Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
D aughtry
With my headphones on and plugged into my guitar, I run through the riffs in “Grape Crush.” I don’t need Louise reminding me that this is my big break. Touring with the Vendetta is a dream, and it’s taken twelve years of hustle, blood, and sweat to get here.
I’m not going to mess it up by slipping on my chord progressions.
Dante Baker, the bassist for the Vendetta, stops in front of me and waves his hand in front of my face. He’s dressed as he always is, in a button down shirt and trim jeans.
“Hey.” I slip my headphones down around my neck. “How’s it going, Dante?”
“Not too bad.” He pushes his shaggy dark hair out of his eyes. “Have you seen Ellery?”
“No, sorry.” With the hand not holding my guitar, I gesture around the lake. “This resort is gorgeous, isn’t it? Are you staying here?”
He shakes his head. “Ellery has some friends with a vacation house nearby, so Louise didn’t book our accommodations. What about you?”
“Not sure. We went to the rental apartment, but the owner told us there was a glitch in the system so it was double booked. Louise is looking into it now. All the hotels in the area are booked for the festival.” So what if Foster Family Vineyards may have an opening? I’m not running headfirst into that minefield.
“Makes sense.” Dante rocks back on his feet, looking uncomfortable at talking to anyone beyond his bandmates for more than five minutes. “I’m going to find Ellery. Do you want to come?”
“Sure.” I hop off the packing crate I’ve been perching on and replace my guitar in its case. “It’s been ages since I lived here, but I remember the food being incredible.”
We walk from the concert stage that has been set up by the conference center and down among the maze of tent-lined lanes. I love festivals. They smell like deep fried heaven and warm summer rain. This one has the added benefit of excellent music piped through the speakers.
I grab Dante’s arm. “Hold on. I know this song.”
It’s the Vendetta’s first and most famous single, “Centrifuge.”
“How cool!” The lyrics wash over me. The first time I ever heard the song was on America Sings! and I was completely hooked. “I can’t wait until that’s me.”
“It will be, one day. Honestly, it’s weird, hearing our songs on the radio,” Dante says. One of the nicest things about him is that he isn’t that tall, only a few inches more than me, so I never feel dwarfed .
“I spent so long trying to get to this stage and now it all just feels like quicksand,” I say.
“You’ll settle into it. We all do.” We pass by a tent with local metalwork jewelry. Dante pauses, sifting through the earrings. He holds up a pair made of bronze and silver hammered ovals. “Do you think Ellery will like these?”
“Yes.” I run my fingers over the studs in my left ear. I got the piercings senior year of high school, and I rarely take them out. For a while, it was from lack of money. If I had spare cash, it usually went to food or transportation back then. Then I didn’t change them because I kind of liked remembering how Zoey Foster had noticed them immediately. The day I got them, she’d stepped back to examine them properly, her face lit up with appreciation. It had made me feel so seen.
I still don’t think my actual mother knew or noticed. I’ve definitely never told her about my other piercings. “You and Ellery are definite couple goals. I don’t think a guy has ever picked out jewelry for me that I actually liked.” Not that I give them a chance. Better not to be disappointed.
Dante hands the earrings to the seller and taps his card on the credit card reader. “I used to think no one would ever love me for who I am. But Ellery gets me. In that deep, soul-satisfying way.”
It’s either fear or indigestion that makes my fingers feel numb. It isn’t the memory of how, when Zoey asked for her son Declan’s opinion on my new earrings, his gaze darkened and he’d said, She already looked like a superstar.
I pick up a pendant of a dragon and then put it right back on its tree-shaped jewelry stand. “I mean, deep and soul-satisfying is one way to live. Or you can try to cram as many experiences as possible into life. Who’s to say which is better?”
“That’s true.” He takes the little green jewelry bag from the seller and puts it in the pocket of his dark wash jeans. The color washes his pale skin out more, but he has a look that he likes. “There are a lot of different ways to live. You have to find your own joy.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey, there she is.” His face explodes into a wide smile as Ellery comes into view, perusing a used book stall. “I’ll see you later, Daughtry. You’re going to be great.” With very little fanfare, he walks toward Ellery and slips his arms around her waist. Ellery laughs and leans back against his chest.
Way too much intimacy.
The scent of fried food makes me feel woozy. I walk away from the obscenely happy couple. There are distractions aplenty here, and I need one desperately. There are so many memories here, more than other places I’ve lived, like New York or Nashville. Even Los Angeles. Though I’ve been in California for years now, the city is so huge and sprawling, that it never really feels like I’m in the same place.
Still. St. Olaf has its small town charm. And it goes all out for festivals.
I pass lemonade stands, cream puffs that are larger than my head, and a stall selling Renaissance Faire-style flower garlands. The air smells like grilled meats and onions and sugar wafts in the air like sweet-scented smoke.
Closer to the lake, there is a white fence surrounding a series of tents, with white wooden benches and long tables set up inside the perimeter. Over the little gate, manned by an ancient white man with a serious farmer’s tan, is a sign in curlicue writing: Biergarten, over 21 only.
I’m not much of a drinker, but there is a sentimental pull to Wisconsin’s local breweries and cideries. Vineyards, too.
It was twelve years. Who am I kidding? The Fosters probably left town ages ago.
Although, in a weird spell after I broke up with my last boyfriend—we passed our three date termination mark—I looked up the Foster brothers on social media. Declan’s profile was private, but his mom’s is public. She had posted photos from a Mother’s Day celebration, complete with a little nine-year-old mini Ciaran. The brothers had both aged well, Declan especially. I’m surprised Ciaran has a kid. I would have pegged Declan as the paternal one of the two. He was definitely the Relationship Material brother.
Has Declan ever married?
A little kernel of want curls deep in my core but I push it aside. That’s ancient history and there’s no good bringing any of it back.
“ID, please?” The bouncer, who could not weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet—and may have been that old—holds out a hand to me.
“Sure.” My badge identifying me as a performer isn’t going to cut it in this setting. I dig through my ancient leather messenger bag until I find my wallet. “Here you go.” I hand him my driver’s license.
He peruses it with the same care a person might give to reading the Declaration of Independence for the first time. It’s oddly touching. “Hmph. All right, Ms. Sutcliffe. Drink responsibly, now.”
“I will.” What a wild place. I get carded everywhere in LA, too, but nobody seems to care there. It’s more of a perfunctory glance. I read his name badge and flash him my stage smile. “Thanks, Frank.”
He opens the gate for me and I walk into the Biergarten. I’ve been in a lot of these, too, throughout my childhood. If I have to pick a table, the one over by the craft beer tent would be my mom’s. Not because of its impressive selection of IPAs. It looks like it has the softest grass underneath to curl up for an impromptu drunk nap.
Tucking my performer badge beneath the collar of my navy blue ribbed tank top, I walk around reading the signs. Altenbosch Orchard Cider. Golden Rose Brewery. Sweet Valley Vines.
I don’t realize I’m looking for it until it’s right in front of me. Foster Family Vineyards.
Nobody is working the tent, thank heaven and hell and anyone else who’s listening. A dark, lush green runner lined the tasting table, and there is a chalkboard on either end listing the wines available to taste. Heart Stomp Chardonnay. Frozen Out Ice Wine.
Yeesh. Someone was going through something when they named these wines.
A tow-headed kid wearing neon blue eyeshadow pops up from beneath the table. He eyes me warily, blue eyes calculating. “My dad names the wines.”
Wow. This is such a mini Ciaran.
“Who broke your dad’s heart?” I ask.
“My dad is unbreakable.”
Respect. “Right on, kid. What’s your name?”
“Alex.” He stretches out his hand to me and I take it in mine. His palm is a little sticky but he gives my hand one good, firm shake. “What can I getcha?”
I lean on the table on my elbows. “Aren’t you a little young to be serving wine?”
“Please.” Alex rolls his eyes. “I live on a vineyard. I could tell you more than any sommelier in Napa.”
Somehow, I believe him. He projects confidence. “Okay. Wow me.”
Unimpressed. That describes Alex perfectly. He pulls a thin bottle of honey-colored liquid from underneath the table. “Try our ice wine. It’s my favorite.”
“Alex.” A dark-haired man enters the back of the tent, carrying a clanking box full of wine bottles. “You know you’re not supposed to be serving. I’m so sorry, I’ll be right— ”
Whoa. It’s like all the air in the tent condenses and expands at once. When he starts speaking, that deep, rich tone sizzles down my spine. How it is possible for that one glimpse of him to make me shiver, I have no idea.
But I’m not one to linger.
“Hey, Declan,” I say. Do I pop my chest out a little bit? Maybe. I have a back ache.
His eyes widen and he drops the box of wine, a little too heavily on the ground. It seems okay. No telltale signs of leaking grape juice. Then again, what do I know? “Daughtry? Is that you?”
Has it really been twelve years? He looks just as good as the last time I saw him, at Ciaran and my high school graduation. He is tall and rangy. He has dark brown hair that is longer on top than the sides, and these cyan-colored eyes that flit from dark as a stormy lake to bright summer sky. He has mood eyes, Declan Foster does.
“Hey, stranger.”My entire body is restless, like there are fire ants crawling along my skin. As much as my head screams run , my itchy feet are planted firmly on the ground.
Screw it. I ignore convention, leap over the tasting table, and wrap my arms around Declan.
Mistake. Declan smells like cherries and fresh linen and clean summer air. And the hug he gives me? It takes him a moment of hesitation, but when his arms enclose me, it feels a lot like security. Comfort.
I release a breath that feels about twelve years old.
This is very dangerous. The pull of him here is so strong, and holding him floods me with memories.
Mentally, I reinforce all my inner walls, but the mortar I typically use isn’t sticking when Declan holds me like this. I need a new plan and quick.
But… cherries .
“Dad?” Alex says behind us. “Who is she?”
“Oh.” Declan steps away from me, a flush running up his pale, untanned neck. He’s let his five o’clock shadow grow so it covers his cheeks in a sexy unkempt way, like a GQ model.
Sexy? No. Not sexy. Devastating.
A warm puddle of want collects inside my belly. While I normally keep my emotions tightly behind lock and key à la Fort Knox, if I spend more time with Declan, I’ll need to upgrade to Vegas casino-level security.
He puts at least two feet between us, an impressive thing given that the entire tent isn’t that wide. “Alex, this is Daughtry. She dated your uncle Ciaran their senior year of high school.”
A thousand things click into place. Of course Alex isn’t Ciaran’s. I knew Ciaran doesn’t have a paternal bone in his body. Now that I look past the blond hair, I see Declan in Alex’s eyes, in his posture.
“You’re not telling the whole story.” I turn to Alex, who seems moderately more interested in me now. “One night, even though your dad was studying for midterms, he made me the world’s best pancakes.”
“My dad does make really good pancakes. He says it’s all in the mix.” Alex glances between the two of us for a moment before he catches sight of my performer badge. Hugging Declan dislodged it from behind my tank top. “Shit, you’re Daughtry Sutcliffe!”
“Alex, don’t swear,” Declan says, as if this is an automated response. It’s fricking adorable.
“But Dad!” Alex has a little vocal fry that he uses to great effect. I respect him for it. “You told me you ‘sort of knew her.’ You didn’t tell me you made her pancakes.”
Declan turns to the box of wine and starts unpacking the bottles without reading the labels. He’s so fucking cute when he’s flustered. That hasn’t changed at all. “They were just pancakes.”
“World’s best pancakes.” I lean my butt against the tasting table, now fully enjoying myself. With Declan kneeling on the ground beside the box, I appreciate the tone of his muscles, visible underneath his polo shirt. He’s always been built, but age has settled well on him. “And we were friends. Your dad tutored me so I didn’t fail chemistry in high school.”
“You were never going to fail,” Declan grumbles. He unpacks the box completely, and this seems only to distress him. Not looking at me, he picks up a box of wine glasses and starts setting them on the table. “You’re too smart for that. You just needed to catch up a bit. Your last school was on a different track from ours.”
Alex and I each take some of the glasses and set them up in a triangle shape on the other end of the table. “My dad teaches chemistry now,” he says to me. “At the high school.”
“I’ll bet he’s voted best teacher every year.” And sexiest, not that I want to contemplate a gaggle of teens drooling over him. He has this whole lanky nerdy vibe going on. It’s working for him.
“Pretty much.” Alex shrugs. “So do you know the Vendetta?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m opening for them. It’s the only reason I’m here. They’re the coolest people.”
Declan pulls on a leaf of the cardboard box, tearing it off with a flourish. He drops it, like ripping apart the box had not been his intention. “It’s good to see you, Daughtry, but we have work to do. I’m sure you’re busy, too.”
I blow out a large puff of air, displacing my bangs into a little cascade of hair. “I have nowhere to go. The apartment they rented for me fell through and every other place was booked. It’s me in the rental car. No big. I’ve done it before. Besides.” I pull my hair onto my head in a loose messy bun. “I can’t leave before you tell me if you like the pink, Declan. It’s new.”
He glances briefly at me, and there is something so dark and fierce in his eyes, it pierces me to the spot. Some things do not change over twelve years. I never could tease Declan Foster. And flirting with him is a dangerous pastime. It reminds me of an iceberg, the way you can only see a little bit above the surface, but what’s underneath is massive and sharp and potentially deadly.
“I like the pink,” Alex says. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand as he contemplates my hair. “It’s really cool. Dad, can I add pink streaks?”
“I’d rather you dye your hair than have more screen time, so sure.” Declan tosses the empty box into a pile under the tablecloth.
“Whatever.” This does not seem to be what Alex is hoping for. “Daughtry, you should stay with us.”
“What?” Declan whirls on his son. “Alex, don’t do that.”
“Why not?” He raises his innocent little nine-year-old arms. “Grams says the place is finished now.” He turns back to me. “Grams and Grampa turned our guest cottage into a vacation rental. You know, life on a vineyard thing. She had wanted to list it for the festival, but a water pipe burst so we couldn’t take reservations. Don’t worry, it’s all fixed now so you don’t have to wade through water or anything.”
Who is this kid and how is he the coolest person I’d ever met? “Thank you.”
Declan runs a hand over his face. “Alex, she does not want to stay at the vineyard. She’s young and free and will probably be up at all hours having—” he pauses here, like he’s debating which insult will hit harder—“ wild parties. She doesn’t want to be saddled with us. ”
This was true earlier this morning, but now? I mean, I was invited. I’d hate to disappoint a child.
“Actually.” I step neatly beside him, projecting my most innocent self. It isn’t going to work. There’s nothing innocent about me or the thoughts about Declan running through my head. “I’d love to stay with you. First of all, way better than sleeping in a car. It was fine in my twenties, but I’m thirty now and, technically, gainfully employed. I’d prefer not to wake up with back pain. Second—” I rustle Alex’s hair, glowing in the beam he shoots my way—“your kid is amazing. If he wants to run away from you and all your shaking-your-newspaper-at-those-darn-neighbor-kids ways, he is totally welcome to stay with me in LA.”
“Yes!” Alex says, but the ess is cut short by his father’s glare.
This is way too much fun. There I go again, getting too close to the iceberg. I can’t help it, though. Teasing Declan leads me into dangerous waters, but I’m in the boat now and steering directly toward it.
Sadly, it’s exactly what my mother would have done.
“Third. The Vendetta would love to meet Alex.” Cheap shot, playing the kid, but I’ve done worse. “I’d love to stay in your guest cottage. Let’s say I have very fond memories of the place.” Is this technically true? Yes. But it isn’t a violation of my personal philosophy, either. I need a place to stay, and this is an excellent opportunity. “And for your very judgmental information, I don’t party like that. No one in the Vendetta does, so I don’t either. I like early nights, hot tea, and cozy blankets.”
Declan’s steel gaze softens a hair, but it could still poison like mercury. Slow and insidious.
“Fine,” he grumbles, picking up a clean glass and wiping it with a washcloth. “I’ll text my mom you’re coming. But you’re gone in two days, right? ”
Two days until the festival is over and I’ll be off to Chicago, Nashville, wherever Louise and the Vendetta tell me. Two days until I never see Alex or Declan again.
Still, life is for living. “Exactly.” I pick up the bottle of Heart Stomp Chardonnay and pour myself a generous glass. “Two days and you’ll never hear from me again.”