Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Read online

  My hand finds its place on the frets. The guitar pick pinches between my fingers like an extra digit. Cheers erupt from the crowd when I strum a test chord and absorb the spark snapping back from the charged atmosphere.

  Are they ready? Because I am. The thunder in my ears isn’t a click-track but my pulse, my heart pumping blood to the rhythm of the song in my veins. The music is about to explode, about to bleed out in unforgiving violence. I feel it. Breathe it. Own it.

  My soul claws back, starving for a glimpse of brilliance after years in its cage.

  “Hi, I’m Mason West. I’m not good at speeches, so if it’s okay with you…”

  I step back and launch into the syncopated intro of “Never Been Mine.” The crowd roars at the energetic riff, the hint that Wolf uncovered another diamond in the rough. I feed off their support, the crackling air that’s already on fire by the time I make my way back to the mic.

  “Lost it all to get to you, but it’s never been mine, no never been mine

  So much rides on wasted youth, a game of time, and it’s never been mine

  The reason, the rhyme, the righteous lie that’s never been mine, will never be mine

  Until truth binds

  The twisted remains

  Of dreams, of peace, of the freedom to say:

  I never wanted it anyway.”

  The audience is all in by the chorus. No one seems to miss the electric guitar or ear-splitting percussion this ode to resentment was written to showcase. Instead, the stripped down, almost acoustic pop vibe, combined with my gravelly vocal lends an irony that has the crowd fully committed. By the bridge they’re on their feet. By the third chorus, they’re singing along. My grin slips out, igniting them further, as I listen to a few hundred strangers sing one of my songs they can’t possibly know. Incredible, and soon I forget everything I’m not. I’m just Mason, settling into the mold of what I was born to be. Grasping a tiny sliver of space and time in a universe that should have forgotten me, to force it into something bigger.

  “Until truth binds

  The twisted remains

  Of dreams, of peace, of the freedom to say:

  I’ll have it all one day.”

  Tomorrow I will be lost again, but tonight I’m home.

  I nod a thank-you to another well-wisher before turning back to the bar and my celebratory drink. Hard to believe I was exhausted to the point of collapse a few hours ago. Now? I’m on a high that threatens any chance of sleep tonight. Good thing tomorrow is my day off.

  A woman slides onto the stool beside me, and I smile a quick hello. Her return look is a familiar mix of interest and anticipation, and I brace myself for the conversation.

  “Mason, right?” she asks, holding out her hand.

  I nod and shake it. “That’s right.”

  “Hey, Sam. Gin and tonic?” the bartender interrupts. “Sam” smiles a response and the bartender leaves to fix her drink.

  “A regular, huh?” I ask, relaxing a bit.

  “I’m surprised you’re not,” she says, studying me in the dim light.

  “Why’s that?”

  She shrugs. “This place attracts talent. Figured a guy like you would be a moth to a flame.”

  “A guy like me?”

  “Stage junkies.”

  I laugh and take a swallow of my drink. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended. I’m guessing that means you caught the show.”

  “You’re the reason I’m here.”

  Surprised, I lower my glass and focus on her for the first time. She stares right back, unapologetic and open. After a long drought of silence, a smile breaks over her shiny lips. “Mason West, former frontman of Western Crush. Poised to burst onto the alternative rock scene before personal tragedy sent him into oblivion. Your bandmates did okay for themselves without you, though.”

  My stomach twists, heat radiating through my veins. Is this a joke? “Hilarious. Did Wolf put you up to this?”

  “Put me up to what?”

  I divert my glare back to the scratched surface of the bar. “This happy jaunt down memory lane,” I mutter.

  “Would he do something like that?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so. Yet, here we are.”

  I settle into my seat and shoot a look with enough venom to end whatever this is before it starts. The woman’s smile only spreads to her eyes. She’s fucking enjoying this, isn’t she.

  I’m about to dismiss her in more explicit terms when she reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. “Okay, I’ve tortured you enough. Samantha Turner,” she says, shoving it toward me.

  My gaze flickers down to the piece of cardboard. “A manager?”

  “The manager. You may have heard of some of my agency’s other artists. Dream Filter? The Hallowed? Kelsey Manic and the Relic? Savour?”

  I almost choke on my drink. “Dream Filter? Come on.”

  “Don’t believe me?” She opens her phone and spins the screen toward me. There, in a very relaxed-looking pose are the iconic members of Dream Filter lounged on the couches of their bus. With their giant grins, goofy faces, and obvious presentations of their middle fingers it’s clear they’re comfortably intimate with whomever took this photo. It’s a personal shot, snapped in a candid moment that only someone like their manager would experience. “We’re in Philadelphia this weekend, so I figured I’d swing by to catch your set while the guys had some downtime.”

  Okay, this is definitely a joke. Wolf is a monster to do this to me after everything I’ve been through. Now I’m just pissed.

  “Awesome. Well, congratulations on your success. Tell Wolf he’s an ass.” I slide off the stool and grab my glass.

  “Mason, wait.”

  I stare at her fingers on my arm and try to check my anger as she pulls away. The humor is gone from her eyes. With an apologetic look, she holds the card up again, letting it color the air between us.

  “I’m serious, Mason. I came here tonight for you. Yes, Wolf told me to come. Because he knows I’m looking for someone like you.”

  I huff a laugh, but I’m still standing. Still staring at her and allowing that rebellious part of my soul to creep out and dare a look.

  “And after your performance tonight, I know you’re the one.”

  “The one for what?”

  This isn’t real. She’s not real. This moment, this hope. So why am I sinking back to the stool? Why am I hanging on her words with the longing of a nineteen-year-old dreamer?

  “How would you like to front a band again? A real one, Mason. Not for these little clubs and weekend gigs. I’m talking sold-out venues and world tours. Festivals, TV spots, radio sessions. The whole deal.”

  I stare at her. Does she know I was slamming nails into roof shingles just hours ago? That I breathe a sigh of relief every time I can sign another preschool tuition check? That I’m Mason Fucking Nobody?

  I take the card and study the clean print, expecting it to evaporate before my eyes. What did they put in my drink?

  “Mason! I see you’ve met Sam.”

  Wolf saunters over, locking a hand on each of our shoulders to solidify the awkward trio. I blink over at him, then at the manager of freaking Dream Filter and The Hallowed.

  “He has, but he appears to be somewhat underwhelmed,” she says. I snap a look to her and relax a bit at her wink.

  “Underwhelmed, eh? Well, he’s young and stupid, I suppose,” Wolf teases.

  “Young, yes. Stupid, I think not,” she counters.

  He chuckles and slaps her shoulder before dropping his arms. Do they need me for this conversation?

  “It’s a lot to take in,” I say.

  Wolf nods, studying me. “You did good tonight, kid. I don’t think anyone is surprised Samantha Turner is talking to you except you. You’ve had a rough road. Maybe it’s time for a turn?”

  With another pat on the arm, he wanders off to greet other guests. I’m still stuck with the most unexpected one.

  “I’
ll cut to the chase,” Sam says, directing a look at me. “One of my midlevel bands just lost their frontman to a solo career and is looking for someone to fill the void and carry them to the next level. After what I saw tonight, I’m confident that someone could be you. In fact, I’m giddy at the thought of bringing you together and watching that magic unfold. You have my card. If you want an audition, you call me tomorrow. We have to move fast on this for several reasons.”

  Her phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen with a curse. “Look, I have to run, but it was a pleasure meeting you.” My tempting ray of dreamer crack is already moving toward the door. “Call me tomorrow, Mason. Not next week, not a month from now. Tomorrow.”

  I blink and stare down at the small square of paper in my hands. Running a calloused finger over the name, I indulge in a vivid replay of what just happened. Tomorrow. What a confusing, complex, mysterious word. Tomorrow is hope and failure. Expectations and frustration. Victory and defeat. Tomorrow can be anything and everything except one: regret. No, that will be for Monday when I’ve let tomorrow pass into oblivion.

  “How’d it go tonight?” Heather asks sleepily from the couch when I finally make my way home around two. She stretches and tries to rock herself into a sitting position.

  “It went fine,” I say quietly. She smiles weakly and teeters on the verge of passing out again. “Sorry it’s so late. Why don’t you just stay? You can go home when you wake up. I owe you.” Her body relaxes in relief as she sinks back to the couch and closes her eyes. Am I dick or a hero for inviting her to stay over? At least she’s too tired to read into it.

  I remove a handful of bills from my wallet and place them in a neat pile on the coffee table in front of her. Grabbing the blanket off the back of the couch, I tuck it around her and scoop up the few dishes near the pile of bills. After depositing the dishes in the sink, I continue the journey to Brooklyn’s room.

  My daughter is out cold, a peaceful angel who rules my world. She’s my past and my future. My destiny. My story now that I’m all she has. I think back to that picture of the Dream Filter guys on their tour bus. Drinking, laughing, living the life of a touring top-level artist. Where does an auburn-curled four-year-old girl fit into that picture? I gave up that life once for her. Will she love me or hate me one day for giving it up a second time? I guess it doesn’t matter as long as she never knows. I lower Dizzy the Unicorn’s light, kiss her forehead, and slip out of her room.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow doesn’t have to be complicated. Tomorrow can be just another today, and based on the time when I check my phone, I guess it already is.

  CHAPTER 4

  Have you ever experienced the molecules of music? The atoms of a song before they’re a discernable masterpiece? That’s what it’s like with Mason. Every second, every breath brings a flash of art to the air around him. You see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap out silent melodies only he can hear. That’s how I know he will be my blessing and my curse. I already love him for the very thing that guarantees he will never be mine. Artists like Mason West are fueled by one force, one love that will consume them to destruction.

  MASON

  I wake to the smell of eggs and distant chatter of a preschooler. Shit, what time is it? I groan and drop back to my pillow when I see it’s after nine. I never sleep past eight, Brooklyn wouldn’t allow it even if I could. This schedule is killing me.

  I roll to the edge of the bed and force my legs to the floor. Damn, I’m sore. You’d think after three and a half years of construction my muscles would be used to being brutalized. Who needs a gym when you can get paid to strain every tendon in your body six days a week? Then I remember the gig and the physical exertion that makes roof-work seem tame by comparison. You don’t play—you transform, Katrina used to say. It was her way of describing my all-or-nothing approach to performance. It’s why industry powerhouses like Samantha Turner take notice when they stumble upon my unique brand of leaving my heart on the stage. Spill it out, sculpt and thrash at it for forty-five minutes until there’s nothing left but a bloody shard for others to consume. That’s always been my approach to music. Bleed until you can’t breathe. I don’t know how to be anything else.

  The next day, though? Only coffee and a shower will make this day possible.

  I drag myself to the bathroom, not surprised when tiny fists pound on the door.

  “What kind of eggs, Daddy? The squished kind?” (Scrambled.) “The happy kind?” (Fried.) “The yucky kind?” (Boiled.) “The fancy kind?” (Omelet.) I choose fried because that will cause the least level of drama and allow me to shower in peace. Sure enough, the pounding and shouting quickly fade into silence, allowing me to enjoy the soothing flutter of water on fiberglass. In my fantasy world, there are no responsibilities or environmental considerations to prevent an hour-long soak. There are probably other fixtures of that glorious scene, but right now I can’t think of anything more enticing than isolation beneath a scalding stream. That is, until images of Samantha Turner, manager extraordinaire, threatens my peace. Tomorrow, Mason. Not next week. Not a month from now. We’re already further into “tomorrow” than I’d like to be.

  Too soon, I force myself out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Slicing a hand through the mist on the mirror, I stare at my reflection, trying to find the man others see. Objectivity. That’s what I need to survive this day, this choice that’s too big to be made in the few hours I have left. My thoughts wander back to Sam Turner, probably on a tour bus or plane to check in with her next A-list client. Has she even thought about my performance last night, the call she requested? This decision that defines my entire existence today is just a checklist item in hers.

  The humid air thickens around me, obscuring my image in the mirror as I brace my hands against the sink. It’s just an audition, right? Just a knock on a door, a glimpse through a window that could still slam shut. Am I afraid of the yes or the no?

  My lungs struggle with the hot, heavy air, and I force open the bathroom door to get a clear breath. The relief from the blast of coolness evaporates at the figure hovering inches away. Heather’s fist is raised in mid-air, about to knock. I straighten when her heated gaze travels over my body.

  “Oh, sorry. Um… I was just checking to see…” Her focus drifts to the seam of the towel around my hips, resting there for a moment before scaling back to my chest. Flushing, she steps back, but the slight retreat does nothing to temper the heat flooding her eyes. I swallow my discomfort and force a tight smile.

  “No problem. I should probably…” I nod toward my room, careful to secure the towel tighter around me.

  She nods but makes no move to let me pass. Instead, she scans me with a covetous look I know has just ended the understanding we had. She wants more. So much more. I see it in her eyes, her posture that’s yearning for something I’ll never be able to give her. She’s let me use her for far too long.

  “Heather…”

  She blinks up at me, her gaze filling with the pain of what I’m about to say. “I know, Mason. Okay? I know. I just…” She reaches up and rests her hand on my shoulder.

  Touch.

  When’s the last time I’ve been touched by anything other than sticky preschool fingers?

  I suck in a breath, closing my eyes at the gentle pressure of her fingers as they slide across my chest and down my ribs. Warmth radiates through each cell she ignites, tension building and steeling my hungry body against the alarms in my head. As if sensing my weakness, her exploration grows stronger, more urgent as her fingertips sink into the tense muscle of my abs. The burn travels down, awakening my body from its long, stress-induced stupor.

  Touch.

  Dammit, who has time for touch when you fight to survive every second? I meet her gaze again, pleading with a mix of permission and warning. This is goodbye. A final tip for what she’s done to make my life bearable for the last few months. This is need, not want, and it won’t last if she chooses to accept.

  Her hand
trembles as she pulls away. “Breakfast is ready,” she says quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  She ducks her head and starts back down the hall.

  “Heather, wait.”

  She turns, her eyes saturated with loss when they lock on mine.

  You’re an asshole, Mason. You never should have let it get this far.

  “I mean it, Heather. Thank you.”

  With a sad smile, the woman who’s made our lives possible for eight months disappears from view.

  “Do you want another banana, Daddy? I can make them myself.”

  I glance up from the electric bill and flash a quick smile. She’s right. She can peel those bad-boys like a pro. “No thanks, angel. Why don’t you go choose a puzzle, and I’ll be there in a second.”

  Her gaze lights up before she bounds toward the living room. Mine sinks back to the pile of bills in my hand. How the hell am I going to pay all of these by Saturday?

  Heather was gone when I came back from getting dressed after my shower. Brooklyn didn’t seem upset, and I was grateful her babysitter was kind enough to shelter the little girl from our issues. I’m not surprised, though. Heather’s a good person, one of the few I considered a friend. In another life maybe she could have been more, but in this universe, personal relationships are a luxury I can’t afford. Hell, I can’t even afford to air-condition my apartment, apparently.

  “We’re making the robot one!” Brooklyn calls from the living room.

  “Sounds good, bug,” I reply, squinting at another bolded number on the folded page beneath the electric bill. Is it really time for my car registration renewal already? Who has forty-eight dollars laying around for a tiny sticker?