Amber

by Elle Casey

  “Yeah, they’re still great. But that kid they hired . . .” She shakes her head in disappointment.

  I turn to face her a little bit, leaning on the sink. “What’s wrong with him? He seems like he’s a pretty good guitarist.”

  “He is. He’s just not . . . Red Hot material.”

  “I hear he’s been a fan of the band his whole life. He knows all their songs backward and forward.” Apparently, I’m a saleswoman for Tyler Stanz now. Yep . . . a glutton for punishment.

  She shrugs, taking out a comb to tease her hair up even higher than it already is, which is several inches off the top of her head. “That may be, but he just doesn’t have the look.”

  “You mean the mullets?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know . . . the haircut. Short in the front, long in the back?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Maybe.” She shrugs, teasing more hair. “I mean he really does stick out, don’t you think?”

  Yeah, he does stick out. He’s the only one who looks halfway decent up there. “He does, but shouldn’t it be about the music and not what he looks like? I mean, if they hired him, obviously they believe in him. They think he’s good for the band.” Yes, I am still trying to sell this woman on Ty. I’m obviously desperate for conversation and missing my mothers.

  She shrugs. “Maybe. But they haven’t said anything about it.”

  “What do you mean? Who hasn’t said anything?”

  “The band. They go on interviews all the time, and they know people are saying this stuff about the guy, but they never say anything about it. They never defend him. It’s like they agree with us.”

  Now I’m starting to get the idea why Ty is so upset. “Oh . . . well . . . that’s weird. You’d think they would defend their choice.”

  “Exactly.” She puts her comb back in her purse and snaps it shut. “Which tells me that they don’t want him there.” She arranges her bangs on her forehead. “He’s probably there because some lawyer or some band manager said he had to be, and they don’t even want him. They’re being forced to use him. I hear he wasn’t even supposed to be here and then he just suddenly showed up. He doesn’t even have the respect to get here with the band.”

  “Is that fair?”

  The woman looks at me like I’m crazy. “What do you mean, fair?”

  “To guess what their reason is without knowing for sure. To assume he showed up late in a disrespectful way.”

  She stares me down. “Listen, little girl . . . I’ve been following Red Hot since I was twelve years old, and I’m not going to tell you how old I am right now, but trust me . . . I’ve been a fan for a long time. I know them like they’re my brothers.”

  “Really?” She makes me want to smack that smarmy smile off her face. “How many kids do they have?” Ha! She’ll never pass this test. If she doesn’t say at least three, then she’s wrong.

  “They have no children because they never got trapped by any women and they never got married.”

  Trapped. That’s what people are going to say about my mothers . . . maybe even about my sisters and me too. It makes me sick to even think about it. “Maybe they’re gay,” I say, hoping I can plant a seed of doubt in her mind.

  “Please. They are players. But they’re smart, not like those other idiots.”

  She walks around me to leave the bathroom.

  “What other idiots?”

  “Those idiots like Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler who didn’t use birth control and got girls pregnant and then got stuck with kids they didn’t want hanging around with their hands out.”

  I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say at first. But as she opens the door and walks out, I yell at her back. “That’s a pretty harsh judgment on those innocent kids, don’t you think?”

  “All I know is what I see in the news.” And then she’s gone, taking her nasty judgments with her.

  The door is shut for half a second before it opens up again and lets in noise from the band playing their next tune and two more women old enough to be my mother. I’m trembling with anger and something that feels like fear. What if people find out that the band members have three daughters? Will they say horrible things about my sisters and me? About our mothers? Will they think that we’re all assholes with our hands out? It’s the conclusion that Ty jumped to, and he knows the band personally. Oh shit.

  We’ve lived completely anonymous lives down on the farm. Nobody has ever said anything rude to us except the occasional town council member who didn’t like our horse manure piling up or us using a barn as an animal clinic. But this is a whole other ball of wax, that a stranger who knows nothing about me would judge me or someone in my family so cruelly.

  I wash my hands slowly, contemplating the change that could be occurring in my life right now, a change that I have little control over. This is nuts. I really need to talk to my sisters, but I don’t want anyone in here overhearing my conversation.

  More groups of women pour into the bathroom laughing and talking, some of them tripping over themselves because they’re so drunk. I dry my hands off and leave, staying on the outskirts of the throng. The song comes to an end and Ty turns his back to the crowd.

  Red clears his throat and speaks. “The band’s going to take a break, but we’ll be back for another set in about twenty minutes. Booze is on us and so are the snacks, so eat and drink up, and don’t forget to tip your bartenders. All profits from tonight’s event go to the Children’s House Charity. Make sure you stick around, because we’ve got some exciting news to share with you soon.”

  Lister shows up at my elbow, scaring the crap out of me. “Are you ready to meet them?” he asks.

  I look up at him, angry and annoyed, the conversation in the bathroom still fresh in my mind. “They actually want to meet me on their break? They think this conversation is just going to take a couple minutes?”

  “It can take as long as you want. They don’t have to go back out in twenty minutes if they’re not ready or you’re not ready.”

  I snort in disgust. “That’s just what I need. All these people hating me more than they probably already do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I shake my head. “Never mind. Just bring me to them and we’ll get this over with.” I don’t need to worry about the twenty-minute deadline. What I have to say isn’t going to take any longer than two minutes, tops. I rub my stomach as we walk, worried I just might vomit when I meet the man who claims to be my father.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I want to say that I’m feeling brave and confident as hell, but that would be an utter lie. I’m shaking and breaking out in a cold sweat, and my heart is hammering away big-time. I think the chopsticks in my hair are clicking together to the same beat as my chattering teeth. It feels like I’m walking in subzero temperatures when I know good and well that the body heat collecting in here is warm enough to steam up the front windows of the club.

  “They’re in a private room upstairs,” Lister says. “There are lots of people up there with them, but we’ll ask them to leave.”

  We climb a steep set of stairs and go down a long, dimly lit hallway. He stops outside a door that has two bodyguards on either side of it.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, looking down at me.

  “No. Definitely not.” I grit my teeth together so he won’t see they’re chattering.

  His expression softens. “If you don’t want to do this, just say so. I can send you back to New York on the jet, and you can see them in the morning when you’re ready.”

  I imagine myself telling my sisters this story, including the part where I chickened out two seconds before meeting the men who claim to be our fathers. I shake my head. “No. Let’s just get it over with.” I smooth down my dress even though there are no wrinkles in it and grip my purse like it’s a live bomb that I need to keep from hitting the floor.

  Lister opens the door and gestures for me to go in ahead of him. I do, but stop just inside.
>
  There are several people milling around. Some of them are dressed like they’re roadies, and others are decked out like I am. Most of those in finery are women. There’s a lot of big hair in the room, regardless of the gender of the person sporting it. One side of the space has several long tables covered in linen tablecloths and platters of food. It looks like a wedding reception buffet. There’s even a four-tier cake in the middle. I’ve been to exactly three non-hippie weddings, and none of them had food as fancy as what I’m seeing here.

  In the back of the room are several members of the band, lounging on couches and plush armchairs. To the left, over in the corner, is Ty with three women standing in front of him very closely, enough to make it appear very intimate. It annoys me, even though I have no right to feel that way. He’s holding what looks like a scotch in his hand and is nodding, but his eyes are roaming the room. When they land on me, they lock on mine and he stiffens and stands up straighter. Another electric jolt hits me.

  I look away. I’m still a little mad at him for the way he handled things earlier, but I know this emotion will fade. He was just trying to have fun with me, but he didn’t fully appreciate the pressure I was under with meeting the band members. I believe he would have done things differently if he’d been more fully informed. I also feel bad about the things that the woman in the bathroom said about him, but that’s not anything I’m going to worry about right now or probably ever. I have only one mission to complete tonight: I need to have this horribly awkward and painful conversation with these men before they go back out onstage . . . and then I need to go.

  I wish I knew how my mothers would feel about this, if they’d be proud of me or disappointed. This is such a foreign situation for me to be in; nothing in my life has prepared me for being the spokesperson for my sisters, making declarations and assertions to perfect strangers that reach back into our history and out toward our future. I miss my family. I miss Glenhollow Farms. I really don’t want to be here.

  One of the band members with big hair, I think it’s Red but it’s kind of hard to see from here, raises his hand and speaks loudly.

  “Everybody . . . can I get your attention, please? Could everyone but the band step outside and go back downstairs, please? We need to have a short meeting.” He pauses, looking at some of the guys wearing black jeans and black T-shirts, all of them sporting beer bellies. “Crew too. You guys can head on down.”

  People look surprised and not very happy, whispering among themselves as they move to comply. Many set their glasses on nearby tables on their way toward the door. I walk over slowly to the buffet, trying not to be obvious about the fact that I’m staying while they’re leaving, but I can sense these strangers staring at me. My ears start to burn as whispers float over.

  I turn my back and focus on the cake. It’s beautiful—a wedding cake fit for a princess. It’s covered in white icing with pink and yellow roses, little purple violets, and orange begonias too, wrapping around each layer and flowing down the sides. They all look so real, I reach out and touch one to find out what it’s made of—sugar, maybe. I look over my shoulder to see if anyone’s watching, and when it seems that everyone’s attention is elsewhere, I grab one of the small purple flowers and pop it into my mouth. This is exactly what I need. With a little sugar rush, I can get this over with easy peasy, lemon . . .

  “I saw that,” says a voice over my shoulder.

  A shiver runs through me. I know who it is but don’t look back.

  “So what?” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  “You nervous?” Ty steps around to stand next to me.

  “No. Why would I be nervous?” Crunch. So sweet . . . unlike this guy next to me.

  “You just look kinda nervous to me.”

  Crunch, crunch, crunch-crunch-crunch. “Go away.” I lick the sugar off my teeth. I hope they aren’t purple now from the food coloring.

  “But I hear we’re about to have a meeting.”

  “Whatever. Just get away from me.”

  He sighs, sounding annoyed. “Listen, I just want to apologize.”

  “Too late. I’m here to have this meeting and then I’m leaving. It’s been nice knowing you.” I feel like I just jammed an ice pick into my own heart. I know I’m being rude, but I can’t have him stand near me like this. I’m too tender right now, too on the edge—and Ty is the one person who I think could easily push me over, with only a few simple words. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense considering how little we know each other, but there’s no arguing with this heart of mine.

  Suddenly, Lister is there in his place. “Okay, the room is clear if you want to come on over.”

  I stare at the cake. I’d rather sit down and eat this entire thing than talk to those men.

  “Amber?”

  “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

  I’ve got to get this done, I can’t back out now. Rose, Em, and I talked about it for days on end, weighing the pros and cons, coming up with lists and lists of reasons why accepting their money would be the end of everything as we know it, an event we could never undo—a big, fat mistake. I have no choice but to go forward.

  When I recount the story to my sisters tomorrow, I won’t tell them how long I stood here hesitating. I won’t tell them that I was second-guessing everything and strongly considering running out the door without saying a word.

  I turn around and don’t even bother with a fake smile. What’s the point? I’m not happy and I sure don’t want them to think that I am. This is seriously sad business. We’re about to discuss how much my sisters and I despise them . . . these men we don’t even know because they never bothered to get to know us . . . these overrated, potbellied has-beens who put their adoring fans over their girlfriends and children.

  I walk with Lister over to the couches where the band members are all sitting. There are five of them in total. The only one I know by sight is Redmond . . . Red Wylde, lead singer. They look very different from their pictures on the album covers in my moms’ collection. As I stand in front of them, Lister gestures to each one in turn.

  “Amber, may I introduce to you the members of Red Hot . . . We have Mooch Gyllenhaal here on drums . . .”

  A gray-haired man with a barrel chest and thick tattooed arms waves, grinning awkwardly.

  “Cash Stagger over here on rhythm guitar.”

  The pudgiest one of the group lifts a finger without expression.

  “Paul Goldman on bass . . .”

  This very short band member gives me a thumbs-up and a smile that looks relaxed.

  “You’ve already met Tyler Stanz, their new lead guitarist who took the place of Keith James, who passed away six months ago.”

  Ty just stares at me with his trademark dark expression.

  “Then we have Red Wylde, lead singer.”

  Red is the most enthusiastic. He takes a couple steps toward me with his long, lanky frame. His arms are out, as if he expects me to hug him or something. “Amber. Welcome.”

  I take a step back and look away, successfully halting his forward movement. I’m relieved when he stops his advance and slowly lowers himself to the arm of the couch next to the drummer. Everyone is staring at me expectantly.

  “Thank you,” I say, wishing I could sound assertive instead of shy.

  “Hello, Amber,” the drummer—Mooch—says. He’s wearing a big smile. “It’s a real pleasure to finally meet you.” He stands up and holds his hand out.

  I grip my purse and stare at his fat fingers and wide palm. I really want to tell him to screw off and keep his dirty hands to himself, but he has such a nice smile and he looks so happy, I don’t have the heart to do it.

  I’m totally failing at being righteously angry, dammit. I release the grip I have on my purse, and even though my palm is clammy, I shake his hand anyway. “Hello.”

  The other band members jump to their feet and follow his lead. Red wipes his hand off on his pants before he offers it. I wish I could do the same because mine is sweating l
ike crazy, but I don’t want to leave a big sweat mark on my dress.

  I mumble greetings to each of them, finding it difficult to look them in the eye. I wanted to hate them. I wanted to stare them down and be disgusted with what I saw. But they all appear so hopeful, it’s making my heart ache. This isn’t at all what I thought it was going to be like. I expected to face monsters, but all I see are middle-aged men hoping for a miracle. And I don’t think I can be the one to bury their hopes in a grave so deep they’ll never see the light of day again.

  The room goes quiet when Lister puts his hands together. “So, I guess we all know why we’re here.”

  Mooch speaks up. “Actually, I’m not really sure.” The other band members smile and laugh a little.

  I don’t think it’s very funny, though, so I don’t.

  “I have no idea what we’re doing here,” Ty says. “And I’m not sure I really should have been invited to this party, to be honest.”

  At least he and I agree on something.

  “You’re a member of the band now, so you’re invited,” says Paul in a gruff voice.

  I roll my eyes at that one. They’ll say it in here, but they won’t admit it out in public? That’s just wrong. I mean, even if Ty is a moody butthead a lot of the time, a deal is a deal; if they asked him to play guitar for them, they need to welcome him with open arms.

  Red gives me a funny look but doesn’t say anything.

  “Well, from what I know,” Lister says, “Amber flew down from Maine to talk to you about the legal papers that I dropped off at her house a couple weeks ago.” He looks at me for confirmation.

  “Yes, that’s true. I’m here representing myself and my two sisters. They . . . couldn’t come.” They were the smart ones. I, however, am a glutton for punishment. It wasn’t bad enough that they insulted us long-distance; I’m here to be insulted to my face.

  The band members move to the edge of their seats, looking at me expectantly. Respectfully, maybe. I hate giving them that credit, but I know these are men who are used to running the show, getting what they want, and never hearing the word no. But they’re being patient with me, and the only one who seems to be in a hurry to get it over with besides me is Ty; he’s tapping his foot softly and strumming on his thigh with his head down.