Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  “Hey, look. Early today,” Rory says with a subtle nod at the neighbor’s deck on our way toward the back. I try not to smile when I spot the obvious posturing of a teenage girl lounged on a chaise. Today she didn’t even bother with clothing and went straight to a tiny bikini.

  “Better sun at eight in the morning, probably,” I joke.

  His grin says it all, and I feel his continued amusement as we secure the ladder and strap into our harnesses.

  “Dude, she hasn’t stopped staring at you since we started this job,” Rory says, starting up the ladder. “You should go say hi.”

  “Shut up,” I mutter, following.

  We drop our load of materials on the roof and start back down for another. And another. And another. Each time, I’m careful to avoid an ill-timed peek at our fan club. Flattering, yes. A headache I don’t need in my life, also yes.

  By first break, I’m convinced Lucifer himself set the thermostat today. It’s otherworldly the heat that can radiate off a roof in full sun. I swear my skin is melting from my bones when I join the guys in a small cover of shade. Ripping off my t-shirt, I use it to soak up the sweat, while visualizing the paycheck waiting for me if I survive the week. After tucking my shirt in the waist of my jeans, I inhale water from my thermos like I get paid by the gallon for that as well. Several paces away, Kerry regales the new guy with one of his many stories about, well, everything, while sucking on his cigarette. The kid soaks up each detail like I have several times during my stint with Rory’s crew. Hell, I’m dying to ask for more about his colorful background as a musician. Could this guy who’s old enough to be my grandfather be my next bass player? I’m still smirking at the not-so-out-there thought when Rory shoves my arm to get my attention.

  I look up from the grass and almost spit out my last swallow of water. A full-on audience of young ladies now covers the neighboring deck, all trying to look suitably indifferent when we challenge them with a direct look.

  “Wow. I mean, I knew you’d be trouble but…”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.

  “Hey, it’s not my dad-bod they’re here to admire.”

  I shove his amused expression out of my space and tear open a granola bar. Missed breakfast again, of course.

  “You should go talk to them,” he continues. “I may be off the market, but no reason you shouldn’t have some fun.”

  I roll my eyes and tug my soaked shirt back over my head. He laughs at my obvious answer to that question.

  “Aw, come on. Not even one of them? They can’t be that much younger than you.”

  “I’m not interested in dating.”

  “One of those girls, or at all?”

  I shrug and search for a distraction. I like Rory but he doesn’t need a first-class ticket to my shit-ton of baggage.

  “At all. My daughter keeps me busy enough,” I say casually, tilting the thermos to my mouth again.

  He stills, expression changing as he studies me. “You have a kid?”

  “Brooklyn, and she’s four.”

  I focus on the water’s soothing path through my body as Rory does an admirable job of suppressing the rest of his reaction. The “you’re too x-y-z for a kid” that always follows this revelation never passes his lips, even if it remains rooted on his face. Yes, I’m too young/broke/single/whatever else they judge to be the case when they evaluate me. And evaluate they do. At the grocery store, the pediatrician, preschool, playground, and every other place where it’s inconceivable for a guy like me to have a daughter like that for whatever reason those critical brains cook up. Thing is, they’re not wrong. I love my daughter more than life itself, but beyond that, I still don’t have a clue what I’m doing.

  “You ready to head back up?” Rory asks, all hint of amusement gone.

  “Let’s do it.”

  I’m a little late today after stopping at the store to grab some bread and milk. Totally worth it when a small bundle of sunshine comes darting toward me at Rose and Gary’s house.

  “Daddy!” Brooklyn shrieks, flinging her arms around me when I crouch down.

  “Hey, squirt.” I clutch her tight and bury my face in her hair. “You have a good day?”

  “I made you an oct-uh-pies. Come look!”

  She wiggles out of my arms and tugs me toward the kitchen. I follow obediently, grinning at her grandma who’s trying to suppress a laugh. An oct-uh-pie, it turns out, is a series of purple blobs with long, tangled tentacles. Also, a green square with yellow antennae and a series of blue circles hovering overhead.

  “Did you know oct-uh-pies eat crabs? But not people or dogs, right, Grandma?”

  “That’s right, sweetheart.”

  “Wow, they look…” I stare at the drawing, then try to read her expression for a clue. Scary? Cuddly? I don’t want to guess wrong. “Like good swimmers. Is this the ocean?”

  She nods triumphantly, snatching the page from my hands to give a more in-depth explanation. I listen as intently as I can, while discreetly gathering her belongings so we can leave. My arms feel twice as heavy, my back barely able to straighten my body with each movement. I’d collapse on Rose and Gary’s beat up couch right now if I could.

  “Sorry we can’t watch her tonight during your show. Heather will be waiting for you at your place though. She said she can feed Brooklyn too.”

  My hand stills mid-shove of a coloring book into Brooklyn’s backpack. “You spoke to Heather? I told her the show was off tonight.”

  “Yeah, I know. She called me.”

  I lift a brow while slowly zipping the bag. “So then you know I’m not doing it.”

  “Because you don’t have a bass player.”

  “Right.”

  Brooklyn’s tiny backpack barely fits over my shoulder when I try to tuck my arm through it. I must look ridiculous—a muscular, six-foot-two, scruff-faced dude sporting a miniature pony-themed backpack. Wonder what Rory would think of me now. Kids make the weirdest shit normal.

  Rose cements herself in my path. “Yes well, Gary, Heather, and I decided that’s no reason to miss an opportunity like this.”

  “Um, not having a band is pretty much the best reason to miss a gig.”

  “Yeah, and if it wasn’t that, it’d be something else.” She props a hand on her hip, gaze boring into me.

  I shrink a bit at the mom-laser I haven’t perfected yet. She’s half my size and not even my mom. Something heavy and painful sinks into my gut. I don’t want to disappoint her, even if that’s my brand. Doesn’t she get it? Don’t they all see what’s so painfully obvious? I’m not enough.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to face reality? To accept that it’s not going to happen for me?”

  Her glare turns intent as it slices into me. Disappointment, frustration. Her face is a mask of resentment for all the things her daughter deserved and never got. One of which was a fiancé who used to dream.

  “It’s The Draper Club, Mason. The Draper Club. You’re not missing this chance.”

  Chance for what? I blink and try to swallow the mix of nerves and panic at the mere mention of the legendary nightclub. So much history. So much pain and hope. Let’s be honest, I was going to cancel since the day I booked the gig. Obviously, Rose and Gary knew it as well.

  “I already told them I’m not coming.”

  “Yeah, they weren’t happy about that. They were pretty relieved when I assured them you were.” The nosy, intrusive woman shoves Brooklyn’s lunchbox into my chest. “I also informed them you’d be solo and doing an acoustic set. They really loved that.”

  “Rose!”

  She shrugs and brushes off my glare in favor of one last hug from her granddaughter. Guess I can’t blame her for that, at least.

  “You better hurry, Mason. You definitely need a shower first.”

  My stomach rumbles at the smell of food wafting through the air as we approach our apartment door. It’s been hours since my small lunch, and if I have any hope of making the g
ig on time, it’ll be hours until my next meal. Not unusual for me, and exactly why I have a box of granola bars in my van. Brooklyn continues her monologue about “oct-uh-pies” as I balance the grocery bags in one hand and fish the keys from my pocket with the other. Also, Rose was right. I smell like sun and sweat, probably look worse. I’ll definitely need to find a distraction for Brooklyn so I can grab a quick shower.

  The flutter of hunger shifts to alarm when my key stalls in a lock that’s already open. Concerned, I shield Brooklyn as I turn the knob slowly and push the door open.

  “That you, Mason?” Heather calls from inside.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and usher Brooklyn into the apartment.

  “Yeah. What are you doing here?”

  “Rose told me you were late to her place and would probably skip dinner. Figured I’d have it ready for you.”

  Brooklyn cuts off my protest with a rush at our neighbor. “Heather! Did you know oct-uh-pies have eight legs? They’re probably fast with so many legs. People only have two and Daddy is so fast.”

  “Wow, I—”

  Brooklyn doesn’t wait for a reaction to her announcement before bounding toward her room.

  “She’ll illustrate it for you, don’t worry,” I say, chuckling. “She told me on the way home she’s going to draw the whole octopi family. Probably their house and car too.”

  “Octopi, huh?”

  I shrug and drop the grocery bags on the counter. “They read a book at school today, I think. What are you making? You really didn’t have to do this.”

  Heather glances over her shoulder at me without halting her stir of something delicious-smelling in a skillet.

  “I don’t mind. I had the early shift today and was just sitting around anyway. Figured I’d make that stir-fry you like.”

  “It smells amazing.”

  “Better than you, anyway,” she says with a grin.

  I smirk and start pulling out groceries from the bags.

  “Leave that. I’ll put it away. Go shower. You can’t be late,” she says casually. So casually that my stomach tightens with something other than hunger. The words climb up my throat, rest on my tongue. The familiar protest fueled by guilt. You’re using her, Mason. You’re stringing her along because you need her. Just because she’s okay with that doesn’t make it right. Also as usual, the words sit there unsaid because what the hell would Brooklyn and I do without her?

  “Heather…”

  Her gaze snaps back to the stove to focus on the food. “Go shower, Mason. You’re going to be late.”

  I pull in a deep breath and head toward the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 3

  I did it! I still can’t believe it. Even though I’ve reviewed the scene a hundred times in my mind, it still doesn’t seem real. It can’t be, and yet… I can’t stop staring at my phone. After tonight’s show, I finally went up and said hello. He was packing up his stuff and had to stop when I called out from the floor. His smile when our eyes met… The way he bent down at the front of the stage so we could be eye-level... Gosh, he’s even more beautiful close up. And he saw me. I could feel it. Maybe not in the way I see him, but a spark snapped in that brief moment, a connection, and here’s the proof: his name and number. Mason West is in my contact list! The insanely talented lead singer for Western Crush knows I exist and wants me in his world too. I just wish I knew what to do next.

  MASON

  With its original fixtures and walls covered in framed photos and memorabilia of iconic artists, The Draper Club is the polar opposite of last night’s Fat Eagle fail. This place bleeds talent and breeds legends. Rudwell Hunter, Tandie Monroe, and even Eastern Crush all got their break after playing the small corner stage in Nowheresville—although Eastern Crush was still Western Crush when we rocked this place just over four years ago. I was frontman Mason West, the nineteen-year-old prodigy with a world of possibilities on the horizon. It was my band, my music, and my soul that propelled Western Crush toward the heavens after we blew the place up that night. It was also my legend they stole and exploited after life sent me spiraling down a different path. I can’t believe I’m back. Alone. Stupid Rose and Gary.

  I pull in a deep breath and approach the host stand. “I’m looking for Wolf,” I say to the young man behind the booth. His gaze drops to the guitar case in my hand, and a flicker of admiration crosses his features. This reception is already a hundred times better than last night.

  “Of course. Mason West, right? You can go over to the stage and start setting up. I’ll let Mike and Wolf know you’re here.”

  I smile my thanks and start weaving through the tables. I feel the electricity as I pass. The speculation over whether they’re about to witness history. They don’t know who I am but they burst at the possibility that they will one day. They want me to be a story they can tell. You know, that night they saw Mason West before he was important. They don’t remember that they’ve seen me before.

  “Mason? Good to see you again,” a gruff voice belts out behind me. Well, one person does.

  Wolf Decker extends his hand, and I grasp it with a firm grip. I can’t help but smile at the burly man. He hasn’t changed a bit since the last time I shook his hand years ago.

  “How’s life been treating you?” he asks, tugging his fingers through his long white beard as he scans me slowly. Evaluating, yes, but in a way he’s earned.

  “Fine. You?”

  He shrugs. “Livin’ the dream, kid. I hear you’re going solo tonight?”

  Shuddering inwardly, I follow his gaze to the empty stage behind me. It’s been a long time since I played a solo acoustic set outside of my living room. Brooklyn loves my stripped back concerts. Would this crowd of ravenous music-connoisseurs?

  “Hope that’s okay,” I say, swallowing the terror rising in my throat. Can he hear it in my voice? See it in my eyes? I pretend to fiddle with the clasp on my case to distract us from the truth.

  “Actually, I’m stoked. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do. I always had a feeling there was untapped talent in that old, dark soul of yours. I’m looking forward to seeing it raw and exposed.”

  Well, fuck. I try to smile through the anvil that collapses on my lungs. What the hell was I thinking coming here tonight? Unpracticed, unfiltered, and wholly unable to hide behind the forgiving energy of a band. No, tonight’s fail will be all mine, documented and etched into history by a packed house of witnesses. Yes, World. Here before you is Mason West, an okay father and subpar roofer who was almost something special.

  “Mike will be over in a minute to talk about sound. Do you need help bringing your stuff in?”

  His smile breaks during the standard question, his eyes resting on my lone guitar case and gig bag. He has to know that except for a pedal board and possibly some favorite cables, my “stuff” is already in. I’m alone, remember? So very, very alone.

  “I’m good, thanks. Right here?” I hop up on the stage to give my legs something to do besides tremble like a middle-schooler on a first date. Pacing near the mic on a boom stand at the front, I let my gaze drift over the crowd that’s already buzzing in anticipation. What do they see? I used to be able to answer that question. I was cocky, bordering on arrogant the last time I stood here. I knew I was special. Now I know how little that matters.

  “You look good up there, kid,” Wolf says, pulling me from my daze. “You look like you’re home.”

  Embarrassed, I toss a weak smile and step back. Out of the spotlight. Away from the only place I ever saw myself since the first time I picked up a guitar. Do I look good up here? Do I look like I still need music to breathe, even though I’m losing more of it each day? Or do I look like a fraud, staring up into a spotlight that knows too much and not nearly enough. Who is this Mason West? They all want to know. Salivating at the prospect of discovering an epic secret. The bigger secret: No one is more desperate for that answer than I am.

  Dim lights flicker above me as I stare at my reflection in the mir
ror above the sink. Five minutes. I’m on in five, Wolf said. Just enough time to puke my guts out and make a fool of myself to my audience of one in a stuffy bathroom. I’ve done this dozens of times. Hundreds? Playing on stage is as natural as eating or sleeping, so why this sudden terror? Why this disconnection with my own being? The gaze staring back at me is foreign. Tanned from long days on a roof, older and marked by unshaven whiskers and stress. This isn’t the kid who believed he owned that stage four years ago. This is a man who doesn’t know where the hell he belongs anymore.

  Nausea creeps up through my stomach, burning its way into my throat. Not now. Not again. Crisis. Breathe. Deal.

  Come on, Mason. Stop thinking. Trust yourself and let go. I close my eyes as Katrina’s voice filters through my head in a calming breeze. She never said anything like that to me. She never had to, but she would have if she were here now. She’d be in the front row, gazing up with stars and hearts like I’m already a superstar and it’s just a matter of time before the rest of the world knows it. We believed the same then. It was easy to believe in shit with a woman like Katrina in your life.

  Blinking away the emotion, I set my jaw and push through the door. I let her voice flow through me again as I stalk toward the stage. Over and over, she speaks the riddle I have thirty seconds to solve. Trust yourself and let go. What does that look like? What’s left inside the shell of a could-have-been rocker whose soul aged faster than his years? What will this crowd discover tonight?

  I still don’t have a clue as I sling my guitar strap over my shoulder and mount the steps to the stage. Even as the spotlight drenches me in its unforgiving embrace, I don’t know what will happen next. I just sense that lines will be drawn. Decisions made. Destinies will be forged one way or another like they were years ago. Just let go, and as I adjust the mic on the stand, peace washes over me. Confidence. I let a smile creep onto my lips. There’s no room on this stage for frauds.