Every Heart Sings (Serenity Island Series)

EVERY HEART SINGS

Serenity Island Series

MACKENZIE LUCAS

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

EVERY HEART SINGS

Copyright©2015

MACKENZIE LUCAS

Cover Design by Christy Caughie

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
725-9

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To my own rock star hero

& my music crazy teen.

Love you both! Let the music live on.

Acknowledgements

It takes a whole writing community to write a novel. So I raise my glass to my writing support network in a heartfelt salute to all you’ve done for me. First of all, a big thank you to Bob Mayer and his wife,  Debbie. Without your first Write on the River workshop, this book would not have taken such clear and wonderful shape. Thank you! Thank you to my critique partners at the Rockville 8 who read Every Heart Sings in its beginning stages—Yvonne, Keely, Lisa, Marjanna, Christa, Misha, and Shellie. You are the best beta readers a writer could ever want. Keep writing, reading, and laughing! To my Seton Hill University WPF grad school critique partner, Diane, thanks for your diligence and commitment over the years. Your support and talent is a constant inspiration. A special thanks to Timons Esaias and Leslie Davis Guccione, my SHU WPF mentors. Thanks for your guidance and attention to detail. Without you both, this would not be possible. To Soul Mate Publishing and amazing editor Cheryl Yeko, a big thank you for helping me find my voice and my readers.

Finally, to that support network that’s even more intrinsic to any writer’s success: family. To my husband who has always been the champion of my dreams, thank you, honey. You’ve been an amazing support over the years. I adore you. And, to my teenage boys, who good-naturedly eat way too much frozen food for my liking because Mom is writing in her office—you’ll never know what a support you’ve been. I love you. I couldn’t have done it without you. You are an amazing bunch of guys and I’m blessed to have you all in my life. Thank you for walking with me through this wonderful journey we call life. You are amazing!

“Every heart sings a song incomplete,

until another heart whispers back.” ~ Plato

Chapter 1

Back Stage

Josh Nicodemus lived, breathed, and bled music.

Night and day. Every day. All day.

He sat on stage, hidden in plain sight, on the floor in a dark corner, back against the brick wall of their set. Black hoodie pulled up over his head to shadow his face, he caught a few quiet moments while the stage crew finished testing the lights and pyrotechnics for tonight’s concert. The band had finished the sound check fifteen minutes ago and headed to the green room to wait for the performance to start. The doors opened in an hour.

With two platinum albums and ten chart-busting singles for Nicodemus, the band he fronted, Josh stood at the pinnacle of his pop rock music career. He was a bona fide rock star. And for the last year, he’d been on tour. Playing concert after concert.

Josh could phone it in. Perform his act in his sleep. All creativity and spontaneity had dried up and crawled away somewhere between Vegas and San Jose. Which was a bitch, since his next album was past due and he really could use that creative spark, the elusive muse who’d ditched him. The record company and his manager were breathing down his neck and he had nothing. Nada. Not one word or one note of the album they wanted.

He couldn’t do it.

Not again. Not the same old music. But his manager wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t let him break out of the norm, out of the persona they’d created for Nicodemus.

‘
The fans won’t follow you
,’ he’d said. ‘
You’re breaking your contract with them . . . They expect a certain experience from Nicodemus
.’

Yeah, yeah.
He’d heard it all from his manager and the record label. They weren’t happy with him lately. Sure he raked in the big bucks. But, still, it wasn’t enough. They always demanded more, more, more.

Tonight’s concert at the Charlotte, North Carolina, Time Warner Cable Arena was one of the last on the Dark Rider tour, and he couldn’t be happier. He didn’t know what town tomorrow would find him in, but he didn’t care, either.

Bone tired, his spark had fizzled, and the music had gone silent. Whether it was the long workdays, the short drink-fogged and drug-hazed nights, or the groupies who cornered him at every opportunity, he didn’t know. All he knew was he wanted a little taste of peace and quiet.

A day. A week. Even better, a year to call his own, to live his life without anyone demanding something from Nicodemus.

The stage would go live in an hour and thirty minutes when Nicodemus hit the stage.

Josh fostered no delusions.

Yes, his music was solid, but it was his dancing and his body the women came to see. The tightly choreographed moves and the even tighter abs. They couldn’t care less about his lyrics, the music, or his guitar playing abilities. The persona they wanted was sexy Nicodemus who moved and gyrated all over the stage, giving them a virtual lap dance. Bottom line. And if they could see him half-naked, even better. God, he was tired of it.

The stage was finally silent and dark, awaiting the big reveal when the lights would power on and the music would start. All the techs had disappeared. A single overhead spotlight arrowed down from on high, pinpointing a sole stool and Josh’s guitar.

The quiet scene should have soothed him, but it didn’t. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rough brick. He just needed a minute. Quiet. Peace. Silence.

If he could find the silence, he’d be okay.

Then he heard it. A sweet strain of music. Notes pure and simple. Guitar chords. A raspy male voice. His song, but stripped down. Bare. Unplugged. The way it was meant to be sung.

He opened his eyes. A kid sat on Josh’s stool, holding Josh’s guitar, and singing.

Living for tomorrow never works

Today’s all you’ve got

Love her with abandon and no regrets

Whisper promises you plan to keep

Show her who you are down deep

Give her everything you’ve got

Nothing less and nothing more

Tomorrow never comes

Today’s all you’ve got

Fill her up. Turn her inside out

Tell her what it’s all about

Leave her wanting more

This is love, baby, for sure

It all ends too soon

Today’s all you’ve got

Living for tomorrow never works

Tell her you adore her

Give her everything you’ve got

Nothing less and nothing more

It was one of the first songs he’d written ten years ago. He’d never recorded it himself. He’d written it for a young artist he’d lost track of . . . one, now that he came to think of it, he hadn’t seen on the music scene or heard from in years. Luke? Wonder what happened to him?

When had he lost that personal contact with artists?

The kid could certainly sing as well as play. Good for him.

The song wrapped around Josh. Tugged at emotions he’d long forgotten in a haze of too little time and too many venues, people sucking him dry, and booze and drugs taking the edge off. This was the kind of music he used to love to write.

Looking at the huge chasm between the artist he used to be and the performer he’d become, Josh wasn’t sure he liked the new improved him. He longed to go back to the days where music was simple for him.

He hated the dark edge. A few more steps and he feared he’d fall over that edge into the abyss, never to return to that independent artist-songwriter he used to be, who—deep down—he still wanted to be.

The kid played the final chords of the chorus.

“Hey! You can’t be here. Put that guitar down,” Ben, Josh’s manager, barked from the left wing of the stage.

The kid sprang to his feet and almost dropped the guitar. But, to his credit, the boy—a teenager, really—gently laid the instrument back in its stand with a great deal of reverence before leaping off the stage.

Ben grabbed the kid by the collar and hauled him back on stage. The kid kicked and squirmed, trying to shrug out of his T-shirt and hoodie to get away. He wore black skinny jeans, a worn burgundy T-shirt, a black hoodie, and lace-up canvas Converse tennis shoes. A Celtic cross hung from a long leather cord around the teen’s neck.

“Stand still or I’ll call the police,” Ben growled.

The boy stopped squirming, but shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his head bowed, looking at the stage floor.

“I should call the cops anyway.” Ben stared the boy down. The kid shuffled his feet, not saying anything. “You’re trespassing. And what were you doing with that guitar? Planning to steal it, I’d guess.”

“No sir. I’m no criminal.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like a punk-ass kid.”

“No, sir. I might not have lots of extras, but I don’t steal. Never taken anything that wasn’t mine. My mother raised me better. I just wanted to touch the guitar played by Nicodemus.” The hero worship in the kid’s voice made Josh feel a little unworthy.

“Clearly your mom didn’t teach you not to touch someone else’s property.” Ben’s tone was harsh, threatening.

Josh got to his feet. The kid reminded him of himself at that age. Strung out on music, and looking for any way to play guitar, to get the music inside of him out into the world. Once upon a time, he’d understood that kind of drive. Now he had nothing left on the inside, he’d given everything to the stage, to the performance.

“Enough, Ben.” Josh stepped between his manager and the kid and pushed the hood off his own head. He tousled his hair and rubbed his neck. “I asked the kid to play for me.”

The kid stammered. “Nic-o-demus.” His voice held the awed whisper of total fan-boy worship.

“Hey, I told you to call me Josh. Thanks, man.” Josh offered the kid his hand. “I appreciate you showing me what you could do. You got mad skills. What’s your name?”

“Tony. Anthony Alexander.”

Josh paused. “No. Really? You related to Luke Alexander?”

“Yeah, my dad.”

“How’s he doing? I knew him back in the day. God, it’s been ten years now since I’ve seen him.”

“He’s dead.” The kid’s shoulders had gone rigid. He kicked at an invisible spot on the stage floor. “Just me and my mom now.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your dad, kid. I liked him. I wrote that song for him. He was a talented musician. How long has he been gone?”

“Seven years.”

“That must be hard.”

“Yes.” The boy nodded. He lifted his chin, holding Josh’s gaze, trying so hard to be strong, courageous. A teenaged boy without a father to guide him was not an easy road to navigate.

Josh should know. He’d been there once.

The responsibilities of manhood thrust upon you before you were ready. At least Josh had had his grandfather to step in shortly after his dad’s death. The man who’d taught him everything he knew about music and listening to the muse. The same man he’d pushed away at eighteen when he’d moved to L.A. to make it big.

Josh noticed the kid’s fraying jeans. His canvas shoes had a hole or two more than acceptable for the purchased-frayed look. This kid couldn’t afford a ticket to Josh’s concert. Tickets went for over a hundred dollars apiece.

“You live around here?”

“Nah, we’re staying with my aunt for the summer.” The kid gave off attitude with a mere shrug and a roll of his eyes, as only a teenager could. “Some remote island on the coast.”

“Sounds nice.” Josh meant it. Sounded like heaven to him right now.

“Yeah, if you like small, do-nothing towns where everyone is up in your business. No cars. Nothing to do. I hate it.”

“You came a long way to see the show.” Josh considered him. “Took you what, four and a half hours? You drive it by yourself? Did your mom come with you?”

“Nah. I took a bus by myself.”

Yeah, Josh remembered doing the same thing at fifteen. His mom and grandfather had almost killed him when they found out he’d traveled from their rural home in the Kentucky mountains to Lexington by himself to see a U2 concert.

“Does your mom know you’re here?”

The kid shrugged, not answering, which was an answer all on its own. No. She didn’t know. Instead, he said, “I really wanted to meet you. See you play. My dad talked about you a lot when I was younger. Said you were a genius with a guitar. Said the only good songs he recorded were written by you. It went all downhill for him after you moved on. He couldn’t find another writer who understood him or his style like you.”

Something inside Josh’s chest squeezed. He’d liked Luke. He wished he’d stayed in contact with him. Too late for those regrets. But he could offer the kid something.

“Here. Call your mom. Let her know you’re okay. Ask if you can stay for the show.” Josh handed his cell phone to Tony then turned to his manager. “Ben, get the kid a front row seat and make sure he’s got a backstage pass.”

Tony walked to the edge of the stage to call his mom. He spoke in quiet tones. Probably taking a tongue-lashing. When the kid handed Josh his cell, Josh clapped him on the shoulder. “She okay?”

“She’s mad at me. But she’ll be okay. I’m grounded when I get home.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“I understand her concern. Not a good plan, dude. Next time pass it by her, okay?”

“Yeah, I screwed up. It’s just that I really wanted to see you.”

“I get it. I was you once.” Josh smiled at Tony. “Find me after the concert. I’ll make sure you get a ride to the bus station.”

“You mean I really get to stay for the concert?” The kid tried to contain his excitement. He rubbed his palms down the thighs of his jeans.

“Absolutely. Your dad was a good man. It’s the least I can do. Enjoy the show.” He bumped fists with the kid. “I’ll see you afterward.”

“Right. I’ll find you later.”

Josh walked backstage to dress for the show. But the kid got him thinking about his roots. Where he’d started and what it was he’d wanted when he’d first begun his music career. Then, all he’d wanted was to create music. Write it. For himself and for others. And while he enjoyed performing, the high-energy, high-toxicity of the life of a performer was costing him his creativity and stealing his soul.

First, he had to keep his fans happy. Give them the show they came for tonight. Then, tomorrow, tomorrow he’d figure it all out. Get back on the right path.

Coax the muse out to play.

Somehow find his way to writing that next album before it all slipped away from him, a short-lived dream. Maybe he’d even find his way back to that young artist he’d once been.

Yeah, he liked that idea. He liked it a hell of a lot.

Several hours later, Josh stood in the wings backstage, sweaty and exhausted, but pleased with the performance he’d given. The crowd was on their feet, demanding an encore.

An edginess rattled around inside him, making him restless and unhappy with the status quo. He wanted to mix it up.
What if my fans did follow me?

He turned to the band. “Listen, guys, we’re going to change up the numbers here.” Ben was not within earshot. He’d have a shit-fit if he knew what Josh planned.

To hell with him.

This was his career. He could certainly perform whatever song he wanted in his own encore performance. “We’ll play the first encore number as normal, but when we usually transition into the second song, I want to go acoustic, unplugged for the next one. Use the same transition. But take my cues after that.”

“What?” They asked in unison, crowding him and looking at each other. “Dude, we didn’t practice this. There are a hundred-thousand fans out there.”

“Yeah. And we gave them a bitchin’ performance. Now I want to give them something different. Something new. What I need from you is to jam with me, improvise. I’m going to do an old song I wrote ten years ago, “Like Old Times.” It’s a simple song. You’ll get the hang of it quickly. Just vamp. Do what comes natural. It’s not a big song. It’s quiet. Personal.”