Finding Abel (Rebel Hearts Book 1)

by Stephanie Hoffman McManus

  Dad would say that making something out of the pain was productive. Too bad those assholes probably hid the notebook.

  I shoved up from the couch. I’d shower and then beat their asses if they didn’t give it back.

  The hot water felt good on my sore body. Jesse’s couch was better than Addie’s but not by much. Not for someone over six foot. I propped my hands against the shower wall and let my head hang under the punishing spray. I spent longer in there than usual and would have stayed even longer if one of them hadn’t beat on the door.

  I turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist before pulling the door open. “What?”

  “We’re going to The Forty to watch the game.” Jesse said. “You coming? I’ll pay for the wings and the beer.”

  “Nah, you guys go ahead.”

  Jesse looked about to argue, but Nash clapped him on the back and said, “Come on. Just leave him.” Then he looked at me. “You want us to bring anything back?”

  “You could bring some wings.”

  Jesse snorted, but Nash nodded and then ushered his brother away from the bathroom. I started to shut the door, and then hollered after them, “Leave my damn notebook on the table.”

  “Don’t know what notebook you’re talking about,” Jesse shouted, and the apartment door shut with a bang.

  “Dickhead,” I muttered, closing the bathroom door. Wasn’t like I couldn’t find something else to write on.

  I did.

  I spent the rest of the night doing more of the same, watching mindless TV in between bouts of writing and playing and wanting to throw Jesse’s acoustic guitar across the room. I doubt he’d miss it much since I was pretty sure I’d played it more in the last three days than he ever had. Eventually I gave up waiting for them to come back with wings and cooked a couple frozen burritos from the freezer, and passed out not much later.

  Friday was more of the same, and then Saturday morning arrived, and we got our asses up and headed to Boston, picking Addie up on our way. Thank Jesus I had my headphones. If I’d had to spend the entire four-hour drive listening to Addie and Jesse bicker, I would have thrown myself out of the car onto the freeway.

  But as long as they were picking at each other, at least it meant they left me alone. I didn’t need anymore intervention shit. I wasn’t looking forward to this party as it was.

  Abbi hadn’t even wanted an engagement party so soon in the wake of the funeral, but all the moms had insisted this family was in desperate need of a happy occasion. A reason to celebrate. And I couldn’t just skip it. I couldn’t do that to Abbi, no matter how much I wanted to.

  We hit Brookline and Jesse dropped me and Addie at home with hours to spare before the party.

  I took refuge in Dad’s studio. He found me in there making a few tweaks to the song we’d worked on together. God, had it really only been a couple of weeks ago? Felt like much longer. So much had happened.

  “That’s sounding real good,” Dad commented, pulling up a seat.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, my fingers pausing their plucking.

  “You going to record it?” He asked casually.

  “That’s the question isn’t it? What everyone wants to know. Is it the end for Abel McCabe or just Rebel Cry?”

  “Nah, it’s not the end for you,” he said assuredly. “You couldn’t quit music anymore than you could quit breathing. We’re the same that way, but you can live your music more than one way. I found my way. You have to find yours, and if it takes you some time, then it takes some time.”

  “I don’t know how much time the label wants to give me to figure it out.”

  “About that . . .” he said.

  I picked my head up farther. “What?”

  “I got you a little more time.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “The guys and I are going to release the album with the label.”

  “What? But you were going to produce it independently.”

  He shrugged. “Because I could. Doing it this way doesn’t hurt me any. They can have their cut. It’s never been about the money.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.”

  “So then, you really have nothing to worry about. You’ve got time, and even if you decide you’re done with the label, and they sue, you’re still going to be fine. And if you decide you want to keep pursuing music, you’ve got options besides the label. I know a guy who’s been known to help produce some pretty big albums.”

  I chuckled. “You saying you want to produce my next record, Dad?”

  He grinned and shrugged, “After we record that song of yours together, you might decide you like working with your old man.”

  My brow furrowed. “What do you mean after we record this song?”

  “I want you to record it for my record. I didn’t tell the label anything about it. It’s not part of the deal I made, but I think you should. You need it and the world needs it, Abel. It’s a damn good song. Not one that you should keep to yourself.”

  Could I really record it? It was a love song for my ex, who was now set to marry someone else.

  Fuck it.

  Yeah, I could.

  “Okay,” I told him. “Let’s do it.”

  The music was the one place I’d always allowed myself to be honest. Rebel Cry had albums full of songs about Abbi in one way or another. This wouldn’t be the first.

  Dad had me play through it a few times, each time with a minor change here or there, and then he played through it, so I could listen. I suggested a few more changes with the melody, and taking it up half a register, then we played through together. When we were done, I felt really good about it. Then we talked recording.

  Dad scratched his jaw and then said, “What do you think about doing something completely different?”

  “What do you have in mind?” I felt a tiny spark of excitement. His creative genius was flowing.

  “I’m thinking you on guitar, and then a piano and a cello. That’s it.”

  I considered, trying to hear it in my head, it was so different from the band’s sound, but different wasn’t bad. Different was exactly what I needed. With a grin, I said, “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  “And I think we need to do a live video recording too. Tease your fans with it. Right now they don’t know what’s going on. We’ll release a clip, and then the whole video when the album goes live.”

  “I just so happen to know a drummer who was classically trained on the piano, and still has some skills. Fans might like to see his face too.”

  Dad and I continued to work out the details, and I texted Gabe while we sat there. He was in, and when Mom dragged us out of the studio to get ready to leave for the party, I was slightly less depressed than when I’d gone in.

  Of course, that changed when we got to the party and I walked into her parents’ dining room and saw Abbi snuggled up to her fiancé, that shiny ring sparkling on her finger.

  Better get used to it.

  She looked over at me and the bright smile she’d been wearing faltered slightly.

  Dammit.

  I couldn’t ruin her party. She shouldn’t have to feel guilty for being happy.

  My plan was get in, make my appearance, wish them well, and get out so they could enjoy their night. I shoved down everything I felt and forced myself to smile as I approached the couple.

  Abbi’s eyes tracked my steps. I wasn’t sure that she was breathing. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure that I was either. I exhaled slowly through my nose and then drew in a steadying breath as I stopped in front of them.

  “Hey.” There was something almost sad and maybe a little unsure in Abbi’s voice.

  “Thanks for coming.” Jason, ever the gentleman, stuck his hand out and I detected nothing fake in his smile.

  I shook it and then, not knowing what else to do, awkwardly hugged Abbi. Only, as soon as my arms were around her, it didn’t feel awkward anymore. It felt right. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it felt like she relaxed in
my arms too. I let go and we broke apart. “Congratulations guys.”

  “Thank you,” Abbi said, her voice a little scratchy.

  “I heard there was going to be food, so I’m going to go find that,” I excused myself and found my way to the kitchen. I eyed the champagne and beer set out in ice buckets. Tempting, but sobriety was my annoying friend tonight. Yup, back on the wagon after my brief stint off it. The whiskey hadn’t seemed to help anyway.

  I continued out of the kitchen and onto the back patio, my nose leading the way. The weather was still perfect for barbecuing, and never one to pass up on the chance to show off his skills, Uncle Bas stood at the grill flipping burgers and BSing with Abbi’s grandfather. Dr. Cross, the first, had been as good as a dad to my mom growing up. I got the feeling he might have even ended up her stepdad if my Grandma Patricia hadn’t died. That would have added an all too weird dynamic to this already complicated family. Abbi would have been my what? Step-cousin?

  Or-rr, Grandpa Jack might have murdered him . . .

  “Fix a plate,” Uncle Bas told me. “First round of burgers is just about ready.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice. Nobody grills a burger like you do, no matter how much my dad insists he can.”

  Uncle Bas laughed, and I felt someone come up behind me.

  “I heard that.” My dad gave my shoulder a hard squeeze. I shook his hand off and let him see my smirk. “You know it’s true.”

  “That’s because your dad doesn’t come from a long line of grill-masters like I do. He comes from a long line of ritzy, upper-class schmucks with silver spoons up their asses.”

  I chuckled even as my dad rolled his eyes at Uncle Bas. It was common knowledge that he didn’t have anything to do with his parents. Hadn’t since they basically treated my mom like criminal white trash, and they’d wanted nothing to do with him or the white trash criminal’s kids since they blamed my dad and his life choices for my grandfather losing the senate re-election.

  Last any of us heard, they’d moved to Vermont and were living their cushy lives there, content to ignore us black sheep.

  We were content to be ignored.

  I piled my plate high, chatting with Abbi’s grandfather as I did, mostly about his golf game. He’d tried to teach Abbi and I as kids, but we never really took to golf, or maybe golf never really took to us, though we enjoyed whacking the balls all over the course.

  The food drew more and more people outside, crowding the grill and food table. Eating as I walked, I wove my way back inside and found Nash and Jesse standing around the living room with Logan, a ball game on the TV.

  “Long time no see,” I told Logan as I joined them. “You glad to be back in the land of indoor plumbing?”

  “You don’t even know, man.” Logan was just a few years younger than me, but since they were kids, he and his younger brother, Cody, had spent their summers off in third world countries working with their dad and Build Abroad. I went one summer with them when I was thirteen. One of the best and worst summers of my childhood. I kissed the ground when we made it back to the US.

  “Your dad shave the beard yet?” Uncle Jake always came back with a gnarly, raggedy-ass, nest of a beard on his face, looking like the most unkempt hobo you ever saw. It was the curls that made it so much worse. Didn’t think any of them shaved or washed their hair during their months away. The rest of the year, my Uncle Jake was a suit and tie wearing, big-deal architect, with his own firm that Logan and Cody would take over someday. In the mean-time, their dad dragged them all around the world teaching them the importance of humanitarian work.

  Logan raked a hand over his own buzzed short hair-do. “That’s the first thing my mom makes him do when we get back. Can’t stand his nasty beard or hair. Hell, it’s the first thing we all do.”

  Aunt Vi was never much for third world countries, and most summers opted out of going along. Usually found herself a beach instead. I didn’t blame her. I only went the one summer. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, meaning I only wanted to experience living without showers and flushing toilets once in this lifetime.

  The lure of food won out over the game and the guys went to get their own burgers after eyeing mine covetously. I watched the game and finished my food, then worked my way back to the kitchen for something non-alcoholic to wash it down with. Abbi was at the counter by herself, trying to work the cork out of a bottle of champagne.

  “Here, let me,” I said taking it from her before she put an eye out. She let out a huff, but let go of the bottle.

  “I would have gotten it,” she grumbled.

  “Yeah, and you would have been wearing an eye patch afterward.” I smoothly popped the cork and handed her back the bottle.

  “Thanks,” she said begrudgingly.

  I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  I reached around her and grabbed a soda from the ice bucket.

  “You didn’t have to come,” she said so softly I almost didn’t hear her. “I would have understood.”

  “Abbi,” our eyes locked, “Of course I’m here. I know I haven’t been the best at showing it, but I just want you to be happy. It’s obvious to me that your coach makes you happy. He’s done a much better job of it than I have.” I leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to her brow. “I want you to get everything you deserve and more.”

  She cleared her throat as I pulled away and her voice came out shaky when she said, “I want that for you too.”

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy Abbi,” I murmured. Or at least I would try to be.

  She reached forward with the hand that wasn’t holding the bottle of champagne and grabbed mine, squeezing it. “That means a lot.”

  I raised her hand and eyed the rock there, rubbing my thumb over it, ignoring the stabbing regret I felt.

  “There you guys are.”

  I dropped Abbi’s hand and looked over my shoulder at my brother.

  Abbi cleared her throat again. “What’s up, Aid?”

  “I wanted to talk to you both about something I need your help with.”

  “What is it?” I turned to face him and leaned back against the counter.

  “Ever since the accident, I’ve felt like I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what. I think I figured it out though. I want to do some kind of benefit drive. I was researching it and there are a lot of foundations that deal with drunk driving. They support victims and families as well as fund treatment centers and programs. I want to raise money for one of them, and maybe tie it into a pledge at school.” He scratched at his head. “Get kids to pledge not to drink and drive. I’d like to do it before the homecoming game, but that doesn’t leave me much time. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.” He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pants pocket.

  Abbi gave him a proud smile. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Me too,” I said. “What do you need from us?”

  “Well,” he looked to Abbi. “I was hoping you could help me pitch it to Headmaster Higgins, and be the faculty advisor or sponsor or whatever, and help me put it on.”

  “Absolutely,” she said without hesitation.

  Then he shifted to me. “I was thinking it could maybe be a concert. I know you’re kind of taking a break or whatever from music, but—”

  “Dude, you don’t even have to ask. I’m in. And you know Dad and the guys will be too. I can try to wrangle you a local up and comer or two if you want as well.”

  “Really?” His face lit up.

  “You just tell me the night, and Dad and I will take care of it.”

  His excitement grew, and he and Abbi started tossing back and forth ideas while I watched and listened. How backwards was it that I found myself looking up to my little brother in that moment?

  Eighteen

  Abel

  I pressed my head to the door.

  I couldn’t open it.

  Physically I could. All I had to do was twist the handle. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Couldn’t bring myself to go in there.

  I turned the lock instead and walked away. The realtor could deal with it after I was out. There was nothing in there but some drop cloths and a few cans of paint anyway. At least Katya had gotten rid of the crib. No doubt returned it and got my money.

  It’d been almost two weeks since I came back from Boston to find her gone, as promised. The place was mine again. Quiet and empty. The way I preferred it. And it’d taken me all of one day to decide to sell it.

  I shuffled down the hall into my nearly empty bedroom. All that remained were a few books and journals on the nightstand, a phone charger still plugged into the wall, and the bedding on the bed. I stripped the blankets and sheets, stuffing them into the big empty box on the floor, and then grabbed the remaining few things and tossed them in as well.

  That was it. The furniture was staying. I’d buy new shit when I figured out where I was going next. For now, it was back to my parents’. Isn’t that what people did these days? When shit doesn’t work out the way you planned, you go crawling home.

  I folded the box closed and looked for where I’d left the damn roll of packing tape. The front door buzzed before I found it, and I straightened up. Who the hell had the doorman let up?

  What could the damn realtor possibly want now? Hadn’t she taken enough pictures already?

  I was grumbling to myself on my way to answer the door, but when I pulled it open, it wasn’t the realtor. I would have rather it been her.

  “Hey.” Katya shifted nervously. She met my eyes for a fraction of a second and then darted them away. She looked . . . not good. On edge. Maybe on something else. “Can we talk?” she muttered almost unintelligibly, shifting on her feet. She was definitely on something.

  I tamped down the loathing and disgust, and with a blank face, stepped back and held the door open wider. Katya hesitated but then ducked inside.

  She stopped, taking in the place and the stacks of boxes all around. “So, it’s true? You’re selling it?”

  “Yeah,” I grunted, folding my arms across my chest.

  Her eyes flashed to mine. “Are you staying in New York?”