Redemption Song (2 page)

When the piercing sound of the crash eventually silenced, and the rolling motion halted, Ethan tried to clear his mind to assess the damage. Obviously, his car was banged up, but what about his body? He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel his arms. He couldn’t feel his head. He was numb all over.

The husky voice was barely audible over the jagged breaths exiting Ethan’s throat. Or maybe it was because his radio was still going full blast. He hadn’t even noticed the music while the wreck was happening, but there was the DJ’s voice, ringing merrily throughout the broken car, going on about the weather as if everything were perfectly fine.

Ethan’s shoulders cringed as the deafening sound of cranking metal shot through his ears and a bright light filled the car. Someone had yanked the dented driver’s side door open and shone a flashlight into the interior.

“The driver is male. Conscious, but a little hurt. We’re going to need a wrecker out here, for sure. The car is totaled.” A pause. “Yeah, send an ambulance, and by the smell of this kid’s breath, you better send me some backup, too. They’re going to have to write this one up.”

That was all Ethan needed to hear. He jerked his head toward his “rescuer”.

“No no! That won’t be nec…ess…essary!” Ethan slurred, squinting as pain shot through his head like lightning bolts. The bitter taste of blood slid down the back of his throat. It was coming from his nose. “I’m . . . f . . . fine. Everything is . . . everything is fine.” He tried to smile but chocked on a fresh gush of blood. “I . . . I just need to call my agent. He’ll get this all straightened out.”

“Your agent? Who are you, kid?” This time the man shone the light directly onto Ethan’s face. “Well, well, what do we have here? The famous Ethan Carter! My daughter loves you.”

Ethan grabbed the outer edge of the doorway and used it to pull his body out of the crumpled vehicle, flopping clumsily onto the pavement, forcing the man to dodge out of his way. His entire body was numb. He could have been badly hurt, but if he was he didn’t feel it.

“Seriously, man, I’m fine! I’ll sign as many autographs for your daughter as you want, but I need to call my agent before this becomes a bigger deal than it needs to be.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that this is already a big deal, son.” The man’s eyebrows scrunched in a hard line of disapproval, his voice suddenly stern. “You see, that daughter that is such a big fan of yours is waiting for me to get home to her, and that was my car that you almost hit back there. Now, I don’t know what you’re doing out here at this time of morning, driving like a drunken maniac, but I can guarantee you that this is a
very big deal
.”

A sobering wave of guilt washed through Ethan, but was replaced by an equally nauseating wave as he gasped on another sharp pain shooting through his temples. “Look, I’m sorry I almost hit you! I’ve had kind of a bad day! I was just trying to kill some time before heading back to my hotel. I understand why you’re mad, but if you haven’t noticed, my car is the one that’s busted up! If anybody’s got something to be mad about, it’s me! If you’ll just help me get my phone, I’ll fix everything and you can go home.”

The man snorted with frustration. “Son, do you realize how lucky you are that time is the only thing you managed to kill tonight?”

Sirens sounded through the night as a caravan of flashing red and blue lights raced up the mountain to where the smashed remains of Ethan’s hard earned money rested on its side in the middle of the road.

Ethan’s head jerked toward the noise and a nauseating feeling of panic rose up in his stomach. “Seriously, man! I’ve got to get out of here!” he pleaded once again with the man. “Do you have any idea what happens to people like me in situations like this? It’ll be all over the internet by morning! You’ve got to help me!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What are you, a cop, or something?”

“Off duty, actually.”

Ethan’s head fell into his hands and he let out a frustrated groan of defeat as the caravan came to a halt near where he stood, lighting the dark road with flashing lights so bright they seemed to illuminate the sky with a red and blue sun. If his mom was mad before, no word existed to describe what she would be now.

A paramedic raced forward, dropped his bag to the ground, and began a full head to toe assessment of Ethan’s battered body. Swiftly following, a burly cop sauntered forward with a satisfied smirk. He shoved a breathalyzer in Ethan’s mouth before he could even get a word out.

Ethan’s world spun out of control all around him. The faces of his mother, his agent, his producers—everyone that worked so hard every day to help him live his dream—flashed into his mind and a tidal wave of guilt washed through the pit of his stomach. And before he could swallow the vomit back down, Ethan spit out the breathalyzer, unsuccessfully attempted to miss the cop’s shoes, and puked up the night’s festivities all over the pavement.

As Ethan gasped to catch his breath between dry heaves, the DJ’s voice echoed out through the craziness of the night.

“That’s right ladies and gents out there in Hollywood land! We have it right here for you! The latest hit from the boy that all of your girlfriends want to date! Ethan Carter and ‘Girl from My Dreams’!”

The cop let out a low chuckle. “Some irony, huh, kid?”

Ethan

The clank of the jail cell door startled Ethan awake from his latest mini nap. Between the massive hangover headache (which the guards refused to give him any painkiller for) and his cell mate for the night (a fat, hairy tattooed man that snored to decibels above the capacity of the former Camero’s sound system) Ethan had not managed to get more than a few minutes of sleep at a time the entire night. He pried his eyes ajar in view of the cell door, but a ray of sun shone through the window on the opposite wall, forcing his arm to fold at his forehead to shield his eyes. Ethan glanced down, attempting to assess the bodily damage caused by his late night adventure. Nothing appeared to be broken, but his muscles were sore to the point he felt as though he’d spent a few too many hours lifting weights.

A grumbled laugh came from the other side of the barred door. An officer held a large key ring—the keys to Ethan’s freedom. “Rise and shine, rock star. Somebody’s busting you out.”

Ethan jumped from the cot, grabbed his forehead once more in attempts to suppress a shooting pain behind his eyes, and then realized that maybe he ought to rethink his anticipation. The thought of seeing his mom walk around the corner—having to deal with her livid expression—was almost enough to make him want to crawl onto the other cot and hide behind the snoring hairy man. Jail had to be better than the prison he was about to enter at home.

But then he caught a break.

“Bruce!”

Ethan’s agent, Bruce McCloud, pushed confidently past the cop to escort Ethan out of the cell. He wore a Dolce sports coat with a pair of designer kakis, and Burberry shoes from the new spring line. A pair of Ray Ban’s—the sunglasses that constantly remained attached to Bruce’s face no matter how dark of a room he entered—rested comfortably at the tip of his nose.

“I’m so glad it’s you, man. I thought you were my mom.”

Bruce chuckled. “No way, kid. I take care of my clients.”

Ethan and Bruce made their way toward the entrance of the police station while Bruce pulled out a huge pair of sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt from the dark leather “man bag” that hung across his chest. “You better put these on. We've got places to go.”

When they reached the front, Ethan stepped forward to peek out of the tinted glass of the double doors. He was amazed, and a little confused. The parking lot was empty aside from the regular employee vehicles and the one that waited to take him away. Juicy gossip spread like wildfire in Hollywood. Paparazzi should be camped out in the parking lot, ready to pounce the second Ethan set as much as a toe outside of that door. Not that Ethan was complaining, but something didn't quite add up.

Ethan turned to Bruce. "What gives, man? Where are the reporters?"

Bruce smiled. “Not here."

"Yeah, I see that," Ethan said. "But why? How?"

"You'd be surprised what a little cash can accomplish when you want people to keep their mouths shut, kid."

"You paid off the medic guy," Ethan said, realization dawning. "And the cops? But that guy was really mad. Kept talking about going home to his daughter and how I almost killed him. There's no way he's going to keep quiet about this."

Bruce laughed. "He will considering that daughter needs braces. Look, kid, don't worry about it. Your pal, Bruce, has got things covered. Besides, if worse comes to worse and someone does squeal, then we’ll use it to our advantage. Publicity is publicity. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad. This is your first offense. Sure, you’ll have to put up with some hater columnists for a few weeks, but once the news dies down, this might be just what we need to jump start the promotion of your next album!”

Ethan couldn’t believe his ears. He was beginning to feel a pinch of relief, but then the sound of that low chuckle reentered his mind.

“But, Bruce, I was drinking. I'm going to have to go to court over this.”

“Nope, took care of that, too.”

“But . . . they’re cops . . . there are laws . . .”

An arrogant grin stretched across Bruce’s lips. “Face it, dude. You’re in Hollywood now. The cops here are more crooked than the road you wrecked on last night. I told you I had your back when I signed you on and I meant it. As long as you stick with me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Ethan laughed, feeling a twinge of relief. Still yet, a different, weird, feeling kept creeping in. He knew he deserved every bit of what the law ordered in his situation, and he knew that it was unfair for him to get off just because he was famous. But that didn’t mean he was going to turn around and march back into that jail cell and seal the door behind him. He worked hard every day to give his fans what they wanted. It would be downright cruel to allow himself to get into trouble when he had a solid way out. He owed it to them to get back out there and make more music.

Ethan took one more glance toward the cell that had been his home for the night. He pulled his arms and head into the sweatshirt and put on the sunglasses, just in case anyone was around outside that might recognize him. Bruce pushed the tinted police station door open and he and Ethan jumped into the black Escalade that waited to rush him from his short-lived punishment, and deep down, what he knew he deserved.

“So, where are we going?” Ethan asked after a bit. He sat in the back row of the Escalade, jammed in beside a suitcase and his body guard, Ted, whom he’d only heard say a handful of words since he’d hired him.

The driver completely bypassed the turn toward the Roosevelt Hotel, where Ethan was certain his mom was presently sitting, brooding over all the ways to make his life hell-on-earth once he arrived. But instead, they exited onto US Route 101 toward Los Angeles.

Bruce’s reply no longer held an amused tone. Instead, he sighed, seeming a bit irritated. “We are going to the airport. LAX.” He ripped his iPhone from his pocket and began vigorously clicking away with the tip of his right index finger.

Ethan didn’t understand. “What are you talking about, man? I’ve got a show at the Staples Center in eight hours. We’ve got rehearsals, sound checks, make up and wardrobe still to do. . . What is so important that we have to drive to the airport now?”

A sigh even heavier than the first escaped Bruce as he looked up. “Ethan, my man, you don’t have a show tonight. Not anymore.”

Ethan felt the heat rising in his cheeks and he spoke through gritted teeth. “And why is that?”

“Because your mother said so.”

There it was. Phase one of hell.

“What exactly do you mean, ‘my mother said so’?”

“Look, kid, when your mom heard about the stunt you pulled last night, she called it quits on the show, packed you a bag, bought you a plane ticket, and sent me to pick you up.”

“Are you kidding me? Bruce, she can’t do that! Does she realize we’re going to have to refund fifteen thousand tickets?”

Bruce grunted. “Fifteen thousand, six hundred, and twenty-one—to be exact.”

“But . . . but . . .” Ethan stammered, trying to fight back his anger and clear his thoughts. “This is ridiculous! Just tell her that she can’t do this! Too much is at stake . . . I can’t disappoint my fans . . . the show must go on . . . whatever! I don’t care, just tell her
something
!”

“No good,” Bruce said, sounding bored with the entire conversation, as if he had already heard it several times that day. “Already tried all of that, and more.”

“But, how is this possible? You can get me out of a DWI, but you can’t override my mom on a decision to cancel one of the biggest concerts on my tour?”

“Sadly . . . no. Until you turn eighteen, technically, your career decisions are in her hands. I tried to talk her out of it, but she threatened to cancel the entire tour. I took the best we could get.”

The driver slowed the Escalade and made a wide right turn. Ethan looked out his window to see jets taking off from the runway. The Los Angeles International Airport stretched out in the distance.

“What exactly was the best we could get, Bruce?”

Several things flashed through Ethan’s mind at once. He imagined all of the worst possible places his mother could have dreamed up for his punishment.

Bruce refused to look up. “Know anyone in Alabama?”

Ethan sunk down in his seat and he let out a helpless groan. It was exactly as he’d feared. The worst possible place his mother could have sent him. The middle of deep south USA in the small town of Fairhope, Alabama—also known as his grandmother’s house.

“Bruce, you’ve got to get me out of this, man. Do you have any idea what it’s like down there? The woman doesn’t even have cable!”

“Sorry, kid. Just look at it as a time of rest and relaxation. Ted’s going with you. If you get bored, you can talk to him.”