He picked up a pair of scissors from a nearby table. Should he shorten his beard and sort of be Rodney again or let it grow, cutting his hair shorter, instead?
Dee’s face flashed through his mind, giving him pause. They’d already broken up. If he contacted her, he might blow his cover. Besides, she’d be better off without him. So would everyone she helped while doing her job.
He lifted a hank of hair and made the first cut. Because he couldn’t bear to lop it all off, he chose a length just above his shoulders. He wore one of Bubba’s old short-sleeved shirts, which hung on him because it was too big. Already, he barely recognized himself and hoped nobody else would, either.
* * *
Jack never dreamed he’d be attending his own memorial service. What a fine day for a funeral. Sunny and mild. He stood with the band at the cemetery in Waycross, Georgia. The same one where his parents lay. The colorful flowers and scent of fresh-cut grass made the gathering feel like a festive occasion. He wore black, of course, to fit the ceremony and impersonate his brother.
He’d insisted on rush ordering a stone, to prove to himself and the whole world the death was real. A chill zinged down his spine when he ran his fingers across the engraved letters JACK.
Flying here had made him feel strange, but it felt good to leave Louisiana and the scene of his horrible deed. He was glad to be standing, period. His face was still bandaged up from the first surgery. No facial bones were broken, so the doctors said he might not need another to look like his old self. Or—little did they know—his new self. They’d know better once the swelling subsided.
The rest of them didn’t look much better with their crutches, casts, and faces pinched with pain and grief. They even passed around a pint of Jack Daniels. Well, that was nothing new…
Alvin opened a Bible and said some religious words. Linda had wanted to hire a preacher, but the fewer outsiders around the better. Because their manager was still in the hospital, their sound engineer volunteered.
“He was the best guitar player I’ve ever met,” Mitch, the bass guitarist, said.
“Absolutely,” Drew, their keyboardist, added. “And he really cared about the band, always pushing us to be the best.”
Damn straight.
Cliff, the drummer, turned to him with tears in his eyes. “At least we still have each other and especially you, Rodney.”
“You’re bigger than life,” Mitch added. “Hell, you’re too amazing to die.”
Jack fought the urge to throw up on his shoes from the sickening praise about his perfect brother. If they only knew Rodney was the one who’d died, they’d turn him into some kind of angel, making people adore him even more.
“Would you like to say anything, Linda?” Alvin asked.
Jack eyed his wife, standing there in a black dress that buttoned up to her neck. Good Southern woman. Prim and proper, attending church every chance she got. So different from the groupies who thronged the shows. Dressed in skimpy clothes and practically shaking their tits in the guys’ faces.
“Jack was… Well, he was something.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I never had a dull moment since the day I met him.”
He couldn’t believe how much he’d miss having her as his wife. Keeping her in line with a word or gesture. Having her wait on him. Most of all, fucking her any ol’ damn time he pleased whether she wanted it or not. But now, he had to play Rodney the goody two-shoes. Which meant he’d have to find someone else to satisfy his urges.
Someone white. Hopefully, a steady girlfriend of the right color would make their fans forget about Rodney’s little fling with Aunt Jemima.
“He always seemed troubled, though. I hope he finds peace wherever he is,” she concluded.
“Amen to that,” Cliff said.
The only thing troubling him was always being in second place. Time to be number one for a change.
Finally, the others turned to Jack with expectant eyes. Shit. Do they expect me to deliver a freaking eulogy?
He felt like laughing because he’d fooled them all. Instead, he grabbed the whiskey bottle, took a big swig, and bowed his head. Make it good. Make it believable.
“What can I say about my little brother?” he began. “We didn’t always get along.”
Drew snickered. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“But he’s kin, I love him, and death can’t change that.” He lifted his hands in the air, hamming it up like a preacher at a revival. “Come with us, Jack, to the next show.”
Alvin frowned. “What show? Breeze is over.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jack declared. “That’s not what he would have wanted.”
“He’s right,” Mitch said. “The band was his life.”
“And it can be his afterlife,” Jack said. “We need to do a performance.”
“We’ll have to hire a lead guitarist,” Alvin declared. “It won’t be easy to replace him.”
“We will,” Jack said. “Bands change members all the time. I intend to work on my own guitar skills, too.”
Not until his damn shoulder healed, though. He needed to lighten his hair as well.
“Let’s get out of here.” On their way out, he touched the tombstone again. “Rest in peace, brother.”
He ducked his head again so no one could see his smile
* * *
In her pajamas, Dee flopped onto her couch and switched on the TV. Like the rest of her furniture, the couch was simple, modern, and comfortable. Wearing her favorite fuzzy slippers made her feel even better.
Between her demanding job and running for office, she hardly had a minute to herself anymore. She made a point to watch the news every night, though. Ted had told her she needed to be well versed in all politics, from the White House down to her community.
After some headlines about the president, who always seemed to be involved in one scandal or another, a graveyard scene flashed into view.
“Breeze had a memorial service today for Jack Walker, the lead
