Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  “For her sake or yours? And, don’t assume sex is the only rotten thing anyone can do. She’s not an idiot. You had a bumpy first year.”

  “But it got better,” I countered.

  Georgia shrugged. “Sure, but what did you do to repair the trust? It’s not enough to just not cut any fresh wounds if you don’t treat the old ones. Were you behaving like a grownup or trying to get by on your charm? Also, would you have done all that self-improvement stuff if she wasn’t around? Or is it not you? Do you think it was an improvement? Or did you just lead a girl on for almost three years, giving her what you thought she wanted until you pulled the rug out from under her?” Georgia snatched the cigarette from my lips and took a drag.

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I was growing as a person, Georgia. Isn’t that what adults are supposed to do? Who cares why or how I started.” I leaned down, getting eye to eye with her. “I loved her. And she dumped me.”

  Standing on her tiptoes, Georgia wasn’t about to be intimidated by me—not that I wanted her to be. “I bet it made you feel good to get all that attention from Frankie. A woman who put you first above all other men so easily. That work you did wasn’t for you. It was just for her, which is why you felt like a caged animal and got the taste of excitement when this tour came up. She didn’t get the real you, one who could have made changes because he wanted to, when he was ready.”

  “I loved her,” I repeated, turning back for the hotel.

  “I just think you’re scared to grow up, CJ.” Georgia chased after me. Breaking into a jog as my long legs covered more ground than her short ones could. “A life long Lost Boy who escaped Neverland, got his tongue pierced, and found himself a pair of sticks. I think you did love her. Maybe some of those changes were genuine, but after a while you got hot under the collar and instead of running to the woman who’s stood by you for three years, working it out with her, you bailed. A man doesn’t bail CJ.”

  I stopped, catching her surprised face as I turned around. “It’s that easy, huh? Ask my mom, Georgia, because that’s the example I’ve got. My dad was a good guy. She thought. Then he up and left overfuckingnight and started a new family in Long Island without so much as a look backward. Out of nowhere!”

  Georgia and I hadn’t talked about my dad in years. I hardly talked about him with anyone—even Frankie got the barest bones of the story. There was no risk of having my mom or anyone else in my family bring him up because he torched every bridge he could on his way out of town and the wounds never stopped seeping. No one talked about him with anything but their eyes in a passing glance here or there.

  “CJ,” Georgia said, dropping her arms and sinking her shoulders. “You’re not him. You know that.”

  “Do I?” I hissed, turning to punch the wall of the closest storefront. It was brick, so I thought better of it and put my hand down.

  Georgia put her hand over my forearm. “CJ …”

  “They were high school sweethearts, Georgia. And overnight, when I was too young to know what the fuck was going on … he was gone. That’s what love and commitment got my mom. Abandonment.”

  “He didn’t love her,” she said, taking a step back when my head whipped toward her. “Because real love doesn’t allow for that. She tried to love him enough for the both of them, and it didn’t work. But she did love you enough for the both of them.”

  I was pissed after listening to her assault my character for the last several minutes. Accusing me of still being the boy she met in her dad’s bar more than fifteen years ago when she knew better. She’d seen me go through more shit than I’d let anyone else see. She watched me changed. She was hitting below the belt and I’d had it.

  “Let’s talk about you for a minute. We both come from broken-ass backgrounds and trusted no one for years.”

  She shrugged. “Until Regan. He’s it for me.

  “Hmm,” I started, intentionally sounding like the biggest ass I could. “Seems interesting, then, that you’re already popping up on this tour more than you ever have before. Before we even left California you were at like every show. Is it because you’re afraid that now I’m a free man, I’ll rub off on him, and you’re worried he’ll notice Yardley’s tits for once? Or are you just ovulating?”

  Georgia’s mouth dropped, her eyes wide, but I cut her off. “Yeah, Regan told me you guys want kids. But, answer me this? Do you honestly think a baby will make things easier? Yeah, kids are known for smoothing out rough patches in relationships.”

  She ground her teeth together, sneering at me. “That’s not why we want a family, asshole. You know that. We’re not even in a rough patch, you douchebag.”

  “How does it feel to be judged?” was all I said before storming into the hotel lobby and back to my room.

  Alone.

  Better off alone.

  I didn’t need a sidewalk psychology discussion from Georgia or anyone else about my “daddy issues.” I was there—I knew the facts. I saw how my mom suffered after doing nothing but loving the one man she’d loved since she was in braces.

  What I needed was to do my job on this tour and have my kind of fun when I wasn’t on stage. Risk free, strings free.

  And fuck anyone else who wanted to tell me otherwise.

  Twelve

  Regan

  “What’d you do to CJ?” I questioned Georgia as we stood in the airport. She had a few minutes before she needed to go through security.

  She shrugged, pressing her tongue into the side of her cheek with an unamused frown. “I didn’t do anything. He figured out I knew Frankie canned him. Then he made it her fault—”

  “What?” I asked when she stopped short.

  Georgia huffed. “He brought up his dad.”

  I winced, knowing that couldn’t have ended up anywhere pleasant since he almost never mentioned him. “Again?”

  She nodded. “He … he thinks the risk is being in love, not being a playboy. Like … his mom got screwed even though she loved his dad, while his dad just got to run off like nothing happened.”

  “Ah,” I nodded, “he thinks he’s just turning into him right out of the gate. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t, huh?”

  She nodded back as she looked down, biting her lip for a second before settling her mouth into a frown.

  I kissed the top of her head, savoring the inhale of her fruity body spray.

  “Look at me,” I whispered, lifting her chin with my index finger. “That’s their life. It’s not us, you know that right?” The tortured look on her eyes, highlighted by the crease between her eyebrows made me wonder if this tour brought back all the fears and insecurities Georgia had had before my first.

  “I know,” she spoke into my chest, squeezing me harder.

  I’ll never forget her complete breakdown before I left on my first tour. A breakdown that masqueraded as a fight until she sank facedown on our bed and sobbed so hard all I could make out was she was afraid I’d find somebody better on tour. Saner. More put together. Helpless and unprepared, all I could do was kiss the top of her head then, too. I did all I could to assure her, gently, how wrong she was. That no groupie could ever take her place. And, if it was musicians she was worried about, I told her sanity wasn’t a strong suit in that bunch.

  My humor was enough, then. For the moment.

  It took a couple of years and a lot of tours before Georgia and I settled into our own rhythm of trust and security. Her dad chose booze over her, and while her mom was committed to her as much as she could be, the schizophrenia stood in the way of a truly deep connection most of the time. Georgia had only ever had her self to rely on. Letting me in was like a new birth for her, and setting me free on each tour opened old wounds. I didn’t take her trust for granted.

  Eyeing a digital clock on the wall across from me, I knew we were on borrowed time. The airport was small and not busy, but Georgia had a full week coming up, and missing a flight would set her back more than half a day. Unacceptable in the world of f
ondant and gluten-free bridezillas.

  “Come on.” I grabbed her hand and tugged her along half a step behind me. “I’ll walk with you as far as I can.”

  “Tell CJ I’m sorry. Wait. Don’t … I don’t know. The way he stormed off …”

  I moved my hand to her lower back, bare from her midriff top, and savored the smooth, warm feel of her skin. “He’ll cool off.”

  She sighed. “I know. But I love him and hate to watch him fuck up his life. And Frankie … it all just sucks.”

  “Yep,” I agreed. “This adult thing can really be the pits.”

  While I was relieved our conversation during her stay hadn’t veered into ovulation and menstrual cycles, it struck me as odd. For the last couple of months, while not becoming over-the-top about it, Georgia hasn’t been shy about either of those topics. This past weekend? Nothing. It occurred to me, albeit briefly, that maybe Georgia’s intense focus on CJ and Frankie had something to do with this baby stuff. Maybe she picked up on some of my anxiety and was trying to deflect. Though, that seemed unlikely since it had been mere hours since I’d admitted the anxiety to myself.

  “You did amazing this weekend, Regan. Really. I can’t even believe that you get better every time I hear you play. Will you ever max out?” she teased.

  I smiled pulling her in for another hug, letting out a forced chuckle under the heavy circumstances. “Never.”

  She smiled. Her tired eyes from what little sleep we’d managed through the weekend looked bright and misty on the horizon of our goodbye.

  “Don’t cry, okay?” I asked, more of myself than her. I didn’t want her to leave. I wished things were different. That she could join me on every tour, even if she never went on a stage in all her life.

  I couldn’t wish away her bakery, though. And I’d never wish away the music. So, it was what it was as I kissed my wife goodbye, and watched her navigate the maze of metal detectors and loud, pushy travelers throwing their shoes into plastic bins.

  I was relieved the maid service hadn’t come through yet when I returned to my room. It always stressed me out to leave my violin unattended anywhere except the tour bus, actually. I’d never had an instrument stolen, but knew enough people who’d had them stolen or damaged to give me a healthy protectiveness.

  As I stuffed my clothes into my duffel bag, something red caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I grinned, reaching for the pillow Georgia had used last night. She always slept with half her face smushed into the pillow, mouth gaping open. On the crisp white linen pillowcase there was the bright red proof that my wife had slept deeply next to me the night before. A perfect half-kiss stain left in her absence.

  I missed her already. I knew the longing would only last a couple of days at most, and at least I had the project from Yardley to help distract me. Still, it didn’t make the days of missing her any easier. I sighed, stripping the pillowcase from its host, and shoved it in my bag.

  ***

  “Here,” I said to Yardley, handing her some torn-out pieces from my music composition notebook. “Have them try this, and if you and they like it, I can do more.”

  We were loading the busses, preparing for our short stop in Washington before the twelve-hour trek to Billings, Montana. Our shortest drive, for the first half of the tour anyway, was the ride from Reno to Portland, Oregon. It would have been just over nine hours with no stops, but we’re typically a hungry bunch.

  Yardley took the papers, arching her eyebrow as she gave me the once-over. “I tell him no rush,” she says to no one, “and he gives it to me early.”

  I playfully shrugged. “What can I say? This kind of stuff is fun for me.”

  “Wasn’t Georgia here? Didn’t I see her at both shows?”

  “Yeah, she had a great time. Thanks for the good seats for her.”

  Yardley rolled her eyes. “She’s as much royalty as you are, Regan. If I could sit her right on the stage I would. I’m grateful she shares you so openly with us.” She scanned through the pages, nodding as if trying to understand them. I knew Yardley didn’t have a strong knowledge of composition, but she was learning enough to at least offer suggestions and opinions.

  “Shares?” I questioned.

  “You know,” she said, making eye contact with me. “This life isn’t for everyone. And, in my experience it’s the spouse that tires of it long before the musician. Take care of that woman of yours, Regan. She deserves it. Though,” Yardley blushed a bit as she spoke, which was a rare break in her business armor, “I’m sure you’re a great husband. You’re quite the romantic.”

  Now it was my turn to blush. “God. Stop.”

  “I mean it,” she replied, insistently. “The way you work the crowd with your eyes and body? It’s inviting without being perverse. Sure, some of our audience likes the more overt sexuality provided by your cousin and other … lively … members of our tour. But you’re safe. You bring something out of people that’s already deep inside them, rather than trying to shove something down their throats. You’re a true artist, Regan. A true performer.”

  I swallowed hard. While I wasn’t overly bashful in discussions regarding my playing ability, when it came to my personality—my self—it was a different story. Ember had a way of crawling right inside my head from the moment she met me, and it disarmed me. It seemed that Yardley was her West Coast counterpart.

  “Thanks … I guess?” I finally responded.

  “I’ll take a look at this and run it by Cheryl and Luke. CJ too, I guess, since he’ll play with them at least through Billings, if not longer.”

  I nodded. “Sounds good. Oh, you’ll notice,” I moved next to her, pointing at the sheet music, “I did add a fiddle part, just to see. I know they don’t have one, and that’s fine. We could also substitute it with a second guitar, and I made that suggestion on the back of this sheet. It’s easy enough that any guitarist from any of the bands could probably sight-read it, but important enough to the sound that they should give it a try.”

  “I’d offer to play the fiddle part,” I continued. “But I don’t know if I’d want to commit to that for the rest of the tour. CJ and I have a pretty aggressive set, and we add to it by the minute. It’ll be a relief for both of us when their drummer is healed, though I think CJ would just play twenty-four seven until he bled out.”

  Yardley grinned. “He is kind of a workhorse isn’t he?”

  “Limitless. Until he hits a wall, that is. He’s gotta learn some self regulation. Maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know …”

  She waved her hand. “Anyway, don’t stress about the fiddle part. Maybe I’ll have you play it in rehearsal just so we can see how it sounds? We’ll do a guitar, too. Then we can make a collective decision about how we want to proceed and deal with it from there.”

  “And if they like the fiddle?” I asked, hesitantly. I almost regretted scoring a part for violin, but couldn’t help myself. I truly thought that, along with vocal work, could really push Moniker to front and center on the tour. Or at least even with Nessa’s group, The Brewers.

  “I’ll smoke one out of somewhere,” Yardley answered slyly. “I’ll prod Nessa. She could use a little shakeup now and then.”

  My ears perked up. “Nessa? What about her?”

  “I think she brought her violin with her, anyway. I’m sure she did,” she said, waving her hand again. “She’s hardly without it.”

  I pushed my head forward a bit, my eyes widening. “She plays?” I asked, trying to remember the last time I’d been this pleasantly surprised.

  Yardley seemed to ignore my shock. “Yeah,” she answered as if it were yesterday’s news, still poring over the score. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind standing in for a while. She’s hardcore, too. Doesn’t mind pushing herself.”

  I felt a long-lost vibration of excitement rolling through my body as Yardley asked a few questions about the arrangement, and requested my opinion in other places. Once she headed for her bus, still studying the pieces I’d written, I
raced to find Nessa.

  “Hey!” I called, spotting her closing the large door underneath the black bus.

  “Hey yourself.” Nessa wore black yoga pants and a grey long-sleeved shirt. A far more comfortable look than she usually paraded in on stage. A decidedly intriguing relaxed contrast to her black and blue hair and last night’s smudged mascara.

  “I’ve gotta dump my stuff onto my bus, but I need to talk to you. Don’t … go anywhere.” I was nearly giddy.

  “Okay!” she answered with mocking excitement.

  I left my violin slung over my shoulder as I bounded up the steps to the tour bus I shared with CJ and The Shakes. Entering the section where CJ and I slept, I was oblivious until I heard the muffled profanity coming from CJ’s bed.

  “Shit!” I exclaimed without looking, tossing my duffel bag on my bed while two bodies—one definitely CJ’s—scrambled for cover under his tousled blankets. “Sorry.”

  “… the fuck out,” CJ mumbled, seeming to not miss a beat as his mouth remained mostly connected with his guest’s.

  I huffed, leaving as quickly as I came, pissed that he’d pull this right before we were leaving. I just wanted to hit my bed and sleep. But, renewed energy surged through me when I realized I wanted to talk to Nessa, anyway. Amazing how the sight of your naked cousin can really derail a person.

  “What’s with you?” Nessa asked, meeting me halfway between our two busses.

  I held out my hands. “I’m temporarily homeless. CJ’s … busy. I don’t know who with, but we’re rolling out in like two minutes, so unless he’s bringing a guest—”