The Rancher and the Rock Star (5 page)

Elliott sprawled in a chair cradling his Nikon D3X like a gunslinger protecting his Colt. “I knew there was no way our boy had laryngitis,” he said to Gray’s agitated manager, although Chris Boyle didn’t bother to look at him.

“You don’t get to talk now, St. Vincent.”

Elliott ignored him. “Gray’s too anal with his perfect pitch and his need for control to stay away just because he couldn’t talk.” Besides, Gray’s band was tighter than jeans on a streetwalker—the Lunatics, they unofficially called themselves. Covey wouldn’t be MIA during a tour under any normal circumstance. “Where is he? You’re full of secrets the past few days.”

This time Chris spared him a glare. “Your ass is in one big sling, photography man.” He snatched a tabloid paper off a table and flung it Frisbee-style into Elliott’s lap. “So sit quietly in your corner, or I’ll kick you out.” Elliott stroked his thick mustache with an unworried smile.

Before he could speak, new voices filled the air and Gray’s band filed onstage, laughing, obviously not the least distressed over missing a gig the night before. Spark Jackson, Gray’s lead guitarist for twenty-five years, led the way, and Boyle’s eyes shone with relief.

“Did you reach him, Spark?”

“Yeah, he’ll be back tonight.” As always, Spark spoke with quiet, even words. He leaned on a section of floor riser not yet in place, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “He’s got Dawson and says they’ll be here on time.”

“Dawson?” Elliott snapped to full attention. “He found Dawson?”

The pair ignored him.

Micky Wolff, the group’s talented drummer, and Miles Dixon, the percussionist, each shrugged at Elliott as they passed him to check their instruments. They looked like Laurel and Hardy—Micky slight, short, and long-haired, Miles handsome as a young Sidney Poitier but larger than a left tackle. Behind them, bass player Max Hoffmann with his maroon-framed glasses had been with Gray as long as Spark had and looked his quiet, bookish part. Gorgeous Misty Donahue, the only member who hadn’t spent half a lifetime with the band, could sing as mellow as Norah Jones or soar like Mariah Carey. None of them paid Elliott more than a sour glance except for Dan Wickersham, the keyboardist. His lean runner’s body matched Elliott’s, and they were good friends.

“Heard you were in the time-out corner.” Wickersham ambled toward him with a wry smile. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“C’mon, Wick.” Elliott dragged him out of earshot. “You know I wouldn’t do this.” He held up the paper.

They’d all seen the photo, but Wick snorted. “It’s funny, give you that.”

Elliott regretted taking the picture: Gray, seated in an armchair with surprise—or was it the shock of pleasure?—on his face, and record industry insider Jillian Harper’s head buried face-first in his crotch. The picture spoke for itself. Except that it lied. Stupid party, Gray’s date, hilarious laughs when she’d tripped and landed in the compromising position. Elliott took celebrity photos for a living. He’d merely snapped the shutter in reflex.

“Funny in private. I didn’t sell it to the
Star
.”

Wick handed the paper back. “You gotta admit, this is hard evidence. And it had to be worth a few pesos.”

“I don’t need a few pesos.”

“Yeah, richer than Gates.” Wick slapped him on the shoulder blade. “Hey, I know Chris isn’t seeing any humor in this, but maybe Gray will.”

“I’m not worried about Gray; he’s my ticket out of hot water. But do me a favor and keep Boyle away from me. I’m ready to murder him. So, what’s up with Dawson? Why didn’t I hear about this?”

Spark turned his head. “Because you’d have found a way to follow him, and that wasn’t going to happen.” He punctuated his reply with an eloquent shrug.

For the first time, Elliott felt a sting. He’d been friends, good friends, with Gray and the band for fifteen years, and they had always trusted him with anything publicity-related. He provided everything from photos for advance promotions to the band members’ eight-by-ten glossies. He had access to backstage dramas and personal celebrations. He knew the workings of the Covey Empire as well as anyone did, because he paid very close attention. Nobody questioned the tidy sum Chris Boyle paid him to keep Gray’s image in front of the public.

He made money on the side as a paparazzo, it was true. He was good at it. But he was fair, and celebrities generally liked him. Nobody had ever questioned that part of his life, either. Until now.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He glowered at Sparks. “So, where did he find Dawson?” Elliott liked Gray’s son. The kid was funny and sharp. He figured Dawson liked him well enough, and he’d been as worried as anyone when the boy had disappeared.

“Gray can tell you if he comes back.” Spark sidestepped the question and grinned. “With things the way they’ve been, I wouldn’t blame him for staying.”

“Bite your damn tongue.” Chris glared at the guitar man. “And you, St. Vincent, will lay low with him. Gray’s trusted you all these years, so don’t chase him, or make excuses for yourself, or give him any reason to leave here again. Keep your lenses out of his business until this goes away.”

“Now look here.” Elliott stood and beseeched Spark with his hands. “I haven’t done anything. I’m telling you, this was somebody’s idea of a joke.”

Chris held up a hand. “You’ve had four, or is it five, unflattering pictures from this tour show up in your favorite rags the past two months. We’ve looked past your sick sense of humor because you make us laugh, and because the pictures actually generated interest. But jeopardizing your friend’s career and that of an innocent woman? That’s more than taking advantage of a friend, St. Vincent. This time you’ve gone too far.”

Anger burned straight to Elliott’s gut, but he didn’t voice it. He was tried and convicted until Gray returned. The band members, supposedly his best friends, stood like silent gawkers at a mugging, and, for the first time, the taste of worry left him speechless.

Chapter Five

T
HE MAROON
M
ASSEY
Ferguson, almost as weathered as its driver, chugged up the driveway after making short work of the mud, and Ed raised his arm in farewell from the tractor seat without looking back. Gray watched him, reluctant to face the three people gathered behind him around the newly-freed Malibu. His son, for one, had lost all semblance of manners or good grace. Abby still thought him a rotten parent for kidnapping his own son. And Kim’s sweet, blue eyes followed him like a moony kitten’s, yet she’d spoken at most a paragraph’s worth of words.

When he had no choice, he turned with forced cheer. “Great! We can be on our way.”

“Fantastic.” Dawson hid near-tears with sarcasm.

“Hey.” Abby put her arms around him, and, although he didn’t reciprocate, he didn’t pull away either. “You’re welcome here anytime. You and your dad. You know that?”

“Yeah. Right. Thanks.”

“We can talk online, okay?” Kim held out a tentative olive branch.

“I thought you hated me now.” Dawson gave a half-hearted grin and shrugged from Abby’s hold.

“I do. I’ll just yell on IM.”

“Go for it.” He held out a fist and Kim bumped it, averting her eyes.

“Abby.” Gray’s smile turned genuine. “You kept him safe. How can I thank you?”

“You could still think about what I said. About what’s best for him.” Her voice might have been gentle, but she meant every word.

“C’mon.” He sighed. “Don’t say good-bye like that.”

Her features softened reluctantly. “You’re right. I’m still being selfish.” She ran a fingertip down Dawson’s nose and smiled when he glowered. “I enjoyed having a man around for a while even if he had the wool pulled over my eyes.”

The boy smiled for the first time. “I did have you fooled.”

“Well, don’t think you can do it again,” Abby warned. “It’ll bite you in the behind one day, young man.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Kim.” Gray turned to Abby’s daughter, a pretty carbon-copy of her mother. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time together. It was wonderful to meet you.”

“I . . .” She glanced at her mother. “We have tickets to your concert in St. Paul at the end of July. I’ll wave.”

“You have?” He looked at Abby, and she nodded. “Then maybe we have to figure something out so we can meet again.”

“Really? That would be totally great!” Kim’s sudden, goofy smile showed more animation than anyone had in an hour.

“It would be.” The hope of seeing Abby again caused a flare of hard excitement. Gray held her eyes with his until she flushed a deep rose color. With a chuckle, he offered Kim a quick hug then held his arms open for Abby. To his surprise, she came willingly into his arms. Her strong, slender body felt so right against his that it startled him.

“Thank you again. I know you’re not happy with me, but I’m in your debt.”

“I’m
not
happy with you,” she agreed. “But you don’t owe me thanks. Bringing him here was the Good Lord’s idea, and we may never know why. But I got to slap you—more or less. I’m good with that.”

Laughter got the better of him, easing his inner tension. “I think you’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” She leaned close again and lifted her lips to his ear. “He liked it here. He felt safe. Call if I can ever help, Gray.”

“Thank you. I will. But, if I know my kid, once he gets a guitar in his hand, he’ll like it with me, too.”

“You may be right.” She stepped back, her smile turning wistful. “I hope you’re right.”

T
HREE HOURS LATER,
the drone of the Boeing 737 failed to lull Gray into sleep as it usually did. Beside him, Dawson stared like a cyborg, tethered to his iPod by earphones he’d worn since leaving the Stadtlers’ driveway. Not two dozen words had passed between them, and Gray decided enough was enough. He beckoned with two fingers by his ears. “Take ’em off please.”

Dawson complied with a scowl and stared straight ahead. “Fine. They’re off.”

“I understand the silent treatment. You’re mad at me.” Dawson’s sideways glance was as sarcastic as words. “Okay, really mad,” Gray amended. “But we’re half an hour from Chicago, and we need to get a few things sorted out.”

“Just tell me what I’m supposed to do, and I’ll do it.”

“I’d like to do this together.”

“We’re together already. What more do you want?”

“A little enthusiasm?”

“For?”

“Okay, I’ll settle for a little less lip.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gray sighed, lost and confused. To say he hadn’t expected this was an understatement. He had no idea what to do. It was like they’d never met.

“Do you want to tell me why you ran away? You don’t want your mother. You don’t want me. What did you want?”

“I wanted to stay with Grandma.”

The words were a slug to the gut. Honest and raw with emotion, Dawson’s eyes finally lifted. Their threatening tears almost undid Gray.

“Grandma Covey?” His rhetorical question made Dawson roll his brimming eyes again.

“Thanks for telling me she’s not home anymore. Thanks for telling me why she stopped answering when I called her.”

“I’m sorry, Daw.” Gray barely found his voice. “I know how close you two are, and I didn’t know how to tell you. She only moved six weeks ago, and you disappeared just a few days later.”

“Yeah, because nobody, not even her nurse, would tell me why I couldn’t talk to her. And nobody can find
you
when you’re on tour.”

“You can’t have tried very hard. Did you leave messages? Try Spark?”

“Whatever, Dad.”

He chose to ignore that issue. “You managed to get a ticket so you could come and find your grandmother?” Dawson nodded. “And?”

“Pauline told me she was in a nursing home.” The threatening tears had been replaced by righteous anger. “But she wouldn’t say which one. Said you or Mom had to bring me.”

Pauline was his mother’s personal helper. “You were in Virginia? You went to Grandma’s house?” The news astounded him. How the hell far had this kid traveled?

“I told you I did.” His lips firmed into an exasperated line.

“Dawson, I mean it. I’m sorry. It was time to move her. Grandma fell and got very confused after that. She can’t stay at home, at least for a while. The Alzheimer’s is progressing more quickly than they believed it would, even though she’s not all that old. I wanted to tell you when I knew more about how she was doing.”

“Great. I’m not old enough to handle anything, am I? Not staying home, because there’s a baby around. Not deciding where I want to go to school. Not hearing about my grandmother when she’s sick. So Grandma got stuffed away, too, huh? Put where somebody can watch her because nobody has time for her. Is that just what you do, Dad?”

This slam was a roundhouse kick to the heart. Gray had no idea if the heavy burning in his chest was hurt or fury. “Just what the hell was that supposed to mean? It’s a pretty immature thing to say, I might add.”

“Truth hurts, huh?”

“That’s enough.” Gray lost it as quietly as he could. There was a fair amount of privacy in first class, but not enough to hide the full-blown anger he wanted to unleash.

“Why? You have more money than God. And Mom has more money than God’s wife. We’re so rich you could probably cure Alzheimer’s if you wanted, but you just keep touring, and you put Grandma in a home and me in the stupidest school on the planet.”

“I am not going to apologize for my job.” Gray forced calm into his words. “I admit I let your mother walk all over me about the school. I tried.”

“Can’t have been very hard,” he mimicked.

“Dawson, how many times can I say I’m sorry? I can talk to your mother about school. But your grandma is sick. I’m not a doctor. What the hell would you have me do?”

“Use your money to fix her.” Once again tears beaded in his gray-blue eyes. For the first time he looked honestly sad, defiance replaced by immaturity and confusion.

“Don’t you think I would if I could? I miss my mom, too.”

“Then do something for her. The whole world listens to you.”

Gray snorted. “Hardly.”

“All you have to do is hold some supermodel’s hand and there’s a picture. Do something good instead. Get a hundred nurses and let Grandma stay at home. Hire some doctor to live with her and do research. Hire a
hundred
doctors. I don’t know. But even old farts like Elton John and Bono do stuff with their money.”

Gray leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, fighting a sudden pain in his gut that hurt like hell. Somewhere along the line his son had learned how to argue like a prosecutor and hit below the belt like a brawling street fighter.

“Life is simple for you isn’t it?” Gray asked.

“Sure, because everyone tells me what to do.”

“I hate to tell you, you might as well get used to that. Some things never change.”

“Yeah? Then what’s the point?” he mumbled.

“The point is, it’s hell being a kid, and it’s hell being an adult. You make the best of it, and if you’re lucky you have some fun along the way.” Gray firmed his voice. “So, suck it up and give this a chance. We’re going right to the arena because there’s no time to stop at the hotel first. But everyone’s waiting to see you. And eventually,” he patted Dawson’s leg, “we’ll figure out school and your other problems. Okay?”

“I’m not going back to Heighton no matter how much sucking-it-up you say I have to do.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Gray tried to smile, but all he could manage was a sick-feeling grimace.

The first thing in his head ninety minutes later when he led Dawson onstage at the Marvel Center was Abby Stadtler’s farm and how calm it was, compared with the raucous atmosphere of his world. The incongruous thought surprised him, and the flash of melancholy that followed it disturbed him.

“Lawd a’mighty, if the wanderers ain’t done returned!” Miles popped his head up from adjusting a bongo stand and reached Gray in three huge strides. “Hey, man, welcome back.”

His big, black hand thrust forward like a bear paw, and Gray clasped it, his brief moment of blues vanishing. “Hey. Good to be back.”

“And my man, Dawson. Welcome home, too.”

Dawson allowed the first smile Gray had seen. Greetings piled on after that, each band member welcoming Dawson with equal enthusiasm. Micky handed Gray a beer. Wick brought Dawson a Coke. They asked questions like a flock of Larry Kings.

“About time you showed up.” Spark’s voice cut through the banal chatter, and Gray felt the full relief of being back. Spark’s calm always smoothed the waters. Abby had reminded Gray of Spark, he realized, although he couldn’t imagine why since they’d argued like nine-year-olds. “Successful trip, I see.”

“On the surface.” Gray shook away Abby’s memory. “He’s not here willingly.”

Spark shook his head. “Kids.” He tapped Dawson on the shoulder. “Hey you, juvenile delinquent, good to see you.”

“Spark!”

With a twinge of envy, Gray watched the embrace between his son and his best friend. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year, but in the early days Dawson had spent a great deal of time at the Jackson home with Spark, his three kids, and his wife, Lindsey. At the moment, Gray was the bad guy, but Spark wasn’t.

“Hot dang, you’ve grown a foot,” Spark said.

“You sound like a grandma.”

“I’m just old. So, you gonna hang around and play with us?”

“I dunno. I guess.” Dawson’s smile dimmed again, but Gray took heart that it didn’t disappear.

A camera shutter whirred at close range and Gray found himself staring into Elliott’s Nikon. He laughed, but then the first strange thing of the reunion wiped the laughter away. Chris strode to the photographer and grasped the camera by its wide, expensive lens.

“I told you to put that goddamn thing away.”

“Just doin’ my job.” Elliott smiled. “Welcome home to the crazy farm, Gray. Things fall apart when you leave.”

“Oh? What’s going on?”

“My, my. I didn’t realize it was bring-your-child-to-work day.” Chris ignored the question and turned raised brows on Dawson. “Hi, kid. How’s my favorite reason to cancel a concert?”

“Good.” Dawson paused only a moment. “Came to wreck one in person.”

A smattering of laughter punctuated his cheeky response. Once again his quickness surprised Gray.

“Nice boy.” Chris winked, but Gray caught the sarcasm. Chris had never been a kid person. Never been a marriage person or even much of a dating person. He was, in truth, slightly humorless, but he was a hell of a businessman.

“Now back to my question.” Gray studied the abnormal wariness in Elliott’s eyes and patted his cheek. “Am I sensing a wittle bitty tiff between friends?”

“You’re an ass,” Elliott growled.

A chuckle escaped from Dawson, who offered the photographer a high-five. “Hey, Elliott,” he said, his eyes lighting up once more.

“Hi Dawson!”

“And you’re an ass, you ass.” Gray ignored their greetings. “Talk to me.”

“You were right, it’s just a tiff.” Chris stepped between them. “You don’t have time now; we’re pushing this a little close.”

“It’s only six thirty. We have time.” Gray stood firm. He didn’t like dissension in his ranks, and joking hadn’t eased the tension wafting through the room. Gray stared down his band members, his manager, and Elliott. “I was gone one friggin’ day.”

Spark rummaged in a pile of papers behind an amplifier and returned with a folded tabloid. “Make of it what you will, but you are in the news.”

“What now? Can’t be any worse than the stupid pratfall pictures and embarrassing moments that have been appearing—” He saw the picture and flicked his eyes to Elliott. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t send it to them.”

Gray had been friends with Elliott St. Vincent since they’d met at a New York hot dog stand probably fifteen years before. Elliott had actually negotiated a candid photo with Gray, impressing the hell out of him. If Elliott wasn’t now an official paid staff member, he was close. He’d always been a nice guy, and as close to an ethical paparazzo as one could get. Along with that, he was responsible for a lot of great publicity. Lately, everyone knew he’d been taking advantage of his close ties to the band, but pictures sent to the rags so far had been harmless, embarrassing moments from the doomed tour. He’d claimed to have sent one, an innocuous trip onstage captured by every contraband camera at that show. Four others had been tension-breakers more than anything. But this . . .