by Karina Bliss
“Oh, am I early?” she said, surprised. “I thought you’d be finished with your interview by now.” She spoke to Elizabeth, but she stared at Zander.
“Forty minutes early,” Elizabeth retorted. “Zander, this is my sister Marti, Marti meet Zander. She and I are spring-cleaning Pat’s house while he’s in hospital.” Swinging in her chair to face her sister she added, “Shouldn’t you be wearing old clothes?”
“It’s so great to meet you,” Marti gushed, “I’m a big fan.”
Doc coughed into her hand. Zander could have sworn he heard “bullshit.”
“Thank you.” He laid on the charm, wanting Elizabeth’s sister to like him and curious about everything to do with his lover. It quickly became apparent they weren’t alike. Marti wore her personality—smart, sexy, sophisticated—like a brand, while Elizabeth’s reflected her character. Her sister assessed reactions and fine-tuned her approach to get the response she wanted, Elizabeth changed for nobody. If anything, Zander saw more of himself in Marti.
Their relationship was interesting though, Doc very much the proud older sis. “Marti convinced me to buy this house—she’s one of Auckland’s top real estate agents.”
Marti took the praise as her due, but didn’t reciprocate. At one point, when Elizabeth was laughingly recounting her siblings’ attempts at matchmaking, Marti shot him an apologetic, almost embarrassed smile.
And Zander thought with some surprise and a surge of protectiveness, she doesn’t get how special Doc is. The way Elizabeth talked about her family suggested they were close, but he wasn’t sensing the unconditional acceptance he experienced in his. On the other hand, his mother and brother had no expectations of him.
“We should get working,” Zander said after Marti had ignored a couple of Elizabeth’s hints.
“Of course.” She retreated graciously. “Great to meet you, Zander.”
“And you.”
“I knew you two would have a lot in common,” Elizabeth said happily after she’d left.
Yeah, neither of us really deserves you.
She activated her recorder, but Zander wasn’t ready to work yet.
“You really want to record us having Skype sex?”
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder to check the door was closed. “Keep your voice down.” Her expression was both intrigued and regretful as she deleted his comment. “We’re on company time.”
Always so damn careful about separating state from personal.
“How’s your Irish boyfriend?” he persisted. How the fuck did one court a woman? He’d never had to do it before.
“Improving every day.” She hit pause. “Pat’s considering moving down country to live closer to his son and family.” She filled Zander in. “I brought in the big guns yesterday and set up a Skype link to the grandkids.”
“Has he realized yet he doesn’t stand a chance?”
“Yes, but he’s not going down easy.”
“Give him my sympathies.”
She laughed. “Listen, how would you feel if I stay another week? I’m spring-cleaning his house while he’s in hospital, but I could lift his sale price by a few thousand if I do some paint touch-ups and tidy the garden. We don’t need to interview as much while I’m writing the first draft.”
Reluctantly, Zander recalled Stormy’s advice. Put her interests first. Was that courting? “Sure.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I miss you,” he added, unable to help himself.
“You miss the sex.”
“I miss you,” he repeated. Fuck this indirect approach. “You miss me?”
The door opened. “Sorry to interrupt again.” Marti batted her eyelashes at him. “Elizabeth, if you give me Pat’s key, I’ll get started.”
If they’d been on the verge of a tender moment, it was lost amidst instructions on where to find the vacuum cleaner and fresh kitty litter. Ever the pragmatist, Zander reconciled himself to business talk.
“Let’s tackle another of those missing pieces,” she began. “Why did you and Devin wait until recently to reveal he cowrote your first hits?
He’d always known they’d have to address this eventually. “When Rage started out, we didn’t think we’d be taken seriously, admitting a sixteen-year-old coauthored our songs. So I took sole credit and Dev and I had a private arrangement on royalties. When he heard I was negotiating for our songs to be used in commercials, he sought recognition to kill the deal.” He’d never admitted that publicly before and her eyes widened slightly in appreciation of the scoop.
“Why didn’t you check with him before you said yes?”
“I didn’t think he’d object.”
“Even though he’s a recovering alcoholic and the campaign was for a liquor brand?”
Zander worded his response carefully. “I needed money for the tour and at that stage I expected Dev to rejoin Rage. Once he made his position clear, I scuppered the deal.”
“And the agency sued for breach of contract.”
“We settled out of court.”
Everything he said was true, but what he left out made Zander feel like a liar.
“The payout must have been a huge financial setback for the tour.”
Oh yeah. “I found other funding.” Mortgaging everything he owned.
To his relief, Elizabeth didn’t ask where. “How does somebody with such business acumen misread a contract—and his brother—so badly?”
“You have no idea how arrogant I was then.” High-handed. Selfish. And a crook.
Elizabeth chuckled, thinking he was joking, and Zander forced a smile. “Believe it or not, I’m new and improved.” Guilt he’d learned to live with, but shame had arrived with sobriety. “Anyway, you need to clean spring or whatever it is that helpful people do.” He found himself squirming under her clear-eyed gaze. “I’ll go flirt with a supermodel and create a photo op for the press.”
“It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it,” she teased.
“You know, a little insecurity would really help my ego,” he said half-seriously, but Elizabeth only laughed at him.
Zander’s answering smile faded when he cut the Skype connection.
He had no qualms about withholding his darkest secrets in the memoir, but he was starting to feel conflicted about what he hid from Elizabeth. The line between self-protection and misrepresentation wasn’t something he’d ever had to consider because he’d never let any woman get close. But he wanted—craved—intimacy with her.
And she would never understand his past actions. Lately Zander had been having trouble understanding them himself.
How do you explain to the woman you love that you defrauded your own brother?
Chapter Twenty-one
“So is this a reality check or what,” Marti said, her white jeans and white T-shirt offset by a pair of pink rubber gloves. The vacuum attachment she was ramming down the back of Pat’s worn sofa hit something and the motor screamed. An upholstery button was attached to the nozzle, a brighter green than the ones still attached to the sofa. It had been down there a long time. Marti removed it. “One hour you’re interviewing a mega-rich rock star, the next emptying twenty-five-year-old kitty litter.”
An exaggeration—the kitty litter was maybe a month old—but Elizabeth didn’t correct her because that would require taking a deeper breath, unwise when she was holding it at arm’s length and stumbling outside to the rubbish bin. She tipped the contents slowly and carefully, then slammed the lid down before the noxious dust could coat the back of her throat. “Ugh.”
Butterball sat on the fence between Pat’s house and hers, fastidiously licking a paw in the elaborate grooming ritual she’d been engaged in since their arrival. “You, madam,” Elizabeth accused darkly, “are all show.” The tabby yawned in her face.
Shaking her head, she returned inside and made a start on cleaning the cupboards under the kitchen sink, malodorous with the sour rags Pat used as dishcloths.
Every day at home prov
ided a reality check, but spring-cleaning cupboards paled in comparison to yesterday’s catch-up with her university colleagues.
“…It must be awful trying to wring meaning from his self-indulgent monologues…”
“…I imagine it’s equivalent to teaching a toddler to use a sippy cup, getting Zander Freedman to string sentences together, let alone reflect in a meaningful way on his life…”
“…Is he even capable of speaking in whole sentences…”
They teased as good friends, in ignorance of a man they judged by media reports and Zander’s own delight in playing to stereotypes. And when she’d tried to set them straight, the dean of her history department soothed, “Hey, we’re just jealous. All of us would have sold out for that kind of money.”
And they asked when she hoped to return to meaningful work. “People like us need intellectual stimulation.”
People like us. In one form or another, Elizabeth had gotten that message all week.
Rational people, practical people, normal people. Realistic people. Her family delighted in their secondhand brush with fame, but saw it as a comic aberration on her part. Her real role was family confidante, reliable sister, slightly odd and needing direction because brainiacs didn’t always know what was good for them. Normal people weren’t meant to cavort with fanciful, farcical creatures like unicorns. Or rock stars. And if she had a slight sense of claustrophobia at being so accessible and taken for granted, she quelled it.
“Ugh.” Elizabeth recoiled when she came across mouse droppings. “Butterball, you fraud,” she muttered, reaching for a dustpan and brush.
For the most part, she liked who she was—in her family, her community, her “real” job—but amiable and clever, helpful and reliable wasn’t her only self.
Oh yes, she missed Zander.
* * *
Shopping bags bouncing against their legs, Stormy jogged down South St. David Street with a laughing Kayla. They were running late—literally—for Kayla’s rendezvous with Jared.
He’d asked her on a lunch date this morning when they were all chasing the kids around the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle and then sent her shopping with Stormy. Seth would watch the kids for an hour while Jared wrapped up a last interview with the French journalist, and until Stormy returned to the hotel.
He’d organized everything and told Kayla to expect romance. She was giddy with excitement. They’d gone shopping at Jenners, the elegant Edinburgh department store where Stormy had encouraged her boss to splash out on a cute dress. “You can’t go on a date wearing mommy clothes.” As they were leaving through the lingerie department she’d caught Kayla looking wistfully at a corset.
And now they were late.
One of Kayla’s trainers bounced out of her shopping bag and she stopped to pick it up, then leaned against a lamppost to catch her breath. “This damn corset is cutting off my air supply.”
“It’s okay,” Stormy said mischievously. “You won’t be wearing it long.”
Kayla laughed.
In the two weeks since her employers’ fight, she’d watched them treading on eggshells. Clearly they loved each other and it was wonderful to see them both trying to reignite the passion.
They reached the end of the street and paused to get bearings. Princes Street Gardens lay opposite, a vast tract of green and summer flower beds, and it wasn’t hard to spot the Scott Tower where Kayla was meeting Jared. As well as being over two hundred feet tall, the Victorian Gothic spire looked like it had fallen off the top of a cathedral.
As they hurried along the footpath looking for a break in the traffic, Stormy spotted Jared standing at the bottom of the tower’s wide steps bidding farewell to Giles and Simone.
“You know what?” Kayla stopped. “I’m in too good a mood to talk to her. Let’s wait until they’re gone.”
The photographer clapped Jared’s shoulder and walked to a nearby taxi rank. Perfect. Stormy would have no trouble getting back to the hotel with the shopping bags.
“Go already,” Kayla muttered, drawing her attention. The Frenchwoman was clearly reluctant to leave, talking to Jared intently.
“What is she saying to him anyway?”
“I can’t help being so fucking pretentious,” Stormy said in a French accent and Kayla snorted. Both women froze as Simone pulled Jared’s head down to hers and kissed him.
One second, two, then Jared loosened Simone’s hold and gently pushed free. Even from here, Stormy could read his lips, “I’m married.”
“Oh, thank God,” she blurted, releasing the breath she’d been holding.
Simone touched Jared’s cheek, gave him a soulful look and then walked toward the cab. Full of male speculation, Jared’s gaze followed.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Stormy insisted.
“That I’m watching my husband wonder what it’s like to fuck another woman?” Kayla looked stricken.
Stormy made a movement toward her and she stepped away. “I know Jared would never cheat on me,” she said firmly and took a deep breath. Then exhaled on a shaky rush. “I just never expected he’d want to,” she cried.
“Kayla!” Across the street, Jared waved.
His wife looked around wildly. “I don’t want to see him.” Dropping her shopping bags, she ran into the nearest department store.
Looking after her, Stormy saw her disappear into the ladies’ room.
Jared arrived, smiling and handsome. “What’s going on, where’s Kayla?”
“What’s going on, dumbass,” Stormy said hotly, “is that she saw you lusting after another woman.”
He stared at her. “That’s bullshit. Now where’s my wife?”
She shoved her shopping bags at him, so she could pick up Kayla’s. “I’ll tell you if you admit you were fantasizing about having sex with that French homewrecker.”
He reddened. “I’ll admit Kayla was right about Simone’s intentions. The rest is neither true nor any of your business. Now where is she?”
Stormy wavered.
“Please,” he said. “She’s upset.”
“And whose fault is that? Come with me.” She marched through the department store to the ladies’ room. “Wait here while I make sure it’s empty.”
Inside, an elderly woman was reapplying her lipstick in front of a mirror. When she noticed Stormy looking around, she jerked her head toward one of the stalls.
“Thank you,” Stormy mouthed. After the woman left, she returned to Jared. “Third stall from the left. I’ll stand guard here.”
A minute later she heard him rap on the stall door. “Honey, come out and let’s talk about this.”
Oh hell, the acoustics meant she could hear every word. Stormy blocked her ears, but it didn’t help.
“You thought about what it would be like having sex with her, Jared.”
“No, I imagined her naked,” he replied. “And only because Simone caught me by surprise. You know what I imagined… Scrawny. C’mon, Kayla, open the door.”
Stormy heard the sound of a lock being turned.
A couple of teenage girls approached, their chatter drowning out the conversation inside. Removing her fingers from her ears, Stormy intercepted them. “Sorry,” she whispered, “a water pipe has burst. Use the bathroom on the next floor.” Assuming it has one.
“Why are you whispering?” asked one.
“I ah…don’t want to disturb the plumber’s concentration. He’s at a critical stage.”
She must have sounded convincing because they tiptoed away.
Stormy took up her post again.
“The world’s opened up for you,” Kayla spoke matter-of-factly. “Of course you’re tempted.”
Jared’s response was wary. “Where are you going with this?”
“We married young, we were each other’s first and only. Maybe we just settled for the best we could get.”
Outside, Stormy put her hand over her mouth. No, no, no.
“That’s bullshit, babe. I love you. I need you. Yo
u’re my anchor.”
Yes. Tell her that.
“And that’s exactly how I feel—like an anchor.” Kayla sighed. “Let’s admit it, Jared, my being on tour isn’t working for either of us. I’m taking our kids home.”
“It was one look, Kayla!” He was starting to sound desperate. “I’m still learning how to balance family and band commitments and yes, I’m making mistakes, but bear with me, okay?”
“It’s not about Simone,” she said, so quietly that Stormy had to strain to hear. “Or even you. It’s about me being around people who love me, not people who use me to get to you or tolerate me for your sake—your oh-so-lucky chubby wife. It’s about returning some structure and normalcy into our kids’ lives. I don’t want my kids exposed to excess and adulation, to groupies and exploiters. God knows our daughter already thinks she’s royalty without the encouragement of a private jet, a nanny and a rock-star godfather. So you stay and do your job and I’ll go home and do mine.”
“Don’t ever think you and the kids aren’t my life,” Jared’s voice was husky, coaxing. “I love you, Kayla. Please…don’t go.”
“I love you too, and that’s why I’m going home.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Before we hurt each other more than we can fix. I’m sorry, Jared, but I just can’t do this anymore.”
Stormy closed her eyes. Oh. Hell.
* * *
Zander had no warning.
At a rock concert after dark, what the crowd doesn’t realize is that the singer is all but blind under the glare of stage lights, his vision limited to the seething bodies in the mosh pit, moths dancing around the bright bulb of the stage.
Which was why, when his voice failed to hit the power note on ‘Summer Daze,’ Zander felt isolated in a nightmare.
He raised his arms like a conductor, encouraging the Glaswegian crowd. Fifty thousand voices filled the void, reverberating through the stadium in orgiastic fervor. Using one fist to punch them through the chorus, Zander gestured for water and gulped a couple of sips. Droplets glittered in an arc across the floodlights as he tossed the bottle aside.
Trailing the mike stand behind him, Zander strutted toward Moss and covered the mouthpiece. “Join me in the next chorus.” Then he spun round to render the hip thrust he was infamous for.
