“I’ll be in touch tomorrow. No later than three.”
“But I thought you said noon.”
“I said I’d try by noon, but things happen. Something always happens.” She pulls out yet another business card and hands it to me. “But you will meet your sister tomorrow.” Her smile is wide and her eyes kind. For the first time since she walked in the door I’m not on edge. I’m not sure if I couldn’t see the kindness through the anxiety weighing down the visit or if she hit some magic switch, and now that I’ve passed all the tests I see her in a different light. I like this version of Mrs. Carter.
She walks toward the front door and I follow, very silent and more than a little unsure about my ability to parent a child. What do I know about raising a kid? Nothing. But I’m willing to find out.
I open the door for her and step back to give her room to step over the threshold. “Thank you again, Mr. Beckham, and you really do have a lovely home.”
“Um . . . yeah. Thanks.”
I watch her walk to her car. I stand there long after the old car she’s driving disappears from sight.
Adam
“You keep tugging at your hair like that, and you’ll have more of it on the floor than on your head,” Sin says. I loosen my hands and, sure enough, strands of blond hair cling to the sweaty palms.
“I’m just a little nervous.”
She arches one finely sculpted brow. “Kinda got that watching you pace and pull your hair out by the roots,” she deadpans.
“I just want her to like me, to like being here.” As promised, Mrs. Carter took me to meet Victoria the day after my house passed inspection. The home was cleaner than any of the houses I’d ever been placed in as a kid. Instead of rooms filled with children of varying ages and genders there were only two kids, both female and both three years old.
Victoria was so small; she barely came to my knees. I don’t know if it’s because she’s my family, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier baby. Not that I’ve been around that many before. In group homes they generally try to keep the children in the home all around the same age. So little ones were never something I was exposed to. She looked up at me with wide hazel eyes and a mass of curly hair, and I was done. Totally wrapped around her chubby little finger before she ever said a word.
I looked at her and I saw the deep-set eyes, straight nose, and full lips I inherited from my mother. Her caramel-kissed skin and hair must have been inherited from her father. I tan well but baby girl doesn’t have a tan, she’s definitely half black, which might help us locate her father or, at the very least, some of his family.
This is the first time she’ll actually get to stay at my house, overnight, and I’m fucking terrified. What if I lose her in the tub or she gets in the back yard and drowns in the pool? I don’t have the first clue about babies. Sin is even more clueless than I am, but she’s been there for every other big step in my life, so it’s fitting that she’s here for this one.
We both hear the groan of an old engine climbing the incline of my driveway. Sin’s up on her feet and opening the door before the bell rings. Her excitement at meeting my other sister is contagious.
“You ready?” I ask out of habit and reach for the doorknob.
“Absolutely.”
Mrs. Carter walks to the door in yet another ill-fitting muted-gray suit. This one might have been black once upon a time. She has Victoria cradled in her one arm and a stylish pink suitcase in the other. Things have definitely come a long way from the black garbage bags I was forced to lug from one location to the other.
“So good to see you again, Mr. Beckham.” She stands awkwardly at the door, waiting for us to move so she can enter.
Sin backs into the house, giving me troubled eyes over Mrs. Carter’s head. I don’t know if it’s having the social worker here with my sister in tow, or all of Victoria’s earthly possessions shoved into a small suitcase that wouldn’t hold an eighth on my belongings. It fucks with my head, and I can tell that it’s messing with Sin’s too. Nothing makes you feel more worthless than having all your things shoved in a bag normally reserved for trash.
“Victoria, sweetheart. Do you remember meeting Adam the other day?” She nods, but the movement is so little it’s hard to tell she moved her head at all.
“I’ll take her . . . bag,” Sin says, her husky voice rasping over the words.
Victoria sits up in Mrs. Carter’s arms, turning wet eyes on Sin, whispering, “You sound like the song my momma likes to hear.”
Sin and I look up at the same time, catching each other’s eyes in that telepathic way that comes from years spent together. Right now, it rests between us in shared knowledge because we both know the song she’s talking about.
When we first recorded “Exquisitely Broken,” I knew it was going to be huge and, in that excitement, I burned an unedited, unmixed version of the song on a CD and sent it to my mom. I wanted her to be proud. To look at me and say, “That’s my boy.” And for a little while she did. She’d listen to that raw, unperfected version of it over and over again.
“Yeah? You like that song?” she asks, dipping her head to get a better look at the cherubic face.
Victoria nods.
“I can sing it for you.” Sin holds out her hand and, to the surprise of me and Mrs. Carter, Victoria willingly moves from Mrs. Carter’s arms to Sin’s. “Come on, Adam has a whole room full of music instruments. Let’s go in there and see what we can break.” She gives Victoria a conspiring wink, which makes the little girl giggle.
“Not funny, Sin,” I chide half-heartedly because I’m so relieved right now. She could break every guitar I own and the only words I’d have would be . . . thank you. As they start to walk toward my studio, I hear Victoria ask Sin, “Who are you?”
Without missing a beat Sin responds, “I’m Adam’s other sister, Sinclair, but everyone calls me Sin.”
“Evvyone says I’m Tori.”
“I like it,” Sin says, turning her head to the side to study Tori’s face. “I think Tori fits you perfectly. Nice to meet you.”
I turn my attention back to Mrs. Carter when the girls enter the studio.
“That went”—she blows a piece of hair off her face and raises surprised eyebrows—“better than I thought it would.”
“Sin has that effect on people.”
“As is evident.” Mrs. Carter looks at the front door. “Now I’ll be back Sunday afternoon around three to pick Victoria up. The first few visits are an introduction to help the two of you get acclimated. If you feel nervous or overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to reach out. I may not be able to answer immediately, but I always return calls.” She hands me another business card with her name, numbers, and email.
Then she’s out the door, back in her busted old vehicle, and out the driveway.
“Yo, Sin?” I call down the hallway and snicker at the Rocky reference she probably won’t get. Sin hates anything Sylvester Stallone so she has missed the beauty that is Rocky. “You two good back here?” I pause in the doorway. Sin is seated on the floor, Tori on her lap, with my red and white Fender strapped around them.
Tori’s little hand rests on top of Sin’s, her eyes fixated as Sin’s fingers move from one chord to the next. “What are you girls doing in here?”
“We’re learning how to play the easiest guitar solo in the world, right, Tori?” Sin says in a singsong voice she can’t quite pull off with her signature alto rasp. I listen to the next couple of chords and chuckle when I easily recognize my solo from “Exquisitely Broken.” “That’s fucked up, Sin. That solo made me famous.”
“You said a bad word!” Tori says, her tiny face turning stern. Dammit, I gotta learn to watch my mouth in front of Tori. The dammit doesn’t count because it was silent.
“Sorry about that. I’ll do better,” I say, scratching the back of my head.
“Then you need to up your game for real,” Sin says with a smirk.
“Oh, it’s like that?”
&nb
sp; “Yep.” She nods, popping the last syllable of the word. My little sister—I’m still not used to the fact that I have a three-year-old sister—settles deeper into Sin, getting comfortable. Her head falls back to Sin’s shoulder. She’s fighting her fatigue as she blinks slowly until her eyes finally close with sleep.
I hold a finger to my lips, signaling Sin to be quiet. I gather Tori from her lap and tiptoe into the guest bedroom. I deposit the warm, sleeping bundle on the bed. There are no girly pink blankets or a canopy bed, and I just feel inept, totally out of my depth. I don’t know what kids need outside of food, love, and shelter. I back out of the room, leaving the door open so I’ll know when she wakes up.
“She still asleep?” Sin leans forward, resting arms on the counter.
I nod, sliding onto the brown leather barstool that sits at the counter. “How’d you do that?” She gives me a curious look.
“Do what?”
“Calm her down like that.” Pain flashes on her face so fast I barely have enough time to identify it before it’s gone.
“I don’t know. I just . . . It’s one of the few things I remember my mom doing when I was little. The stuff I remember is crazy. Like I remember sitting on her lap while she sang, but I can’t remember what she felt like or how she smelled.”
“Not that weird. You were what, eight when she died? I have a hard time remembering what I did yesterday,” I say with false detachment.
Sin’s mom wasn’t like mine. Yes, she had a drug problem, but even with her addiction she still seemed to protect Sin and loved her. The drugs made my mom immoral—a shell of herself, willing to do anything to chase the next high. I think she loved me as much as she was capable.
We sit in a companionable silence for the next couple of minutes, each lost in thought or maybe memory. It’s not lost on me I’m stuck in some kind of warped cycle that has my sister living a life strangely mirroring mine. This time around I can fix it, be the solution.
“Who thought it was a good idea to give me a kid?”
“Adam, you more than anyone else can do this. Who took care of me when we were kids?”
“Who takes care of you now?”
“Hardy har har.” She rolls her eyes, flipping me the bird. “I take care of myself. Thank you very much.”
“Saying it enough times doesn’t make it true.”
“Hmm . . . okay then. Remember that the next time you ask me to come over and help with Tori.”
I blanch a little. I know she’s joking, but nothing about that comment is funny. “Thanks, Sin. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” I say with all seriousness.
“You would’ve figured it out. You always do,” she says with a confidence I wish I shared.
I know nothing, and when it comes to Tori I know even less. Most of my life I felt like an imposter. Gotta fake it ’til I make it, right? When I was a kid, I used to keep my mouth shut and watch the people around me. You watch long enough and it becomes easy to figure out people’s motives, to pick apart their personality, and know what makes them tick. It wasn’t rocket science. It was survival.
Now I have to play the role of that little girl’s father and it’s scary as fuck. I don’t know how to be a dad. I never had one.
“You think so, huh?”
“I know so.” She gives me one of those big smiles that’s all teeth and dimples. “Now are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”
Elephant? I frown, not following where she’s going. “What elephant? What are you talking about?”
She clears her throat, which does very little to hide the mischievous glint in her eyes. “The fact that Momma flipped the script with Tori. Don’t get it twisted; baby girl is a female replica of you. Those deep-set eyes, high cheek bones, and full lips. Mmm, so pretty.” She purses her lips and shakes her head, looking at me like an art purveyor appraising a new piece.
“Go to hell, Sin,” I grumble, uncomfortable.
This face has saved my ass a time or two. Beauty is universal; people are drawn to it. Most of the time they don’t care what’s underneath. It also makes me a target. For a long time, I was. Every home I went to it never failed at some point to get the “you think you’re so much better because you’re pretty. You won’t be so pretty after . . .” I can fill in the blank with the endless list of threats I’d heard. Some were carried out, like the unwanted sexual advances of old women and predatory boys. Others were not, like my skin being used as an ashtray, but my face was never a good thing until Sin City hit it big. Up until that point I never really embraced it. I’d play it.
“I’m just saying, pretty boy.”
“You really haven’t said shit,” I snap back.
“Oh, he’s touchy today.”
“Sin, for real, what were you talking about? What elephant?”
“The fact that Momma apparently went black.” She winks long and slow like we’re sharing a secret. It wasn’t a secret my mother was an addict who got around. Sleeping with anyone to get her daily fix. So, Sin’s definitely not shocked by Tori’s mixed ethnicity.
A startled laugh burst from my chest. “You figured that out, huh? What gave it away?”
“It might have been the light-toasted skin, kinky hair, and dark eyes,” she jokes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s no real heat to that question. No judgment. Just open curiosity.
Truthfully, I say, “It didn’t even occur to me. Does it matter?”
Not that I don’t see color or ethnicity. That’s ridiculous. Of course I see it. It just never mattered to me. I wasn’t part of society’s upper echelon. When you’re poor, being white didn’t offer privilege. It didn’t keep my mom clean or put food on our table. It didn’t stop CPS from coming to scoop my ass up when the teacher reported that I look dirty, and tired, and malnourished.
The people who cared enough to actually help me never looked like me, and it didn’t matter to them what I looked like, just that I needed the help. When you grow up outside of a family unit, with no traditions, no expectations, you have to take people for who and what they are. The people I choose to call family, my band, are all minorities and I couldn’t give two squirts of piss about it.
“Not at all. You know how it is with us.” The humor dissolves from her face, replaced with a fierce determination.
“Blood,” she says, reaching forward to clasp my hand, igniting the bond that ferried us through hell and elevated us to heaven.
“Don’t make family,” I say, completing the mantra, our mantra, but in the case of Tori, I guess sometimes it does.
Seth
Jeanine Williams is a no-nonsense type of woman. In any jungle she’s an apex predator at the top of the food chain, with no opponents to keep her in check. When she sweeps into Sin’s dressing room I get out of the way and take a seat to watch the fireworks.
“Good evening, Ms. James. Are you ready to schmooze with the who’s who of Las Vegas?” Her slight English accent makes her words clipped and direct. The Hotel is throwing a big shindig to celebrate Sin City’s opening night for the residency. The concert venue looks old school like the Apollo Theater in Harlem. It’s all a facade. Everything in this hotel has been newly crafted.
The night’s festivities will all take place in a lounge situated perfectly at the top of the theater. Depending on where you turn your head you might have these kick-ass views of the Strip or center stage. I did a final sweep with hotel security while Sin City was on stage. The view from the top of the world is mind-blowing.
Jacob Johnson, Sin’s ex, had been up there, standing off to the side by himself, his gaze laser focused on the stage and Sin. He’d been so still I wanted to check to see if he was still breathing. When she’d sung “Exquisitely Broken,” pain and disgust cracked his stoic facade and, for a minute, I wasn’t sure if I should call the paramedics or give him a hug.
Our eyes met across the room and he forcibly smoothed his features, but I’d already seen behind the screen. That was the haunted look
of a man still in love. A man who knows he messed up and has no clue how to fix it. The sad thing about the whole thing is I think Sin feels the exact same way, but because of the way shit went down, I don’t think she’ll ever explore it or give him another shot.
“Yes,” Sin says with sarcasm and an eye roll.
Here we go. It always starts like this between these two, one seemingly innocuous comment starting the battle of wills for top dog. Both of these ladies are alpha if I’ve ever seen one. The two of them forced to share the same space isn’t the best move.
Jeanine looks up from her phone and pins Sin with a curious stare. Blinking at her over and over like she can’t quite comprehend Sin, or her tone, or the simple word that just came out of Sin’s mouth. Her eyes scan Sin from head to toe, stopping at her big hair and red lips, before moving to the jewel-encrusted top, red leather pants, and sky-high heels.
There has never been a time when I looked at a woman and thought, I’d hit it. If I was bi, I’d be all over Sin. She’s gorgeous. That untouchable kind of beauty. And when she gets all dolled up with the makeup and the hair and clothes, it’s magnified. Everyone looks at her and it’s not because she’s famous—well, not only because she’s famous. Even Aiden, the ultimate professional, is crushing hard on Sin. He’s like a teenager with his first hard-on when he’s around her.
“I see you took my advice and wore something other than a concert T-shirt. You clean up well, Ms. James.” Jeanine says.
“A girl can try,” she says, checking her reflection in the mirror one more time as she fiddles with the top.
Jeanine’s gaze flicks up to the mirror holding Sin’s eyes. “You should do so more often. Right now, you look like the girl on the magazine covers. They will all buy what you’re selling when you look like that.”
Exquisitely Hidden: A Sin City Tale Page 12
