A Shit Storm: Runaway Rock Star (Silver Strings Series E Book 1)

by Lisa Gillis

  My dad has always swung my mom around just like that. I remember his heart-to-heart after Gabs broke up with me. About how fast he sensed Mom was his soul mate, even if it was subconsciously.

  My body is already responding to Sash—many of my actions without a conscious thought.

  “Sash… Sweet?” The endearment rolls out with her name as I’m studying the peaceful planes of her face, the smudge of mascara and eyeliner just below her closed eyes, and the blotchy, rubbed-off lip color.

  “Mmh?”

  I slide one of the lighter blue strands of her hair between my forefinger and thumb. We’re in her bed. The afternoon sun is beginning to set.

  After spending the night at our fan crash pad after our gig the night before, we’d taken turns driving back. We’d unloaded our gear and had spent a couple of hours doing some prep work just in case the A&R rep did call. Getting our online presence up to date was just one of fifty things that needed attention.

  Mark and I had gotten into it again over the Demo Kit.

  I can’t tell them that my entire family is former rock stars and now on the other side of the business—that I know what I’m talking about when I say to put a sticker on the CD with cue times of the most relevant parts of the tracks. Or to fold a mini version of the cover letter inside the CD jacket. It’s not time for them to know that I’ve seen the shit from manila envelopes dumped out, mixed up by my little sister and then sadly enough, tossed in the trash. In the end, I shut up.

  Afterward, Sladen had then gone to one of his girlfriend’s houses, and Mark hadn’t even bothered to say where he took off to.

  “Mmh…?” When I don’t answer right away, Sash repeats the languid interrogative. She turns her head, bringing her drowsy eyes to my face, and the hair slips from my grasp to the pillow she lays on.

  My throat clenches as I begin to second-guess what I’d been about to say. There are things I should know about her first. Yet, what I do know seems way more important than what I don’t. After a few seconds of drifting in her blue eyes, I just say it. “Is it too soon to be in love?” I love tracing her lips. They’re beautiful even with blotchy lipstick—maybe even more so because my body’s still tingling from all the reasons her lip color rubbed off. “Because I think I am.”

  Without blinking, she soaks in the declaration. Her fingers come up to her face to trail from my hand, down my arm. “I love you too. I think I may have started loving you that night on Skype. Is that stupid?”

  My chin makes a slight move, one way, and then the other. Shaking my head, I whisper, “Which night?” My soul is thirsty to know everything about her, especially when it relates to her feelings for me.

  “The night I got fired. And you played the songs for me.”

  I feel my lips tip into an easy smile at the recollection. On that night I’d done a medley from the old country classic Take this Job and Shove it, to Tesla’s Signs.

  The room grew shadowy, and I knew as exhausted as we were, we would sleep through the night until waking for work the next day.

  From the front of the house, the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing carries down the hall. After that, the sounds of someone moving about the house doing routine things. The fridge opening. Water running. The door to Mark’s room clicks, and I rise on one elbow.

  “Just tell me already. About him. Whatever it is.”

  She blows a breath out, but hesitates no more with the subject. “We’ve never gone out or anything if that’s what you’re thinking. I just helped him when he was going through a rough time. Helped him figure some things out and get through it. We bonded during that time.”

  My mind rubber bands all kinds of crazy ways, and an expert at reading me, she hastens to explain. “Geeze, not THAT. I’m not a slut. He was having a problem with his visa and I helped him out. I know it doesn’t seem like it these last few days, but he really is a good guy, a really good guy who’d do anything for anyone, and I should have told you about it sooner—”

  I flatten my arm out, dropping my head back to the pillow. “Stop! You don’t have to explain. I’m sorry I kept bugging you about it.” Again, I realize how sweet she is behind her façade of barbed words and blasé attitude. I’m relieved she and Mark have never dated, and especially relieved they haven’t done more.

  “But you’re right. Since you and I are whatever we are now, you should know how it happened and—”

  “I don’t care.” Once again, I interrupt. I realize my tone may have been brusque when she sucks her bottom lip beneath her top teeth, and her eyes drop from mine. Pulling her close, I mutter, “I just don’t want to talk about him right now, ’kay?”

  “Yeah. Me either. But I will tell you the whole story. Anytime you want.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “Trey! Trey!”

  The bed is shaking, and I open my eyes to Sash’s boobs in my face. But before I can orient myself to do anything about it, she rocks back from all fours, hovering to one side of me as she speaks.

  “Oh good. You’re finally awake.”

  Why? What’s going on? I think it in my head, but as if I’d actually said it, she carries on.

  “That Emily woman called.”

  At this, I bolt upright. “Already?” The timing makes no sense. It’s early Monday morning. My alarm hasn’t even gone off to wake me up for work. On the west coast—in LA where Emily said she was headed on a red eye after our show—it may not even be daylight. “Why?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, she’s emailing—” Her words halt and her eyes narrow in a confused squint. “What is that tone?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a tone. Why’d you say it like that? ‘Why?’” She mimics my answer.

  Because the courtship period between an ARC rep and a band is always several months! But I don’t say it. Instead, I gesture and prompt her to go on. “She’s emailing…?”

  Some of the spark has dissipated from her eyes, and I feel shitty for ruining the moment. Heaving a breath, she explains that two flight reservations to L.A. will be in her email by the end of the day.

  One for her. And one for me. I try to be excited, but after a couple of minutes of engaging with her, I fall back to the bed and stare at the ceiling.

  Two tickets. Mark is about to hate me more. And Sladen may defect to Mark’s side of the sand line over this new development. I can’t even dwell on it. Issues more important are at stake.

  I had brought with me my original social security card. The one with the name I was born with. Duplei. My mom had slipped it into my baby scrapbook after my name was changed and the new one went into the safe with the important papers. My original plan had been to use it if it was needed for a job, and to maybe even get a new driver’s license with it. But after thinking it through, I realized the number hadn’t changed when my name did. Using it for anything would be a beacon calling out to whoever my parents have looking for me.

  Now the problem isn’t only turning down the chance to move up at my job because of not having the necessary documents. What’s Sash going to say if I tell her I can’t fly—that I have no ID and can’t get one?

  I have my real driver’s license hidden in my backpack. But I’m not ready to turn myself into the parents. And I’m not ready for Sash to know my truth.

  Chapter 33

  Waiting

  “I don’t understand why you can’t make them release our own internet records.” Marissa knew she was on the verge of shrieking, but this had been going on long enough.

  Every few weeks Jack had been told ‘another couple of weeks’ for too long. Maybe the ISP logs would be a dead end. But at least they would know they’d tried everything.

  “Because now the company responded to our lawyer that they were destroyed in some downtime they had around that time due to a lightning strike.” Jack was patient when he explained it, but she knew the set in his jaw, and knew it wasn’t directed at her—that the situation was beyond hi
s control and he hated that.

  “No way. Lightning strikes and it’s going to do it at the point and time we need it not to strike that very point and time? I don’t buy it.”

  “I know, Mariss. I’m dealing with them. I’m trying, honey. I get the feeling they think if word gets out they released these records to us that it would hurt the trust of their clientele—who are hundreds of families just like us. Paying a lot of money to see that our stuff is secure, no matter what viruses our kids accidentally download from the internet or who wants to hack us.”

  “I can’t stand not doing anything.” She dropped to a reading chaise in their bedroom. Lowering her head to her hands, she collapsed further. “At least when we were waiting for these IP locations, there was hope something would come of it. It was doing something. If they’re never going to give them to us—there’s nothing else to do anymore.”

  Jack swung a leg over to straddle the duvet and pulled her against his chest. “We’re doing something every day. We’re waiting. Here. For him. We’re reading his emails. And waiting for him to come home.”

  Chapter 34

  Déjà Vu in L.A.

  SENDER: Tristan

  SUBJECT none

  Remember the guy who hung out in the tree across the street? What a city of freaks.

  “Have you ever been in a limo?” Sash takes in our surroundings with as much relish as she has experienced everything since leaving the house this morning.

  I rummage through the limo bar and deflect her question with one of my own. “What do you want? Soda, water, Red Bull?”

  “Is there orange juice?”

  I’ve noticed she prefers juices to any other drink except when we’re having beers in the evenings. Leaning closer, I move some things around in the fridge, and my hand emerges with her requested drink.

  She accepts the plastic bottle and twists the cap. “So? Have you?”

  “Yeah. Prom night.” I answer truthfully of a limousine ride. Thankfully, she didn’t ask how many times I’ve been in a limo and earlier this morning hadn’t asked if I’d been in a private jet.

  Less than an hour ago, we’d touched down and disembarked our luxurious mode of flight.

  Fortunately, for me, private aviation meant I squeaked by without an ID. Occasionally in the past when I’ve flown with my parents on chartered planes, an attendant asked to see ID. But it was a rare occurrence. Today I’d readied a fib of forgetting it at the house, but I hadn’t had to make any excuse since it wasn’t asked of Sash and me.

  I’m still freaked out that whatever is happening with this ARC rep is happening fast. Sash is understandably excited though. So there’s no harm in attending this meeting Emily Dodge has set up.

  “I can’t picture you all suited up for prom.” Sash taps her fingernails on the juice bottle instead of opening it. “You wear a suit or tux?”

  “Tux.”

  “Did you match your date?”

  “Um, yeah. But we didn’t plan it. We just both ended up in black.”

  When we Skyped that weekend, you promised to send me a picture.”

  “No.” I deny, swigging an energy drink and grinning to hide my nervousness and guilt over this whole line of questioning. “I wouldn’t have promised that.” No way would I have guaranteed that, seeing as my date is a household name!

  “You inferred.”

  “What about you? Ever been in a limo? Did you match your prom date? What did you wear?” In retaliation, I fire the questions at her. Maybe the drink is making me hyper already, or maybe I can’t stay off her because I move closer with every interrogative and pin her to the seat for a kiss.

  When I’m done with that sip of her lips, we’re both quiet as we take in the view beyond the glass.

  Déjà vu is strong. Somewhere in this jungle of city blocks, canyons, and hills is my first school… is a guitar pool where I learned to swim and walk… is the house where I fell down the staircase and broke my arm. Although my recollections as a child in LA are fuzzy, I have spent a couple of weeks of almost every summer here at my cousin’s house. My juvenile arrest is crystal clear in my memories.

  The car glides down an exit ramp, leaving the freeway behind. Sash straightens from her lean against me and glides her fingers over her sleek, flat-ironed hair. Capping the juice, she sets it aside and begins to fidget with the hem of her dress.

  For the dozenth time today, I admire the sight of Sash looking like a cover model in the trendy outfit. The dress is simple, like a black satiny sack with holes for her neck and arms. But it hugs every curve of her hot body. The sleeveless unblocked view of her shoulders and the sunflowers adorning her arms is a mouthwatering sight.

  More sunflowers pattern the pantyhose hugging her shapely legs. Yellow petals and green vines extend from the hidden shadow of the dress to the clogs on her feet.

  I’m not the only one lusting after her.

  After being dropped off at the door to a swanky office building, we’re escorted to one of the top floors and into a meeting room. My fists ball at my sides when men twice our age are introduced to us, and they take in Sash with a special gleam in their gaze.

  The meeting progresses quickly, seeming to be a general get to know you type of session. I begin to relax. Perhaps we were just brought here for an introduction. Possibly the rest of them needed to see us in person before deciding we were worth it or not to move forward with some deal in the future.

  My dad does similar when scouting bands—only he goes to them. He says you can learn more about who the band members are and how they interact together by being on their territory.

  “Who began Splynter? How long has the band been together? Are you both original members? How many shows have you played? How many cities have you played? How old are you? Who owns Splynter?”

  Occasional questions shift my way. “How long have you lived in Detroit? Where did you live before? Have you ever played in a band before Splynter?”

  “Are you hungry?” Emily asks when the rest of the room has cleared out, leaving only her, Sash, and me.

  It’s a surprise to realize it’s only lunchtime. After all, we’ve flown back in time two hours.

  “I could eat.” I nod and catch Sash’s hand.

  She’s gone from animated to quiet in a matter of minutes. Knowing the reality must be sinking in, I give her fingers a reassuring squeeze as we trail Emily Dodge down the hall, past the receptionist, and to the elevators.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.” Sash makes the announcement, abruptly interrupting our polite silence as we wait for the doors to ding open.

  “There’s one right downstairs.” Emily gestures to the elevator as it arrives, and we step inside.

  On the ground floor, Sash slips into the women’s room, and the door drifts closed behind her. Emily pulls out her phone and begins punching at it with her glossy nails.

  Through the glass wall, I see the limo is at the entrance as if it’s been idling there for the last hour. Surely not. From past experience, I know a simple text makes rides magically appear at selected entrances or exits.

  This is my world. I’m familiar with it. And because of that ease, for the first time in months I don’t feel completely like a fish out of water. In fact, I’m a shark, biding my time.

  I want to use the time at the restaurant with Emily Dodge alone, in a casual setting, to pry some answers from beyond her chic fascia.

  One minute passes. Two. Three… Ten… More.

  Emily is not as focused on her phone. She continually looks up, striking up conversation. She inquires about my relationship with Sash.

  I tell her the truth and wonder if that’s going to be a factor in the decision about our band here today. They might think the band will be unstable, but I don’t care. I’m not hiding this thing. Because I have a feeling this thing—Sash and me and what we are together—will be the biggest thing to ever happen in my life.

  No one else has entered the lavatory. When Emily looks at me and then curiously
again at the door where Sash was last seen, I decide to go inside.

  “Can you make sure?”

  Emily nods, knowing what I’m asking. Comfortable that she’ll alert anyone about to enter that there’s a man in the powder room, I push open the door.

  “Sash? It’s me. Are you okay?”

  Something hits the floor with a clink, and my eyes are drawn to the sound. Beneath the one closed stall, I see her hand picking up the same black case I’ve seen her carry into the bathroom a few times before.

  “I’m fine. Just give me a minute, okay?”

  “Are you sure you’re fine?”

  “I’ll be out in just a sec.”

  My emotions war, but I retrace my steps across the tile floor. My shoulder brushes the door as I prepare to lean on it to push it open. And then I still. It feels wrong at this point to continue ignoring her drug use. And yet, I don’t want to start something, today of all days.

  I lean into the door again right when the clack of the bolt signals Sash exiting the cubicle. She pulls up short when she sees I’m still in the room, and then she crosses to the sink. Her cheeks are tinged pink as she waves her fingers beneath the fixture to begin the water flow. I wonder if she’s flushed because she’s embarrassed that I’ve witnessed her vice again, or if that’s an effect of whatever she’s high on.

  “I’m sorry.” She jerks a few wipes from the dispenser. “I didn’t mean to be so long.”

  I nod, deciding to remain quiet about what I’ve seen for now.

  The restaurant is a swanky establishment. Servers are dressed in black. White tablecloths layer each table. We’re shown to a leather-padded booth.

  Releasing Sash’s hand, which I’d been holding for almost the entire ride over, I wait for her to slide into the seat and then I follow.

  Emily sits across from us and makes small talk as we study our menus. Folding mine closed, I glance at Sash who is still quiet. A frown puckers her brows as she studies the selection of unfamiliar dishes. Her jaw is twitching, and I know she’s biting her lip from the inside.