A Kind of Home Read online

  “So you joined a band?” I teased.

  Adam snickered and shook his head. “Nope. I called you and kindly asked if I could stay for—”

  “A week,” I supplied with a raised brow.

  “Right. I hopped the first Greyhound bus to the Big Apple and… here I am.”

  “Let me recap. Divorce, lose job, hightail it to Manhattan…. Now what? What’s your plan, Adam? I love you like a brother, but don’t get any ideas. I’m not looking for a roommate.” I adjusted my tone from sarcastic to serious, hoping he’d get the message that I wasn’t kidding.

  My teenage self might have jumped at the chance to host the object of my desire in my spare bedroom, but I’d grown up a long time ago. As much as I liked Adam, the last thing I wanted in my life was a daily reminder of high school.

  “No worries. I’ve got a place lined up in Queens, but it’s not going to be free ’til the end of the month. I can pay rent and help around the house if that’s cool by you.”

  Three more weeks. Oh boy.

  “Rent isn’t necessary. Just… pick up your stuff. I hate clutter.”

  Adam grinned. “Thanks. I appreciate it. It’ll give me a chance to save a little more cash. This town is expensive.”

  “I could have told you that. In fact you should have considered the cost before you convinced yourself you saw signs.”

  “Maybe, but I needed to try something different. Something for myself, you know? I’m starting from scratch and keeping my options open. I’ve been working two jobs and—”

  “Where are you working?”

  “I walk dogs a couple days a week, and I got a gig as a barback at a new place on Eighth.”

  “Hang on. You’re going to commute from Queens to pick up someone else’s dog’s shit and shine glasses at a seedy bar? Are you fuckin’ with me? Oh my God. You’re never leaving, are you?” I sighed heavily and let my head fall theatrically against the cushion.

  “Ha. Ha. I’m here ’til January. Enjoy,” he said with a devilish grin I couldn’t help returning.

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll go home.”

  “You just said you’re out of a job there. I’m not trying to be a dick, but what exactly is there to go home to? We’re talking about Springville, for fuck’s sake.”

  Adam furrowed his brow and gave me a funny look I couldn’t quite translate. “My family, my friends, my life. I didn’t run away. Well, maybe I did. But I was always going back home.”

  Ah, there it was: my cue to exit. Adam’s definition of home was radically different from mine. I couldn’t relate. I gave him a tight-lipped smile and stood, then stretched my arms over my head. If I hadn’t been slightly loopy with fatigue, I would have sworn his gaze traveled appreciatively over the exposed skin on my lower abdomen. Nah, my exhaustion was tipping to a dangerous point. I was seeing things.

  “Help yourself to whatever you need. You probably know where everything is better than me now anyway.”

  “Yeah, I actually reorganized some of the kitchen cabinets. Trust me, they needed it. The spices were too far from the stove, and the mixing bowls were buried behind appliances that have never been used. I’ll show you around tomorrow if you want.”

  Adam snickered at my knit brow and “what the fuck?” expression.

  “Um, right.”

  “Hey, I’m heading in to work soon to cover half of someone’s shift. Want to come by for a drink? The place is bumpin’ and the eye candy is certainly worth the price of a cocktail. Come on… I owe you a shot or ten. What do ya say?”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to bed,” I said with a yawn, proud that I refrained from adding that his offer sounded like my idea of hell. The last thing I wanted to do was pretend to have straight man urges while cruising a hetero bar with the gorgeous guy I used to daydream about. I didn’t bother mentioning that spur-of-the-moment outings were out of the question for me now. A random night at a local bar required an entourage of security. Nothing was simple anymore.

  “Another time, roomie.”

  His playful grin invited me to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but I wasn’t sure if this was funny and quirky, or the beginning of a bigger fucking problem. I could only hope the morning would bring clarity.

  LIGHT FLITTED across my pillow a few hours later. Not sunshine or moonlight. It was more of a flash, but it was enough to pull me from sleep. I sat up slowly and surveyed my bedroom. Even in the dark, it was apparent the décor was a study in whites. White sheets, a white duvet, white linen headboard, and a small white chair in the corner. The only color was in the throw rugs on the floor and the modern art on the walls. I stared at the squiggly lines of the painting across the room before sinking back onto my pillow.

  There was no light. It must have been my imagination or part of a dream.

  I turned onto my side and felt something cold against my cheek. I flinched and sat up with a start.

  It was my cell phone. I must have fallen asleep with it in my hand last night.

  I swiped my hand over my stubbled chin and glanced at the screen: 4:30 a.m. Too early to even consider getting out of bed. I set my phone on the nightstand and lay down again. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift. I had a ton to do today. Gym, practice… a meeting with the NYPD. Ed had said they were sending someone to Suite Dog Studio around nine. Or was it earlier? What a pain in the ass. I appreciated the label’s cautionary stance, but I didn’t think a couple of oddball messages from an overzealous fan merited a full-time bodyguard. I couldn’t deal with Brian all day and all night. The guy was a drip. When I thought about him asking Adam—

  My eyes flew open. Dammit! Adam! I’d almost forgotten I had company. Talk about one more thing I didn’t want to deal with. There was no use pretending I’d get back to sleep now. Jet lag sucked.

  I reached for my phone again and scrolled through texts and e-mails before checking out social media. Cammy, Spiral’s PR queen, had posted a couple of new pictures on our website from our final concert in London. There was a funny one of me wearing a snug black T-shirt and some funky comic-inspired tight pants I’d somehow managed to squeeze my ass into. I was leaning into my white Fender Stratocaster with my hip jutting to my right in a rock star pose some fans recognized as “quintessential Isaac.” My closed eyes and the tilt of my jaw told a bigger story. I wasn’t acting. I was lost in the music.

  No doubt I’d been aware of our lead singer’s wacky antics a few feet away from me. Rand O’Malley was a true showman. He knew how to work a crowd into a frenzy with silly jokes, lewd dance moves, and a drop-dead sexy voice. He was a master. Thankfully I’d learned a few tricks to tune him out, so I could follow his direction without getting swept away by his onstage hijinks. He could be distracting as hell, which probably sounded strange coming from a lead guitarist who used to wear gender-bending clothing, complete with wigs, heels, and lots of makeup.

  I’d hung up my fishnets and put away the blush and mascara when we released our second album at the beginning of the year. The eye-catching ploy of a colorful guitarist might have helped Spiral garner attention when we first cracked the charts, but we were leery of the gimmick taking away from the music. The initial wow factor could have easily become an annoyance. Audiences were fickle. It was important to keep things fresh. Besides, the flashy getups weren’t me. I was a basic jeans and T-shirt kind of guy. But at my stylist’s insistence, I still wore wacky clothes and a little guyliner. Benny made costumes for Broadway’s elite now, but he’d been my part-time stylist since the beginning, and I knew there was no way he’d let me onstage without a little flash.

  It was a small surface tweak, but it made waves. I was the focus of more attention than ever, and I was woefully unprepared to have the spotlight directly on me. Fortunately Rand was good at reminding all of us to have fun and enjoy the love while it lasted. The next photo was a perfect example.

  I was half-turned toward Tim on the drums behind me, but the camera had caught the bigass grin on my face. Usuall
y I could share an eye roll with Tim or Cory without losing my concentration. I’d definitely lost it that night. Fuck knows what the joke was, but we hadn’t been able to stop laughing. Rand literally stopped midsong with his hands on his hips and the rock concert became a comedy show for the next few minutes. The audience ate it up. They laughed along with us, pleased to have been included in our silly banter. And once the music resumed, the connection between our fans and us was stronger than ever. If only for another hour or so, we’d crossed an invisible line of kinship with thousands of people whose names we’d never know.

  I smiled at the memory as I read a couple of the comments. Most were “likes” with happy-face emojis and one-liners saying “Spiral rocks!” or “Another amazing show!” Some were more personal. There were a few phone numbers, and one from a girl asking Rand for his sperm. No doubt Cammy would remove the more offensive ones. Like the one about—

  I froze when a familiar avatar of a Spiral album cover popped up and tagged me on the comment.

  You’re the biggest star and I’m your biggest fan. Your mother didn’t deserve you. I want to give you a field of flowers. I want to be the last to hear your heart beat.

  My blood went cold as I tried to swallow around the acidic taste in my mouth. This was… weird. Weirder than the last few messages this person had posted for me, anyway. I stared at the words for a moment. They felt vaguely threatening. People could be fanatic about what they loved, I got that, but—fuck. No buts. This was borderline psycho. I typed a quick e-mail to Ed and Cammy before setting my phone aside and hopping out of bed.

  THE CITY was buzzing at 8:00 a.m., but the lobby of Suite Dog Studio was deserted. The record label’s Manhattan office was much smaller than the one in LA, but it had grown over the past couple of years thanks in large part to Spiral’s success.

  You knew you’d made it in any industry when the media referred to you by your first names. We were Rand, Isaac D, Tim, and Cory to our fans and, hell, anyone who paid attention to the news. We were trendsetters and trailblazers. Our images were pasted on merchandise and sold worldwide. T-shirts, blankets, lunch boxes, Pez dispensers… I even saw a mockup for a doll-size me. It was surreal to say the least. Almost as odd as the reason I was at the office so early on a Thursday morning.

  “Hey, Tara. Is Ed in?”

  The small woman behind the reception desk looked up with a start from the magazine she was browsing. I noted the exact second her gaze went from cool but pleasant to hero-worship. It was disconcerting as hell, and it always made me uncomfortable.

  Tara was one of Ed’s secretaries. She was a goth girl in her early twenties. This morning she was decked from head to toe in her usual black to match her bobbed hair and nail polish. Her only concession to color was her deep purple lipstick. Tara was sweet, but it was hard to communicate with someone who either stared at me shamelessly or wouldn’t make eye contact at all. Like now.

  She blushed and dropped her magazine as she turned to fumble with the buttons on the control panel on her desk.

  “Ed, I-Isaac is here to s-see you,” Tara stuttered.

  I wished I’d thought to bring her a coffee or a bagel. Something to break the ice and hopefully assure her I was just one of the boys in the band. She was worse with me than with the other guys. I couldn’t figure out how to get her to relax. Usually I’d put a little effort into it, but this morning I was too keyed up.

  I gave her a wan smile and then wandered to the far end of the waiting area. Platinum records and framed photographs covered every inch of wall space. Most of them were from our shows, but there were a few of some of the other acts Suite Dog had taken on recently. On second glance I realized we were featured in a lot of those shots too. The studio had taken a chance when they signed us a few years ago, but the risk had paid off many times over, I mused, noting a photo of us accepting a Grammy Award last year.

  “Isaac, my man!” Ed Espinoza tipped his hat in greeting before pulling me into a welcoming embrace.

  Ed was a smallish Puerto Rican American who spoke with a thick Bronx accent. Over the past few years, he’d become one of my favorite people. He was a no-nonsense hardass and a true music visionary. And he’d been one of Spiral’s biggest champions from the beginning.

  Ed wore a fedora almost daily and usually paired it with a raunchy T-shirt. His collection of both was impressive. I wasn’t sure I’d seen him wear the same hat or offensive shirt twice. I pushed him back with a chuckle and made a production of straightening my navy long-sleeve T-shirt as I checked out today’s crude verbiage: If I Were A Watermelon, Would You Spit or Swallow My Seed?

  “That’s gross, Eddie,” I said in a flat tone.

  He snorted good-naturedly and gestured for me to follow him down the hallway. The light-wood-paneled wall curved into floor-to-ceiling windows at one end of the hall, showcasing breathtaking views of the Hudson and Jersey skyline beyond.

  “They’re waiting in the conference room. You ready?”

  “Yeah, but—hang on.” I let out a beleaguered sigh before continuing. “What do they want to know exactly? Is Cammy in there? She’s the one who kept records of the posts and—”

  “Cammy’s in Florida ’til Monday, but I have the excerpts. This is precautionary but smart. They sent two cops over to take our statements and maybe give some advice regarding surveillance. We’ll see what they say and go from there.” Ed gave me a reassuring smile. “Come on, let’s get it over with.”

  “I don’t want a full-time bodyguard, Ed. I mean it.”

  Ed stopped in front of the closed door and gave me a serious look. “We aren’t taking any chances with your safety, Ize. I know how you feel, and believe me, I understand. But man… everything is different now. Spiral is the biggest band in the fucking world. All eyes are on the four of you. No joke. You’re international superstars. If the NYPD thinks this shit is shady, which they will because it is, I can guarantee you’ll have a goddamn full-time bodyguard. This isn’t me being a dick. You know I love you guys, but this is business.”

  “It’s overkill and you know it. We aren’t that big of a deal.”

  Ed narrowed his gaze and pointed his finger at me, like a parent admonishing a kid who was one poor decision away from being disciplined. “Are you fuckin’ with me? Your album is still at number one. That’s twenty weeks and holding. Tim’s song ‘Surrender’ is a monster. It’s everywhere! We just got a call from a wireless company who wants to purchase the rights to use it. They’re fucking ginormous, but guess what? They can’t afford you guys! Like it or not, you’ve got to get it through your thick skull: life as you thought you knew it is over. But it’s not the end of the world. Rand has to deal with the same BS you do, and—”

  “Rand is a ham. He loves this shit,” I scoffed. “I want some degree of privacy and—”

  “And I want world peace, so we’re both disappointed!” Ed growled impatiently.

  “Hmph.” I glanced at the reception area to gauge whether we were in danger of being overheard. Tara’s attention was on her computer, and there was no other sign of life at this hour of the morning in the usually busy office.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, man, but your fans love you. They know what you look like without the weirdass stage makeup and wacky getups now. And they know where you live. You guys are as big as the Beatles in 1964. Hell, you’re bigger than every hot boy band in the last two decades!”

  “What about Beyoncé?” I joked.

  Ed chuckled appreciatively. “Not quite. But you’re getting there. We’ll make this work, Isaac. You trust me, right?”

  I let out a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” Ed patted my shoulder and nudged me toward the conference room.

  IN SPITE of Ed’s pep talk, I walked into the small conference room with a sense of dread. The two serious-looking detectives sitting at the round table didn’t help. They introduced themselves as Larry and Jerry. No joke. Larry was a balding middle-aged man with a bushy dark mustach
e, a potbelly, and beady eyes. If they had a good cop, bad cop routine, I’d guess he’d play the bad cop. His questions had a vaguely accusatory tone that made me bristle.

  “Do you have any idea who this might be? A former employee, perhaps? Or an ex-lover?”

  “No. Not at all.” My blood pressure spiked at the insinuation that I might be withholding something important.

  “We screen our employees thoroughly here. I don’t think it’s an inside thing,” Ed hurried to assure him.

  “When did you first notice one of these ‘biggest star’ comments?” Jerry asked in a gentler tone.

  I liked the younger man immediately, which I supposed was their intent. Jerry was tall and thin with light brown wavy hair and a kind smile. He’d shaken my hand with a firm grip when we were first introduced, and gushed that he and his wife were big Spiral fans.

  “I saw the first post after our album was released in February. It said, ‘You’re the biggest star and I’m your biggest fan.’ It was harmless. Sweet actually. The only reason I remembered was because it was under another comment with explicit sexual content. While my friends razzed me about that one, I pretended to focus on the less… provocative one. A week or so later, Cammy noticed another post that began the same way but went on to list the person’s favorite songs. Again, it didn’t seem like a big deal. What got our attention was the fourth or fifth one that began the same way.”

  “You’re the biggest star and I’m your biggest fan?” Larry asked, his sizable forehead creased with consternation.

  “Yeah. They were obsessive, even if the overall vibe was positive,” I said with a shrug. “But the one I saw last night was weird. The reason I—”

  “When you say your friends razzed you, who do you mean specifically?” Larry interrupted.

  “The guys in the band. Tim, Cory, Rand,” I responded irritably.

  “We’ll talk to them later.” Larry scribbled on his notepad, then looked at Jerry meaningfully.