“Yes, but she’s taking a shower. Finish your breakfast and maybe you can play later.”
“I want to show her my Dizzy lamp! Did she see her last night?”
“I’m not sure. I bet she’d love to meet Dizzy.”
“Remember we’re going to the playground and pool soon,” Rose reminds her.
Brooklyn’s face lights up. “Maybe Ms. Lie-berry wants to go to the pool!”
I smile and squeeze her hand. “I’m sure she would, but today isn’t a good day. We’ll plan another time, okay?”
“Okaaaay. Daddy, can we do a concert? Now that you play your gah-tar at work you don’t play it at home.”
“Right now?”
She nods, already gripping my hand and dragging me from the table. “Until the pool.”
How can I say no to that?
I let her lead me to the living room and help her remove my guitar from the stand. She rushes over to the couch and jumps on, patting the cushion next to her. I lower myself and start tuning.
“Which song?” I ask.
“All of them.”
I choke a little and look over at her. She’s serious. “All of them, huh? Okay.”
Maybe she’s right. How long since I’ve played all of them? Ever?
And I start to play.
True to form, Brooklyn loses interest after one song, but now I’m hooked. While she takes off to pursue other activities, I continue with my private concert, loving the freedom of being alone with my guitar again. It’s been ages since I played my own stuff. Not since that first audition with Burn Card have I let myself loose on the songs that built and sustained me over the last few years. “Hush Hush,” “Lost in You,” “Leaving Paris,” each one takes me back to a time and place, some to the point of origin, others to a memorable performance or lifemark as Katrina used to call them. By the time I get to “Never Been Mine,” I’m totally lost in the music again.
“Of dreams, of peace, of the freedom to say:
I never wanted it anyway.”
I close my eyes and let go, losing myself in memories of the night I wrote it. The night I learned Western Crush had officially invited Rob back to replace me, and they would also be stealing my legacy. At the bridge, my thoughts drift to the high of a performance. That F-U moment when this anthem to those traitors earned me an invitation to the Burn Card stage.
“Until truth binds
The twisted remains
Of dreams, of peace, of the freedom to say:
I’ll have it all one day.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” A voice exclaims as the final chord rings out. “What is that?”
I press my palm against the strings and glance over at Liberty. She looks amazing in her ripped jeans from yesterday and one of my worn graphic t-shirts.
“It’s called ‘Never Been Mine.’”
“It’s an original? It sounds familiar.”
I nod and lower my guitar to the floor. “I played it the night Sam found me. Maybe you saw a video or something.”
“No freaking way are you putting that guitar down. Play it again?”
I smirk over at her. “The whole thing?”
“Yes, the whole thing.”
“Ms. Lie-berry!” Saved by the preschooler.
Brooklyn races over and throws her arms around Liberty’s leg. Liberty bends down to return her embrace.
“We have to go to the pool soon, but do you want to meet Dizzy?”
Liberty looks torn as her gaze crosses between my daughter and my guitar. The answer is no, she doesn’t want to meet Dizzy. The answer is also, I will do anything you say when you look at me like that. Hilarious. Welcome to my world.
“Is Dizzy the unicorn on your tent? I saw her yesterday, remember?”
“No! Not that Dizzy. The real one that’s my lamp. Come on!” Thirty-five pounds of tiny, determined steam engine is already dragging my bandmate down the hall. I know that feeling well, and I’m just about to return my guitar to the stand when I hear: “Don’t you dare put that guitar away, Mason West!”
After Brooklyn and her grandparents leave for the day, Liberty and I get to work on music. She makes me play “Never Been Mine” two times through, recording the second pass on her phone.
“What have you done with that song?” she asks when I finish.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes narrow with impatience. “I mean, where is it now? On an album? Streaming somewhere? What?”
I shrug. “Nowhere. I’ve never recorded it.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “I’ve done live gigs over the last few years, but I haven’t had the time or money to do studio work. I could barely put food on the table.”
Her expression falls as she studies her phone. “Is that why you didn’t fight Eastern Crush when they stole your songs?”
I swallow and nod. “After Katrina’s death, it took everything I had to care for Brooklyn and keep us afloat. I couldn’t afford a dream that might never happen. I needed a job that bought diapers and paid rent. When I told the guys I needed time off to get my life together, they said no. They didn’t want to lose any momentum, so either I commit, or they’d find a new lead singer who could.”
Liberty looks stricken, and I have to avert my gaze. “So they brought Rob back?” she whispers.
I clench my eyes shut for a second and nod. When I open them again, my living-room carpet looks further away. “Rob sang backing vocals and played lead guitar when he was with the band. It wasn’t a huge jump for him to take over. They changed the name but kept performing the same songs, my songs—the songs that finally got them discovered. Most of them ended up on their debut album, but I had no money, no contacts, and no time to breathe let alone fight an intellectual property war with the label who picked them up. What was I supposed to do?”
I need her to accept my defense. I can’t take accusations of yet another failure from my past right now. I know I should have fought. A real artist would have, right? To my surprise, she only nudges closer on the couch and takes my hand in hers. She traces my palm, my fingers, my callouses from years of hard labor and hard music.
“There was nothing you could have done,” she says finally. “When you’re trying to survive, nothing else matters.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I never realized how badly I needed someone to say that until this moment. Just one breath of absolution. Her hand suddenly tightens around mine.
“But what about now?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
She nods toward my phone and laptop on the coffee table. “Do you have any evidence that proves those songs are yours? Dated work-tapes? Computer files? Witnesses? Anything?”
I shrug. “Maybe? I don’t know. What does it matter now?”
She tips my face to hers and smiles. “Because now you do have the money, contacts, and time to fight an intellectual property war.”
I stare at her in shock. “Are you serious?”
“Totally. Let’s see if Sam’s around so we can start looking at our options.”
She pulls out her phone, preparing to dial.
“Wait! Can I at least shower first?” I say with a laugh.
“Ugh. Fine. Oh, but, Mason.” She tilts her phone up so I can see the voice memo app still open on her screen. “We’re also putting ‘Never Been Mine’ on the album.”
I’ve just brushed my teeth and jumped into the shower when I hear the creak of the bathroom door. Are the others back so soon?
“Brooklyn?” I call out.
“No.”
I freeze at the voice, my body straining to attention. “Is something wrong?” I turn my head toward the sheer curtain I installed to make the small shower feel less claustrophobic. Now, it’s a window to watch Liberty watch me.
“I left a message for Sam to call me,” she says, stare fixed on me.
“Okay.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and I’m not sure what to do with an
y of that. After a long pause, I draw in a deep breath to continue my task. Shower. Wash. Come on, Mason, function. Reaching for the shampoo, I manage to squeeze a portion into my palm. The heat of the water rushes over my skin, reminding me of eager hands. The scent of the shampoo smells nothing like lilacs but it might as well be a fucking field of them for the effect it’s having. What’s she doing?
I glance over again and see she still hasn’t moved. She’s just studying me with a look I can’t read through the hazy shower curtain. I rinse my hair and grab the bar of soap. Still not sure what’s going on, I rush through the rest, fully aware that she hasn’t budged.
“Lib?” I call out when I finish. No response. Confused, I turn the water off and swipe my towel off the hook. Pulling back the curtain, I step out, finally able to see her face—and damn. That’s what’s been watching me for the last few minutes? Blood sears through my body, right where she wants it.
“I didn’t want shower sex,” she says, approaching. Her fingers wrap around the edge of the towel at my waist.
“No?”
She shakes her head. “Not this time.”
“What do you want?”
Her gaze moves from my eyes down my chest, descending until it rests on the towel. The weight of her grip has lowered it to dangerous levels. It’s barely on at all at this point. Soon, it’s not.
With an audible inhale she studies me for a second before reaching out.
“I want to go slow this time.”
My lungs choke at her direct touch. “How slow?” I manage.
She barely brushes my sensitive skin before pulling away with a hungry smile. “Extremely slow.”
CHAPTER 21
Damn this mom-thing is hard. You’ll notice I haven’t written in weeks. I’m so tired. Mason is beyond exhausted as well, but he won’t admit he’s struggling. He’s trying to be strong for us. It’s what he does. Battles the world at the cost of his soul (insert dramatic movie anthem here)! I can see it in the dark circles under his eyes and the way he’ll shut down in the middle of a conversation. He won’t last long at this pace, but I’m not sure what other option we have. He’s been burning the candle at both ends, working days at the SaveFresh and giving his nights and weekends to Western Crush. I want to help so badly, but I’m still too sore from the delivery. Besides, who would watch Brooklyn? My parents work full-time and there’s no way we can afford childcare. It doesn’t help that the band is frustrated with him and pressuring him to quit his day job. I get so angry at the things they say to him. They don’t understand what it’s like having a kid. Besides, diapers are expensive and it’s not like they’re making any money with their music yet. What choice does he have?
LIBERTY
Slow. I’m a big fan of slow, it turns out. Mason looks up at me with a satisfied, peaceful expression I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on him. Draped over his chest, I can’t help but reach up and trace the rare image. His lips twitch beneath my fingers, and I have to smile back.
“It’s been a long time since I had sex in a bed this size. Maybe not since college,” I say. Not that I’m complaining. Small beds mean more contact with Mason. Find me a person who’d have an issue with that.
“No? Not even on the tour bus?” he teases back.
“With my brother a bunk away? No thanks.”
He laughs and shoves his arm under his head, studying me. “You know, it’s going to be brutal sleeping a bunk away from you.”
My heart. His gaze travels to mine again, and you can’t blame a girl for getting lost for a split second. Seriously, it’s kind of ridiculous how beautiful his eyes are. And when they lock on you as if you’re the only person on the planet, well, yeah. You say and do stupid. For example:
“Maybe we should tell the others.”
His smile fades, and I swallow hard in the silence. Did I just say that? Did I mean it?
Sea-green kryptonite rests on me for a moment before turning back to the ceiling. “I’m okay with whatever you want to do. I just thought…”
“You thought I cared about my reputation more than you.”
“Hey, I never thought that.” He props up on his elbow to face me again. “I’m trying to be respectful of your wishes and the challenges you face. Believe me, I get the tabloid gossip thing.”
I look away. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. It’s your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“Yeah. They make me stupid.”
This time his laugh is straight up music. He drops back to the pillow, shaking his head, and I can’t help but crack a smile.
“You couldn’t be stupid if you tried,” he says finally.
My turn to be surprised. “Are you kidding? I’m a bumbling idiot half the time I’m around you.”
“Awkward, maybe, but not an idiot. You’re one of the deepest, most intelligent people I know.”
“Yeah, well, you basically only know Aaron, Mitch, and Tivo, so…”
His grin draws one from me. “You need to believe in yourself more.”
“Funny, pretty sure I tell you that, like, every day. Besides, I believe in myself plenty.”
“Is that why you refuse to sing even though you love it?”
“I don’t love it.”
“No?”
I grunt and shove off him. Not this again. “It’s not as easy as you make it sound. There are politics involved. A band has a certain sound. You can’t just all of a sudden add female vocals.”
“But you can change the lead singer and rearrange all the songs?”
Smartass. The slightest of smiles sneaks onto my lips. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
“You don’t have that kind of voice, Liberty. You know that.”
“I don’t have that kind of voice.”
Is he angry? Those gorgeous eyes grow cloudy as they bore into me. “Who told you that?”
“No one.”
“Someone told you that.”
I lower my gaze. “Can we change the subject? I don’t want to talk about Chris right now.”
“I knew it!” Mason slams his hand onto the mattress in victory.
Crap. I release a long sigh and focus on the ceiling he’s been watching so intently. Maybe I get the draw. There’s this one water stain that kind of looks like a macaw if you squint and tilt your head at the right angle. And yes, specifically a macaw, not any other tropical bird. Do macaws sing? Even if they don’t, they’re probably allowed to croak all they want in their little rainforests. Who’s going to tell them they can’t?
After several seconds of silence, Mason’s hand slides down my arm and curls around mine. I close my eyes, concentrating on the warmth transferring from his skin to my fingers. It makes me want to wrap myself in him again. To curl up in this tiny bed and never leave.
“Chris is a pompous dick and couldn’t stand the thought of sharing the spotlight,” he says.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t make him wrong about my voice.”
“Are you really taking artistic direction from the dude who wrote, ‘Soar with me, baby. Soar, through endless trees’? That guy? That’s the guy who gets to tell you what you can and can’t do?”
I snort a laugh in spite of myself, and he squeezes my hand.
“Look. Just come to the studio with me on Monday. Let’s track some vocals and see what happens. If you hate it, we don’t have to put them in.”
Just come to the studio. Things sound so logical, so possible, when he says them. My pulse picks up at the thought of standing in front of a mic instead of a keyboard. I couldn’t really sing, could I? I’m a backline kind of girl. Hiding out of view while I make the others shine. I’m okay with that. I like that. I also like to sing. I’ve been lying since Chris told me I can’t.
“Maybe. I’ll think about it,” I say. Geez, you’d think he won a Grammy the way his eyes glow.
“Perfect. You’ll—”
My phone yanks us down to
Earth with a loud ring. “It’s Sam,” I say, holding it up between us. He nods to answer it, and I put it on speaker. “Hey, Sam. Liberty and Mason, here. I have you on speaker.”
“Hi, guys. Glad you called. I’m assuming you heard the news, then?”
Mason and I exchange a confused glance. “What news?” I ask.
“That’s not why you called?”
“No. We wanted to discuss what we can do about Eastern Crush stealing Mason’s songs.”
She quiets, and I exchange another concerned look with Mason. “I see. Yes, we definitely need to look into that. In fact, the timing might be good for a fight with their label.”
“Why’s that?” Mason asks.
Sam clears her throat. “Well, since you haven’t heard, Rob Patrick has just been arrested for sexual assault. Word is, Eastern Crush is in a tailspin.”
A girl was assaulted. No one feels any sense of joy or victory about that. But the fact that Rob Patrick is finally off the streets and facing consequences for being a slime-ball, maybe some of us indulge in a sense of justice—especially Mason, I bet. Except, he’s been strangely quiet since the news broke. He says almost nothing as we get dressed and head over to my place to meet the others. With Sam out of town, we all gather at my condo to discuss the developments and conference with her when she’s available.
“Dude, did you see this?” Mitch says, staring at his phone. “They arrested him right before a show. Like, right as he was about to walk out. Damn.”
Aaron smirks and hands out beers before dropping to the couch with one himself. “Good. They should’ve arrested that bastard on stage. Right after the opener.”
Everyone laughs except Mason who still seems far away.
“You okay?” I ask, leaning close. He’s anchored on the short side of the L-shaped couch between the armrest and me. If anyone’s noticed that my body keeps insisting on cementing to his, they haven’t commented.
“Fine, why?”
I roll my eyes at his terrible attempt at a smile.
“Because you’ve said three words since we spoke to Sam at your place.”
Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Page 18
