Chapter 43
Iring the doorbell.
I don’t want to be here. Truthfully, I’d rather be halfway through the digestive track of an anaconda than be standing in front of this house, but also…
I can’t say I’m not curious.
Never been to my father’s house before.
The door opens quickly. I stiffen my spine, doing my best not to flinch as I look up at him. He’s not that much taller, but somehow, I feel so much smaller.
Dade Connery. Rock god.
He’ll go down in history as one of music’s greatest legends.
And… that’s about it.
“Hi,” I say.
He stares at me with hard eyes and a stiff jaw. Then, he blinks and his features soften as he looks me up and down. For the shortest of seconds, I think I see a piece of myself staring back at me through familiar blue eyes.
“Hello there,” he says.
I hold up Rapture with one hand, my fingers wrapped carefully around the guitar’s neck. “I believe this belongs to you,” I say, offering it.
He looks at it cautiously, like I’m some terrorist holding a gun against his loved one’s head. “Uh-huh,” he murmurs. Then he slowly reaches out for it.
“Sorry it got… misplaced,” I say. “Honest mistake. No big deal.”
Dade checks the guitar over and chuckles dryly. “Well, I’ll be sure to let my lawyer know it made its way back,” he says, his voice dripping with a sarcastic southern drawl.
“Great.” I shift on my toes, ready to bolt. “Well, I’ll see you when I see you. Bye-bye.”
“Hold it.”
I stop mid-twist and slowly turn back around.
“Come on in,” Dade says.
He turns and walks out of the doorway with his guitar.
I exhale. “Actually, I really have to get back…”
He ignores me and keeps walking, leaving the front door wide open for me to follow him.
I should walk away. I almost do.
But damn my curiosity.
I step into the house and close the door behind me. “I do have to get back soon,” I say to his shadow.
“This won’t take long,” he says, his voice echoing from the hallway ahead.
I release a heavy sigh, then follow. I step through the foyer, scanning the framed concert posters and album covers, each one bringing a string of happy teenage memories. Until one day in my sixteenth year, when it all went to shit. It was all tainted, even the calluses on my fingers from playing Soldier On repeatedly with Bronson after school.
When every step forward feels like a lie,
it takes courage to know when to say goodbye.
I pick up my pace, following Dade into the last room at the end of a corridor. It’s a home studio with recording equipment and professional sound proofing and, fucking hell, it’s great. It’s really great.
“Nice space,” I say, playing it cool.
Dade gently sets places Rapture back on the wall where she belongs. “Thanks,” he says. “Sit down.”
I hover awkwardly. “Listen, I just came to return the guitar and?—”
“Humor an old man, will ya?” he says, glancing over. “Sit down. Please.”
I nod, accepting my fate. I turn around, side-step the coffee table sitting in front, and sink down onto the white couch nearest to the door.
Damn. Comfy couch.
“Nice couch,” I say.
The edge of his mouth curls. He picks up a stool sitting by the wall and walks it over, dropping it in place a few feet in front of me. Then he perches himself on it and crosses his arms, once again staring pensively at me as if he’s expecting me to break the silence first.
I lower my eyes, glancing at the coffee table in front of me. There’s a stack of papers, the sheet on top featuring a handwritten list of instantly recognizable artists and bands.
“Well, go on,” he says.
I look up. “I can leave?” I ask, tilting forward.
“No,” he says. “Now’s your chance. I’m sure you have questions.”
“Questions?”
“I never knew my father, either,” he says. “But I’ve reached the point in my life when if I had a chance to sit down with him, I’d sure as shit have questions. So, now’s your chance. Ask away.”
I nod in understanding, then shake my head once. “I don’t have any questions.”
“You don’t want to know who you are? Where you came from? Where we came from?”
“I already know who I am,” I say. “Nothing you can tell me can change that.”
He chews on that a moment. “All right. Fair enough, then. But I have some questions for you and you’re not leaving that couch until you answer them, so get comfortable.”
I sigh as I fold my hands in my lap. “All right.”
Dade takes a breath. “Why did that punk make off with my guitar?” he asks.
“I don’t know. You must have pissed him off.”
His head tilts.
“He thought he was doing me a favor,” I answer. “He thought I’d want it. Actually, he thought I’d want to smash it to pieces.”
Dade flinches slightly, those words a clear shot to his manhood. “Thank you for not doing that.”
I shrug. “You’re welcome.”
“But just out of curiosity, why didn’t you? I imagine that might have felt pretty good.”
“Well, I know how I’d feel if someone did that to my girl, so...”
He likes that, flashing a smile. “So, how’d she feel?” he asks.
“How did what feel?” I ask, confused.
“Rapture.” He points at it on the wall. “You played her, right? How’d she feel?”
“Oh, no,” I say, looking down. “I didn’t. It didn’t feel right to...” I peek up at the doubtful arch of his brow, then exhale. “She felt fucking amazing.”
He laughs, vindicated. “That’s what I thought.”
“Sorry, I just... I couldn’t help myself.”
“Can’t blame you. I’d do the same.”
“But it was just for a minute. Or two.” My hands fidget on my lap. “Three, tops.”
“It’s all right.” He bows his head once more. “Thank you again for returning her unharmed.”
I nod.
“Now...” He presents his hands. “Where do we go from here?”
“Look…” I straighten up. “I’m really not interested in bonding with you or in starting a relationship of some kind.”
“Oh, neither am I,” he says. “But here we are. Face-to-face. You have something I want?—”
“I do?”
“And now I want to know: what do you want?”
“I don’t want anything,” I say.
“Everybody wants something.”
“I don’t.”
“I do. I’ve noticed you, Addison Abbey. I’ve noticed your band, specifically. It’s hard not to notice Criminal Records. You’ve made quite the name for yourselves, and I admire that.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“In fact, I was looking forward to seeing you guys play at the festival last week.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I wince. “We had a little... situation.”
“You’re Criminal Records,” he says. “Your reputation, your success, proceeds you. As such, you don’t have to audition for me.”
“You want us on your comeback album,” I say, easily following his words.
He recoils as if I slapped him. “I really wish people would stop calling it that,” he says. “It’s not like I went anywhere. I’ve been right here the whole damn...” He shakes it off, returning to the topic. “Yes. With the rather dramatic exit of Mr. Moon, I now have a vacancy on the album. So… I would be honored to collaborate with you and your band.”
I think it over.
Not for very long, though.
“We appreciate the offer, Mr. Connery,” I say. “But no, thank you.”
Dade sits back in surprise. “You’re sure?”
I nod. “We’re sure.”
He clearly wasn’t expecting an outright no. “All right,” he says. “If you change your mind…”
“I know where you live.”
He studies me again, his eyes shining with amusement. With pride, too. Maybe. “Well, shit, girl. At least let me treat you to dinner or something.”
“Actually, we have a show tonight, so… I need to get going.”
“Where abouts?”
“Edgestone Arena.”
He smiles, impressed. “That’s a good venue. First time?”
“No.”
“Ah. You sold out?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’ll be.” He smiles, warm and genuine. “You really don’t need a damn thing from me, do you?”
“Well, I’ve gotten this far.”
“Yes.” He nods. “You sure have.”
I rub my knees, then stand up, itching to get out of here and back to the safety of Harvey’s arms as soon as possible. “Thank you for the offer, though,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” He stands up off the stool. “Good luck with the rest of your tour.”
“Thanks,” I say, glancing down at the stack of papers on the table. “And good luck with your album.”
He chortles. “Got my work cut out for me today,” he says. “Gotta finalize a shortlist for an interview later tonight.”
I pick up the top sheet, wanting to get a closer look at his shortlist.
“Gonna be an interesting sound,” Dade says as I read. “Eclectic is the word, I think.”
“Good word,” I mutter.
Cybertower.
Nadia Danes.
The Critters.
Christian Myers. Wait— Chris?
“Chris Myers?” I say in surprise. “Are Cobraville getting back together?”
“Ah, no,” Dade says, his eyes full of insider knowledge. “But Chris is launching a solo bid soon.” He tilts his head, his eyes sharp. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
“If there’s one thing between us, it’s discretion,” I say.
He snorts. It’s true.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to gossip with Jordan and Chrissy about it as soon as possible.
I skim the list again, smiling at the way Harvey’s name is fervently scratched out near the bottom.
Just beneath The Electrics.
It’s not surprising. They are popular. Number two in the country just behind us. They played the BNB Fest twice. Makes sense that they got Dade Connery’s attention.
Still sucks, though.
It sucks that they’re being rewarded.
For locking Harvey and me in the back of that truck.
For Tesla’s devious flirtations, meant only to sow drama among us.
For their and Paul Monroe’s spying eyes; the ends of which have yet to be perceived.
“So, what do you think?” Dade asks me. “One professional musician to another.”
The Electrics are fighting dirty and they won’t stop until they get what they want — whatever the hell that is.
That means we have to stop pulling our punches, too.
“Actually,” I say, “there is something you can do for me.”
Dade raises his brows and listens.