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

by Alyson Santos

  “Maybe it’s Santa again! He has lots of kids this year. It’s probably my princess bed!” Brooklyn thinks every delivery person works for a well-organized, proactive Santa Claus. No amount of reasoning will talk her out of it. She’s convinced last week’s floor lamp delivery was at least two early gifts for her.

  “I don’t think so, bug.” I drop my bowl on the table and move to the door. “Remember, I told you my friend is coming over to work?”

  “Oh okay. The girl or the boy?”

  “The girl.”

  Her face barely registers a reaction before she returns to her noodles. I guess that’s good?

  It feels strange answering the door and ushering Liberty inside. I don’t know why. It’s not like this is a date. I mean… I send a look back toward Brooklyn who’s begun stacking her noodles in curious preschool architecture. If she’s concerned that I have another woman in the house, she doesn’t show it.

  “Hey, Liberty,” I say, closing the door behind her. “We’re still finishing up dinner, sorry. The traffic home today was… You hungry?”

  Damn, why am I so nervous? It seemed natural to invite her over to write when we got interrupted this morning. The suggestion just flowed off the tongue, full sentences, perfectly casual, and she accepted like the idea made complete sense. Except, apparently time and separation warped it into something else. Her uncomfortable smile confirms it, and I’m sure my offer of cheap boxed goo isn’t helping. Always seems to be three steps forward, two steps back with this woman. At least she doesn’t hate me anymore. I think.

  “Wow. I haven’t had that in… ever.” She eyes Brooklyn’s pile, and I breathe a sigh of relief at her amusement. “Mom and Dad were only about the organic fineries of life. We missed out on all the good stuff.” Dropping to the chair beside my daughter, Liberty leans forward to inspect her structure from a closer angle. “That’s quite the design you have there.” She does an admirable job of feigning awe, to which Brooklyn offers her a slimy handful.

  Shit.

  “You want to help?” Brooklyn asks, yellowish-orange noodle shards protruding from all angles of her little fist.

  “Wow. Really?”

  Wait, what is happening right now?

  Liberty accepts the gift and starts forming her heap into cylindrical configurations. For the next minute or so, she squints at her circle patterns with all the concentration of an artist at work, stacking and re-stacking with the precision of a trained musician. When another attempt fails, (apparently—I’m not sure how you can tell), she releases a frustrated puff of air that rustles a section of blue hair away from her face.

  “Hey, Mason, do you have toothpicks?” she calls over. She uses the back of her hand to attempt to clear a different purple lock from her eyes.

  “Let me check. Need a hair tie also?”

  She glances over in surprise, considering my offer. “Actually… you have one?”

  I chuckle and move toward the kitchen. “Be right back.”

  After collecting the toothpicks from the cabinet and one of Brooklyn’s hair ties from the drawer by the fridge, I deposit both beside her on the table.

  “Ooh noodle logs!” Brooklyn cries, reaching for the toothpicks. In two seconds flat that box of toothpicks is slimed beyond repair, but I’m more amused by Liberty’s longing glances at the hair tie. Her gaze passes from the small green band to her gooey orange hands and back.

  “Would you like me to pull your hair up for you?” I ask without thinking. And then I do. Shit. Really, Mason? At least her response is more confusion than horror at the suggestion.

  “You know how to use that thing, West?”

  “A hair tie? Are you kidding? I’m the single father of a little girl who thinks she’s part unicorn.” I grab the band off the table. “I’m serious. Want me to help?”

  But instead of uncertainty, something else flashes in her eyes when she turns them up to me, a flare of heat so intense it stirs my blood to flames. I swallow against the strange fire, not sure if I should retract the offer or double it. Hair tie and shoulder massage? Hair tie and dinner alone tomorrow night? Hair tie and a giant dose of are you insane?

  I glance over at Brooklyn who now has a toothpick jutting from every noodle on the table, oblivious to my silent betrayal. She’s my world, my everything. I’ve barely looked at a woman since Katrina, for our daughter’s sake. Maybe. Or maybe I’ve been protecting myself. Sure there’s been the occasional one-night stand, but an actual connection with another person?

  And now my body seems to be in violent revolt against this celibacy. It wants more. I’ve done a good job at starving it for years, and suddenly the dam is straining in painful surges. I force away images of Liberty lost in her music. The way her soul flickers over her features when she’s absorbed by genius.

  “Breathe and beat, lungs and heart compete

  To tell the lie

  That I’m still alive.”

  This woman who writes words that strip my soul to its core. We’ve already seen each other naked, haven’t we?

  Maybe you should call this whole writing thing off. You can’t even handle watching her make mac and cheese sculptures.

  “Sure. Go ahead,” she interrupts, dragging me back to heavenly hell. “You want to braid it too?” Her smile wrecks the little restraint I have left on my dirty mind. I see her with warrior braids now. An Amazon goddess towering over me with her knee on my chest, hand on my throat as she… holy shit.

  With a deep breath, I reach for her hair. Just a ponytail. I can do that. The same sequence of movements I perform every day.

  Gather hair into a bundle.

  Stretch band across fingers.

  Hold firm…

  Except this time I flinch when my fingers skim over the soft skin of a neck. Did she just inhale sharply? Small bumps spread over her exposed back at my touch, and I fight to steady my hands as I bring the tie to her silky locks. You know you’re fucked when you think things like “silky locks.”

  Somehow I manage to twist the band around and pull her hair through it a second time. It holds nicely, even after a few shorter strands escape the knot to frame her face. Damn, she’s cute, and when she glances back over her shoulder to match my hungry gaze, I’m done.

  “Hey, I just need to run to the restroom for a sec. You good?”

  Her teeth sink into her lip as she nods. Mesmerized, I stare too long at the pink curve of her mouth. She stares back, devouring what feels like every inch of me. I still feel her gaze as I drag mine away and force myself down the hall. This is bad. This is totally-screwed-you’ve-really-bathed-in-it-this-time level bad. What the hell are you supposed to do when someone’s seen your naked soul and now they want your body too?

  Time, space, and a splash of cold water help immensely. At least enough to return to the table and function as a human being again. I must have been gone longer than intended, though, because the ladies have vacated their noodle studio when I return. I follow the laughter to the living room and find the two of them on the floor with a puzzle, having way too much fun with fragments of ponies wearing tea party dresses. I’m relieved to see Brooklyn washed her hands at least. Points to Liberty for supervising that.

  “Can the girl be my new Heather?” Brooklyn asks when she sees me.

  I wince and send Liberty an apologetic look. “Her name is Ms. Liberty, and no. She’s my boss. I work for her, actually.”

  “With her,” Liberty corrects, locking her gaze on mine. “Your daddy is incredibly talented. We’re honored to have him.”

  “He used to make houses, but now he plays that every day,” Brooklyn says, pointing to my guitar in the corner.

  Liberty nods. “He does. And he plays it very well.”

  “He sings songs too. He sings me mommy’s song all the time. That’s my favorite.” She doesn’t look up from her puzzle sorting. Edge piece. Inside piece. Inside, inside, edge. “My mommy is with Jesus, but Daddy says if we play her song she can sing it from there. It’s called
a do-wet.”

  Oh god. Liberty’s face. I swallow my own reaction and cross to Brooklyn. Bending down, I distract her with a kiss on the head. “Hey, bug, you want some ice cream while Ms. Liberty and I work?”

  “With sprinkles?” she asks, cocking her head. Let the negotiations begin.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Also wit-cream—and not just one dot like Grandma does.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I don’t realize I’m shaking until halfway to the kitchen. What was I thinking bringing Liberty here? There’s a reason I’ve kept my life so strictly compartmentalized. A reason I stay locked in the present, because what future can you have when your past is so fucked up?

  I pull a bowl from the cabinet, the tub of ice cream from the freezer. Where’s that damn scoop? I swear, I can never find anything in these stupid drawers. I slam one shut and yank open another. Still nothing. What the hell? Jerk open another.

  “Need help?”

  I jump at Liberty’s voice and still my frantic search for a utensil. If I don’t turn around maybe she won’t see how messed up my head is. Maybe she’ll go away and tell the others they made a mistake on me after all. I can return to Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania and beg Rory for my job back. I could—

  “Mason? You okay?”

  I draw in a deep breath and brace against the counter. “Fine. You want some too? I thought we had chocolate but it looks like it’s just mint.”

  She doesn’t respond, only closes the gap in an approach that triggers every nerve in my body.

  “Mason.”

  I close my eyes, still unable to look at her. Why won’t she leave? Instead, she hovers even closer. Lilacs drift up from her hair in a poisonous vapor that’s corroding almost four years of walls.

  “I’m so sorry, Liberty. I don’t know what I was thinking bringing you here. Please don’t feel like you have to stay. I don’t usually… I mean, you’re the first… shit!” I lock my fingers on my head, focusing hard on the cabinet door. How can I look at her and face the horror, the disgust, the pity… whatever mess I have waiting for me on her face?

  “Will you play that song for me?”

  My gaze twists to hers. “What?”

  Compassion. Trust. Hope—those I wasn’t prepared for.

  “The song Brooklyn is talking about. Will you… I’d like to hear it.” Her voice is soft, almost timid. She’s not sure about any of this either, so why is she still here? Why is she trying? Doesn’t she know how hard I work to protect people from all of this?

  “You want to hear Katrina’s song?” I hear the doubt in my voice. She must too. Maybe she doesn’t understand what she’s asking.

  “Katrina is Brooklyn’s mother, right?”

  I nod on autopilot, my throat choked off from participating in this exchange.

  “If you wrote it, I’m sure it’s gorgeous. No wonder it’s Brooklyn’s favorite.”

  I blink against the burn in my eyes.

  “Did you write it before or… after?”

  I look away, struggling against the boulder on my chest. “After.”

  “For Brooklyn?”

  “For all of us.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘Baby Girl, Sleep.’”

  And to my horror I start to hum quietly. First just notes, then words, and then my daughter is wrapping her arms around my leg until I pick her up so her voice can mesh with mine.

  “Baby girl mine

  Above and below, the clouds hold us in Forever

  Sleep today, for tonight we play, in the stars where we’re still together

  Baby girl mine

  Dream of the time, her kisses were soft on your cheek

  And whenever you cry, know that mine, are filled with the love of an angel.”

  Brooklyn burrows into my shoulder as I blink back tears. I can’t look at Liberty, still in disbelief that I shared something so intimate with another person. Maybe it could only be her, the one who knows the devastating force of the internal tide always threatening to drag us under.

  “Did you hear her singing, Daddy? I did,” Brooklyn whispers against my chest. I pull her close, resting my chin on her head.

  “I heard her, baby girl. I heard her.”

  I kiss her hair and hold on with everything I have. It’s almost frightening how much you can love someone. How such a tiny human can grip your heart with such colossal force it rewires your existence. And yet, it only takes a flinch for her to turn the tide and squirm out of my arms.

  “Okay, Daddy. So now can we have ice cream?”

  Brooklyn seems content on the couch with her favorite kid show and a bowl of ice cream, so Liberty and I have no problem setting up at the table—after I use industrial-strength cleaners to remove the cheese-noodle monstrosity, of course.

  I saw the look in Liberty’s eyes after Brooklyn’s song and silently begged her not to react. I’m grateful she doesn’t bring it up now that we’re alone either, as if she senses she witnessed something she shouldn’t have. Instead, she pulls out her phone and plays back our work-tapes while I tune.

  “What do you think of this for the verse?” she asks, motioning for the guitar after several run-throughs. I hand it over and watch her expertly balance it in her arms. I didn’t even know she could play. “‘Feeling awake again. Feeling the rush of knowing. When to lead and when to stay behind…’”

  And I definitely didn’t know she could sing like that.

  “Damn,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah. Also, explain to me why you don’t sing again?”

  She laughs and focuses on her fingers as she works through the progression.

  “I’m serious, Liberty. Why don’t you sing?” I reach over and stall her hand on the strings when she continues to ignore me. She looks up, gaze flickering over mine before landing back on the guitar. With a shrug, she scoots her chair out of reach.

  “Singing isn’t my thing. I’m a keys player.”

  “It’s not your thing?”

  She shrugs again. “No.”

  Annoyed, I cross my arms and study her. What bullshit idea convinced her of that? “Do you like to sing? Because it really sounded like you like to sing just now.”

  Yep, another shrug-only response. Who does that? My four-year-old daughter, that’s who.

  “Can we just keep working?” she grunts, swiping a pen off the table and jotting notes, also with the force of a preschool tantrum.

  “Does this have something to do with Chris?”

  She glares up from her page. “Excuse me?”

  My turn to shrug. If she thinks she can out-preschool me with preschool tactics, she’s sorely mistaken.

  “I don’t see how this is any of your business.”

  “No? I mean, I’m only the lead singer of your band.”

  Glares have personalities of their own, apparently. Annoyed, irritated, riled, exasperated. Each one proves to be more amusing than the last. I enjoy them all until a pen comes flying at my face. I capture it against my chest and stare at it for a second before lifting my gaze to her in disbelief.

  “Wow, did you just throw a pen at me?” I ask, barely holding in a laugh.

  She fights to keep her glare, which works for all of three seconds before a snort escapes her as well.

  “I’m sorry but you’re pissing me off,” she says through an exasperated chuckle.

  I can’t stop the grin that slides over my lips as I slap the pen back to the table in front of her. Protecting it with my hand, I lean forward with a severe expression. “If I give this back, can I trust you not to attack me with it again?”

  Her lips twitch as she fights back a smile. Her eyes lock on mine. “No promises, West.”

  “Then I’m not releasing it.”

  She raises a brow in challenge and reaches for my hand. I bite my cheek to keep from laughing as she tries to lift my hand, first with one of hers, then with both. When she focuses her undiv
ided attention on yanking my wrist, I can’t hold back anymore. Her death grip is adorable.

  “This is a really important pen, huh,” I say casually as she strains with everything she has against my arm.

  “The importantest,” she grunts, now jerking with her entire bodyweight. “How the hell are you so strong?”

  “If it’s so important, maybe you should stop throwing it at people.”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “No? How do you figure?”

  “You made me do it.”

  “Really.” I lean back in a nonchalant stance as she struggles against me, just to piss her off more.

  “Yeah. If you weren’t being such a dick, I wouldn’t have had to throw it.”

  I’m not sure about the effectiveness of whatever her current tactic is supposed to be, but it involves squatting her cute ass in my direction, so I’m all for it.

  “How was I being a dick? Because I wanted you to sing?”

  “Yes!”

  “I see. So because I think you have a killer voice, you threw a pen at me.”

  She freezes mid-lunge and stares up at me.

  “You think I have a killer voice?”

  “Duh.”

  “But…” She straightens, closing the gap until she’s the one gazing down at me now. “I mean…” Her fingers remain on my wrist, and suddenly I feel the pressure of her touch everywhere else as well. Shit.

  By the way her gaze drifts from my eyes to my lips, she senses it too. Her grip loosens on my wrist just enough to drag it up my arm where it rests on my bicep. I suck in a breath, praying my brain is strong enough to stop my ravenous muscles from doing something stupid.

  “Mason…”

  Her other hand reaches for my lips. Two steps closer and she’s almost flush between my legs. Holy hell, I’m suddenly the weakest man on the planet. My only defense is stasis. Don’t move, because once my body gets the signal to react…