Outsider (46 page)

Ethan
lifted his head and met Trey’s eyes. They exchange a look of incredulity. Did
Reagan really feel like she was taking advantage of their love? He probably
shouldn’t speak for them both, but in this case he knew they were on the same
page.

“You
don’t have to thank us or apologize for needing us, silly,” Ethan said. “You
should take our love and support for granted, because we love and support you.
Always.”

“Always,”
Trey echoed with a nod.

“I
know that when I need your support,” Ethan said, “I can count on it and on you,
just as you can count on me.”

“And
me,” Trey said.

Reagan
placed a hand on Trey’s head and stroked back the silky black strands to reveal
a slender scar that curved over his ear. Ethan hated that scar, not because it
disfigured an otherwise perfect head, but because it reminded him that Trey had
been hurt. Long before he’d met Trey, Trey had almost died. Some homophobic
asshole had hit him in the head with a baseball bat. Ethan didn’t like to think
of Trey in pain and mortal danger any more than he liked to think of something
harming Reagan. He agonized over the thought of either of them being anything
but gloriously happy.

“Promise
you’ll lean on me sometimes,” Reagan said. “Don’t treat me like I’m fragile. I
can support you both.”

“You
do,” Ethan insisted.

Her
muscles relaxed and her fingers went still on the scar she was absently
stroking.

“Do
you feel better now that you got that nonsense off your chest?” Trey asked.

“Nonsense?”

“Like
either of us would complain about you relying on us when you need to.” Trey
snorted and got a poke in the ribs for his taunt.

“H-hey!”
she sputtered. “That was really bothering me.”

“Noted,”
Trey said. “Can we go back to worshiping you now?” Trey scooted up so he could
look down into her grinning face.

“Well,
I suppose,” she said, rolling her eyes at Trey and making Ethan laugh.

He
remembered once thinking these two would be the death of him, but he knew
better now. They were the life in him.

*****

Ethan
was intentionally avoiding Butch. Not because he was afraid of his boss’s wrath
for his unexpected leave of absence in the middle of the tour, but because he
had his mother in tow and she was determined to meet the mysterious mustached
man. Not happening. No way. Not on his watch.

“It’s
very busy and loud here,” Mamá yelled over the backstage din. “How do you stand
this noise every day?”

“I
live for our days off,” he said. “Though watching them onstage makes all this chaos
worth it.”

Ethan
didn’t need to explain to his mother who
they
were, but he did have to
watch how much interest he showed them in public. Trey and Reagan were engaged
now and if anyone thought Ethan was coming between the two happy lovebirds,
he’d be the villain. He didn’t want to be the villain. He wanted the loves of
his life to be happy. He’d do anything to ensure their joy.

“Good,
you’re back,” Steve said as he approached them unexpectedly behind the stage.

Ethan
was pretty sure Steve had never said more than two words to him the entire time
he’d been in Exodus End’s employ, so he was more than a little wary of his
sudden eagerness to see him.

Mamá
stared at Steve with wide eyes. Maybe it was because he was so tall or so
shirtless or had gorgeous long brown hair or could wear a pair of white leather
pants without looking like a tool, but Ethan figured it was because he looked
like he should be modeling underwear on a catwalk in New York.

“Can
I help you?” Ethan asked, instinctively shifting his mamá’s short body behind
him.

“You
used to be a pig, right?”

Ethan
raised his eyebrows. Sure, people slurred law officers behind their backs, but
it was rather unsettling to have it done to his face. Even if he wasn’t
technically on the force any longer.

“I
was a police officer, yes.”

“Detective?”
Steve leaned closer eagerly.

He
would have loved to have been a detective, but after he’d tried to prove his
mariachi-band-playing brother was a hardened gang member, he doubted he possessed
the right instincts. “Beat cop.”

“You
took that a bit too literally, am I right?” Steve laughed.

Ethan
forced a terse smile. Yes, he’d beat up a couple of perpetrators while he’d
been on the force, but that wasn’t why he’d been a beat cop. “I was a
patrolman. Why do you ask?”

“Sam
denies his involvement, but I know he’s behind everything. I know it. And I
need someone to prove it. I figured you’d be a good candidate since he ruined
Reagan’s reputation, but I’ll just hire someone. A PI or something. Sorry to
bother you.” He turned to go, but Ethan caught his arm.

“No
idea what you’re talking about,” Ethan said. “But if it involves protecting
Reagan, I’m your guy.”

With
Mamá as a witness, Steve filled Ethan in on a few goings-on that had happened
in his absence—and which Reagan had kept to herself. The band thought Sam was
responsible for starting the tabloid rumors, that he was somehow connected to
the
American Inquirer
and its head editor, who just happened to be
Steve’s ex-wife. That was a bit too coincidental for Ethan’s tastes. However, when
Max had confronted Sam about his involvement that morning, Sam had denied
everything.

“He
wasn’t even ruffled by our accusations,” Steve said. “That made Max think he
was innocent, but it made me think that Sam was expecting our confrontation.”

“So
what do you want me to do?”

“Find
Bianca and figure out how she’s involved.”

“She’s
your ex-wife,” Ethan pointed out. Why didn’t he just call her and ask?

“Which
is exactly why she won’t tell me shit.” Mamá cleared her throat at his foul
language, and Steve flushed. “Pardon, ma’am.”

“But
you think she’ll talk to me?”

“She
might if she thinks you’re a cop and she’s under investigation.”

“So
you want me to impersonate an officer of the law, interrogate a potentially
innocent woman, and report my findings back to her estranged husband?”

Steve
nodded. “Yes.”

“And
you don’t see a problem with this plan?” Ethan asked, not sure if he should be
amused or exasperated.

“I’ll
pay you.”

Ethan
crossed his arms at his chest. “It’s not the money. It’s the law-breaking part
I have issue with.”

“Well . . . maybe
you could get a private investigator license, and then it wouldn’t be an
issue.”

“Well,
maybe I’ll look into that,” Ethan snapped.

“Yes,”
Mamá said, nodding.

Steve
waved Ethan away as if he were an annoying fly and stalked off.

“I
think he’s mad,” Mamá said.

“He’s
just used to getting his way. Spoiled-rockstar syndrome.”

“You’re
not going to help Reagan?”

He
hadn’t said that. He’d just said he had issue with breaking the law. He didn’t
have a problem looking someone up and asking them a few questions. He didn’t
have to pretend to be a cop to do that. He also didn’t have any authority to persuade
them to answer, so anything he was told would have to be offered voluntarily.

“I’ll
try,” he said.

“Good,”
Mamá said. “And maybe get Magnum P.I. license while you at it?”

Ethan
snorted and shook his head.
Thanks, Steve, for putting that idea into her
stubborn head.
“I’ll think about it.”

Max
had called for a rehearsal that afternoon because he wanted to add the acoustic
version of “Bite” to the set list so he could play guitar onstage. He was so
excited about playing—and Max rarely got excited about anything when he wasn’t
performing—that no one had had the heart to tell him no. If Reagan was glum to
be shifted aside, she didn’t show it. She joined Ethan and Rosa in the wings to
watch.

“I
like this better,” Mamá said. “Is not so loud. Except those drums.” She winced
and covered her ears with both hands.

Apparently
Steve’s idea of acoustic meant to dominate the song with impromptu drum solos,
and no amount of arguing would convince him to switch to a single wooden block
for the piece.

“He
very stubborn,” Mamá said. “Did you tell Reagan what he asks of you?”

Reagan
turned her questioning blue eyes on him. He hadn’t thought informing her about
his non-plan was important since he didn’t know how much information he’d get
out of this Bianca woman.

“He
wanted me to do a little detective work on the connection between the tabloid
and their manager. I had to tell him I wasn’t in the position to do so. From a
legal standpoint.”

“Don’t
you think he make a good Magnum P.I.?” Mama asked.

“Just
PI, Mamá, no Magnum,” Ethan said, trying not to show his amusement. “Magnum was
the name of Tom Selleck’s character on the show.” In the 80s, his entire family
had religiously watched
Magnum P.I.
,
Hill Street Blues
,
Miami
Vice
,
Remington Steele
,
Cagney and Lacey
and any other crime
drama of the day. Maybe that was why he’d wanted to become a police officer.
He’d been an impressionable youth, and his mother had always been enamored with
members of law enforcement. She still held them in high regard.

“He
would be good at it,” Reagan said.

Ethan
shook his head. Evidence contradicted their claim. “Like I was good at figuring
out who was threatening you at the beginning of the tour? Like I was good at
finding evidence to associate my brother with a gang?”

“I
tell Carlos not to wear that yellow bandana.” Mamá crossed her arms. “I tell
him this
many
times.”

“You’re
too hard on yourself,” Reagan said. “You’d be good at anything you set your
mind to.”

She
stood on tiptoe to offer him a kiss of encouragement, but he stepped back
before someone saw her kissing a man who was
not
her very public fiancé.
Reagan scowled and turned her attention back to the stage. When the drum-heavy
acoustic version of “Bite” came to an end—and Ethan had to admit it sounded
fantastic—Mamá clapped enthusiastically, drawing a smile from a nearby member
of the crew. Reagan tilted her head and squinted at the three guitarists
onstage.

“I
wonder if they’d listen to a suggestion,” she said.

“What
kind of suggestion?” Mamá asked.

“A
musical one.” Reagan shrugged and headed for the stage. Ethan couldn’t repress
the pride swelling in his chest as Reagan went to voice her opinion. She might
not see it, but he recognized how far she’d come in the weeks she’d toured with
the band. They all stopped what they were doing to listen to her.
Unfortunately, Ethan couldn’t eavesdrop over the din of the backstage noise
behind him.

Mamá
squinted at the musicians as if that would hone her hearing. “What she asking
them?”

“No
idea,” Ethan said, but her bandmates were nodding and she was smiling, so she
must be getting the results she wanted.

When
she returned, Reagan rocked up and down on her toes and after emitting a little
squeal of excitement gave Ethan’s hand a quick squeeze before dropping it.
“They said yes!”

“To
what?”

“Cello.”

Ethan
blinked at her. “Cello? In a metal song?”

“An
acoustic
metal song,” she said. “The guys want to hear how it sounds
before they allow me to play it live, but they were open to my suggestion.”

“They
will love it,” Mamá said, giving Reagan the encouraging hug Ethan longed to
give her. “You have so much talent on cello.”

Reagan’s
smile faltered. “Now I just have to go to my dad’s house tomorrow and beg him
to let me have my grandmother’s instrument. She
did
leave it to me when
she passed away.”

Ethan
frowned. As much as he’d like Reagan to make peace with her father, showing up
at his house and demanding a cherished family heirloom seemed like a terrible
idea. “Are you sure about this?”

Reagan
shrugged one shoulder, but her pretty brow was creased with worry. “Maybe he
won’t be home. I know where he hides the key.”

“You
could just buy a new cello at a music store,” Ethan suggested.

Reagan
shook her head. “It won’t sound as good as hers. And it
is
my cello,
even if Dad insists I leave it with him. She gave it to me so it would be
played, not hidden away.”

“Your
grandma be proud for you to play her cello for everyone,” Mamá said.

Reagan
gave her another tight squeeze. Ethan didn’t mind sharing his mother with
Reagan in the least. He loved that the two had forged such a strong bond. That
bond was the reason it had been impossible for him to tell his mother he’d blown
it with Reagan and that she had dumped his sorry, undeserving ass.