by Cherrie Lynn
“So, is he . . . bad?”
“No, not really. I try to keep him humble. Everything blew up so fast for them, I guess he’s dealing with it as best he can.”
“The fighter and the singer. What does your other brother do?”
Hell only knew. “He’s the player.”
“Is he famous too, then?” Amusement tinged her voice.
“Among certain circles. He’s a poker champ with his own nightclub. I have no idea what he’s up to most of the time.” Which was probably a good thing. The poker room alone carried the threat of a felony.
“You have a very interesting family, Michael.”
You don’t know the half of it, he thought, his mouth setting in a tight line. No one, not even Jon, knew everything they’d had to endure to survive, let alone make something of themselves. A lot of sweat and tears. More than a little blood.
If he had his way, no one would ever know, though the media had become quite fond of unearthing the dried-up bones of his past ever since Tommy Dugas died at his hands. He didn’t doubt there were people who, if they’d dug deep enough, believed he had done it on purpose, that his fighting was only an outlet to work out some innate violence and aggression. It was simply all he’d ever known, all he’d ever been good at. Maybe if he could sing like Zane or read people like Damien, he would be doing something different with his life.
But it wasn’t to be.
“Are you still there?” Savannah asked, and he made an effort to shake himself out of his mental funk. For her.
“Yeah, I’m here. So I’ll talk to Zane, and you let me know if you change your mind about flying. I think you should, but it’s up to you. Say the word and I can have a car pick you up at the airport and bring you to the venue.”
“Tell you what, leave it to me,” she said confidently. “I will make sure the girl gets on a plane.”
“All right. Talk to you soon?”
Now it was her turn to be silent until he almost asked if she was still there. But whatever her moment was about, it passed as well. “Sure. Bye, Mike.”
Savannah stared at her phone for a good two minutes after hanging it up, muddling through the mix of sweet and sour, comfort and sorrow talking to Mike always evoked in her. She might as well face it: he was someone she desperately wished she could have met under different circumstances. But no matter how she loathed it, these were their circumstances, and there was nothing to be done about them.
Sighing, she placed her phone aside and tucked her legs underneath her, staring across her living room to the family portrait hanging on her wall. The Dugas family in its entirety: her mom and dad, herself, Tommy and Rowan. All wearing white and smiling in bright, beautifully green surroundings. None of them with any idea what the future held.
She’d almost told Mike that she wanted to see him. That his being around wasn’t enough. But it was no use, because she would be with Rowan, and Rowan wouldn’t have it. She had to respect her wishes above all else.
Hopefully this entire thing wasn’t a disaster waiting to happen.
“What would you think?” she asked her brother’s image, but of course Tommy had no answer for her. He’d never really fit into the protective older brother bit, if only because Savannah had never needed much protecting, preferring to get herself out of her own messes. She was at a loss, though, in a situation like this. “That’s what I thought,” she muttered, leaning her head back on the couch. She might have even dozed for a while; when the phone rang it jarred her out of a dream about Mike Larson’s cold blue eyes turning as warm as the summer sky.
It was Rowan. “I decided on the sage,” she said by way of greeting.
“We’re flying,” Savannah replied, bracing herself for the outcry.
“Okay,” Rowan said simply.
“Wait, really? I expected you to howl your outrage about turbulence and recycled air, especially since you can’t drink.”
“I’m getting to meet Zane. I’ll fly an hour for that. I’d probably fly ten hours for that.”
“Well. That was easy.”
“And I’m going to your parents’ for dinner tonight. Are you coming?”
Savannah frowned. Her mom had made the invitation, but she hadn’t felt up to it at all. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Not in the mood.”
“Savvy? I think you’re alone too much.”
Maybe she was. But sitting at her parents’ dinner table looking around at nothing but gloomy faces staring back at her own gloomy face damn sure wouldn’t lift her spirits any. Give her cold pizza, Netflix, and a Corona any day. Good as therapy. So she told herself.
“I like being alone.”
“I know, but . . .” Rowan sighed. She knew by now how well arguing would work. “Never mind.”
Hell. Maybe she should go. She knew what Rowan was thinking; Savannah had never really dealt with any of this. Well, they didn’t see her behind closed doors, didn’t see the mess she was sometimes. And that was exactly the way she liked it; no one needed to see that. So home it was—she was feeling a little raw tonight. “Thanks, though. And I’m serious, Rowan . . . Mom doesn’t need to know a thing about us going to Houston. Agreed? You won’t crack?”
“No,” Rowan said with a heavy, exasperated sigh. “I won’t crack.”
She’ll most definitely crack, Savannah thought.
Chapter Six
“I have a pooch!” Rowan exclaimed.
“Um, you’re pregnant. Of course you have a pooch.”
“But I’m only ten weeks. I thought I wouldn’t show until, I don’t know, four months.”
Having never been pregnant, Savannah had no personal experience, but even she nearly spit out the drink of water she’d just taken. “Yeah, that sounds highly improbable. But you’re tiny, Ro. It makes sense you would show early.” She eyed Rowan’s almost nonexistent “pooch,” mostly hidden under her sparkly T-shirt, and giggled. “That could be a baby or it could be a cheeseburger. You can barely tell it’s there.”
“I can. My jeans are so tight.”
“But your boobs are rockin’,” Savannah pointed out. She was a little jealous, considering herself lacking in that particular area. Rowan puffed out her chest in the full-length mirror, sucking in her stomach. Savannah burst out laughing. “Now you just look goofy.”
Rowan’s overemphasized boobs deflated as she slouched. “I feel kind of goofy. Going backstage at a rock concert knocked up. Hell. What am I doing?”
Savannah met her eyes in the mirror. “You’re getting your life back, my dear. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I keep thinking it’s too soon. But then I tell myself, it’s okay to have fun this one night. Just tonight. Right? I can be sad tomorrow, I can be sad for the rest of this month and all of the next, or the rest of my life if I have to be. I just . . . I need this one night off.”
“You deserve it, hon. No one is trying to take it away from you.”
“Your mom did.”
“And I told you not to tell her, didn’t I?”
“It just kind of came out.”
Yep. She’d cracked. This might have actually been a new record. “As I knew it would. Anyway, there’s no being sad tomorrow, either. Tomorrow is our day.” Savannah eyed the inside of her overnight bag critically. Their flight left in three hours, and she was pretty sure she had everything she needed. They would go straight to the venue from the airport, and afterward, Mike had set them up at Hotel ZaZa for two nights. Pool villas. Savannah had drooled over pictures she’d found online, and the closer it grew to time to leave, the more excited she became. She and Rowan both needed this so badly.
They would have all day tomorrow to relax, shop, get pedicures, whatever they wanted. Savannah was ready to be the one pampered instead of the one pampering for a change. She could do with a massage herself. All the stress of the past few weeks had accumulated in a tight knot at the base of her neck.
“Is it time to leave yet?”
Rowan asked, still eyeing her form critically in the mirror.
Savannah glanced at her slim silver watch. “Not quite.”
“Can we go anyway?”
“You want to hang around the airport for three hours?”
“Better than hanging around here.”
“Let’s give it thirty more minutes.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, hell, never mind. Let’s go.”
Rowan practically leaped over the storage ottoman at the end of her bed in her giddy haste to snatch up her overnight bag. Chuckling, Savannah zipped up her own and followed her out of the bedroom. Rowan, of course, insisted on playing August on Fire all the way to the airport, and Savannah had to admit that while it wasn’t her kind of music—a little raucous for her tastes—Zane had a good voice. Of course, they would see how true that held when they heard him sing live. So many artists these days had to rely on Auto-Tune, and she’d seen more than enough live acts to know some of them couldn’t replicate their studio voices.
Rowan sang every word along with him. Every single word. Most of those words were about loss, searching for something and never finding it, or being treated like trash. Cheerful.
“How does this not depress you even more?” Savannah asked as Rowan hit the blinker to exit off I-10 to Louis Armstrong International.
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t. It helps put everything in perspective, I guess. Everyone suffers. Some are suffering worse than I am. There’s strength to be found in that.”
She had certainly known enough grief to know what worked for her. “Whatever you say. I usually turn to comedy when I need cheering up.”
“See, that always makes me feel worse. I need to wallow in it.”
“I don’t know how you’re holding up when I’m not with you, but I think you’re doing great.”
Under her dark, oversized sunglasses, Rowan’s cupid’s bow mouth tightened a bit. “I’m doing okay. Nighttime is the worst.”
“I understand.”
“One of the reasons I’m so excited to get out of the house. Sleeping in our bed with Tommy not there . . . sometimes I can’t. I have to go to the guest room or fall asleep on the couch watching TV.”
“You can always come stay with me, if you need to. Or I’m sure the parents would love to have you.”
“I’ve actually done that a time or two.”
Wow. Savannah hadn’t known that. At least Rowan felt like she had somewhere to go. “I still can’t believe you told Mom we were doing this.”
“I’m sorry. You know, she almost talked me out of it. Almost.”
“No way!”
“She’s very persuasive.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“She actually asked, ‘What if they’re doing that crowd surfing thing and you get kicked in the stomach?’”
“Oh my God. Did you tell her we’re going to be side stage?”
“Yep. That presented a whole new bunch of problems. Apparently we’re going to get kidnapped by roadies or forced to do sexual favors or drugged.”
“You didn’t mention that Mike set this whole thing up did, though, did you? Or that there’s any connection there at all?”
Rowan shook her head adamantly. “Hell no. I can’t mention him ever.”
“I still think you’re too hard on him.”
“What difference does it make? If I never heard his name again, that would be fine with me. Why do I have to be nice and forgiving? He took my husband away.” Rowan’s voice rose higher the longer she spoke.
“All right, all right, don’t get upset. We’re doing this to have fun, right? We won’t mention him again. But . . . he is Zane’s brother, you know.”
Rowan pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head as she read signs directing them where to park. “And Zane is someone I’ll have contact with exactly one time. Tonight. Done.”
Snickering, Savannah dug in her purse for her phone to check for texts. None. She was a little disappointed. And a little nervous about even the possibility of bumping into Mike again.
“What are you smirking about?”
“So, like . . . what if the completely unfeasible happens and Zane Larson falls in love with you on sight?”
Rowan barked with laughter. “Fat. Chance.”
“Stranger things have happened. Seriously, what would you do?”
“God, Savannah! There’s no sense in even thinking about that. I’m sure I’ll get all of thirty seconds in the same room with him. Besides . . . no. Tommy’s gone, but not from my heart, you know?” She could probably get more time with Zane if only she would be a little nicer to Michael, but that was none of Savannah’s business.
“I know,” Savannah said lightly. Rowan still wore her wedding ring; the diamond flashed in the sunlight even now. “It’s too soon for you. But, you’re young, extremely pretty—”
“Extremely pregnant.”
“Well, not extremely. Not yet.” She laughed, glancing down at Rowan’s still-flat stomach. Or her pooch, as she insisted. “I’m just warning you now. My parents are going to make it extremely hard for you to break away and have a relationship when you’re ready. Tommy was their baby boy, and my mother would have a coronary to think that you would even dare consider moving on from his memory. Look how she reacted to you going away with me for the weekend.”
Rowan sighed. “Too much to worry about right now. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I doubt we will for a long, long time.”
The wait for the flight was torture, but at least the flight itself was on time and short. Rowan cowered in the aisle seat, jumping at every little bump of turbulence and not wanting to be anywhere near the window despite Savannah coaxing her to take a look. Savannah gazed out at the clouds for most of the trip, her earbuds in, her thoughts on the night ahead. She had no idea what it would hold, but she bet it wouldn’t be boring.
Bush Intercontinental was a monstrosity. Savannah had texted Mike their gate number as soon as she knew it, and he assured her that a car would be waiting for them at their terminal’s passenger pickup. Not having any baggage to claim, they made straight for the doors, but they didn’t have to search; a man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood in the area holding a sign reading DUGAS.
“Fancy,” Rowan muttered giddily, and they scuttled over to him. He took both of their bags and led them out the bank of doors . . . to a blindingly white Navigator stretch limo parked at the curb.
“Wow,” Savannah said as Rowan settled for “Oh. Em. Gee.” She turned big green eyes on Savannah. “We’re going all high class.”
Savannah shook her head dazedly. Was this right? Must be; the driver popped open the door at the back and helped both girls inside. “All he said was a car,” she whispered to Rowan as they settled on the seat, taking in the sumptuous interior. It was all white leather, so immaculate that she was afraid to touch anything lest she leave a smudge, or dirty up the pristine white carpet beneath her feet. The clean smell of leather was heady and intoxicating. “I expected . . . you know, a car.”
“This is amazing! Do you think it’s Zane’s private limo? Probably not, right? But I mean, it’s really nice. Do you think he’s actually been in here?” Rowan was all over the place, taking in the wet bar, flat-screen TV, and all the overhead controls.
“I have no idea.” Savannah gazed up through the tinted sunroof for a moment, then lifted her cell phone and shot Mike a text. Just got in the CAR. Wow! We’re like two kids in a candy store. Thank you! Rowan wants to know if Zane might have been in here.
His reply came as the Navigator pulled slowly away from the curb. It brought us to the venue a couple of hours ago, so yes. And you’re welcome. Have fun.
“Rowan, my dear, get ready to squeal.”
“What what what?”
“Zane Larson’s ass was in contact with these leather seats no more than two hours ago.”
Which prompted Rowan to expire dramatically across the long seat that ran the length of the vehicle. Savan
nah laughed, enjoying seeing her have fun again. “This is so. Fucking. Unbelievable.”
“I need a drink,” Savannah said in agreement, staring at the wet bar across from them. She sent Rowan an apologetic look. “But I’ll abstain out of respect, I guess.”
Seeming to realize she was demolishing her hair, Rowan sat up and grabbed a compact mirror out of her purse. “I don’t mind. Knock yourself out. Even if I weren’t pregnant, I’d want all my senses about me. I don’t want to forget a minute of this.” After assessing the damage, she pulled a makeup bag out of her carry-on and set about touching up. For someone who only expected to see the guy for thirty seconds, she was sure trying to look hot for him. But Savannah couldn’t blame her. Who didn’t want to look their best when they were meeting a rock star? She might have some damage to repair herself.
“Oh please,” Rowan said when Savannah pulled out her own much smaller bag. “Like you need it. Some of us weren’t blessed with perfect complexions.”
Savannah didn’t comment that she was forever grateful for her complexion because she was hopeless with most makeup. It just wasn’t her thing, but then that was probably because she’d never needed it. Some mascara, a touch of eyeliner and lip gloss, and she was good to go. “Sorry. I would share if I could.”
“You have your mom’s skin. So did Tommy. I’ve always been so jealous.”
“We have our Louisiana Creole grandmother to thank for it.”
“I know. Your mom showed me pictures once. She was gorgeous. And spoke fluent French, right?”
“Mais oui.”
“You sexy people who don’t even have to try make me want to vomit. No offense.”
“Trust me, Ro. I have to try.” As evidenced by the fact that she hadn’t had a man in . . . God, longer than she wanted to think about. She’d had some good relationships—one lasting over a year, a couple of others that made the eight-and ten-month mark. But in between those had been a whole lot of nothing, and the latest had ended almost two years ago. So yeah. She was only twenty-seven, but thirty was coming awfully fast. To hear her relatives tell it, forty came even faster.
