Chasing Kane Page 3

  While schizophrenia isn’t all that common to begin with, and the risk of developing it is only mildly increased for those with it in their family DNA, this didn’t help Georgia’s outlook on life. She was terrified around every corner that she’d be struck with a diagnosis of her own—her very own worst-case scenario.

  When our relationship began, Georgia hadn’t had a loving relationship in years, aside from her friendship with my cousin, but they hadn’t seen much of each other since high school. She was wary, and had every right to be. I was, too, which didn’t help matters. At the time of our meeting I was still recovering from some emotional devastation of my own. Needless to say, we were quite the pair when we first met. Damaged, battered, but hopeful. While it happened less as time went on, I still had to coax Georgia out of the thickly wooded forest of her fears from time to time.

  Boiled down to its simplest parts, it’s not that she didn’t trust me—she didn’t trust that she was worthy of the love we have between us.

  “Sorry ’bout that earlier,” CJ finally said as we fooled around with our set at the studio that night, pulling me out of the silent psychoanalysis of my wife.

  “With Georgia and your flaunting of condoms? Don’t worry about it. Just … you know how she is.”

  He set his sticks down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought she’d gotten better about all that. You’re married for Christ’s sake.”

  It had gotten better, he was right. Until recently.

  “And we thought you had gotten better,” I shot back as lightly as I could.

  He just rolled his eyes, ignoring me.

  “We’re talking about having a kid,” I blurted out. “She’s been more insecure since then. Like we’ve gone backward in the trust department.”

  CJ eyed me carefully. “Does it have to do with all her mom stuff? Worried that she’ll end up like her?”

  “I think so. Or that she’ll pass it along to our child …”

  “What are the actual odds of that?”

  “Higher than zero,” I admitted. “I don’t know the numbers because I know it’s quite small. At least for the schizophrenia.”

  CJ huffed. “Yeah but not alcoholism.”

  “That’s the truth …” I didn’t know the genetic likelihood of passing addiction down to our theoretical child, either. And, I wasn’t sure of the best way to bring any of this up with Georgia in a way that wouldn’t have her thinking I was accusing her of being a genetic liability. Because I didn’t think that at all.

  In truth, I often tired of having to play out our potential conversations in my head before having them. I know, relationally speaking, that wasn’t the healthiest behavior to engage in, but it was a tough habit to break.

  CJ lifted his eyebrows, smiling. “But a fucking kid? Really?” His face broke into a smile and, inexplicably, he rose to his feet and grabbed me into a brief, but tight, hug. “Me! An uncle!”

  “Calm down.” I chuckled, shuffling my sheets of music together and stuffing them into a folder. “We’re talking about it. We’re just going to see how it goes. Let nature do its thing.”

  “You better do your damn thing, Kane.” He pounded on his chest like a caveman, talking like one, too. “We Kane men are strong. We bring the sperm.”

  I broke into laughter, realizing that despite his faults—and maybe because of them—CJ really would make one hell of an uncle. Someday.

  ***

  Our first gig of the tour was at a local concert hall. Small compared to the ones we’d see later on tour, but a huge step up out of the bar scene CJ was used to. Sure, he’d played to bigger crowds before, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to him getting through a little stage fright here and there. No harm in knocking a cocky bastard down a few pegs.

  Grounded Sound put together a fantastic lineup and tour, further proving Yardley’s strength as a businesswoman in her own right. Her family is well-entrenched in the music industry, having started in Country before expanding into other territories. Yardley had a hunch that the independent and folk-rock scenes were on the rise, and got her claws into this division as soon as it became available. According to Yardley, her parents sent her off to California half-expecting that her “little project,” as they called it, would end soon enough and she’d have to sell to the highest bidder.

  Much to their surprise, Yardley’s instincts were right on. Groups like Mumford & Sons, The Lumineers, and The Civil Wars—until they broke up, anyway—took off, leaving the local circuits hungry for artists that could provide that unique sound right in their back yards.

  Our lineup was comprised of instrumental-only acts like me and CJ, solo artists with their guitars, and larger ensembles that rounded out the folk sound with banjos, tambourines, and the whole nine. One of the groups, The Brewers, actually asked me to step into some of their numbers to add in a violin solo—called a fiddle by most of the folks in the genre. It’s the same instrument, which some people don’t honestly know, but has alias’ depending on the setting. I agreed to jump in wherever they needed me. Performing has always reinvigorated me in ways little else could.

  “We’re opening?” CJ asked when we arrived at the concert hall.

  I nodded, handing him his cymbal stand. “Damn straight.” I winked. “I’m a star.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Save your winks for the girls, Kane.”

  “You can have ’em. You know I’m spoken for. You were at the wedding.”

  “So you never flirt? A wink, that sideways grin of yours that gets everyone all hot and bothered?”

  Taking a deep breath, I conceded. “A little,” I admitted. “Just show. Georgia knows, sees it, all that. It’s just a performance thing.”

  He held his hands up. “Dude, I didn’t come out here to babysit you. I know you’re Captain Fidelity, and I admire that. Especially when your wife is my best friend, and I’d really hate to kick your ass if you hurt her. As for me …”

  The fluidity of his morals wasn’t shocking, but I did find some relief in it. Musicians, athletes, actors, anyone who is up for public consumption, is expected to maintain at least some level of availability for their fans. Despite knowledge of marriages, babies, girlfriends/boyfriends, whatever, part of the popularity of commercial artists is the ability of the fans to sink themselves into fantasies and daydreams, just enough that they come back for more. More songs, more shows, another interview, anything.

  That was the hardest adjustment for me as a commercial musician—the showmanship of pretending. At the meager beginning of my career, flirtation was second nature. As familiar to me as the bow I drew across the strings. As mine and Georgia’s relationship developed, though, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea. She knew how it had to be—she’s no fool. In fact, she got to know me while I played at a bar she tended when we first met. She was on the receiving end of the inviting smiles and casual glances. But as our pasts revealed themselves to each other, and our futures became one, I grew weary of not only my part in the act, but the attention I received. But maybe having CJ around to remind me of the social part of my job would make things easier, which would be a huge relief to Yardley, who always held her breath during post-show mixers with fans, wondering how stand-offish I’d seem.

  Reclusive is sexy, she’d always say. Unavailable is suicide.

  “Who’s that,” CJ interrupted my thoughts, gesturing to a young woman testing sound equipment on stage. “Crew?”

  “Nessa? Nah, she’s in The Brewers. Lead vocals, sometimes keys.”

  “Keys?” he asked with a hint of mocking. “Keyboard or piano too good for you now that you’re a superstar?”

  “Whatever, just stay away from her, okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said inside a deep chuckle. “Whatever.”

  I gave Vanessa Crowley the once-over, instantly regretting the words I’d spoken—he’d taken them as a challenge. Her hair was black and pixie-short, save for one long chunky strand that was dyed blue and always han
ging in front of her right eye. She said sardonically that it was there to make her eyes match. The left one was blue, but her right was green, which was enough to intrigue men up and down the California coast alone. She was of medium height—taller when she wore her signature combat boots—slender but strong, and had light, creamy skin that secured her position as a local folk music goddess.

  The Brewers weren’t signed with GSE, but were under contract with another local folk-focused label. I’d run into them several times at local festivals during my stint with Celtic Summer. Nessa was the first to ask me if our band was on break or a break-up when she heard the news that CJ and I were gunning for this tour.

  I assured her it wasn’t a breakup, but an indefinite break. Shaughn, Celtic Summer’s lead singer, was originally from Ireland, and moved here in middle school. She had long hoped to earn enough money to go back to her homeland and sustain her while forging a solo career, and this summer it finally came together for her. Our drummer, Chris, had plenty of opportunities waiting for him, and had a deep, nomadic spirit that made three years just long enough for him to be with one group before exploring other ventures.

  “Is she attached?” CJ asked, ignoring my request that he leave it alone.

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of. I’ve never seen her with anyone in particular.”

  “Anything wrong with her? She a bitch? Or a lesbian?”

  “No,” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think she’s either, but I’m certain she isn’t a bitch.”

  “But she could be a lesbian,” he stated with a whiff of defeat.

  Arching an eyebrow at him, I gave him a challenging grin. “They could all be lesbians,” I teased.

  He held his arms out, tilting his chin to the sky. “I could never be so lucky. Why is she off-limits, though? D’you ever bang her?”

  “No, I never banged her. I didn’t even meet her until last year. But The Brewers are actually going to be with us for most of the next six months, and I’d rather you found someone else to fornicate with than risk them bailing on the tour because you’re a pig.”

  He continued to gawk heavy lidded, at our tour mate as if he hadn’t taken in anything I’d said. “She’s been in the business a while, right?” he accurately assessed by her fluency on stage and with the equipment.

  “Yeah, why?”

  CJ turned to me with renewed hope springing across his face. “Then she’ll know what to expect from a drummer.”

  At that, I had nothing left to say. CJ said he and Frankie were broken up. While I didn’t buy his over it act, there was nothing to do. Or say. Except, “Good luck, and don’t make too big of a mess of things.”

  ***

  The show was sold out and a great way to kick off our tour. After a relatively short meet-up with the crowd, the artists retreated to Molly Molloy’s for some decompression time. Despite all the energy I received, in the moment from a show, they’re immediately draining. I was revitalized by the next time I stepped on stage, sure, but giving it a hundred and twenty percent all the time left me weary, needing a beer and a good night’s sleep before doing it all again.

  “Good show, Kane,” Nessa said, leaning against the bar where I was seated, tilting a brown, slim-necked bottle of beer to her lips.

  “You’ll have to be more specific these days, Ness. My cousin shares my last name, and I’d hate to have you waste a compliment on him,” I teased.

  Her mismatched eyes grew wide. “The drummer’s your cousin?”

  I nodded, stretching my arms over my head then my neck, side to side. “The rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?” she asked, poorly masking a grin as she fingered her signature pearl necklace.

  “Whatever you’ve heard. It’s all true.”

  She gave a slow nod. “Ditched a girlfriend to come on tour?”

  “I guess,” I said, though I had no idea where she got that information.

  “Has played drunk while having a broken arm?”

  “Most drummers have,” I answered, unapologetically playing up the stereotypes.

  “Womanizer?”

  I laughed. “Where’d you hear all this from?”

  “CJ,” she answered, breaking into a full laugh.

  “Of course.” I joined her in laughter as we watched CJ work the crowd at Molly’s. “Why aren’t you off romping around with him when he gave you such a thorough and gleaming résumé?”

  She threw her head back, the muscles in her long, slender neck contracting against laughter. “I figure I’ll make him sweat it out a bit.” Throwing me a quick wink, Nessa turned and linked arms with a female bandmate of hers—Clara, I think—and headed for the restrooms.

  I’d never actually seen Nessa go off with any guy after a show—or girl for that matter—but I’d also never spent much time with her, knew nothing about her personal life, and there was the pesky little bit about it being none of my business. I stuck to my beer and enjoyed the comforting sights and sounds of the local bar, pulling out my cell phone.

  Me: We’re at Molly’s, wanna come down?

  It was a long three minutes before I got a response.

  Georgia: Sleeping.

  I sighed. Of course she was. It was two fifteen in the morning, according to my trusty cell phone, and she’d have to wake up in less than two hours to get the ovens roaring at Sweet Forty-Two for the Sunday morning brunch rush.

  Me: I’ll come home soon.

  Georgia: Don’t rush. You know where I’ll be. I love you.

  I didn’t rush. I stayed, partying with my friends and acquainting CJ with everyone, and vice versa. We laughed and partied until closing time at three thirty when the designated drivers, myself included, poured our charges into our respective vehicles and deposited them at their desired locations. CJ didn’t need a ride home, thanks to Mona, one of the waitresses at Molly’s. So, when I’d dropped the last person off, I slid quietly into the back door of the bakery, which is at the bottom of the stairs leading to our apartment.

  “Hey,” I whispered, even though she’d peeked over her shoulder when the door opened.

  Georgia turned with a tired, but gorgeous smile, her hands wrist-deep in pillowy dough. “Hey,” she echoed. “Why are we whispering?”

  I wrapped my arms around her waist as she continued to knead what would certainly become a heavenly creation. “It’s early,” I continued.

  “Or late,” she retorted, still soft. “You smell like a bar.”

  “You smell like brown sugar.” I brought my nose to the crook of her neck and inhaled the thick molasses scent, letting a small moan escape in my exhale.

  I let my hands run along the waistband of her worn jeans before bringing them over the sinful curve of her backside. Her grey T-shirt with the shop’s logo on it was tied in the back, as usual, with a black elastic hair tie—while her trademark red bandana was tasked with keeping her hair out of her face.

  Turning her face toward me slightly, Georgia allowed my lips to skim down her jawline where I planted a small kiss on the corner of her mouth. “You guys have another show today?” she asked

  “Tonight.” I nodded. “Later. Much, much later.”

  The mention of time weighed heavy on my eyelids as I stole one more kiss off the skin of my bride’s cheek before giving her butt a firm squeeze.

  “I’ll come. Ride with you guys.” I hadn’t noticed she’d stopped kneading until she started again. Her narrow shoulders moving with the punching, stretching, folding, and turning. “Want me to wake you up later?”

  Stepping back, I allowed the yawn I’d been holding back to roll through me. With a slow nod, I conceded. “Please.”

  Georgia looked at the clock hanging on the wall over her left shoulder. “Noon?”

  I looked, too, as if I didn’t already know it was approaching five in the morning. I didn’t know how life-long rock n’ rollers did it, I was sore.

  “Noon’s good,” I agreed. It was a lie even Georgia chuckled at as she heaved the d
ough from the wide metal bowl onto the counter, rolling it out and sectioning it off into perfectly identical triangles.

  Scones. Mmm.

  “Well, it’ll be good enough for today,” I compromised.

  “Don’t burn yourself out right out of the gate, Mr. Kane,” she teased, wiping her hands on the towel strung through a frayed belt loop on her jeans. “It’ll be a long six months if you try to keep up this pace.”

  I sighed playfully. “You give me the same speech every tour, Mrs. Kane.”

  Her arms reached up and around my neck. She stood on her tiptoes and planted one small, soft kiss on my collarbone. “I always will, too. Now go get some sleep. Also, don’t call me Mrs. Kane for right now. Someone might overhear and think I’m married to CJ.” She chuckled to herself, throwing me a wink before waving me out of the kitchen, effectively sending me to bed.

  I hesitated, hating that the tour schedule was already in place and we were back to two ships passing at the crack of dawn.

  “Go,” she encouraged, sensing my reluctance. “I’ll come up and get you.”

  I left, and fell into bed with a relieved sigh, grateful for the blackout shades and sound machine that let me sleep while daylight ticked away.

  ***

  “You were on fire tonight,” Georgia remarked as CJ and I shut the back of the equipment truck. “On. Fire. Why didn’t you tell me you were playing with The Brewers, too, Regan?”

  I yanked on her hips, momentarily grateful for the short black shorts she wore over her netted black tights as I lifted her into a kiss and she wrapped her legs around my waist. “It was a last minute thing. I probably won’t do it every show. Depends on the size of the crowd, length of the show, blah, blah, blah,” I trailed off smothering her with kisses.

  “Well, this is gross,” CJ stated, bored. “I’m off to the bar. Coming?”

  “Nah …” I started, but trailed off when I saw the look of question on Georgia’s face. “What?”

  She slid onto the ground and perched her hands on her hips. I was in fake trouble. “What? A superstar fiddler can’t take his wife out for a good time?”