Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  Claire gave me a stern smile. “Why don’t the three of you go take your seats while Jordan finishes preparing.” It was a command, not a suggestion, and I followed Olivia and Adam out into the hall, wishing I could be a fly on the wall as the remaining three continued their argument or circled the cauldron or whatever they were going to do.

  Whatever they did do, it worked. Fifteen minutes later, when Jordan hit the stage, Olivia was still sniffling, but Jordan was on fire. He played with power and passion and sang the same way. His voice, like Adam’s, was reminiscent of Micah’s, but his had a melancholy tone that deepened occasionally into something anguished. I’d liked his album very much (me and half a million other people), but I never would have guessed how much more compelling he would be live. We were at a reserved table, front and center, and more than once, I felt as though Jordan could see beyond the stage lights and was looking right at us. It was thrilling.

  I was so enthralled, I didn’t realize Adam had leaned toward me until his lips were against my ear. He explained that the drummer, bass player, and keyboardist were “friends from other bands,” bands I didn’t know very well. I nodded, but Adam didn’t sit back, his lips still at my ear. I waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, I turned to look at him. He didn’t move, so we were suddenly nose to nose. Amused that I was startled, he smiled and sat back. I wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but I could tell I was going to have to watch him.

  Moments later, I turned away and was lost in the music again. The other musicians kept up with Jordan but never tried to claim the stage from him. It was his show, and he was masterful. So much so that it took over an hour for me to realize he hadn’t played a single new song. Songs from his album, a handful of interesting covers, and even an old Subject to Change song, but nothing new. Under cover of a guitar solo, I leaned over to whisper to Adam, purposely pressing my lips against his ear, “I thought he was getting ready to do a new album.”

  Adam grinned, but his eyes stayed on his half-brother. “Yeah, he is.”

  “Why isn’t he playing anything from it?”

  Adam’s grin took a sour turn. “Maybe it sucks.”

  On his other side, Olivia lightly slapped Adam on the arm. “Stop it,” she hissed, looking around nervously as though anyone could hear our hushed conversation over the wailing of Jordan’s guitar.

  Adam shrugged. “Yeah, he’s only six months late, I’m sure it’s all gold.”

  I sat back as Olivia smacked Adam once again. The sibling dynamic between the two of them fascinated me, especially in light of Claire’s comments about Olivia’s feelings for both being far from sisterly. I could imagine emotions ebbing and flowing as they’d grown up, close quarters in an already rarefied environment. Adam’s and Jordan’s feelings for each other must have fluctuated over the years, too, especially as they were competing for Micah’s attention and then for his crown.

  Had Russell ever favored one over the other? Adam had been pushed out into the spotlight early—raw in emotion and experience—and not gained the traction people had expected. Had Russell expected more? Too much? And then moved on to Jordan, whose initial impression was that he could be every bit as big as his father, maybe even more so—as long as his second album followed up well? If Jordan was petering out, too, had the pressure of creating the next Micah overwhelmed Russell? Was this a case not of murder, but of artistic despair? But how did that jibe with Russell telling Olivia that his work was being used against him?

  As the applause for the last song died down, Jordan stepped forward on the stage. “These guys are great,” he said, sweeping his arm at the band, “but I’d like to have someone really special come up and join me now. My brother, Adam.”

  Shouts and whoops rang out over the thunderous applause, and people craned in their seats or stood to see where Jordan was pointing. Adam sat stock-still in his seat, looking less than pleased. Olivia nudged him, whispering, “Go,” urgently. After a long moment, Adam rose and walked to the stage stairs, the applause swelling as people spotted him.

  Jordan bumped the microphone stand with his hip, leaning into it as he watched Adam approach. “He didn’t know I was going to do this, but I knew I could count on him to be a good sport and play along.”

  The diehard fans screamed, knowing where Jordan was headed even before he played the opening riff. “Play Along” was the monster hit off Subject to Change’s final album, released after Micah’s death, an anthemic rock song about trying desperately to keep a relationship together even when you know it’s over.

  Adam stood onstage a moment, hands on hips, looking at Jordan with an unreadable expression. Jordan grinned and played the riff again. I actually thought Adam might turn around and leave the stage, but he smiled, not without effort, and took the seat in front of the grand piano that the keyboard player had graciously vacated.

  The brothers locked eyes and tore into the song. Within three bars, the entire audience was on its feet, cheering and, when the lyrics began, joining in: “Been at this game so long, I can play it in my sleep, / But how to beat a score I don’t even want to keep …” Jordan worked his way over to the piano so he and Adam were within arm’s length as they played, challenging each other, goading each other, driving the song as if it were a physical object to be pushed from one point to another. It was electrifying.

  When the song ended, Jordan embraced Adam, practically pulling him off the bench, as the crowd managed to scream and clap even louder. Adam returned the embrace, and Olivia burst into happy tears beside me. “They haven’t played together for such a long time,” she shouted over the din. “This is so wonderful.”

  Jordan let go of Adam and turned to the crowd, still on its feet. The cheering gave no indication of dissipating, so he pitched his voice to cut through the noise. Adam sat back down at the piano. “We’re missing a couple of really important people tonight, people who should still be here.” Beside me, Olivia caught her breath. Onstage, Adam tensed, too, as Jordan continued, “This next song is for the two men who raised us—as long as they could.”

  Jordan played the opening riff, and Olivia’s wailing “No” sailed above the crowd noise like a descant. Some people cheered, but others caught themselves as they identified the song. Adam sat frozen at the piano as Jordan sang, “Valium and Jack, / Nothing back, / Nothing to hold on to, / To break my fall …” He looked to Adam, surprised he wasn’t playing.

  Adam walked off the stage.

  The crowd, moments ago rocking along in cheerful abandon, grew uncertainly quiet. Olivia sank into her chair, staring at Jordan with great pain. I sat down, too, looking around for Claire and Bonnie, but I didn’t see them at any of the other front tables. They were probably backstage somewhere, and I could only guess at how they might be responding.

  “Valium and Jack” was the other hit single from the final album, but its virtues as a piece of music were inseparable from its legacy as Micah’s epitaph. Popular legend had it that this was the precise cocktail on which Micah had OD’d. Why on earth was Jordan feeding the rumor mill the notion that Russell had done the same thing? Was he trying to link the deaths in people’s minds? And if he was, was he being sensationalistic or was he trying to make a statement about what he thought really happened to Russell? Or was he trying to cover it up?

  Adam hurried up to the table, dodging the outstretched hands of people at other tables. “Let’s go,” he said, pulling Olivia to her feet. They both seemed to assume I would follow, so I did, glancing back up at the stage as we left to see Jordan watching Adam carefully but never missing a beat of the song.

  I’d expected Adam to leave the theater, but he led us backstage. He had a mission in mind, and for some reason thought Olivia and I should be part of it. I could still hear Jordan’s singing, muffled and distorted by the walls between us. The audience was hushed.

  Claire was in the hallway outside Jordan’s dressing room, waiting for Adam. She started to speak, but he didn’t give her the chance, s
tepping into her, close and furious. “Don’t.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “Unpredictability is not one of your charms, Mother.”

  “You shouldn’t have left the stage.”

  “Why should I associate myself with his infantile need to be the center of the universe?”

  “People enjoyed seeing you play again.”

  Adam reacted in disbelief, but Olivia was the one who spoke. “You told him to do this, didn’t you. You want people to think this is what happened to my father. To cover your tracks. You bitch.”

  Claire Crowley looked as though she were preparing to slap Olivia until she remembered that I was standing there. Adam looked as if he’d be happy if the roof caved in at any point in the next ten minutes. I hadn’t even known Russell Elliott, and the emotional toll of the evening was apparent to me; I didn’t know how the rest of them were still upright and coherent.

  “Molly,” Claire said, placing her hand on my arm instead of cracking it across Olivia’s flushed face, “could I ask you to see Olivia home? She’d be more comfortable there, don’t you agree?” She gave my arm a squeeze; I couldn’t be sure if this one was meant to be encouraging or threatening.

  “I’m leaving, but I’m not going home,” Olivia announced before I could answer Claire. “C’mon, Molly.” She turned with a defiant flourish and started for the stage door.

  What would “The Ethicist” recommend in such a situation? I was there at Claire’s invitation, but that had been extended only because I was a friend of Olivia’s. So which one was actually my hostess, the one I shouldn’t offend? But then, my article was about Olivia, so I needed to stick with her, no matter how that might sit with Claire. Besides, if Claire thought I was buying into Olivia’s theory that Claire had something to do with Russell’s death, she’d be willing to talk to me again just to talk me out of it.

  I weighed the odds quickly and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Crowley, it’s been quite an evening.”

  Claire tightened her grasp on my arm, not permitting me to turn away from her. “When can we have lunch?”

  “I’ll call you and set something up. I’d love to know more about your relationship with Olivia,” I said, trying to sound businesslike and polite.

  “I’d like it to be tomorrow,” she said with the steeliness of a woman accustomed to getting her way.

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” I replied, trying to walk away. Out in the theater, the music stopped and the applause began. Claire turned in response to the sound and let go of my arm.

  As quickly as she’d released it, Adam took it and walked me over to where Olivia was waiting impatiently. “I know a great place where the three of us can have a quiet drink and wash this foul taste out of our mouths.”

  Olivia wrapped herself around Adam’s free arm. “Why is everyone being so awful?”

  “‘Cause they don’t know how else to be, Ollie,” he said with a quiet sadness.

  “Hey, coward! Get back here.”

  Adam didn’t stop, but I looked back over my shoulder to make sure it was, in fact, Jordan who stood just inside the door from the stage, his guitar up on his shoulder as if he were a baseball player leaving the field. Bonnie ran up to him, hand to her throat, eyes wide, as though she were worried an explosion was imminent. She stroked her son’s arm, but he didn’t react. Claire stood near them, swaying slightly as though vacillating between standing with Jordan and following Adam.

  “Adam!”

  I couldn’t pinpoint the difference in Jordan’s tone, but it made Adam stop and turn around. “Good night, Jordan.”

  Jordan grimaced in disbelief. “You diss me in front of my fans and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

  Adam took a deep breath before replying, “Yes.”

  I admired his restraint. Olivia took a different approach. Bracing herself on Adam, she leaned forward in fury. “You’re a soul-sucking pig, Jordan Crowley!”

  “You watch your mouth, young lady,” Bonnie said sharply.

  “I was paying my respects!” Jordan protested.

  “You don’t respect anything,” Adam said, turning his back on Jordan again and escorting Olivia and me out the stage door.

  Security, paparazzi, and fans choked the alley. Screams went up and flashes went off as people recognized Adam. Some yelled for Olivia, too. I just hoped I’d make it down the metal steps to the street without falling, given the height of my heels and the urgency with which Adam was moving us along.

  Olivia descended first, and I was about to follow her when the stage door banged open and Jordan flew out. The crowd screamed even louder, but Jordan didn’t react to them at all. He lunged straight at Adam, who was still holding my arm, so we both got tangled up as Jordan grabbed Adam by the lapels and shoved him back against the platform railing. I tripped over Adam’s feet—or Jordan tripped over mine or some other painful combination—so the three of us crashed into the railing, me between the two of them, Adam behind me. They grappled with each other like Olympic wrestlers, oblivious to the crowd and cameras. Though I struggled mightily to force them apart and escape, I was no match for their fury-fueled adrenaline. Adam grabbed Jordan’s shoulders and spun us all around, slamming Jordan into the railing now.

  The noise of all the camera shutters firing repeatedly was like all the wings flapping when the birds descend on Tippi Hedren and her friends, and it took every ounce of concentration I had not to scream. What the photographers missed was Adam’s question to Jordan as he tried to shove him over the balcony:

  “You want to be the next one to go? I can take care of that, too.”

  5

  “Write the story. Don’t be the story.”

  Somehow, the only response I could come up with was, “Yes, ma’am.” It was early, I was undercaffeinated, and I had a pretty impressive bruise on my rib cage from one of the bounces against the railing. Fresh out of the shower, I was studying the damage in my dresser mirror when I answered the phone, so I was distracted and not fully prepared for the venom at the other end.

  “You’re supposed to be interviewing Olivia Elliott. Why are you in the Post, sandwiched between the Crowley sons?” Eileen exclaimed.

  I sighed, partly because of the bruise and partly because, until that moment, I had no idea anyone had actually published a picture.

  “Research,” I attempted.

  “Do you have any idea how this makes the magazine look?”

  There had to be a way to spin this that Eileen would approve of, especially since, having already taken a literal hit for the situation, I wasn’t interested in taking a figurative one, too. “Like a cool publication whose reporters get invited to all the best parties?”

  Eileen made an angry noise in her throat that sounded like a garbage disposal with too much pasta in it. “Come see me when you drag your overexposed backside into the office. Which better be soon.”

  “I’m meeting Olivia for breakfast. For the article,” I said, knowing that wouldn’t make her any happier. And I had to call Claire, too, speaking of unhappy women. But I needed more information before I did that.

  “Eat fast. And bring me my ascension-to-the-throne question, too,” she demanded, hanging up so forcefully that I thought the reverb might shatter my phone. I slammed my handset down, too, knowing she wouldn’t hear it but needing to respond in kind.

  As I searched for an outfit in the piles Cassady had left scattered around my room the night before, I reviewed events. Did I have anything I needed to apologize for? Or had I, in pursuit of a thorough background for my article, simply been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? I preferred the latter, but Eileen seemed to be rooting for the former. One more chance to see me fail.

  I’d almost coaxed myself into the comfort of my Banana Republic pinstripe shirtdress when the doorman rang. Danny, the regular doorman, was on vacation, and I couldn’t wait for him to come back because Todd, the substitute, took forever to make his point and I really didn�
�t have the patience for it this morning.

  “Good morning, Ms. Forrester,” Todd began. “How are you this morning?”

  “Fine, Todd, how are you?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t looking at the Post.

  “I’m quite well, thank you. There’s a gentleman down here who says I don’t know him because you stopped dating him, but it’s quite important that he see you—”

  Even more excruciating. Todd didn’t have the paper, but Kyle did. “Thank you, Todd, send him up.”

  I hung up, shot a brush through my hair, and slapped on my mascara first; if he knocked before I could put on all my makeup, at least my eyelashes wouldn’t be invisible, which makes me look as though I’m eight years old and I’ve been crying.

  He knocked just as I was debating eye shadow colors. I wondered what our beauty editor, Marlie, would suggest in a situation like this: keep him waiting or finish painting? I split the difference, pausing long enough to swipe a taupe stripe across both eyelids, then hurrying to the door.

  Fortunately, I didn’t fling myself out the door and into his arms, but I was considering it, and that must have been evident by my expression.

  “It’s okay, you can be happy to see me,” he said with a grin.

  “Hello, Peter,” I said with no grin at all.

  “You look disappointed. Were you expecting someone else?” His grin broadened. “I told the doorman I was an ex. I won’t insinuate that it’s a long list, but I can’t be the only one on it.”

  True, Peter Mulcahey was an ex. Specifically, the man I stopped dating when I started dating Kyle. Because we were both journalists, we continued to run into each other, which he enjoyed far more than I did. Tricia believed he went out of his way to seek me out, which was a credible theory, though I did my best to dissuade him. I’d really thought I might’ve seen the last of him, since the last time we’d crossed paths, he’d gotten shot. Not by me. Not that the thought hadn’t occurred to me.