***
If I had to pick a city to describe as home, it would be probably be L.A. I was born here, all four of us were. It’s where we lived with our mom, in a little rundown house in West Hollywood. It’s where my dad struggled to make it as a musician after he left his band for her. Where he put his four kids into music lessons as soon as we could walk. And it’s where we lived when she left, the little house, our home, a place once filled with music and laughter and Southern Californian sunshine, now cold and quiet.
We moved to Jonesboro, Ohio a few months later to be close to our grandma and aunt when Dad realized he couldn’t handle us on his own. I always wondered what that decision must have been like for him, walking away from his music a second time. He’d done it for her once, right when his band was on the cusp of making it, when she’d gotten pregnant with Reed and didn’t want to be on the road. And now he was doing it again, leaving his industry friends, leaving his contacts, leaving all of it behind to come to a little, boring ass town in Ohio just to give his kids a better upbringing than he could give them on his own.
We sold the Jonesboro house to help pay for recording time after we left home to tour with Grey Skies. Eventually Dad bought another place outside of town, a sprawling mansion that we could use as a home base when we weren’t touring. But we really never stayed there, not any of us, including him. We were on the road too much and the house held no memories for us, no connection to our past. He’d been talking about selling it, getting a place on the coast where he could more efficiently run the Ransom empire he’d built on our backs.
It made sense—we were on the coast a lot. Our meetings with the label happened out here, our video shoots, our track recording, a lot of the media promotion that we did. I’d been moving my few permanent belongings from rental house to rental house in Santa Monica, Malibu, and the Hollywood Hills.
So I’d spent a lot of time here over the years, knew it better than any city besides Jonesboro (which was so small it wouldn’t take more than a day or two for someone to become an expert). Had favorite restaurants and clubs. Had dated a steady stream of models and club girls, taking them around town to those same restaurants and clubs.
But I had never experienced L.A. like this. Because, as I’m learning more and more each day we spent together, experiencing something with Sam isn’t the same as experiencing it with anybody else.
She’s excited about everything. I had thought of her as kind of a reserved girl, quick to laugh but not one to shriek or squeal in excitement. In quiet moments her face would revert to a thoughtful, still state. More often than not there was a hint of sadness in her expression, whenever her mind drifted to thoughts of Wyatt or, presumably, Doug. But in L.A. I see a different side of her, a side of her that exclaims over everything, that grabs my hand spontaneously when she’s excited, that talks a mile a minute about what we see and where we go. When we take a picnic lunch to the beach, she talks so quickly I’m amazed she can manage to eat more than a bite or two of her sandwich.
She looks like Wyatt, I think, for the second time in a day. This fast talking, excitable version of her is exactly like her kid. I wonder if she would be like this all the time, if she had him all the time. The thought makes me sad.
But then she’s grabbing my hand, pulling me to my feet, and running out to the edge of the tide, darting in and out of the waves as they hit the shore, laughing when the bottom of my cargo shorts get wet.
I want to stay at the beach with her all day, wish I had thought to tell her to bring a bathing suit. But I have plans for her this afternoon and I have a feeling she might like them even more than the show last night.
“Okay, what now?” she asks once we’re safely back in the limo. When planning with Daisy and Paige I had considered renting a convertible so I could drive her along the coast with the top down. But now I’m happy I decided on the limo. It gives me more opportunity to watch her as she watches the city roll by.
“What do you mean, what now?” I ask.
She crosses her arms. “I know you have something planned.”
“I was hoping to have a relaxing afternoon back at the hotel. Maybe read a little. Take a nap.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Well, you’re welcome to it, but you’re on your own. I’m in L.A. and I plan to see more of it.”
I laugh, for some reason very pleased that she didn’t pretended like she’d be happy to go along with staying in. “Fine, I do have plans.” I reach into the pocket of the backpack I brought along, glad I thought to ask the concierge at the hotel to arrange this. I pull out a thick red and white striped scarf and throw it at her.
“What’s this? Are we going somewhere cold?”
Then she unfolds the scarf and gets a look at it. She goes very still. “Cash?”
“I take it you know what that is?”
“It looks like a Men’s National Team scarf.” Her voice is cautious, like she doesn’t want to jinx anything by saying more.
“I thought it might come in handy when we go see the Men’s National Team play.”
She stares at me for what feels like a full minute. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “They’re playing here this week. Some kind of friendly match, whatever that is—”
“The friendly against England?” Her voice is very sharp. “You’re taking me to see the Men’s National Soccer team play England?”
It’s getting hard to read her reaction—she seems so shocked and I can’t tell if it’s from excitement or something less positive. “Uh, yeah?”
She flies across the seat, throwing herself at me. I had no idea she could move so fast. “This is amazing! Cash! I can’t believe this!”
I’m more than a little bemused by her reaction but I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to hold her if she wants to be in my arms. I rub my hands over her back. “I’m glad you’re excited.”
“Excited?” She pulls away, much too soon for my liking, and stares at me. “This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me!”
“Really? It’s a soccer game, Sam.”
She waves her hands dismissively. “This is the team that was in the last World Cup, Cash. These are some of the best players in the country—in the world! I love the US Team, Wyatt and I are both members of the Outlaws.” She goes on and on, explaining the fan group that they’re a part of and how they’ve both always wanted to see an official game but the team hasn’t been to Seattle in years, and how this game, though not counting towards any qualification for international competition, was an excellent opportunity to see how the roster matched up against one of the best teams in Europe.
I don’t understand half of what she said to be honest. But it sure as hell is fun to watch her be so animated about it.
That’s pretty much how we spend the entire game—she explains things to me, yells at the players, screams along with the chants and songs, her eyes glued to the field, watching every second play out. And I watch her. Watch every laugh, every yell, every cheer and chant. Watch as her face lits up, as her eyes grow wide, as she throws her head back to groan when one of our players just barely misses the side of the net.
She’s mesmerizing. I want to drink her in, for the game to go on and on so I can watch her. I want to take her to a hundred soccer games, to take Wyatt so I can watch her reacting to him, too. I wonder when the next World Cup is, where it is. Maybe I can get tickets for both of them. Maybe by then they will have actually managed to teach me about the game.
I still in my seat, as my vague thoughts and plans register. I’m thinking ahead at least a year, if not more. Planning to take Sam and her son to a tournament in a foreign country far into the future—much longer than it would take me and my brothers to finish this album and move on.
Move on.
The idea makes me cold. Moving on from Sam. Where will I be in a few months’ time? Back in L.A.? Getting ready for tour? Somewhere completely different? And where will she be? I imagin her and Wyatt watching the
World Cup together in her apartment or, worse, her watching it alone, wishing Wyatt was with her. The thought makes me feel sick.
There has to be a way, I think to myself. A way to stay in her life.
I’m still wondering how I can make that happen when the game ends. Sam’s voice is completely gone from all the screaming she did. I don’t even know who won. We pass a souvenir stand on the way out and she stops. “I need to get Wyatt a souvenir.”
She picks out a scarf like the one I bought her, saying that the jerseys are too expensive. I scoff at that, throwing a jersey down on top of the scarf before she can protest. I offer to buy her one as well but she refuses. “You’ve done enough,” she says, eyes dancing.
She’s completely keyed up as we leave the stadium, bouncing on her toes, commentating on every goal and every save. It’s easy to let her talk, to let the sound wash over me without having to provide much of an answer. Because my brain is a hurricane of thought and emotion. The idea of leaving her is making me feel dizzy. There has to be another way.
“I can’t believe this trip is almost over,” she sighs, relaxing back into the seat, apparently out of things to say about the game. Her words send another shot of panic through me. Almost over.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to see?” she asks, turning to me. If she can sense the turmoil in my head, she doesn’t let on. “I’ve always wanted to see the moon over the ocean. And it’s such a clear night.”
I can do that, I think, focusing on the request. Even if everything else feels completely out of my control, I can make sure Sam sees the moon over the ocean before we leave.
I tap on the glass partition and direct the driver to Santa Monica.
Chapter Eighteen
Sam
“So this is where you live,” I say, looking up at the beach house. The facade is partially hidden behind palm trees and a thick layer of hedges. A good amount of privacy for a very famous face.
“This is where I live.”
He’s acting weird. He’s been weird ever since we left the stadium. At first I didn’t notice, because I was so damn excited about the game, but the longer we sat in the limo the more I could tell that something was off.
His eyes kept darting to my face, but not in the reassuring, flattering way I was used to. Instead he looked nervous, calculating. Like he was trying to figure something out. When I suggested we go look at the moon on the water he’d agreed immediately before sinking back into silence.
And now we’re standing outside of his house and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more tense. He’s staring up at the building, his fingers paused over a keypad, as if trying to decide if we should go in.
“Cash?”
He shakes himself a little and enters eight numbers into the keypad. I hear a little click and then he pushes the front door open.
“Keyless entry,” I say, trying to be light and cheerful, whatever I can think of to knock him out of this weird mood. “Fancy.”
He doesn’t respond, merely holds the door so I can enter and then passes me in the foyer so he can lead the way, his shoulders hunched the entire time.
The foyer is small and utilitarian, tiled in slate. It leads immediately to a flight of stairs, which Cash climbs quickly as I follow. Upstairs the place opens into an expansive open concept living area. Before he flips the lights I can see the moon shining right outside the sliding glass doors, reflecting off the water below.
“Wow,” I murmur, going straight for the windows the same way I had done in the hotel. “The moon is huge tonight.”
He doesn’t join me and I turn to find him. He’s leaning against a marble bar top at the edge of the kitchen area. “You okay?”
He nods, but his eyes aren’t on me. He’s looking around the room, a slight frown on his face. I follow his gaze but don’t see much to cause that reaction. The room is sparsely furnished with two white leather sofas, a few glass tables, and what I would guess is at least a seventy-inch flat screen TV. An acoustic guitar leans against the wall opposite the TV. Except for the flat screen, the walls are bare with no pictures or posters adorning them.
“Do you want to go outside?” he asks, pointing at the doors behind me. “You can see the moon better on the deck.”
I nod, worried about the expression on his face, and follow him out to the deck. The moon is huge in the night sky, its reflection on the water seeming to brighten the entire beach. I hear the crashing of the waves far below. All in all, it’s pretty amazing.
Cash, however, is staring out at the ocean like it’s pissed him off in some way. “Okay,” I say, perching on the edge of one of the wicker deck chairs. “What’s going on with you?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’re acting really weird.” When he still doesn’t say anything I reach for his hand. “Cash. Talk to me.”
He seems to relax at the contact but he still doesn’t look at me. “Cash.”
He releases a huge gust of air. “I don’t like you being here.”
I pull my hand away as if burned. My eyes immediately water and I draw in a sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry. We didn’t have to come.”
Whether he hears the pain in my voice or he just realized what he said, he turns quickly to face me. “No, Sam. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breathing. I’m a little shocked at the intensity of my reaction, but there’s something about being hurt by Cash that feels much worse than being hurt by someone else. I try not to think too hard about what that might mean.
“Sam.” He kneels down in front of my chair so he can peer into my face. “I’m sorry. I promise that’s not what I meant.”
“What’d you mean then?”
His eyes dart away from my face. “I just…I wasn’t happy here.”
I frown. “Didn’t you say you lived here for six months?”
He nods, still not looking at me. “Yeah. And I don’t think I was happy for ten minutes together that entire time.” His gaze finally returns to mine and it’s so intense my breath catches. “I didn’t realize it then. I thought everything should be fine, you know? I had friends to party with and money to spend on booze, and whatever women I wanted, all available to me whenever I wanted.”
“But you weren’t happy.”
“No. And I didn’t even know it.”
We’re quiet for a long moment. “Cash—”
“I’ve been so pissed at my brothers,” he spits out suddenly, standing and walking away. He leans against the railing, staring out at the sea. “Because I thought we were supposed to do this thing together, you know? I thought we’d all be out here or in New York or somewhere having fun, enjoying the fruits of our labor.”
“Being rock stars.”
He laughs and the sound is bitter. “Yeah. Being fucking rock stars. But they never really lived up to my expectations on that score.”
“Why not?”
He slaps the railing lightly. “Because they figured it out way before I did. That being a rock star and having a life are not necessarily the same thing.”
I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never heard him so bitter or pained. “You were…angry that they weren’t here in L.A.?”
He waves his hands dismissively. “Not just in L.A. Even when we were on the road together they had a hundred other things on their mind. Reed was always worried about the band and the label, and Dalt had Daisy, and God only knows what had Lennon so fucking preoccupied and emo all the time.”
“And you thought they should be having a good time,” I guess.
He spins to face me, his expression angrier than I’ve seen it. “Yes. But I was the fucking fool, Sam, because this was not a good time.” He gestures at the house behind us. “This was me by myself getting shit faced, trying to stay numb, trying not to feel anything—”
I can’t stand the way his voice sounds, the stricken look on his face. Before he can continue I stand an
d walk calmly to him. He trails off as he watches me cross the deck. And then my arms are around him and he’s pulling me so tightly to his chest that it takes my breath away. I don’t care. I pull him even tighter to me, wishing I could get near enough to take the hurt from his voice, take away the guilt and the self-loathing I sense just below the surface.
“It’s okay, Cash.”
“It’s not,” he whispers, voice rough. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“What needs to be fixed?”
“Me.”
My heart constricts at that single syllable. How many times have I told myself the same thing—that I don’t know how to be fixed. That I’m broken beyond repair.
“You don’t need to be fixed, Cash.”
“I do, Sam. You have no idea what I’ve done.”
“I do. I know exactly what you’ve done. You’ve held my hand when I’m scared and you’ve made me laugh when I’m sad. And when I felt like everything was falling in around me you took me away. A person who does those things—he doesn’t need to be fixed.”
He takes a huge, shaky breath, as if he’s trying to draw my words right down into his chest.
“Do you…?”
He trails off and I’m not sure what he wanted to ask, so I tighten my grip on him. “I think you’ve been a great friend to me, Cash. I think you’ve been exactly what I needed when I didn’t even know I needed anything.”
We stand like that for a long time, not talking, not moving, just holding each other. Finally, Cash pulls back. “Can we go back to the hotel? I…I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I can hear the double meaning in his words. Know that he doesn’t just mean this house. He doesn’t want to be in this place anymore. He doesn’t want to be who he was. And since that is a desire I’m intimately familiar with, I take his hand and lead him back through the house and out into the quiet night.
***
I want to kiss him.
That’s all I can think as we drive back to the hotel. I want to kiss him so bad I can hardly stand it. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we left the deck and the pressure of his fingers, so strong from all those hours of guitar practice, is making me feel a little light headed. I remember how those fingers felt on my skin and I want it. I want to be in his arms again, nothing between us, his lips on mine…
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