Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  I just wanted to show him a good time, and love on the man who has loved me when I couldn’t or wouldn’t love myself.

  ***

  If my calculations were correct, I’d actually beat the tour buses to the hotel in Minneapolis. They had been lumbering their way from Billings to Minnesota, swinging through random towns here and there for R&R. A break from the tour grind.

  Regan left me a detailed itinerary before he left on this tour, and any time it changed he would always call or text. My short-term memory was filled with brides and first birthday parties and gender reveal cakes—that’s a thing now. I couldn’t fill it with trying to remember where he was at any given minute.

  I’ll never forget the first time he forgot what city he was in. It was hilarious. He was well into his first long tour with Celtic Summer, and he wandered on the streets for a minute until he figured it out because he didn’t want to ask anyone. Men. It was Richmond, VA, by the way. We joked we should name a child Richmond, though we couldn’t decide if it would be applied to a boy or girl.

  Still energized despite the long, uneventful flight, and the fact I hadn’t slept since the night before, I took a cab to the hotel that was next on the travel docket. I decided not to rent a car, since once I arrived at the hotel I didn’t plan on going anywhere—or wearing clothes—until my return flight late tomorrow morning.

  It was late. Ten o’clock, meaning I had less than an hour before Regan was scheduled to check in.

  “Hi,” I greeted the bored-looking twenty-something, male receptionist at the check-in desk. “I’m Georgia Kane, checking in early to Regan Kane’s room. It might be under Grounded Sound Entertainment.”

  He nodded once—not rude, but he could have certainly used a little coffee—and began clacking away on the keyboard in front of him.

  “Hmm,” he said, squinting as if that would change the information before him. “I don’t have you—”

  I put up my hand. “Let me stop you right there. I’m aware that my name isn’t on the reservation. Regan is my husband. He’s on tour. Kind of a big deal,” I started, checking the time on my phone. “So, I’ll show you my license, passport, almost whatever you need to prove to you he’s my husband so you can hand me a key to his room. Because, one way or another, I’ll get in that room.” I shot him a wink and a slightly flirtatious smile, keeping my voice light and airy throughout.

  I’d been through this multiple times in the last few years. Then, it donned on me.

  “Click on special requests.”

  “Huh?” He looked at me like this was his first day on the job.

  I sighed. “The special requests tab for Regan Kane. My name will likely be there.”

  He arched an eyebrow, but did as I asked. A few seconds later, he eyed me. Georgia, you said?”

  I nodded, smiling. “That’s me.”

  “Says here to add you to the room.”

  I nodded once, gesturing to the keyboard. “If you will …”

  Yardley’s good. We started that system halfway through Regan’s first tour, when I encountered a difficult front desk manager—no doubt concerned with keeping their job, and the band’s safety a close second. The surprise was ruined when I called Regan, blubbering that they wouldn’t tell me where his room was. I hadn’t thought of calling Yardley then. Still, after that incident, she put my name on every room Regan stayed in. I hadn’t talked with her about it for this tour, but it seemed she really did take care of her label family.

  “Here you are, Mrs. Kane. Sorry for the delay,” the young man said with renewed enthusiasm for his job. “Your husband’s amazing, by the way.”

  I blushed. “He is,” I agreed. “Here. For your trouble.” I reached into my oversized tote bag that served as my carry on, and handed him a baked and decorated this morning Sweet Forty-Two cupcake in a plastic container. Iced sky blue with a deep red cherry on top.

  “Seriously?” He smiled at the confection.

  I nodded. “Enjoy.”

  With a quick wave, I sauntered to the elevator, reveling in the sound the plastic box made as it popped open, and the front desk boy took his first bite. And moaned. It helped to travel with currency such as mine. I couldn’t remember anything I wasn’t able to talk my way out of as long as I had a bag full of sugar over my shoulder. Regan often doubted sugar’s power, even over money, until he saw it in action. The boy at the front desk was one more satisfying data point in my favor.

  I paused for a minute in front of room 825, pressing my ear to the door to be sure Regan wasn’t in there. I didn’t hear anything, but didn’t want to scare him if he was sleeping. So I texted him, making sure to turn off my location first, of course. Some mistakes I only made once.

  Me: Hey babe. You guys in Minneapolis yet?

  Regan: Yeah we’re on our way to the hotel finally. I’ll be passed out within the hour for sure.

  Me: Goodnight. I love you.

  Regan: I love you.

  I grinned like a fool, sliding my room card into the slot on the door. Turning on a hot shower, I began the process of washing the travel off me, and slipping into a little number that would most certainly have landed me on a no-fly list had I worn it through security.

  Spaghetti straps, silk covering only the top half my backside, black and red lace, and really very little to the imagination. I paired it with red, very high heels—Regan’s favorite. I was still shorter than him with them on, but he didn’t have to lean so far forward to lift me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist.

  Practical and provocative. Multitasking sex-wear.

  Almost exactly a half hour later, I heard the familiar ruckus of a band tumbling down the hallway and into their rooms for the night. Back slapping, tired grumbles of plans for food in the morning, and requests by some to others to not get too drunk.

  Settling myself onto the bed, I rested on my elbows with one knee bent and the other leg straight out. I wanted to run to the door, fling it open, and drag him to the bed without so much as a hello, but decided on seduction as the barest of foreplay.

  I heard Regan’s voice through the others. Making plans for the morning and the next afternoon. Talk of measures, chord progressions, and vocals. Always wheeling and dealing. Pushing himself and everyone around him to do more and be better.

  My heart thumped with the click of the door unlocking. Regan was still talking as he opened the door, and I had a slight moment of panic that he might tear in with CJ or some other band member. But, my fears were assuaged when I reminded myself that Regan values his private time on tour above almost all else, and almost always takes a room by himself when he can.

  Almost.

  His duffel bag thumped down just out of view, and he was going to round the corner any second.

  “So,” he said. Still talking through the door, I thought. “I’m glad I convinced you to come up here with me.”

  “You’re a hell of a salesman.” A light giggle followed him into the room. “It’s hard to say no to you.”

  It was a woman.

  My pulse worked wildly in my neck as I scrambled, trying to get under the sheets as quickly as possible, but my fucking heels kept catching on the fabric.

  No. This isn’t happening. Not Regan.

  Whoever this bitch is has another thing coming.

  I can’t fight her half-naked, though.

  Fuck yes I can.

  With one shoe off, I was able to gain traction. Sliding from the bed I was on my feet, though quite unbalanced with one heel on. No matter, I grabbed the other one as a weapon. Adrenaline would steady me. But, my planned element of surprise was in vain, as Regan spotted me a split second later.

  “Georgia?!” Regan shouted, looking as confused as I’m sure I did horrified.

  That horror shifted to darkness, and my mind clouded with shouting rage as I sized up the tall, flawless woman next to him.

  Nessa.

  Seventeen

  Georgia

  “Georgia! Sorry!” Nessa shrieked,
turning around and covering her face as she walked toward the door.

  I was dizzy from rage and embarrassment. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She faced me, but looked up to the ceiling. “I …” she started.

  “Oh Jesus Christ, Nessa, it’s lingerie. Get over yourself and answer my question.” My voice was a dark version of itself—one I hadn’t heard in a long time. Years maybe.

  Nessa swallowed hard, looking to Regan, whose eyes wisely stayed on me.

  “I’m over here,” I snapped. “I trusted you—and I don’t trust other women—and you show up in my husband’s hotel room?”

  It’s not like that,” she answered quickly. Panicked.

  “Georgia?” Regan said again, reining in my attention. His face was still, highlighting his shock.

  I shrugged, certain my face was rage-red. “Surprised?”

  “Nessa and I were going to go over set stuff … new songs …” He wasn’t pleading so much as informing.

  “I’m gonna go,” Nessa whispered.

  I dismissed her with a wave, not wanting to waste time on the person I wasn’t in a relationship with. She slunk away with a tail-between-her-legs sort of slink.

  Regan stared at the closed door for a moment before refocusing on me. “When … when did you get here?”

  I took a deep breath. “A half hour ago … well. A half hour plus five naked minutes ago. When I texted you …”

  “You looked pissed when—”

  “Well, yeah. I mean … I heard a girl say you were a sweet talker and—”

  He pulled his head back, his eyebrows scrunching to the midline of his forehead. “Seriously, Georgia?”

  “Yes. Seriously. I was laying here half naked waiting for you and … wait … are you mad at me? You’re mad at me?”

  Regan backed over to a chair next to a pointless table and sat with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He took a long, deep breath before looking up at me, his chin resting on his interlaced fingers.

  He stared at me for a long few seconds before speaking. “You thought I brought another woman to my hotel room.”

  “To be fair … you did.”

  “You know what I mean, Georgia.” He sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days. “You didn’t have to be such a—”

  “A bitch?” I filled in the blank. “I kind of did. You showed up late at night with another woman.”

  “You wouldn’t let me explain. We’re working on a whole new fucking set and it takes time. A lot of time.” His tone was growly. Tired and ragged.

  Also, Regan hardly swore in a serious context. This conversation was headed in an uglier direction than I could have imagined given what the situation originally appeared to be.

  “Yes,” I snapped. “You told me. But it was still another woman—”

  “A fellow musician, Georgia. A coworker.” His voice was as annoyed as I’d ever heard it.

  I backed up, kneeling in front of him so he could see me, eye to eye. “Understand where I’m coming from. She thanked you for inviting her up, you said you were glad you could convince her … I had no other context, Reg—”

  “The context is our marriage,” he nearly growled again, keeping his tone low as he stood, and walked around the far side of the bed.

  “You keep walking away from me.” My nostrils flared as I spoke. “As if I’ve done something wrong.”

  He held out his hands, his tired eyes staring right at me. “When will it ever be enough for you? My word. When will that hold up, Georgia? I gave you my word when we were dating, on our wedding day, and have kept it every single day since. When is that enough?”

  I scrunched my eyebrows, confused at the direction this conversation had headed.

  “It is enough. It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s others.”

  He shook his head. “We’ve been down that road, too. It’s not about the others. If you trust me enough, whatever anyone else does shouldn’t matter.” He stood with his hands on his hips, head hanging low as if weighed down by his feelings.

  “I was startled, Regan.” I knelt on the bed. “It was just a gut reaction.”

  He looked at me, and I wished he hadn’t. His eyes were stained with hurt. Heartbroken. “A gut reaction to not trust me.”

  I swallowed hard, the fight leaving me quickly. Regan was never an instigator—he never started a fight for the exercise of it, so I believed the pained expression and defeated words. They weren’t show.

  He shrugged, sitting on the bed next to me, folding his hands in front of him. “I’m just … disappointed.”

  I wanted to cry so immediately and hard that it knocked me off balance. Sure, Regan and I had had fights before and been pissy with each other here and there, but nothing that a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix. He’d never verbalized disappointment, though. At least not in me or us.

  “I’m tired and excited to be here and … I don’t want to waste the next twelve hours fighting …” My eyes welled with tears, but I looked to the ceiling to dry them, not wanting to fall all the way apart in that moment.

  “Let’s get some sleep?” He leaned over, placing a soft kiss on my temple before rising to discard his clothing, save for his boxer briefs. “I’m going to hop in the shower quick.”

  I nodded, whispering, “Kay.”

  Once the shower was on, I took a minute to assess the situation. The blankets on the bed were swirled like a disheveled bird’s nest, the comforter lay on the floor with the heel of my shoe peeking out underneath it. Regan’s duffel bag and violin case were a few feet from the door, where he’d dropped them. I kicked off the shoe I was still wearing and slid under the covers, trying to figure out my next move.

  How had things gone so wrong? Had I truly overreacted? Was he the one being too sensitive?

  A few minutes later, the shower turned off and Regan came naked into the room, stopping at his bag to retrieve a fresh pair of boxers. The space filled with the tropical scent of his favorite shampoo, and it brought me some comfort to have scents from home in this foreign, cold place.

  I had only a split second to decide if I was going to pretend to be asleep already, a tactic I was familiar with, but chose the adult move instead. As Regan situated himself under the covers, I turned to face him. Operating on autopilot, it seemed by the half-vacant expression on his face, Regan opened his left arm, allowing me entrance to his warm, soft skin. Settling into the dip of his shoulder, I tilted my chin up to kiss his jaw.

  “Regan,” I whispered, trying to keep the tears away, “I’m sorry.”

  He kissed the top of my head and gave my shoulders a squeeze. “I know. I love you.”

  No I’m sorry too, no I forgive you, just I know.

  “I love you,” I said.

  Then, I just went for it. We weren’t some new couple tiptoeing around each other’s feelings, this was my husband, dammit, and I’d come a long way to make love to him. I slid my hand from the center of his chest, down to his boxers, and slid my thumb under the band, tracing an imaginary line from hip to hip. He shifted, and I thought things were finally going in my favor—the evening I’d previously planned.

  “Georgia,” he said, almost regrettably, which really should have been my first hint. But, with Regan, I was always an optimist. “I’m exhausted.”

  He gave me another kiss, this time on the forehead, and rolled over, snoring once, the way he did when he first falls asleep. Then, his shoulders rose in fell in the dreamy rhythm of deep sleep.

  Just like that.

  I rolled onto my back, whiplashed from the wild turn this evening had taken. Hadn’t Regan come into the hotel room prepared to work for however many hours with Nessa on tour stuff? Now he was snoring less than twenty minutes after entering the room.

  I drained him with my accusations and suspicions. Regan had never once—not once—turned me down for sex. Not even when he had pneumonia last year, but I took pity on him then and let him sleep. Yet in the spacious hotel room in
the middle of Minneapolis, my husband, who I hadn’t seen or touched for a whole month, was too tired to touch me. Or for me to touch him.

  I stayed awake for another hour, or so, mulling over all the orders at the bakery left to the hands of people who weren’t me, while I was busy not making love to my husband.

  So much for spontaneity.

  ***

  I rose early, scoring coffee and croissants from the hotel’s five-star kitchen while Regan’s clothes were being laundered. I took out a small notebook dotted with hand-drawn cupcakes on the cover, and made a note to really give croissants a go this year. I knew they were hard—I made them at home for Regan and I from time to time—but I needed more practice if I was going to produce something worthy enough to sell.

  “Georgia?” CJ’s early-morning grumbly voice startled my attention away from the window where I sat, staring out onto a busy Minneapolis street.

  “Hey,” I offered with a smile.

  He looked around, hands out, asking for more.

  “Surprise,” I mused. “Got a cigarette?”

  He crinkled his nose. “You came all the way to Minnesota to bum a cigarette off me?”

  I arched an eyebrow, sighing.

  He put his hands up in defense. “Fine, fine. Come on.”

  Once out on the street, CJ handed me a cigarette and a lighter, and I inhaled long and deep before exhaling slowly.

  “So you, like, smoke again? I thought you left that behind when you were twenty.” CJ snatched his lighter back, filling his lungs with smoke before sliding the cancer starter pack in his back pocket.

  I gave him the once over. “And since when are you more than just a casual smoker?”

  “Don’t start,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Why aren’t you upstairs making babies with Regan? And, I don’t think those things will help the process,” he said, gesturing to the cigarette hanging from my lips.