Not So Wrong: Love Grows series, Book Two

by Regent, Renee

  Only time would tell.

  Chapter Three

  Melanie

  Sacha called just as I walked into my apartment. I braced myself for the barrage of questions by heading straight for the fridge to grab a beer. I answered the call while popping open the bottle.

  “Yes?”

  “I heard you were entertaining the troops tonight with Spencer.”

  I took a swallow of the cool brew, shaking off the last of the bad mood I’d had earlier. Singing really did have a drug-like effect on me, boosting my spirits every time, and hanging out with a handsome guy hadn’t hurt, either.

  “Yes, we had fun, actually. He plays beautifully.”

  “I’ll give him that. He does play well.”

  She hesitated, as though the wind had gone out of her sails.

  I sighed.

  “But?”

  “But…he’s not a horrible person or anything, but be careful, Mel. From what I’ve heard, he’s not one for relationships. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

  “Hon, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I’m a big girl, I can handle myself with guys. You know that. Besides, who said anything is going to happen? We played music and talked. That’s it.”

  “I know. I can’t help but warn you, though. I don’t know all the details, since I’m still new to the family, but he and Gib had a falling out years ago. They’ve been at odds ever since, so there must be something to it.”

  I took another sip of the beer, pondering what she said. The last thing I needed was to get in the middle of a family squabble. I had enough of my own problems to deal with.

  “I’ll be careful. Besides, like I said, I may not be around here for long.”

  “I hope that’s not true. But we’ll get together no matter what, even if I have to fly down to Florida to see you.”

  I chuckled but had no desire for anyone, not even my best friend, to see where and how my family lived. I’d made it out of the trailer park many years ago and wasn’t looking forward to moving back. I’d finally managed to get my anxiety about those early years under control, only to have to face my past again.

  But if my family needed me to be there, so be it. I was stronger now, and there was little chance I would ever again have to face the one who had caused me so much heartache.

  I pushed the bad memories aside and downed the beer while Sacha chatted on. Eventually she had to check on the baby and said goodnight. I hung up, glad my friend was concerned about me, but feeling a teeny bit guilty about lying to her. I’d pretended to have no interest in her husband’s cousin, when the fact was, I couldn’t get the image of Spencer Colebank off my mind.

  The next few days I was too busy to think about anything but work. My afternoons were spent making the rounds of the homes where I was pet sitting for various clients. Between that and the few bucks we made on shows, I somehow managed to make ends meet. I didn’t have much of a social life, and I ate ramen noodles like a typical starving musician. I’d lived this way for years, always hoping the next gig would give my band, Sparker, the boost we so desperately needed.

  Wednesday night, we met at our usual place for rehearsal—the house of our drummer, Mackie. His basement had become our recording studio/rehearsal hall/crash pad, where we all logged more hours than at our respective homes. It was a good thing his wife, Lori, didn’t mind. She often fed us and made sure the downstairs refrigerator had beer and sodas. She was sort of a house mother/band wife combo.

  I walked in late, steeling myself for the snarky comments I knew were coming my way. I ran a tight ship and being late or not practicing the songs were grounds for a bitch session. Reb, our lead guitarist, was the first to greet me.

  “Nice of you to join us, Mel. We were about to vote on finding another lead singer.”

  I went straight to the fridge for a bottle of water, holding up a hand in his direction.

  “Don’t even go there. I had no idea they were paving in front of this subdivision. Maybe someone could have texted me? Hmmm?”

  I ignored the grumbles that followed since my question was rhetorical. I picked up the electronic tablet I used for storing song lyrics and pulled up our last set list. Placing the tablet on a metal stand, I stood in front of the microphone, flipping it on and adjusting the height. The hum of the amplifier signaled to the band I was ready to get down to business. Mackie gave me a nod as he sat behind his gold-glittered drum kit. Our logo was painted on the drum head—the band name “Sparker” in jagged black letters, with a gold lightning bolt across the name. I’d also had guitar straps made with the logo for me, Donna, our bass player, and for Reb, whose given name was actually Reuben. He preferred his stage name, “Rebel”, so that’s what we called him.

  Yeah, sometimes musicians hate to grow up.

  Everyone moved to their places. After a few minutes of adjusting straps, tuning strings, turning on amps and pedal boards, we were ready to begin rehearsal. I faced the band, clearing my throat.

  “Okay, same set list as last time, but we’re changing up the sequence. We need to really wow them in the first set, engage the audience. I’ve put the weakest songs smack in the middle of each set, so we start with a bang and finish with an even bigger one. If we nail this, we have a good shot at becoming house band. We can do it, guys. Let’s roll.”

  A few taps of the drumsticks from Mackie and we launched into a fast number, an early nineties rock song. Everyone was on point, and when my turn came, I hoped I would do them justice.

  Though it was a rehearsal, I closed my eyes and imagined the audience responding to the song. It helped much more than staring at Mackie’s basement wall. I gave what I could to the song because I never did anything half-assed, especially not music. Which made our lack of success all the more frustrating.

  We ran through the set and only had to do a few songs over again to work out some kinks. When we finished, more than one person groaned. I never knew why rehearsing seemed like work, but performing the same songs on stage was a blast. The lack of an audience changed the dynamics somehow.

  Donna let out a loud sigh.

  “That’s about as good as we’re going to get. Maybe this time it’ll be worth it.”

  She ran a hand through her spiky, short hair and pulled her bass strap over her head. She’d only been with us a few months but had fit right in. Holding her own with guys, she usually busted their chops quite effectively. Plus, she was reliable, so far.

  I sensed the undercurrent of tension in the group, which Donna’s comment had echoed. Likely it was anxiety over the gig. I really did have a good feeling about it, though.

  “That was a good run-through. And we’ll kill it on stage, I have no doubt. Thanks, everyone. Now go home and relax. Last rehearsal is here, tomorrow night. Friday we go on at nine, so sound check is at eight-thirty. Don’t be late for any of it.”

  Salutes and “Yes, ma’am” were the responses, so I waved a hand and went to put up my gear. Their sarcasm didn’t bother me. As long as they showed up when they were supposed to and gave each performance their all.

  Later that night, I was lying in bed, wide awake and wired. I considered getting up to watch a movie or read a book, anything to calm my mind and distract me from thinking about the future. A decision was looming and I had mixed feelings, so the inclination was to avoid thinking at all.

  My phone chirped, indicating a message. I picked it up and read the text.

  You up?

  I couldn’t help but smile, recognizing the number as Spencer’s. I had texted him the address to the bar where our gig was, but he had only responded with a curt, “Thank You,” so I figured he’d cooled off about it.

  What was this, a booty call? I thought he had more class than that. I answered anyway.

  “Yes.”

  Seconds later, he responded. Good. Are you alone? Don’t want to intrude.

  Well, at least he was being polite. I wrote back, “No Problem. What’s up?”

  Just wanted to talk. I’m at
my piano and thought of you. Wish you were here.

  Aww. Now he was being sweet.

  “Wish I was too.”

  I added a wink emoji and then deleted it. I replaced it with a music note and a smiley face. Seconds later, my phone buzzed. I didn’t have to look to know it was him calling.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. Typing and playing piano at the same time is impossible, so I called. How are you, Melanie?”

  “I’m good. Are you a night owl too?”

  He had me on speaker mode, so I could hear the soft, jazzy tune he was playing in the background. I tried to imagine his house and what he looked like while playing.

  “Sometimes. I play at night when I can’t sleep. Listen to this, I just wrote it an hour ago.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back on the pillow, cradling the phone on my shoulder. The song was an upbeat, happy-sounding tune, but it had an undertone of sadness at the end. As though someone thought everything was going their way, only to find out nothing was as it seemed.

  Story of my life.

  When he finished, I clapped.

  “That was beautiful. It needs lyrics.”

  He laughed, his voice edged with doubt.

  “Maybe. That’s not my forte, though. I’ll make a recording and you can write some. How’s that?”

  “Maybe I will. I’ve written a few. One you’ll hear on Friday, if you come to the show.”

  His voice softened, barely above a whisper.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And when you’re famous, I can say I knew you before you were a superstar diva.”

  I snorted, not caring how it sounded.

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks for the vote of confidence, but that’s not a likely scenario.”

  “You never know. Anyway, I can’t wait to see you again. And not just to hear you sing.”

  My heart fluttered a little. This schoolgirl-crush type of feeling was so not me, and I wondered what the hell it was all about. Usually I kept my walls up, kept my distance emotionally. It was the only way to deal with relationships that didn’t last, and none of them ever did. Either I got bored or the guy did, and we both would move on. Some stayed friends, some I never saw again. I had grown so used to the routine, I didn’t even think about it.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you too.”

  “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. Good night, Miss Melanie.”

  “Good night, Spencer.”

  I hung up, wondering what I would do if he really came on to me. He seemed interested in more than just making music together, though that sounded like fun. I was itching to write some new songs, hoping to find that one gem that would really take off. Spencer Colebank was working his way into my world, and maybe my heart.

  Nah.

  I turned off the light, resigning myself to the darkness, hoping sleep would finally come and make me forget about futures that had no possibility.

  * * *

  Spencer

  Friday morning, I was called into a meeting by my uncle. He said he had someone he wanted me to meet, which was not unusual. He would arrange client meetings to suit his schedule, which often made it a challenge to juggle my own commitments. My assistant, Petro, handed me a cup of coffee as I walked to the executive conference room. I cocked my head toward the door and asked in a low tone, “If I’m not out of there by lunchtime, would you please text me?”

  The young man flashed his mega-watt, I-should-have-been-an-actor smile.

  “Will do, boss.”

  Petro Mikalos had been working for me for over a year and had proven himself to be a dedicated and tireless worker. He rarely complained and was eager to learn. I’d delegated more responsibilities to him the past few months, including dealing with some of our more demanding clients. He’d handled himself well and saved us from more than a few potential crises.

  I opened the conference room door to find my uncle sitting on the edge of the table. His jacket was draped over a chair, and he was laughing at something. Clearly this was an informal meeting, as the middle-aged, well-dressed couple he was entertaining were laughing too. Heads turned as I entered, and John stood up.

  “There he is. I bet you don’t even recognize him. It’s been…how many years, Carl?”

  The other man, dark-skinned but with only a few wrinkles on his face to show his age, looked me over with an assessing smile. He glanced at his wife and winked before answering.

  “Been way too many years, John. I can’t believe this is Michael’s boy.”

  He extended a hand to me, and I moved forward, arm out. Familiarity dawned on me at the mention of my late father’s name, and I recalled who the couple was. A light sweat broke on my brow, and heat suffused over my skin.

  Relax, they probably don’t know. If they did, they wouldn’t be smiling…

  “Mr. Avante. It’s been so many years, it took me a second to recognize you. How are you?”

  He put a large hand in mine and shook it, laughing again.

  “Don’t be so formal. Call me Carl.” He turned to his wife. “Of course, he remembers us. How about that, Dorothy?”

  The slender woman at his side, hair as silver as her husband’s and close-cropped, extended a delicate hand to me.

  “So nice to see you, Spencer. John has told us wonderful things. He said you and Gibson practically run the company for him.”

  “We do our best.”

  I answered modestly but wondered how Uncle John classified what Gib was doing as “running the company.” He had built a fantastic resort in the North Georgia Mountains, which was quite an accomplishment. But he spent most of his time there and only occasionally brought in new clients. I felt the comparison was unfair, but Gib was his only son.

  Uncle John gestured to a chair.

  “Have a seat, Spencer. They’re not here only to reminisce. They have some real estate investments in mind and need our advice.”

  I participated in the conversation that followed but was only half-listening. Images from the past flooded my mind, memories I’d long since buried. The night my life crumbled around me was one I had worked hard to forget—but the pain of deep regret was a harsh mistress. The unexpected appearance of the Avantes told me she wasn’t about to let me off her hook.

  An hour later, the conversation shifted from real estate the Avantes wanted to purchase back to memories of my late father. Their voices also shifted from animated to soft, when the subject of my father’s death was breached. Carl cleared his throat and looked at me, his brown eyes full of sympathy.

  “I know it’s been several years, but I never had the chance to say how sorry we were you lost him. Such a tragic accident.”

  His wife nodded, murmuring words of comfort. I found my own throat needed clearing as well. The lump that formed at the mention of either of my parents never truly went away. My mother passed when I was eleven, a victim of breast cancer. My father never recovered, becoming an alcoholic as the years went by. It was not the best of situations, but somehow, I survived.

  “Thank you. It was a tragedy that never should have happened. But thanks to my uncle and his family, I’ve been able to cope.” It was the understatement of the year. No, maybe the decade. But no one needed to know how I truly felt, so I put on the face I always did. Then I changed the subject.

  “So, how are your kids? I’ve seen Daris around town now and then, though it’s been a few years.”

  Both beamed radiant smiles at the mention of their eldest son, whom I’d known since high school.

  “Oh yes, he’s a big-time record producer now,” Dorothy said, pride evident in her voice.

  Another conversation ensued, complete with pictures on their phones of Daris and their daughter, Syreeta. By the time my phone buzzed in my pocket, I had forgotten it was nearly lunch.

  “Excuse me, but I have a lunch meeting downtown. It was so nice seeing you again, Carl. Dorothy.”

  We shook hands again, and I left them in the care of my uncle. It had been a pleasa
nt reunion, but now a dull ache had settled in my stomach. It happened every time I thought about my parents, which I rarely did. It only led to more speculation, more unanswered questions. More guilt. That was why most of the time, I avoided the thought of them altogether.

  I passed Petro’s desk, but he had gone to lunch. Entering my office, I grabbed my suit coat from my chair and walked to the elevator. I really did have a lunch meeting to attend but found I no longer had an appetite.

  * * *

  Melanie

  By late Friday afternoon, I had finished all my errands and pet care visits. I was running behind schedule because one of the dogs had decided to sneak out of his yard, having dug a hole under a fence. It took forty-five minutes and three hot dogs to entice him back to his yard. Then I locked that sucker in the house and hurried to my next appointment.

  It didn’t help that I had cut my finger on a tin can lid while feeding one client’s cats. I’d managed to find some gauze and a box of bandages and was sporting a mummy-like finger on my right hand. Yeah, that would go great with my rocker-chick outfit I was wearing to the gig tonight.

  A summer storm was threatening as I drove back to my apartment. Looking up at the darkening sky, I closed my moon roof just as the rain started. Flashes of light split the clouds, followed by a loud, urgent rumble.

  I decided to take the freeway home to save some time, but as soon as I merged from the on-ramp, I saw a line of red taillights ahead.

  “Just great.”

  Blue lights were flashing too. A police vehicle was on the shoulder a half-mile ahead, and cars were merging to avoid the area. An accident must have occurred. Just my luck to find the bottleneck when I was already way behind schedule.

  As I stared at the endless line of vehicles, my phone rang. I punched the button to answer after seeing Donna’s name on the screen.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  Her voice sounded scratchy. “Hey, Mel. I hate to tell you this, but I don’t feel so good.”