Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  “Yes, but—”

  “Unfuckingbelievable.” He turns around, pinning me with his eyes. “All this fucking time!”

  “Darian, please. It’s not what you think.”

  “You have no idea what I think,” he snaps, his stare unrelenting until “Evil Woman” cuts it short. Muttering a curse, he steps around me to fish his phone from the unmade bed, then silences the ringer. “I can’t do this with you right now, Francesca. Believe it or not, I’ve got bigger problems.”

  I bristle. “Like a TV show?”

  “What do you know about that?”

  Absolutely nothing!

  “Only what you told Drew because you sure as hell didn’t tell me.”

  “Ah, Christ,” Darian says, gripping the back of his neck. “Here we go again.”

  “‘Here we go again’?” I push to my feet, anger rising in me like a volcano about to erupt. “You’re mad at me for keeping something from you when you never tell me anything?”

  Darian’s hand shoots out toward the dresser. “Look what you kept from me, Francesca! I hardly think it’s the same thing!” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “You want to talk? Fine, let’s talk. Hmm,” he says, tapping his chin dramatically. “Where to begin… Oh, I know! How ’bout your buddy, Cade? You remember him, right? Lead singer of your favorite band…disappeared two months ago…”

  “What do you mean disappeared?”

  “All I know is that he’s going through some personal shit and skipped town. And his band seems pretty fucking okay with it, so I’m guessing it’s bad. Still had to sue him, though.” Darian laughs dryly. “Today, if you can fucking believe it.”

  “You sued him?”

  He levels me with a stern look. “I should have done it a long time ago, but I didn’t because of you.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not what I—”

  “The thing is, if it weren’t for this goddamn TV show, it wouldn’t even be a thing. But now”—he shakes his head—“this shit’s going to make headlines: Cade Corban Missing; Record Label Sues Band for Breach of Contract.”

  “Darian, what TV show?”

  “Something World Music is doing. They’re calling it Back Together: For Julia. Catchy, right? And you can best believe they’ll advertise it like it’s the Second Coming. They’re even featuring For Julia in the premiere of their new series That Was Then. The paparazzi at the taco stand? Not a coincidence.”

  “What do they want?”

  “In a word? Me…and now, you, thanks to our little run-in yesterday.” He sighs. “That Was Then airs Sunday,” he says, “and from the looks of it, it’s going to focus more on my life and the crash than the band.”

  “You can’t stop it?”

  “I’ve been trying. Going to LA was a last-ditch effort. I failed. Back Together doesn’t air until fall, so I’m still fighting that one, but it’s probably a lost cause. It’s aimed at the new band, so in theory, it doesn’t affect me.” Darian leans against the dresser, hands stuffed in his pockets. “But, of course, it’s going to affect me. The band is named after my wife, and they want to use my music on their upcoming network-sponsored tour—specifically ‘Halcyon Girl.’ Their plan is to remaster and re-release, because what better time to exploit a dead song about a dead girl?”

  “But you wrote it!”

  “I co-wrote it,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m suing to stop it, but I won’t win. The most I can hope for is to slow it down.”

  “So Back Together literally means they’re back together. Going on tour. God, Darian. I’m so sorry. I get why you’ve been…”

  “An asshole?”

  I smile thinly. “Stressed. Let me help you.”

  “You can’t, Francesca.”

  The defeat in his voice guts me. I wrap my arms around my stomach and close my eyes.

  “I know you want to,” he says softly, “but you can’t. It’s too late.” His keys rattle and he clears his throat. “I have to go.”

  “Please stay,” I whisper hoarsely.

  “Don’t wait up.”

  He walks out, and this time, I don’t follow him.

  I wake at the sound of my phone vibrating on the pillow beside me. The sun is setting, the room considerably darker, and I’m disoriented from sleep. I blindly grab for the device and breathe a sigh of relief at Darian’s name flashing on the screen.

  It’s a good sign if he’s calling you.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice thick and raspy. “I’m glad you called.”

  There’s no response, and after a few seconds of ambient noise and shuffling, I realize I’ve been butt-dialed. A knot forms in my chest.

  “I don’t want you to go, Amanda,” I hear Darian say. “I don’t know. I’ve had too much to drink. I’m not thinking clearly.”

  That’s all I get before my battery dies and my phone powers off.

  Determination courses through me, and I fly out of bed. I put on the first pair of shoes I can find, my ratty black Converse, and slip one of Darian’s button-down shirts over the tank and leggings I already have on.

  Within minutes, I’m in my car, backing out of the garage.

  It’s not too late, Darian, I tell myself as the door closes behind me. It’s never too late.

  Leary of paparazzi, I keep my eyes peeled as I pull into the parking garage beneath Fox Independent’s office building. Due to the late hour, the ground level is practically empty. Only a dozen or so cars remain, one being Darian’s, and there are no paps to speak of.

  I whip into the first visitor spot I come to and rush inside. The lighting in the lobby is dim, and it’s quiet—no background music, only the low hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the distance. The after-hours receptionist barely looks up from her book as I pass her desk. With a polite nod, I continue back.

  The elevator doors seal me in, and I peer at my reflection in the mirrored chrome. My blond hair is tied in a messy bun, drawing attention to my tired eyes and washed out face. My red nails are chipped and could use a manicure, and my legs look gangly beneath Darian’s oversized oxford.

  Love what you’ve done with yourself, Frankie.

  The doors slide open, and I’m greeted by another eerily deserted lobby. A dimly lit banker’s lamp on the reception desk is the only source of light, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. It’s still rather dark and almost as quiet as it was downstairs but for the faint music playing overhead. Recognizing “Strange Days” by The Doors, I relax slightly. The familiarity is comforting and ushers me forward.

  I can tell someone’s been here and is likely coming back, considering the room’s cluttered state. Files and paperwork are strewn across the coffee table and a red blazer hangs on the back of a chair. Maybe they’re out grabbing dinner? I wonder, but the closer I get to the lamp, the more I’m able to see—like the empty bottle of scotch lying on its side and the two rocks glasses beside it, one marked with red lipstick.

  “I’ve had too much to drink.”

  The memory of Darian’s call pulls at my insides, and despite being alone, I suddenly feel as if I’m walking in on something. I shiver at the thought, then quickly dismiss it.

  There’s no one here, Frankie. Just you and Morrison and your overactive imagination.

  “Strange Days” ends and “You’re Lost Little Girl” begins. The bass intro is somber and haunting and the very reason I dubbed Strange Days the melancholy album. The paranoid feeling returns, and this time, I push through it, keeping my gaze trained on the floor, my ears attuned to the lyrics.

  “I think that you know what to do…”

  But the feeling only grows, and seconds later, I’m certain I hear voices emanating from Darian’s office. Nausea comes over me and I stumble forward, grabbing the edge of the receptionist’s desk to right myself.

  “Impossible? Yes, but it’s true…”

  Then I hear a laugh—a woman’s laugh—and I move toward it reluctantly, as if being p
ulled by an invisible tether.

  “I don’t want you to go, Amanda.”

  My shaky hand lifts of its own accord and wraps around the knob. Turning it slowly, I crack the door, recalling the last time I was here.

  “Francesca! What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  My skin is cold and clammy while liquid fire burns in my veins. I blot my damp forehead with the cuff of Darian’s shirtsleeve, then swallow hard and square my shoulders, steeling my nerve before peeking inside.

  “I can’t do this here.”

  “I locked the door. You can totally do this here.”

  I only catch a glimpse before the sheer force of self-preservation jerks me back.

  “I really can’t. Let me take you to lunch.”

  But a glimpse is enough. Enough to make out her long, dark hair, her arched back, her slender fingers as she reaches behind her to clutch his knees.

  “Amanda…”

  And I go mercifully numb, feeling only the impending break of my heart and the slow bleed of my breath as it leaves my body.

  I drive back to Coral Gables in an adrenaline-fueled haze. I park in the garage, hang my keys on the hook by the door, and go upstairs to pack. I take only what will fit in my duffel; the rest, I decide, will have to wait.

  “Hey, Jane,” I say to my best friend’s voice mail as I lug my bag downstairs. “Something happened and I’m coming home for a while. I’ll try you again when my phone has a full charge, but please don’t call Darian.” I clear my throat. “And don’t worry. I promise…I’m fine.”

  Because I am fine, right? I have to be.

  Jane returns my call immediately, but I send it to voice mail as I step inside the kitchen. I dig a pen and a scrap of paper from my purse, and with an unnerving sense of calm, I write Darian a note. I leave it on the island beside his mother’s ring, then order a car to take me to the airport.

  You’re Lost Little Girl

  Frankie: Sorry I missed you, but I had my phone off. I’m not ready to talk yet, but I promise to call you as soon as I get home, which should be early-ish tomorrow morning. Long layover in Orlando.

  Jane: I love you. Please be safe.

  Frankie

  The turbulence coming into Texas is so bad that the guy next to me spills his orange juice on my white tank. He tries to flag down a flight attendant for a can of club soda, but they’ve been asked to take their seats. Under normal circumstances, this would frighten me. But right now, it doesn’t even faze me.

  “I don’t want you to go, Amanda.”

  I’m not scared.

  I’m not anything.

  “Did something happen between you two?”

  “It was a long time ago, Francesca.”

  When the plane lands, I pull my phone from the seat pocket in front of me and power it on. I have a missed call from Evelyn, a text from Jane, and nothing from Darian. My guess is, he doesn’t even know I’m gone.

  Because he never came home. He’s probably still with her.

  I swallow back a sob and turn to face the window as we taxi to the gate.

  “Did you have feelings for her? Do you have feelings for her?”

  “No, Francesca…”

  Jane’s waiting for me when I get home, sitting on my front porch, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. She sets the mug down beside her and slowly stands as I get out of the car.

  “I would have picked you up,” she says, walking toward me. A small, sympathetic smile touches her lips as she takes my bag and shoulders the strap.

  I thank the driver and follow Jane through the open door of my cabin, closing it behind me. “You didn’t have to come.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” My duffel lands at her feet with a thud and she spins around, pulling me into her arms, my laptop bag and purse smashed between us. “I knew it was something bad, or you wouldn’t have told me not to worry. Of course I came.” After a long hug, she grips my shoulders and takes a step back to study me. “Why aren’t you crying?”

  “Really? That’s your question?” I drop my laptop and purse on the sofa and walk to the kitchen with Jane trailing behind me. “Not what did he do? Or how was your flight?”

  My vision blurs as I gaze out the window above the sink. Jane’s red Chevy Cruze sits in the driveway, and I can’t help wishing it were a blue Maserati instead.

  Don’t forget why you’re here, Frankie.

  “He fucked Amanda,” I say bitterly, “and the flight was fine, believe it or not.”

  The cabin falls silent except for the squeak of Jane’s chair as she takes a seat at the table.

  I glance at her over my shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you,” she says. “I just…I need a minute to process it.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I busy myself at the sink, wetting a washcloth and dabbing the juice stain on my tank. After a minute with no success, I toss the rag aside and turn around, my gaze landing on the bottles of Grey Goose and Zing Zang on the counter by the stove. “Ooh…Bloody Mary stuff! Good girl!” I say, turning to grab some glasses out of the cabinet. I make Jane a drink and set it in front of her. “I can’t believe you got Grey Goose, though. Shit’s way too expensive to be mixing.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. That bottle was last year’s Christmas gift from my boss.” She takes a small sip of her drink, her nose wrinkling as she swallows. “Are you sure? Amanda?”

  Hearing her name is like a dull knife sawing through my chest.

  Just get through this, Frankie. Just answer a couple of questions and then you can sleep.

  I fill the second glass with tap water and take the seat beside her. “Yep.”

  “How do you know?”

  How do I know?

  Now there’s a fun story I don’t particularly want to rehash. I take a large gulp of water. “Later,” I whisper, though I have no intention of ever mentioning it again.

  Jane picks up her Bloody Mary. “You’re not having one?”

  “Need to sleep first.” I yawn as if to stress my point. “Rain check?”

  She nods. “I called Lucy and told her I’d be staying here for a few days. I didn’t mention you in case—”

  “Thank you.”

  “I figured you’d probably want to lay low,” she says. “And I know you don’t want to talk about it yet, but I really think—”

  “I take it Jacob’s with your mom?”

  “For as long as you need me.”

  “I’m glad you’re here…” My brittle voice breaks and I smile tightly. “But I’m so tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.”

  Her eyes soften, and I know she can see them—the tears I’m trying so hard to hold back. She reaches for my hand. “Frankie…”

  “Please, Jane. I can’t.”

  It’s surprising to me how physically painful heartbreak is. How real. It’s like some living, breathing thing is trying to claw its way out of my chest.

  And considering I’m probably still in shock, this isn’t even the worst of it.

  Just go to sleep, Frankie. It only hurts when you’re awake.

  I lie down on Darian’s side of the bed and silently chastise myself for calling it that. I’ve slept in this bed for years, and now it has a side that doesn’t belong to me, owned by a man who doesn’t belong to me either. I want to rebel against the notion, sprawl out in the middle and claim the whole fucking thing. But instead, I bury my nose in his pillow, desperate for a scent it no longer carries.

  Exhausted to my bones, I fall asleep quickly and manage to stay that way most of the day, but by sundown, I’m wide awake. The night wears on endlessly, and by the time I finally drift off, it’s morning and Jane’s gentle knock is waking me up. Heaving a sigh, I turn my head toward the clock on my nightstand. I guess my self-imposed twenty-four-hour isolation has ended.

  “I’m up,” I mumble and silently curse the sun for
rising.

  The door slowly opens and Jane pokes her head inside, a cup of coffee clutched in her hands. Her worried gaze drifts from me to the clock and back again. “Frankie…”

  I rub my eyes and sit up against the headboard. “I’m getting up.”

  “I was thinking of making waffles. Are you hungry?”

  Just thirsty.

  “Maybe later.”

  “Okay, but you might want to do something…with that,” she says, waving a hand in front of me.

  Do something with what?

  Jane leaves and I reluctantly get out of bed, a frown furrowing my brow as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. “With that,” I say to my reflection. My eyes are red-rimmed and heavy, my hair’s a tangled mess, and my tank’s still sporting some guy’s orange juice.

  And you thought you looked bad yesterday—wait, was it yesterday? Or the day before?

  I dig through my duffel for my fuzzy monkey print pajama pants and a clean tank, wishing I would’ve grabbed Darian’s Doors T-shirt this time. I strip out of my clothes and leave them where they land on my bedroom floor.

  “Shower first,” I whisper, stepping over my bag on my way to the bathroom, “then Bloody Marys.”

  Sounds like a plan.

  “I went shopping yesterday,” Jane says as I enter the kitchen. “I bought you some Diet”—her gaze drops to my pants and she winces—“Cokes.”

  “Thanks, but I think I need something a little stronger.”

  Her eyes bore into me as I reach for the vodka. “You don’t want to eat first? It’s been a while.”

  “I’m really not hungry.”

  She bites her lip and leans back against the counter with her arms crossed. “Then what do you want to do today? It’s gorgeous out. We could have a picnic by the creek or—”