CHAPTER SIX
Kace
The stadium looms into the sky, growing taller as we get closer.
Forcing a smile on my face, I wave to the crowd of fans gathered along the sidewalk, hoping to get a glimpse of a star.
Curly red hair catches my eye, and my heart trips over itself. When I realize it isn’t her, it deflates in abject disappointment, becoming its old, withered self.
“Here we go.”
I nod to Stephen and to the two bodyguards who are already getting out of the limo that is delivering me to the stadium door. The roar of the crowd is deafening, punctuated by high pitched squeals coming from every direction as I step out.
This is what I always wanted. This is what I dreamed about my entire life.
This is why I picked at a guitar until my fingers bled. It’s why I sang until I couldn’t breathe.
The adulation.
The love.
The respect.
The fame.
The roar of the crowd gets louder as I lift a hand in acknowledgement. There are crying girls holding out pieces of paper for me to sign. The flash of the cameras from every direction.
The dream became reality… it is reality.
But something is missing.
Her.
Forcing Presley out of my mind, I shake hands and scrawl my signature across paper. And arms. And breasts.
I feel the phone numbers being stuffed into my pockets. The panties that get stuffed in there too.
Women grab at me. My arms. My chest. My crotch. Their eyes are full of promise. But it isn’t me they want. It’s the rock star. The illusion.
It’s a relief when the door of the stadium closes behind me and the squealing voices are drowned out by the echoing darkness of the hallway.
“This way.”
I follow Stephen, pulling out the panties and papers in my pockets, tossing them unseen into the trashcan outside the conference room door.
One of the bodyguards holds out a little bottle of GermX. I smirk and let him pour a big glob in my hands. You never know where those panties have been.
Taking the bottle of water I’m handed, I down half of its contents, wishing I could splash the other half on my face. I already regret the destroyed jeans I’m wearing but am glad I chose the cotton shirt and vest in lieu of a jacket. I’d almost forgotten how damn humid it is in Tennessee, even when it is nearly Fall.
Passing a hand over my hair, rustling it up even more, I scratch at the scruff on my face, just wanting this to be over. I’m a singer, not a talker. And the same old questions just make me tired.
Stephen opens the door and sticks his head out. “Ready?”
I chug more water, hand the bottle over, and nod. Striding to the podium, I try not to slit my eyes against the assault of camera flashes and bright lights. Before I’m even at the microphone, reporters are throwing questions at me. I ignore them until I’m settled, then hold up a hand to silence the onslaught. I learned from my early years that it’s best to take the media by the horns.
“Good evenin’, ya’ll,” I say in my best Tennessee accent. After ten years, my vowels have become shorter, but it’s easy to fall back into the familiar old way of speaking. “It’s good to be back in the valley, supporting the orange and white.”
Questions pepper me. Squinting into the darkness behind the lights, I extend a finger toward a raised hand. The man introduces himself as a reporter from one of the local television stations. “It’s good to have you back, Kace. Why so long?”
I’ve been expecting this question, and I decide to tackle it head on. My past problems aren’t a secret, and there’s no reason to try to hide anything now. “I’ve been working hard to get my life back on track, and ten years seems like a nice round number to face the past.”
Chuckles all around, and another hand shoots up. I nod in its owner’s direction. Another introduction, a radio station this time. “How’s that going for you?”
I attempt to wipe yesterday from my mind. The drunken stupidity that I’d allowed back into my life. “To be honest, it can be a struggle sometimes, but I’m excited about the future and about my new album.”
How’s that for a hint? Let’s focus on the music, folks.
But no…
“Can you tell us more about the struggle? Are you saying you’re still into the rock and roll lifestyle?”
My fingers curl on the edges of the podium. These damn lights. I wish I could see faces so I could meet the man’s eyes as I answer him directly. “If you’re asking if I’m still an addict… yes.” My therapist’s voice rings in my head, reminding me that my addiction is like a scar. The wound might be healed but it will always be there. “But if you’re asking if I still take drugs… no. There’s a difference, one I live with every day.” Hoping to direct him back to the music, I add, “I write about it on the album. Have you listened to it?”
The man just chuckles. “Actually, that sort of music isn’t my style.”
My hackles raise, and I want to ask, then why are you here? But I don’t. I’ve been preparing myself for this, and I knew this would be today’s interview’s focus. I’ve run from the questions long enough, and I might as well face them where it all began.
A woman’s voice pierces through the sea of men in front of me. Holding my hand over my eyes, I wish I hadn’t let Stephen convince me to lose the shades. It’s a blonde on the left. I point at her. “Yes.”
“I’ve listened to your new album, and appreciate the rawness and truth you reveal in the lyrics, but I can’t help but wonder if this come back tour is really necessary? Are you afraid that you’ll never hit the same level of success you enjoyed ten years ago? Will you feel like a failure if you don’t?”
Wow. That’s direct.
To give myself time to think of an answer, I lift a bottle of water to my lips, turning to look over at Stephen, who is in the wings, glaring daggers at the woman. That, if nothing else, makes me smile.
“I think that anytime we put ourselves out there for other people to judge, there’s a fear of failure. Fear that we’ll let someone down. But, to answer your other question… yeah, this new tour is necessary.” I look at her squarely. “I screwed up back then. Royally. My stupid and selfish choices stripped me of the future I wanted. I can’t get that back, as much as I’d like to…”
Behind the blonde, a halo of red curls appears. I blink hard, wondering if it’s my imagination conjuring an apparition, a ghost of Tennessee past.
“You’d like to what, Kace?”
Giving my head a little shake, I step to the side, hoping to get another glimpse, but other reporters start firing questions at me, pulling my attention away.
“Is this some type of forgiveness tour, Kace?”
My balls tighten, and I peer into the darkness, trying to find the woman who spoke. Her voice takes me back ten years. No… it can’t be her.
The blonde reporter has turned around, talking to someone behind her. I lift onto my toes, wanting to see. Needing to see.
“Kace, how does it feel to be a one-hit wonder?”
Out of the many questions being shouted at me, it’s the one that sticks out. Pulling my gaze away from the back left corner of the room where the blonde is still talking to someone I can’t see, I face the smirking man on the front row. He’s the one who asked the question, his expression makes it obvious.
The fucking bastard. I just smile. “Considering that one hit still, ten years later, makes me more in a day than you probably make in a month… it feels pretty damn good.”
The smirk falls away, but only for a moment.
“Don’t you think your come-back tour…” he air-quotes the last three words, “is setting a bad precedence for young people, telling them that you can behave as badly as you want and it can all be swept under the rug if you’re rich and famous enough?”
I glance again at Stephen, but he’s not paying attention to the question just batted at me. He’s looking at the back left corner of the room too. I follow his gaze. The blonde’s back is to me, and she appears to be gesturing wildly with her hands.
“No answer, huh?” the reporter needles. “No excuse?” I try to ignore him, but the next dig gets through, piercing me right in the chest. “No apologies to everyone you walked over and left behind to make your millions?”
“I am sorry,” I bark, but not to him. My attention is still in the back of the room where I’d gotten another glimpse of red hair.
I step away from the podium, and the reporter sneers. “You just quitting? Leaving?”
On legs that feel like I’m walking on stilts, I round the corner of the audience. There are chairs available, but no one is using them. They’re all on their feet, watching me closer, cameras and recorders in my face.
Someone grabs my arm, but I shake it off, intent on the back corner.
“Kace… what are you doing?”
It’s Stephen’s voice, but I ignore him too.
The blonde is still gesturing to the person she’s talking to, and as I move closer, I have no doubt who it is. Even if I didn’t get glimpses of the hair, I can feel her. I’ve always been able to feel her.
Then I’m there.
And I’m placing a hand on the blonde’s shoulder.
The reporter turns, her eyes wide as she faces me.
Then… she steps to her left and Presley appears before me like a vision.
“Presley…”
I’ve thought the name a million times in the past ten years, but it’s the first time I’ve let it cross my lips. As if a sword is attached to the word, it claws itself out of my throat, ripping and maiming on the way out before floating between us like a ghost.
It’s really her.
Her face has matured, but in its maturity, has grown even more beautiful. The riot of curls is a little shorter but moves around her face exactly the same. And those eyes. Green with little dots of yellow are now filling with tears.
She blinks them away and lifts her chin. “Kace.”
The blonde sticks a recorder between us, hoping to catch every single word.
And I hope she catches these, because they’re a long time coming. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
I know she can attach the apology to a number of things I did wrong, but I hope she understands that I’m sorry for it all.
The blonde lifts the recorder higher. “Sorry for what?”
There isn’t a sound in the room, and I manage to muffle the growl that tries to escape me. “Everything. All I did. All I should have done but didn’t.”
A camera rolls around the crowd to the side of me. I don’t care.
For years, I tried to get Presley to talk to me, to listen to me. I tried to get together, tried to explain.
When she sent me her engagement ring, I sent it back. Over and over.
“It wasn’t how it looked, Pres. I swear to you. It wasn’t.”
The blonde leans forward. “What wasn’t how it looked?”
Both Presley and I turn our heads slowly to look at the woman. The reporter that she is, she just raises an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.
“This is private.”
The first eyebrow is joined by the second. “I thought you were here to face the past. Wouldn’t it be cleansing to do it in a way that clears the slate clean both privately and publicly?”
Presley answers for me. Well, if turning on her heel and leaving is an answer.
It’s enough of an answer for me.
I’m after her, right on her heels, then my hands are on her shoulders and I’m touching her for the first time in way too long. She tries to pull away, but I can’t let her go.
Not yet.
Not like this.
“Pres, please.”
She’s shaking now, and there are footsteps coming up behind us. Taking a quick inventory of rooms in the long hallway, I scoop her up and carry her into the men’s room, pressing my back to the door.
“Put me down.”
“Pres—”
Her fists come down on my shoulders as she squirms and arches, clearly intent on putting distance between us. I put her down, holding onto her shoulders until she’s steady, thrusting my hands through my hair when she walks away.
When she whirls to face me, there is fire in her eyes. Hate and hurt on her face.
And it breaks my heart.
“Why today?”
I don’t even have to ask her what she means. I already know. I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours.
“I don’t know. Hell, Pres… I just don’t know.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and her eyes harden even more. “You didn’t arrange this on purpose? You expect me to believe that?”
She has every reason to believe I would lie, so I try not to let the fact that she clearly thinks so little of me affect what I need to say. “No, I didn’t. I was in Memphis yesterday and was asked to fill in because—”
“Phil got sick,” she finishes for me.
I nod. “I said no at first.” Hurt flashes across her face for an instant, and I want to smash my own fist into my face. “I didn’t think I could come back here. Didn’t think I could risk…” I point between the two of us. “I’m sorry, Presley. I didn’t mean, didn’t want, didn’t… shit.” The words refuse to come.
She presses her fingers to her temples, then pushes a section of her hair behind her ear. I focus on the delicate shell of it, remember how I used to bite and chew on that lobe. How it always made her either giggle or moan, depending on what else I was doing to her in the moment.
So many memories.
I remember the first time I saw her at a football game in this very stadium her freshman year. How I’d watched her cheer on the team or boo the refs from three seats behind her.
She’d been impossible to miss, and when the game was over, I’d followed her like a stalker to her car. I’d said, “Hi.” She said the same in return. Then we began to chat, and I invited her to dinner. We barely left each other’s sides after that moment.
When no other words will come, I fall back on the original one that began it all. “Hi.”
She shivers, and I know she remembers too. But this time, when she says it back, the word is accompanied by a single tear.
A metaphor if I’ve ever seen one.