Losing Faith (3 page)

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember the part where you said I’d be stranded on the side of the road without my car. Max, you’re my accountant. I need you to fix this.”

“You’re broke, Seth.” He paused as if letting the words sink in. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but the money’s gone.”

“How’s that possible?”

“Seth, come on, man. We’ve gone over this a thousand times now. Listen, I feel for you, man. I really do. But you haven’t been working for the past seven months. And we had to pay back all that money when you dropped out of the tour. You’re lucky we didn’t get sued for that.”

“What about the new album? Aren’t the checks coming in from that?”

“Are you talking about your second album, the one you released just before disappearing? Because those checks have been coming in, and they’re barely enough to keep you floating. In fact, they aren’t enough.”

“That makes no sense. I have a platinum album.”

“That’s right, Seth, but in this business, if you aren’t promoting, you’re dying. And since we’re being honest, let’s face it. Your fans didn’t exactly take it well when you checked yourself into rehab.”

“What are you, my publicist?”

“No, I’m not.
She
did the best she could to shield you from negative press, but you didn’t exactly help her either. You keep shutting us out, buddy.”

Seth took a seat on the side of the road and stared at the rolling gray clouds that threatened to unleash buckets of rain on him at any moment.

“Seth? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“There’s a solution to this problem, buddy.”

Seth ran a hand through his hair. “What’s that?”

“I was talkin’ to your manager, and he said that if you went back out on tour—”

“Adam? You’ve been talkin’ to Adam? About me goin’ back out on tour? Are you nuts?”

“It’s just a short tour. It’d be good for your image. You know, one of those Still Standing tours. Let the fans know that you’re back and you’re better than ever. You could promote your second album and send it up the charts.”

“You’re not listenin’ to me, Max. The answer’s no. I’m done with that life.”

Max let out another long sigh. “Then what’re you going to do? Sell guitars?”

Although that idea was more appealing than going out on tour, Seth wanted to get as far away from the music business as he could. “I don’t know. I’m headin’ back to Fort Wayne next month. Maybe I should get a job there.”

Max chuckled. “Oh, that’s good. Seth Storm,
gettin’ a job
. Now that’s a country song if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Listen, Max. I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do, but I know I can’t go back to that life. It’s not for me. Not anymore.” Seth stood up and wiped dirt from his pants. “Right now I have to focus on getting Faith back. I have a second chance, and I’m going to be there.”

“Well, as your financial advisor, I have some more bad news.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” he asked, wondering how things could get much worse than they already were.

“In a couple more months, your car won’t be the only thing taken from you.”

“The house?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

Seth nearly dropped the phone. His chest tightened. He tried taking a deep breath, but it did little to ease the anxiety taking over him. “There’s nothing you can do?”

“I’ve done everything I could, buddy. It’s up to you now. Goin’ on tour is your only shot at keepin’ what’s left of your life.”

Seth saw an opening in the clouds that looked as if someone had torn a hole through them. “That’s where you’re wrong, Max. I’ve already lost everything.”

Chapter 3

Trista Tilman

February 13th

Trista Tilman took one last look at the open suitcase on the bed before zipping it up and shoving it underneath. She straightened the covers, tucking them beneath the pillows, and noticed a large envelope at the foot of the bed. She held it in her hand, wondering how she could have forgotten the most important thing. If he’d seen this, well, let’s just say it wouldn’t have been pretty.

“Hey, Trista. I’m home.” He drew out the syllables in her name as if learning how to speak for the first time.
Tris – ta.
Like nails on a chalkboard. It was the only time she hated the sound of her own name. Then she heard the front door slam shut. Shoot. She had run out of time.

Panic settled in as she stared at the large beige envelope that was bulging at the center. She looked around for a place to stash it, but the tiny room offered few prospects for a package this big. Her heart raced as she pulled out the suitcase, slamming it onto the bed and unzipping it. She shoved the envelope inside the already stuffed suitcase and reached for the zipper. The sound of his footsteps drawing near pushed her nerves to the edge, causing her hands to shake.

“Where’re you at, doll? Your man’s home and needin’ some attention,” he shouted.

She pulled on the zipper, but it had gotten stuck on a piece of clothing hanging out of it. She tried backing it up, but it wouldn’t budge. Sweat formed on her forehead as she yanked on the zipper until the tips of her fingers turned white. Come on, you stupid zipper. “Be right there,” she shouted.

“Oh, you’re in the bedroom. Well, then, I guess we can just skip supper tonight if that’s the game you wanna play.”

No, she didn’t want to skip supper. Especially not tonight. She pulled the zipper back and forth, ripping a fingernail in the process. Finally she leaned on the suitcase, applying pressure until the zipper finally released and closed the rest of the way. She heard his footsteps stop just outside the door. She shoved the suitcase back under the bed, hitting her shin with it in the process.

The doorknob turned, and the bedroom door opened as she spun around to face him. “What’re you up to in here?” he asked, looking around the room.

“Not much really. I was just makin’ the bed and putting some clothes in the drawer.” Trista’s shin throbbed in pain, and it took everything she had not to sit down and massage it.

“That’s weird,” he said, taking a few steps inside. His left eyebrow rose as he opened and shut one of the dresser drawers. “I didn’t hear the drawer shut.”

“Well, that’s because…I did that first. And then I made the bed. You probably didn’t hear that either.”

He looked her in the eye. Fear stirred in her gut, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, reminding her of the many times in the past she had sassed off to him. “No, I guess I wouldn’t hear that. Unless, of course, I had super powers and could hear just about anything, like Daredevil.” His suspicious look had been replaced by a playful smile. The one that had drawn her to him about two years ago when they first met. Randall Tuck hadn’t always been this controlling or this mean. There was a time when she’d do anything for him. A time that had long since passed.

“Might you also have a super sense of smell? Because if you did, you might’ve noticed the chili simmering on the stove.”

“Oh, I noticed all right. And it smells almost as good as you look.” He took a step forward and scooped her into his arms. She felt her body tense and fought to relax it. He didn’t like it when she pulled away. Didn’t like it at all. He leaned in close and took in a whiff of the perfume she had splashed on her neck. A
request
of his. He had many
requests
that he strongly recommended she consider. And as time went by, she had learned to follow through with them. To adapt. “You smell so good,” he whispered. “How ’bout I skip the chili and just have you instead?” He took in another whiff. “I bet you’d like that a lot.”

Trista placed a hand to her stomach, trying to ease the sickness growing deep inside. “If I don’t get the chili, it’ll burn. And we both know how much you hate burnt food.”

Tuck’s icy brown eyes stared into hers. She held her breath, hoping he’d leave her to the cooking. He stepped to the side. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. As she slid past him, he slapped her on the butt. Trista bit down on her lip as the sting lingered.

“You’re home a bit earlier than usual.”

“I got a tip about a Firebird that needed picked up. I guess the guy hadn’t made a payment in six months, and the bank’s had a hard time finding this guy. But when I got there, he was long gone.”

“That’s too bad,” Trista said.

Tuck shrugged. “It’s all good. I’ll catch him sooner or later. Finding people is what I do best.” He shot her a wink, sending a chill down her spine. “I’m gonna check out the news. Let me know when it’s ready.”

Like everything else in their nine hundred square-foot house, the kitchen was small but adequate. It opened up into the living room, where Tuck took a seat in his recliner. Or, as he referred to it, the Captain’s Seat. Faded blue fabric covered the Lazy Boy with pieces of light yellow foam protruding from tiny tears, revealing its age. It was the one piece of furniture he had brought with him when they moved into the tiny rental house. No one but Tuck was allowed to sit in it. Another
request
he enforced regularly. Trista had made the mistake of sitting there once. She had just stepped on a shard of glass from a broken bottle. Grabbing her injured foot, she instantly sank down in his chair. Tuck walked in, took one look at her, and sent an open hand crashing down on top of her head, causing her to bite her tongue. That was the last time she’d sat in the Captain’s Seat.

She walked over to the small electric stove and stirred the chili. She brought the ladle to her lips and closed her eyes as the spices tickled her tongue before sliding down her throat. Perfect. She scooped out a bowl for Tuck and then one for herself. He hated to eat alone. It didn’t matter if he was eating something nobody else liked or not.

Trista tossed a couple of spoons into the bowls and set them on the table at their usual seats. She set napkins to the side of the bowls, folding them into triangles, and went into the fridge for a couple of cans of Sprite. She filled two glasses with ice and popped the top on one of the cans, spraying a light mist onto her hand. After filling each of the glasses, she took a quick glance over her shoulder. Tuck stared at the television with a look of disgust, and Trista knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be swearing at it.

She dropped a straw in one of the glasses and took a long sip. The sugary liquid slid past her tongue, leaving a slight burn as it made its way down her throat. She dropped a straw in the other glass, stirring the cubes clockwise a few times. Then she set them both at the center of the table. “Tuck, chili’s ready.”

She stood behind her chair and waited a few minutes while he continued watching television. Another
request
of his. She stared at the clear glasses filled with Sprite and watched as bubbles rose through the clear liquid, making their way to the place where they could escape. Where they could breathe and finally be free. Bubbles of anxiety rose in her stomach as Tuck stood up.

“Damn politicians,” he said, turning off the television. “All they want to do is steal my hard-earned money.” He walked over to the table and looked at Trista. “I’d just like to make a buck without some bureaucrat reaching into my pocket and tryin’ to steal it. I’m tellin’ you, doll. If it weren’t for my business, we’d pick up and get out of this country. We’d go somewhere warm. Somewhere away from all of the suits.”

“That sounds nice,” Trista said, waiting for him to pull out his chair.

Tuck looked out the tiny window above the kitchen sink. “There’s bad weather comin’ in. Supposed to be the worst storm in more than a decade.”

Trista was well aware of the coming storm. It had been difficult for her to think of anything else over the past two days.

He looked at the empty chair across from his. “Where’s Savannah?”

“With a friend. She’s staying the night.”

Tuck turned to her and smiled. “So we’ve got the place to ourselves.” He took a seat, motioning for Trista to take hers. He picked up one of the glasses of Sprite from the center of the table. “With this storm brewing, I think this could be a romantic night for us. I might just let you be on top.” He brought the straw to his lips.

“Wait!” Trista shouted, trailing off as she realized how loud she was being. “Sorry,” she said, picking up the other glass. “This is yours. I drank out of that one already.”

Tuck looked at the glass in his hand and then measured it against the one Trista held before setting it back on the table and grabbing the one she had. “That was a close one,” he said, taking a big drink.

Drinking after anyone else, including Trista, had been one of his pet peeves ever since she’d known him.
It’s not sanitary
, he had said.
That’s what savages do
.

He picked up a spoonful of chili and shoved it into his mouth. “Ummm. Damn, you’re a good cook. I love your chili.”

“Thank you,” she said, picking up her spoon and taking a bite. She closed her eyes and focused on the warm tomato sauce and symphony of spices that tickled her tongue. It was the one and only recipe she had learned from her mother. When she was a little girl growing up in New Haven, Indiana, she had loved watching her mom cook. The way she sliced and diced vegetables and meats had been like watching a magician perform magic.

“It’s a bit spicy this time,” he said, taking another big drink.

“I may have put in a bit too much chili pepper.” Although she hated making a mistake when it came to cooking, this was one error she had made intentionally. Bubbles of nerves continued to rise within her stomach, causing her hands to shake. She set the spoon back in the bowl and watched as Tuck put spoonful after spoonful of spicy chili into his mouth before washing it down with the cool Sprite.

He drank until his glass let out a slurping sound. Then he set the glass down and looked at Trista. “I think—,” he said slowly, blinking a few times. “I think I need another, doll.”

Trista forced a smile. “I’ll get you another,” she said. She got up from the table and walked over to the counter where she found the second can of Sprite. Her heart pounded harder and harder in her chest as she realized there was no turning back now. A crashing sound boomed throughout the kitchen, causing her to flinch. She closed her eyes, placing her hands on the counter, and let out a long sigh. Then she straightened herself, popped the top on the can, and took a long drink before dumping the rest into Tuck’s glass.