“I’ll always be grateful for your friendship,” she said.
“And I’ll always be your friend.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I can’t stay for lunch. I’ve got a big meeting to prepare for.”
“It’s all right.”
She didn’t have any appetite, either. After a cup of coffee, she hoped to lose herself in the busy details of the rest of her day. No matter how trivial, anything that kept her mind off Rodney was a good thing.
* * *
A few nights later, Rodney unlocked the door of Alvin’s apartment. He was Breeze’s sound engineer, and, luckily, he still kept a spare key under his welcome mat. Rodney had played music at Buster’s with a coin jar, worked overtime at the boat rental place, and begged a few loans. As soon as he’d scraped together enough money, he’d taken a bus to Waycross, Georgia. Alvin would be a key piece of his plan, if he cooperated.
Dee was right about Jack. He’d gotten away with too much for too long. For every inch of leeway he’d been given, he’d pushed it for a mile. Rodney had even let him overrule him about flying that day when it wasn’t safe. Lives had been lost because of it. He’d lost Dee because of him more than once, and he’d done some research. Hate crimes had increased in the areas where Jack had done recent concerts.
No more. It was time to stop his brother, once and for all, before he destroyed anyone or anything else. Rodney would always be a Southern gentleman, but he couldn’t use it as an excuse to look the other way anymore. The time had come to reclaim his own life.
Every nerve in his body jangled as he slipped inside the dark apartment. Walking softly with a bad ankle wasn’t easy, but the carpeting helped. The last thing he needed was to get arrested for breaking and entering.
He crept to the bedroom, managing not to trip over anything except the cat. It’s yowl must have woken Alvin up, though, because the steady snoring broke off. Rodney stood in the doorway, hoping the streetlights revealed just enough of him to get the point across.
“Jeez, Rodney,” the man said, sitting straight up. “You scared the crap out of me. It’s the middle of the night. What do you want?”
Rodney’s confidence backpedaled. Annoyance was not the effect he’d been going for. He’d meant to haunt the guy, hoping his enthrallment would get him to agree to his plans. Then he remembered Jack had stolen his identity. After his recent tantrums and instrument bashing, no wonder the band was irritable.
Picturing Dee’s face gave him the strength to carry on his mission. She’d educated him about race. Having grown up in the South, his beliefs were on autopilot. Next, she’d opened his eyes to helping others outside of family and the band. Most of all, she’d helped him see Jack as he really was. Though none of it had been easy, he loved her for it.
He stepped closer, so Alvin could get a better look at his face, and tucked some hair behind one ear.
The other man stared at him and blinked. “I must be dreaming. What happened to the scars on your face?”
“I never had any,” Rodney declared.
“Your voice. I-it’s much better. You sound like you used to. You—” Alvin pulled the covers up to his chin. “Holy fuck. You’re the one who died! I’m looking at a ghost right now.”
Rodney placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re right about who I am, but I’m not dead. I need your help to stop Jack.”
“Y-you got it, man. I’ll do anything to save the band.”
“Good. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Mobile, AL
A week later, Jack stepped up to the microphone in the Mobile Civic Center. He’d rested his voice, spent half his waking hours gargling, and had warmed it up before the show. If it failed him again, he swore he’d cut out his own throat.
If he took any more time off, he’d go crazy. Luckily, tonight’s show wasn’t in the same city as the last one. Being close to where he’d spent his shitty childhood must have jinxed it. No, this one was in Mobile, Alabama, a good ‘ol Southern state.
When he walked onto the stage, something felt off. Exciting but off. Almost like the auditorium was haunted with Civil War ghosts or something. When they kicked off the first song, one of their first classics, he made sure not to strain his voice. Whether or not it would make it through the entire concert remained to be seen.
Next, the band began playing the most poignant ballad Rodney had ever written. It was so personal and custom-made for his voice, Jack had never played it since taking over. So, why were they playing it now?
After canceling the previous show, the last thing he wanted to do was quit. He carried the tune, but it was the best he could do. The haunting melody filled him with something he hadn’t felt in so long he hardly recognized it. Emotion.
For his brother. For what he’d done to him in that Louisiana swamp.
Footsteps sounded behind him on the stage. Slow, booted ones like the kind you might hear in an old Western ghost town. The audience must have heard them, too, because they gasped then yelled.
“Rodney!” some girl shrieked.
Clenching the microphone with sweat pouring down his wrist, Jack turned to see who’d made such a stir in the middle of his damn song.
The sight hit him in the chest with a sucker punch. Backlit so he resembled a freaking angel, his golden hair blazing in a halo, was Rodney.
Holy shit. No! No! You’re dead. I-I killed you.
It couldn’t be Rodney. So, where had this drop-dead lookalike come from? And how the hell had he gotten past security?
The vision smiled at him. “Hello, Jack. Long time no see.”
Jack opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Rodney’s touch was warm and alive as he
