The creak of a freezer door snaps me back to the present, and I look over to find a tiny rear-end and spindly purple legs poking out from behind the door.
“No way. Not a chance,” I say, tossing the sponge in the sink and striding toward the fridge. I scoop up the screaming, flailing preschooler and deposit her back into her chair.
“I hate peanut butter and jelly!”
“Then eat your carrots and yogurt.”
“I hate those too!”
“Fine, then sit there and look at them.”
“I hate looking!”
“Then close your eyes.”
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing when she does exactly that. Yep, there she sits, the entitled, angry princess with her eyes clenched shut to prove how committed she is to not eating her dinner. When she pops one eye open to make sure I’m paying attention, I can’t hold it in anymore. My smile infuriates her further, leading to a very dramatic crossing of arms and slump in her chair. God, she’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and something rustles in my chest at how much she resembles her stubborn mama right now. I ruffle her hair before returning to the sink to finish the dishes.
My hand is on fire when I plunge it back into the warm soapy water. The cut felt deep but didn’t look it at first. It took several seconds for the blood to start pooling and become a problem. Once the floodgate opened, however, there was no stopping it. We had to change the dressing twice before Rory told me to go get it checked out. I went to the drugstore to pick up bandages instead, my decision validated by Brooklyn’s gleeful surprise when I showed up early to pick her up. Rose eyed my bandaged hand with suspicion but accepted my insistence that it was nothing. It would be fine in a few hours, I’d told her.
A few hours later, it wasn’t fine. Then again, what was?
I force away the bitterness that keeps creeping back. Who has time for that shit? Who has time for any shit when life seems to think you can handle one blow after another? I stare down at the fresh drops of blood squeezing from my clenched palm and dripping into the water. There they blossom into an inky cloud, the kind of image an artist would notice and struggle to capture. I guess I bleed art. If only I were an artist.
The silence is quieter that night after Brooklyn’s asleep, the darkness darker. Is this life after broken hope? Exaggerated and dramatic nothingness as big as Brooklyn’s display at the table?
After pulling off my shirt, I drop to my bed still in my jeans as I stare up at the ceiling. What did Katrina say every time I’d find myself sinking into this abyss? “Guess I’ll have to believe enough for the both of us.”
And she did—for a while. She pushed harder when I pulled back. She brightened shadows before I could let them swallow me, refusing to permit my attraction to the dark. She was my blowtorch, and in the three years following her death it’s been sheer survival instinct that’s kept me going. Survival for our daughter, anyway, the tiny inferno of light she left behind. And I determined to guard it with every fiber of my being.
Sometimes though, on nights like tonight…
When the ache in your chest becomes a cement block.
When your hand throbs in time to the anthem of failure streaming through your head.
When your phone refuses to ring and your brain insists on reminding you of every fucking thing you’re not.
Sometimes on nights like this you wonder if maybe, just maybe, your precious blinding ray of light would be better off without—
“Fuck!” I cry out, clenching my eyes shut against the darkness. The loneliness. The pain I’m so good at burying every damn second because who has time to breathe anymore? I press my fists against the sockets, hoping the heated drops are blood as much as tears. How fitting for them to mingle down my cheeks and soak into my pillow.
Stacks of bills line my counters. An angel sleeps just feet away oblivious to the fact that her hero is a fucking fraud who has no clue what he’s doing. And somewhere in Los Angeles, California, members of a successful rock band sift through audition footage to decide who they’re going to invite next since that other loser wasn’t good enough.
“I never wanted it anyway.”
The lyric from “Never Been Mine” screeches back, filling the hollows of my room with its lies. Because come on, of course I wanted it. I wanted everything. We all do. But instead we get brief moments where the universe teases us with a promise it won’t keep. And yeah, sometimes we’re lucky enough to have a gorgeous, strong blowtorch waiting for us when the dream gets ripped away. We survive a little longer on her fumes. Until we don’t. Until that gets stolen too because you’re a fucking waste of—
“Stop!”
I push up from the bed, breathing hard in the darkness. Fumbling for the lamp, I flip the switch and let the warm yellow glow filter into the room. Not like this. I’m not going down now. I yank open the drawer to my nightstand and grab the smaller of the tattered notebooks hidden inside. The soft one, covered in faded blue stars and stripes of pink polka dots. The one not filled with frantic song lyrics scratched out during midnight delirium. This is the one that’s filled with a different kind of verse, words as fresh and beautiful as their author.
The glowing ember of a soul that burned so bright it still shines years after it’s been snuffed out.
I pull the journal into my lap and run my arm across my eyes to clear my vision. It’s been months since I retreated to Katrina’s words, to the soothing reminder of the best thing about myself next to Brooklyn: the fact that I could be loved by someone like her. That she saw everything in me I couldn’t. If she could love me, maybe there was a man buried deep worth finding.
Careful not to damage the cover with blood or tears, I open to the first page.
“August 18,
Did I see him first? The way he breathed music and bled poetry from a stage that never saw him coming…”
I don’t know how long into the night I read Katrina’s journal, but when the shrill sound of a phone wakes me up, I realize I fell asleep in the warm cocoon of her words. I carefully close the notebook that had slumped open on my chest and reach for my phone. My pulse picks up at the Los Angeles number, sweat breaking out over my skin when I realize even with the time difference it’s too late for a telemarketer.
“Hello?” I say, holding the phone to my ear with a shaky hand.
“Mason? Hi, it’s Sam Turner from Turner Artist Management.”
“Oh, hey, Sam.”
“Hey, sorry to bother you so late. I guess it’s almost eleven there.”
“It’s okay.”
“Look, I’ll cut to the chase. The band and I have discussed you and their future extensively over the past few days.”
Breathe, Mason.
Is that Katrina yelling at me from her perch in the heavens? Cheering? Consoling? Does she know what’s coming or is omniscience just a God-quality?
Remember, you never wanted it anyway.
“Okay,” I say. “I understand.”
You’ll recover from this.
Crisis. Breathe. Deal.
Breathe, Mason.
“Right, so after a lot of discussion we all agree that you’re an important part of that future. Mason, how soon can you move out to Los Angeles?”
CHAPTER 8
The answer is yes. I will believe in him. In us. In myself and the strength I have to be what he needs me to be. How can I not when everything points to a future I want more than anything?
LIBERTY
“Wait, he has a daughter? Are you kidding me?”
I grip the phone in my hand, trying to hold in a laugh. No, screw that. I let it out in a bitter F-U to the universe for messing up yet again. This is what I get for shutting down my instinct and letting the guys win. They wanted Mason West and, well, they got him—along with his four-year-old daughter. Freaking brilliant.
“He never mentioned a daughter to me during our initial talks,” Sam says, sounding way too calm for this development. “My guess is he didn’t want that
information to factor into your decision.”
“Ya think? Shit, Sam, what do we do now?”
“Look, I get that this will take some time to process but try not to overreact. Contractually, this changes nothing. His personal life is his business. If it helps, it seems the grandparents are moving out here as well to help care for the girl.”
“The grandparents too? You can’t be serious. Tell me this is a joke, Sam. Tell me you and the guys are messing with me as payback for my meltdown at the audition.”
“Of course not, Lib—”
“No? Really? Because how many times have we discussed the fact that we needed Chris’ replacement to be all in? How many warnings from you and the label about how critical these next few weeks would be? Laser focus, remember? Twenty-four-seven, your-soul-belongs-to-the-band level commitment from all of us. And what do we do? We draft a guy who comes with a daughter and parents!”
She’s letting me rant. I could go on for hours right now and she wouldn’t interrupt. Also, I hate when she does this. Like I don’t know she’s scanning her emails patiently on the other end of the line until I’m finished and she can drag me back from the cliff. Except this time it won’t work. This time I’m jumping. Goodbye, Liberty Blake, you’re diving to your death along with your career and your sanity and—
“Plenty of artists manage successful careers with children. You’re only reinforcing why he didn’t mention Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn?”
“His daughter.”
Brooklyn. Brooklyn West. Of course she has a stinking adorable name. And with her father’s genes she probably looks like a Disney princess doll too. Bet she’s the cutest freaking kid on the planet. Guess I’ll be finding out very soon.
“What about the mother? You didn’t mention a wife or girlfriend.”
“Neither did he. As far as I know, it’s just the four of them making the move.”
No mother? Great, more skeletons to sort through. The press is going to eat him—and us—alive. Feast on, vultures. You’re about to get the banquet of a lifetime.
I dig my fingers into my forehead and try to recalibrate.
“Okay, so if he’s not staying with Tivo and Mitch like we discussed, where’s he staying?”
“I would assume with his daughter and the grandparents.”
“Obviously. I mean, physically where?”
“I suppose at a hotel until my team can find them a more permanent living situation. They’re looking into it now, along with recommendations for a preschool. He wants to enroll his daughter right away so she can make friends and feel less of an impact from the move.”
I’m still massaging my temples, trying to picture that cocky, arrogant rocker dropping his daughter off at preschool. Giving bubble baths. Making mac and cheese or whatever the hell kids eat. Was he cocky and arrogant? Sparks start skimming over my skin at the thought of seeing him again. There’s a reason I refused to play the video back to study his audition like the others have nonstop. I didn’t need to. I didn’t want to and confirm all the things the logical part of my brain knew from the moment he stepped on stage.
That he’s special.
That his music literally drove you to tears.
That somewhere deep down, you know your anger is for Chris, and your band deserves better than the shadow of his memory. It deserves an epic talent like Mason West who will transform you into something extraordinary.
So yeah, I didn’t need to see the tapes. It’s enough that I let Smart-Brain make a brief appearance to say yes to Mason before sinking back into the emotional abyss of cloudy decision-making.
I hate you, Chris Lundstedt. Have I mentioned that lately?
“Fine. Well, I’d prefer if our welcome dinner on Friday was just Mason and not the daughter and grandparents. We’ll have a lot of shit to discuss and it might not all be appropriate for kid ears.”
“Of course. I’m sure he understands that.”
“Geez, Sam, what about the release tour? What about the Sizzle Party next month for the label? Hell, what about the album and—”
“Liberty.”
“What?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
I meant to be early. At the very least on time. Okay, so I meant a lot of things that didn’t happen today and help explain why I’m almost an hour late to the event intended to make our new band member feel welcome. Good job, Liberty. At least I haven’t cried lately so my makeup is still on point and my eyes no longer look like I’ve just run through a cloud of mustard gas.
The room quiets when I enter, all gazes shifting to me in that awkward way that tells you everyone was having fun until you showed up. I can’t really blame them. My behavior hasn’t exactly been one hundred percent glorious of late. Mason, especially, looks uncomfortable as he turns those hypnotic eyes on me. Even from here I can sense the depth of the pool filling that man’s head. Of course he’s an incredible songwriter with substance like that. I swallow the uneasy twinge in my stomach as I plaster a smile on my face.
“There he is. Welcome to the chaos,” I say, extending my hand while striding toward him.
He takes it, returning a polite but wary smile. It’s not lost on either of us that we withdraw our hands as quickly as possible.
“Thanks. It’s great to be here. And thanks again for the opportunity.” His haunting, rich voice stirs my insides again. He speaks like he sings, passion and grit making every word seem infused with hidden meaning. Mitch was right. The dude is just more. Also, Mitch totally has a bro-crush on him—even Tivo noticed.
I scan Mason for any sign of the asshole-vibe I remembered from the audition, but now all I picture is a smoking hot dad pushing a stroller around. Do four-year-olds ride in strollers?
A cough from somewhere in the room draws me back to the present where I find Mason staring quizzically at me. Along with everyone else, I note, after a quick scan of the room. Are they all holding their breaths? No doubt wondering if I’m going to melt down and rant again like Mason’s little kid probably does. It’s the new Liberty Blake, ladies and gentlemen. Hope you enjoy tiptoeing on eggshells.
Hell no. Not today, Satan.
I stand a little straighter, and this time my smile is so far beyond “polite” there have to be unicorns shitting rainbows somewhere to fuel it.
“Do you have a second to go talk?” I say to Mason. Damn, I could make brownies with the sugar in my voice. Maybe tone it down a bit, Lib. You’re kinda sounding insane. I dial my smile back a few watts, hoping it’s now within “normal” range.
“Sure,” Mason says, following hesitantly as I start toward the door under the watchful eyes of freaking everyone.
“What? It’s a private conversation. Carry on with the party shenanigans,” I instruct the rest of them, twirling my finger in the air because apparently that’s what shenanigan-carrying-on looks like. You’ve freaking lost your mind. After another way-too-long (and possibly shocked) pause, low murmurs rise from around the room as conversations resume. Did the music stop too during that whole clumsy exchange, because I feel like it’s blasting as we move to the door and it wasn’t a second ago. Guess my Life DJ decided to stop the track to ensure that moment was extra awkward. Commence jarring record screech.
“Let’s go in here,” I say, leading Mason into one of the smaller artist lounges in Sam’s building. She insisted on having the party at the agency. Something about… yeah, I wasn’t paying attention. “Did you have a good trip out?”
“It was fine,” he says, still standing just inside the door. I realize why when I see I picked a room that has one—yes, one—small couch, which I’m currently occupying. I scoot as far into the armrest as possible to make room for him. Waving toward the other end of what’s basically a glorified chair, I wait as he considers and finally squeezes into the space beside me. I don’t miss how intimately he hugs his side’s armrest to avoid leg contact with me. God, Liberty, could you be more awkward?
“So you have a daughter?�
�� Yep, you can.
His gaze shifts and lands on pretty much everything that isn’t me. “Yeah. I’m sorry for not mentioning that earlier. It never came up, and then everything happened so fast. Her grandparents and I will do what we can to balance everything and make sure I can commit to the band.” His apologetic, almost nervous tone tugs at my chest. Is he afraid of me? Or just thinks I’m nuts? Probably both. Great, your lead singer thinks you’re a lunatic.
“No, it’s fine. Just surprised us is all. I think it’s cool your parents were willing to move out to help.”
“Oh, they’re not my parents.”
“But they’re your daughter’s grandparents?”
“Yeah, they’re Katrina’s parents.”
“Katrina?”
“Brooklyn’s mother.”
“And she’s fine with you taking her daughter across the country?”
“She died over three years ago.”
Oh my god. I bite my lip and stare at my hands that are now twisting in all kinds of strange contortions in my lap. Small talk. Not a thing, people. So not a thing.
“Um… wow. I’m sorry.”
When I peek over at him, he appears to be in the same state, staring at the floor, probably wishing there were at least three couches separating us right now. Instead, I can’t help but notice the heat of his leg resting mere centimeters from mine. As if in protest, my own thigh starts to bounce as it does when it’s anxious.
“Okay, so…” I start the sentence that will fix everything only to realize I’ve got nothing. What time is it again? I check my wrist, but I’m not wearing a watch. I never wear a watch. Of course he notices, and the slightest hint of a smile flashes over his perfect lips. Damn, he’s gorgeous. Slight scruff dusts his face, making him look like he could be an MMA fighter or something if the music gig doesn’t work out. Does he have any ink? I don’t remember from the audition and can’t tell now that he’s wearing long sleeves and jeans. I think I might see the hint of an image peeking from the collar of his shirt, but I can’t even trust myself to be a functioning human at the moment, let alone a perceptive one.
Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Page 6
