Dead End Road

by Lori Whitwam

  “None of what we do onstage is worth anything if I can’t write music with meaning,” Seth said. “It always makes me feel good to know it matters to other people too.”

  Now that sounded like the Seth Caldwell she’d expected. Abby finally felt like they were having a conversation. “It’s everything. I don’t waste time on performers who don’t write their own stuff. I know it’s not exactly the same as plagiarism is for authors. But it feels the same to me somehow, recording music you didn’t help create.” Was she rambling? She didn’t care. She was talking to Seth Caldwell about writing. Plus, he wasn’t scary or annoying anymore, and she could look at him without wanting to kick him.

  “I feel the same way.” Seth tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “Which is why we never buy songs. If we record something we didn’t write, it comes from a friend of ours. Paying for music feels too much like paying for sex…I imagine.” He quirked an eyebrow at the risqué analogy, and Abby laughed. He was clearly playing with her, which beat the hell out of wanting to strangle her.

  “I never thought of it like that,” she said. “But I see your point. It’s the easy way, for somebody who can’t or won’t create something themselves.”

  “Exactly.” Seth casually draped his arm across the back of the bench, not quite touching her shoulders. “So, tell me about your books.”

  “Oh, they’re just mysteries,” she answered. She never knew how to respond to that particular question without boring people or sounding as if she were bragging.

  He turned toward her and leaned in close. “Don’t say that. I’m sure they’re not ‘just’ anything. Whatever they are, you spent a long time working on them, creating a whole world and the people in it. Your readers must enjoy them or you wouldn’t be working on your third one, right?”

  “I know, I know.” She fought the temptation to reach out and touch his face, which was so much closer to her than before. “But here I am, talking to you, being kind of an idiot, and all I can think is you can’t really be interested.”

  Now it was Seth’s turn to laugh. “You’re being an idiot? Sorry, I didn’t notice, because I was too busy being one myself, as you pointed out.”

  Abby gave her head a little shake. “Should one of us say ‘takes one to know one’ and get it over with?”

  “There you go! And I am interested. Books, poems, songs, art, any kind of creativity is what makes us who we are.”

  Abby took a moment to absorb his last statement. “Well, like I said, they’re mysteries. The main character trains service dogs in a town sort of like this one. People seem to have a tendency to turn up dead, quite unlike here. The dogs are a key part of the story because she’s so tuned in to their behavior and reactions. Dogs always notice things people overlook.”

  Seth nodded. “I’m going to have to stop by the bookstore and get a copy. I read a lot of mysteries, and I love dogs.”

  “Maybe I can save you a trip.” She reached into her bag and withdrew a midnight blue book. “If you’re sure you really want one, and weren’t just being polite.”

  “No, I’d love it, under one condition.”

  “Okay, shoot.” She wouldn’t have used that expression a half hour ago.

  “Sign it for me.”

  Abby’s hand shook slightly as she found a pen and wondered what to write when signing a book to a guy about whom she’d had countless steamy fantasies and whose guitar she’d recently reduced to kindling. There probably wasn’t much of a precedent. After a moment she wrote, “To Seth, who totally made my day. Don’t ever pay for it. Abby Delaney. PS…Thanks for not killing me about the guitar.”

  Seth smiled at the inscription, and she watched him study her photo on the back cover for a few moments before setting it on the bench beside him. “So, Abby Delaney, can I convince you to come to the show tonight?” Abby froze, and almost sustained a concussion from the mental whiplash. Oh, she wanted to go, but it was most likely a spectacularly bad idea. Should she try to get out of this gracefully?

  “It’s probably too late. Dash sold the place out weeks ago, and I just gave my ticket away.” Which, right now, she could kick herself for doing. She might have to murder Molly after all. But then again, if Molly hadn’t dumped her, she would never have run over Seth’s guitar. Wait. Would it be a good thing or a bad thing? She wondered if her brain was swelling.

  Seth interrupted her jumbled thoughts. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to. It’s my band. I’d like you to come as my guest.”

  Abby’s heart skipped a beat. His guest? But wasn’t it what she wanted? She’d have to talk to Monique. This “participating in your life again” was exciting, but also seriously scary. At exactly what point did it become “getting carried away”? She probably should have asked for specifics. Not to mention the Universe was not being subtle. She tried to appear more confident than she felt. “One of the perks of being self-employed—as long as I don’t blow off my deadlines by too much, I can rearrange my schedule.”

  Seth grinned. There were those damned, adorable dimples again.

  “Great,” he said. “How about if you meet me at the bus around seven thirty? We usually hang out there before the show.” Hang out with Seth and the band? And Seth? On the bus? With Seth?

  When she spoke, she suspected her voice might be slightly too loud, but it was hard to tell over the roaring noise of all the blood rushing out of her head. “Sounds good. I’d better get moving so I can take care of some things at home.” Like find her favorite jeans, see if she still owned any makeup, and call Monique.

  They stood, and Seth reached for her hand and stepped closer, until Abby could feel his heat through their shirts. At five feet six and wearing three-inch heels, she only had to look up an inch or two to meet his eyes. She repressed an urge to place her other hand on the tempting plane of his chest to feel his heartbeat.

  He said softly, “Don’t forget to come back.”

  Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she said simply, “I won’t.”

  He didn’t let go. “You said you’d been to some of our shows before?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “Why didn’t you ever come talk to me? I mean, I’m not pulling an ego thing here, but you said you wanted to.”

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Because I didn’t want to be one of those girls.”

  Seth looked at her a second. “I don’t think you ever could be.”

  * * *

  Seth

  Seth watched Abby walk down the sidewalk, unable to tear his eyes away until she slammed the door of the Jeep. Sure, he appreciated the view, but this woman was a puzzle, and an intriguing one. She had gone from ditzy driver to morally outraged spitfire in the blink of an eye, then managed to work in smart, sensitive, and vulnerable on top of it. He wondered how many more facets of her personality remained to be discovered.

  Shaking his head, he ducked into the bus to put her book with his things. He dragged the guitar case and its contents from under the trailer where he had stashed it earlier. In some sick way, it was like carrying the grisly remains of a beloved pet from the roadside, only with no blood and way more splinters.

  Seth stepped into the cool darkness of the backstage hallway and made his way to their staging room, placing his precious cargo on the battered table. He wondered what he was supposed to do with it. This morning it had been a beautiful, expensive classic guitar. Now it was roadkill.

  “Whoa! What the hell happened, man?”

  Seth looked up from his somber contemplation to see Marshall Rogerson, his rhythm guitarist, standing in the doorway.

  “Traffic fatality,” Seth said, looking at Cujo and wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation.

  Marshall approached the table with the reverence of a fellow guitar lover. He removed his backward-facing baseball cap from his shaved head in a show of respect, sincere rather than sarcastic. Replacing the hat, he sat at the table and rested his dark-goateed chin on his fist. “So, in what creat
ive ways are we going to torture the asshole who did this?”

  Seth leaned against the door frame. “It was an accident. But she did give me hell when I lost it and yelled at her.” He found he was rather impressed, and his blood began to warm at the thought of seeing her again in a few hours.

  “A chick did this? Looks like she used an ax.”

  “Jeep.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Marshall reached into a cooler beside the table and located a beer, paying no attention to the icy condensation dripping onto his sleeveless red t-shirt. He twisted off the cap and took a deep swallow, followed by something that might have been a belch or a sigh. “Still, man, major crime. Cujo was sweet. What’re you gonna do about it?”

  “Nothing. I invited her to the show tonight.” Seth knew what was coming, and braced himself.

  “No fuckin’ way! Really?” Marshall’s dark eyes widened in surprise, but this was soon replaced with his I’m-totally-going-to-mess-with-you expression. “Oh, wait. I get it now. This chick is seriously hot, isn’t she?”

  “If you like the type.”

  “And that type would be…?”

  “Gorgeous, smart, feisty, a whole mess of long, dark hair…Shit, I don’t know. I just met her.” This was not the sort of conversation he could have with Marshall, who had long held the undisputed title of biggest hound in the band. Joey Garvin, their drummer, and Pete Carroll, their bass player, were both married. Maybe they’d understand his confusion, but Marshall wouldn’t.

  “Marsh, I can’t talk about it, okay?” Seth knew he was interrupting his buddy’s fun before he got to his best material, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Don’t we have things we need to do? And can you have somebody take care of that?” He pointed to the wreckage on the table, unable to bear the thought of consigning the remains to a trash bin himself.

  “Yeah, sure, it’s cool.” Marshall rose and started toward the door with one last look back over his shoulder at Cujo. “Mouse has the soundboard set, but I think Danny needs you onstage.”

  Seth never had to worry about their sound setup. Mouse Thibaudeau was the best in the business. “I bet Danny has the lights pretty close to done. He’s picked everything up way faster than I expected.” They headed across the hall and toward the rear entrance to the stage.

  “Yeah, and Andy’s the best all-around hand we’ve had in a while. Always seems to know what I need before I do. Kinda spooky sometimes. Usually at this point I still have to kick ass on a regular basis.”

  “Pretty sharp kids.” Kids? Did he just call two members of his crew, who were in their mid-twenties “kids”?

  Seth stepped onto the stage and accepted his guitar from Roberto Acevedo, their seasoned guitar technician. Marshall’s assessment of the setup was accurate. Mouse was making some adjustments to the soundboard with Andy Hicks, who was in the early stages of learning this important skill. Danny adjusted the lights overhead, his wiry frame scrambling among the supports like an escaped lab monkey. Joey and Pete sat on the edge of the stage. It sounded like they were finalizing plans for some time in Gulf Shores, Alabama with their wives during the break before they all headed back to the practice studio.

  Seth looked up, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called, “Hey, Dawkins! What do you need?”

  Perched behind a bank of small spotlights, Danny replied, “Not much. But if you can get behind the mic for a minute, then right up at the edge of the stage, I’ll make a few adjustments.”

  Seth complied, moving from place to place as Danny fine-tuned the positions of the spotlights. The tasks were exacting, but routine, and Seth had trouble keeping his mind on the job. It had been a hell of a day. More than once he looked at the guitars waiting on their stands, and remembered Cujo had gone to the great music store in the sky. Which reminded him of Abby and invited a whole new level of distraction.

  An authoritative voice finally called a halt. “Okay, guys, stop screwing around. Everything’s fine. Head back to the bus, get something to eat, and rest up. Gonna be a busy night.”

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t get your jimmies in a jingle,” quipped Marshall.

  Trent Singleton lifted his chin and took a half step toward the smart-mouthed guitarist, but Seth grabbed his friend and gave him a shove toward the door. “Dude, you know better. Trent can pound you into a puddle. Never question The Man,” he said, grinning back over his shoulder at the burly road manager. With the show preparation behind him, Seth’s thoughts immediately returned to Abby. He regretted how things had started this afternoon, and wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t come back for the show. What if she changed her mind? And why did it matter to him so goddamned much?

  Back on the bus, they tore into the takeout Andy brought from a nearby deli, and coolers were ransacked in search of favorite drinks. Bags rustled, ice cubes clinked into glasses, and the smell of melted cheese and toasted bread drifted through the air. Seth listened to the light conversation around him but didn’t participate. Should he dig out her business card and call Abby? No, he decided. He didn’t want to be pushy. Or a loser.

  Danny stopped on his way to the cooler. “Hey, Seth, I wanted to tell you I took care of Cujo for you…”

  Seth cut him off. “I appreciate it, Danny, but I can’t talk about it right now, okay?”

  “Sure, man, I understand. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.” He gave Seth a nudge in the shoulder, and went to dredge a Mountain Dew from the overloaded cooler.

  To pass some time and avoid any more conversation about Cujo, Seth retreated to his bunk and fished Abby’s book out of his duffel bag. He looked at her picture and smiled again at the inscription before settling down to read. By the time he finished the first chapter, he was impressed. She had a snappy, clever writing style and strong characters. He found himself very curious about what would happen to Jill and her dogs, and he allowed himself a few minutes to reflect on the woman who had crafted the story.

  Seth pulled out his phone and checked the time. Again. He didn’t want to be sacked out when Abby arrived, so he made his way out to the main lounge area and took a seat, the fingers of one hand tapping restlessly on the arm of the couch.

  Pete emerged from the bus’s tiny bathroom, vigorously applying a towel to his short, sandy hair. “Yo, Seth, you need a drink?” He tossed the towel on the counter and took two beers from the cooler.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Or maybe you want me to get your bottle of JD?” Pete’s eyes took on a mischievous shine.

  “Think I’m still off the bourbon, bro.”

  “Getting old, huh?” Pete handed Seth the beer and dropped onto the couch beside him. “Never thought I’d see the day a couple of drinks put you under the table.”

  “It wasn’t the Jack, man. I was just tired or coming down with something, that’s all.” Though he kept his words light, the incident disturbed him. He downed most of his beer in several deep swallows. Two nights ago, in Cincinnati, he had a couple of Jack and Cokes after the show. He stepped out to do a quick interview with a reporter from a local college radio station, and by the end of the interview he felt like he’d had the whole bottle instead of two drinks. There was something seriously off about the whole thing.

  “Well, ‘coming down with something’ looked exactly like ‘shitfaced’ to me,” teased Pete. “You were slurring and couldn’t have walked a straight line to save your life. You’re never the first one down for the count.”

  “He ain’t lyin’, Seth,” added Marshall. “I had to tuck you in and thought I was gonna have to call your mama.”

  “Y’all are real fuckin’ funny. Now shut up and toss me another beer.” Seth pitched his empty bottle, aimed to narrowly miss Marshall’s head, and the tall man caught it effortlessly. “It was something besides the booze, because the day two shots make me throw up stuff I ate in high school is the day I get on the wagon for good.”

  Marshall delivered a fresh beer. “I’m just glad we were staying at the
hotel, because I purely hate it when somebody pukes in the bus.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Seth conceded. He would’ve liked to say more to defend his so-called reputation, but he honestly couldn’t remember much more about the night. Maybe it was something he ate. Whatever it was, it had put him down hard. It took him the whole next day to feel somewhat human, and he didn’t think he’d given his best performance last night in Chicago.

  Pete went back to his bunk, and Marshall nagged Mouse about some feedback from one of the speakers. Mouse told him, in no uncertain terms, the problem was his own ears and not the speakers. Seth ignored them and looked out the window and across the parking lot. How long would it be until Abby arrived? If she showed up at all. His mental solitude was interrupted when someone perched on the arm of the couch.

  “Marsh told us about Cujo, man.” Joey’s voice was pitched low. “Said you didn’t want to talk about it, but if you need to talk without getting hassled, I won’t jerk you around.” Seth knew it was true. Joey Garvin might look like a slightly rough-around-the-edges cherub, but he was the smartest, and deep down, the toughest of the bunch. That, combined with his calm determination, saw them through the early days when they were playing for gas money.

  “I know, Joey, and thanks. I’m trying not to think about it.” He picked at the ring around the neck of the beer bottle. “I was still getting used to it, you know? Hadn’t even gotten the tune just right yet.”

  “Sucks.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Sliding from the arm to the seat of the couch, Joey asked, “So, what’s up with the girl?”

  “Marsh told you about her too, huh?”

  “Yeah. He about broke his neck running to give me the news.” The drummer’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “But this girl, she’s coming here?”