by Nathan Roden
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contributors
Freebies
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
More from Nathan
Sneak Peek at The Dark Stage
Wylie Westerhouse
Ghosts on Tour
by Nathan Roden
Wylie Westerhouse
Ghosts on Tour
Copyright © 2015 by Nathan Roden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.nathanroden.com
Thank you to my Developmental and Copy Editor, Deborah Johnson, who is sufficiently unimpressed with me enough to provide edit reprimands that include the phrase “Shame, shame.”
Thank you to beta readers Hannah George, Lindsey George, Derek George, and Tim Johnson.
Cover Design by Nathan Roden
Get both of these stories from the World of
Wylie Westerhouse for free at
www.nathanroden.com
One
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
The band and I waited at the side of the stage on another hot, August night in an overcrowded club. The sweaty but smiling club owner made his way through the crowd for his opportunity to slobber on my microphone while thanking the audience for buying his liquor and sending his kids to college.
I ran a towel across my face and through my hair. I shook my head like the dog that I am and looked over at my friend Nate, who was doing the same thing. He grinned as only Nate Barlow can, and gave me a thumbs-up—and then he had to go back to his sweat-mopping because that’s what drummers do. They hit things with sticks and they sweat.
Me?
• 1 tsp. Honey
• shot of lemon juice
• warm water
• shake
• gargle
• swallow
I am the singer.
“Good evening, Branson, Missouri and thanks for coming out tonight. Now, let’s put your hands together and give us your biggest and your proudest, your absolutely loudest, your out-of-town or my town, Majestic Mizzou Bar and Grill cheer for…The Wylie Westerhouse Band!”
It’s been a little over a year now, but I always get goosebumps when I hear the noise ramp up before the encore. I bounced up the one low step and waved to the audience as I shook the owner’s hand. I wondered if I might actually get through this whole night’s set without any problems from the audience. No such luck.
“Yeah! Sing it, CHEATER!”
Sometimes, these heckler incidents pass unnoticed. That night, it didn’t happen that way. The drugstore cowboy punctuated his remark by throwing his arms out to the side—and into a speeding waitress who was carrying two trays of beer bottles.
So much for our encore momentum.
We waited while the tired staff cleaned up the beer and the glass. A couple of bouncers stepped in to break up a shoving match and calm down some tempers. Just before everything got back normal, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The club owner pointed to my microphone again.
“Sure. Go ahead,” I said. “Why not?”
He put his lips right up against my microphone again and announced—
“It’s that time again, folks! Last call for alcohol!”
Perfect.
I glanced back at Nate. Nate was glaring at the heckler—who seemed convinced that he had done nothing wrong. He was even laughing and high-fiving some of his buddies. Nate looked at me and nodded.
I’ve known Nate Barlow since his family moved into our neighborhood when we were both in the third grade.
Nate works his butt off, but he also gets to sit on it for most of the night. He’s a good drummer. He could be even better but he sets up his kit to allow himself expanded views of the audience, which sometimes leads to missing a cymbal or clunking a stick against a rim instead of a drum head. I’m pretty sure that no one notices, other than me, or maybe another drummer in the audience. But Nate is more concerned with watching people than in being the world’s best drummer. And by “people”, I mean girls.
Nate and I never discuss these hecklers, but he knows how they affect me. Sometimes I hear them but don’t see their face. Nate helps me with that. Other times, he may just confirm what I already know—like he just did.
Nate has helped me out on two occasions where I bit off more than I could chew—when I might have lost my life or some body parts that I’m fond of. We never discuss those times, either.
Maybe you’ve heard of our band. Actually, you might have specifically heard of me. A season ago, I was a contestant on “America’s Brand New Voice”, which is one of the most successful and longest running of the amateur talent shows. I lobbied to have my whole band come with me, but they only agreed to include Nate. No, they weren’t wowed by his drumming skills. That decision was entirely a visual thing. You want me to say it? Fine. Nate is a good-looking guy.
Of course, if you have heard of me, then you probably know that I was disqualified.
On two occasions during the competition, I finished a song and stared down into the cold, blue eyes of the infamous Trevor Burkendale. That man owned the judge’s panel, and struck fear into the hearts of aspiring talents around the globe. I looked him in the eye, and I survived.
But then scandal reared its head.
Oh, yes. A huge scandal. No one from the show or the network would even talk to me about it. No one answered my calls. The entire show staff and the network went into complete lock-down mode.
I went to the studio, and not only couldn’t I get in, but they had armed guards escort me to my car. I only found out that I had been disqualified from a reporter. They wouldn’t explain what had happened.
I trusted people who stabbed me in the back. That’s what happened.
But on that August night in Branson, Missouri, most of the crowd was on vacation. The tourist season has just crested the top of summer’s hill before it races down the other side to the back-to-school sales. The crowd of one hundred and ninety-seven strong that we
re closing down the Majestic Mizzou Bar and Grill sounded more like five hundred. They were more interested in the performance of—
“That boy from America’s Brand New Voice who sings the Hank Williams song that we all watched on the TV before he got himself kicked off of the show.”
I smiled and enjoyed the applause for a few seconds after the final song. I bowed and waved to the crowd before I stepped behind the stage and out of the back door. I slipped my hand through the wrist strap of my police flashlight as I made my way toward the vantage point. I watched the crowd make its way across the parking lot.
There he was—still trying to impress his date and another couple with a steady supply of arrogant remarks. His off-the-shelf cowboy uniform included a black cowboy hat over a western snap shirt. The starched creases were sharp enough to cut a tomato in half.
In other words, it was the look that I’ve seen ten-thousand times. I’ve been accused of wearing it myself during the last three years.
All hat and no cattle.
Mr. Big Mouth was blabbering to his audience while he looked back over his shoulder. I stepped directly into his path.
“Hey, what the—?” he said as he stumbled.
“Sorry, let me help,” I said, and then I pushed him onto his butt into a freshly landscaped flower bed.
Mr. Big Mouth hit the ground, and then looked at his muddy hands in horror.
“Hey! You’re the singer guy! What’s your problem, man?”
“My problem would be idiots like you. Does it make you feel like a big man, trying to ruin the show? You gonna sit there making mud pies or you gonna stand up and fight?” I said.
Big Mouth’s friend took one step toward me until I made a few twirling, ninja-style moves with the flashlight. I practice these all the time and someone other than my dog should get to see them.
“If you want to make this your fight, too, I feel no obligation to play clean,” I said.
The guy raised both hands and stepped back.
“I didn’t do nothing,” he said.
Witnesses to my skill with the flashlight might imagine my having studied under a martial arts master, and they would be correct. I was tutored on many a weekday afternoon by none other than Donatello— the soft-spoken, purple bandanna wearing, bo-staff wielding intellectual leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Big Mouth slipped his way back to his feet. I spotted Nate nearby and tossed the flashlight to him. Big Mouth started running his mouth before he even made it to his feet.
“You should have gone to jail with your manager, instead of getting to pl—”
My right fist connected with his left jaw before he could finish.
Encore Number Two. Level Complete.
I walked over to where Nate was standing. A young lady in a little black dress stood at his side and held my flashlight.
“Hey, Tooie. I didn’t know you were here tonight,” I said, holding out my hand.
Tooie Reznik handed me the flashlight like it was something nasty.
“When are you going to grow up and give up this stupid hobby of yours, Wylie? You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I would be happy to. But the Haters just keep hating.”
Tooie shook her head and gave Nate “The Look”. That’s the look that says that he’s not earning any points for having me as a friend.
Man, I hate “The Look”.
Tooie’s real name is Aimee. Since the second time I heard her introduce herself as “Aimee with two e’s”, I started calling her Tooie. Nate picked it up right away and the name has stuck like super-glue. This hasn’t earned me any points with her, either.
“So, Wyles, are you up for closing-time waffles? I’m buying,” Nate said. This wasn’t unusual for Nate. He came with me to Branson from Boston and landed a really good day job in his first three days here.
“Maybe next time,” I shook my head. “I need to get home and let Toby out.”
Tooie rolled her eyes, which is not unusual, at least around me.
“Okay, Bud. Awesome show tonight. I’m telling you, man, our days in these little joints are numbered,” Nate said as he clapped me on the shoulder.
“Thanks. Good waffles to you, my friends,” I said.
As I was leaving, I heard Tooie comparing me to a certain male body part.
I lowered the volume of the car stereo and switched off the subwoofer before I turned into my subdivision. The average bedtime in the neighborhood is probably about nine o’clock. Most of my neighbors have grandchildren around my age who make infrequent visits. I try to fit in here because living in an apartment is not an option.
I rent a house with a small yard so that I can keep Toby—and I am by-God gonna keep Toby. I saved my money for a year, and Mom and Dad helped me pay for him. He was my present to Duncan on Duncan’s last birthday.
Toby is staying with me if I have to rob banks to make that happen.
Toby is a West Highland Terrier, also known as a Westie. I didn’t know anything about them, but after I met the girl who was selling Toby and his two brothers and three sisters— I knew that it was destiny. The girl was really sweet and she started to cry when Dad and I put Toby in the car. I got her email address and I’ve sent her dozens of pictures of Toby over the last nine years, including some of him with Duncan during the next few months.
On Duncan’s good days.
A thunderstorm chased me home right up until I pulled into my driveway. The wind that had been trying to shove my little car off of the road for the last twenty miles finally gave up and died.
I unlocked the door that led from the garage into the kitchen and poked my head inside.
“Toby, Toby, Toby! Where’s my big boy?” I said, waiting for him to slide around the corner on the kitchen tiles before he jumped up for me to catch him.
But he didn’t come.
Uh-oh.
That was irregular. Toby is ten years old now but he still acts like a puppy, even though he’s pretty lazy.
I closed the door behind me, turned on the light, and walked to the living room. The sound of Toby’s whimpering brought a little comfort.
Toby was curled up on one end of the sofa and acting nervous. I took his head in my hands.
“What is it, Boy? It’s okay now,” I said, scratching his head. He relaxed and hopped down to follow me into the back yard.
I opened the sliding door into the back yard and Toby vaulted through it.
Before I passed through the door, I looked up at the framed photo of me with my big brother. This was my favorite picture in the whole wide world. As I did every time I passed through this door, I said,
“I love you, Chunky Dunky.”
I’ll check Toby over in the morning. He probably has a grass burr buried where he can’t reach it.
In the morning. That’s a depressing thought since it was technically morning already. It was my responsibility to have Branson Music open for business by nine o’clock.
Yeah; if you were under the impression that “Superstar” Wylie Westerhouse is able to sustain his “rock-star” lifestyle with just his music career, this is where I disappoint you. That’s only fair, since I’m already disappointed.
I was born and raised in Boston. I stayed with Mom after she and Dad separated. I proceeded to act in stereotypical fashion at that point—lashing out in the way that many broken-home children do. I let my hair grow to where it hung down and covered my face most of the time. I started sneaking cigarettes and progressed from punk to Goth to metal-head.
I rolled my eyes so many times over two years that I should have sustained nerve damage. Many of these “rolls” were performed in the counselor’s office, where I wasted a lot of hours. It didn’t take me long to figure out that “child of divorce after the death of sibling” is a “get out of jail free” card for anything. I played my card a lot.
I thought my dad handled the situation as well as you could expect. He was quiet but he did what he had to. He got up ever
y morning and went to work because he didn’t have any choice. Eventually, the nice, sweet, weepy ladies stopped coming over with casseroles dishes. You may not know this, but the mortgage company and electric company won’t accept casseroles for payment.
Mom went a little bit nuts. No—nuts probably isn’t the right word. She sort of got “tunnel-vision”. Not the crazy “Belleview” strait-jacket kind—more like the hyper-religious kind. It was like she was convinced that the three of us were just not “holy” enough to hold back the grim reaper. We couldn’t score enough touchdowns or baskets on God’s Playing Field to avoid a tragedy.
Mom didn’t blame Dad, but the loss wore them down until the space between them was cold and empty. Life hit us harder than we could handle and my parents didn’t know how to help each other.
Every single day, Mom was either reading the Bible or watching a preacher on TV. The one worldly connection that she refused to give up was her lifelong love of one particular country singer. Hank Williams.
Hank Williams.
I put his name there by itself in case you want to highlight it.
Strangely, Hank Williams would make an important contribution to my life.
That contribution may have occurred by osmosis from the sheer number of times that I heard Mom’s records over the years. Not to say that Hank wasn’t great, because, of course, he was. It’s just that, remember, I was punk/Goth/metal kid. I wasn’t really a fan of most country music. And in Boston, in my neighborhood, at least, it wasn’t exactly considered “cool”.
