Cardinal (18 page)

“You did?” I crouch down to his level. “What is
it?”

He holds out a piece of paper that’s been
folded a dozen times. “It’s a picture.”

“You made me my own Oliver art?” He nods as I carefully
take the paper and open it.

It’s a drawing of three stick figures. Each one
is labeled above their head: “Uncle Gunnar,” “Me,” and “Jen.” My heart melts as
I notice the little Oliver figure stands in the middle, holding hands with his
uncle and me. I’m wearing a colorful triangle-shaped dress, and there’s a
guitar in my other hand. Latson is wearing shorts and has three straight lines
for hair. A bright yellow sun sits at the top of the paper, and there’s green
grass at the bottom.

I hold it out so we both can see. “I’m going to
hang this up wherever I go,” I tell Oliver.

“You will?” He gives me a tiny smile. “I
thought if you missed us, you could look at a picture. That’s what I do when I
miss my mom. It makes me feel better.”

My breath catches. He’s such a well-adjusted kid.
It’s easy to forget everything he’s been through. I look over his sweet drawing
again, now aware of the meaning behind it. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I’ll
look at it every day.”

He looks a little sheepish as I ruffle his
hair.

“Hey.”

I stand up at the sound of Latson’s voice. He
gestures for me to follow him, and we walk a few steps away from the group. He
takes my free hand, threading his fingers through mine.

“Dean’s ready whenever you are,” he says. “He
didn’t want to interrupt your goodbyes to tell you.”

“So he made you do it?”

“I volunteered.” Latson gives me an uneasy smile.
“I wanted a few minutes alone with you.”

I don’t like his expression. “Is everything
okay?”

He nods. “Do you like Oliver’s picture?”

“I love it,” I say. “He’s so thoughtful. You’re
doing a good job with him, you know.”

Latson ignores my compliment and runs his thumb
over the back of my hand. “You remembered to pack my shirt, right?”

“Of course.” Latson gave me one of his white
tees that suspiciously smelled like he dropped a whole bottle of cologne on it.
“Everything in my suitcase is going to smell like you.”

His smile grows more genuine. “I may have added
another one to your bag. I hope you don’t mind.”

I wind my hand, the one that holds Oliver’s
picture, around his waist. “I don’t, but I wish you had crawled inside instead.”

Latson lets out a breath and rests his forehead
against mine. “How did this day get here so fast?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Time always does the
opposite of what I want.”

We stand there in silence before he brings his
hand to cradle my face. He kisses me, catching my mouth with his and taking his
time to brand every part. When I think the kiss is over, he surprises me by capturing
my lips again.

And again.

“I want that burned into your memory,” he
whispers. “No one else gets to kiss you. No one.”

“Okay,” I breathe. Like the thought would cross
my mind. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Not as much as I’ll miss you.”

“Jen?” I hear Dean. “You ready?”

No,
I think, but “yes” comes out of my mouth. Latson
squeezes my fingers before letting me go. Reluctantly, he gives me his lopsided
dimple smile. “Go be a rock star.”

~~~~

After a four -hour flight, we land at LAX. I
spent most of the trip with my eyes closed and my ear buds in, listening to a
continuous loop of Dean’s songs. Before the plane took off, he showed me an itinerary
for the coming days. Scheduled in amongst rehearsals and photo shoots are
appointments for costuming and radio interviews. It was a little nerve-wracking
to see what lies ahead, so instead of watching the in-flight movie, this newbie
decided to be proactive and practice playing guitar in her mind. The music took
me to another place, and it also helped block out the cries from a screaming
toddler a few rows back.

“Roxanne will meet us by the baggage claim,”
Dean says as we walk down the jetway.

“Who’s Roxanne?”

“She’s my agent-slash-manager.” He smiles. “She’ll
be joining us on the tour, so you won’t be stuck alone with us guys.”

The news will make my brother happy. “Is that
routine?” I ask. “I mean, she’s not just doing it for me, is she?”

“No,” Dean says. “Managers usually accompany
their talent.”

I nod. Okay. Good.

We exit our gate to a long line of people
waiting to board our empty plane. The airport is teeming, as I assumed it would
be. Dean seems to know where he’s going, so I walk beside him without question
and glance around. Maybe I’ll see someone famous. All I end up seeing are a
blur of faces until my eyes zero in on a Starbucks.

“Can we stop?” I ask, my eyes darting to the
coffee shop. “The pretzels on the plane really didn’t do it for me.”

“Sure.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me tell
Roxanne.”

“You have to check in?”

“She has a car waiting. It’s courtesy to let
her know we’ll be a few minutes.”

Holy crap. I didn’t realize. “I’ll make it
fast,” I promise and start to walk away. I thought we would be taking a cab.

“Wait.” Dean follows me. “You’re not the only
one who’s hungry.”

Of course the place is crowded and the line
takes forever to move. I don’t want to leave a bad impression with Roxanne by
making a pit stop, but I really am starving. I consider getting a smoothie, but
throw health out the window and end up ordering a S’mores Frappuccino instead. I
get a zucchini walnut muffin too, and Dean opts for an iced coffee with milk. When
our drinks are prepared, the barista calls out, “Jan and Dean!”

“Jan and Dean?” I frown. “Wasn’t that a real
group?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah. It was two guys from the
sixties.”

I shrug and go retrieve our drinks. I’ll be Jan
as long as I can claim my Frappuccino.

We make our way to the escalators, then down to
the baggage claim. It seems like everywhere I look there’s a driver holding a
sign. I read a line of them: Ryan, Stephens, Reid, McCarthy
.
That’s us. A
tall man wearing a blue suit holds the sign and looks bored while a petite
woman with a raven-colored pixie cut stands beside him consulting her phone.

“Rox!” Dean shouts and waves.

She looks up and waves back. “’Bout time!”

Dean weaves around people to get to his manager
and when he does, he hugs her. Then, he steps back and introduces us. “Jen,
Roxanne Hughes. Rox, Jen Elliott. Rhythm guitar.”

Roxanne extends her hand and I shake it. “I’ve
heard good things about you.” She looks me over from head to toe, appraising my
appearance. “This is good,” she says to herself and then looks at Dean. “Nice window
dressing. You needed some spice for the men in the crowd. Now you can appeal to
more fans.”

Wait. What?                                                                                      

My eyes swing to Dean. “That’s why you asked me
out here?  To sex up your band?” Disbelief washes over me. I can’t believe I
fell for this. “You brought me across the country to look pretty?”

Dean’s complexion pales. “No!  You’re mad
talented.” He gives Roxanne a hard stare. “Why would you say that?  You just
met her.”

Roxanne looks stunned, but in a phony way. “I
wasn’t trying to be nasty. I’m your manager; I look at your image from every
angle. Despite her inexperience, she
will
help.” Her eyes focus on mine.
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. It’s the nature of the business.”

I want to throw my Starbucks at her. I picture
it splattering against her chest, and I’m surprised by my visceral reaction. It
must be because I’ve been pent up in a flying metal tube for the last four
hours.

“Jen.” Dean can tell I’m annoyed. “Gunnar would
never support this if he thought I was messing with you. Don’t be upset. Rox is
just –”

“Telling you how it is,” she cuts him off. “I’ve
been planning this tour non-stop since we were given the green light. It’s
Dean’s second chance and everything needs to be analyzed.” She extends her hand
again. “Let’s start over. I’ve heard great things about your playing and
nothing about your looks.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Jen.” Dean looks desperate. “It’s true.”

I believe him. I really do. It’s Roxanne I’m
not sure about. My shoulders relax a little and I focus on Dean’s manager. “Did
he tell you this was all new to me?”

“He did.”

“Okay. Then you know I have no idea how the
business
works,” I stress the word. “If he gains new fans, that’s fine. But it won’t
be because I’m window dressing. I didn’t come out here to parade around. I came
to play.” I don’t need her thinking she can dress me up like a doll.

Roxanne’s professional expression turns into an
approving one. “Good.” She steps to my side, wraps her arm around my waist, and
starts to usher me toward the baggage carousels. “I was worried when Dean said
you’ve never toured. The last thing I have time to do is babysit you. I don’t
need you breaking down on me.”

“You were concerned?”

“The pressure can be stressful,” she says. “There
are new people and new temptations. You’re in a new place every other day. I
don’t need you getting emotional. My instincts tell me you’ll only do that when
necessary. You won’t allow anyone to run over you. That’s important.”

“I wasn’t planning any emotions other than
nerves.”

“Trust me,” Roxanne leans closer, “there will
be plenty of feelings. Just try to act on them in a positive way. Remember, there
are cameras everywhere. Are you on social media?”

I think I know what she’s getting at. “I’m not
going to make a fool of myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She gives me a curt nod. “Not anymore.”

We step up to a conveyor belt of traveling bags.
“Let’s get your stuff and get moving.” Roxanne consults her vibrating phone. “Paul
and Drew are already at the hotel.”

Once we find our belongings, we walk outside to
where our driver parked a sleek black town car in a reserved space. He helps
load everything into the trunk, and then I get in the back with Roxanne while
Dean sits up front. Once we leave the airport the ride is stop and go. Traffic
is unbearable, even after seven p.m. I stare out the window and pick at my
muffin, realizing the time difference. In Chicago it would be after nine. Since
I’m trapped in the car, I find my phone and send a group text to my brother,
Jules, Gwen, and Latson to let them know I landed safely.

By the time we pull up to the hotel, it’s late evening.
Roxanne gave me her contact information, I’ve given her mine, and we’ve gone
over our agenda for the next few days. I also received a message from everyone
back home. Oliver sent me a picture of a horse’s rear end and one of his own
nose. Latson said it was his attempt at a selfie. I also got a nice shot of the
two of them wearing paper crowns. It made me smile.

While we’re unloading our bags, Roxanne hands a
key card to Dean and then one to me. “You’re both on the same floor as Paul and
Drew,” she explains. “I’m one below. Feel free to call if you need anything.”

We head inside and when the elevator stops at
her floor, Roxanne says goodnight and she’ll see us at rehearsal tomorrow. When
we get to our level, a guy walking past the elevator door stops in his tracks.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He grins. “You made
it.”

“Hey, Drew.” Dean steps out of the elevator and
they give each other a one-armed man hug. “Jen, this is Drew. Drew, Jen.”

“Hi,” I say as I struggle to pull my suitcases
around Dean’s.

“The new guitar player, right?” Drew asks. “Here.”
He leans forward to grab one of my bags. “Let me help.”

“Thanks.” I smile and move to the side. Drew is
slightly taller than me with clear blue eyes and a little scruff on his chin. I
catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve. It looks
like a skull. “You’re the drummer.”

He nods. “My reputation precedes me. What rooms
are you two in?”

“Ummm …” I twist the key around in my hand. “408.”

“410 here,” Dean says.

“I’m across the hall with Paul, 409 and 411.” Drew
starts to walk. “Welcome to home sweet home.”

We make it to my door which isn’t far from the
elevator. When I step inside my room, I find the typical hotel set up with a
king size bed, a dresser with a television, and a small desk with a coffee pot
sitting on the corner. I pull my suitcase over near the window and set my
guitar case on the bed. Drew stops just inside the doorway. “Do you guys have
plans?  Paul and I were going to head downstairs for a beer.”

My stomach growls. “If there’s food involved
I’m in,” I say. “Just give me a second to get situated.”