My One Regret (Martin Family Book 3) (3 page)

"Not just what?" I asked, feeling hurt and confused.

"Nothing," Claire said.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she repeated. "I just love you and I want what's best for you, that's all."

I hugged her. She was my best friend, and I would miss her terribly. "I love you, too, Clairebear, and I don't want you to think I'm happy about leaving you even though I'm trying to look forward to Austin."

"I don't think that," she said. She smiled at me and shrugged her shoulders a little. "You already begged me to move enough that I know you're serious about wanting me to."

"I
am
serious," I said. "And I still hope you'll change your mind and come with me."

Chapter 3

Two years later

Austin, TX

Claire didn't end up moving to Austin with me. She finished her degree at ULL, before moving back to New Orleans where she went to work as an artist and designer for a local ad agency.

Claire drew cartoons and did hand lettering and custom logo designs. She had done most of our band flyers over the years, and ended up with quite a bit of business with other bands designing their logos and making flyers, stickers, and album covers. She was a talented artist with a quirky, hipster style, and she was now in high demand around New Orleans.

We remained close during the last two years, checking in with each other on at least a weekly basis, and seeing each other three or four times a year between me going home and her coming to Austin.

Even though we stayed close, I didn't tell her much about what was going on with me. I told her the important things—the obvious, physical things, but I didn't really say much about my feelings. Even when I'd been living in Louisiana and saw her every day, I didn't really share my feelings. I'd never been a real
share your feelings
type of person. Honestly, I'd never been one to analyze my feelings at all. I did my best to remain as happy as possible in life, and did a pretty good job of dealing with any unhappiness without discussing it with another human being. I wasn't trying to be distant or unemotional, that's just how I'd always been—sort of just a space case, thinking about song lyrics and melodies.

All this to say, Claire was highly concerned when I randomly called her one afternoon from Austin, crying my eyes out.

"You're gonna have to slow down, take a deep breath, and repeat everything," Claire said quietly. "Are you in a safe place, Wynn?"

I took a shaky breath, trying to calm my nerves. I was so unaccustomed to sharing my feelings with anyone that it wasn't easy to know where to begin expressing myself.

"I'm fine," I said, calming myself down enough to talk to her. "I'm at home, and no one's trying to hurt me or anything. (sniffle) I just needed someone to talk to." I couldn't help but start to cry again when I added, "I'm probably gonna be moving back ho-o-ome."

"Honeyyy," Claire cooed in that same quiet tone. "What happened?"

"I haven't even called my mom yet, so don't say anything to anybody, (sniffle) but I think I'm gonna be moving back home."

"That's what you said, but why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm not scared for my life or anything, but…" I paused and took another shaky breath. "He's been stealing from me, Claire," I said. It was as if my body had an aversion to letting the words leave my mouth. They came out breathless and barely audible.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I said he's been lying to me about the gigs."

"Who, Marcus?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. (sniffle) I knew something was wrong. (sniffle) I thought he was cheating on me. He's probably doing that, too."

"Can you hang on just a second?" Claire asked. I heard a rustling sound and Claire's muffled voice say, "You guys get started without me. I'll be back in a few minutes." Several more seconds passed, and I heard some more rustling. "I'm sorry," she said in an out-of-breath voice that told me she was walking.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Don't be sorry," she said. "I'm glad I heard my phone. We were just about to start a meeting. I was looking down at it to make sure it was on silent when you called. Something told me to pick up. It was probably because you always text. I didn't even know you knew how to use the phone portion of your phone."

I let out a weak little laugh that was barely audible past the swollen, puffiness of my tear-strained face.

"Tell me what happened, Wynn," she said. I could tell by her voice that she had stopped walking and was now in a quite place.

"I'm really sorry I interrupted your meeting. I had no idea you'd be at work."

She let out a little laugh. "It's two o'clock on a Tuesday," she said.

I glanced at the clock on the entertainment center. I had been on musician's time for two years, which meant I never really kept up with what day it was until I knew it was time for a gig. I wasn't accustomed to business hours. I had performed close to three hundred gigs in the last two years, which was a lot of work. I didn't shy away from the grind. If I wasn't playing a gig, then I was working on my music. I just never had a real workweek, so it didn't register that Claire might be busy when I called. Maybe in the back of my mind I knew it was Tuesday at 2 o'clock, but I just couldn't think straight right then.

"I'm sorry to bother you at work," I said.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "They love me in there. They'll totally forgive me. What's up, were you saying something about Marcus lying to you?"

I took a deep breath. "I knew something was wrong. I could tell he was hiding something from me. It got even more sketchy when I moved in with him. (sniffle) He's standoffish for no reason sometimes, and then he'll buy me something or do some sweet gesture."

"What did he do, Wynn?" she asked, obviously wanting me to get to the point.

"He's been lying to me about the gigs. (sniffle) He takes care of the contracts and all of the money and stuff. Usually, he handles everything from his office, but uh, a couple days ago, (sniffle) I ran into one of the club owners at the grocery store. She happened to have a check for me in her purse. She said she was planning on dropping it in the mail that afternoon. (sniffle) So, I opened it and found out that it was twice what I thought we made at that gig."

"Well, doesn't he have to pay himself and the sound guy and everybody? Aren't you playing with a band?" Claire asked since she knew perfectly well what all went into booking a gig.

"No, I mean, he shows me what he pays everybody. He's got charts and spreadsheets showing everything. I thought the same thing when I first saw the amount on the check, but that's not the case. He's lying to me." I paused and took an unsteady breath, trying not to cry. "I wanted to believe he wasn't," I said. "I hoped it was some kind of mistake, but he lied. (sniffle) About two hours ago, I heard back from a festival we booked for next spring. Marcus had just told me what my contract was for on that one, so I called to ask them myself. (sniffle) He lied to me by five thousand, Claire."

"I hope you're pressing charges," she said.

"I haven't even played the gig yet."

"Yeah, but you've got to get your money back from the past two years."

That statement seemed ludicrous to me, and I let out an uncontrollable laugh. "I thought I'd just leave without even talking to him," I said.

"Why would you do that? You need to press charges on this guy."

I let out another laugh, since pressing charges was literally the furthest thing from my mind. All I wanted was to just leave this apartment and never see Marcus Biggs again.

"No, I'm not pressing charges. (sniffle) I don't even know how to
prove
anything."

I put my aching head into my hand, wishing I was already away from this apartment—away from Austin, and most of all, away from Marcus. I was so out of it that, for a second, I forgot I was on the phone with Claire. I was still holding the phone to my ear, but it honestly surprised me a little when she spoke again.

"You should nail his butt on that five-thousand-dollars," she said.

I took a shuttering breath. "No, thank you," I said, my voice coming out weaker than I intended. "I just want to come home."

"You can't give up on your music because of one hose-bag, Wynn."

"I'm not giving up, I just don't want to be in Austin. Everyone I know here is through him. And also, I'm probably giving up on music, too."

"Wynndolyn, don't," she said in a soft, reasonable tone even though Wynndolyn was not and had never been my name. "Don't get yourself all worked up. You're gonna get past this and make plenty of music without this guy."

"(sniffle) I'm not really thinking about that right now. I'm just trying to get out of Austin."

"What can I do to help?" she asked.

"I don't know. I just wanted to tell you what was going on. I'm gonna have to tell my family. (sniffle) They'll come help me move. I don't even know if I'm gonna tell them the truth about the money. Dad, Uncle Steve, and the boys would go on a manhunt."

"They would hunt him down," she agreed.

"I'll just tell them I broke up with Marcus and wanted to come home," I said.

"I guess that's best if you don't want anyone to get murdered."

I smiled at her joke even though she couldn't see me—at least I tried to. My face was tight. I opened my mouth wide, stretching my cheek muscles as I blinked hard.

"I'm sure I'll tell my mom, just not right away. I don't know about my dad, but my cousins would definitely try to set him straight if they knew the truth."

"Cam especially," she agreed. "He'd go over there."

"Don't tell Cam," I said. "I know you have to get back to work. And I'm sorry for interrupting your meeting. I just needed to tell someone."

"I'm sorry this happened," she said. I could hear by the background noise and the bounciness of her voice that she had started walking.

"Are you gonna stay at your moms, or do you want to move in with me?" she asked.

"I'll stay with my parents till I figure things out. I just assumed that's what I would do."

"Well, you know you're always welcome to stay with me if you want to live in New Orleans."

"Thank you," I said. "I know you have to get back to work. I love you, and I'm glad you picked up."

"Everything's gonna be fine, Wynnie," she said. "New Orleans will be glad to have you back."

I smiled past my stinging face again. "Thanks Clairebear."

"Love you," she said. "Glad you're comin' home."

"Love you, too. Bye."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone, and sat there, staring at a television that wasn't even turned on.

I had been sitting there for less than a minute when Marcus walked in the door.

Chapter 4

I hadn't expected to see Marcus because he usually spent most afternoons in his office. I use the term loosely since his office space was just a place he rented downtown that was more like a living room away from home.

"What's the matter?" was the first thing that came out of his mouth when we made eye contact.

"Nothing," I said. I stood, turned, and began adjusting the throw blanket that was draped over the back of the couch.

I was doing my best to seem casual, but I knew it was obvious I'd been crying. I thought for sure he'd mention it, but he didn't—at least not right away. I heard him kick off his shoes and throw his keys onto a nearby side table we used as a catchall.

"I left that suitcase," he said in a somewhat annoyed tone.

I knew what he was talking about. He had a cool, vintage suitcase that he loaned to bands sometimes to carry and display their merchandise. I vaguely remembered him mentioning needing to bring it to someone, but I had bigger things to worry about at that moment. After straightening the throw blanket, I did some other pointless tidying up (all which had to do with keeping my back turned to Marcus). He didn't seem to care if I paid attention to him or not. He crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"So, you came to get the suitcase?" I asked, feeling like a crazy person for making small talk, but unable to make myself do anything else.

"Yeah, I'm not going back to the office today," he said. "Dylan's just coming by here to pick it up. They're leaving for Tennessee in the morning."

"I forgot about that," I said, still sticking with the small talk even though I was fully consumed with thinking about how my life was about to take a drastic turn.

I was so mad at Marcus that I was scared of him—scared of myself and how I would ultimately handle the situation. I had no idea how to start the conversation that clearly needed to take place. Maybe I should just sneak out when he was gone so that the conversation wasn’t necessary.

"I looked for those boxers I like this morning. Why weren't they clean yet?"

I was still facing away from him, so he didn't see when my eyes grew big. I was already on edge, but his comment had blood rushing to my face. At that moment, if I were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of my ears.
Was he really asking me about his laundry?
I acted like I didn't hear him, and walked into the bedroom with the intention of taking a shower or at least splashing some cold water on my burning-hot face.

"See if you can find 'em," he said at my back as I walked into the bedroom.

I came to a stop, standing at the foot of the bed, staring toward the closet. I felt overwhelmed at the thought of getting all my stuff out of this apartment and back to Louisiana. I honestly felt like leaving it all behind.

"Don't forget to wash those boxers I like," Marcus said from the doorway. He said it as if he thought I hadn't heard him the first two times.

"I'm not washing your clothes," I said dryly without looking at him.

He let out a little laugh as he dove onto the bed. "Are you on laundry strike or something?"

"No," I said as I stood there, still staring into the closet.

"What's your problem?"

I should have just come out and said the truth, but I was too scared.

"Nothing."

"Why are you acting like a zombie?"

"I'm not."

"You're standing there staring at the wall, Wynn."

"I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"You can only go for a couple days," he said. "You have Wally's on Friday."

"I'm not playing Wally's," I said.

He let out a laugh.

I walked numbly to the closet and started straightening shoes in an effort to estimate how many boxes it would take to transport my personal items.

I was picturing putting all of it into boxes when Marcus said, "What do you mean you're not playing Wally's?"

"I mean I'm not playing Wally's. What do you not understand about that?" I looked at him when I said that last part. I was so mad that I felt like my head could have shot right off my shoulders and into outer space. I could barely see straight as I stared at him, stretched out lazily on the bed. He was looking at me like the words I was saying didn't make any sense. I wanted to wipe that look right off of his face. The thought of him stealing from me made me feel hurt, embarrassed, and angry.
How had I ever been attracted to this guy? How had I been so blind?

"What's your problem?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows at me.

I could not keep my voice from trembling when I said, "I talked to Sharon today." My voice was so shaky that I felt like I could barely get the words out.

"Who's Sharon?" he asked.

"The lady from Highwater Fest."

He shrugged and stared at me like I was insane.

"She told me what my guarantee was," I said.

He shrugged again. "So?" he asked. His tone was defensive, and his face started turning red. He sat up, but didn't get off the bed.

"So, my guarantee's eight and you told me it was three."

He smiled and shook his head as if it was all a big misunderstanding. "They were gonna do three at first, and I renegotiated your price since you've been drawing such big crowds." He paused and shrugged casually. "I knew we adjusted the price on it, and I just forgot to tell you."

"Oh, so you're saying the price
was
three thousand, but it's been changed to eight?"

He nodded and smiled proudly. "You're killin' it, Wynn. I told them we had to up the price or you would pull from the line-up."

"And when were you gonna tell me?"

He shrugged again. "I just forgot. You need to chill."

"I ran into Clarissa from The Underground at Whole Foods the other day," I said. "She gave me my check from the other night, which also happened to be quite a bit more than I thought it would be."

"Are you accusing me of stealing from you?" he asked in a calm, measured tone.

"That's what it looks like, Marcus."

"You're crazy," he said, screwing up his face at me. "If anything, I'm giving away my services too cheap!"

"I pay the same percentage your other clients do," I said. My voice was about three octaves lower than normal, and I was completely out-of-breath.

We stared at each other. I could tell he was lying—I could see it in his face. Several seconds passed as we stood there. He knew I could see straight through him.

"Don't act like you do it for the money, Wynn. Your daddy owns Martin Outfitters. It's not like your little music money's gonna do anything compared to your daddy's millions. If it weren't for me, you'd still be playing all those little dive bars."

I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering if he could have possibly just said what I thought he did. "Are you saying you stole my money but it's okay because my daddy's got money?"

More blank staring took place before he shrugged, yet again. "I'm saying
I'm
the one who gets you the gigs, Wynn, and it's not like you do it for the money, anyway."

"So, you're admitting you're stealing from me?" I asked, flabbergasted that he would sit there and say those things to my face.

"I take a fair price for being your manager and putting up with your crap."

I knew I should say or do something in response to his latest statement, but I felt like a stone statue, unable to move, or speak, or even think. I was completely stunned by his audacity.

"You're making more here with me than you were in New Orleans," he added.

"Oh, so that makes it okay to
steal from me
?"

"It's
our
money, Wynn." He paused and gestured around the room. "In case you haven't noticed, we live together."

"Marcus, you tell me I make one amount when it's actually another. That's stealing." I paused before adding, "I'm leaving."

"You're crazy," he said. He used an expletive in the middle of the two words, but it was a major one, so I won't repeat it. "I'm getting you bigger and bigger gigs, Wynn. I've been talking to a guy over at Roundhouse about getting you some more studio time."

"I'm not staying here, Marcus," I said, shaking my head. I had already resolved to leave, but now there was no doubt in my mind. I knew he didn’t care for me; I could see it written all over his face. "I'm calling my parents to help me move," I said, unable to stop tears from rolling down my cheeks. "And if I were you, I'd make myself scarce when they come."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means my family's really protective of me."

He scoffed like I was being ridiculous. "Wynn, don't freak out. There's just been a misunderstanding. I was gonna tell you about the festival. I just forgot."

"I know you're lying, Marcus."

We stared at each other as he got off the bed. He stood a few feet from me, still staring at me with a stone-faced expression. "You're not that good," he said. "People come out to see you because of your stage character and your family name. If it weren't for me, you'd still be playing bars."

"I
am
still playing bars, Marcus."

"You know what I mean, Wynn. You know what kind of draw you have now. Don't act like you could have done that on your own. I made you into what you are."

"No you didn't," I said, squinting at him as I continued to cry form anger and frustration. My head was pounding and my eyes were burning.

"You're sad," he said, shaking his head at me. "And you're a fool if you think you're gonna make it in this business after screwing me over like this."

"Screwing
you
over?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes, Wynn. You have gigs this weekend and that one at the fairgrounds next week."

"I'm not playing those gigs, Marcus. Nor will I be playing any other gig you get me. Ever."

He let out a long string of expletives that left me speechless. I wanted to hurl myself at him and tackle him to the ground, but I knew he could easily overpower me. That thought made me feel a little scared.

"My dad's already on his way over here," I said, wanting him to know I had reinforcements. It was technically a lie but it was basically the truth since Dad would be on his way in a heartbeat if I told him I needed him.

Marcus threw his hands in the air and let out a whole host of cuss words along with choice phrases like, "
You can't sing
," "
You're just a spoiled rich girl
," and "
You're never gonna make it in this industry
." I had never witnessed somebody yelling the way he did. He absolutely went off. It was so loud that I knew if the neighbors were home they could hear. He didn't even give me time to respond. He just chewed me out for several minutes straight, saying the most hateful things imaginable before storming out of the apartment. I had dropped to my knees during his rampage, and he left me there, crying. I stayed in that position for several long minutes, unable to think straight. He stormed out of the apartment, and then I heard him speed off in his car. I cried, but they were silent tears. Every few seconds, I'd take a deep breath, but otherwise I didn't make a noise.

"What in the world am I going to do?" I asked out loud even though nobody was there with me. "What am I gonna do, God?"

The instant that question came out of my mouth, I feel guilty for asking it. I hadn't been talking to God much lately, and it made me feel bad that I was doing it now that I was having a rock-bottom moment.

It might be odd considering the fact that I was a performer, but I never had been really dramatic in my personal life. Crying on my knees wasn't really my style, and I looked around the room, thinking
Wynn, you've got to just pick yourself up and put one foot in front of the other
. It was the only way I could get home. I'd never make it back to Louisiana if I just sat there and cried.

As much as I wanted to stand up and get going, I couldn't do it. I sighed and rubbed my eyebrows, wishing I could unhear all the hideous insults Marcus had just thrown at me. Part of me knew he was just saying those things to hurt me, but if that was his goal, he had succeeded. I was hurt. He knew me well. He used my specific doubts and fears when insulting me, and they cut deep. I sat there, remembering more choice phrases from his rampage—things about the quality of my voice and this thing my lips do when I sang something at the top of my range. I repositioned so that I could at least sit there comfortably as I wallowed in the memory of his hurtful words.

I was still sitting there with my head buried in my knees when Dylan came by to pick up the suitcase. Out of sheer shock, I got up, answered the door, and talked to him. He asked if I was okay, and I brushed off his question like I was fine in spite of my red, puffy face. I could tell he knew something was wrong, but he was content to take the suitcase and leave as quickly as possible.