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The sympathetic sigh from the other end of the line is all the warning I need. I close my eyes and lift my chin to the ceiling. "Out with it."
"We caught it. I'm having it put in the storage unit, along with the other things."
Water pools behind my eyelid. I wipe my forearm across my face and wish I could wipe away the memory that refuses to die. It's like death by a thousand cuts. I'm still bleeding all these years later. "If you're not telling me what it is, it must be bad." My voice cracks, and I slip down to the cool studio floor.
Bored on the tour bus years ago and scrolling through social media, I came across an eBay posting of someone selling a picture of me from middle school practicing on my acoustic guitar. A picture that once sat on my bedroom dresser. I knew immediately. Mom.
I set up a fake profile and outbid the half-dozen internet creeps to take ownership of what should have been mine from the beginning. The following month, another photo appeared, and the pain returned.
Each post chipped away a little further. Reminded me that the devil's work is never done. When I tired of the pain, I handed it over to Harper. She monitors the accounts and outbids whoever has the gall to try to steal my childhood.
"You don't need to know. It's stuff. Your stuff, and we got it back."
I want to know. No, I don't. I have to. I need a reminder why I can't soften my position. Why, despite all the heartache and pain she's caused, on those dark, rainy, lonely nights on tour, I fight the urge to reach for the phone and call my mom. "Give it up–I need to know."
Harper knows me well. She doesn't beat around the bush. She delivers the news straight and hard, knowing that's the way I like to take it. "The trophy from your eleventh-grade talent show."
The cut is deep.
Fifteen years later, my mom is still drawing blood from me. "Devil in the flesh. Devil in the flesh," I repeat the mantra, praying this time it finally sticks.
Harper tolerates my tirade. I stop when I remember she bills by the minute. "At some point in time, you're going to have to talk to her."
I scoff, the image of my mom in the doorway with the smug look on her face as I picked up almost everything I owned from the lawn that day. She thought she held all the cards, that she could control my life. "I'll talk to her when she's earned it. No one in this life gets a free pass, regardless of their name or because of their title. Even if that title says Mom." I only let a few people get close to me, and they all have one thing in common—each of them has been there for me through the good and the bad. They don't walk away when times get tough. "She can talk to me when I arrive in hell."
Chapter Nine
Ariel
A stillness sits heavy in the studio as I pace the floor. I'm amped up like a shaken bottle of soda ready to burst. I need a release.
I have no clue when the boys will return, although Laredo gave me a clue. I scoop up my guitar and plop onto the stool. My back tingles with the thought of it being pressed against Adam. My impromptu move felt so natural. So calming.
I'm still in shock that he got me to talk about my mom. I never mention my mom to most people. The band knows, of course, but very few others. Yet Adam had me spewing inner secrets on our first day together.
There's something about Adam that causes me to relax. To lower the guards, I usually hold up high in the presence of anyone not in the band. And even for them, it took years to reach that point. Even today, they have no clue about what my mom does on eBay.
When I was couch surfing every week, I expected one of them to tell me not to return. That I was no longer welcome. But they never did. And each time I returned, the bonds strengthened, and I lowered my guard a little more.
My fingers attempt to strum the slow tune Adam played earlier, and I fail. Something about the tune feels different, yet familiar. My head was in another place, and I didn't pay enough attention to replicate the notes. After two more failed attempts, I switch over to the new piece of music I'd been working on between shows.
I always start my songs with the instrumental track and then layer on the lyrics later. It's an up-tempo rock song with a hook I can't wait to find the right words for. It'll be another Devil May Care anthem song. Best screamed at the top of your lungs into a cavernous stadium. Just the thought of performing puts a smile on my face. I never want to stop performing.
Time is wasting away. I have to get the boys back.
Seaside is a small town. And at this hour, there are only a handful of places they could have gone. Let me amend that statement. Only a handful of places a decent person would go. Laredo could be anywhere.
I place my guitar on the stand and head toward the exit.
Two at a time, I take the steps. Physicality is one of my secrets to managing my emotions. Someone pisses me off, crank up a tune, and go into performance mode. Looking to escape a thought rabbit hole, challenge one of the boys to a game of hoops. Anger, take it out on the heavy bag in the gym. By the time I get to the ground floor of the studio, my mind has forgotten Laredo. It's no longer consumed with accounting and numbers. I push through the door and let the sun warm my face.
Standing there is the one person it didn't forget.
Adam.
He lifts his chin, the sun hitting his baby blues at the right angle and a half smile creeping up his handsome face.
"You're here?" I can't hide the surprise in my voice. When I lost track of him in the studio, I assumed he'd be heading to the fire department to help rescue a kitten stuck in a tree.
