She sets the phone down again, and this time manages to prop it where I can see both her face and the guitar. Her fingers glide over the strings a few times as she thinks, then start on an up-tempo rhythm that puts what I wrote for her to shame. “This one’s my favorite.”
I head into the lobby and nearly walk into the wall as I listen, because I can’t take my eyes off of the screen. I’m off the elevator and at the door to our suite before she’s done, but I don’t go in. I feel like this is something private, just for us. I’m not willing to walk in there and let the guys wreck this.
When she finishes, she takes a deep breath and looks at the phone. “She wrote that the last summer we spent at her grandma’s.”
“It’s fucking…” I trail off with a shake of my head because there’s not a word. “You need to be recording that shit. I’m serious, Lucky. That shit’s going to get you wherever you want to go in this business. Your friend has something special.”
Her fingers dance distractedly over the strings in another melody. “She’s been my inspiration from way back when we were just kids.”
I crack a smile and slide down the wall ‘til my ass is on the floor. “You’re still just a kid, Lucky.”
She shakes her head, no humor on that incredible face. “I haven’t been a kid for a long time.”
My laugh is automatic and more bitter than I intended. “Yeah, I get that.”
Her gaze lifts to mine and even through the cyber, it pins me in place, looking for the lie. “Do you?”
I hold her eyes and give her a small nod.
“No one writes much about your past,” she says suspiciously.
I lift a questioning eyebrow at her and give her my best smirk. But it’s all just to hide the fact that a steel band just constricted around my chest and I can’t breathe. “And you know this because…?”
A scowl creases her forehead. “Shoot me, I Googled you.”
“So, what did you find?” I ask, my heart speeding in my chest even though I’m well aware of what’s out there.
“All your Wikipedia page says you is that you grew up in Alabama, and your mom died when you were three and you never knew your dad.”
My heart pounds in my throat at the lie. So far no one’s dug deep enough to find the truth and I plan to keep it that way.
“What else does it say?” I ask to get her off the topic of my lowlife old man.
“It says Roadkill started in Shreveport, Louisiana when you were seventeen, and you guys relocated to Austin just before you signed with Universal and your first CD went triple platinum.”
“That’s just about it,” I say dismissively.
Her scowl deepens. “There are a lot of gaps there.”
I give her the look that always throws the lady journalists off when they’re asking too many questions. “You sound awfully interested for someone who hates me.”
“I’ve been in the public eye for less than a year and my Wiki page is twice as long as yours.” Her eyes narrow. “Which makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”
I blow out a laugh and shake my head. “Everything.”
“I don’t get how you can do that,” she says, throwing a hand up in frustration. “Everyone knows every fucking thing about me, and you seem to have dodged all the hard questions.”
“We took different paths to get here,” I say. “Yours was very public, and that fucking show you were on used all your ‘human interest’ crap to drive up their ratings.” I lean more heavily into the wall. “I, on the other hand, sort of came out of the blue. So they only know what I tell them.”
“Who raised you after your mom died?” she pushes.
“An aunt,” I lie.
“What were you doing in Shreveport when you were seventeen if you grew up in Alabama?”
“Washing dishes in a roadside dive.” I put on my cocky asshole mask to deflect any more questions. “Grim came in to the diner, ordered a burger, and that was the start of Roadkill. We traveled around Louisiana for most of the next year in Jamie’s old Chevy Crew Cab, played seedy bars for free booze, and the seeds of greatness were sown.” I try to read her through the screen, hoping she’s satisfied with the tidy bow I’m putting on the story. “It grew pretty fast into respectable bars for actual cash, then opening for bigger local bands on tour, finally to a record contract and…” I cuff out a laugh. “…what do you know, a fucking star is born.”
“But why were you in Shreveport? You didn’t answer that,” she presses. “And your dad was nowhere in all of this?”
I drag myself off the floor. “Listen, Lucky, I gotta go. But think about what I said about talking to other labels. That stuff your friend wrote is fucking magic.”
I log off before she can ask any more questions and head into the suite.
Chapter 12
Shiloh
San Francisco.
Home.