by Susan Ward
Chapter Ten
“Ethan”
“Ethan, if you’re there, pick up!” Her voice echoes from my high-ceilinged living room. “It’s Avery. I need to talk to you before you leave for the Bowl. Why aren’t you answering your cell? It’s important…”
I jerk my head from the pillow in time to hear the harsh beep from the old-school answering machine followed by a loud click preceding the recording tape cutting off.
I try to shake the grogginess from my brain as I brush back the hair from my face. I look out the wall of glass. Lights from the city shine in the darkness from the hills to the ocean and the large strobes are shooting into the sky like they do when there’s an event under way at the Hollywood Bowl.
Fuck, what time is it?
Yep, I’ve overslept.
The red display on the ’70s-style clock radio on my bedside table reads 9:30 p.m.
Jesus Christ, I should have been at the venue thirty minutes ago and psyching myself up to go on stage with the guys. The opening band is already performing and, by my estimation, almost done with their set.
Not good, Ethan.
The guys are going to stomp all over me the second I get there, especially Eric.
No wonder Avery sounded panicked on the machine. I never expected to be sacked out this late or for her to arrive backstage before me.
After snatching my shirt from the floor, I go to the full-wall case displaying my collection of pre-twenty-first-century technology in the living room of my sprawling multilevel concrete eco-friendly house.
Telephone landline attached to a punch dial cordless hooked up to recording machine. Vintage ’80s boom box. A shiny red Walkman still in the original box. First generation MP3 players. A mechanical pachinko game alongside a Japanese digital one. Handheld video devices. Every game box from Atari through X. A turntable and equalizer. Polaroid camera. Both VHS and BETA machines.
What can I say? I’m a fan of last-century technology. There’s something about it that’s cool to me. For as long as I can remember, it’s been a hobby of mine to collect junk from the past, to take it apart and study how it worked, from the near no-tech of a mid-century telephone to the very high-tech of things like drones and tablets.
The machine shows there are twenty-seven recorded messages to listen to. My house phone is the last resort of my family and close friends when they’re trying to track me down, because it’s always on and I like how their voices sound in my spacious rooms.
Though, tonight I don’t have time to fast-forward the tape, listen, fast-forward the tape until I find whatever else Avery might have recorded.
I fish in my pocket for my cell as I search for the shoes I kicked off when I entered the house. The second my phone powers on, the screen turns into an endless stream of missed calls and unread texts.
I’m scrolling through them—Dad, Hugh, Avery, and on and on—as I lace up my vintage Chuck Taylors. I hit a button to listen to the last voice mail from the dozen Avery left, and someone pounds on my front door.
Through the speaker her voice gushes: “Ethan. Call me when you get this. It’s important.”
Beep.
Christ. Avery sounds frantic about something.
I’m about to call her when someone camps on my doorbell. Damn it. Which rude motherfucker is on my front porch doing this?
Bang, bang, bang.
“Hold on,” I shout from the entryway then unlatch the deadbolt without bothering to check the security screen mounted on the wall. Only someone I know would act like this. Robbers are more polite than friends and family.
I jerk open my front door and, yep, it’s family. Well, quasi-family. My brows hitch up in surprise as I come face-to-face with Dillon, the head of my dad’s security team, and see a black SUV idling in my driveway.
“Thank fuck,” he says, turning off his phone. “I thought you weren’t here.”
How he says that makes my stomach clench. “Is something wrong? Nothing’s happen to my dad, has it?”
“No. Alan’s fine. At the Bowl, on his third scotch by now, and wondering why his sons aren’t there with him. He sent me to grab you, and Jamal to track Eric down.”
The flash of concern over my dad is replaced by relief, and then I frown. “Wait. You mean Eric’s not at the Bowl yet either?”
“No. That’s why Alan sent me here to get you.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
Unreal.
“I can’t believe my dad did this. I’m twenty-six, Dillon. I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t need the bodyguards hunting me down when I’m a few minutes late to something.”
“Kinda looks to me like both you and Eric need someone keeping an eye on you,” he counters, and how he says that sounds out-of-place serious, enough so that it bothers me.
Then I dismiss my thoughts, because who wouldn’t be bothered about a grown man’s dad deploying the truancy squad to get in his face for being late?
“This is ridiculous. You do know that, don’t you? I can’t believe my dad sent you here. I can’t believe you did it, Dillon. Not cool, man. How do you even act like this shit is reasonable?” Angrily I rake the hair back from my face as I close my front door, lock it, and set the alarm. “If you’d been one minute later, I’d already be gone. So why don’t we both pretend you missed me?”
He stops next to the SUV and gestures with an arm for me to get in the back seat. “Can’t do that, Ethan. My orders are to stay with you all night. Concert. After-party. Home. My shift doesn’t end until tomorrow 1200.”
My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious. Not happening. I don’t take orders from you or my dad anymore. I didn’t arrange for a car and driver. I’m driving myself to the Bowl. And I sure as fuck don’t need a security shadow all night.”
His blue eyes drill into me. “Get in the vehicle, Ethan. Discussion over.”
Discussion over, my ass. I search my pockets for my car keys. “Did you actually use your don’t fuck with me voice? Hate to burst your power trip, but that stopped scaring me when I was twelve. Follow in your car, if you must, but if you get in my way at the concert I’ll have my security bounce you.”
I brush past him, then halt mid-step. My classic ’69 Chevelle is no longer in the driveway where I parked it. I turn to Dillon. “My car’s gone. Someone fucking stole my car.”
Dillon meets my anxious gaze, not a single feature on his face alerted, and I know. I can see it in his expression that my car being missing isn’t a surprise to him, and now I’m pissed. “Not fucking funny, man. You took my car. You’re hilarious, Dillon. Do you mind telling me what you did with it?”
“Get in the SUV, Ethan.”
I push my face up close to his. “Not until you explain what you did with my car and why you took it.”
Nothing. Silence.
“Fine, Dillon. Don’t answer me. But you security guys and your fucking pranks are bullshit. That Chevelle cost me a fortune at auction. It’s in pristine, concours condition. Less than ten thousand miles on it. I better get it back exactly like it was when you took it, or shit’s going down.”
“You shouldn’t leave a car like that parked in the driveway,” he remarks stiffly. “I’m surprised it hasn’t been stolen before this.”
Oh, is that what he wants me to believe? I shove my hand in my pocket for my cell. “If it’s stolen, I should call the police, don’t you think?”
His eyes lock on mine. “No, I’ll call for you on the way to the Bowl.”
Exactly like I thought. Dillon made my car disappear. “Don’t bother. Not with the escort to the concert or the call, since I’m pretty sure it’s going to show up parked in my driveway when you guys are done having your fun. Have a good night. I’m outta here.”
Dillon opens the back door of the SUV and waits, jaw tightly clenched, straight back and squared shoulders. Great. He’s ignoring me. Just like when I was a kid.
Does he think that one’s going to work? Stare at me hard, expression like iron, and comma
nd me with his body language to get in. Fucking ex-military hardass. Everything Alan asks the bodyguards to do, no matter how lame, they act like it’s an order from the president, even stuff like this.
This is fucking over the top, and why the hell am I climbing into the SUV instead of grabbing a different car from the garage? No reason, except I like Dillon, even in his most aggravating moments—this night qualifies for that—and knowing this is my dad’s doing and not his.
I’m about to hit the callback button for Avery when Dillon taps my leg to move over so he can climb in. I look up from my phone. “Sorry, Dillon. Not happening. You’re riding up front with the driver. And close the privacy glass. I’ve got calls to make.”
Inappropriately rude tone of voice to a guy who’s been like a second father to me—sure—but I’m doing as he asked and I don’t have to like it. The door closes then he takes his spot riding shotgun and shuts the glass.
The vehicle lurches forward, and I relax back into the seat with my phone against my ear. Voice mail. Fuck. I decide to shoot Avery a text.
Me: Just left my place. Overslept. You better be where I can find you when I get there. Got your messages. If I had to guess about why you called and texted me all evening, I’d say Hugh’s tripping because I’m not there. Or is something else going on? Something better. Like you’re hot to pick up where we left off three hours ago? A guy can hope, can’t he?
Grinning in anticipation of her response, I wait staring at the screen until it turns dark from inactivity. I’m surprised and more than a little let down that she didn’t answer me, but it’s crazy and loud back stage and maybe she’s not on her phone.
I set my cell on the seat and pour a full glass of Jack Daniel’s. My minutes with Dillon crushed my positive vibe and now that everything and anything could go wrong tonight feeling is back.
Staring out at the passing scenery as we drive down the winding hillside road, I guzzle my drink faster than usual. I’m edgy, my muscles tight, and I need to get loose again.
I down the glass and feel the booze doing its thing in my veins, but not enough to get me into a being-on-stage frame of mind.
Fuck, is the band even going on stage tonight? That’s a good question that needs answering. I never expected Eric to be a no-show. Drag it out until the last minute to mind-fuck Hugh, sure, but no-show, never.
The area around the Hollywood Bowl is like an oasis of light in the darkness. Cars line the road all the way to the overfilled parking lot and even with the thick security glass that usually blocks all road sounds I can hear and feel the heavy bass beat of the opening band, Crank, on stage.
I wasn’t excited about tonight’s concert and I’m not now, except the part where I get to meet up with Avery. As we’re waved through the VIP entrance, that wired feeling takes over my flesh, but to be honest, it has more to do with all the pent-up sexual tension she left me with reentering my body like a flashflood, and I feel like I’m about to burst.
Each time I see her is agony for my self-control. Craving her has become like a daily penance. But knowing it ends tonight, my habitually lusting after her, smooths the edges of my foul mood caused by the crud that went down with Dillon at my place.
My thoughts of her inject my senses with energy, and I focus on that rather than how much tonight on stage is going to suck. That’s not pessimism; it’s the voice of experience. When Hugh and Eric are at war, nothing goes down smoothly. Not even a set we’ve performed hundreds of times together.
Oh well, it’s only ninety minutes of my life and I’m out of here with Avery, and that infuses me with enough adrenaline to get me to the excitement level I need to go on stage and kill it.
The privacy glass goes down as we roll to a stop. “You ready to do this, Ethan?”
It’s a question I’ve heard him ask my dad a hundred times before Alan’s performed, but it strikes me as odd how he says it to me.
I shift my gaze to find Dillon’s studying me from the front seat. “Sure, man. Just give me a sec.”
I take another long pull of JD straight from the bottle as he speaks softly into his wrists, no doubt telling security and the crew I’m here, before he hops out to open my door. I do a shake of my limbs to get the last of the lethargy from my body so I can only feel the wired.
When my door is opened, sound blasts the interior of the SUV. Music and screaming girls punctuate the rapid flashes of cameras and shouted questions from the press. The intensity of noise and movement is an assault to my senses before I’m even a part of it.
Jesus Christ, what’s up with the crowd tonight? The Hollywood Bowl is a small venue compared to the arenas from the tour. I didn’t expect this much backstage madness and definitely not for me. Eric’s the star, and while I have groupies and press hounding me, it’s never at a level like this.
Pushing myself out of the back seat, I have only a moment to try to acclimate myself before Eric’s security team forms a tight circle around me and I’m muscled through the throng into the small concrete space beneath the amphitheater.
Once inside the function area, I stop walking. “I can take it from here, Dillon.”
“Can’t leave you, E. I’m with you all night, remember?”
I glare at him. “And I’m not doing that, remember?” I’m ready to find my girl, get on stage, then haul ass out of here with her. I reach around Dillon to stop a roadie. “Hey, have you seen Avery?”
The dude looks harried as he glances over his shoulder and takes a few seconds to notice me surrounded by the muscle brigade. “I haven’t seen her all night. I don’t think she’s here tonight, Eric.” I’m about to correct him, but he’s already ten feet down the packed corridor.
“E, this way. Your dad wants us to bring you to him.” Dillon prods me with a hand on my back, but I continue searching my cell phone without moving. Still no text or call from Avery. No updates on her blog or social media pages.
“Now, E,” Dillon says more forcefully. “There’s no time for whatever you’re doing.”
I’m really getting tired of being pushed around by him, but that and two nickels won’t even get me a dime tonight it seems. Without warning I’m powered down the hall by security and shoved into a room.
Chapter Eleven
Everything about the last thirty minutes has been strange, not the least of which being the room I unexpectedly find myself alone with my father in. Not the plush backstage green room set up with food and drink. Fuck, this isn’t even one of the stark dressing rooms. Just a small, dank closet filled with…cleaning supplies?…and my dad sitting on a folding chair dressed rock star chic in leather pants and an open flowing black shirt, holding a crystal glass of no doubt scotch in his hand.
My gaze darts around the room before landing on him. “The crew couldn’t find you a better dressing room than this, Dad? Or was this Eric’s idea?”
He laughs at the joke when even I can tell that struck an off key. “Small venues are a pain in the ass to find private space. Dillon found this for me.”
“Resourceful guy. He also stole my car tonight. My ’69 Chevelle, no less.”
Alan quirks a brow, amused, but I can see through his façade. The car comment isn’t a news flash to him and he knows that wasn’t a joke. I can also see that he’s tense, very tense over something. The strongly carved features of his face are taut and his burning black stare more forceful than usual tonight.
I lean back against the door, my hands shoved deep in my pockets as I try to figure out what this is. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? First Dillon shows up at my door to drag my ass here. Then my car turns up missing. And then I get shoved into a storage closet to find my dad waiting for me, looking very intense. Not my average preperformance routine while on tour. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a Tom Clancy novel.”
“No. It’s more like John Grisham, I think,” my dad says thoughtfully, setting his glass on the concrete floor. “Yes, one of his stories where no one is as they seem and you don’t know the
truth of what’s going on until the end of the book.”
Now this is starting to alarm me. Stupid—there’s nothing about him that should get my worry to run away with me, not even that weird nonsense about Grisham—but, oh, I can feel it. Something isn’t right here right here. Inane chatter out of Alan; never a good sign.
“OK, Grisham it is. Now why don’t we move on to you telling me why you wanted to speak alone with me in a storage closet”—I check my watch—“about twenty minutes before I’m due on stage, Dad?”
I’m not sure which causes his gaze to sharpen, my tone or my words. “That seems reasonable. Only that’s not how it’s going to go, son. I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do tonight, you’re going to do it until you’re told you can stop, and you’re not going to ask questions, Ethan. Not of me. Not of the bodyguards. Not of anyone. You speak to no one about this and you just do. Understood?”
Frankly, no, not understood, and where the hell does my dad get off talking to me that way? My reply is only loudly thought in my head. From my mouth, nada, because here’s the rub: when your dad’s Alan Manzone you don’t argue shit, not even totally bizarre shit like this.
I jut my chin. “You got a bottle? Something tells me I’m going to need to get loaded before we’re through.”
He retrieves his glass from the floor and brings it to me, holding it out. “Not enough to get a halfway decent buzz, but be my guest.”
I wave off the drink. “I was only joking, Pop. I’m not Eric. I don’t need to get wasted to talk to you.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and what registers on Alan’s face sends prickles across my body. Fuck, that comment was uncalled for—true, but it wasn’t right to say it.
All families have ugly truths they never speak. That was one of ours, and my inability to get my head around what’s happening here is no excuse for letting it rip in what I can already tell is a difficult moment for my dad.
I meet his steady stare. “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful night. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
