“She seems nice,” I said to Rick. “Who is she?”
The record store owner straightened up behind the counter and frowned at me. “Nobody. Just passing through.”
I glanced past the pasted concert posters in the window and watched as the young woman walked slowly down Main Street. Her dragging gait did not make it seem like she was anxious to get out of town, but I couldn’t blame Rick for lying. She was very attractive: unruly blond hair, dark blue eyes, and a shy smile. I wondered what she’d look like with a little confidence.
“You get the record from Bobby?” Rick asked, clearly trying to distract me from his friend.
“Yup. He’s working on a rhythm similar to track number three. I told him I’d have something to play over it in the next few days.” I pushed open the record store door. Outside, a large white truck rumbled down Main Street.
“Good luck getting anything done. Looks like your manager is cooking up something at the house.” Rick chuckled as I left.
I gritted my teeth and headed down Main Street toward my beat-up truck. Another truck, this one marked with an event planner’s flamboyant logo, rumbled past. If Rick was right, then I had to get back to the mansion and kill my manager. I picked up the pace until I got stuck behind two loitering teenagers.
“I thought the place was abandoned,” the taller boy said.
“If there’s a party there, we should totally try to get in,” his friend said. “My dad said the parties there were legendary.”
The taller boy stopped and pulled a face. “Seriously? We should totally gate-crash.”
I cringed as the boys sang a few lines from my one-hit wonder. Somehow, the damn thing was still popular despite its obviously aged sound. The boys were mocking it but knew every word. I lengthened my stride and passed them before they got to the chorus. I walked faster but could not escape the song that had dominated and then destroyed my career.
No one cared that I had more in me than just one catchy tune. No one cared that I could play the guitar to beat the devil. That one song had killed my chances of doing anything else. I was nothing but my father’s disappointing legacy who flamed out after one international hit.
Luckily, enough time had passed, and I had changed my look enough, that the boys did not recognize me. Still, my need for privacy made me cross the street.
I could have stewed on it the rest of the way home, but a camera flash caught my eye. Instinctively, I tucked my chin down to avoid paparazzi before realizing the camera was not pointed at me. I looked up and stopped dead on the sidewalk.
Caroline Sinclair’s art studio was always worth a second look but today it was impossible to look away. The flighty but attractive woman I had seen earlier was barefoot on the paint-splattered floor, stretching with impeccable balance to capture another shot of the artist at work. Caroline, true to her outrageous reputation, was clad in nothing but a bikini as she let her lithe body paint through Yoga moves. But it was the photographer who captured my attention.
She shoved back her short, unruly blond hair and lined up another shot. Gone was the confused and embarrassed expression I had seen in the record store earlier. Concentration set her full lips in a pout, and the light of inspiration shone in her blue eyes.
I recognized that light; it had beamed from my father’s face day and night as he wrote the music that had launched his band into the stratosphere of rock history.
It was hard not to notice Caroline, but I had seen the sweeps and experimental body-painting before. It was the young woman’s face that was new, her expression both irritated and inspired. I chuckled to myself as she slipped in a patch of paint and let out what clearly looked like a string of obscenities. Besides her wild blond hair and her current situation, the young woman looked neat and tidy, one of those straight-laced women who unravel in the most surprising ways.
I dragged my eyes back to the paint-smeared artist. She struck an impressive Warrior Pose but I struggled to concentrate on her normally-inspiring work. Caroline had always fascinated me with her utmost dedication to art. She let everything else go, including her reputation, and I admired her bravery. But today, it was the photographer, now biting her lip as she bent low for a better angle, that had my full attention.
I wished I could see the photographs she was capturing. I wanted to see the world through her dark-blue eyes.
The riff came out of nowhere, sounding off in my head so clearly that I straightened up to listen. It never failed to amaze me how inspiration struck when I least expected it. I replayed the idea in my head and started walking. By the time I reached the end of the sidewalk, the riff was expanding into a song.
At the corner, I tried to shake it off. I still had errands to run, and who was I kidding? I wasn’t a music phenomenon like my father. Why would I think anyone but myself would like the music I heard in my head?
I stopped in at the post office and tried to return to normal life. “Hi, Larry. How’s the wife?” I asked the postmaster.
“Potty training our youngest,” Larry replied ruefully.
I laughed. “So, nice day to be at work?”
Larry tapped his nose to show I was right on point. Then he slipped into the back room and returned with my package. It was small and wrapped in nondescript brown paper, just a box of my favorite guitar strings, but Larry marveled over it for fun.
“Let me guess, rose petals from the Riviera?” Larry had handled many of my father’s unique orders in the past.
“Not for me,” I reminded him.
Larry smiled, having known me from childhood. “Working on a new song?”
“What?” I blinked hard, realizing that I had been humming the new riff out loud.
“I like it,” Larry said.
“Uh, thanks.” I grabbed my package and hightailed it out of the post office.
Still, the song followed me back down Main Street. I caught myself humming it again as I swung into the hardware store. Luckily, the owners there were relatively new and had no idea who I was. Plus, they were too busy arguing over stock orders.
“No one’s buying anything, so why restock?” the husband argued.
“I don’t care what you stock or restock,” his wife said. “We’re not giving in to that land developer. This is still our store.”
I wondered about the developer, but the forming song pushed everything out of my head again. Back on Main Street, I realized why the riff was so insistent.
It was her.
As soon as I admitted the blonde photographer had inspired me, the song took off. I hurried to my beat-up truck with the lyrics already forming on my tongue. I had to scribble them on the back of a receipt before I could concentrate on driving home.
The last road off Main Street leading to the right headed straight for the lavish mansion my father had built. Instead of driving right home, I detoured down an alley and turned on to the service road. If people saw my old truck regularly driving up the mansion’s wide, tree-lined entrance, they would start wondering who I really was. The locals, like Larry and Rick, had kept my secret without an explanation for years. To them, I had finally become just a regular guy and I prized that more than all the wealth and fame my father had collected.
I bumped over the unmaintained back road and pulled into the stone-walled service entrance of the mansion. There, behind the high walls, no one could see me pull the rusty old truck into the underground garage, where I parked it next to a lemon-yellow Lamborghini Countach. I jumped out and strode past the long collection of high-end sports cars that culminated in a Rolls Royce Phantom my father had loved like a second child.
I pushed open the basement door and jogged up the polished mahogany steps. I kicked off my shoes on the back landing and entered the sun-filled cathedral of a kitchen. After almost a full decade of living on tour with my father, my formative years spent at a boarding school overseas, and countless other expensive residences, this mansion was still the only place that felt like home.
My best memories were in that kitchen, huddled over the massive marble island, mixing up outrageous ice cream flavors with my father late at night. It was the only place he ever seemed to come back down to earth and realize he had a son.
I tossed my keys into the black bowl formed from a warped album and put the brown-paper package on the kitchen island. In the huge double-doored refrigerator, I found a steak sandwich and a beer waiting. I pulled them out and started eating lunch as I unwrapped the guitar strings and let the new riff play over and over in my head.
“There you are! Good, you found lunch.” Tyson, my manager, burst into the kitchen and paced up and down the gleaming floors.
I frowned. “What now, Tyson?”
Tyson could have retired years ago, rich off the royalties from my one-hit wonder, but he had chosen to stay on as my manager, even though I wasn’t making music anymore. Not only did he stay on, but he moved into the mansion and had taken over running the large estate. In truth, Tyson was more family to me than my actual blood relatives. He had apprenticed under my father’s manager as a young man, and we had practically grown up together in the midst of Ian Morris’ inspired chaos.
“Now, before you say anything else—”
“No. Whatever it is, Tyson, it’s not happening,” I said.
“Fine.” Tyson folded his thick forearms over his barrel-chest. “Then let’s talk about the estate instead, shall we?”
I took a long drink of my beer before answering. “You know as well as I do that it’s time to move on. Selling the estate is the only way either of us are going to manage to get on with our lives.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tyson said. “I like my life. I like being a music manager. I like being your manager.”
I snorted. “You sure about that?”
Tyson tipped his bald head and beseeched the kitchen’s beautiful arched ceiling. “Why are you so stubborn, Storm?”
“Wanting my life back is not stubborn, it’s normal,” I said.
“And that’s the problem. When are you going to accept the fact that nothing about you or your life is ever going to be ‘normal?’“ Tyson asked.
I finished my steak sandwich instead of answering. Tyson was vehemently opposed to moving and, at first, I had thought it was because he hated change. Now I wasn’t so sure. Something else had put a determined light in his eyes. He wasn’t telling me yet, so I changed the subject.
“So, I saw these big white trucks driving through town. You know anything about those?” I asked.
Tyson sighed. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
I groaned. “Please tell me you’re not throwing a party!”
“Consider it one last hurrah,” Tyson said.
I pinched the arch of my nose, knowing full well an elaborate party was just another one of Tyson’s ploys to get me to stay. And I knew from experience that once my manager had put an idea in motion, there was no stopping it.
We were having a party whether I wanted one or not.