Chasing Kane (4 page)

That was the hardest adjustment for me as a commercial musician—the showmanship of pretending. At the meager beginning of my career, flirtation was second nature. As familiar to me as the bow I drew across the strings. As mine and Georgia’s relationship developed, though, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea. She knew how it had to be—she’s no fool. In fact, she got to know me while I played at a bar she tended when we first met. She was on the receiving end of the inviting smiles and casual glances. But as our pasts revealed themselves to each other, and our futures became one, I grew weary of not only my part in the act, but the attention I received. But maybe having CJ around to remind me of the social part of my job would make things easier, which would be a huge relief to Yardley, who always held her breath during post-show mixers with fans, wondering how stand-offish I’d seem.

Reclusive is sexy,
she’d always say.
Unavailable is suicide.

“Who’s
that
,” CJ interrupted my thoughts, gesturing to a young woman testing sound equipment on stage. “Crew?”

“Nessa? Nah, she’s in The Brewers. Lead vocals, sometimes keys.”

“Keys?” he asked with a hint of mocking. “Keyboard or piano too good for you now that you’re a superstar?”

“Whatever, just stay away from her, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said inside a deep chuckle. “Whatever.”

I gave Vanessa Crowley the once-over, instantly regretting the words I’d spoken—he’d taken them as a challenge. Her hair was black and pixie-short, save for one long chunky strand that was dyed blue and always hanging in front of her right eye. She said sardonically that it was there to make her eyes match. The left one was blue, but her right was green, which was enough to intrigue men up and down the California coast alone. She was of medium height—taller when she wore her signature combat boots—slender but strong, and had light, creamy skin that secured her position as a local folk music goddess.

The Brewers weren’t signed with GSE, but were under contract with another local folk-focused label. I’d run into them several times at local festivals during my stint with Celtic Summer. Nessa was the first to ask me if our band was on break or a break-up when she heard the news that CJ and I were gunning for this tour.

I assured her it wasn’t a breakup, but an indefinite break. Shaughn, Celtic Summer’s lead singer, was originally from Ireland, and moved here in middle school. She had long hoped to earn enough money to go back to her homeland and sustain her while forging a solo career, and this summer it finally came together for her. Our drummer, Chris, had plenty of opportunities waiting for him, and had a deep, nomadic spirit that made three years just long enough for him to be with one group before exploring other ventures.

“Is she attached?” CJ asked, ignoring my request that he leave it alone.

I shook my head. “Not that I know of. I’ve never seen her with anyone in particular.”

“Anything wrong with her? She a bitch? Or a lesbian?”

“No,” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think she’s either, but I’m certain she isn’t a bitch.”

“But she could be a lesbian,” he stated with a whiff of defeat.

Arching an eyebrow at him, I gave him a challenging grin. “They could
all
be lesbians,” I teased.

He held his arms out, tilting his chin to the sky. “I could never be so lucky. Why is she off-limits, though? D’you ever bang her?”

“No, I never
banged
her. I didn’t even meet her until last year. But The Brewers are actually going to be with us for most of the next six months, and I’d rather you found someone else to fornicate with than risk them bailing on the tour because you’re a pig.”

He continued to gawk heavy lidded, at our tour mate as if he hadn’t taken in anything I’d said. “She’s been in the business a while, right?” he accurately assessed by her fluency on stage and with the equipment.

“Yeah, why?”

CJ turned to me with renewed hope springing across his face. “Then she’ll know what to expect from a drummer.”

At that, I had nothing left to say. CJ said he and Frankie were broken up. While I didn’t buy his
over it
act, there was nothing to do. Or say. Except, “Good luck, and don’t make too big of a mess of things.”

***

The show was sold out and a great way to kick off our tour. After a relatively short meet-up with the crowd, the artists retreated to Molly Molloy’s for some decompression time. Despite all the energy I received, in the moment from a show, they’re immediately draining. I was revitalized by the next time I stepped on stage, sure, but giving it a hundred and twenty percent all the time left me weary, needing a beer and a good night’s sleep before doing it all again.

“Good show, Kane,” Nessa said, leaning against the bar where I was seated, tilting a brown, slim-necked bottle of beer to her lips.

“You’ll have to be more specific these days, Ness. My cousin shares my last name, and I’d hate to have you waste a compliment on him,” I teased.

Her mismatched eyes grew wide. “The drummer’s your cousin?”

I nodded, stretching my arms over my head then my neck, side to side. “The rumors are true.”

“What rumors?” she asked, poorly masking a grin as she fingered her signature pearl necklace.

“Whatever you’ve heard. It’s all true.”

She gave a slow nod. “Ditched a girlfriend to come on tour?”

“I guess,” I said, though I had no idea where she got that information.

“Has played drunk
while
having a broken arm?”

“Most drummers have,” I answered, unapologetically playing up the stereotypes.

“Womanizer?”

I laughed. “Where’d you hear all this from?”

“CJ,” she answered, breaking into a full laugh.

“Of course.” I joined her in laughter as we watched CJ work the crowd at Molly’s. “Why aren’t you off romping around with him when he gave you such a thorough and gleaming résumé?”

She threw her head back, the muscles in her long, slender neck contracting against laughter. “I figure I’ll make him sweat it out a bit.” Throwing me a quick wink, Nessa turned and linked arms with a female bandmate of hers—Clara, I think—and headed for the restrooms.

I’d never actually seen Nessa go off with any guy after a show—or girl for that matter—but I’d also never spent much time with her, knew nothing about her personal life, and there was the pesky little bit about it being none of my business. I stuck to my beer and enjoyed the comforting sights and sounds of the local bar, pulling out my cell phone.

Me:
We’re at Molly’s, wanna come down?

It was a long three minutes before I got a response.

Georgia:
Sleeping.

I sighed. Of course she was. It was two fifteen in the morning, according to my trusty cell phone, and she’d have to wake up in less than two hours to get the ovens roaring at Sweet Forty-Two for the Sunday morning brunch rush.

Me:
I’ll come home soon.

Georgia:
Don’t rush. You know where I’ll be. I love you.

I didn’t rush. I stayed, partying with my friends and acquainting CJ with everyone, and vice versa. We laughed and partied until closing time at three thirty when the designated drivers, myself included, poured our charges into our respective vehicles and deposited them at their desired locations. CJ didn’t need a ride home, thanks to Mona, one of the waitresses at Molly’s. So, when I’d dropped the last person off, I slid quietly into the back door of the bakery, which is at the bottom of the stairs leading to our apartment.

“Hey,” I whispered, even though she’d peeked over her shoulder when the door opened.

Georgia turned with a tired, but gorgeous smile, her hands wrist-deep in pillowy dough. “Hey,” she echoed. “Why are we whispering?”

I wrapped my arms around her waist as she continued to knead what would certainly become a heavenly creation. “It’s early,” I continued.

“Or late,” she retorted, still soft. “You smell like a bar.”

“You smell like brown sugar.” I brought my nose to the crook of her neck and inhaled the thick molasses scent, letting a small moan escape in my exhale.

I let my hands run along the waistband of her worn jeans before bringing them over the sinful curve of her backside. Her grey T-shirt with the shop’s logo on it was tied in the back, as usual, with a black elastic hair tie—while her trademark red bandana was tasked with keeping her hair out of her face.

Turning her face toward me slightly, Georgia allowed my lips to skim down her jawline where I planted a small kiss on the corner of her mouth. “You guys have another show today?” she asked

“Tonight.” I nodded. “Later. Much, much later.”

The mention of time weighed heavy on my eyelids as I stole one more kiss off the skin of my bride’s cheek before giving her butt a firm squeeze.

“I’ll come. Ride with you guys.” I hadn’t noticed she’d stopped kneading until she started again. Her narrow shoulders moving with the punching, stretching, folding, and turning. “Want me to wake you up later?”

Stepping back, I allowed the yawn I’d been holding back to roll through me. With a slow nod, I conceded. “Please.”

Georgia looked at the clock hanging on the wall over her left shoulder. “Noon?”

I looked, too, as if I didn’t already know it was approaching five in the morning. I didn’t know how life-long rock n’ rollers did it, I was
sore
.

“Noon’s good,” I agreed. It was a lie even Georgia chuckled at as she heaved the dough from the wide metal bowl onto the counter, rolling it out and sectioning it off into perfectly identical triangles.

Scones. Mmm.

“Well, it’ll be good enough for today,” I compromised.

“Don’t burn yourself out right out of the gate, Mr. Kane,” she teased, wiping her hands on the towel strung through a frayed belt loop on her jeans. “It’ll be a long six months if you try to keep up this pace.”

I sighed playfully. “You give me the same speech every tour, Mrs. Kane.”

Her arms reached up and around my neck. She stood on her tiptoes and planted one small, soft kiss on my collarbone. “I always will, too. Now go get some sleep. Also, don’t call me Mrs. Kane for right now. Someone might overhear and think I’m married to CJ.” She chuckled to herself, throwing me a wink before waving me out of the kitchen, effectively sending me to bed.

I hesitated, hating that the tour schedule was already in place and we were back to two ships passing at the crack of dawn.

“Go,” she encouraged, sensing my reluctance. “I’ll come up and get you.”

I left, and fell into bed with a relieved sigh, grateful for the blackout shades and sound machine that let me sleep while daylight ticked away.

***

“You were on fire tonight,” Georgia remarked as CJ and I shut the back of the equipment truck. “On. Fire. Why didn’t you tell me you were playing with The Brewers, too, Regan?”

I yanked on her hips, momentarily grateful for the short black shorts she wore over her netted black tights as I lifted her into a kiss and she wrapped her legs around my waist. “It was a last minute thing. I probably won’t do it every show. Depends on the size of the crowd, length of the show, blah, blah, blah,” I trailed off smothering her with kisses.

“Well, this is gross,” CJ stated, bored. “I’m off to the bar. Coming?”

“Nah …” I started, but trailed off when I saw the look of question on Georgia’s face. “What?”

She slid onto the ground and perched her hands on her hips. I was in fake trouble. “What? A superstar fiddler can’t take his wife out for a good time?”

I rolled my eyes as CJ chuckled. “If you want me to show you a good time, I can think of ten
thousand
places other than Kinney’s Pub to do so. I … kinda had plans for us,” I added quietly.

Georgia blushed, looking down and trying her damnedest not to look at CJ who was making schoolboy teasing noises.

“Oooh,” he cooed. “Georgia has a
boyfriend.
”

She flipped him off. “A husband, you dolt. And a damn fine one at that.”

“Whatever, you two go be boring. I’ve got skirts to chase.” CJ fell into step with some of the band members from other groups and shuffled across the street and into Kinney’s, where I was sure I’d have to return to later for at least one beer before carting half of them home.

“You think he’s going to follow up all his talk with some walk?”

“CJ? With girls? I don’t even know. It’s been so long since he’s … behaved like this. Have you talked to Frankie?”

Georgia’s eyes widened. “Not about his current behavior. It’d kill her.”

I made a noncommittal noise, toeing the line between wanting to know more, and not wanting to know too much, since I was the one that had to bunk with CJ for the next several months.

“What have you got planned?” Georgia asked, gracefully switching topics.

I laced my fingers with hers and gave her hand a tug. “Come.” I nodded in the opposite direction of Kinney’s. “Follow me.”

Adjusting the strap of my violin case over my shoulder, I led Georgia across the street into an impossibly tiny restaurant called
Live
. It was new, not even open yet, but I knew the owner, Brian, and trusted his skills. He was a longtime cook at one of the pubs Celtic Summer frequented, eventually coming on the road with us as our main chef. He had a strong fluency in local and often unique ingredients, and I was dying to know what his menu looked like. Georgia was friends with him years before I came along, so he’s family to us.

“There’s no one here,” Georgia noted when we entered the small space.

Tiny white twinkle lights bordered the ceiling, giving the dining room a soft glow. All the tables were set properly on black linen tablecloths, but only one had a small, flickering candle.

“There.” I nodded to the table, bringing her with me.

“What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously as I pulled out her chair and slid her toward the table.

I didn’t say another word until I was seated across from her and waved Brian over. He gave me a wink from behind the bar, and approached our table with two slender flutes of champagne.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, setting the bubbly on the table.