Watching the blood seep out of that pretty protester had reminded him how precious life was. What if his ended today? He wanted a woman and children to come home to. Even though his brother often acted immature, he was not Rodney’s child.
He tucked his hair behind his ear. “But think of all the musicians who perished in plane crashes. Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline… I don’t like the odds.”
“Life is a gamble,” his brother said as they took their seats along with the rest of the band.
The others laughed and carried on, filling the small space with voices. Soon, the cards would come out for some rounds of poker. So would the drugs. They probably had more stashed on board than a plane from South America.
Fame was a drug itself, shooting them higher with each performance. So why did Rodney feel as if he was descending while they ascended? Was he the only one who missed playing the local gigs? Living only for the music instead of what it could buy?
Jack always sat by the window because he loved the view up high. Rodney could never stand to look at the ground so far below. Especially when it tilted at crazy angles on ascent and descent.
As soon as they took off, Linda twisted the cap off a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels and served drinks. She was backup singer, roadie, and flight attendant all rolled into one. Her hardest job was probably being Jack’s wife, but she never complained.
“You don’t have to wait on us,” Rodney told her.
“I don’t mind,” she said, smoothing a hand over her no-nonsense dark pageboy.
Jack sipped his drink and picked up the newspaper lying on the console. “Now that we have a little free time, we can have a discussion.”
“A discussion?”
Why did his little brother have to act so controlling, making him feel like an errant child? He took a big swallow of Jack, so he could better deal with…Jack.
The picture on the front page of the paper showed him at the rally carrying Dee, bloody and injured, in his arms. He had a streak of blood on his cheek, and he grimaced as if he felt her pain. Well, it was a damn good picture, really. Something you might find in one of those coffee table magazines that had been operating for a hundred years.
It would have been great promotion for the band—if it hadn’t sent the wrong message. A thousand words couldn’t have made it clearer the sons of Dixie weren’t as Southern as they let on.
“Save your breath,” he muttered. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Good.” Jack slid a pen out of his shirt pocket. “Then help me write our statement.”
“What statement? It’s history. We’ve already done our first tour stop, and nobody cares.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. The press had asked some questions, and social media had been rife with speculation. Did Rodney Walker have an African-American girlfriend? Was the Southern thing just an act to get fans? Were they going to become a rap group? Social media could be such a royal pain in the ass, but they had to take it seriously.
Jack drained his plastic cup. “Look, you screwed up. Don’t expect me to fix it by myself.”
“Didn’t I tell you we shouldn’t have done the rally in the first place?”
Which reminded him, he needed to keep Jack more reined in, but he was a musician, not a fighter. And he’d been tired since the last concert. Bickering wouldn’t give his voice the rest it needed.
Keeping the peace got harder each day because his brother took advantage of everything he could. The band’s success had turned him into a greedy monster.
“It could have worked in our favor if you hadn’t messed up,” Jack snapped.
Fine.” Rodney blew out a sigh. “We’ll upload some videos of us eating grits at a pig roast. Real Southern stuff.”
“Have you forgotten Daddy’s dying wish?”
As if he could ever forget that night by his bedside, when the cancer finally took him. He hadn’t asked them to be the best damn band out of Georgia and make lots of money. No, he’d made them promise to honor their Southern heritage above all else. No matter where fame led them.
Another beside popped into his mind. Dee’s. Why hadn’t he called to see how she was doing? Okay, he was Southern. Part of that meant opening the door for ladies and helping them when they needed it. Ignoring her pain to protect his precious image dug into his gut like an angry crawfish.
When this contraption landed—if it landed—the first thing he planned to do was call her. After all, she was a fan, too.
* * *
On Monday morning, Dee stepped into her firm’s office. She wiped her brow. Her hip still felt as if someone had stapled it, and carrying a purse and briefcase had been a little too taxing. At least she’d been smart enough not to wear high heels.
“There she is!” Barry, one of the firm’s senior partners and her assigned boss, declared with a big smile on his face.
As usual, he wore one of his custom-made suits on his tall frame with ease. With his full beard and old-school vibe, he could easily be an R&B artist from the seventies instead of a founder of a law firm.
“Girl, you’re a hero around here,” the receptionist said. “How are you feeling?”
“Not a hundred percent yet,” Dee admitted, “but getting there.”
“Come to my office, and we’ll catch up,” Barry said, carrying her briefcase for her.
“It’s good to be back,” she said after easing herself into one of the guest chairs. “I can’t wait to dig in.”
He grabbed a newspaper off the stack of files on his desk and plopped it down in front of her. “I assume you’ve seen this?”
Her belly twitched at the big photo of Rodney carrying her injured body at the rally. She loved it. It looked so romantic. In fact, she’d cut it out and taped it to
