“Oh, it’s the truth.” Dawson slumped into a resigned heap in his seat and crossed his arms. “Who’s here anyway? Did Mom send old Tattling Timothy the butler?”
“Hmmm. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” Abby wasn’t angry, but the kids couldn’t know that. What Dawson had done was dangerous, and although his actions had turned out all right for now, Abby wanted him to face Gray with more than disgust and Kim to face him with more than awe. “C’mon. This guy isn’t here to get you in trouble.”
In truth, she had no idea what Gray was going to do. He had every right, just as he’d said, to take Dawson away, but the thought still made Abby sad. The child was about to be uprooted again, and nobody seemed to know why he’d run away in the first place. They trooped into the kitchen, an odd little parade, Dawson in the lead, Kim in the rear—
Abby had no idea what her daughter would do either. Gray filled arenas three times over in every city on his tours, but his core audience was older—adults who’d grown up with Jon Bon Jovi, maybe Billy Joel. Fans Kim’s age were uncommon, yet she’d always been the living definition of “Gray Covey Fanatic.” It didn’t help that she shared his birthday and played clarinet, Gray’s first instrument. But Kim had never met as much as a semi-famous person.
Gray’s back was to them when they entered the living room. Abby drew a breath in a vain attempt to calm her thrumming pulse. “Mr. Covey?”
He turned slowly as if he, too, was afraid of what he’d find.
Kim’s fingers twisted in a fistful of Abby’s T-shirt. A half-sob bubbled from her throat. Abby didn’t know where to look first, at Kim’s bugged-out eyes or Dawson’s jaw on his chest.
“Dad?”
“Hey, buddy. Sorry I couldn’t get here any faster. I, ah, didn’t know where you were.”
“Dad?” Kim’s word came out a strangled hiss, like an old steam radiator coughing past a clog, and she stared at Dawson. “This is your father?” To Abby’s astonishment, a tear welled in each of Kim’s eyes, and, with the hem of Abby’s shirt still fisted in her hand, she took a half-step behind her mother. “Gray,” she whispered. “Mom, it’s Gray.”
“I know, sweetie. It’s okay, I promise.” Abby gave Kim’s forearm a squeeze.
“What are you doing here?” Dawson’s voice trembled. “How did you find me?”
Abby studied the pair—Peter Pan and his shadow. Dawson stood just shy of his father’s six-foot height, a slender replica just starting to fill out. Both took the same wide-legged stance. Both had the same crook to their elbows, although Dawson’s arms curved in a protective shield over his chest, and Gray stuck one hand in his pocket. The other he lifted to rub the back of his neck. Gone was the cool, practiced superstar.
“We followed your trail, through Heathrow and the Port Authority in New York. It took us a while to find Abby.”
“He calls you Abby?” Kim’s whisper squeaked in Abby’s ear.
“It’s my name.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.” Dawson drew his line in the sand.
The light blue of Gray’s eyes blanched, and he swallowed as if he’d been punched. “Kids who run away generally don’t send announcements.” His voice held a false brightness.
Abby’s heart went out to him. She sensed him struggling to strike the right tone between disciplinarian and friend. She also watched Dawson stiffen and search desperately for a way out of the trap that had just sprung on him. “Your mom and I have both been worried about you.”
“Mom is skiing with Klaus. She’s not worried about me.”
Dawson’s coldness stunned Abby and roused her interest more than a little.
“Your mom is who she is, Dawson. She loves you.”
“She loves Danielle, too. But our nannies worry more than she does.”
Gray pursed his lips sympathetically. “There is me, Daw. I’ve been worried.”
“Yeah, I could tell. How’s the tour going?”
“Worst ever. Inspired me and Spark to write a song about overflowing toilets last week, and they’re the best lyrics I’ve managed in months.”
If Abby hadn’t known Dawson she never would have seen the tic at the corner of his mouth. So, there was a connection there. Weak but alive.
“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. I’m not going back to Heighton to live in cold dorms with blazer-wearing geeks. And I’m not spending the holidays with Klaus the Priss.”
“You can spend the holidays with me.”
“Oh joy.”
At Dawson’s insult, Gray Covey the dad disappeared. The plastic shield lowered over his eyes, and his stance solidified as if he prepared to make a sale any way he could. “You know,” a smile of feigned confidence appeared on his face, “we’ve got a little over five weeks left in this tour. The guys want you to hang out on the road and join us onstage for a few shows. It’ll be an honor to have you with me.”
Kim’s sudden weight was going to drag her to the floor.
“I’ll bet it would be.” Dawson’s voice held derision and a note of hurt. “The fans would just go ape-shit over seeing the baby boy, huh, Dad?”
“I think you’d better come up with more appropriate language in front of the ladies.”
So smooth, so calm. Abby wanted to cry. He was a pop-star Jekyll and Hyde. Shake him, Gray. Or better yet, hug him. He doesn’t want the singer, he’s begging for you. Dawson backed up, starting to put distance between him and his father. “Sor-ry.”
“Don’t try to run away from this. I know you’re mad at your mom, I know you think she doesn’t pay enough attention to you.”
“You don’t have a clue what I think,” Dawson shouted. “How could you?”
The practiced smile faltered, and, for the first time, Gray’s eyes met Abby’s across the room. He looked lost, and she smiled, trying to send him courage. Unfortunately, little as she knew about him, she did know he’d led with his ace, and his son had a built-in strategy to beat it. He was unimpressed.
“I think I do know.” Gray’s voice held less confidence. “Your mom sticks you in a private school without asking your opinion and pulls you away from your friends. Then she marries Klaus, has Danielle, and expects you to like it.”
“Way to go, Dad.” Dawson tapped his temple with a finger. “You’ve got it all figured out. You think I’m mad at Mom? You’re right. But, of course, I have you. Always around. I can’t get rid of you you’re so in my face.”
Gray’s stricken eyes widened, and his lips parted wordlessly. Some might have considered Dawson’s tone disrespectful, but he was being dead honest. It was just painfully clear Gray hadn’t seen these blows coming.
“You have no idea how hard we worked to find you these past six weeks. I canceled a show the instant your mother called to say they knew where you were.”
“You did?”
Hope sparked in his eyes. “Of course.”
“Wow, how much did that cost you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The cover blew off Gray’s schmoozing, pop-star façade. “What difference does it make? I’m here. You’re coming with me, but I’m trying to tell you I want you to come. Don’t insinuate I don’t care about you.”
“You care?” Dawson asked. “Which do you care about most? Twenty million fans and all their money and adoration, or the son you’d rather hide away in a British boarding school?” He turned in blank fury and stalked toward Abby and Kim, leaving Gray immobilized.
On the one hand, she could see why she’d believed the boy to be eighteen. He made an erudite argument. On the other hand, his was a little boy’s cry. She squeezed Kim’s shoulders, hurt for her daughter as well. This was hardly a glamorous way to meet her biggest hero.
Dawson stopped just in front of them. “Why did you let him know I was here?”
“He’s your father, I can’t keep him away.”
/> Out of the blue, Kim’s fist shot from behind Abby’s back, and Dawson reeled from a sharp blow to his upper arm. “Ow! What the heck was that for?” He took a confused step backward, rubbing his bicep.
“You’re evil and twisted, Dawson. He’s your dad?” Kim’s voice was a stifled whisper, and she sent a furtive glance in Gray’s direction. “How could you keep something like that from me all this time, and laugh at me behind my back?”
Abby had learned to love Dawson’s ability to deal with Kim as well as any big brother would. He could tease her out of a bad mood or annoy her into one, but their camaraderie had grown strong. This time—for the first time—he dropped her flat.
“You’ve just seen why,” he said, his voice cold. “The guy is a class-A fraud.”
“I know you’re mad at me.” Gray’s eyes held no certainty, though his voice remained firm. “But you are coming with me. You have an hour and a half to get packed up.”
“What?” Dawson spun, fists doubled, breathing like a stabbed bull.
“I have a show at eight thirty in Chicago, and I cannot miss this one, too. Our plane leaves at five.”
“Are you kidding me? You can’t just show up and drag me off with no warning.”
“And you can’t just walk off your school campus and board a plane for a different country with no warning, yet, somehow, here we are. I can just take you, Son. It’s come with me or you’re on the next flight to Heathrow.”
Dawson threw a pleading look at Abby. She couldn’t help but be impressed with both of them. “Gray, don’t you think—”
“No.” He pointed at her. “This is not up for discussion. There’s no time.”
“But is it really best for him to hang out with a rock band?”
“Yes.” He closed the discussion with a tight-lipped stare.
“Dad, you’re just being a jerk now.”
“You don’t get to talk to your father that way,” Abby chastised him gently.
“But he gets to dictate my life when I haven’t seen him in four months?”
“I’m afraid so, kiddo.”
“This is bogus.” He turned and marched from the room.
Kim stared after him. Gray blew out his breath and looked at the ceiling. Abby searched the archives of her brain for any smidge of an idea that would help and found zilch. “I guess you surprised him.” Her lame humor fell flat.
“I don’t blame him for being angry. I’ll go talk to him in a few minutes.” Gray rubbed his cheeks and, just like that, the performer slipped back into place. “Meanwhile, I haven’t had a chance to meet Kim yet. I’m very sorry we started off like this.”
Kim met the eyes of her hero for the first time. He smiled, but Abby saw the hollowness behind them, the panic building as he realized there was something wrong he’d never suspected. But he was nothing if not a consummate performer.
“I hear I have you to thank for offering Dawson a safe haven. I’m very happy to meet you.” He started across the room.
“I look like a dweeb,” Kim whispered in despair and looked at her camp-dirty jeans.
Abby urged her toward Gray. “You’re beautiful.”
He took Kim’s hand, sending her cheek color straight to crimson. “I . . . I’ve always wanted to . . . it’s really nice to meet you.” Under any other circumstances, Kim would have pulled off something more poised.
“Your mom tells me you’re a fan.” Gray smiled in pleasure. “That’s a huge compliment from someone of your generation with all the great music that’s out there these days.”
Wow, Abby thought. He is good.
“There’s nothing as great as yours.” Kim gushed for the first time. “I love every song.”
Before Gray could reply, Kim blushed to a darker rose, and her hands flew to her face. “It’s so amazing to meet you.” She looked like she was about to lose her dinner. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. Get something. For a minute. Sorry.”
She fled past Abby and pounded up the steps. Abby turned back to Gray, whose face had turned a bit Kermit-colored.
“Gee, Abby,” he said. “That worked out just swell.”
TO AN UNTRAINED eye, Gray Covey’s elaborate stage at Chicago’s new Marvel Arena might have looked like a productive beehive. To Elliott St. Vincent’s highly-trained eye, however, the meandering techs looked like mechanics wandering a garage in search of something to fix.
Elliott sprawled in a chair cradling his Nikon D3X like a gunslinger protecting his Colt. “I knew there was no way our boy had laryngitis,” he said to Gray’s agitated manager, although Chris Boyle didn’t bother to look at him.
“You don’t get to talk now, St. Vincent.”
Elliott ignored him. “Gray’s too anal with his perfect pitch and his need for control to stay away just because he couldn’t talk.” Besides, Gray’s band was tighter than jeans on a streetwalker—the Lunatics, they unofficially called themselves. Covey wouldn’t be MIA during a tour under any normal circumstance. “Where is he? You’re full of secrets the past few days.”
This time Chris spared him a glare. “Your ass is in one big sling, photography man.” He snatched a tabloid paper off a table and flung it Frisbee-style into Elliott’s lap. “So sit quietly in your corner, or I’ll kick you out.” Elliott stroked his thick mustache with an unworried smile.
Before he could speak, new voices filled the air and Gray’s band filed onstage, laughing, obviously not the least distressed over missing a gig the night before. Spark Jackson, Gray’s lead guitarist for twenty-five years, led the way, and Boyle’s eyes shone with relief.
“Did you reach him, Spark?”
“Yeah, he’ll be back tonight.” As always, Spark spoke with quiet, even words. He leaned on a section of floor riser not yet in place, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “He’s got Dawson and says they’ll be here on time.”
“Dawson?” Elliott snapped to full attention. “He found Dawson?”
The pair ignored him.
Micky Wolff, the group’s talented drummer, and Miles Dixon, the percussionist, each shrugged at Elliott as they passed him to check their instruments. They looked like Laurel and Hardy—Micky slight, short, and long-haired, Miles handsome as a young Sidney Poitier but larger than a left tackle. Behind them, bass player Max Hoffmann with his maroon-framed glasses had been with Gray as long as Spark had and looked his quiet, bookish part. Gorgeous Misty Donahue, the only member who hadn’t spent half a lifetime with the band, could sing as mellow as Norah Jones or soar like Mariah Carey. None of them paid Elliott more than a sour glance except for Dan Wickersham, the keyboardist. His lean runner’s body matched Elliott’s, and they were good friends.
“Heard you were in the time-out corner.” Wickersham ambled toward him with a wry smile. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“C’mon, Wick.” Elliott dragged him out of earshot. “You know I wouldn’t do this.” He held up the paper.
They’d all seen the photo, but Wick snorted. “It’s funny, give you that.”
Elliott regretted taking the picture: Gray, seated in an armchair with surprise—or was it the shock of pleasure?—on his face, and record industry insider Jillian Harper’s head buried face-first in his crotch. The picture spoke for itself. Except that it lied. Stupid party, Gray’s date, hilarious laughs when she’d tripped and landed in the compromising position. Elliott took celebrity photos for a living. He’d merely snapped the shutter in reflex.
“Funny in private. I didn’t sell it to the Star.”
Wick handed the paper back. “You gotta admit, this is hard evidence. And it had to be worth a few pesos.”
“I don’t need a few pesos.”
“Yeah, richer than Gates.” Wick slapped him on the shoulder blade. “Hey, I know Chris isn’t seeing any humor in this, but maybe Gray will.”
“I’m not worried about Gray; he
’s my ticket out of hot water. But do me a favor and keep Boyle away from me. I’m ready to murder him. So, what’s up with Dawson? Why didn’t I hear about this?”
Spark turned his head. “Because you’d have found a way to follow him, and that wasn’t going to happen.” He punctuated his reply with an eloquent shrug.
For the first time, Elliott felt a sting. He’d been friends, good friends, with Gray and the band for fifteen years, and they had always trusted him with anything publicity-related. He provided everything from photos for advance promotions to the band members’ eight-by-ten glossies. He had access to backstage dramas and personal celebrations. He knew the workings of the Covey Empire as well as anyone did, because he paid very close attention. Nobody questioned the tidy sum Chris Boyle paid him to keep Gray’s image in front of the public.
He made money on the side as a paparazzo, it was true. He was good at it. But he was fair, and celebrities generally liked him. Nobody had ever questioned that part of his life, either. Until now.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He glowered at Sparks. “So, where did he find Dawson?” Elliott liked Gray’s son. The kid was funny and sharp. He figured Dawson liked him well enough, and he’d been as worried as anyone when the boy had disappeared.
“Gray can tell you if he comes back.” Spark sidestepped the question and grinned. “With things the way they’ve been, I wouldn’t blame him for staying.”
“Bite your damn tongue.” Chris glared at the guitar man. “And you, St. Vincent, will lay low with him. Gray’s trusted you all these years, so don’t chase him, or make excuses for yourself, or give him any reason to leave here again. Keep your lenses out of his business until this goes away.”
“Now look here.” Elliott stood and beseeched Spark with his hands. “I haven’t done anything. I’m telling you, this was somebody’s idea of a joke.”
Chris held up a hand. “You’ve had four, or is it five, unflattering pictures from this tour show up in your favorite rags the past two months. We’ve looked past your sick sense of humor because you make us laugh, and because the pictures actually generated interest. But jeopardizing your friend’s career and that of an innocent woman? That’s more than taking advantage of a friend, St. Vincent. This time you’ve gone too far.”
The Rancher and the Rock Star Page 5
