Rock the Dream

Rock the Dream

Copyright ©2016 by B.B. Miller and Leslie Carson

Dare to Dream excerpt ©2016 by B.B. Miller and Leslie Carson

ISBN: 978-0-9982462-0-8

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the authors’ imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations, events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act, 1968, no part of this work may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form by any means, without the prior written permission of the authors.

Cover design by:

Jada D’Lee Designs

Cover image by:

iStock Photo

Editing by:

Lauren Schmelz, Write Divas

Interior Design & Formatting by:

Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

Table of Contents

Rock the Dream

For Mandy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Sneak Peek at Book Two of The Dream Series

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

For Mandy

Kennedy

DON’T YOU WANT more? My voice sounds disembodied, dry, and raspy, like I’m a seventy-five-year-old chain smoker who doesn’t give a shit about what a lifetime of nicotine has done to his lungs.

A booming bass fills the penthouse suite at the San Francisco Fairmont, where my band, Redfall, and a host of strangers party into the night. Mmm . . . You’re so fucking hot. It’s a slurred and intoxicated whisper against my neck from some nameless groupie sitting on my lap. Gin and desperation roll off her in waves. She licks the curved chaos of ink snaking down my shoulder and grinds her skinny, naked body against mine. I shudder at the feel of skin and bones against me. She pushes her tits forward, and breathes in my ear. Touch me, Kenny.

I always want more. So do you. The voice of my tour manager, Brodie Dixon, drifts to me from somewhere far away. I lean back against the couch, trying to open my eyes in an attempt to find him. I feel like I’m floating in a dream or a nightmare; it’s hard to tell which. I’m stuck somewhere between reality and a fucked up fantasy.

Name’s Kennedy, I mumble.

Kenny, Kenny, Kenny, she chants as she rolls her hips against mine.

I turn my neck in the direction I think Brodie’s voice came from, making a feeble attempt to brush away the hand flattening against my stomach, and drifting south. I can feel her jagged nails scratching over my hip, fumbling, as she attempts to unhook my leather belt.

Her hot, liquor-laced breath fans over my exposed chest, and her fingers lazily drift along the tatt that covers my neck. She doesn’t give a shit about me. She’s just here because I’m Kennedy-Fucking-Lane and she wants to say she fucked me.

Somehow, I manage to open my eyes. Through an intoxicated haze, I can make out Brodie—at least I think it’s him—bent over a table, slowly moving his face along a mirrored surface. I lift the dead weight of the bottle of Jack to my lips, welcoming the burn as the whiskey hits my throat.

Muted light filters in from the gaps in the curtains, catching the glare from the mirror and splaying prisms of color over Brodie’s body. He leans back in the chair and lifts his hand to his nose, snorting back any excess coke he may have missed. He cracks his neck like he always does when he’s finished, and pats his thigh.

It feels like I’m watching in slow motion as a groupie appears like an apparition out of nowhere and floats to his lap, immediately wrapping her arms around his neck and crashing her lips to his.

I shut my eyes, guiding the heavy bottle back to my lips, hoping the magic liquid will block everything out. It hurts to swallow. My throat feels like it’s on fire. I wonder how much is enough to numb the pain.

No. I mean more than this, I say, setting the bottle back on the couch.

I’ve got more right here, man. The unrelenting music pounds in my head, and I hear the sound of the chair scraping across the hardwood floor as the room spins.

Shuffled feet make their way across the room. I hear a crash, broken glass hitting the floor, and then a fit of giggling.

I fell. Kiss it better, Brodie. That high-pitched voice is like nails on a goddamn chalkboard.

I open one eye to find Brodie leaning against me. Mmm . . . You’ve got more, too, I see. What’s your name, sugar? Brodie gives a lazy grin to the blond perched in my lap.

Whatever you want it to be, she says slowly, leaning forward to press her lips to my neck.

I try to roll my eyes, but it’s too much work in my current fucked-up state. From the floor, the giggles continue and Brodie laughs, big and boisterous, reminding me I’m, in fact, still alive.

The girl on my lap rolls her head back, her bleached hair spilling against my jean-covered thighs. Pouring a stream of whiskey over her tits, my tongue lazily follows the trail. Mmm . . . More, but not real. I miss real tits.

They’re tits, man—real, fake, what’s the difference?

More . . . The difference is more.

Brodie leans over me and cups her breast in his hand. Well, I like them, sweetheart. Come here.

It doesn’t take much coaxing to pull her from my lap. She squeals while I try to make my escape, pushing off the cushions a few times to get somewhat vertical. The room sways, and I stumble back against the arm of the couch.

My vision blurs to the point I can only make out shapes—changing, shifting, and morphing shapes that seem to deliberately block my path.

I take in the bodies currently grinding together in an erotic, tempting dance. They’re everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Against walls, windows, furniture, molded to the floor. It’s like a fucking funhouse in here.

I’m just gonna . . . The world tilts, and my eyes slide shut.

You’re high as a motherfucking kite, Lane, Brodie yells from the couch.

My grip tightens around the neck of the bottle as I step over a pair of endless long legs pushed into high-heeled fuck-me boots. I register something slicing into my foot, and I welcome the pain.

I stumble to the black grand piano where there’s a couple of plastic bags open, their powdery contents spilling out. I can almost hear them calling my name.

Somewhere in all the haze and drug-induced madness of my currently fucked-up, fried brain I know if I take another drink or do another line, it may be my last. The scary part is that somewhere in there I kind of want it to be.

Through my blurry vision, I see a solid mass of muscle standing ready in the hall. I think it’s Tucker Pearson, my security guard, and one of the only real friends I have left. He shakes his head in my direction, and makes the decision for me.

Leaving Brodie and the rest of my band to the squealing groupies, I shuffle my way to the first door I find, push it open, and welcome the softness of the bed as I collapse face first into it.

Welcome to the life of a motherfucking rock star.

Get up, asshole.

I groan from a tangle of covers and pillows. Maybe Tucker will go away if I just lay here. It hurts too much to move anyway. The warm covers fly off me, exposing my bare back to the assault of the cool air conditioning.

Fuck, man. Give me a second.

He opens the blinds to the terrace, and I blink at the harsh sun streaming in. My head pounds and I burrow my face into the pillow, waiting for the welcome darkness to descend. I made it to another day. Halle-fucking-lujah.

You look like shit.

He grips my hair, forcing my head back as I fight to open my eyes. Even in my fucked-up state, I can see the disappointment in his face. He shakes his head and tightens his hand in my hair.

Is this what you want, huh? This is what you worked so hard for?

Fuck off, Tucker.

You’ve got the meeting with the charity today. Did you forget about that? The dream for the sick little boy?

Mmm . . . It hurts when I try to shake my head. T’morrow. I try to push him away. It’s almost impossible at the best of times, given Tucker’s sheer size and strength let alone trying it after a night like the one I just survived.

"It is tomorrow, idiot."

He pushes my head forcefully into the pillow. The bed dips with his weight. "This has got to stop, man. You want to be that cliché? Musical genius who drank and snorted himself into oblivion?"

What I don’t want is a lecture from you right now. My voice is muffled against the pillow.

You’re better than this, Kennedy. His voice is quieter, and I manage to turn my head in his direction, opening my eyes.

Not anymore.

You are. Why don’t you let me check out that rehab place? The one in Malibu? It’s not the first time he’s suggested it.

Right, ‘cause that’s not a cliché at all, is it?

They deal with celebrities all the time. They have confidentiality rules and—

And what? You want me to sit and talk about my goddamn feelings like the last time I tried rehab? That’s bullshit, man. I wince as the jackhammer rattles in my head. Fuck, where’s the goddamn Oxy?

He moves from my vision, and I close my eyes, welcoming the quiet. I stretch my arm out beside me, my hand making impact with warm skin. The room spins as I turn my head, glancing over at the body beside me. I think she might be the giggler from the floor last night, but I’m not sure.

Shit. I manage to push myself up and lean back against the plush headboard. I don’t want to see her half-naked body draped over the rumpled bed. At least I still have my jeans on. Little victories amuse me, and I try to laugh, but it hurts too much.

My stomach rolls as she lets out a moan, lifting her head just off the pillow, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she stares blankly at me. Ready again so soon, handsome?

In the cruel, harsh light of the morning after, everything is different. Here I am, in a lush penthouse suite with a strung-out junkie, whose name I don’t even want to know beside me.

The raccoon eyes are in full force as she clumsily wipes them, leaving more mascara smudged beneath her lashes. I just need a little something first. Got any smack? She tries to push herself up, but doesn’t seem to have the strength. She dissolves back to the bed with a giggle.

I close my eyes and swallow down the razor blades lining my throat.

Tucker? I strain to hear him moving around in the bathroom. I think I doze off right there, leaning up against the headboard with my head feeling like a tire iron has been rammed through it, until ice-cold water splashes down over me.

Jesus, fuck! My body convulses when I try to push off the bed. I glare at Tucker as he holds an empty ice bucket. The giggler squeals louder in hysterics.

You—in the shower. Now. He scowls at me, daring me to defy him.

The frigid water drips from my damp hair as I push off the soaked bed. He shakes his head, his lips curling up into a knowing smile. I think Tucker’s patience is running out, but for now, I know I’m forgiven for another night of debauchery.

Do something with that, will you? I tilt my head in the direction of the giggler. He knows the routine. Wipe her phone, pay her well, and remind her of the confidentiality agreement she no doubt has forgotten she signed when she was sober.

I’m on it, he replies, while I drag my sorry ass to the bathroom. I curse as pain shoots through my foot, and I struggle to remember what happened last night.

It’s not unusual for me to have blackouts where I have absolutely no idea what I did or how I got to be in the place I wake up in. I know I’m existing on a very thin and unstable line. I’ve been looking to the bottle to fill up a gaping hole in me. If left unchecked . . . the siren call to make the pain go away is too strong for me to resist.

It’s one of the reasons I’m grateful for Tucker. He’s the one who pulls me back to reality after a night of excess. Why he hasn’t left me is a miracle. But he’s here, dealing with what I can’t. I can hear shouting from the giggler behind the closed door while he cleans up my mess one more time.

Leaning against the cool marble vanity, I squint in the harsh lighting. I hardly recognize the gaunt face staring back at me. Fumbling with the tap, which is harder to figure out than it should be, I finally get the cold water to turn on. I lean over the basin and splash water on my face.

I hate myself for admitting that Tucker is right. I’m getting too old for this shit. You could easily mistake me for an addict on the street instead of a successful musician who should be on top of the world.

Under the glare and buzz of the fluorescent lights in the luxury of the bathroom bigger than my first apartment, it dawns on me: I’ve just used the word I have always refused to associate with myself. Addict.

The bathroom door opens, and Tucker steps into view in the mirror beside me. He’s the picture of health and life. A sharp contrast to what I’m becoming.

What are you doing? If she was here, if she could see you—

I meet his eyes in the mirror. Don’t go there, man. Just don’t.

I have to.

I glare back at him. If I piss you off this much, why the fuck do you stick around?

You know damn well why. I promised Rob—

Don’t. Don’t you dare say her name. I clench my teeth, feeling my jaw set.

He glares at me in disgust. Do you think this is what she would’ve wanted for you?

We stare at each other in the mirror in a silent standoff, neither one of us wavering.

Oxy is beside the sink. Drink this. He tosses me an energy drink—some pink colored shit that tastes like hell, no doubt. All of it. Shave the forest you’ve got growing on your face, and take whatever you need to appear somewhat alive and coherent. The charity team will be here at one.

My hands shake as I go for the pain meds. It’s a fight to get the lid off. Finally, I pour a couple of pills into my wet palm and lift my gaze to meet his in the mirror.

You’re really living the dream, Lane. Living the dream.

Abigail

Got a minute, boss?

My eyes pop up from the spreadsheet I’ve been struggling with. Tessa Baker, my assistant, is poised at my doorway. Grateful for the interruption, I smile.

Sure. What’s up?

She strides into my office and hands me a sheaf of papers. We have the final report on the Peterson Dream.

Oh, good. We really lucked out on that one. I still can’t believe we’d been able to fulfill ten-year-old Ryan Peterson’s dream of being with his beloved Seattle Seahawks when they won the Super Bowl. The lucky part hadn’t been sending Ryan to the game—the Seahawks and NFL had been only too cooperative. It was whether Ryan’s bone cancer, which had accelerated, would allow him to attend. It had been a race against time.

I scan the report with my usual mixture of pride and sorrow; pride because we were able to provide this for a spunky young boy who sorely deserved it, and sorrow because he had lost his fight with his illness only three weeks after the event. As the executive director for What’s Your Dream, I’m more than familiar with the emotions.

Although we’d only been in existence ten years, we’d already fulfilled more than three thousand dreams of children with terminal or life-threatening illnesses. Since I’d become director three years ago, we’d doubled the number of chapters. Soon, we’ll have one in every state.

His parents were so grateful, Tessa comments, her eyes full of understanding.

I nod again, my brow furrowing as I recall his mother’s voice when she’d called to let us know about Ryan’s passing. I couldn’t help but cry with her over the phone as she’d described his last days. How happy and thankful he’d been to not only attend the game with his family, but to also have the chance to hold the Lombardi trophy—with the help of a few of his favorite players. It had been all he’d talked about, right up until the end.

Moving the report aside, I take a settling breath and stand, smoothing my black pencil skirt. Okay, then. Everyone waiting for me, I suppose? I look at my assistant.

Tess ticks something off on her clipboard. Just April, of course. But the others are on their way.

We leave my office and Tess follows me down to one of our smaller meeting rooms. April is seated at the table, texting someone. I swear, the girl was born with a phone in her hand.

You’re late. She doesn’t look up.

Smirking, I take the seat opposite her. Happens to the best of us once in a while, April, I quip as the rest of our group files in and take their places.

Yeah, yeah, she retorts with a sigh, and places her phone on the table. She flips her glossy, straight black hair over her shoulder. April Morrison is our public relations director and damn good at her job. I’d managed to coax her away from Make-A-Wish last year, and I constantly thank my lucky stars. She’s sharp, tireless, and loyal, and her penchant for punctuality has become legendary.

So, what do we have this week? I open the folder in front of me and glance up to our giving director, Nadia Baskov, sitting next to April.

Sixteen dreams were already approved by the Eligibility team this week—she takes a sip of her tea—but they bumped these seven cases up to us.

I hum in understanding. Although our Eligibility team is responsible for evaluating each request, they only implement the relatively straightforward dreams, such as those for new pets, birthday parties, or trips. The more complex requests are sent upstairs where the four of us—April, Nadia, Duane Allen, our finance director, and I—deliberate on the possibilities and appropriateness of the requests.

I skim through the seven cases before sitting back to let Nadia take us through each one. Her fingers toy absently with a lock of her silky blond hair. With her sharp green eyes and stylish navy suit, she looks the epitome of a cold, calculating businesswoman, but underneath her austere demeanor beats a sensitive and compassionate heart.

A twelve-year-old girl with a brain tumor wants an audition with the Moscow Ballet. Hmm, that’s a little tricky in the current political climate. However, Nadia’s cousin is a trainer with the San Francisco ballet . . . maybe that could work instead. A six-year-old boy from Colorado with a degenerative lung condition wants to score a goal against his favorite hockey star. A ten-year-old boy with MS loves airplanes and dreams of being a pilot; my contact at Alaska Airlines can provide a complete tour, everything from the tarmac to the cockpit. Maybe we can throw in a trip to one of the flight schools, too.

We work through the cases, discussing the merits of each and formulating initial plans. The children’s faces that peer up at me from the folder look happy and hopeful, but when I read their stories . . . I glance out the large window at the bright blue sky, blinking back tears. I hate that so many virulent diseases threaten so many young lives. So many futures at risk. So many poems and symphonies to write, or planets and species to discover. One of the children we see here could hold the key to solving the world’s greatest problems, but may never get the chance.

Ever since I was fifteen, when I saw what cancer could do, I’ve wanted to do something about it. Science has never been my forte, so I knew I wouldn’t be the one who would find the cures. But I could do something to ease the patients’ suffering and bring a little joy to their lives, as well as the lives of their families.

You okay there, Abby? I glance up to see April’s concerned face. We all have our moments when the stories and the kids behind them break through the professional veneer we try to maintain during these meetings. Last week it was Tess who’d had to excuse herself during the discussion of a six-year-old boy with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, who simply wanted to take his grandfather to Disney World. The grandfather had been an illustrator for some of the Disney movies back in the sixties.

I suddenly become aware that I’ve brought the discussion to a halt. Yes, I’m fine, I assure her and nod at Nadia. You were saying? I smile encouragingly, and she continues, holding the last profile aloft.

Now, I think I sent to you the details on the meeting we’re having today a few days ago, Abby, but I haven’t heard your thoughts on it yet. Nadia fans the pages out on the table. She takes a breath and slowly lets it out, her eyes lingering the last page.

This is Parker Jensen, she begins, indicating the grinning blond boy on the top sheet. Eleven years old with leukemia. He lives right here in San Francisco, and his dream is to enjoy a day as a rock star with . . . She taps the second photo in the set, and there is a collective intake of breath around the table.

Oh, my, April says appreciatively. He’s aged well, hasn’t he?

Kennedy Lane? Duane questions. Isn’t he a little old for the preteen crowd?

Nadia’s eyeing the photo like it’s a triple-decker hot fudge sundae. "He’s not that old, she scoffs. He’s only thirty-six. Apparently, Parker idolizes him. He’s learning to play the guitar and wants to be just like Lane when he grows up. Her expression becomes wistful. And I hope he has the chance."

We’re silent for a moment. The thought Parker may not get a chance to grow up sobers us. Then April sighs, a smirk curving her lips. "Well, Parker has excellent taste in music. I don’t remember how many awards this guy has won, but he’s incredible. And when you throw in that face . . . She points to the publicity photo. I think spending a day with Kennedy Lane would be my dream, too. Tess giggles in agreement; Duane rolls his eyes at her. Oh, please. Get over yourselves. You don’t see Abby getting all swoony. Besides, when was Redfall’s last hit? They’re never on the radio anymore," he complains.

Abby never gets swoony. And, Redfall has a new album coming out soon, April shoots back, peering at Duane over her chic cat-eye glasses.

Oh, what? I suppose the money’s running low, so he’s going to squeeze out something to make the teenage girls and their mothers scream? Then he’ll take his money and run back to wherever aging rock stars go when they retire?

What’s got into you? A frown mars Nadia’s lovely features. We deal with celebrities all the time.

He shrugs. I just don’t think he’d be a good influence, that’s all. The kid should idolize someone more worthwhile.

"They can’t all want to go to Disneyland. April waves her hand at him. And Lane is more than a rock star; he’s an artist. At least, he was."

Their sniping fades into the background as I peruse the two pages. Parker is adorable with bright blue eyes and an infectious grin. Lane is . . . Actually, I’m not sure what Lane is. Handsome seems inadequate when you consider his chiseled jawline and sensual pout. But, April is right; he’s so much more than his looks. The complex rhythms and cerebral lyrics that have always characterized his sound set him apart from his contemporaries. His band was a staple during my college years and beyond; in fact, I have dozens of Redfall’s songs on my playlists now.

But how wise would it be to fulfill this particular dream? Parker’s treatments have left him in a fragile state. Is Kennedy Lane the type of man who would understand—and respect—that?

I’d started researching him as soon as Nadia had sent me the report, but had come up with mixed results so far. His older interviews revealed an intelligent, whimsical mind that appealed to me. He sounded like someone I’d love to sit with for a beer and conversation. His more recent comments in the press, however, had sounded so angry. Arrogance and negligence had replaced the whimsy and playfulness. Maybe he succumbed to the pampered celebrity lifestyle, or maybe it was just a bad day. Who knew?

I flip the promo photograph over, focusing on the more recent paparazzi photos Nadia included in the packet. The photos captured him leaving a club with his entourage. He was obviously annoyed and probably drunk. But more than that, there was something in his eyes . . . something familiar in that glazed stare . . .

I manage to suppress a shudder when a particularly unpleasant memory leaps to mind; a memory of screamed threats, desperate begging, and a final, terrifying good-bye. My ex, Lucas, had hid his addiction before finally slipping up. After months of pleading and empty promises of rehab, his inability to change led me finally to wipe my hands clean of the mess his addiction had made of our lives.

It’s funny how having a gun pressed to your temple can make everything so clear.

Abby? What do you think? My attention snaps back to the here and now, and I see all eyes trained on me. I take a deep breath to compose myself, and lock the past where it belongs—in the past.

Actually, Duane has a good point. I ignore how he puffs up his chest at my comment. "I’m not sure if exposing a young boy to this scene is a good idea. You know, the whole sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll’ thing. I hold up a hand when I see Nadia getting defensive. I know—it’s a stereotype. But, I’m honestly concerned why Lane dropped out of sight for so long. Was he in rehab? Or was he off on some spiritual journey meditating with the Dalai Lama or something? I pause and thoughtfully tap the photos with my fingertips. All that aside, granting wishes is our mission. If we can make this happen, we should. We’ll have a better idea once we meet with his team today."

"We? There’s no mistaking the annoyance in Nadia’s voice. Well I have an appointment with his manager and a representative from his record label at the Fairmont at one. The record label was very enthusiastic."

Will Lane be there, too?

She adjusts her glasses, looking like the cat that got the cream. There is that distinct possibility.

I share a quick glance with April; she cocks an eyebrow, and I know she’s also noticed Nadia’s odd demeanor.

I’m going with you.

Oh, uh . . . She falters, drawing my gaze up to hers. Nadia rarely hesitates. Are you sure? You don’t usually attend these sorts of meetings, Abby.

I know, but I want to ensure this goes smoothly. At her sharp look, I add, I’ve heard Lane’s manager can be difficult, and you might need the extra firepower. I don’t want her to think I doubt her abilities. Nadia is extremely skilled at her job. I’m probably misreading her—she’s too professional to fuck around with a case, literally or figuratively. And, given what we’ve just discussed about the potential negative influences in his lifestyle, I’d like to hear for myself if his team understands Parker’s situation.

She hums, sounding mollified, and peers at me speculatively. This is one of those cases for you, isn’t it?

I sigh, knowing that she’s right. Sometimes, a dream fulfillment will hit you just the right way, and it becomes yours. And apparently Parker Jensen, with all his struggles and his soulful eyes that touch my heart, has become one of mine.

I guess you’re right.

Okay, she replies, with a touch of resignation. I’ll send the appointment over to Tess so she can arrange your calendar.

Duane deflates with Nadia’s statement, and we quickly adjourn. I exit the room, pretending not to hear Duane calling my name. I’m not in the mood for whatever he wants to say, especially if he’s going to complain about my decision. I swear, the man can pout worse than a thirteen-year-old girl.

Back in my office, I tuck a stray hair back into my perfect chignon and adjust the collar of my crisp cotton blouse. Not bad for thirty-four, but still, April is right. ‘Swoony’ is definitely not a word I subscribe to, not even for fuckhot rock stars.

Sitting at my desk, I pull Lane’s promo photo out of the file and stare at it. Peering out from beneath a mop of thick black hair, those deep blue eyes seem to leap off the page to see right through me. It’s disquieting. Suddenly, the only word I can think of to describe Kennedy Lane is . . . dangerous . . . in more ways than one.

But how can I say no when he’s a little boy’s heart’s desire?

Kennedy

I’M IN HELL where they play Flight of the Bumblebee over, and over, and over again. It’s muffled and sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away, but still; it’s torture to the fucked-up state of my head right now.

Shit, shit! Double shit!

A panicked, and highly amusing, female voice reaches in and pulls me from the darkness. I stretch my legs out on the sofa and crack an eye open, peering out to the awe-inspiring San Fran skyline from the suite at the Fairmont. Thank fuck I kept my sunglasses on. The sun blazes through the terrace doors, doing nothing for my headache.

Tucker’s form is evident on the terrace, and in a rare display, he looks relaxed as he sits in a lounge chair, peering out over the city.

The annoying ringtone slices through the solitude of the vast living room, and I can’t help but grin. Why the hell would anyone use that tune on their phone?

I hear rustling from across the room and something being dropped on the piano. There’s a series of jumbled and erratic notes that stirs something deep inside me. Finally, thank fuck, the ringtone silences.

Mom! It’s a whisper-yell from the same woman’s voice, and I slowly lift from the cushions to peer over the top of the couch. You’re on speaker, but I can’t talk right now.

I just don’t know where all this uptightness comes from, another female voice complains through the phone. Even your father lets his hair down once in a while now. Tell me, how are things in the love department?

I’m not uptight! I take a scan across the room, and the woman slowly comes into view. She’s leaning against the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys, her dark hair swept up to expose the curve of her neck. I drop my eyes over the back of her tailored black suit: a fitted blazer hiding her ass, and a conservative knee length skirt with black stockings. The shoes give me pause. They’re high and black and really the only thing I see that would put into question the uptight description I heard being bellowed from the phone. I’m the director of a respected charity. I can’t just go around yapping about my sex life all the time.

Charity . . . It’s all coming back to me now. The meeting that Brodie and Tucker reminded me about this morning. This morning, when I was barely lucid and woke up with a nameless groupie in my bed. I should have been alone. Alone is good. Alone is fewer problems and potential fuck-ups.

Ah-ha! the echoed female voice crows. "You do have a sex life! Does he treat you well? You know, satisfies you—"

I watch as she takes the phone off speaker, disappointed I’m not going to get to hear the rest of the conversation.

I can’t talk to you right now. I’m about to go into a meeting. Her fingers trail across the keys, and from deep inside, I hear another few chords beckoning me over. Because I’m nervous and . . . Her voice trails off as she listens to whatever is being said on the other end of the phone, and I get a minute to appreciate the tempting curves of her body—real curves—not plastically enhanced.

I know I’m never nervous. You know what? Never mind. Is something on fire or is someone dead? I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the notes that are tempting me, but her conversation is too damn distracting to focus.

You called me to set me up? Mom! How many times do we have to—

I open my eyes to watch her once more. Clearly, her mother is a source of frustration. She’s wired tight, this one. I could do something about that.

From the terrace, I see Tucker move to the door, his eyes trained on the woman, ready to take her down if need be. I hold up a hand, silently stopping him.

What kind of a name is Beau? Was his mom a Dukes of Hazzard fan or something?

She stares up at the ceiling, shaking her head. We can talk about this later. I have to go. Another pause as her eyes move back to the piano. I love you, too. I watch her shoulders sag as she presses a button on the phone to end the call and tosses it back into her bag, before sinking to the piano bench.

I’m up and off the couch, crossing the room to the piano before I can stop myself. Sliding in beside her on the bench, my fingers still over the keys. Oh! I’m so sorry. I had no—

Shhh . . . I pause, trying to focus, and I wonder if it’s ever not going to hurt when I think about Robin. She loved when I played. She always said it was where I wrote my best songs. She used to sit and watch me, offering her honest and unique commentary on whatever I dreamed up.

I’m just going to leave—

Stay right here. I feel the tension release from my shoulders and brush my fingers across the keys, igniting my adrenaline.

Do you have a recorder on your phone? I see the notes come into view behind my closed eyes. I play as the melody finds me like it always has. It’s the one thing that never fails. The one thing I can always trust.

A what? she whispers.

Just record this.

I play the same few chords, feeling her stiffen beside me, and hearing a little huff of aggravation. Okay. I’ll video it. Will that work?

Do you have something to write on when I’m done?

How’s this? I finally open my eyes as she thrusts a file folder in front of me. I see my name on the tab at the side, along with another underneath it. Parker Jensen.

Perfect. Start recording. I play the simple melody that will end up being the foundation for the song. I don’t know how many times I repeat it, altering and weaving when it wants to take me somewhere else.

The words come spilling out of me as I hit what will be the chorus.

"If you let me take your hand, I’ll wrap you in my arms

And I’ll make sure you’re safe tonight underneath a sky of stars—"

Fuck! I lift my fingers from the keys in frustration as the lyrics fade off. I fucking had it. I rake my hand through my hair. I hate that. I turn to look at the woman beside me. You know what I mean?

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes lock to her big, hazel ones. Even with the hangover from hell, those eyes hold me. Vibrant amber gold flecks play in caramel brown, deep green around the edges. She looks like she’s in shock, her pretty mouth dropped open slightly as she stares at me in an awkward silence that yawns between us.

Now that I get a chance to really look at her, I can appreciate how gorgeous she is. Soft features, perfectly full lips, a natural color blushing her cheeks. She’s real in a way I don’t get to see much these days. Real, and looking at me like I just dropped down from another planet.

Sort of? I mean not with this, obviously, because that was just . . . She pauses, searching my face. I don’t have words for what that was. But, I know it’s frustrating when you want something, and it just doesn’t work out like you hoped.

Yeah. That was kind of shit, wasn’t it?

Her eyes widen. No! That’s not what I meant. That was amazing.

Really?

She passes me the folder. You should write it down, or whatever it is you do now.

It doesn’t sound cheesy? Robin would always . . . I stop that thought before it goes any further, my heart stabbing me in the chest just to make sure I don’t say her name again. I take the folder, and set it on top of the piano. I can’t go there right now, back to memories of my sister. Not with the headache from hell, and certainly not with a perfect stranger who probably thinks I’m certifiable at this point. Do you have a pen?

Yes, here. She fiddles around in her purse, holding one out for me. I give her a grin of thanks, and lean over the keys to start