Chasing Kane (31 page)

“So,” I continued with a dismissive eye roll. “What? You wanna play a set together? That’d be cozy.”

“I
wanted
to,” she started, bitingly. “But I don’t think so anymore.”

I squinted at her. “Oh
please
… because I hurt your
feelings?
Because we had a grown-up conversation? Get a grip, grab your violin, and meet me in my room in ten minutes.” I stood, tossing a twenty on the bar, more than enough to cover both of our drinks.

She stared at me blankly for a few seconds, chewing the inside of her cheek. “You’re lucky I’m buzzed enough to ignore your personality for a while.”

“I think I’m the lucky one, buttercup. If you’re this fucking pleasant to work with when you’re buzzed, I can’t
wait
to see what you’re like sober.”

***

Nessa was fine to work with, if just a little nervous at first. Yardley didn’t need much convincing to slide us into the lineup, and I think she and I were both relieved when Nessa nailed her songs with Moniker without a hitch. I never got the full story on what the holdup with her playing those songs was, but it didn’t matter. She nailed them, was as natural on the stage with her violin as she was with her vocals, and it was pretty easy to play with her.

She was a little less polished than Regan was, but I doubted that was anything the audience could pinpoint without coaching. She flew through solos and complicated flows with me with ease. We only did a few numbers, easy ones for her that didn’t need a lot of review—Turkey in the Straw, Cotton-eyed Joe, and a piece of Devil Went Down to Georgia she was familiar with, and we only had to run through five or six times in rehearsal.

Nessa seemed to settle into her natural state on stage, a lot like Regan, actually. She played the crowd with energetic movements and fast, complicated solos, which they always loved. I did end up feeling a little bad for being a dick the night before, but it was what it was and I’d said what I needed to say.

It was a short set with Nessa, but I was happy to get a little more stage time to keep my mind off when Frankie was going to show up, if she didn’t change her mind.

There was an unusually high-end after party waiting for us in the more uppity of the two bars in the hotel we were crashing at. Word was, Yardley organized it with friends of hers who were still, miraculously, in the newspaper business. I didn’t think there was any young blood in newsprint any more. Either way it was more media coverage, and none of us were dumb enough to turn that down.

After patting my friends on the back and engaging in small talk and elbow-rubbing for a half hour, I found myself a quiet stool at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. A side benefit of a cross-country tour like this was the opportunity to try out the local beers at each stop. Coming from New England, I was spoiled with what seemed like hundreds of local microbreweries that were all on top of their game. Turns out, the rest of the country seemed to be coming along nicely, too. So far, Seattle was tops, but Chicago was in a close second with what the bartender told me was
Half Acre Daisy Cutter Pale Ale.

Scanning the crowd as I enjoyed my beer, I watched as everyone schmoozed, or pretended to schmooze, but I was so far away in my head that I couldn’t even pretend tonight. For days I’d been tossing around what to do about my dad. I still couldn’t
believe
he’d look me up, let alone track me down at Frankie’s. With a heavy sigh, I ordered another drink from the bartender who looked about my age.

“Something stronger,” I said, sliding my empty pint toward him.

“Stronger beer or just stronger?”

“Just stronger.”

He set a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of me. “You a whisky guy?”

I nodded. “Yep. Johnnie Walker if you have it. Straight up.”

Seeming to pick up that I was in no mood for small talk, he poured me a glass of
Blue Label
and set it in front of me before moving onto other thirsty patrons.

I sipped it slowly, pretending I liked it. Because I’d need my dad’s old standby swimming in my stomach to do what I knew had to be done. I thought about asking for one more. Instead, I left my empty glass on the table and headed for the noisy streets of the Financial District.

Picking up my phone, I dialed the number from memory. It was a ten-year-old cellphone number, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping it belonged to someone else. After one ring, someone picked up.

“CJ?”

He wasn’t the only one with the same cell phone number for over a decade. His voice hit me like a two-by-four in the back of the head. I wanted to sit, but needed to move through the adrenaline, so I walked fast, angry steps down the sidewalk.

“CJ?” he asked again, his voice sounding light and hopeful like he wasn’t a piece of shit. I wanted to hang up. “You there?”

“Yeah.” The first words I spoke to my father in over ten years. “If you had my number, why didn’t you just call me instead of showing up at my girlfriend’s house?”

That Frankie was still technically my
ex
-girlfriend wasn’t a detail he needed to know.

His tone was softer now. A little hesitant. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“I wouldn’t have.” I huffed, stopping to lean against a light post and light a cigarette.

It was a few seconds before he said anything. “So why’d you call me?”

After a long drag, I answered. “Because I couldn’t get you to stay when I was a kid, but I
can
tell you to stay the hell
out
of my life now.”

Words I’d wanted to say almost my whole life didn’t feel as good as I thought they would. Because it didn’t change any of the facts of who he was or how I grew up.

“Listen. Don’t hang up,” he added quickly.

I sucked on my cigarette like it was the only thing holding me together, because maybe it was. I was doing this
thing
by myself. No friends, family, or Frankie by my side. No one to coach me through it or hold my hand. I had to face him alone, the way he left me. Even if it wasn’t face-to-face, it was the best I could do, and the most I was willing to do at the moment.

“What?” I snapped. “Are you dying, or something, and smoked me out to try to make everything right?”

“No,” he answered.

To my confusion, I felt a twinge of relief. I chalked that up to being a non-sociopathic human, rather than actually wanting
him
to live.

“Then what?” I demanded for a second time, making my way back to the hotel to avoid the shady alleys that awaited me if I continued forward.

He sighed and went quiet for a while. “I was hoping we could do this face-to-face. Maybe I could come to one of your show—”

“
No
,” I cut him off. “
Don’t
come
anywhere
I am. Got it? Now, tell me what you tracked me down for or I’ll hang up and change my number and make damn sure you never find me again.” My anger was hot and loud, crashing into my brain like hurricane waves against the boardwalk at home.

I reached the hotel before he spoke, so I continued walking. I was afraid if I stood in one place for too long I’d punch something.

Finally, words came through the phone and stopped me in my tracks.

“I’m sorry, CJ. For everything.”

Dizzy with rage, I lit another cigarette.

The fucking nerve of this guy.

“Oh that’s rich,” I seethed. I didn’t even know what to say next. “What brought on this moment of bullshit clarity?”

“My ten-year-old son,” he answered flatly.

I’d known for years that he had kids. I never knew how many, their ages, or anything else. Rendered speechless, I grabbed a seat on the nearest bench and leaned forward, holding my head together.

“I found out Miriam was having a boy a week before your high school graduation,” he started.

“Shut up,” I growled, but left the phone to my ear.

“I’d thought about you each time the girls were born, of course,” he continued, telling me I had half-sisters, too. “But when we found out there was a boy … I just … I couldn’t—”

“Deal with what you’d done?”

“Yeah,” he sighed his answer.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“And now he’s turning into this young man and showing me all this stuff I missed with you, and he’s into music and I—”

“
Stop
,” I growled, standing, needing to end this conversation as soon as possible. “I don’t care that some kid you had with your mistress suddenly implanted a conscience in that empty space you call a chest. I don’t care if he plays the drums or the fucking flute or a goddamn trombone. I don’t give a
shit,”
my voice cracked, “if you’ve got daughters who think the sun shines out of your ass. Because I know it doesn’t. And I’ll never forgive you. Leave me the
fuck
alone.”

I ended the call, wishing there was a phone to hang up and throw against the wall that wouldn’t cost me six hundred dollars. I navigated my way back to the hotel with clouded vision and a pounding head from holding back tears I’d gone over twenty years without shedding.

All I needed to do was feel my way to my hotel room, and try to sleep away these feelings before tomorrow’s show.

I slept hard. That much I knew when I woke to repeated knocking on my door. My head was pounding and my eyes were so heavy I thought I’d have to pry them open. To my dismay when looking at the clock, I realized I hadn’t slept the day away like I’d wanted. It was only eight in the morning. Sure, ten hours of sleep was exponentially greater than anything I was used to on the road, but it wasn’t enough to make up for last night.

To make up for
him
blasting into my life in the same way he left—like a tornado. The seismic pressure of last night’s emotions set my muscles rigid and on edge, vibrating as if waiting for the next blow so they could react. My head felt like it had been slammed against a brick wall and left there. Walking to the door took extra effort. I scanned the itinerary in my head before reaching it, knowing for certain I had
no
responsibilities today. Glaring at the white wood, I was annoyed that the
Do Not Disturb
sign was currently in a state of flagrant uselessness on the
inside
door handle.

“Who is it?” I forced out through a hoarse voice that only served to remind me how much I’d screamed last night—long after the phone call with Daddy Dearest ended, and into the pillow before collapsing into sleep.

“It’s me,” she said in a cool, confident tone. Needing only her voice to identify herself.

Frankie.

I cleared my throat. “Just a sec.”

I wanted to swing the door open, swoop her into my arms, and set her on the bed with the deepest kiss I could. That was reason enough to pause. What I
needed
to do was splash cold water on my face to regain my sense of appropriate behavior with my ex-girlfriend, and to try to wipe the war-torn look from my eyes.

No luck on the second endeavor—my eyes were swollen like I’d smoked all the weed in Chicago last night by myself.

Shit.
Oh well …

I’d slept in my jeans, apparently, but no shirt. Grabbing the plain white T-shirt from the floor, I threw it over my head before setting my hand on the door handle with the deepest breath I’d taken in weeks.

“You’re here,” I said with the best smile I could produce when I finally got around to opening the door.

Frankie stood grinning softly in the doorway, all five foot eight and sexy size twelve of her. A brown messenger bag hung over her shoulder while a small purple suitcase was perched on the floor next to her sandaled feet and bright yellow-painted toenails. “And one hell of a sight for sore eyes.”

Her smile faded slightly as her eyebrows pulled in a little. “Sore eyes—I guess,” she said, reaching for my face. Her soft, lilac-scented skin cupped my cheek as she grazed her thumb under my eye.

I swallowed hard, frozen in the doorway unsure what to do. Seeming to catch her breath in ex-boyfriend boundaries—boundaries she’d set—she dropped her hand, tilting her head to the side. “What happened?”

Stepping back, I pulled the door open, gesturing for her to walk in. She wore a teal sundress that swayed like petals just below her knees. Spaghetti straps criss-crossed in the back, showing off pink skin from what was probably only a short sunscreen-free stint in the sun. Her long, deep-brown hair was in a French braid that tapered off a few inches below her broad shoulder blades. My eyes fell to her slim, tight waist and curvy,
God-help-me
hips. I breathed in the floral scent of her wake, closing my eyes and demanding my brain commit it to memory if today didn’t go the way I wanted it to.

Truth be told, I wished that once she was in, I could barricade both of us in that hotel room until we were ready to reemerge as a couple. I chuckled at the budding romantic in the back of my brain, closing the door behind her. All the evidence from the last couple of weeks suggested she would fly all the way here only to finalize our break and set the ultimate no-contact boundaries my behavior deserved. Not to reconcile.

“Let me take that for you.” I slid the handle of her suitcase from her hand and wheeled it to the corner of the room by the window—far away from the door. “I wish I’d known you were coming. I’d have tried to not look so—”

“Run over?” Her eyes worked me over with such tender concern that I had to look down out of fear I’d forget the reason for this visit and act like a desperate puppy, only pushing her further away. “It was a last minute decision. I wasn’t sure if I could … you know … go through with it. Once I landed I called you, but it just rang and rang until it hit your voicemail. Long night last night?”

Looking at the bedside table where my phone lay, I noticed a few missed calls. Giving a quick scroll, I saw two from Frankie, and one from my mom—complete with a voicemail I’d listen to later. Somehow, I’d never gotten around to calling my mother after last night. She rarely left voicemails, so I had a good guess as to what was contained in that forty-five second message, regardless of how she found out. To my knowledge, she hadn’t spoken to my dad in about as long as I had.