The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)
Page 1
Contents
The Boss's Daughter
Copyright
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Chapter 1 - Abigail
Chapter 2 - Gavin
Chapter 3 - Abigail
Chapter 4 - Gavin
Chapter 5 - Gavin
Chapter 6 - Abigail
Chapter 7 - Abigail
Chapter 8 - Gavin
Chapter 9 - Abigail
Chapter 10 - Gavin
Chapter 11 - Abigail
Chapter 12 - Gavin
Chapter 13 - Abigail
Chapter 14 - Abigail
Chapter 15 - Abigail
Chapter 16 - Abigail
Chapter 17 - Gavin
Chapter 18 - Gavin
Chapter 19 - Abigail
Chapter 20 - Abigail
Chapter 21 - Gavin
Chapter 22 - Abigail
Chapter 23 - Abigail
Chapter 24 - Gavin
Chapter 25 - Gavin
Chapter 26 - Abigail
Chapter 27 - Abigail
Chapter 28 - Gavin
Chapter 29 - Abigail
Chapter 30 - Gavin
Chapter 31 - Abigail
Chapter 32 - Abigail
Chapter 33 - Gavin
Chapter 34 - Abigail
Chapter 35 - Gavin
Inferno Falls Continues in Book Three ...
Stuff You Should Know
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The Forbidden Muse
Aubrey Parker
The Forbidden Muse
Aubrey Parker
Copyright © 2015 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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CHAPTER 1
Abigail
Given how hard it was for me to get here, you’d think things would be better.
I shouldn’t complain. My dad is a defense lawyer, or at least he was when I left, and in between corporate gigs that pay my parents’ bills he works pro bono for the poor. Many are illegal immigrants because despite Dad’s money, he’s liberal at heart. So I’ve heard a lot of stories about people risking it all to cross the border while seeking a better life. Me, I only had to flee Hartford. I traded silver spoons for sorting spoons. Being waited on for waiting on. I’m not digging ditches and didn’t float into Inferno Falls over shark-infested waters for forty days beneath an unforgiving sun. I have a decent apartment and not just one job in the Land of Opportunity, but two. In contrast to Dad’s clients, I’ve got it good.
It’s around now that I realize Dad’s not the only one with rich liberal guilt.
“Hey, Hon. How you holding up?” Maya asks.
I look up. Looking at Maya is a little like looking in a mirror. We both have red hair and freckles, and both wear our hair straight when it’s not back for work. But Maya’s eyes are brilliant green, and mine are a rather dull hazel. Somehow, the look works great on her. On me, it’s kind of a mess.
“Life is beautiful,” I say. I’m either being sarcastic, or I’m doing affirmations like my mom would want me to. I’m not sure which. I’m either being wry or determinedly positive, so 50/50 on me appreciating what I have versus being ungrateful.
“Sure. Sure. Have you seen Ed?”
“He’s up front with Roxanne.”
“Makes sense,” Maya says, craning her neck. “Think he’s sleeping with her?”
“He wishes.”
“Everyone wishes.”
“It’s okay. I’m pretty sure she’s like a mantis. You have sex with her, then she bites the head from your neck.”
“You have sex with her. I’m not interested right now.”
Maya’s still peeking around the breakroom wall. The Nosh Pit’s breakroom isn’t really a room; it’s more of a cordoned-off section that could just as easily be the storage area. That’s why everyone comes back here all the time: You can pretend to stock cups and secretly take a break. Or, if Ed comes back and sees you, you can pretend it’s not your break, when it actually is, by stocking cups. Like: Oh, hey, Ed. No, not on break. I’ll take my break later. I just wanted to refill the hand soap because I’m such a fantastic worker. And then you do that six times throughout the day, whenever you can slip away from your tables.
“Hey,” Maya says, looking back and apparently determining the coast is clear. “I saw Ed trolling the other day.”
Ed is in his late forties, overweight, unattractive, with terrible skin. He also has Asperger’s—or is socially retarded without an excuse. He’s always “trolling.”
“Trolling for what?”
“Women, I think.”
I make a face. This is either hilarious or sad. Probably sad. Yes, okay — definitely sad.
“At the Inside Scoop,” Maya elaborates.
“The ice cream place?”
Maya nods. “Tuesday night. I took Mackenzie. We were going to eat our cones at one of the picnic tables, but then I saw Ed sitting there. Like this.” Maya sits at the breakroom table, but she pushes the chair out so she has room to slouch dramatically. Both legs splay out, tenting her uniform skirt. Her arms go wide and pretend to hang, like she’s being casual and gross at the same time. Maya has a great body for being a mom, but somehow she manages to sit and slouch like a dude. I fully believe the illusion.
“With sunglasses on,” Maya adds.
“Was he trolling for nine-year-olds?”
“There were a bunch of college girls there. Because that’s the demographic into guys like Ed.”
I don’t speculate on the demo that is into guys like Ed. That rabbit hole is too deep, and if we start, I’ll never calm myself before my break is over and will take the giggles into the rest of my shift.
“Was he cleaning up?”
“Yes. He cleaned a wide circle around where he was sitting. Have you ever seen a photo of what antibiotics do to a petri dish full of bacteria? It was like this.” Maya makes large gestures around her, presumably indicating a wide area of prohibition.
I start to giggle. My hand goes over my lips. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s wrong. But it’s funny, too.
“He didn’t have a prayer anyway. You know that guy Kevin?”
“The grumbly one?”
“Grumbly to you, maybe. I think the college girls see him as brooding.”
“He swore the whole time he was getting Mac’s cone. Like the ice cream had insulted him.”
“Brooding,” says Maya, pointing at me as if I’ve answered a quiz correctly. “Anyway. He was the one cleaning up. It was interesting to watch, from a National Geographic point of view. The girls would talk to Kevin, who might actually hate his job enough to make him immune to pretty girls trying to chat him up, and they’d turn away with these vacant smiles. Then they’d catch Ed’s eye, and BAM! This would
happen.” Maya makes a face like she’s just licked someone’s car tire.
I laugh again.
“Sit, Abby.” Maya gestures. There are only two people who call me Abby. One is Ed. I hate it when Ed calls me “Abby,” but it doesn’t bother me from Maya. At all. And even with Ed, it could be a lot worse. He calls Maya “Sugar Tits,” probably because she doesn’t protest loudly enough. The way she acts, you’d think it didn’t bother her. I suspect it does. Maya strikes me as someone who keeps her discontent deep inside after years of practice — and after what she’s gone through, with her daughter and whatnot I can’t blame her. Me, I tend to wear ire on my sleeve.
“You still looking for more shifts?”
Yes. No. Not even a little. I don’t want more time at the Nosh Pit, but I do need the money. That’s the problem with leaving your rich parents to make it on your own. I wish I could say I hadn’t seen it coming.
“Sorta.”
“Do you want my Saturday?”
My face must wrinkle because I see Maya already looking to take it back. So I say, “Are you offering because you want to give me a shift, or are you asking because you need or want it off?” Then, because Maya is a pleaser, I make a point to say, “Be honest.”
“I could work it or not.”
“Do you want it off?”
“Either or. I’d like to spend more time with Mackenzie and give my mom a rest, but it’s Saturday night and I need the money.”
“So if someone put a gun to your head … ”
Maya relents. We’ve been through this dance before. We’re friends, I guess, even though we haven’t had enough time yet to put a capital F on the word. We’re both the kind of people who defer to the other person’s wants, saying things like, “I’d do it, and I’d want to do it if so, but only if you don’t want it, and if you’re being honest and not just not wanting it because you think I want it.” Gordian knots of self-sacrifice. I’ve considered making diagrams to help us understand them.
“Okay, fine. I guess I want to keep it. It’s Saturday night, after all.”
Maya’s right. I could use a few extra bucks, but she actively needs the money. Maya has an extra mouth to feed, and like me, is too proud to ask her parents for more help. If I could wave a magic wand and bring Mackenzie’s father back to help, I’d do it in a second. Maya is good people. She deserves better.
“Thanks for offering,” I say.
“You just look so bummed out today.”
My liberal guilt returns. I have no business feeling “bummed out.” I live decently in a cool town. I decided to come here of my own free will. If I wanted, I could run back to Hartford. Hell, if I really wanted, I could probably reactivate my Princeton acceptance. I’d have to brush up on literature and math a bit, but I’m not that far gone. Mom and Dad would be so belatedly proud, once I stopped living a life I’m secretly convinced they’re ashamed of.
But despite knowing I should get over myself, I can’t help it. I ran away from Mommy and Daddy’s world to live my dreams on my own terms. Now I’m a waitress. Even in private, I can’t get my ambitions airborne. I have a pencil, a pad of paper, a computer with writing software I hear is fantastic, and still nothing has managed to write itself, let alone make me famous.
“I’m fine.”
Maya’s green eyes are like gemstones. I look past the wall of my rather plain, straight red hair (in contrast to Maya’s — vibrant and downright pretty) and find those eyes watching me.
“Really?”
“Yes.” I try to invoke one of my mother’s positivity thingies. The trick, in the Sally Powell paradigm anyway, isn’t just to force yourself to be happy. You have to work with your personality profile and access your key triggers. It’s all very complicated, but I manage a smile. “Really.”
There’s a shuffling noise from around the wall, and I stand at attention. A second later, Ed is looking at us as if we’ve been stealing.
“Can’t have two of you on break at once. I keep saying that.” He looks at each of us in turn. “Who was here first?”
I glance at Maya. Maya is exuberant and fun when she’s on, but Ed has switched her off. He takes my glance as an answer.
“Then you get back to work, Abby.”
“Abigail,” I correct.
“Don’t be a bitch,” he says.
There’s a moment wherein I decide whether it’s worth challenging him (it’s not), but in that moment, my phone, which I’ve removed from my locker, buzzes. It’s my phone, and even from here I can tell the call is coming from the Overlook — my second employer. The one I actually like more often than not, even though it’s still a step backward from where I want to be.
“I’ve had my fifteen minutes,” Maya says, standing. “I’ll go back out.”
“Check in with Roxanne. She has some suggestions for you.”
Suggestions. That means she wants to bitch. She’s found some petty thing that Maya never did wrong and is eager to list them. I’m sure Roxanne will have some “suggestions” for me when I’m back on shift, too.
“Sure, Ed,” Maya says. And she slinks away, her manner the opposite of a moment ago.
Ed gives me a look, points at his bare wrist, holds up a hand with splayed fingers, and mouths, Five minutes. Then he leaves, and I answer the call.
“Abigail. Is this Abigail?”
It’s just four words, but they’re all Danny Ross. He knows it’s me because he called and nobody else would answer my phone. But he said my name twice, and I can practically hear the speed in his voice. Danny doesn’t actually take speed as far as anyone knows, but he acts like it. Or maybe he’s just that excited about music and running his club at all times, which is possible.
“Yes. Hi, Danny.” I like Danny. He’s the opposite of Ed. He’s friendly, enthusiastic, fair, and maybe a third Ed’s size with long, blond-going-white hair. I might be taller than Danny in heels. Even if he was an ass, I could probably handle him.
“Abigail. Glad I got you. Can you work tonight?”
I consider. I would have taken Maya’s shift, if she’d truly wanted to offload it, because she was right: I’m looking for more time on the clock, more tips, and … oh, fine, I’ll admit it … more distractions from the truth that I’m going nowhere. But a Friday shift at the Overlook is something I’ve coveted, unlike Fridays that I’d begrudgingly take here. Friday tips are the best. Friday is also when the Overlook’s best acts take the stage, including the supposedly hot guy everyone keeps talking about.
“Yes, sure. Of course.” I consider adding “Thank you,” but despite the way this is coming up roses right now (or daisies, at least), I’m sure I’m the one doing Danny a favor.
“Good. Six, okay? Meg was stealing. She’s on coke. Not -ca-cola; -caine. I didn’t tell you that. Six. See you then.”
The line goes dead. Danny’s wide-smiling avatar is left beaming at me, the call’s duration blinking on-screen.
CHAPTER 2
Gavin
I walk to the kitchen. To the bedroom. Down the hallway to the living room. My guitar is there, so I flop on the couch and pick it up. My fingers, on the upside-down strings in their left-handed configuration, want to pick out “Dream,” but playing old, buried songs isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing. So I set the guitar aside and walk to the kitchen.
To the bedroom.
Down the hallway, to the living room.
My apartment isn’t big enough to properly pace. I had a firm budget for housing, and it didn’t go as far in Old Town as it would have gone in one of the less savory sections of Inferno Falls, like near Edison Park or maybe the Regency, where Brandon used to live.
It was important to stay near the club so I wouldn’t need to waste money on a car. Hell, at least I have a bedroom. Some of the cracker boxes I’ve seen around here, like Dimebag’s place, have the bed in the living room.
I walk to the kitchen. To the bedroom. Down the hallway.
I feel like a caged animal. Supposedly, when
you see tigers pacing, they’re basically going insane. Used to prowling land that sprawls for miles, they get neurotic in small spaces. They walk back and forth, slowly losing their shit. Like Jack Torrance in The Shining. A metaphor Danny would get, seeing as it’s his favorite book, seeing as he named his little corner concert hall and bar after that book’s grand hotel. The Overlook in Inferno Falls doesn’t actually overlook anything other than Main, but at least one of the lead characters is going nuts right now, walking hallways and feeling uninspired.
I could write a song called, “All Work and No Play Makes Gavin a Dull Boy.” I’m seriously considering it, noodling chords and how the hook might sound, when it begins to feel extremely important to brew a pot of coffee.
The pot is dirty. Usually, I just brew into it anyway, figuring that coffee residue gives flavor, but right now it seems pressing to wash it. That’s when I realize that my kitchen sponge is kind of gross. There’s an extra two-pack of sponges here somewhere, but I can’t remember where. I search under the sink and in the utility drawer, then retrace my steps, futilely trying to solve the Mystery of the Cleaning Products.
I’d committed to an hour of seriously working on a new song. I have forty-five minutes left. Going great. Soon, I’ll be through the entire hour and can give up with a clear conscience.
There’s this moment of epiphany, and it’s as if I’ve stared at myself in the mirror. As if a doppelgänger — a Gavin Adams who has his shit together enough to move on — has just walked up and slapped me. Suddenly, the bullshit is gone.
There’s no point to any of this.
There’s no point to setting a stopwatch because this is the kind of crap I do when I’m trying to create on a deadline. I procrastinate. I pace, I strum, I wait for the clock to run out. It’s stupid. Nobody can be creative under pressure. It’s not the kind of thing you can put on a calendar. You can’t book creation time. No way. Inspiration comes from everywhere — or nowhere, if you’re like I’ve been for the past three years. I suppose I have a muse, but she’s a bitch. Or a cocktease. She used to whisper in my ear all the time, like she whispered to Grace and Charlie, but now she says nothing.