She won’t look at me as I linger in the alcove. She hates when I leave her any time other than my usual work schedule.
I lock the door behind me, call a ride, and as I wait, I stride to the side of the house and close the latch to the gate. By the side of the Hilden’s house, I spot a melon-sized rock, grab it, heaving, but I can’t lift it off the ground. Even better. I roll it toward the front of our gate, giving one last push as it knocks against the gate and settles there.
No wind—no amount of Stevie’s scratching—can open it now.
How did it get open in the first place?
Chapter 7
I lie in bed, twisted fantasies, realities,
come crashing down on me.
I took your hand,
warm blood running cold,
I’m getting old,
but you can’t see.
He took you from me.
Here yet? Stokes’s text message pops up on my screen as the car pulls along the curb in front of Winburn, the classy brown-brick bar my dad used to play at most often, other than the one in Sterling Heights, the neighbourhood I grew up in. I haven’t been to Winburn since the summer before college, when I watched him come alive as the main live entertainment almost every Saturday night. Summers spent on the patio here, even before I could legally drink, are some of my best memories with him and Mom.
Just got here. I hit send and step out, the chunky heels of my black boots clomping across the parking lot to the front door. A young bouncer I’ve never seen before checks my I.D. and nods for me to go in. I pull the heavy door open and walk into a loud crowd, already packed as the house music plays a song from the top forty.
I can make out the stage from here and the booth my mom and I would sit in, watching Dad’s shows over dinners and drinks. He loved when we were the first ones on the dance floor when he’d start his set. Unzipping my moto jacket, I walk past the black shiny bar to my left, squinting through the crowds at the crew in black polo shirts. No familiar faces tonight. I pass the bar and weave through small crowds toward the back door on the left. I don’t think Dad ever went back there. Back then, the talent stayed up front, even when they weren’t on stage.
A bouncer stands by the door and I stop in front of him. He gives me a skeptical glare.
“I’m with the band. Lynda McGowan. I was told to ask for Jamie.”
He nods toward the bar. “He’s the guy wearing the orange shirt. Tall, brown hair, chatting up the bartender.”
“Thanks.” I retrace my path toward the bar and stop behind a man who matches the description. “Jamie?”
He turns around, his well-groomed facial features glowing blue from the light above the bar. “Yeah?” He does a double-take. “Hey, I know you from somewhere.”
Maybe he used to know my dad, but I’ve never seen him.
“I don’t think so… I’m Lynda. The fill-in for Haddonboro.” He stares at me intently. “Singer.” His orange T-shirt has the band’s logo on it—their name written in sans serif font with the O replaced by a jack-o-lantern.
“Lynda McGowan,” he says, his face lighting up before he turns and nods to the bartender.
He leads me back toward the bouncer who steps aside as he sees us coming. Jamie opens the door for me, and I follow him down the long hallway-like ramp. He’s talking, but I can barely hear his voice over the chatter of the patrons and music until the door swings shut behind us. “You can’t be late again. You’re late—you’re out. I only represent professionals.”
I’m still five minutes early, but I won’t argue. I won’t even give the excuse that my dog got loose. I don’t want to make a worse first impression.
Jamie opens another door on the right to a small room composed of a red couch where Royal and Lucie sit with drinks in plastic cups, a small black square table in front of them, an empty folding chair, and a wall with a mirror Cline stares into with his back to us.
Stokes stops by the folding chair, mid-pace. “She’s here!” He claps his hands together and grabs his own drink in a plastic cup from the table. “Everybody ready?”
“Finally,” Cline huffs, fussing with his jean jacket as he turns to us. “Jamie, they haven’t heard from her, either.”
Jamie shrugs. “I thought she would have called by now, too.”
“Can you just get in touch with your contact there?” Cline barks at him. “Whichever bigwig is producing her, or her roommate? Just to, y’know, make sure she’s alive?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” Jamie points at him. “This was not my fault. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, but we’re rolling with it, we’ve got Lynda here” —he turns to me— “and I’m sure if Stokes says she’s great, she’ll be great.”
Cline takes a step forward, sneering at Jamie. “I want to know where she is. You set her up there. You figure it out.”
Jamie shakes his head. “You can’t control her anymore, man.” He doesn’t look at Cline when he says it. Because he’s intimidated by him?
“Control her?” Cline shouts. “You’re the manager, and you poached her right out of the band you’re managing!”
“I’m a booking manager—”
“That’s enough, guys,” Stokes says, stepping in the middle of the distance between them. “We gotta get out there soon.”
Jamie walks across the room and rests his hand on Cline’s shoulder, but he shrugs it off. Jamie rests it on there again, staring at Cline as Cline clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry she left, man. It wasn’t right. How she did it wasn’t right. I’m sorry for what happened between you. I was just trying to help her get what she wanted. It’s the business, it’s my job. I
