Rise

by Karina Bliss

  Zander rolled over and lifted the pillow. “The contract—”

  “Stipulates only that I write it.” Briefly she wondered if he had been unwell—he did look washed out—then she steeled herself. “Every day you curtail or postpone our interviews is a day closer to a second-rate rehash of your life. If you wanted a once-over-lightly job you could have hired anyone. But you hired me.” Hearing a wobble in her voice, she paused. “Waste that opportunity if you want to,” she added quietly. “It’s your dime and I have your wonderful library to enjoy before I go home to ridicule. But be aware that your window to make that choice is closing.”

  Zander’s mouth tightened, his jaw set. A succession of emotions scudded across his face—anger, impatience, frustration. Flinging the pillow across the room, he sat up. “Pack your bags.”

  * * *

  His car was long, sleek and red with soft leather upholstery that cradled her body. Which was just as well, because when Zander hit the accelerator, Elizabeth pressed into it with the centrifugal force of the Hadron Collider.

  “I have to say I’m a little disappointed it’s not a convertible,” she confided over the engine’s deep-throated rumble. “I always fancied driving through the desert with the top rolled down.”

  He flashed her a grin and adjusted his Stetson. “A roof and tinted windows protect my privacy. Besides, then we wouldn’t be able to talk, which is the purpose of this, right?”

  “Right… How impractical of me.”

  “The Dodge Viper affects everyone that way—speed thrills.”

  Their ride drew looks, but not as many as Elizabeth expected. Luxury cars were everywhere once they hit the freeway, and the tinted windows enabled her to gawk like a tourist. “How long is the drive?”

  “Four hours, but we’re not talking the whole way,” Zander warned.

  “The advantage of more time together is being able to take a relaxed approach to our interviews,” she pointed out. “What music do you have?”

  He docked his iPod. “Name your genre.” His taste proved eclectic, everything from jazz and hip-hop to blues and death metal. “I like to keep up.” The next hour proved their most productive session to date. “Initially we were labeled a grunge band, but our appearance was due to poverty not ideology.” Skipping between tracks, Zander played her examples of his musical influences.

  “Because we were young when Rage hit big, people think our success came easy, but it was based on hundreds of hours of practice in our family basement and years playing covers, sneaking our own songs in the playlist when we could. One night we were the warm-up band in some dive and the headline act didn’t show, so we played through. It was a light bulb moment for me. I realized we could differentiate ourselves by our work ethic—being professional and reliable… No, don’t use ‘reliable.’ It isn’t sexy.”

  “We’ll edit out the profanity later.”

  He laughed. They connected best when sharing a joke, but too often, Zander defaulted to the icon’s story, the one everyone had heard before. It frustrated the hell out of her. Spending more time with him was one thing; her challenge was getting him to reveal the real man.

  “So when we showed up to gigs we were punctual, polite,” he winced theatrically, “and professional. When some drunk yelled for ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ instead of returning the prima donna holler, ‘Didn’t you notice we’re a fucking rock band,’ I’d ask, what key? Word got around that we were reliable”—taking his eyes off the road, he glanced over with a grin—“and we got more gigs and more leeway to play our own songs. We started building a fan base. In our private lives we made all the mistakes—booze, drugs, women, ego—but even through our worst excesses we never canceled a concert or shortchanged our audience on performance.”

  He fell silent, his gaze pensive on the highway. “Devin collapsed onstage rather than break the band’s cardinal rule that the show must go on.”

  “Did you try and stop him drinking?”

  “When he was underage, I kept an eye on his intake, once he was legal, I stopped.” Taking a hand off the wheel, Zander massaged the nape of his neck. “We were all into everything then and his drinking seemed no more excessive than anyone else’s. And in the early years I was more concerned with Jeff’s heroin addiction.”

  Rage’s original drummer had died of an overdose.

  “A few times Mom and I talked Dev into rehab, but you can’t fix someone who won’t acknowledge a problem. We’re both stubborn that way. Kinda like Jonah saying about the whale, ‘I can take that fish, I’ve seen bigger.’”

  He was trying to divert the conversation into safer channels. Elizabeth smiled and said nothing, and after a minute Zander spoke again.

  “So when Dev finally got sober and said he wasn’t coming back to the band, I should have believed him, but it was my turn for denial. I only announced I was looking for new band members to call everyone’s bluff—Mick and Travis were setting ridiculous terms for their return. Then a reality show producer wanted in, some talented musicians auditioned and I started seeing a different future for Rage.”

  “Do you see much of Devin these days?”

  Zander took so long to answer she stopped expecting one. “The best thing I can do for him these days is leave him in peace.”

  “But you’re his brother.”

  “Which means that no matter what shit goes down, we understand each other. If I ever started babying him, he’d hate it. And he has his librarian to heal any paper cuts. Mom married a cop, my brother a librarian; I swear it’s a lot of responsibility stopping the family getting too respectable.”

  She couldn’t push him too hard or he’d retreat behind his image. “My sister Marti would empathize with you. She’s the rebel in our family.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced over, a glint in his eyes. “And what were you, Doc?”

  She chuckled. “Reliable.”

  Chapter Nine

  They stopped for gas in Barstow and Zander stayed in the car to avoid recognition. He’d told Luther no bodyguards until the hotel. In the side mirror, he watched Elizabeth carefully reading the instructions on the pump station. An attendant ambled over and she waved him away. “It’s okay, I’m having fun.”

  Fun. Really? Admittedly it was a hell of a car, but… Her hair caught the sun. She’d fastened it into a twist with a tortoiseshell clip and fine strands danced across her face in the hot wind. But nothing could tame its color, the raw fiery orange of a Nevada sunset. Maybe that’s why she dressed in muted colors—today an olive-green skirt and a bronze tank—because her hair provided its own glory. Her John Lennon-style sunglasses were useless in desert sunlight.

  Zander had been pissed when she’d burst into his bedroom and started laying down the law. But she was right. Distracted by his voice issue, he’d dropped the ball. Obsessing over his future wouldn’t change it; he’d manage this latest setback like he managed every other—with bullshit and his own particular superpower, denial.

  If the worst happened and his voice failed, it was even more important to secure his legacy with a kickass memoir.

  And okay, maybe it was time to look at their project from Doc’s point of view. His wasn’t the only career to consider.

  Elizabeth finished refueling and strode inside to pay, unconscious of several interested male glances. Nothing was as sexy as confidence.

  Inside, she made some smiling comment to the dour cashier and Zander watched the other woman gradually soften under the doc’s friendliness until they chatted like old friends.

  She had a way with people. Zander was so practiced at deflection it hadn’t occurred to him when he’d pursued her, hired her, that Elizabeth might have a way with him.

  But she listened with such intelligent objectivity that he found himself opening closets he’d intended keeping shut. There were even odd moments when she seemed to be looking past his stories to him. Seeing him.

  He squirmed in his seat. His biographer was good; hell she was very good. But that’s why he’d ch
osen her. Her idea for structuring the memoir under the seven deadly sins still made him chuckle. He liked her, she made him laugh, and more than that she surprised him and Zander had considered himself beyond surprise.

  At times their clashes threw up sparks he would have called sexual if they weren’t such different people. On the downside, she kept trying to crack the ice on subjects he preferred to skate over. Zander could talk about anything glibly. Feeling something, the aches and pains, regrets and sadnesses… No.

  Heat built in the car and he turned the ignition for the air-con. The engine roared to life, and cold air blasted against his face. He’d done some unforgivable things and buried them under a shitload of repression. Zander had no intention of allowing this professional retriever to dig them up. If they were going to spend more time together, he needed a diversionary tactic.

  Elizabeth returned with two bottles of water and a paper sack. “Do you think we could make a quick stop at the Zzyzx Road sign when we pass it in another hour?” she said, handing one over.

  “What the hell is that?”

  She fastened her seatbelt. “Alphabetically the last place name in the world.”

  Zander uncapped the water bottle and thanked her. “I’ve been driving this highway forever and never heard of it.” The water was deliciously cool. He should have brought some with him; he couldn’t afford dehydration.

  “I won’t even ask you to detour to the Desert Studies Center or Lake Tuendae,” she coaxed. “Just stop at the road sign so I can take a picture.” She added hopefully, “Unless you want to see the habitat of the endangered Mohave tui chub?”

  “You’re making this shit up.”

  “It’s a fish.”

  “That’s just sad. What’s in the paper sack?”

  “Candy. Tootsie Rolls and Jolly Ranchers. I got hooked on them when I studied here.”

  “I haven’t had those since I was a kid.”

  “Want some?”

  Tootsie Rolls were chocolate. Chocolate was bad for his voice. Zander sighed. “A Jolly Rancher will bribe me into a stop at the road sign long enough for one photo.”

  Over the next hour they chewed their way through the packet.

  “What saved you from the addictions that have tripped up so many others?” she asked.

  “My biggest drug was ambition. I knew if I wanted to stay famous I had to exercise some self-control.”

  They found the road sign in the middle of nowhere. Zander pulled off the highway onto gravel and looked at the shimmering heat and a vista of distant hills. Elizabeth’s pale skin would fry. “Wear my hat.” He plonked his Stetson on her head. “It adds authenticity to the desert look.”

  As he lined her up for a photo, a Winnebago parked inexpertly beside his Viper, covering the gleaming paintwork in a haze of dust. Great.

  His biographer struck a pose and Zander smothered a grin as he took the shot with her cell. Honest to God, this woman got a kick out of the strangest things. It gave him a kick, watching her.

  “Would you mind taking a picture of us?” called one of the Winnebago occupants, an elderly woman whose checked shirt matched her husband’s.

  Depends on whether you’ve stone-chipped my paintwork. “Sure.” Zander enjoyed the novelty of being on the other side of the camera as he lined up the talkative Winnie and taciturn Bob, Midwesterners on a retirement trip.

  “You want me to take one of you and your wife?” Winnie offered when he returned her camera.

  “Oh, we’re not married,” Elizabeth said.

  “Boyfriend, then.”

  Doc went to correct her, but Zander got in first. “Give her your cell, honey. We’d love a shot.” He steered her toward the sign. “Most people would be delighted to get a photo with me.”

  “Exactly. And this is your day off.”

  He was touched. “Thank you, but I’m very happy to be photographed at the end of the alphabet with a pretty woman.”

  Under the brim of his hat, her skin tinted pink, but she said mildly, “I expect you want your Stetson back.”

  Flirting, Zander thought. That’s my diversionary tactic. Sexiness was something he could shrug on like a coat of many colors—a slow smile, holding eye contact, adding more huskiness to his voice.

  Enough surely to derail an awkward conversation. “Keep my hat for the shot.”

  “Closer,” Winnie hollered.

  Perfect. The bronze silk of Elizabeth’s tank slid under his palm as he dropped an arm around her shoulder. When she glanced up, startled, he launched one of his killer smiles.

  “Oh…um, sure,” she said and tentatively looped an arm around his waist. Her skin still held the residual coolness of the car’s air-con and she smelled of candy.

  Winnie fiddled with Elizabeth’s camera. “It’s not working.”

  “You must be pushing the wrong button,” said Bob and the two bickered amicably.

  Elizabeth peeked up at Zander under the brim of his hat, her eyes dancing, and they laughed. The inside of her mouth was stained Jolly Rancher grape and he had a sudden desire to bend down and taste all that sweetness. Where the hell had that come from?

  “I’m sure it won’t take too long,” she soothed, misreading his frown.

  “Sure.” A 4WD pulled up, rock blasting over the stereo. Two young couples piled out, one of the women holding a camera.

  “This is lame,” her guy complained as they mooched around waiting their turn for a shot. His gaze skimmed over Zander and then returned.

  Wearing sunglasses might save him from being recognized. Zander dropped his hand from Elizabeth’s shoulder in case it didn’t—she didn’t need paparazzi speculation again—and stepped away from her.

  “Sorry, I’m getting clammy,” she apologized, and called to Winnie, “Need some help there?”

  “No, I’ve got it.” Winnie found the right button and took the shot.

  When he and Elizabeth rejoined them, Zander turned his back to the new arrivals.

  “Oh dear,” Winnie said, as she and Elizabeth checked the picture. Zander had hat hair, Elizabeth looked all head in the Stetson and the Zzyzx Road lettering was out of focus.

  “I’m sure it’s him,” someone muttered behind him.

  “Let me try it again,” Winnie offered.

  “Thanks, but we need to get going.” As Zander steered Elizabeth toward the Viper, she took off his hat.

  “Thanks for the Stetson.”

  “Holy shit,” shrieked a female voice. “It is Zander Freedman.”

  It took another twenty minutes to leave. Photos had to be taken, then a T-shirt unearthed from the Winnebago to be autographed for Winnie’s grandson. Passing vehicles started slowing down to see what all the fuss was about. A few stopped.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said when they finally hit the highway again. “I shouldn’t have asked for a detour.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing is more important than my fans. That sounds like lip service, but it’s true.”

  “And loss of privacy is the price… I thought growing up a minister’s daughter was tough.”

  “When Rage toured Africa, we did a safari in Kenya,” Zander commented. “In one village, the kids broke into an impromptu version of ‘Summer Daze’. They were word perfect. The price is worth it.”

  Fans told him his songs provided the soundtrack to their highs and lows and added meaning to their lives. Not realizing their love gave meaning to his.

  * * *

  They ate takeout in the Viper overlooking Vegas.

  As Zander dug into his McDonald’s chicken salad, trying not to get ranch dressing on the leather upholstery, he still couldn’t work out how Elizabeth had talked him into this.

  In some ways she was like a kid, excited by everything. Even the city below, slowly twinkling into a constellation against the backdrop of a desert sunset, couldn’t match the shine in her eyes as she munched her hamburger and fries and sighed over the view.

  He sighed too, because damn, her fries smelled good
.

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks for three fries,” he said, but she waved the cash aside and put the carton between them to share.

  “Thanks for doing this,” she said between mouthfuls. “An overview gives me my bearings in a new city.”

  “You’re a strategic thinker, like me.” Once Zander had set his heart on Dr. Elizabeth Winston writing his memoir, he’d cherry-picked Dimity’s research for a battle plan. Working around the university’s semesters, he’d come up with an offer no poorly paid academic could refuse.

  The first crunch of salty fry was an oral orgasm. Zander ate five and reluctantly returned to his salad. He knew Doc’s professional background, but very little about her personal life, and he needed more insight into this woman if he was going to steer her in the right direction.

  He’d hired her for her literary cred and to lend a ring of truth to a memoir that would secure his place in the pantheon of rock ‘n’ roll greats. Not bare his darkest secrets. Because if people knew him for who he truly was, they’d despise him.

  “What’s that?” Elizabeth pointed to a tower on the skyline. “It reminds me of Auckland’s Sky Tower.”

  “The Stratosphere Tower.” He glanced at her. “Does it make you homesick?”

  “Much as I love living close to my family again, I miss living abroad.”

  Vaguely he recalled she’d had a scholarship in the States, and then worked for four years at an English university while she burrowed into Anglo-American history. “Why did you leave the UK?”

  “Going home was only supposed to be temporary.” Carefully, she separated the pickles from her burger and dropped them in the paper sack. “My grandmother was dying and I wanted to spend time with her before she passed. Then my younger brother announced he was getting married, so I accepted a semester’s work at Auckland University and stuck around for his wedding, and then my youngest sister begged me to stay an extra couple of months and be godmother to her second child, so I extended the contract.”