Almost Fate

by Kylie Gilmore

  A small smile played over his lips. “You want to show me off.”

  A rare blush burned her cheeks. “Am I that transparent?”

  “Nah. Everyone does. It’s fine. I’ll bring my guitar and play a few songs.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  He leaned back and stretched his arms out along the back of the bench seat. “Nothing feels better than playing for an audience. Except creating a new song. That’s pure euphoria.”

  It was euphoria to create. And she realized she’d missed it. “I know what you mean.”

  “Yeah? You write songs too?”

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and nodded. “Nothing like yours.”

  “Come on. You’re Ron Colton’s daughter. I want to hear it.”

  She shook her head. “I’m out of practice.”

  “It’s part of you just like it’s part of me. He taught you guitar, right?”

  “Yeah. He gave me my first one when I was five.”

  He gave her a knowing look. “Same here. I’ll bet you’ve got that same soul-deep connection to the music. I lost that for a while with the lifestyle, but Chris…” He trailed off, then finally cleared his throat. “But then I found it again.” He tapped the table. “We should play together. A fitting tribute to our dad.”

  “I’m not as good as you,” she protested.

  He stood and pulled her out of her seat. “No excuses. You have to play me at least one song before you can show me off.”

  And that was how Laila found herself back at her apartment with the most famous rock star in the world. She let him in to her place on the first floor of a light blue wood-sided house that had been converted to apartments. She glanced at him as he took in her modest living room with its mismatched furniture and décor, mostly flea market finds. A bright abstract painting hung over a pink upholstered sofa from the ’60s with an assortment of colorful throw pillows. A small leather ottoman that doubled as a coffee table sat in front of the sofa on a red and orange fringed area rug over old hardwood floors. She had a wooden stool that served as an end table and a black metal chair with a blue cushion embroidered with cute flowers for additional seating.

  She waved toward the sofa. “So, uh, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get my guitar.” She’d stashed it in the back of her bedroom closet.

  He grinned. “On the pink sofa?”

  “You can take the chair if you want.” Maybe he was too badass for a pink sofa.

  “The flower chair?” he asked in a teasing voice.

  She huffed. “Sorry I don’t have manly furniture.”

  He crossed to her and gave her hair a tug. “It’s cool. Very bohemian.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “I’ll take the pink sofa,” he said and settled there with his guitar. She quickly looked away, not wanting to laugh at the odd picture he made, all cool rocker with his black, spiky hair and tattoos against pink cushions.

  She headed into her bedroom, done in the same colorful flea market style, and grabbed her guitar from the closet. She set the case on her fuchsia bedspread, opened it, and gazed at the glossy golden wood of her beloved Martin guitar, somewhere between terrified and elated. She could hear Griffin tuning his guitar.

  She stroked the wood as memories of her dad flooded her. His deep, melodic voice encouraging her, praising her ear, adding his voice to hers. Those magical times when it was just the two of them lost in the music. She closed her eyes as a tear escaped.

  Griffin began to play. The song jolted her into movement and she rushed back to the living room. It was Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” The first song her dad had taught her. Though he changed the lyrics to say “my green-eyed girl” because her eyes were green with gold flecks. It worked better than “hazel.”

  He stopped playing. “I take it you know this one the same way I do.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, play along, then.” He just sat there, waiting.

  What else could she do? She fetched her guitar, sat on the sofa next to him, and tuned it. He nodded once and started the song again. She joined in, her voice whisper soft, her fingers familiar with the simple chords. As soon as the song ended, Griffin started another song she knew from her dad, and then another, and it became apparent Ron Colton had taught his children the same repertoire of simple but catchy tunes. Griffin lost her on the last one, though, a fast tempo Irish folk song, “Whiskey in the Jar.” Their dad had Irish roots.

  “I’m out of practice,” she said when he finished the song on his own.

  “Let me hear one of yours,” Griffin said.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Please,” he said. “I really want to hear it.”

  She began to play, looking down at her guitar, and kept her voice low and quiet. The song, “Jarring Halt,” was deeply personal and technically difficult for her to play. She stopped after the first verse, her fingers still on the strings.

  “Yeah, yeah, keep going,” he urged. “You’ve got something there.”

  She took a deep breath and kept going. Only this time, buoyed by his praise, she let go, letting the music flow through her, awakening her long-buried heart and soul. She finished in a rush of happy tears.

  Griffin took it in stride, merely nodding in his knowing way. “That’s the real shit right there. Keep going. I think you’ve got more to say.”

  Then he joined her with his guitar, keeping up with her on songs she’d created, their voices blending in harmony on some of the repeating choruses. Her voice was surprisingly steady, lifted by her brother’s. It was a last parting gift from the father she’d always loved despite his faults. Griffin, and through him, her dad, brought her back to the music. It was euphoric.

  Chapter Four

  Griffin thought it was really cool to have a sister with the gift of music. It was like his dad lived on, but in a better way. Laila had a brittle hardness about her, no surprise given what he knew about being a lonely only child of Ron Colton, but when she played that guitar, it opened up something beautiful that he knew was her soul shining through. Nothing was more powerful than the music of your soul. Just ask the millions of fans that bought his last album.

  Laila emerged from her bedroom in a new outfit for their night out—a white sheer shirt that displayed her cleavage and her bright pink bra, jean shorts, black fishnet stockings with holes, and high heeled black boots.

  Griffin cleared his throat. “Err…are you really going out like…that?” he asked, shocking himself with his fuddy-duddy dad-like vibe.

  “Like what?”

  “You need a sweater.”

  “I’ll wear a coat.”

  He took off his black leather jacket and settled it around her shoulders. It covered her nicely from neck to upper thigh. “There. Now you look more rock ’n roll.”

  She smiled. “Yeah? I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo.”

  “If you do, make it mean something.”

  “So all yours have meaning?”

  “Yup. First wife, first recording contract, first million records sold. Lotta firsts.”

  Laila frowned. “I haven’t had any cool firsts like that.”

  “So then wait until you do. Ready?”

  She pouted for a moment then seemed to rally. “Don’t you need a coat?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just a short walk from the heated car to the next heated place, right?”

  “I guess. Can I drive your Hummer?”

  “Sure.”

  He scooped up his guitar case and followed her out the door. It was friggin’ cold out, but no way was he taking his jacket back. He quickly unlocked the Hummer and got in the passenger side. Laila hopped into the driver’s seat and made the short drive to Ernie’s Diner in nearby Eastman.

  She parked and quickly got out of the car, gesturing excitedly to him. “Come on!”

  He opened the door and leaned out. “Should I bring my guitar?”

  “Save it for the bar.”

  “All righ
t.” He caught up with her as she went to the front entrance and held the door for her.

  The diner had a front hostess stand, a long sit-down counter in back, and a slew of red vinyl cushioned booths with white laminate tables on either side. Several young waiters and waitresses hustled between tables along with an older woman with her hair in a bun, wearing a pink button-down shirt with matching cardigan sweater and a long, flowery skirt. Maybe he could find out where she got that nice modest outfit and buy one for his sister. He chuckled to himself over his overprotective brotherly instinct. He was really digging feeling like he had family.

  A hushed silence fell over the place as, one by one, the customers noticed him.

  He raised a hand in greeting. Laila stood by his side, beaming. The older woman hustled over to them. Griffin waited for her to ask for his autograph or picture, but instead she only looked at his sister. “What are you doing here on your night off, hon? You should take it easy after the funeral.”

  “I’m here for dinner with my brother, Griffin Huntley,” Laila announced a little louder than was necessary. A buzz of whispered chatter spread throughout the diner.

  “You have a brother?” the older woman asked.

  “Nice to meet you,” Griffin said.

  “Oh, this is my boss, Carol,” Laila said, making the introduction. She looked around.

  Carol squinted at Griffin. “You do resemble Laila a bit around the eyes.” She didn’t seem to know who he was. A strange experience for him.

  “He’s a very famous rock star,” Laila put in. “We have the same dad.”

  Carol patted Laila’s arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks. Can you take a picture of us?” She handed over her cell.

  Carol dutifully snapped a picture. Laila looked at it with a big smile.

  “All right,” Carol said, waving them in. “Don’t just stand there, take a seat.”

  And with that she left. So much for the star treatment. He took a seat across from Laila in a booth near the front window. A few customers looked over at them, but no one approached.

  “Send me that picture,” he told her. He gave her his cell phone number, and she texted it to him. He turned on his phone for the first time in days. He had a bunch of voicemails, texts, and emails that he ignored. That reporter, Ellie, had been hounding him. He just knew she was going to follow up on his botched proposal to Christina, and he wasn’t ready to go there. He tweeted the picture of him and Laila to his fans with the caption, “At long last.”

  He liked to be mysterious in his social media. It created more of a buzz. Laila’s fingers flew over her cell phone, probably getting the word out about him. A few minutes later, Carol arrived to take their order.

  After they’d ordered, Laila asked Carol, “Could you tell Rick and Sydney that Griffin Huntley is in town and to meet us at McGinty’s tonight?” She turned to Griffin. “Rick is Carol’s grandson. You probably know his wife, Sydney Roy.”

  Carol pursed her lips. “I didn’t think you were all that friendly with them. What’re you up to?”

  Laila huffed. “I just think the biggest pop star in the world might like to meet my brother, the biggest rock star in the world.”

  “I know her,” Griffin said. “She’s local?”

  Carol nodded. “They have a few homes, but Fieldridge is where they like best.”

  Griffin drummed his fingers on the table, psyched to jam with musicians he respected. “Cool. Yeah, I’ve heard some of her stuff with Rick too. I’d love to play a bit with them.”

  “Sydney doesn’t like to put on a show at home unless it’s for an official event,” Carol said. “I’ll give Rick a call. Can’t promise anything, though.”

  She left. Laila’s eyes narrowed. “What’s a girl got to do to get any love from the golden one?”

  “You don’t like Sydney?” Griffin asked. “She seemed sweet the few times I met her.”

  Laila waved that away. “That’s her public persona. She’s really snarky and I can’t wait to see her face when she finds out I’m your sister.”

  “Jealousy gives you wrinkles,” he said, quoting Christina. Any time he got a little worked up that some other musician was getting better press than him or more concert dates, she’d lay that little gem on him. She knew he was a little vain about his face. He tried never to frown and wore a special moisturizing cream with hidden sunscreen in it to preserve his skin. No one idolized an aging rocker. They might respect them, but they’d always question when he was going to retire. He had no intention of retiring anytime soon. He’d only blurted that out to Christina in a desperate attempt to show her how serious he was about settling down. But now that he’d found family, it didn’t seem as urgent as it had only a few days ago.

  Laila’s lower lip stuck out in a pout. “I’m not jealous.”

  “Tell that to your face.”

  Her hands immediately flew to her face, feeling for nonexistent wrinkles.

  “Gotcha,” he said with a wink.

  She gave him a small smile. “Can I show you off?”

  “I get the feeling I’m small potatoes around here. They’re used to Sydney Roy.”

  “They’re just being polite. Come on.” She stood and grabbed his arm, dragging him from table to table. Once they got to a table, people gave him the warm reception he was used to with handshakes, pictures, and autographs. Nice little town. Reminded him of Clover Park, where his ex had settled with her family. He and Christina visited regularly because of their two-year-old nephew, Michael. He got a pang, thinking about Christina. She’d left a message on his voicemail, demanding to know where he was, but she still sounded really mad. He wasn’t sure what to do about her. Should he drop the whole marriage thing? Maybe she was right and they didn’t need a piece of paper. But some part of him wanted to know that she was his forever. They’d gotten stuck in this pattern of him pushing and her pulling away. Maybe he just needed to get off this crazy ride and let it be.

  Laila pulled him to the next table, snapping him out of his melancholy thoughts. He’d just enjoy this time away. Maybe Laila was the family he’d been looking for all along. The only family he really needed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Laila was having the time of her life. Everyone loved her brother, and she felt like a total badass wearing his black leather jacket. He’d even tweeted a picture of the two of them together and it was getting all kinds of attention. She felt like she was finally somebody, and even if it was just from standing in Griffin Huntley’s glow, it felt good. He seemed to get her too. Guess blood ties could do that. Clearly they both took after their dad.

  After dinner, she sped over to McGinty’s. Carol had reported back as they were finishing up their meal that Sydney and her friends—Jade, Amy, and Peyton—would be there along with their husbands. Sydney’s tight little clique of friends were eager to meet Griffin.

  She stepped into the crowded bar with a sense of satisfaction. It was a Monday night, so this crowd must’ve been on account of her brother. Word spread fast in a small town. The tables in the small dining area were full, the three pool tables in the back were busy, and the bar, big enough to hold fifty people, only had a few stools open. She spotted Sydney and Rick at the bar, sitting with Jade, Amy, Peyton, and their husbands. She’d been envious of the tight-knit bond of these women in high school. They were almost like sisters, something Laila had always longed for. But now look at her! She had a brother. And not just any brother. The famous—

  “Ah! It’s Griffin Huntley!” Sydney screamed, hopping off her bar stool.

  Griffin threw his head back and laughed. “It’s Sydney Roy!”

  The two hugged and then Sydney whipped out her cell and took a selfie of the two of them, beaming their superstar smiles into the camera. Sydney was beautiful with glossy straight blond hair, dark blue eyes, and flawless creamy skin. Laila bristled. A crowd formed around Griffin, pushing her further and further away as more people got close, wanting a piece of him. A lump formed i
n her throat. She’d thought this time would be different, but here she was on the outside of the clique again.

  “Laila!” Griffin called. “Where’d she go?” The crowd parted and then there he was—the biggest rock star in the world and her newly found big brother—looking right at her like she mattered.

  He crossed to her side. “I just met the one and only Laila Colton,” he announced to the crowd before dropping an arm over her shoulders. “My sister. You should hear her play guitar.”

  She flushed with pride and embarrassment in equal parts.

  Sydney cocked her head. “I heard you were related from Carol, which is shocking, but double whammy, you play too?”

  “You think you’re the only one who knows music,” Laila snapped.

  “Wrinkles,” Griffin whispered in her ear.

  “There’s the Laila we know and love,” Sydney said, looking to her friends, who nodded knowingly.

  “Sorry,” Laila mumbled.

  Sydney put a hand to her ear. “Say what?”

  Laila silently seethed. She knew Sydney was just trying to drag a big old apology out of her. Where was her apology for years of being treated like a second-class citizen? Griffin squeezed her shoulder.

  “Old habit,” Laila said by way of apology. “Our dad taught us both guitar. I’m not nearly at Griffin’s level—”

  “She sings like an angel,” Griffin said, raising a hand to the sky. “Pure soul music.”

  Everyone stared at her in shocked silence.

  Her cheeks burned, remembering the embarrassing time she’d sung in front of Sydney for their high school’s talent show auditions and majorly choked. She’d tried to cover up with a lot of fancy dance moves, but she’d nearly died of humiliation over her own choked, off-key voice.

  Rick, Sydney’s tall, dark, and muscular husband, moved forward and clapped Griffin on the shoulder. “Hey, man, we’d love to hear you play tonight.” He turned to Laila. “You too.”

  She didn’t think she could pull off a performance in front of people she knew, especially not the talented Sydney, Rick, and Griffin. Not only that, she and Sydney had a bit of snippy history due to Laila’s secret jealousy of Sydney’s stage charisma, and Sydney not liking the way a crush in high school had chosen Laila over her. That, in a nutshell, was the problem with small towns—a history that always smacked you in the face.