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Archer
The tinted windows of the limo are made to keep the occupants’ privacy but I’ve been instructed to keep one window down when passing through a town. That way the paparazzi can document Marcus Kane’s presence in the Nebraska Sandhills. The reason that was leaked by the publicity team is that he’s on a private retreat to relax and work on the music for his next album without distraction.
So after my arrival at an unnamed horse ranch slash winery slash retreat destination, the usual throng of photographers and gossip mongers have agreed to disband for a month.
I tap the side of the unopened soda can I’m holding on my knee. If I have one week of not having my every move photographed, I’ll be lucky. I’ll be even luckier if none of his rabid fans figure out where I am. Everything Mars Kane does is newsworthy.
Too bad that’s not who I am.
When the limo stops at a train crossing a nondescript sedan pulls up next to us. Glancing out the open window, I recognize one of Mars’ professional stalkers. This one is going to be the hardest to fool. I lift the soda can in salute then pop it open and take a long drink. At the soft click-whir of a camera taking rapid shots, I close my eyes and lean back against the seat.
And so it begins.
Once we pass through the small town, I lean closer to the window letting the hot air blow through my hair. Nebraska has always been a fly-over state so I’ve never thought about the diversity of landscapes I’ve seen since we left the metropolis area of Omaha. The view from the window is far different than the flat, featureless landscape I’d been expecting. They call this rolling grass covered part of the state the Sandhills. I’ve never seen so much prairie, stretching to the horizon.
There’s occasional stretches of crops, corn or something like that I guess, but mostly green and golden brown waves of pastures.
I reach for my tablet and open a new document. Something about this place calls for a song. For music and lyrics. One of Mars’ occasional ballads. I make a few notes then stare out the window. Notes swirl through my brain although the melody doesn’t coalesce. Not yet. But it will. And it’ll be a hit.
Not to brag, but I haven’t been wrong yet when music calls to me with this kind of strength.
“That car’s still following us, Mr. Kane.”
Jolted from my reverie, I lean forward to speak with the driver. “We expected that. Won’t be a problem unless they try to follow us onto the ranch. Arrangements have been made there to deal with that issue.”
The driver nods. “According to the GPS, we should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Most of the times I’ve impersonated my brother—even as far back as grade school—dread takes up a permanent residence like a heavy lump in my stomach. Not the fear of being discovered, because that happened often enough when we were young. It’s more the threat of being exposed as frauds.
When Mars started his career, Mom sat us both down and told us about this duo from when she was a girl. Extremely popular and award winning, they actually lip synced all their music and became laughing stocks of the music world. Even when at his worst, drunk or high, Mars has never synced a song. Even when the music is so off key or tempo it makes my ears bleed, his fans still love it. And love him.
He can have—and has had—any woman he wants. Or man when he’s so inclined. He thrives seeing his photo on the gossip magazines. Has been known to leak a story or two if he hasn’t seen himself often enough in the grocery store checkout line or entertainment television channels. Yet for some reason he never wants anyone to know when he crawls far enough into drugs and rock and roll to realize he needs help.
That’s when he calls me. And like when we were kids, I’ve got his back. He promised this would be his last time in rehab. Since he’s never said that before, I’m hopeful he can stay true to being sober. He’s a much better performer without the artificial stimulation. A better brother, too.
There are times I’m envious of his success but the limelight would destroy me. I even disguise my skill and identity by allowing Mars to claim he wrote his greatest hits. Words and lyrics by Marcus A. Kane. The initial is the only thing connecting me to my music. That and the royalty checks deposited into my business account. I blow out a huff of breath. I shouldn’t complain. I use a pseudonym for songs I sell to other artists. I simply want my life to be private.
Mars’ team has done a good job recreating his background to erase a twin brother. I’m surprised we’ve gotten away with it for so long. Along with my private life, I’d like to be myself again. If I can remember who that is.
“We’re here, Mr. Kane.” The limo slows then turns onto the start of a long drive passing under an arched sign identifying the Turquoise Creek Ranch. A single long board blocks the drive.
A tall cowboy strolls toward the car from the side where there’s a small grouping of shade trees and bends to peer into the limo. My window is still down and he touches the brim of his hat with a nod then turns his attention to the lowering driver’s window.
I don’t pay attention to their mumbled conversation until the cowboy straightens and glances down the road. “Yeah, I see. He’s stopped where he’s got a good view of the barn. Soon as I let you through, I’ll go have a… visit with him. Now, just follow the road and stop at the first house. Alice will be waiting to get Mr. Kane settled.”
After sliding the board to one side, he waves us through then replaces the barrier. They’re taking the need for security seriously. I’m grateful but know it’s only a matter of time before the paparazzi who followed us decides to beat out his competition and start selling photos and outing my location.
Such is the life of a celebrity. And for the next few weeks that’s who I am.
Alice is a bright, cheerful woman who meets the limo and immediately climbs into the back with me. “Sorry, Mr. Kane. I should have asked first,” she says as she arranges her loose tee over a large baby bump. “When we officially open, I plan to either just direct guests or walk up with them. Today hasn’t been easy on my back. So if you don’t mind…”
“Not a problem. And call me Ar… uh, Mars.”
She, her husband, and her brother, owners of the ranch, know who I really am, but they are the only one privy to that information. With a nod and a wink, she continues, “So then, Mars, you need to call me Alice. Same with everyone on the ranch.”
“They’re all named Alice?”
