want to help you, son, but I need you to help yourself by telling the truth.”
“I am!”
“You’re trying to explain away an altercation with a father-in-law you don’t like by blaming your injuries on birds?”<
br />
“First of all, he’s not my father-in-law—yet—and second of all, not birds. The bird was fake too.”
“There was a fake bird at the scene as well?”
“Of course. In the cage.”
“What cage?”
“The bird cage?”
“Which bird cage?”
“The one from Marty Heilman!”
“The person you don’t know.”
“Right.”
After another pause, he sighs and shakes head. “Okay. I think we’re done here. Please write it all down on this notepad while we go to interview the other subject.”
“Check the security footage, there has to be footage, right?”
“We definitely will.”
He stands, and I lean back, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“What about my phone?” I ask as he moves to the door.
“I don’t think you should be worrying about that, son.”
Fuck. Could this day get any worse?
17: FRIDAY 10:58AM, 1 DAY
I’ve been arrested before but never sober. And never for something I didn’t do. Pissed isn’t even the right word to describe my state as I stare out the back window of the patrol car, my hands secured behind me. Dejected, maybe. Frustrated, certainly. At least they had the decency to take me out a service exit of the hotel to keep this as low-key as possible. Then again, I’m sure Roger has already called every tabloid he knows to share the good news.
With the damning circumstantial evidence, the bimbo girlfriend’s corroborating testimony, and my own admission of a physical altercation and hatred for the “victim,” it’s pretty clear I did it. My only hope was the security footage which turned out to be useless when it just showed a tussle in the midst of a crowd that ended with Roger in pain and me shouting at security.
Damn, maybe I did do it.
“You’re the drummer for Night Shifts Black, right?” Andy’s partner asks from the passenger seat. For the record, they hung onto my cellphone.
“Yeah.”
“My kid’s a huge fan. We were at your last show in Houston.”
An NSB Wedding Page 8