Because of You

by T. E. Sivec

  “You’re probably right, but even with Austin’s hacking abilities, we’re still going to have to wait for the conclusive results to come in that will show with one hundred percent certainty who the match is. But going by what you’ve shared with me, I’m willing to put money on the fact that the bitch is crazy and wants to scare the shit out of her own daughter for some reason. And here I thought our mother had issues.”

  I thank Gwen and disconnect the call, shoving my phone in my back pocket while trying to come up with a subtle way to tell Eve I’m on to her. What in the hell would she possibly have to gain by doing this to Layla? Publicity? Layla is already a huge star, and her name is in the news if she so much as sneezes.

  Just to be a bitch? While that idea has some merit, it still doesn’t add up. Why would Eve ever want to risk her reputation if someone found out? Which begs the question, why the fuck did she hire me? She has to know I’m going to eventually put two-and-two together.

  Finn’s angry words to Layla this morning scream at me. “He’s a drunk with a shady past that you know nothing about.”

  He's done his homework. Of course he has. I guess I expected that, considering I was hired to be in the same company of the biggest singing star in the world. They would have to know everything about me to let me within six miles of her. And it’s not too hard to Google my name and see it connected to the shooting and plenty of drunken bar fights over the past year.

  The security guards unlock the door, and I inch my way closer to Layla’s table as hordes of fans come into the lobby screaming and making a beeline for her table, attempting to get in some sort of line without killing each other.

  Obviously, I don’t have the best reputation around town. I’ve done what I can to clean up my act, but stories and rumors still follow you around no matter what you do. Out of all of the private investigators in this town, let alone the whole world, why in the hell would they hire me? I know for a fact I am damn good at my job, and I don’t stop until I get to the bottom of something, but they don’t know that. Going by what you read online, and depending on who you ask, I’m still a drunk with anger management problems that likes to pick fights and leave my brothers in the Navy high and dry because I only care about where I’m going to be drinking another bottle of Jack or what stripper is going to be riding my cock next. I know all of that is a thing of my past now that I have Gwen and Emma in my life, but Eve wouldn’t know that.

  Why would she ever hire someone as shady as me unless she only did it for show? Maybe there really was an initial threat to Layla, and she couldn’t just ignore it or she'd look like an uncaring bitch. She probably thinks that by hiring me, I'll be completely oblivious to what's happening, and she can get away with doing whatever the hell she wants, including keeping up the stalker farce. Hell, maybe she orchestrated this whole thing with the letters and the attack. Is she really low enough to throw a brick through her own daughter’s bedroom window though?

  I think back to the way Eve berated Layla during her sound check and how she cared more about a photo shoot than her own daughter’s well-being, and I know I already have my answer.

  I watch with a careful eye as fan after fan steps up to Layla’s table. I see a small hint of a spark in her eyes that I’ve only seen a few times, and it’s an amazing thing to witness. She is gracious and friendly to each and every person in line, and she talks to them like they’re old friends. She makes eye contact, happily agrees to take as many pictures as the person likes, and signs whatever they hand her without hesitating. She asks them about babies and family members and shares smiles and hugs with each and every one of them.

  As I stare in awe at the public figure side of Layla Carlysle, I realize that I’m witnessing something I haven’t seen much of the past few weeks: happy Layla. She is genuinely enjoying herself and her fans, and she's grateful to each and every one of them for coming out and supporting her. She doesn’t care if she’s going to be here for hours; she will spend the same amount of time and give the same amount of attention to each and every person.

  The fans adore her. Of course they do. She isn’t fake with them. She isn’t a diva that never makes eye contact or barely says two words to them before scribbling her name on a CD or poster and shoving it back in their hands. She’s real and she’s vivacious, and I suddenly want more than anything to make sure she always looks this way: happy and content.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  I turn to the side when I hear a soft, feminine voice with a thick southern twang speaking close to me. It’s a woman in her mid-fifties with long, straight red hair and sparkling green eyes. The freckles that spread over her nose and cheeks makes her look much younger than I’m sure she is; the crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes are what gives her away. I recognize this woman. I saw her a few minutes ago at the front of Layla’s table. They both screamed in happiness and threw their arms around one another like they were long lost friends. The woman cupped Layla’s face in her hands and scrutinized her with her head tilted to the side like a mother would do when checking to see if her child is getting enough sleep or eating well.

  “She is,” I answer the woman, turning my eyes back to Layla as she signs yet another poster and takes three more pictures. “How do you know her?”

  The woman’s smile lights up her entire face when she looks over at Layla and answers my question.

  “I’ve pretty much known her all of her life. Her father and I were…good friends. My name is June, by the way.”

  She turns and holds out her hand to me and I shake it, studying her face while she continues to glance over at Layla every few seconds. I’m trying to gauge how genuine this woman really is since Layla seems to be surrounded by selfish assholes. The way she lovingly stares after Layla while she watches her work makes me quickly realize she is one of the good ones.

  “It’s nice to meet you, June. I’m―”

  “Brady Marshall, ex-Navy SEAL and Nashville police officer, currently hired to keep an eye on our girl over there,” June finishes for me.

  I looked at her quizzically with raised eyebrows.

  “Sorry. The few minutes I had with Layla at her table, I grilled her about the broody hunk standing over here staring at her every few minutes like he wanted to do naughty things to her in front of all these people.” June winks at me and smiles.

  If I was a chick, I would be blushing like a fucking teenager right now. As it is, I have to look away from June and at a spot on the wall, making sure not to look at Layla or I’ll never hear the end of it.

  “Anyway, I’m glad she’s got someone watching her back. That girl has had too much piled on her shoulders over the years, and she needs someone trustworthy looking out for her,” June tells me with a sigh.

  “What makes you think I can be trusted?” My eyes instinctively wander over to Layla.

  June lets out a small laugh, and I see her shake her head out of the corner of my eye.

  “I’m good at reading people, Mr. Marshall. I’ve owned a bar for almost thirty years, and I see all sorts of people come through that door every single night. I’ve heard stories that would make your hair turn gray and your toes curl. You look like you might have a few of those stories stored up in that handsome head of yours. And you look at our girl over there like she’s the sunshine in the dark, not like she’s a meal ticket to a better life.”

  I don’t reply to June’s assumptions or her assessment of me. There’s no point. Like she said, she’s good at reading people.

  “Well, I need to head out and get the bar stocked for tonight. If you’re not doing anything later, you should make it a point to stop by. I’ve watched you staring after her since I got here, like you’re trying to figure out a puzzle. It’s probably not my place to say this, but I love that girl like she’s my own daughter, and I want what’s best for her. If you want to find another piece to the puzzle, it will be at the Red Door Saloon at nine tonight.”

  June turns and starts walking away from
me before pausing and glancing back over her shoulder at me.

  “But if she sees you there and gets her britches all in a bunch, you don’t know me and we never spoke.”

  She winks at me again and then saunters out the door.

  I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I know one thing for sure. There is no way I’m staying away from the Red Door Saloon tonight.

  Today was exhausting, from start to finish, but there is no way I can miss out on a night at the Red Door Saloon. I practically grew up in this bar. My father brought me here every weekend once I learned how to play the guitar so I could mess around with the band and get a feel for playing with other people and see how I liked it. June is like a second mother to me. Oh, who in the hell am I kidding? She’s like the only mother to me. She always made me homemade cherry cokes with real cherry syrup when I came in, and she’d grab me a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos from behind the counter to go with my Coke, even when my dad would tell me it would spoil my dinner.

  I've kept in touch with her over the years, and whenever I come home, I always make it a point to stop by and see her. The bar is the epitome of a dive. It’s a hole in the wall with peeling paint and sticky floors, and if you order anything aside from Jim, Jack, Jose, or beer, you’ll get your ass tossed out on the sidewalk. My favorite part about this place is that it’s filled with regulars who have been coming here since the bar opened. They still listen to their music on 45’s, and if you ask them if they downloaded your latest song from iTunes they’ll reply, “What do you want me to tune?”

  It’s the one place in the entire world I can go and not be recognized. They don’t care who I am as long as I thank the bartender and leave behind a tip. To them, I’m just another tourist stepping off of Broadway to get a feel for the real Nashville, and that is perfectly fine with me.

  “Baby girl! I was hoping I’d see you here tonight!”

  June, my long time friend and the owner of the establishment, shouts across the noise of talking patrons as she makes her way down to the stool I’m perched on at the corner of the bar.

  “You know I wouldn’t miss a visit to the Red Door, June!” I smile brightly at her. “Thanks for stopping by the signing earlier. Sorry we didn’t have a lot of time to talk.”

  June flings a white bar towel over one shoulder, quickly fixes me a cherry coke, and after setting the drink down in front of me, reaches across the bar to take both of my hands in hers.

  “Nonsense, baby girl. I knew you’d be too busy to spend more than a few minutes with an old lady like me. I just wanted to see you in your element. I like watching you do things like that.” Her words are genuine as she smiles softly. “So, where’s Finn at this evening? He’s usually attached to your hip.”

  I let out a deep sigh and glance behind me, my eyes finding Finn at a table by himself near the jukebox. We haven’t said one word to each other since the smack heard around the world this morning. We’ve never fought in all the years we’ve known each other, except for a few stupid little squabbles over nothing that were quickly forgotten within minutes. Regardless of our personal life, he’s still my bodyguard, and he has to be with me wherever I go, even if he won’t look at me or say a word. He knew without even asking that this is where I would go tonight, and when I got home after the meet-and-greet and changed into more comfortable clothes, he picked up his keys, walked out the door without a word, started up the car, and waited for me to get in. The ride here was long, quiet, and uncomfortable. I'm glad to be inside the noisy bar and not have to feel bad about us not speaking and how strange it feels.

  “Finn is back in the corner making himself scarce,” I tell her with a smile that I don’t really feel as I lift the glass to my lips and chug the carbonated sweet drink that tastes like home. I love June but I don’t feel like getting into the whole Finn thing with her at the moment. I just want to do what I came here to do, what I always do: relax and enjoy being in the one place that truly makes me happy.

  “I’m sure there’s a hell of a story there that you’re not telling me, but I’ll let it slide for now,” June says with a wink, leaning closer to me across the bar so she doesn’t have to shout. “It’s pretty dead here tonight, nothing new there. How about you get that pretty face of yours up on stage and do your thing so I can gush all over you.”

  I drain my glass and jump down off of the stool with an excitement in my stomach that I haven’t felt since the last time I was here. Nothing ever matches the feeling I get when I’m in this bar. Well, except for having Brady’s body and lips against me the other night, but I’m not going to think about that right now. Brady isn’t here and therefore I don’t have to be distracted.

  I walk away from the bar and head towards the small stage set up in the corner of the room. It’s not really a stage, just two steps up onto a platform in the corner of the room that's big enough to hold a small piano and a stool in front of the microphone stand. The jukebox is usually the music of choice in this place, playing anything from Willie Nelson to Guns N’ Roses, but on occasion when someone comes into the bar who knows how to play and sing, June lets them get up on stage, and the jukebox is unplugged for the night. This is the one and only stage where I can be myself. Where no one knows who I am, no one knows the songs I usually sing, and no one expects anything from me. I can sing what I want, and I can finally breathe.

  I make my way up the two small steps and pull the bar stool closer to the mic stand. My eyes scan the crowd until they zero in on Finn. Even though we aren’t speaking, and even though what he said punched a hole in my heart that I don’t know how to fix right now, I still need him up here with me, and I know he wants the same thing. I can see him in the back of the room staring longingly at the guitar that's propped up against the piano directly behind me. I stare at him while I adjust the microphone so it’s level with my mouth, and his eyes meet mine. I offer him a small smile, nodding my head in the direction of the guitar. I’m nowhere near ready to forgive him, but this is what we’ve been doing together since we were teenagers.

  I watch as he tilts his head up to the ceiling and lets out a deep sigh before placing his hands on the table in front of him and pushing himself up off of the chair. He doesn’t head towards the stage though. Instead, he turns and walks right out the door of the bar. My breath catches in my throat when I see the door close behind him, and I wonder if we’ve done so much damage to each other that it will never be salvageable. Before I even have a chance to wrap my thoughts around his actions, Finn is walking back through the door with a familiar case dangling from his hand. I stare in disbelief at the oblong box, covered in hummingbird stickers, as he uses it to maneuver his way through the crowd and up to the stage. He walks right by me without saying a word and flings the case up on top of the piano, flipping the locks open and lifting the lid.

  My brain screams for me to do something, say something, stop him from doing what I know he’s about to do, but I can’t move. I’m transfixed by the sight of him wrapping his fingers around the neck of my guitar, using the muscles in his arms to lift my guitar from its case and bring it out into the open in front of so many people. This is MY secret, MY private love and obsession that I don’t share with anyone anymore. How dare he waltz up on this stage and reveal the one skeleton in my closet that can do me the most harm?

  I watch him with wide, unblinking eyes as he cradles the guitar close to him and perches himself on the stool. When he strums a few notes and the sound reaches my ears, it lights a fire of fury under my ass, and I jump down off of my own stool and move to stand directly in front of him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I hiss angrily at him as he lazily continues to pluck the strings.

  “I’m accompanying you on guitar. Isn’t that what the whole nod was for?” he asks nonchalantly without looking up.

  His careless attitude just pisses me off even more, and I reach out and yank the guitar away from him roughly before he can play it a second longer.

  He crosses his
arms in front of him and stares me down as I stand there holding my guitar awkwardly, out away from my body like it has a disease and I don’t want to get it too close to it for fear that it will rub off on me.

  “This is MY guitar. It stays in MY house and no one plays it but ME,” I tell him angrily, sounding like a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. I should just stomp my foot and hold my breath while I’m at it. I don’t care how juvenile I’m behaving. He knows how important this instrument is to me, and he knows why it stays hidden away in a closet where no one can see it.

  “Then play it.”

  Finn speaks softly, his eyes never leaving mine. The crowd in the bar has disappeared and now it’s only the two of us on stage: two friends who know everything about the other and who are slowly using those things to destroy years of love and trust.

  “What?” I ask dumbly.

  He nods in the direction of my outstretched hand.

  “Then. Play. It,” he repeats again slowly, enunciating each word. “If that piece of wood means so much to you, prove it.”

  My hands start to shake and the weight of the guitar is beginning to hurt my arm, so I bring it in close to my body, swallowing roughly and trying not to cry.

  “You treat that fucking thing like it’s the Holy Grail, but you never show it off. You want more out of your life, but you never do a God damned thing to make it happen,” he argues.

  “You know why,” I whisper to him angrily. “You know why I can’t do this. You of all people should understand.”

  He laughs cynically and shakes his head at me.

  “You can’t use Eve as an excuse. Not this time. She’s not here. It’s just you, me, and a handful of people who just want to drink and listen to some good music. Stop being afraid for once in your fucking life. Stop listening to all of the voices in your head telling you why this is a bad idea and just listen to your heart. Bring out that firecracker I saw this morning that stood her ground, told me where to go, and smacked me across the face.”