Mirrored (Follow Your Bliss series Book 4) (4 page)

Chapter Eight

They woke up the following afternoon to loud knocking on the
door. Alex shuffled down the hall in his boxers as his phone vibrated.

“It’s Graham,” he heard a voice shout from the other side of
the door. “Hurry up; they’re going to eat me alive.”

Alex cracked open the door, allowing Graham in as he nudged
photographers away.

“Oi, they’re like hyenas or vultures or scavengers. You’d
think you hid the Holy Grail or kismet behind this door. Go spread the word
about the needy, the hungry, and the poor. Rally up some real news,” he shouted
as he slammed the door behind him.

“Sorry. You should have called.”

“I did. Nine times. What did you get up to last night?”
Graham gazed at Alex’s paint-stained hands.

He wiggled his fingers. “A little vandalism. Why?”

“It’s all over the papers. Expect a fine.”

“Why do you care? It was worth it.”

Graham shook his head and laughed. “We can take the alcohol
away from you, but not the trouble, huh?”

“You get what you pay for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I. I’m exhausted. Tea?”

Graham nodded. “So damage control?”

“Oh please, it’s not as if we haven’t done worse. The food
fight in the super market? Drag racing rental cars that turned into bumper
cars? Pissing in the champagne at that high society fete. The Stones said
something like it’s only rock and roll if you like it. And every now and then,
I like to cause a little mayhem. It isn’t as if we hurt anyone.”

“Brighton did it too? Anyone else in your merry band of
pranksters?”

She appeared, in the kitchen, showered and dressed, paint
visible under her nails. She shook her head.

Graham made his greetings and then turned back to Alex. “Finn
isn’t happy.”

“Not lately.”

“I mean about this.”

“Does he want a formal apology?”

“The historic society does.”

“Fine.”

“That too. You’ll have to pay up. But Finn. What are we going
to do about him? Is it going to be cool tonight, we have that dinner and
interview.”

“Forgot about that.”

“Are you still in this?” Graham asked, his cheeks flushing.

“I’m as in it as ever. But I’m not Finn’s big brother, always
available to tag along with when the opportunity suits him or when I care so
little about my own life, and everyone around me, that I provide him with an
entertaining train-wreck, broadcast for the world to see. I don’t know what the
eff his problem is lately. But I’ll be civil tonight, promise.”

“Good. That was all I needed to hear.”

Later that evening, Brighton and Alex met the rest of the
Gracks for curry. They crowded around a table with a guy from a magazine,
Albert’s girlfriend, and one empty chair for Finn, who was a half hour late.They
ordered enough food for a feast.

“Remember the Indian leftovers in DC?” Alex asked.

Recognition and something else flashed across Brighton’s
face. “I’m sorry. I was horrible to you. I was so rude to leave you with the
leftovers like a dog. And my smug…”

Alex laughed, stopping her. “
I
was horrible.”

“No, you were sweet and funny.”

“I was as miserable as the losing fans at a football match,
and I was trying my best to irritate you.”

“Then we’re even?” she asked.

Alex kissed her and again, he heard the clicking of a camera
shutter. He whipped around, but only heard scuffling, hushed voices—one he
thought sounded familiar—and then a shout from behind a partition covered in
greenery.

“What was that?” Graham asked, getting to his feet.

Just then, Finn blustered in. “Some bloody paps.”

“Yeah, there have been a lot of them lately,” Alex said
suspiciously. “Somehow they always know where I am. The fans have been tame
lately, but the arses dressed in black, taking aim with their long lenses,
they’ve been everywhere.”

The interviewer asked them about their forthcoming album,
garnering tension when Finn cut across Alex’s answer, proclaiming he wasn’t
sure there would be another album.

Alex ordered a Kingfisher beer.

“I thought The Gracks were into doing wholesome things,”
Brighton said, jutting her chin at the bottle.

Alex didn’t answer; anger leaked through the seams in his
comportment. He sensed dark energy radiating off Finn and in his direction.

“Do you mind taking questions from fans?” the interviewer
asked.

A chorus of
sures
echoed around the table.

After a series of mundane questions like their favorite
television programs, footballers, cities to play in, the interviewer read in a
confused voice, “Who in the band has a significant other, and if she has red
hair will she be featured live or on a future album?”

Finn’s eyes bored into Alex, as if accusing him before he’d
even answered. “It just doesn’t seem to work when women are involved. It’s a
bros club, women just eff things up,” Finn said to the interviewer.

A bottle sailed across the table, matching glass glinting
against the greenery along the partition. Alex avoided Brighton’s eyes, but was
on his feet, grabbing Finn by the shirt. “I told you, if you have business,
take it up with me. Let’s not play some childish game of telephone, telling
reporters bullshit. We’re a band. And yes we’re brothers, but you sure as hell
aren’t acting like one.”

Finn swatted Alex’s hand away, smoothed his shirt, and
stormed out of the restaurant.

Chapter Nine

That night, Alex lay in bed, restless. He listened to the
purr of Brighton’s breath, softly gusting against his arm. He’d had enough of
the city, being followed, and Finn’s crap. He just wanted to be with Brighton,
but knew well enough that the band was the other third of his life. The second
being her, and the first, whatever he did when he was alone: jumping rope,
trying new kinds of tea, reading, dreaming up adventure, writing poetry,
considering learning how to make cheese, and collecting guitars, all the things
that made him Alexis Stihl.

He watched her there, a crease of worry drawn through the
spot between her eyebrows. He wondered about Claire, praying she’d be okay, if
not because of the splashes of joy and kindness she brought into the world, but
selfishly, for Brighton. His thoughts landed on the familiar question of his
own mother. He looked mostly like his father, tall, dark hair, distinct
features, better looking. He chuckled. He supposed that was arguable. What had
he inherited from her besides a fear of abandonment, a former attachment to a
terrible girl who’d tricked him into thinking she loved him, and a host of
other mommy issues?

Alex rolled over, the moonlight a square tablet on the floor.
He got up, shuffled around the house,—lost in insomnia—until he strummed his
acoustic guitar in a lilting lullaby. The words: a pilly afghan, cracked
lenses, and the pattering of rain, lulled him to sleep.

Alex let Brighton pick the car they’d take to the seashore
the next day, even though she insisted he drive.

“You get used to it, like riding a bike. Which, if you’d
like, we can use when we get there.” He liked cars well enough, but riding a
bicycle through the country, or even in a city, offered a closer, more personal
experience of a place. Although, he’d probably be followed by cameramen if he
didn’t keep trading cars and vying for anonymity. He changed lanes, driving a
cream colored, seventies era ragtop MG.

Brighton had been quiet all morning. He wondered if her
unease was because of the fans and photographers who’d waited outside the flat,
concern about her mother, or the close up glimpse she was getting into her
father’s life.

“So last night. Sorry about the shake up,” Alex said.

“I hope you guys get it sorted out.”

“It’s not about you.”

“It’s usually about me. And I don’t mean that in an
egotistical way. I somehow end up in the middle of things when it comes to
music.” Her sullen expression matched the hovering clouds.

“If you’re suggesting you being born almost broke up the
band, that’s ridiculous. I read the same article and as you. In this sideshow
attraction, things are easily misconstrued, misinterpreted, and way, way out of
order.”

“I came across it when I was ten. Just after…” Brighton said,
referring to a controversial write up about the band and a reunion they’d done
a decade before. “I didn’t quite get it, but I gleaned enough to understand
that after I was born the band went downhill.”

“After you were born, the music industry started to change,
Bang Bang had been rocking for twenty years, and they were old. It was time for
them to settle down. They hadn’t put out an album in five years; they were
tired of each other. Shad’s drug addiction was out of control; Neil was on his
fourth wife. You were the light in El’s eyes and rightly so.”

She looked small sitting in the bucket seat, as if the memory
turned her ten all over again. She thumbed the guitar pick around her neck. “So
what was last night about?” she asked.

“Finn and me. I think he’s jealous and upset that I’m not his
zoo animal anymore. It was a welcome escape from Suzie to hang out with the
guys. I’d sneak off after she passed out, and we’d get up to all kinds of
nonsense. Or I’d make up some malarkey just so the four of us could screw
around, jam, drink beer, and chase our dream. I was always ready for the party,
always available when Finn wanted to hang around. Not so much these days, and
I’m glad of it. I was miserable. But I guess Finn isn’t adjusting to the change
well.”

“You got some good songs out of it.”

Alex merged into traffic, taking the motorway toward the
coast. London sprawled in the distance behind them. “I like to think that,
presently, I bring diversity to the band,” Alex said with a smirk.

“White. Male. Anglo?” Brighton laughed.

“Glaswegian by way of Brighton and London,” he said, joining
her. “Take away the drugs and alcohol, and I’m a good time. I’m a ruddy
creative, entertaining, and witty bloke.”

“Do they all party as hard as you did?”

“If you’re asking if they get barmy when they drink too much
and spit at pretty girls? Nearly being deported? No. But we all carry baggage
around with us, some of us a trunk’s worth. Let’s see, Albert, his parents,
well, his father got into some financial trouble and then dove into illegal
gambling to pull out of it. He went to jail. He’s fine now, but Albert was
broken up. Disappointed mostly, let down, yanno? Then Graham, he’s one of those
that hardly lets anything bother him, but when it does, watch out. I once saw
him take out a guy twice his size for swatting some chick. When he’s angry,
he’s fearless. But he has a heart of gold. I hope he finds someone to share it
with.”

“No girlfriends?”

“Oh plenty of those, just no one he’s loved. His folks are
alright, been together thirty-eight years, but they fight like the devil.”

“How about Finn?”

Alex flipped on the windshield wipers against the drizzle.
“Where to start? His father took off when he was young, but not too young to
forget. His mother, rumor goes, made her way through half the men in their
neighborhood. He’s always had a possessive, jealous streak. We were best mates,
but at times, it felt claustrophobic, as if he wanted to own me. Kind of like
Suzie. When she first appeared at our shows, he liked her, but she threw
herself at me. He dodged a bullet with that one, but I think he resents it. He
always had this notion that he’d sweep a woman off her feet, without having to
make the effort to do so, change anything about himself, or compromise in
anyway. He’s a git really.”

“Yikes. But yanno, not everyone has your natural charm.”

“They’re good guys. Albert and Graham have mostly sorted
themselves out. Finn, I hope he’s working on it. It seems like the skeleton in
my closet is more of a zombie. I keep thinking Suzie is going to resurface.
Yesterday, when I grabbed Finn, I thought I smelled her perfume. Probably just
a stupid flashback.”

Just then, a black sedan cut them off, sending Alex careering
into the breakdown lane. He laid on the horn and threw a finger at the traffic.
“Are you okay?”

Brighton nodded, but pointed at the taillights of the car
pulled over in front of them. Alex launched himself out of the MG.

“What the bloody hell?” he shouted at the open, driver’s side
door.

A middle-aged man with a paunch got out, a camera blocking
his face, and he clicked away while Alex screamed and made rude gestures.
Another man emerged from the passenger side, filming the whole thing. Alex
glanced in his direction, rushed back to the car, and sped off.

Chapter Ten

“Welcome to Brighton,” Alex said, pulling up along the beach
and getting out of the car after the long drive. The salt air, the rushing
waves, and the caw of the gulls washed away the antagonizing experience with
the sedan and paparazzi.

Brighton quivered. “Your voice. It’s so sexy.”

“Brighton?” he repeated.

Her eyes went doe-y and she bit her lip.

“Brighton, Brighton, Bri—”

She pulled his head to hers and gave him a long kiss.

As they walked down the beach, Alex slung his arm around her
shoulders, pulling her close as if they belonged there together, as if the
beach walk was routine, like they’d done it a hundred times before. Sand,
stones, and shells formed an endless blanket in every direction. They were just
in time to watch the setting sun melt into the horizon, liquid light fading to
pewter.

Brighton thumbed the guitar pick with the coordinates for
that exact place on the planet. She smiled, stretching onto her toes and
pecking his lips. It was dark when they sunk into the still-warm sand, a kiss
for every star in the sky. Alex found his way under her shirt and then lifted
her skirt.

Their breath moved in and out with the waves, one deep,
sea-breath after another cresting and receding. She unzipped his pants, groping
in the darkness. They rocked there, in the cover of night, lips moving from
chin, to cheek, to ear. Alex explored the terrain of her breasts until they
reached that blissful place that made the light pouring from the shops, the
blinking of the ships out at sea, and the blur of bulbs from the pier look like
a kaleidoscope.

“I think I like Brighton,” she said when they brushed the
sand from their clothes and snuck back to the sidewalk.

“Dinner? There’s a pub here that a certain El Holmes made
famous. Are you up for it?”

Brighton nodded her head as if renewed, as if the salt-air
blowing in from the ocean revitalized her, and the heat they’d exchanged
energized her.

Seated at a table in the window of The Gull and the Fox Pub,
the waitress brought menus. The covers were old vinyl record sleeves.

“I got the Cars,” Brighton said.

Alex flashed his menu. “The Clash. And over there, mounted
prominently on the wall are all of Bang Bang’s albums.”

“I see they didn’t make the dinner menu cut,” Brighton said,
laughing.

“After living in filth at that flat in Camden, and they’d
collected some cash, El bought the manor up the road. Do you remember it?”

Brighton nodded vaguely as two baskets of fish and chips
appeared. The waitress, a dowdy woman wearing a fraying apron, asked if they’d
like anything else.

Just as Alex was about to ask for vinegar, the waitress
squinted her eyes, “Wait a minute, I know you.”

He immediately lost his appetite, recalling the run in with
the sedan earlier, rabid fans, and his inability to have privacy. He wondered
if the road trip through Montana would have been a better idea.

“You’re Chaz’s son. My, you’ve grown up. I’m Milly. I used to
cook for him when he’d come up here and stayed at Windover.”

Alex smiled, relieved the association was via his father, and
not her granddaughter or some other fangirl who he’d imagined would appear any
second. “That’s right, I’m Alex Stihl. And this is Brighton.”

Her milky eyes grew wide. “Not Brighton Holmes?” Without
waiting for an answer, Milly wrapped her arms around her, pulling her to her
bosom. “You’re a young woman. Oh and beautiful. You were such a wild child,
running up and down the beach, scaring me half to death that you’d be swept out
by a rogue wave. It’s a delight to see you.” She wrung her hands together,
looking at them both expectantly.

“We’re staying at the Inn, visiting Brighton’s grandmother,
Windover, maybe surf.” Alex returned Brighton’s look of dread with a smile.
“Milly, pull up a chair. Maybe you’d like to tell us how The Gull and the Fox
came to be.”

“Surely you know,” she answered.

Alex played dumb and nodded that she go on.

“Well, it was originally the Seaside Pub, but in my opinion
that wasn’t very creative. Confusing really, my dad would say he was going down
Seaside and my mum never knew if he meant the pub, fishing, or what. If you
look around there’s a Seaside everything, corner store, gift shop,
boutique…anyway. Your father,” she nodded at Brighton, “hired me on as cook for
the manor, but he was a creature belonging to pub life, despite the fact that
he lived in one of the select estates in town. Your mother, Claire, such a
lovely woman, would come down here and chase him home, leaving everyone
clamoring for another story or round of drinks. He was generous that way.”

Brighton’s fries went un
touch
ed as she
listened intently.

“Anyway, after he passed, may he rest in peace, the owner
renamed the pub, “The Gull and the Fox. Claire was the gull, always swooping
in, elegantly of course, and giving him the business. El, the Fox, red haired,
sly, but as warm and loving as a, well, I don’t know what. But that’s how it
came to be.

“Of course, he lives on here. Late at night, when I’m washing
up, I sometimes hear his voice telling stories or singing a tune. The bartender
insists it’s the wind coming off the ocean, but he’s too young, he wouldn’t remember.”
She wiped her eye. “Better get back. Now you two enjoy your time here. My best
to your granny,” Milly said with a smile as she shuffled to another table of
customers.

“Wow,” Brighton said. “So Windover? Granny? Sentimental old
stories? What are you trying to do? Slay me?”

Alex saw laughter and sadness, in equal measure, in her eyes.
But he also saw himself there, his fears reflected like a mirror.

“No, I’m trying to help you heal.”

Just then, Brighton’s phone jingled. Her face pinched.

“Hi, everything okay?” She let out a series of uh huhs and
okays. At the end of the conversation, she set her phone on the table, the
letters spelling
Mom
, and
End call
flashed. Then the screen went
dark.

Brighton waved Milly over and asked for a beer, Alex ordered
one too.

With bottle in hand, she said, “A toast to my dad.”

After ordering a round for the entire pub, listening to a few
old timers’ stories, and clucking about how difficult being a daughter is, Alex
decided it was time to lure Brighton away from the bar and back to their hotel.

As he helped her undress, wash her face, and brush her teeth,
she mumbled about her mother and the gown she told her she wanted to wear at
her funeral and that she insisted she rest next to her husband, Eliezer.
Desperation, not to lose another parent, lay cloaked under Brighton’s bath of
alcohol and gibberish.

“I mean why tell me these things. Death, I’m against it. It’s
too dark, too final,” she slurred.

“I think most of us agree,” Alex said, trying to calm her
down and hoping to help her find a better way to deal with her surging
emotions. “But it’s part of life.”