CHAPTER TWO
Abby and Seth walked toward the park at the end of the block. Why was she going anywhere with someone who had insulted and browbeaten her twice in the space of an hour? She thought it must be because he had finally started to sound like he might harbor an actual human being under all the guitar-grieving hostility.
She tried to convince her heart to stop pounding quite so hard and her palms to stop sweating. To calm herself, she enjoyed the spring breeze and the sight of the birds darting around in full nest-building mode. She breathed in the rich scent of the fresh mulch in the sidewalk planters. Several of the shopkeepers were busy setting up their outdoor display tables. Emporia was really a quaint little town, if you meant that in a complimentary way, which she did.
She kept sneaking looks at Seth, trying not to be too obvious. She had seen him in person before, but had never been closer than the foot of the stage. He looked different in the May sunshine, younger somehow, and she loved the way the sun brought out the gold glints in his light brown hair. The hair – which she was not thinking about running her fingers through – was longer than the last time she had seen him, brushing his shoulders. She also detected a new tattoo peeking from beneath his right sleeve. But she definitely was not staring.
Seth cleared his throat. “Honestly, I’m not usually such a jerk. Yeah, I was upset. I mean, it was a freakin’ Taylor Cujo. From the Stephen King novel, you know? Did you see the amazing inlay on the neck?”
Abby stopped in her tracks. “This is you, not being a jerk?”
Seth stopped, too, and to her surprise, he laughed. Damn. Who knew that lurking beneath the razor stubble on those cheeks were actual dimples? Unfair.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry, okay? It was an accident, it was insured, and I’m not going to send you a bill.” They started walking again, and Abby’s annoyance began to abate.
She considered what he had said. Maybe her own behavior hadn’t exactly been above reproach. “I guess I probably let you push my buttons a little too much, too. Plus, I’ve recently been informed that I lack the filter that stops me from saying things that I should keep to myself.”
“No, I had it coming.” He paused for a moment as two chattering shoppers passed them. “I kept thinking about what you said, that you finally met me and we ended up yelling at each other. It bothered me, and I felt like I should come find you and fix it. I guess I should’ve waited till I cooled down, though, because I made things worse. But I really wanted to talk to you again.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay then.” His voice was different than she had expected, too, when he wasn’t yelling at her. It was also different from the way he sounded bantering with the audience between songs, and even from interviews she had heard. It was softer, and the smooth Texas drawl he had picked up from living in Austin for ten years more pronounced. And she liked it. A lot.
They arrived at the park and took a seat on a bench where the sun was pleasantly broken up by the new leaves on the branches of the large oak tree arching overhead. They had no sooner gotten settled when Abby saw two girls lingering on the sidewalk. Wearing frayed jeans and skimpy tank tops, they had “groupie” written all over them. She didn’t think much of the type, personally. All the squealing and jumping and “please sign my boobs” were more than a little nauseating. While she didn’t mind being approached by her readers, it didn’t happen that often, and they never asked her to sign body parts. She assumed that if you were on tour most of the year, though, being accosted every time you showed your face would get old awfully fast.
The girls had stopped trying to look aloof and cool, and whispered furiously, heads together. The tall, blonde one clutched the arm of her brunette friend. Then they seemed to have formulated their plan and advanced on the bench, a tiny tsunami of groupie enthusiasm.
Seth saw them coming and whispered to Abby, “Hang on. I’ll make this as quick as I can. Part of the job.” He gave her an apologetic look and added, “Please don’t leave, okay?”
Abby shook her head and made shooing motions with her hands, sending him off to face his fans. She sat on the bench, watching the girls fawn all over Seth. They were getting their shirts signed and posing for pictures, all the while displaying their considerable feminine attributes for maximum effect.
True to his word, Seth wrapped things up quickly, and the girls went on their way, calling back that they would see him tonight at the show. He made a visual sweep of the area, seemed to decide they were safe from further interruption, and returned to the bench.
“Doesn’t that get tiresome?” Abby asked.
“Sometimes, yeah,” Seth admitted. “But what success we’ve got is from our live shows and the people who come to hear us play, so it’s worth it as long as they mind their manners.”
He scooted a few inches closer to her, which Abby found quite interesting.
“Are you coming to the show tonight?” he asked.
“No, not this time. I’ve been to a few, but my friend backed out on me this morning. I came to town to give the tickets to Monique for her sister. Guess I’ll just go home and get back to work.” The idea seemed much less appealing than it had an hour ago.
“Your card said you’re a writer. Were those your books Monique was getting out of your Jeep?”
She nodded. “I promised the owner of the bookstore that I’d drop off some more signed copies, but they’re closed today. Mo is going to drop them off tomorrow.”
“What kind of books are they?”
“It’s a mystery series.” It felt strange to be discussing her books with such a talented songwriter. This day had been strange all around. “Well, it’s not officially a series yet. The first book came out last year, and the second will be released in July. The third one is due to the publisher by October.”
“Wow, congratulations. It’s a great feeling to create something and know other people enjoy it.”
“I guess you know all about that. That’s the first thing that got my attention about the band, the lyrics to your songs. Once I saw a live show, though, I was hooked.” Probably best not to mention that a large part of the appeal was Seth himself. She didn’t want to boost his ego when she was still getting over his obnoxious behavior. It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand the fact that he was upset. She just didn’t want to let him off the hook too soon.
“None of what we do on stage means anything if I can’t write music that means something,” Seth said. “It always makes me feel good to know it matters to other people, too.”
Now that sounded like the Seth Caldwell she had expected to meet, if you eliminated running over his guitar. Abby finally felt like they were having a conversation. “It’s everything. I don’t waste time on performers who can’t be bothered to write their own stuff. I know it’s not exactly the same as plagiarism is for authors. But it feels the same to me somehow, recording music you didn’t help create.” Was she rambling? She didn’t care. She was talking to Seth Caldwell about writing. Plus, he wasn’t scary or annoying anymore, and she could look at him without wanting to kick him.
“That’s how I feel, too.” Seth tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “That’s why we never, ever buy songs. If we record something we didn’t write it comes from a friend of ours. Paying for music feels too much like paying for sex... I imagine.” He quirked an eyebrow at the risqué analogy, and Abby laughed. He was clearly playing with her, which beat the hell out of wanting to kill her.
“I never thought of it quite like that,” she said. “But I see your point. It’s the easy way, for somebody who can’t or won’t make the effort to create something themselves.”
“Exactly.” Seth casually draped his arm across the back of the bench, not quite touching her shoulders. “So, tell me about your books.”
“Oh, just silly mysteries,” she answered. She never really knew how to respond to that particular question without boring people or sounding as if she were bragging.
He turned toward her and leaned in close. “Don’t say that. I’m sure they’re not silly. Whatever they are, you spent a long time working on them, creating a whole world and the people in it. Your fans must enjoy them or you wouldn’t be working on your third one, right?”
“I know, I know.” She fought the temptation to reach out and touch his face, which was so much closer to her than before. Focus, Delaney. We’re talking about your books. Breathe. “But here I am, talking to you, being kind of an idiot, knowing how your music touches people, and all I can think is ‘silly.’”
Now it was Seth’s turn to laugh. “You’re being an idiot? Sorry, I didn’t notice, because I was too busy being one myself, as you pointed out.”
Abby gave her head a little shake. “Should one of us just say ‘takes one to know one’ and get it over with?”
“There you go! Now, really, tell me about them.”
“Well, like I said, they’re mysteries. The main character, Jill, trains service dogs in a town sort of like this one. People seem to have a tendency to turn up dead, quite unlike here, and between Jill, her dogs, and her friends, they figure out who’s doing it, and why. The dogs are always a key part of the story.”
Seth nodded. “I’m going to have to stop by that bookstore and get a copy. I read a lot of mysteries, and I love dogs.”
“Maybe I can save you a trip.” She reached into her bag and withdrew a midnight blue hardback book. “If you’re sure you really want one, and weren’t just being polite.”
“No, I’d love it, under one condition.”
“Okay, shoot.” She wouldn’t have used that expression a half hour ago.
“Sign it for me.”
Abby found a pen and wondered what one wrote when signing a book to a guy about whom she’d had countless sweaty fantasies, and whose guitar she had recently reduced to kindling. There probably wasn’t much of a precedent for the situation. After a moment she wrote, “To Seth, who totally made my day. Don’t ever pay for it. Abby Delaney. P.S. Thanks for not killing me about the guitar.”
Seth chuckled at the inscription, and she watched him study her photo on the back cover of the book for a few moments before setting it on the bench beside him. “So, Abby Delaney, can I convince you to come to the show tonight?”
“It’s probably too late. Dash sold the place out weeks ago, and I just gave my ticket away.” Which, right now, she could kick herself for doing. He would have to go get ready for the show soon, and tomorrow he would be gone. She might have to murder Molly after all. But then again, if Molly hadn’t dumped her, she would never have run over Seth’s guitar. Wait. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?
Seth interrupted her jumbled thoughts. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to. It’s my band. I’d like you to come as my guest.”
Abby’s heart skipped a beat. His guest? But wasn’t that what she wanted? She would have to talk to Monique. This ‘participating in your life again’ was exciting, but also seriously scary. And the Universe was not exactly being subtle. She tried to appear more confident than she felt. “That’s one of the perks of being self-employed. As long as I don’t blow off my deadlines by too much, I can rearrange my schedule.”
Seth grinned. There were those damned, adorable dimples again.
“Great,” he said. “How about if you meet me back at the bus around seven-thirty? We usually hang out there before the show.”
“Sounds good. I’d better get moving, then, so I can take care of some things at home.” Like find her favorite jeans, figure out if she still owned any makeup, and call Monique.
They stood, and Seth reached for her hand and stepped closer. Abby found herself standing so close to him that she could feel his heat through their shirts. At 5’6” and wearing three-inch heels, she only had to look up an inch or two to meet his eyes. She repressed an urge to place her other hand on the tempting plane of his chest to feel his heart beat.
He said, softly, “Don’t forget to come back.”
Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she said simply, “I won’t.”
He didn’t let go of her hand. “You said you’d been to some of our shows before?”
“Yeah, I have.”
“Why didn’t you ever come talk to me? I mean, I’m not pulling an ego thing here, but you said you wanted to.”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Because I didn’t want to be one of those girls.”
Seth looked at her a second. “I don’t think you ever could be.”
***
Seth watched Abby walk down the sidewalk, unable to tear his eyes away until she slammed the door of the Jeep. He ducked into the bus to put her book away, and then he dragged the guitar case and its contents from under the trailer where he had stashed it earlier. He felt strange as he picked it up. In some sick way, it was like carrying the grisly remains of a beloved pet from the roadside, only with no blood and way more splinters.
The stage door was propped open, and Seth stepped into the cool darkness of the backstage hallway. He entered the small room where they had been storing some of their personal gear and placed his cargo gently on the battered table. He wondered what he was supposed to do with it. That morning it had been a beautiful, expensive classic guitar. Now it was roadkill.
“Whoa! What the hell happened, man?”
Seth looked up from his somber contemplation to see Marshall Rogerson, his rhythm guitarist, standing in the doorway.
“Traffic fatality,” Seth said, wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation.
Marshall cautiously approached the table with the reverence of a fellow guitar-lover. He removed his backwards-facing black baseball cap from his shaved head in a show of respect that was sincere rather than sarcastic. Replacing the hat, he sat at the table and rested his dark-goateed chin on his fist. “So, in what creative ways are we going to torture the bastard who did this?”
Seth leaned against the door frame. “It was an accident. And it would be ‘bitch,’ not ‘bastard.’ Except it turned out she’s not a bitch, either. She just stood up to me when I lost it and yelled at her.” He found he was rather impressed.
“A chick did this? Looks like she used an axe.”
“Jeep.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Marshall reached into a cooler beside the table and located a beer, paying no attention to the icy condensation that dripped onto his sleeveless red t-shirt. He twisted off the cap and took a deep swallow, followed by something that might have been a belch or a sigh. “Still, man, major crime. Cujo was sweet. What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Nothing. I invited her back to the show tonight.” He knew what was coming, and braced himself.
“No fuckin’ way! Really?” Marshall’s dark eyes widened in surprise, but this was soon replaced with his ‘I’m Totally Going to Mess With You’ expression. “Oh, wait. I get it now. This chick is seriously hot, isn’t she?”
“If you like the type.”
“And that type would be...?”
“Tall, feisty, a whole mess of long, dark hair, smart... Shit, I don’t know. I just met her.” This was not the sort of conversation he could have with Marshall, who had long held the undisputed title of biggest hound in the band. Joey Garvin, their drummer, and Pete Carroll, their bass player, were both married. Maybe they would understand how it felt to be torn between strangling a woman and kissing her, but Marshall wouldn’t.
“Marsh, I can’t talk about it, okay?” Seth knew he was interrupting his buddy’s fun before he got to his best material, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Don’t we have things we need to do? And can you have somebody take care of that?” He pointed to the wreckage on the table.
“Yeah, sure, that’s cool.” Marshall rose and started toward the door with one last look back over his shoulder at Cujo. “Mouse has the soundboard set, but I think Danny needs you onstage.”
Seth never had to worry about their sound setup. Malcolm “Mouse” Thibaudeau was the best in the business. “I bet Danny has the lights pretty close to done. He’s picked everything up way faster than I expected.” They headed across the hall and toward the rear entrance to the stage.
“Yeah, and Andy’s the best all-around hand we’ve had in a while. Always seems to know what I need before I do. Kinda like Radar in M*A*S*H. Usually at this point I still have to kick ass on a regular basis.”
“Pretty sharp kids, him and Danny.” Kids? Did he just call two members of his crew, who were in their mid-20s ‘kids?’ Maybe he had settled down a bit since hitting thirty a couple of years ago, but calling grown men ‘kids’ was just wrong.
Seth stepped onto the stage and accepted his guitar from Roberto Acevedo, their seasoned guitar technician. Looking around, he saw that Marshall’s assessment of the set-up was accurate. Mouse was making some adjustments to the soundboard, and Andy Hicks was with him, in the early stages of learning this important skill. Danny adjusted the lights overhead, his wiry frame moving among the supports like an escaped lab monkey. Joey and Pete sat on the edge of the stage, beers in hand. It sounded like they were finalizing plans for a few days in Gulf Shores, Alabama, with their wives during the break before they all headed back to the practice studio.
Seth looked up, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called, “Hey, Dawkins! What do you need?”
Perched behind a bank of small spotlights, Danny replied, “Not much, I don’t think. But if you can get behind the mike for a minute, then right up at the edge of the stage, I’ll make a few adjustments.”
Seth complied, moving from spot to spot as Danny fine-tuned the positions of the various colored spotlights. The tasks were exacting, but routine, and Seth had trouble keeping his mind on the job.
An authoritative voice finally called a halt. “Okay, guys, stop screwing around. Everything’s fine. Now get back to the bus, get something to eat, and rest up. Gonna be a busy night.” Trent Singleton was 6’6” and built like a cement truck. While he had a very laid-back personality in general, the road manager ran a tight ship while they were working. A wise man didn’t question his orders.
Seth was glad he had been so busy. It had kept him from thinking about Abby, her green eyes, and the sprinkle of pale freckles across the tops of her cheeks. Well, at least not more than about once every two or three minutes. Now, with the work of preparing for tonight’s show behind him, he started to wonder. He regretted how things had started that afternoon, and wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t come back for the show. What if she changed her mind? And why did it matter to him so goddamned much?
Back on the bus, they tore into the takeout that Andy brought from a nearby deli, and coolers were ransacked in search of favorite drinks. Bags rustled, ice cubes clinked into glasses, and the smell of melted cheese and toasted bread drifted through the air. Seth listened to the light conversation around him but didn’t participate. Should he dig out her business card and call Abby? No, he decided. He didn’t want to be pushy. Or a loser. If she wanted to come back, she would. All he could do was wait and see if she did.
Pete emerged from the bus’s tiny bathroom wearing only jeans and vigorously applying a towel to his short, sandy hair. “Yo, Seth, you need a drink?” He tossed the towel on the counter and got two beers from a cooler.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Or maybe you want me to get your bottle of JD?” Pete’s eyes took on a mischievous shine.
“Think I’m still off the bourbon, bro.”
“Getting old, huh?” Pete handed Seth the beer and dropped onto the couch beside him. “Never thought I’d see the day that a couple of drinks put you under the table.”
“It wasn’t the Jack, man. I was just tired, or coming down with something, that’s all.” Though he kept his words light, the incident troubled him. He downed most of his beer in several deep swallows. Two nights ago, in Cincinnati, he’d had a couple of Jack and Cokes after the show. He stepped out to do a quick interview with a reporter from a local college radio station, and by the end of the interview he was feeling like he’d had the whole bottle instead of two drinks. There was something seriously off about the whole thing.
“Well, ‘coming down with something’ looked exactly like ‘shitfaced’ to me,” teased Pete. “You were slurring and couldn’t have walked a straight line to save your life. You’re never the first one down for the count.”
“He ain’t lyin’, Seth,” added Marshall. “I had to tuck you in and thought I was gonna have to call your mommy.”
“Y’all are real fuckin’ funny. Now shut up and toss me another beer,” Seth pitched his empty bottle, aimed to narrowly miss Marshall’s bald skull, and the tall rhythm guitarist caught it effortlessly. “It was something besides the drinks, because the day two shots make me puke up stuff I ate in high school is the day I get on the wagon for good.”
Marshall delivered a fresh beer. “I’m just glad we were staying at the hotel that night, because I purely hate it when somebody pukes in the bus.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Seth conceded. He would like to say more to defend his so-called reputation with his band, but he honestly couldn’t remember much more about the night. Maybe it was something he ate. Whatever it was, it had put him down hard. It had taken him the whole next day to feel somewhat human, and he didn’t think he had given his best performance last night in Chicago.
Pete went back to his bunk and began rummaging through a bag of clothes, and Marshall nagged Mouse about some feedback he thought he had been hearing from one of the speakers. Mouse told him, in no uncertain terms, that the problem was his own ears and not the speakers. Seth tuned them out and looked out the window and across the nearby parking lot. How long would it be until Abby got there? If she showed up at all. His mental solitude was interrupted when someone perched on the arm of the couch.
Joey Garvin might look like a slightly rough-around-the-edges cherub with his curly blonde hair and youthful face, but the truth was that he was the smartest and, deep down, the toughest of the bunch. Seth knew they would never have made it through the early days, playing for gas money, if not for the drummer’s calm determination. Talking to Joey might help settle his nerves.
“Marsh told us about Cujo, man.” Joey’s voice was pitched low. “Said you didn’t really want to talk about it, but if you need to talk without getting hassled, I won’t jerk you around.”
“I know that, Joey, and thanks. I’m trying not to think about it.” He picked at the metal ring around the neck of the beer bottle. “I was still getting used to it, you know? Hadn’t even gotten the tune just right yet.”
“Sucks.”
“Undoubtedly.” The two men shared a moment of silence.
Sliding from the arm to the seat of the couch, Joey asked, “So, what’s up with the girl?”
“Marsh told you about that, too, huh?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t know how to keep anything to himself. But this girl, she’s coming here?”
“Any minute now, I figure. I hope.” Seth looked across the parking lot again, in case she had arrived while he hadn’t been looking.
“You hope?” Joey’s voice held a definite note of disbelief. “Excuse me for being totally fucking clueless, but this girl...”
“Her name’s Abby.”
“Okay, Abby runs over your guitar, you yell at her, she yells back, then you kiss and make up and invite her to the show. This does not compute. I would expect you to be in the local jail, not making a date.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Seth looked into his friend’s curious eyes. “It’s just...” His voice trailed off. He had no idea what to say.
“Oh, no. Dude. I can’t believe Marsh actually picked up on this. But this is big, because you do not do this. Ever. Not since you got rid of Stacy.” Joey’s expression shifted from curious to concerned, and Seth could see why.
What Joey was saying was true. He never dated women he met on the road, or he hadn’t for the past year and a half. That was when he and Stacy Ballantyne had broken up. Or, to be more precise, when he had caught her in bed with a crack pipe and the bass player from their opening act.
Everything about that night had made him doubt his judgment. Dead End Road had begun to mature, if only slightly, with two of their members recently married. Stacy wasn’t the first girl to venture out in search of more excitement, greater fame, and bigger parties. She was just the latest and had lasted the longest. But if Seth was going to have a couple of beers and call it a night, Stacy would still find a wild time – and the man to go with it. He should have known that she was more interested in the lifestyle than in him. The signs were there, but maybe his ego couldn’t handle it. Still, if you didn’t date anyone you met on the road, how did you meet anyone at all when you were hardly ever home?
“Honest to god, man, I don’t know what’s going on. Once I got my head out of my ass and stopped screaming about the guitar and really looked at her, and listened to her...” Seth launched his empty bottle toward the trash can, and it fell in, rattling the bottles that had arrived before it. As if jolted free by the sharp sound, a thought occurred to him. “Okay, you know what it’s like when we’ve been working on a piece for hours, trying to figure out what doesn’t work? Then we find the exact beat or the perfect bridge to bring it all together?”
“Yeah, that’s the best, man.”
“And, you know how you can’t see why we hadn’t tried that an hour ago, and you don’t even remember how we used to play it, because this way makes perfect sense?” Why hadn’t he thought to sort through the Abby situation in musical terms before? That was usually how his brain worked best.
“Yeah, and now I don’t know whether to be happy for you or worried.” He slapped his palm onto Seth’s shoulder.
Seth didn’t think he liked the sound of that. “What are you talking about?”
“Because I know you, and I heard what you just said. Man, your bad-boy, hard-partying days are officially over. You’re hooked.”
“No way.” But, truthfully, ‘hard-partying’ had checked out right around his thirtieth birthday. “Really? You think so? Me and Abby?” Why didn’t that idea upset him nearly as much as he might have expected?
A red-haired, blue-eyed kewpie-doll of a woman appeared beside them. Joey’s wife, Caroline. “So, did you talk to him, Joey? What’s the story?”
Joey rose and put his arms around Caroline, giving her a kiss on top of her head. “Yes, I did, and you were one hundred percent right.”
“Did he use a music analogy?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow in Seth’s direction.
“Yep.”
Sitting beside Seth and throwing an arm around him, she said, “That’s it, then. When do we get to meet her?”
Seth sat there, stunned, until Joey hauled him to his feet and gave him a shove in the direction of the bunks. “Grab your shit and get ready. I’ll yell if Abby gets here before you’re done.”
Seth changed clothes and rifled his jewelry case as he got decked out for the concert. All the time he tried to sort through what Joey had said. It couldn’t be that simple. Nothing ever was. Certainly not anything involving women.
He remembered the spark in her eyes when she felt he was questioning her personal integrity about paying for the guitar. Then he thought about watching her walk back up the street after their time in the park. How would those long legs feel wrapped...? Stop right there, Caldwell. He shoved that thought straight back in the can. He would think about the leg-wrapping in great detail, but now was not the time.
He had just come out of the bathroom and was stowing his gear under his bunk when Joey called, “Seth, hot chick approaching, two o’clock! Get your ass up here.”
Lori Whitwam