Rodney sat up, making his head and ankle hurt. “Did you say Jack?”
“Yeah, he’s the one. The lead guitarist.”
If everyone thought he was Jack, then who was playing Rodney in this farce that had become his life?
Who else? His brother.
* * *
Jack was tired of lying in a hospital bed and feeling like shit. He couldn’t do anything he enjoyed—drink, play guitar, or fuck. He supposed he should feel relieved he hadn’t been arrested for murder.
He’d just had his first facial reconstruction. Linda had given the doctor some pictures of Rodney and instructed him to make him look as much like his old self as possible.
He supposed he should feel satisfied with the slow progress, but patience had never been his strong suit. As pain swallowed his face, he regretted slicing it up. Standing onstage as his mega-famous brother would make it all worth it, though, he reminded himself.
In fact, the consensus on social media pretty much said boo-hoo, so sad that Jack died, but as long as they still had Rodney, who cared? Even dead, the guy pissed him off.
Bored with the dumb talk show on TV, he flipped it off and let his thoughts drift to Dee Dobson. He couldn’t believe the bitch had figured out his true identity so easily. If she had, everyone else might, too. Hopefully, she realized opening her mouth about it would not be good for her health.
A knock on the door of his private room signaled a visitor, so he collected himself. Having a fake identity would be a full-time job, and he couldn’t let his guard down for a second.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Linda said, walking in holding some dumb-looking plant.
This would be a good test. If he could fool her into believing he was someone else, he could probably convince everyone else on the planet.
“How are you feeling, Rodney?”
“Oh, hanging in there,” he said, mimicking his brother’s gentleness instead of cussing up a storm as usual. “Did you cancel the rest of the concerts?”
She nodded as she set the plant on his nightstand. “A few people have asked if Breeze is over.”
“Hell no, it’s not over,” he exclaimed. “As soon as my face and other injuries heal a little better, I’m back onstage.”
“But what about Jack?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
Oh, right. He was supposed to mourn himself, wasn’t he?
“I’m sorry we lost him,” he said. “It must be hard for you.”
She ducked her head and sniffed. Yeah, you’d better look sad, bitch.
“It’s a loss for us all,” she said. “People have been sending flowers to the estate in Georgia.”
But probably not half as many as they’d send if they knew Rodney had been the one to croak.
“How’s the rest of the band?” he asked.
Zach, their manager, had fared the worst with multiple fractures and organ damage. Cliff, the drummer, had a broken arm, and the bass guitarist, Mitch, had a neck injury.
“About the same as you,” she replied. “Recovering slowly. The doctors still can’t seem to figure out Drew’s abdominal issues. I guess I’m lucky I just hit my head, but I can’t remember anything after getting on the plane. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“We need to hire a new lead guitarist, to replace Jack,” he said.
“So soon?” Linda wrung her hands. “Shouldn’t we have a memorial service first? I could make the arrangements.”
“Sure, yeah. You’re good at that stuff. Knock yourself out.”
She frowned at him. “You know, you seem different, Rodney.”
Alarm bells went off in his head. “How so?”
“I can’t put my finger on it.” She shook herself. “Well, we’ve all been under a great strain. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to set foot on an airplane again.”
“Sure you will,” he said. “We all will. Breeze will come back. And you know why? It’s too great to die.”
She patted him on the arm and frowned again.
“Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll update you on the service and let you know if I have any questions.”
“Thanks, Linda. You’re the greatest.”
Rodney told her that sickening crap all the time, and lo and behold. She lapped it up, grinning like a dumb puppy before she left the room.
Identity test passed. Little by little, he’d assume his rightful place in Breeze.
Chapter Sixteen
Rodney woke up before the others. Strange how an African-American family he’d barely known a week felt more familiar than his own. How could Jack impersonate him? Sure, they looked similar enough to be mistaken for each other, especially with his face messed up, but why hadn’t Jack set the record straight when he’d woken up?
Because he’d always wanted to be Rodney. Fate had finally given him the chance, and he’d grabbed it. Their parents were probably rolling in their graves. He ached to get his hands on the greedy shithead and mess up what was left of his face. Maybe he was still in shock from the accident and would come to his senses eventually.
The break from touring showed him how tired he’d gotten of that lifestyle. Running from one place to another, grabbing sub-par sleep and food along the way. Generating a thousand watts of energy at each concert while his own internal battery ran lower and lower.
He was so tired of it, he almost didn’t care if he never returned.
So, why go?
Maybe fate had given him a chance, too. He rubbed his hand across his jaw. The beard he usually kept short had grown bushier. Wincing as he slipped off his cot, he peered in the scrap of mirror hanging from the wall.
If Jack is Rodney now, then who am I?
He grinned. Anybody I want to be. At the moment, he wanted to be nobody. Live a simple life in the swamp. When he and Dee had met at her parents’ house for a getaway, he hadn’t enjoyed getting there early, but the conversation he’d had with Jeremy had been meant to be. The man had told him everything he needed to know about
