Midlife Crisis: another romance for the over 40: (Silver Fox Former Rock Star)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Are you still there?” she asks. We’ve remained silent too long.

  “I’m here for you,” I assure her, reaching for the pen again. I think of those sparkling, gold-speckled eyes one more time when her voice hitches. Another sound. Another trigger.

  “Um...” I begin.

  “Oh, God.” She draws out with a breath.

  Shit. “Midge?” I question.

  And the line goes dead.

  4

  Lingering silence

  [Hank]

  The quiet on the other end of the phone lingers in my ear. Her birthday. Thoughts of entertaining her fill my mind, but I shake my head. My gut twists with the knowledge I crossed so many lines by calling out her name. I want to call her back, but the anonymous phone line provides no callback number. Dammit. How can I help her if I can’t reach her? I could always call Tommy, but do I want to breach the silence of our long lost friendship? I still can’t believe I received an invitation to his wife’s party.

  I don’t know why I went.

  Curiosity, maybe. I’ve often wondered what Tommy has been up to. Hell, I’ve been thinking more and more about all of them lately, for some reason. Denton Chance. Tucker Ashe. Friends from a lifetime ago. A history I don’t wish to repeat or reenter.

  Maybe self-inflicted torture made me do it. An unfulfilled hope remains that Tommy might offer some answers about Kit. I chuckle at the false anticipation. His sister had been special to me. She was a star in the music industry when girl rock bands were all the rage. Vibrant. Larger than life. A wild child. She grew into a woman with passion and a dream. But life was cruel, and I was a fool. The lyrics scroll like a classic song, one of many I try to forget from her. My personal recollections are told to regress because I don’t need those demons again.

  More likely, I went to prove I could handle a party. The drinking. The atmosphere. The memories. But I quickly realized I wasn’t ready, and I left shortly after the disappearance of Midge. Sweet, innocent, wanting to play, Midge. It was in her eyes. She hadn’t done anything like this before, she said. A stranger. An encounter. It would have been a new experience. One I gladly wanted to give her. I’m ready for the next steps in my recovery, but with the party invitation, old hurts resurface.

  Damn Tommy Carrigan.

  It’s best for me if we don’t reconnect. So, no, I won’t be contacting Tommy for Midge’s number.

  + + +

  It’s been a month since I met Midge, two weeks since I heard her frazzled voice on the phone, and three seconds since I last thought of her. The intake of her breath. The way she looked at me. The ripeness of her breasts. The curve of her hips. The wrench slips from my hand, and I curse again.

  “What’s gotten into you, boss?” My nephew, Chopper, is a good kid, wanting to do the right thing and showing me respect by calling me boss, but today, I’m out of sorts. I stand and nearly knock my head on the hood of the 1969 Boss 429 Mustang I’m working on. She’ll be a black beauty of machinery once I get her restored, and she’s all mine. She’s a project I’ve had for six years, along with rebuilding my life. I’m working on her today, not trusting myself to handle one of the other neglected potentials in our shop. The faded red Stingray Corvette needs my attention, but I passed the baton to my nephew today. He and Brut can handle her.

  Scrubbing at my hair, I swing my head to my older brother, Brut, and find him watching me. I owe him—I owe him too much—and today, I’m reflective of the fact. At forty-five, he hardly looks a day over thirty while I look aged from the wear and tear of a lost lifestyle at forty-three. My skin’s wrinkled. My hair feels thinner. My jaw wears a shadow of salt-and-pepper. Brut got the good genes in the pool with his early white hair and clean face. He also got this shop—Restored Dreams. The name isn’t lost on us. Our momma picked it, along with our literary names, before she decided we weren’t for her. Who names their kid Bronte Austen? Poor Brut. On the other hand, I’m Henry James. My mother left the life she never wanted. Eventually, Brut inherited this life, this garage, although he secretly didn’t want it either, just like me. Yet here we both stand.

  He nods in my direction. “What’s your problem today?”

  I shake my head. How can I tell him I can’t get a woman off my mind? Not the distant memory of one, but a new one. There was something about her. She didn’t seem to recognize me. No judgment in those eyes—gold flecks streaming among a dark forest. She looked at me like she wanted me to take her worries, take her even. Always playing the damn knight in shining armor, I live for that shit. But living that way nearly wrecked me once upon a time, and my armor remains rusty.

  I bend for the engine of the only solid girl for me when Brut’s voice interrupts. “You’ve got other things to concentrate on today. That Stingray needs the transmission replaced. It’s due for paint on Thursday.” I whistle low. Not an easy task. “And that Charger needs an inspection. Owner says something’s happening with the brakes.” Brut rolls his eyes at the ignorance of some classic car owners. “And this one just arrived for an overhaul.”

  I spin to see the baby blue 1969 Mustang convertible I’d recognize anywhere. Kit? I vigorously give my head a shake. It would be impossible. I remind myself there’s more than one car out in the world like this, but what are the chances of one being here today.

  “Someone you might recognize brought this one in.” Brut spins his tablet to show me the name on the docket. His tone hints at his displeasure. “He says he knows you’ll take care of her.” Tommy Carrigan. Goddamn him. What’s he playing at? I don’t need these ghosts haunting me. Something in my expression must frighten Brut, and he exhales.

  “I can take it,” he offers.

  “No, I got it.” My eyes haven’t moved from the car. A gift. My heart and soul poured into the vehicle, into the girl who once owned it. I lost her, I remember, but like a tiny hammer knocking on my head, I’m reminded I couldn’t lose what I didn’t have. Kit Carrigan was never exclusively mine. She belonged to the rock ’n’ roll industry.

  “You feeling okay?” Brut asks, concern in his question. He worries about me even though it has been six years. Six years sober. It wasn’t an easy feat. I tip my chin to assure him I’m good. I don’t need a drink. I need to get working.

  “Give it to me,” I demand, barking harsher than I mean. I tug the tablet from him and peruse the ticket. My head shakes as I’m certain the car needs nothing but a routine checkup. Again, I wonder what Tommy’s playing at. He’s never brought it here before, so why now?

  + + +

  “Your car’s ready,” I snap into the phone, frustrated by my day spent working on Kit’s old vehicle.

  “That was fast.” Tommy chuckles. Hearing his easy voice again brings back wave after wave of memories—late nights drinking, days singing, too many bad things in between.

  “There wasn’t anything special needed.” I exhale. “You know, there were probably other places to go.” Tommy lives in Los Angeles while our location is a good twenty minutes outside of the city if you subtract traffic.

  “I’m happy to support.” The words aren’t lost on me, nor is the implication I need the financial assistance. Tommy has long since given up on me in other ways. He knows my history better than anyone, and while he tried to help me financially at one time, I was beyond saving mentally. I had to dig myself out of both holes on my own. The heavy silence between us forces him to clear his throat. “I didn’t mean anything…”

  “Forget it, man.” The awkwardness lingers. I feel like a fucking teenager, and I’m ready to end the call when Tommy speaks again.

  “Look, Hank, I’ve got a favor to ask.” His hesitation gives me pause. Tommy hardly asks for anything, other than when he asked me to walk away from all of them. “Ivy owns a music therapy school. You remember Ivy?”

  How could I forget Ivy Carrigan—now Everly? She was her mother in a younger form—just as beautiful—but thankfully untainted by the music industry. I loved that little girl when she was little. A woman in h
er own right now, and she owns a school?

  “What do you need from me?” Tommy knows I don’t have money for a grand donation, but I’ll give what I can.

  “Ivy’s hosting a fundraiser for her school. Some kind of walk-a-thon.” He clicks his tongue. “A 5K. We’re trying to support her. The band and me. Show of solidarity and all.” Sounds like there’s a backstory here, but I don’t want to pry. Collision, the band he manages, isn’t my business. “Anyway, we’d love for you to come.”

  “Why?” It’s been years since I’ve seen Tommy, even longer since everything fell apart, so I don’t understand.

  “I want to have as many people who love Ivy around her for this big day. She had a grand opening back in August, but this is her first real event, so getting the name of the therapy school out there and trying to promote it are important to her.”

  “Yeah, but why me?”

  “I’m trying to get the old band there—the older set, so to speak—to show her we’re proud of her.” There’s more he isn’t saying. I hear it in his voice.

  “Is Denton coming?” The last of Kit’s posse stopped speaking to either of us long before we officially separated. When Tommy doesn’t answer, I have my answer. “Does this have to do with Kit?” When Ivy’s mother passed, Tommy tried to rally the others around her, but she was lost. At first, Ivy even found herself on a path similar to her mother.

  “No,” he snaps, then takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be nice if people who were once important to her were around.” Once important. The word is not lost on me. The problem is, I wish I was still important to somebody. Thoughts of Midge creep back into my mind. Dragging a hand over my head, I sigh.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there. When is it?”

  5

  Because Cupcakes

  [Midge]

  The event day finally arrives. I’ve been a basket case for the past week—worried the band kids won’t show, worried it would rain, worried, worried, worried.

  The day after my crisis center phone call, I didn’t think I’d be able to face Ivy and Edie, as if they could read my guilt. I’d never done something like that before. I only wanted someone to talk to, someone anonymous, but it was just my luck the person on the other end of the line knew me. I’d never been more embarrassed than calling to complain to a stranger about everyone forgetting my birthday. Of course, I didn’t know he’d be the stranger on the other end of the line. What are the odds the crisis volunteer would recognize my voice? And as soon as he said my name, I realized it was him.

  Hank.

  I hadn’t been able to stop thinking of him. He haunted my daydreams. He filled my nightly fantasies. I sigh, rubbing at my temples. I don’t need my thoughts straying to him today. I need to focus, but I’m on edge. My mind races back to meeting Hank and the way he caressed my neck. How he massaged my shoulders in the darkness. How he looked at me in the mirror. I relax for a minute until I hear my name.

  “Mom!” I turn to find a sweaty Ronin running toward me. He used to look like me—brown hair, brown eyes—but now, his jet-black hair has streaks of purple. “We forgot the cake.”

  Oh my God. I knew I’d forget something. A bakery donated a gorgeous cake shaped like a music note and decorated in the high school colors, but it was still in my refrigerator.

  “Okay, don’t worry.” Easier said than done, knowing my house is thirty minutes away in good traffic, which is never a possibility in LA. Ronin nods when I squeeze his shoulders. He’s grown taller than me. When did that happen? He wants everything perfect as do I since all the kids know his mom’s in charge.

  “Be cool,” he warned me prior to the event. I noticed my boys never said these things to their father. When I decided to highlight my hair after hanging out with Ivy and Edie, adding streaks of purple to complement the school colors, Ronin said I went too far. “You’re kind of old to color your hair like that. Plus, it looks like you copied me.”

  The comment stung, especially coming from the artsy son.

  “Mom’s not old,” Elston defended. The spitting image of his father—bulky, blond, blue eyes—he stands before me as a constant reminder of the man I once loved. “I think it looks…ballin’.” Is this a compliment? I don’t understand kid lingo most days, and just when I figure it out, it changes.

  “Mom looks like the hip moms,” Liam added, always my little protector. He still looks like me with his matching eyes and smaller frame, though he sports his light brown hair in a crew cut. He could pass for Ronin Junior if Ronin wasn’t changing his image.

  An afterthought occurs. I wasn’t hip before? The thought stings. Regardless, my longer locks hold new highlights to disguise the gray and some violet streaks to add some fun.

  “I’ll just run to the closest bakery and find something else.” I’m explaining my dilemma to Ivy, but she’s dismissing the thought. “We don’t need cake.”

  We’re walking as we talk, my legs racing to keep up with hers as she wants to do a final check on her own students marching in the 5K. With varying mental and physical abilities, Ivy’s protective of her crew. She wants people to trust her school, not just her name. I’ve learned her mother was a famous singer, a dozen years back. I remember the name—Kit Carrigan. Something about breast cancer and dying too young also crosses my memory, but I don’t remember exactly, and I don’t wish to pry. A large black and white image of Kit standing next to a child in a wheelchair graces the front entryway to the school. The boy in the chair holds rhythm sticks in his hand and wears a sweet expression on his face. The former female rock star looks lovingly down at him. It’s a touching picture in a sad way.

  “Anyway, I can get to a bakery and back before the race finishes. I’m so sorry about the donated cake. I’ll bring it back tomorrow for your students, but if—”

  Without watching where I’m walking, I smack into another person, the body hard and firm as my cheek hits a chest. Ivy stopped short, but I continued forward, and the impact with another human propels me backward.

  “Whoa, little lady.” A scratchy, gravelly chuckle stops my heart, and my eyes close. Sweet cheese, no, this can’t be happening. Warm hands cup my upper arms to prevent me from falling—or fainting—whichever happens first. I want to melt into the pavement and disappear. His voice. It haunts me when I think of what it almost did to me a few weeks ago...sigh…

  “Uncle Hank?” Ivy questions, and my lids flip open. Standing in a dark gray t-shirt which hugs his upper body and black track pants with white striping down the side, he’s a vision of athleticism. I’m wearing a purple shirt with the high school band logo and a light gray skort. I’m a mess with my hair piled on my head, and I know I’m wearing minimal makeup, just some mascara and purple lipstick to complement my highlights.

  “Uncle Hank, is it really you?” Hank releases me just as Ivy flings her arms open and steps up to the burly man. He cups her head and wraps an arm around her back.

  “It’s me, baby girl.” The moment is sweet, intimate, and something riddles me as I witness the reunion of two people familiar with one another.

  “What are you doing here?” Ivy asks, leaning back but still holding him.

  “Tommy told me about your party, and I didn’t want to miss it.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. He’s holding back some truth. I see it in the dull spark of his steely eyes, but his smile spreads, and Ivy’s lips respond. She’s happy he’s here.

  “Hank, have you met the woman in charge of everything today? Midge, this is Hank. Hank, Midge.” Without extending a hand, I wrap my arms around myself. I don’t dare touch him without thinking about those thick hands massaging my shoulders, then slipping to my hips and tugging me back against him.

  “We’ve met,” I mutter, lowering my eyes from his gaze. Ivy’s head spins to me, her mouth opening in question, but I interject. “The cake.”

  “Forget it.” She waves.

  “But I feel awful. I’ll just find a bakery around here and—”


  “I know of one.” The smoker gaggle brings my attention back to Hank.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a bakery about five blocks from here although this isn’t the best neighborhood to wander around alone.” His brow raises, and he peers at Ivy.

  “Don’t start,” she snaps, lifting a hand. I’ve heard all about how her husband didn’t approve of the location, but Ivy was adamant the place remained where it was originally founded. Speaking of her husband, Gage Everly walks toward us, and I blush. He’s incredibly good looking in an I-shouldn’t-stare-but-can’t-help-myself sort of way, especially since I’m definitely ten-plus years older than him. His chocolate-colored hair hangs to his chin, blending with thicker scruff at his jaw. His deep eyes suck you in, but he’s not even looking at me. Focused on his wife, he’s about to lay one on her, and I’m holding my breath because I know what’s coming. I’ve only seen kisses like theirs in the movies. It’s like a train wreck. I know I shouldn’t look, but I can’t look away.

  The kiss happens, but within seconds, a sharp cough to my left reminds us there is more than me as an audience.

  “Gage,” Hank gruffly speaks.

  “Hank?” Gage looks from the larger man to his wife and back. “Hank Paige.” There’s respect in his voice along with disbelief. “Man, you look good. Really good.” The comment implies at one time he didn’t appear so healthy, which strikes me as odd while the two men clap hands and lean in for a bro-hug. If I thought Gage was attractive, Hank redefines attraction for me. He’s not only my age, but there’s a playfulness about him. He seems rough but sort of reckless, and I’m drawn to him. Typically, I’m not into tattooed men with silver scruff, but on Hank—I want to trace those designs and gently scratch his chin. The thought I had upon first meeting him returns. I want to rub up against him.