Chapter 1

Fox

I stomped with all the swagger of an ex-rock star, slamming the door of the music practice room and yanking my fingers through my recently-trimmed, curly dark locks. Anger, resentment—it roared behind my ears. Inside the room, I could still hear the middle-aged mother whispering to her son who’d come to me for guitar lessons: “He doesn’t mean it. You’re really very good, Benjamin. Nothing’s going to get in the way of your dreams. You can be a rock star, if you want to. You can be anything.”

Fuck. I’d lost my temper, all over again. One minute, I’d been forcing the idiot eight-year-old’s fingers along the frets of the guitar, and the next I’d been telling him, point-blank, that if he didn’t get the chord sequence correct in the next five minutes, he could “forget his dreams of ever becoming anything like me.”

Ha. Like me. Was I the delusional one, now? I drew my wallet from my pocket and glanced within, spotting the twenty-dollar bill the mother had swept across the table, pre-lesson. Twenty fucking dollars? In Los Angeles, that wouldn’t have gotten me more than a whiskey and soda. Now, it was my rate for thirty minutes of shit guitar and piano lessons, of standing above snot-nosed kids and ramming music theory into their skulls. I’d thought it would fill me with some kind of “purpose.” It hadn’t.

I opened the door, blinked at the Stepford-ish mother and the son with his dark blue cardigan and dripping eyes. They stared back at me. I forced a horrible, shark-toothed smile, and muttered, “I think we’re done for the day, Benjamin. I didn’t mean to be so hard on you. I just see… so much potential in you, and I want to push you. You get that, don’t you?”

Having been coddled his entire life, Benjamin suddenly found solid ground. His lips quivered into a smile and he nodded ferociously, his mother patting his shoulder. Her breasts sagged in her floral button-down, the nipples down-turned in the ill-fitting bra. Everything about them turned my stomach.

“Then, we’ll see you in two days. Same time?” she asked. Reaching into her wallet, she drew out an additional twenty dollars, tapping it on the upright piano beside her. “It’s really so lovely that you decided to make Bilkington your home, all over again. It’s rare to have a celebrity in our midst. Especially one so eager to help my Benjamin play.”

Within minutes, I strutted down the street of my childhood hometown, forty bucks in my pocket and my throat parched for liquor. I paused at the corner near the church, my fingers hunting for the half-pack of smokes in my pocket. Years of strung-out drug use, of wild parties, of being on the road, had made smoking such a habit—something my fingers itched for. Slipping a smoke between my lips, I glared up at the little crooked Presbyterian Church, its sign out front reading: EVERYONE WELCOME FOR GOD’S LOVE. I snickered, realizing I’d forgotten.

When I was tearing across the continent, finding the fire and electricity of Los Angeles’ rock scene, I had become one of the most revered rock stars of my generation. I was a man who, with a single blink, could attract streams of perky-titted women, their asses supple and their waists cinched. And in the process, I had allowed memories of this sad, small-town reality to flicker away.

But now, I was back to face it.

Deep within the church someone played the grand piano. The music streamed through my ears, latching onto something almost primal with its beauty. It was an old Rachmaninoff ballade, one of the pieces I’d practiced for hours on end when I’d been in high school before starting the grunge band with a few similarly anti-establishment friends.

Intrigued, I walked closer to the church doors and placed my hand along the carved wood, feeling the reverberation from the complex, deep chords. Puffing the last of the cigarette, I thumped it and stabbed my foot over it. A sudden memory of Marissa flickered across my mind—her blonde hair curling across her face; the way she’d snuck her teeth over her lips when she’d been particularly lost in music like this, her eyes closed, her hands folded over her flat stomach.

This was the music I’d ached for since returning to Bilkington, the kind of music that forced you to remember you were alive. It was like any sold-out arena on tour with my ex-band, the Wicked Kin. It ripped into your heart—

Without a moment’s pause, I tore open the door of the church and strutted forward toward the grand piano. A stream of summer light rippled in from the stained glass windows, casting across the player’s gorgeous dark hair. Her fingers were firm, yet flickering like water across the keys. I stopped short, gazing at her: the way her arms swept, like fluid tree limbs; the way she brought her chin skyward, her eyes closed.

Suddenly, she stopped short. Something horrible clanked at the keyboard, creating a horrific, train-crash-like chord. Then, it happened again. I walked closer, watching as the pianist leaned down, muttering to someone. On the other side of the piano, a child – wild-eyed, with blonde curls that traced toward her boyish overalls and scuffed tennis shoes – sat holding a bright-yellow construction truck toy.

“You can’t just throw things at the piano,” the pianist said firmly, bringing her hands to the girl’s small shoulders.

“But I want to go,” the girl whined, giving the pianist puppy-dog eyes. “You said we could go get food.”

The little girl’s dark blue eyes found me then. I was exposed, in the center of the church—a dominant, angry force, wearing jeans and a button-down that sculpted around my thick biceps and tucked around my six-pack abs. I was every inch the rock star I’d been months ago, sans the long, dark locks that I’d had down to my shoulders.

“Who is that?” the girl whispered, pointing toward me.

The pianist whirled around, her eyes wide. Frightened even. With a rapid motion, she thrust herself from the piano bench, sliding her long fingers down her thighs. Her bottom lip quivered. Her torso, long and thin, brought forth her firm breasts and small waist. Her long, gorgeous legs snuck out from the bottom of a bright yellow dress, the skin gleaming in the church light.

“I’m sorry. Can we help you with something?” she asked, her voice soft.

The voice, the piano, this woman before me—I realized, with a lurch, that I was seeing a ghost: lost summer nights; my tongue locked with my high school sweetheart as the Indiana heat brought sweat to our foreheads; how she’d whispered to me, in that light, child-like voice, “I will always love you, Fox. Please promise you’ll never go away.”

“Talia?” I heard my voice boom out across the church.

Talia’s eyebrows grew tight over her eyes, showing her immediate distrust. The girl beside her sprung up, bouncing toward me, her toy car still locked in her hand. Lifting her nose, she spoke in a jarring, abrupt way. “Why do you wear all black?” she demanded.

“Lily-Rose, don’t bother him,” Talia said, walking toward us. She looked flustered, her cheeks flushed. Drawing her hand across Lily-Rose’s shoulder, she assessed me, her chin quivering. “Well. I had heard from Andrew that you were back. But I didn’t imagine I’d run into you this way.”

“Ah, you’re still hanging around my asshole brother, huh?” I said, lifting a single eyebrow.

“He’s the only one who stuck around,” Talia murmured, her eyes glittering.

I could feel it—the tension making the air tight around us. I swallowed sharply, trying to remember the last time I’d seen her. Those sweet little eyes peeking out at me beneath the covers after we’d fucked endlessly in her parents’ bed, just after her father had left them for good. And just days before I’d left, too.

Clucking my tongue, I continued. “Don’t suppose this little monster’s yours?”

Talia’s voice was strained. “My sister, Billie’s. Lily-Rose is her kid.”

“So you did better than most in this shit town,” I said. “You managed not to get knocked up. Good for you.”

I strutted around her, sensing I had the floor. Both girls’ eyes were upon me, seemingly inhaling me. At the piano, I sat at the edge of the bench, finding the old chords to the exact Rachmaninoff ballade Talia had been playing. Easing into it, my eyes remained with Talia, watching as her expression changed from one of anger, to one of shock and disbelief.

“You remember it,” she murmured, drawing closer.

“How could I forget?” I asked, cutting her a sly smile. I was showing off now. As I played, I watched as Lily-Rose chewed at one of her fingers, looking lackluster.

With a sudden jolt of energy, my fingers began to ease into another song, changing the chords, and gliding evenly into a pop tune that recently came out on the radio. As I played, Lily-Rose began to leap up and down, her blonde curls jangling. She yanked at Talia’s hand, looking vibrant. “Aunt Talia, do you hear what he’s doing?! He’s playing my song! He’s playing my song!”

Lily-Rose began to sing, swirling her arms through the air. Talia stepped back, her head tilted, her slim hand on her waist. Watching intently, she offered me her first genuine smile. As I pieced through the last chords, she said, “I haven’t seen her so excited about music before. It’s all I’ve been trying to do, since I took her in.”

I nodded, sensing a darkness behind Talia’s eyes, one that spoke of a troubled life, since I’d left her behind. God, the chaos of the past ten years; it ripped into me, too. Although Talia, my once-love, and I were only feet away from one another, I felt like we were staring at each other from very separate, distant shores. She was the goodie two-shoes who’d stayed behind, cultivating community, and, seemingly, taking over parental responsibilities for her sister’s kid. I had my guesses why. And then there was me: the washed-up rock star, who didn’t have the balls to return to Los Angeles. Not after what had happened.

“Let me teach her piano,” I said, surprising even myself. My voice echoed against the walls of the cathedral, reminding me of those sold-out arenas: how the crowd had ripped at their chests, tearing fabric from tits and letting nipples bounce. And it was all in the name of me, in the name of my celebrity, in the name of the way I tore my fingers across a guitar.

“What? Oh, I don’t know,” Talia said, batting those long lashes. “She seems not to like music very much.”

“Aunt Talia, please!” Lily-Rose whined, gripping Talia’s arm and yanking it. “I want so badly to learn to play like him. Please!”

I stared at Talia for a long while, feeling my cock grow hard, the blood pulsing against my eardrums. Adrenaline had taken its course. I felt, suddenly, that Talia was someone I could perhaps win back, even if “falling in love” again was out of the question.

When Talia nodded her head, giving me a soft shrug, I knew I was already halfway there. I could conquer her.