CHAPTER 8
Cory
Everything feels off tonight, and not just because of the throbbing headache that begins at my left temple and stretches its talons to the back of my neck. Stitches pull against my eyebrow from under the bandages—it took six of them to close the wound. They itch. They hurt. I want to rip them out. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is my performance. The show must go on, as someone once claimed. Sal claimed it too, just last night when I was begging to cancel. Both those morons should go to hell for handing out bad quips.
My feet are mired in thick sludge, each movement feels forced and labored. My bruised shoulder strains against the weight of my guitar—the guitar which normally feels as natural as an extra appendage but now seems more like a noose intent on squeezing the life out of my left side. My normally raspy voice is rougher than usual—probably from the yelling that turned to crying that turned into coughing up radiator fumes. I should have demanded we cancel the concert. Now that I’m here, I owe it to the fans to step it up. I keep picturing the redhead, knowing I’ll never be able to repay the debt I owe to her. To everyone.
I just hope the fans can’t tell how much I’m struggling.
We’re in the middle of the second chorus of Try Me for Free, the first single from my debut album that I’ve played a thousand times before, when I make the mistake of glancing over at Mark, my bass player. I don’t miss the what’s with you look he gives me, but I don’t acknowledge it either, just turn away and begin the lead-in to the last verse. I’m responsible for the death of someone. I made the driver wait, even though he was tired. I went back for the blonde, even though I knew better. I bent my own rules, even though they were there for a reason.
My mind jumps backward a decade before I shove it back into the present.
There’s a big difference this time. This time, I’m not soaked in muddy water and shivering from icy fear. This time, I’m going to make things right. I clench my jaw together and breathe through my nose.
Always this. Every road I take leads to this same place. No matter how far I rise, this one thing will always bring me back down.
Be awesome. Those are the last words I spoke at that concert a couple nights ago. It’s how I finish up every concert, every single night. My last chance to say something meaningful to a crowd of twenty-thousand who paid good money to hear me, and that’s what I say. Be awesome. Because I’m seventeen all over again, high on weed or meth or whatever vice kids use these days. I might as well have stumbled around onstage and slurred my words for how ridiculous they seem to me now.
Be awesome. The last words that redhead heard me say onstage before her life was cut short because of my tour bus.
Well it won’t be the last words these people hear tonight.
The final chord fades and I step up to the microphone. The band is already leading in to the next song. They won’t like my interruption, but it’s my name on the merchandise, my name on the tickets, my name on the bus.
I hold up my hand to stop the music. Confused, one-by-one, the band quits playing. Even the audience quiets down, something that almost never happens. I take a deep breath and begin to speak the words I suddenly wish I had rehearsed.
“I just…I just want to—” The microphone is louder than usual. Or maybe it’s that my nerves are tighter. Either way, I feel more on display than ever before. Someone yells from the back of the arena. Holding tight to my guitar, I ignore the sound and keep going.
“Some of you may have heard about the girl who was killed after our concert in Springfield a couple of nights ago.” An uncomfortable cough comes from behind me. Mike wants me to stop talking, but I don’t need his permission to speak. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that I feel terrible for what happened. Kind of responsible, you know?” My voice breaks. Someone yells it’s not your fault as a smattering of we love you, Cory’s travels throughout the room. The pronouncements usher in a whole new wave of shouting. The band takes it as a cue to start playing, but I’m not finished. I raise my hands to hush the crowd.
“Just let me finish, okay? Then I promise we’ll get back to what you came here for.” Slowly, the noise dissipates. “I just want to say that life is short. So when you leave here tonight, go out and live the best life you can, love the people you love, and be happy. But above all, be safe.” Applause grows, but I have one last thing to say before it drowns me out. “So I want to dedicate tonight’s concert to a fan, to a girl who came to a concert two nights ago—that’s all she did—just came to hear me sing. And she was killed on her way home.” My voice cracks on the last word. It takes a minute to regain my composure. “This one’s for Kassie.”
Kassie. All I have is her first name.
I step back to get myself together. I’ve never been this nervous or scared in a concert, not since my very first one.
I force myself to reengage with the crowd, to push through the melancholy and get back into the moment. I have a show to finish, and these people deserve the best I have to offer. For the next twenty minutes I’ll play my heart out so they can go home satisfied.
But later, I have a plan. One that’s been swirling in my mind since I came onstage. It isn’t the greatest plan, but I have to start somewhere. There’s got to be a beginning to get to a middle and end, right?
One way or another, as soon as the lights go out tonight, I’m going to connect with that girl’s family.
* * *
She was even prettier than I remember—striking in a way that would make men glance back for a second and third look—while at the same time being wholesome and earthy. Had I seen her on the street, I would have openly stared. Maybe even had someone inquire about her. The concert didn’t do her justice; it didn’t accent her deep blue almond shaped eyes, or the toned legs that stretched for miles. She was tall—the pictures make it obvious in the way she towered over her friends. In this particular picture, she’s wearing a pink Victoria’s Secret tee and laughing as though she’s just been told the punch line to a side-splitting joke.
But she was young. Younger than I thought. That reality stabs me through my already guilt-laden conscience.
Seventeen is too young to die.
Any age is too young for me to be responsible.
I’m an expert on that fact.
I open another image on her Instagram page, one taken only last week. In it, she wears a blue graduation gown. She stands in front of a red brick building next to what looks like a slightly older version of herself. She’s holding two small slips of white paper in one hand while her other hand flashes the peace sign. The other girl—woman, actually—has the same auburn hair, the same cornflower blue eyes, the same sly grin as though the two share a secret. The older girl’s hair is longer and falls in waves past her shoulders, but the face…their faces are definitely the same.
The difference is in the eyes. The younger girl is innocent and full of life; I remember those eyes smiling up at me. I remember the way they sparked and popped during the concert. But the older girl, she’s known pain. She looks weary, like the weight of life rests directly on her shoulders. She’s compellingly beautiful, but there’s a depth to it that goes much further than a surface look designed to turn heads.
She would definitely turn heads, mine included. But then the admirer would be too mesmerized to look away.
Both girls would turn heads. I knew they were sisters before I read the caption.
Feeling sick and curious in a nauseating combination, I scan the words underneath the photo once again and immediately wish I hadn’t. Cory Minor tickets! My sister gives the best graduation gifts ever! The sister is tagged in the photo: Samantha Dalton. I can’t help but click on her profile. The need to know more consumes me, and now that I’ve come this far I can’t make myself stop. I’m like a masochist with a fetish for self-mutilation; it hurts, but I dig in for more.
I scroll through her page looking…looking…hoping for answers despite being unsure of the questions. I stop short at the sight of a photo taken this Spring and click on it. Samantha and Kassie flank an elderly man lying in a hospital bed; they smile, he offers nothing but a vacant stare. The caption reads simply: My family. I stare for a moment trying to process, then set my phone on the desk and swivel my chair toward the window. In my world, family is made up of cousins and grandparents and brothers and step-people I wouldn’t recognize in a room full of fans. Surely this isn’t all they have.
Unable to help myself, I snatch up my phone and keep reading until a comment under the photo brings me up short. I can’t believe it’s been ten years already…your mother would be proud of you both. Then more recent comments, the latest one posted only fifteen minutes ago: I’m sorry to hear about Kassie. She was such a great girl and will be missed. Let me know if you…
I swallow, unable to read more. This chick named Samantha has lived through hell.
And I just struck another match.
I fling my phone toward the bed and reach for a ball cap, pulling it low enough to cover my bandaged eyebrow. It’s hot in here and I need air. A distraction. A way to turn back the clock forty-eight hours and reset it to a time when my biggest worry was which pair of designer sunglasses made the best impression. Instead, I shove my arms into an old denim jacket, skip the sunglasses all together, pocket my hotel room key, and walk out the door. Sneaking past Big Jim might be a problem, but if I can manage I might be able to feel normal again in a few short minutes.
Miracle of miracles, I make it outside without being seen. Three minutes later I duck inside a corner pub and walk toward the back. It’s darkest in the back and lessens the possibility of being recognized.
One hour later I’m sipping my third beer and contemplating a fourth. Sal and his don’t drink too much advice can suck it. Getting drunk is the primary goal tonight, and after that I’ll…
Well, I don’t know what I’ll do. Is it always necessary to have a plan?
This pub is more of a dance club than a quiet hangout, and it’s kind of giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s the alcohol. I shake my head and tip my glass to look over the crowd. A mosh pit has formed on the dance floor—men and men, women and women, couples doing all sorts of dancing and grinding that will no doubt keep them busy most of the evening. This beer will keep me busy, I hope.
But of course I’m not that lucky.
A woman in a slinky silver dress slides into the chair across from me. I think the dress is supposed to be expensive, but it reminds me of a Doublemint gum wrapper. I wonder if it crinkles when it’s touched.
“What are you doing back here all by yourself?” she says. She places her drink on the table and stirs it, eyes on me, waiting for me to look up. After a reluctant moment I do, careful not to reveal too much of my face. It never takes much to be recognized—normally not a problem. Tonight, I’m not in the mood to play the fame game. I say nothing, just drape my arm across the back of my chair. I’m also not in the mood to talk.
“Did you hear me? You should be out there dancing, not sitting back here all by yourself.” Her voices purrs. I know a come-on when I hear one.
“I’d rather sit here and enjoy the view.” I haven’t taken my eyes off the woman, making my words sound like an invitation. Too late, I realize she takes it that way. She scoots closer, elbows on the table, cleavage on display. I fight an eye roll. It’s all so predictable.
“You know, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Cory Minor? Same hair. Same eyes. Same crooked grin. Same bandage above the eye.” And there it was. The news is already circulating, and no matter how clever I try to be, a disguise never works. Not sure why I thought it might tonight. Big Jim will be furious, especially if I have to run from a mob. Especially if I get hurt more than I already am.
“Never heard that before.” I shrug through the lie, but I don’t mind telling one. It might be more believable if my leg wasn’t bouncing. The woman notices before I make myself stop. A clear sign of nerves, and I just waved the flag.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
She knows my name. I throw her a false one anyway. “Kyle.” It’s my brother’s name. It won’t hurt him to let me borrow it for a minute. Lord knows we share plenty of other things. Including secrets.
“Well Kyle…” She stretches out the name. “How about you dance with me?”
“I’m not much for dancing, really.” I toss back the last of my beer. Four. Four beers in one hour. Why am I not drunk yet? Nothing in my life is working out lately.
“Then we could always find something else to do.”
I clench my teeth when she laces her fingers through mine. Women never wait for an invitation to touch me. It’s like the minute I signed a recording contract I became public property both on and off the stage. I realize this doesn’t sound like a complaint a normal guy would make where women are concerned and usually I wouldn’t. I’m generally okay with hands on me.
But not tonight.
Right now I sense trouble. There’s only one way to deflect it.
I stand, feeling the warmth of her body slide up beside me. She tightens her grip on my hand, misinterpreting my actions. For another moment, I decide to let her. I toss a twenty on the table and walk toward the exit, keeping our fingers linked together. If I can make it close to the door before letting go, chances are she won’t have much time to alert anyone. No need to cause a scene. We’re halfway across the dance floor when she spins me around and threads her fingers behind my neck, pulling me close. I sway with her for a second, but my heart isn’t in it. Despite the alcohol I’d hoped would numb my senses, my heart is still wrapped around that Instagram page back in my hotel room.
I unwind her arms and take a step back. “I’m out of here. Hope you have a good night.” I manage one step backwards, then another one, before indignation makes its way across her features.
“You’re leaving? We’re just getting started.” I turn and keep walking, head down, counting on luck to get me to the door.
My luck runs out.
“You can’t just walk away from me, Cory Minor!” She shouts my name just as I push my way outside. I hear a collective gasp and take off running, praying the door has time to close behind me before anyone busts their way through. I hear it latch and round a corner. Not the safest corner in New York City, but right now I’ll do anything to avoid a mob. When you’re unable to walk down a deserted street at two o’clock in the morning without being chased, your life is officially out of control. As for mine, all delusions of being in charge disappeared the moment that girl died.
I wait a minute to make sure no one is following me, then jam my hands in my pockets and step off the curb. This city, for all its excitement and flash, normally depresses me. The greatest city in the world, but right now all I want is a patch of grass to lie down on, a guitar by my side in case inspiration strikes, and some wine to sip while I fall asleep. Instead, the only thing for miles is pavement, tall buildings, subway fumes mixed with the scent of urine, and sirens. So many sirens. All the sirens in the world collected in this one city block.
Broken glass crunches underfoot, and a discarded McDonald’s wrapper brushes against my jeans as it floats down a side street. Horns blare from drivers in a rush. A homeless man, filthy and gripping an empty milk carton between his knees, sits slumped in the shadows of a store entrance, sound asleep. I peel a fifty from my wallet and tuck it inside the container, careful not to jostle the man. I do want to help; I don’t want conversation.
Someone bumps into my left shoulder. Just a guy in a hurry, but I shoot him a look anyway. And that’s when I see him. There. About twenty yards behind me. Trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably because that’s what happens when a guy in gold chains and designer jeans tries to blend in with the homeless and hookers. I turn around and plant my feet, waiting for my stalker to catch up. He looks straight at me, jaw set, eyes hard, doesn’t even flinch. That says a lot about my intimidation skills.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I glare at him, hating that I have to look up so far. Is he getting taller, because sometimes he makes me feel like a child. “And how long have you been following me?”
“I’m doing my job.” Big Jim’s baritone voice conveys irritation, but I don’t care. I’m too busy studying the tangled gold chains hanging from around his neck. “And I’ve been trailing you since you tried to sneak out of the hotel. Why you keep doing that, anyway? Nothing gets past me, man. You should know that by now.”
I did know that. Just hoped to be successful this time.
“Even at the bar?”
“I hid at the front.”
“You can’t hide at the front. Everyone knows the back is the best way to—”
“Why you trying to change the subject? The issue is, what do you think you’re doing out here all by yourself? You pay me to watch your back, in case you’ve forgotten. Didn’t think you were ever going to leave that club. I was worried I was gonna have to follow you to that woman’s hotel room and hide while you did who knows what with her.”
At that, I laugh. The thought of Big Jim having to hide his oversized form while that chick and I…the concept was too much.
“Sorry to disappoint you. I know how much you might have enjoyed it.” I pull my jacket tighter and keep walking. Even in June, the air is chilly. “You really think it’s a good idea to be out here wearing all that jewelry?”
“You really think someone could take me down for it?”
I laugh. “Touché.”
We walk a few steps in silence. Finally, Big Jim speaks. “So what are you doing out here so late?”
I look up at the high rises. “I just wanted to see the city.”
“You hate this city and everything it stands for. You want to try telling the truth this time?” I can hear his labored breaths as we walk up and down the curbs, so I slow my steps. I know what he’s asking, I know the deeper meaning behind his words. He doesn’t want to know what play I’m interested in seeing or what art gallery I might have missed. He wants to know what’s going on inside my head. Big Jim is concerned, and it’s genuine. It’s always genuine.
I take a deep breath. “That girl would still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”
I don’t have to look over at him to know he’s been thinking the same thing. Guilt settles like a third person walking down the street between us.
“I figured you were blaming yourself, but I wish you wouldn’t. Sometimes things just happen, but I know how you feel. I keep thinking if the meet and greet had stayed on schedule, or if we’d left earlier…”
“That’s my point. I went back inside to get that girl…the one I brought onto the bus. If I hadn’t…”
“If you hadn’t, what? Maybe we would’ve hit someone else. Maybe we wouldn’t have. There’s no way to know what might—”
“She has a sister.”
“Who has a sister?”
“The girl. The one who was killed. She has a sister. From everything I saw on social media, I think they were each other’s whole family.”
“You mean no one else is around? No mom or dad? Uncles, cousins?”
“Not that I can tell.”
Big Jim sighs. “Man, that’s rough. And she lives in Springfield?”
I nod once. “Appears that way.”
Big Jim is one of those deeply thoughtful men. The kind whose internal monologues are so powerful and profound that they sort of settle around you in the silence. I know what he’s thinking before he starts to speak.
“So you have a girl who’s grieving for her sister and parents who are grieving for you in the same city, but you haven’t thought of visiting either one of them?”
“My parents aren’t grieving.”
He gives me a sharp look. “You ever had a kid? They haven’t seen you in ten years, haven’t heard from you in two. Trust me, they’re grieving.” Big Jim has a twelve-year-old girl and a wife back in Los Angeles. They spend most of the year alone while he travels with me.
I kick a pebble in front of me and watch it sail down the street. “I’m not ready to go back.”
“You’ll never be ready. Some things you just have to deal with head on and see what happens. You can’t save anything if you don’t save yourself first.”
He’s no longer talking about my parents. Big Jim is the only one who knows everything about my past…the only one I trust with the information. When someone is in charge of putting your life before theirs, you learn to have a little faith in them.
I drag a hand through my hair and keep walking. We move side by side in silence for a few long moments, just two men walking the streets of New York City trying to process the turn our lives have just taken. There will be lawsuits and bad press and settlements and a whole lot of blame. There will be anger and judgment and people who will question what kind of heartless man I am to keep performing…to keep singing songs about sex and drinking when a young girl just died.
I’ve asked those questions of myself.
But there are a whole lot of people who’ve already dropped an obscene amount of money to watch me do just that. To let them down now would be disastrous not only to my career, but to the lives of the regular people with families that I employ to help behind the scenes. They depend on those paychecks. They need those paychecks. Wronging them by cancelling shows won’t make that girl’s death any more right. If I could bring her back…if I could avoid this whole sordid mess…I would.
Silence sticks to us like a wet shirt…the kind of polluted silence found only in a large city, with sirens and street music and squealing brakes chasing away all opportunity for quiet. Big Jim seems as irritated by the noise as me.
“Maybe you need to say something about the accident.”
I glance over at him. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, make a statement. Apologize to the families. Let them know how sorry you are. If you make yourself available, maybe the story will go away faster.” He raises his arm and waves for a taxi. “It can’t hurt. I’m tired of walking. We’re taking a cab the rest of the way back to the hotel.”
I roll my eyes. I’d rather walk, but arguing with him will get me nowhere. A cab pulls over. Big Jim takes forever trying to cram his enormous frame into the back seat, but eventually he manages. We pull away from the curb and onto the road.
It isn’t until I climb in bed that I make the decision, the one I’ve been wrestling with since Big Jim made the suggestion.
Apologize to the families.
That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I just need to think of the right way to make it happen.