The Hope That Starts
By Heidi Hutchinson
Copyright 2014
The Hope That Starts
©2014 Heidi Hutchinson
Edited by: Tara Burch
Cover Design: Penny Reid
Cover Model: Miles Logan Haga
Photography: Aletheia Designs
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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
The Hope That Starts1
By Heidi Hutchinson1
Prologue6
Chapter 18
Under Pressure8
Chapter 218
Modern Love18
Chapter 326
Fidelity26
Chapter 435
Don't Stop Me Now35
Chapter 544
Everything Has Changed44
Chapter 652
Folding Chair52
Chapter 760
I'm Yours60
Chapter 867
Love Somebody67
Chapter 975
Let Her Go75
Chapter 1082
Chasing Cars82
Chapter 1189
I'm A Mess89
Chapter 1297
Kiss Quick97
Chapter 13103
Give Me Love103
Chapter 14110
Best Of You110
Chapter 15116
The Party116
Chapter 16124
Kiss Me124
Chapter 17130
Now That I've Found You130
Chapter 18137
How Long Will I Love You137
Chapter 19144
I Should Have Known144
Chapter 20148
Run148
Chapter 21154
Samson154
Chapter 22159
Holding Out For A Hero159
Chapter 23165
Red165
Epilogue172
Thinking Out Loud172
Acknowledgments 175
About the Author 176
Jo-
When I say that you're my Lastrade
what I'm really saying is,
you're only one of my very best friends.
And when I call you sexy,
it's because your love is shaped like a box
and travels through space and time.
Prologue
Cologne, Germany
Just over three years ago
Harrison was quiet.
Shouldn't he be? Wasn't that the appropriate response at a time like this? He had no way of knowing. He had nothing to compare it to.
He'd never had a friend overdose.
The waiting room of the hospital was nice. Not chipper or anything, but comfortable. Soft chairs. Decent coffee.
Blake had been on his phone since the moment they arrived. Carl hadn't left the nurses' station. Even after they had scolded him for his language while he was making phone calls. Sway was quiet, too. Had been since they left the hotel.
Luke was with Mike. They still had no idea whether he was going to be okay. No one really knew anything.
That wasn't strictly true.
They all knew Mike had a problem that he had been trying to hide without success.
When Carl had called Harrison's phone, the connection hadn't been great and they'd had a misunderstanding. Harrison had hung up, hoping Carl would try again. Carl rang his room next; thankfully, Harrison had been there instead of going out with Blake and Luke like he'd wanted to.
His long-time tour manager and friend had explained where he was headed with Mike. That it looked like an overdose, that he wasn't responsive, that Harrison needed to find Sway and bring “all their asses to the hospital.”
Harrison had laced up his sneakers, silently grabbing a jacket. Late spring was cold in Germany. He refused to think about the possibility—the terrifying reality—of what Mike had finally managed to accomplish.
His heart had kept time with his feet as he journeyed down the hall to their bassist’s room.
He knocked. Knocked again.
Finally Sway pulled the door open, an irritated grimace on his face. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.
Harrison frowned in an effort to find the words to say what he needed to say.
“We have to go to the hospital.” There. That was good.
“Who is it?” a familiar voice called from inside the suite.
Harrison saw a look pass over Sway's face. Emboldened, Harrison pushed past his friend and into the living area.
Ilsa, Mike's girlfriend, was sitting on the couch.
Mike's girlfriend.
In Sway's room. With the door closed. Having a drink.
Harrison looked between the two of them with shock.
“You're a terrible friend!” he hurled at Sway who flinched in response. “Mike's dying! Right now!” He huffed out a few breaths, not sure what else to say to the two of them.
“It's not what it looks like,” Sway defended himself quietly.
“Really? I tell you that Mike is dying and your first response is to worry about what this looks like?” Harrison couldn't contain his sarcasm, or his disgust.
A small shouting match had erupted during which Ilsa had left in tears and Sway had tried to call Harrison's bluff. He had even suggested that maybe Mike was faking it to get attention.
It didn't seem so fake from the hospital waiting room.
Harrison wasn't a violent person by nature. But in that moment, he had very much wanted to hit Sway. He still kind of wanted it.
A grunt came from beside him and Harrison looked over at the television that had been playing nearby.
Carl sighed heavily, having walked over to catch the announcement.
Ilsa was having a press conference. Lovely.
“This shit sucks,” Carl muttered and rubbed the back of his neck. “Lindy won't have anything prepared for a few more hours.”
Lindy was their publicist. Of course she wouldn't have anything prepared yet. They still didn't know if Mike was going to live.
“I said it a hundred times, but no one would listen to me,” Carl continued growling to himself. “I said, it's a bad idea having women on the tour. Women are trouble. Every last one of them.”
Harrison looked over at Sway's defeated posture. He didn't understand why Sway was with Ilsa at all that night. Yeah, Sway was a flirt and he had a reputation. But he wasn't the kind of guy to move in on his friend's woman. Was he?
It hadn't really been a secret that Ilsa and Mike were having difficulties. Were those difficulties caused by Sway's involvement? Or was Sway just in the wrong place at the wrong time?
This whole situation was messed up.
Ilsa was crazy. And she made Mike crazy. Harrison still didn't understand the dynamic of their relationship. It seemed too volatile to really have any sort of longevity. But then again, Harrison had never been in love before.
Despite growing up with two sisters, Harrison was completely baffled by women's ways. He figured that if he was ever going to lose his mind over a woman, she'd better be pretty spectacular.
They may have to reconsider their livelihood altogether.
Maybe they weren't responsible enough to tour.
Maybe they really had no idea what they were doing.
Chapter 1
Under Pressure
Zelda Fitzpatrick could think of a hundred other things she would rather be doing at that moment. She started to list them off in her head.
Clean out her car. The rust bucket wouldn't notice the difference, but she should really try to find that smell that had been haunting the interior for the past two weeks.
Wash the windows in her apartment. A thin film of brown dirt had collected after being blown at her building from the steady stream of cars on the busy street where she lived.
Wash her yoga pants. She was running low. She had approximately eighty-seven thousand pairs, but she'd only managed to find one this morning. Not even a pair she kind of liked. They were the gray ones she'd bought on impulse at a dirt bike convention.
Yoga pants at a dirt bike convention should have been her first clue that there was going to be an issue. But her addiction to soft spandex caused her to look past the obvious. Predictably, the pants were awful— they pinched her lady parts in a horrible way, making her wish she was a little bit dead.
She should probably just throw them out.
But... they were yoga pants.
“Miss Fitzpatrick?”
Zelda's head jerked up from her lazy sag in the corner. Whoops, she'd almost fallen asleep. That would look good during the interview.
“We tried to offer you a job, but it was difficult with all the snoring and... spittle,” she could already hear the pity-laced apology. Because she did snore. And she drooled.
Taking a deep breath and putting on her best smile, she stood up. The receptionist returned her smile and ushered her into a large office. Zelda hadn't noticed the last applicant leaving, though to be fair, she'd been busy making a chore list in her head. She had been the only one left in the waiting area. That didn't bode well for job offers. At this point, they had probably already made their decision and were just following through on formality.
Oh well, it was still a good experience, Zelda decided.
“Nothing's final until you're dead,” she heard her dad's voice in her head, and she held her shoulders a little straighter. She was going to give this interview everything she had.
She needed this job. Her rent was due yesterday, and while her landlord was sweet and patient, she hated paying for things late. Besides, it's not like Matt would have any money for it. As usual.
Even if she didn't get the job, she still had time to call Cassandra and see if she could pick up an extra shift tonight at the bar.
The office was nice. A lot nicer than the few she had seen. Big windows, big desk, big chairs.
A bald gentleman in a suit was coming around the big desk with his hand extended, while another man remained seated in one of the client's chairs. His brow furrowed, contemplating the L.A. scenery outside, one ankle propped on his opposite knee—wearing jeans, work boots and the most impressive scowl Zelda had ever seen.
“Zelda Fitzpatrick,” the bald man greeted her, “I'm Jerry Douglas.” He waved a hand at Scowly. “This is Carl Darrow.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Zelda greeted them as she took her seat. Mr. Douglas went around to his side of the desk again and picked up her resume.
“Were you aware that you come with a very high recommendation from Simone Evans?” he asked curiously.
Zelda felt her lips twitch. “No, actually, I was not. I only worked with her once.”
Simone Evans, photographer extraordinaire, was the person Zelda aspired to be. A couple of months ago, as part of a charity fundraiser contest, she'd been selected to be Simone's second camera on a public works project.
The day had been amazing. Zelda had tried to absorb all she could from the talent she was paired with, while also trying to not embarrass herself terribly. She hadn't exactly succeeded on the last part.
On her last shot of the day, she'd fallen off of an embankment and rolled down a slope covered with duck poop. The shot she'd taken right before that moment had been the best one of the whole roll. But it had come with a price.
Jerry continued. “She sent over a fax this morning that said: Zelda Fitzpatrick is one of the better talents I have come across in the industry. She is polite, professional, and brilliant. If you don't hire her on the spot, your photos will be second rate, hideous, and embarrassing.”
Zelda shifted in her chair. As far as compliments went, that one took the cake.
“Would you agree with her assessment?” Jerry asked.
Zelda wondered who on earth would ever agree with being considered brilliant. Wasn't it human nature to argue with such accolades?
“Considering that the one and only time I worked with Simone Evans, I ended the day covered in bird feces, I think she's remembering me incorrectly.”
The man with the scowl snorted a quiet laugh, but otherwise didn't say anything.
Jerry smiled politely and looked back to the fax. “She went on to say: As an aside, maybe keep her away from water fowl.”
Scowly barked a singular laugh and shook his head, still looking out the window. Zelda glanced at him a little sideways, swallowed, and redirected her attention to Jerry.
“Hm, well, I brought my portfolio so you can see some of the pictures I've done—”
Jerry waved his hand slightly. “No need. We've seen your work. You're by far the best in the bunch.”
Wait. What?
“What we're interested in is what you're hoping to get out of this.”
Zelda took a breath to answer. Stopped. Frowned. Took a fresh breath and tried again.
“A—a job... I mean, right?”
Jerry blinked at her.
“Okay,” she rubbed her lips together, trying to think. “I guess I'm hoping for the chance to learn how to better my craft, work with different people, and build a foundation so maybe someday I won't be living so hand-to-mouth with this whole freelance business.”
Jerry nodded thoughtfully, looked back at her resume.
“You're not from California?”
Good, questions she could answer.
“No, I'm from Iowa. Moved here a year ago.” She laughed lightly and rolled her eyes. “Following a dream... just like everyone else in this place.”
That didn't get much of a reaction either, so she continued. This was starting to feel suspiciously like a speed date. She had only been to one. Her friend Amber had made her go for moral support.
“Only child, parents still married. I played volleyball in high school, was on the debate team, and played the very convincing role of 'servant,'”—she was sure to include the air quotes—“in Twelfth Night. I have a cat I would die for, an unhealthy devotion to most fandoms, and I'm allergic to sulphur.” She paused to take a sharp breath. “I really like taking pictures and then getting paid for it.” She nodded. “That's my favorite.”
Did she expect them to stand up and shout, “You're hired!”? No, but that would have been nice.
Finally Carl, or as Zelda had been referring to him in her head, Scowly McGrumpers, turned to face her.
She pressed her lips together and filled her cheeks with air for a second before she realized how ridiculous that must look and stopped, trying to cover it with a smile.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Carl asked.
Zelda frowned at him deeply. “Why does that matter?”
Carl sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Women on tour are a bad idea.”
Zelda sat back in her chair, confused.
“It's all worked out so far,” Jerry said, polite strain in his voice.
“But the drama, and the angst, and all the... women shit.” Carl scrubbed one hand down his face.
Zelda felt like maybe she should defend
her gender, but he was mostly right. Women did tend to make things frustrating.
Wait, tour?
Zelda had thought this gig was for an album jacket.
“She's completely qualified, her portfolio was handpicked by the guys, her background check is impeccable,” Jerry continued placating Carl.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Carl grumbled.
The office went quiet, the only sound Carl's frustrated musings. Jerry looked down at his desk and patiently waited. Finally Carl turned back to Zelda, his brown eyes giving her a brief dismissal that she almost took literally.
“We've waited—”
Jerry cleared his throat.
“I've waited,” Carl corrected himself, glaring at Jerry. “Until the last minute. The band wants a touring photographer with them. To set up exclusives, make them more reachable to their fans, pull back the curtain and show what it's really like to be a hard-working and committed band on the road today.”
Carl took a breath, steepled his fingers and curled a lip. “The tabloids have had a field day the past few months. With Mike's ex nearly dying in his driveway, and his extended vacation, they think he's back to using. They've started to blatantly make things up and doctor photos in order to make the band look like they've returned to old behaviors.”
“That's ridiculous,” Zelda put in, feeling her blood start to heat. “First of all, when photography is used to ruin someone's reputation in order to make a buck, it makes me hella pissed. Secondly, any decent fan knows that the band is staying on track. They've never been so focused, so inspired. I mean, have you heard the new single? That doesn't happen by accident. They're rock stars, yeah, but they're also artists.”
She growled and ran a hand through her wild curls. It got stuck and she had to struggle to free her fingers, but she didn't miss a beat.
“I'm so offended right now, you have no idea. I mean, the nerve! Photography is my lifeblood, it's in my soul! I couldn't imagine taking pictures of someone in their personal time, and then selling it just to pay the rent. For real, I'm behind on my rent right now and I'd rather work extra shifts tonight at the Roster than corrupt my art. I've always gotten the impression from DBS that they take their art seriously, too. I don't see them as being the type of band to be doing this purely for the money, chicks, or fame.”
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