NicenEasy (16 page)

The piece ended with a wild, impossible solo from Riku,
guitar, but like she’d never heard it before, not even on the album. Murder
City Ravens never stood still, never merely reproduced what they did on the
album. Each piece developed and grew, turned from a triumphal anthem to a
lament of loss. And she had no idea how they did it.

Halfway through the concert, she became aware that Mrs.
Harvey was fidgeting. In quiet moments, she heard the occasional moan, and she
guessed what was happening. Mrs. Harvey was getting bored or embarrassed.
Anyway, she wanted to leave. That struck Allie as deeply unfair to Mr. Harvey,
but she couldn’t stop what happened next.

The mother of the bass player of the band onstage got up and
left. Walked out, with her husband in tow.

Furious, Allie exchanged one bare glance with Elliott. “Save
my place,” she hissed. “I’ll be back.” And like Arnie the Governator at his
fiercest, she followed the Harveys to the exit.

With the door closed, they could hear themselves talk, but
only just. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“My stomach—”

She didn’t let the woman finish. “That’s your son in there.
He’s at the height of his success, playing to thousands of adoring fans, but
you know what? He’ll notice you leaving and it will hurt. Is that what you
want?” Yes, of course it was. To keep him under her thumb, she’d do even this.

Mrs. Harvey lifted her chin and for once appeared the woman
she was underneath. Her eyes would have spat fire, had that been physically
possible. “He shouldn’t be here with his drug-taking friends, encouraging
behavior like that, playing that weird stuff.”

“Give it a chance. Listen to it. Open your heart and
listen.”

“Heart? Did you hear what that man sang? And you’re not telling
me he’s not high on something?”

“Are you talking about Zazz?” How could she know so little
about her son’s best friends? “Zazz doesn’t touch drugs, he’s the one member of
the band who has never done it. His father’s an addict, or was. Don’t you know
anything?”

“Why should I? It’s a phase. He’ll be home soon.”

Allie leaned forward, got in the woman’s face, ignored her
sudden recoil. “He won’t. Ever, if he has any sense. Can’t you both hear what
he’s doing here? It’s little short of miraculous.”

“Fans always say that. I thought that in my day about the
Bay City Rollers.”

Fuck, this woman was impossible. Allie suspected her of
being tone deaf. “Stay until the end of the set. Just until then. If you do
that, I’ll tell him you felt ill. If you don’t, I’ll tell him why you left. You
can’t stand it. You’re bored.”

“I don’t like the bad language.”

“Are you kidding? The occasional word among all those
others? And they only use them when they’re needed. Come back or I’ll tell him
the truth. We both know what that is, don’t we?”

She tried whining. “You know nothing about me.”

“I’m not sure I want to.” That came out before she could
stop it. She didn’t want to antagonize the woman because of the trouble it
could bring to the man she loved, but she found it nearly impossible to talk to
her. She’d never met anyone so deeply selfish in all her life.

Mrs. Harvey was scared to step out of her personal comfort
zone. She’d found a husband to pander to her needs and bred children, all but
one of whom had caved to her demands. Creating a life like that meant she
wanted the one that got away to come back to her. And leaving halfway through a
performance formed part of that. Undermining him, making him think he was
somehow less than perfect.

That wouldn’t happen, not on Allie’s watch. “Come back
inside and I’ll back you up.” To a certain point.

“Bring him home or leave him alone.”

At that point, Allie realized this was the first time
Donovan’s mother had acknowledged that she even existed, much less had any
influence on her son. Maybe she was really scared. She’d seen the way Donovan
touched Allie, held her hand, kept her close. Not the way he’d treat a groupie
or an occasional girlfriend. Okay, so she’d use that too. Anything to get Mrs.
Harvey back into the arena. And if she got the woman back, her husband would
come too.

“You want him home? I’ll bring him home for you.” But not
that home, not the one he’d turned his back on. If she had any influence at
all, she’d help him get the home he wanted.

“You will?”

“The band is coming to Europe and playing several dates in
Britain.” Everyone knew that. But she didn’t make any specific promise. Feeling
mean for misleading her so, Allie reminded herself of Mrs. Harvey’s intended
cruelty. Donovan had told Allie he didn’t care about his mother, but everyone
did, to some extent. It would hurt, that she knew.

She brightened. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Come back inside.”

She glanced up to see one of the big guys from the
convention. Chris, she recalled. She forced a smile. “Mrs. Harvey just needed
some air. She’s going back inside now.”

Chris nodded. “I’ll come for you after the performance and
take you backstage.”

Mr. Harvey brightened. For all she knew, he might be a
frustrated rocker. Allie would try to fix it to get him backstage and Donovan’s
mother back to the hotel, but she’d exhausted her resources and she badly
wanted to get back and see the rest of the band’s set.

“I don’t think I can manage that,” Mrs. Harvey said. “You
can go afterwards, Bill, and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll order a car for you,” Bill said, and just like that,
they’d arranged it. Allie exchanged a glance with Chris over Mrs. Harvey’s head
and he raised a brow and nodded. He’d fix that part.

Returning to her seat, Allie felt wrung out by her efforts
but triumphant. Elliott nodded to her and she could see from his expression
that he’d been affected by the power of the band.

She sat down and plunged straight back into the world of
Murder City Ravens.

Donovan saw his mother leave. A sudden stir from the place
he’d marked as theirs showed someone going and two people following. Shit,
Allie was going too. Was there a problem or did his mother just want to make a
scene? He hated her right at that moment, remembering the times she’d let him
down, when she hadn’t turned up at a school play or she’d failed to be
impressed at a recital, when he’d worked his bollocks off at a piece he knew
she liked, and then she’d told him it was fine. Just fine. Nothing else.

Disappointment flooded him and he forced himself to
concentrate, something he rarely had to do at concerts. Usually the music
flowed through him, he became one with it and let it go where it would. Now he
had to recall the piece they were on and what they were doing next. Their
running order consisted of several key pieces, where they led the audience
through moods, but other numbers could be switched out. Tonight they had
decided to play it straight unless the audience grew restless, but so far it
had responded beautifully. Perfectly, except for those three people in the seats
at the side of him.

He played half of
Restless
and the first half of
Sex
and Diamonds
before they returned. All of them. His father, mother and
Allie. The woman he loved.

Why did it mean so much, that his mother sit through at
least one performance, that she saw what he did for a living? Fuck, he’d paid
off their mortgage, bought houses for his siblings from his earnings. The least
she could do was watch.

No, it wasn’t that. He didn’t give a fuck.

Relief swept through him. He really didn’t. Not anymore. But
he had, right up to the moment he’d seen them retake their seats. His mother’s
approval had marked his childhood—what she wanted, what she didn’t want and the
way she manipulated people without actually asking. Whining or talking through
something she didn’t enjoy, denigrating it. His father always agreed. For the
sake of peace and quiet, he’d told Donovan once.

So Donovan had drifted away, deliberately found a university
away from home that he could attend, then gone to the pubs with his mates
instead of going home. Kept away, gone back for duty visits only. Still he’d
care, even after he’d left to go to art school, and then dropped out to play
music. He’d sent them CDs they’d never listened to, videos they hadn’t watched,
and each time he’d seen the things pristine in their cellophane when he’d gone
home, a bit more of him died.

But now, watching the way Allie took her place and
immediately turned to face the band, and how Elliott, a man whose judgment he
respected, watched with concentrated attention, he realized that his mother
could do what she wanted and her reaction wouldn’t affect him anymore. It
didn’t matter. He’d send them tickets to the UK gigs, but he wouldn’t be
disappointed or even surprised when they didn’t come.

However, he wanted Allie there. What she thought mattered to
him.

A roadie brought him the Broadcaster he needed for the next
piece and he checked the running order, then glanced at Zazz, who was standing
behind the mike, devoid of instruments. That confirmed the next one and he
waited for his cue.

He loved the stage performances in a different way from
loving the way they composed songs. This was all about polish, listening to
audiences and responding to them, playing what they thought the people would
want to hear, which was different from playing what they expected. It meant
following a mood, and sometimes abruptly changing it, working them and dropping
familiar pieces in between the new ones. Playing these concerts had grown into
an art in itself.

Everything fled his mind except the song, and doing it the
justice it deserved. Halfhearted concentration wouldn’t do that.

They played an extra encore, and he’d hoped that would send
the fans away more mellow, but they seemed rabid for more.

This new kind of enthusiasm, fandom almost, half scared,
half aroused and completely exhausted him. Riku would take women into his room
afterward, but Donovan wanted tea laced with whisky and a quiet ten minutes
before he went out to face the press. He couldn’t shower, couldn’t take ten
minutes because Chick had agreed to a press conference afterward, so once
they’d left the stage, he glanced into his dressing room, discovered it empty
and went on to the large room where the band sat behind a long, cloth-covered
table. He slapped the hands of Riku and Hunter on the way to the vacant place
and chugged a bottle of water before grabbing the cold beer someone handed to
him. And the towel. Sweat might be sexy—and who the fuck invented that one?—but
it stung his eyes when his hair dripped.

Usually he let Riku, Zazz and Jace handle the press,
answering the few questions thrown his way when they came. He liked it that
way. But this time they had questions for him.

“Who’s the woman, Donovan?”

“What woman?”

Riku nudged him. “Which woman?” A bit of nice deflection there.

The reporter didn’t give up. “The one on Facebook. You went
shopping with her yesterday. Is she the one from the convention? And an older
woman. Are you teaming?”

He swept the room with one comprehensive glance and smiled
when he saw Allie. With his parents. His mother didn’t look happy, but when did
she ever? Allie nodded, but when he lifted a brow, inviting her to join him,
she swallowed. Did that mean no?

“She’s someone I met at the convention, yes.”

“You write books now, Donovan? How long has that been going
on?”

“Forever. I’ve always drawn and scribbled stories. I went to
an art college before I dropped out to join the band. Have you read it?”

Someone sniggered. “It’s a picture book. What is there to
read?”

To his surprise, he didn’t have to answer that one. Someone
else turned on the questioner. “It’s an illustrated novel, you ignorant pig.
That convention was huge, and Donovan sold a ton of books.” The man turned back
to Donoan. I’m here to ask you how you balance the writing and the music?”

A question he was increasingly asking himself. “I draw and
write in between. When you’re on tour, there’s a lot of downtime. I wrote the
books like that.”

“Do you intend to continue doing that, now the first book is
so successful?”

He glanced at Chick, who was frantically inputting data on
his smart phone. Beverley was already on it and laid her phone in front of him.
Shit, he’d hit the biggest bestseller list. He stared at the screen, his mind
gone blank. Frantically, he searched for something to say, and then words
appeared on the screen. Chick had texted some in for him. Thank Christ.

“I don’t have any plans to change what I do.” Oh, very good.
He could extemporize on that. “After all,
Nightstar
is number one
worldwide.” He glanced around the room and found a pair of blue eyes. He spoke
to them and nobody else. “Sometimes life is a rehearsal, when you have to try
something out and see if it works for you. Then you have a decision to make,
when it becomes real. I’ve made a few decisions recently, one of them just
now.”

To the hubbub of “What?” he wouldn’t reply, just smiled,
folded his arms and shrugged.

He felt the curiosity of the band, but nobody would ask him
until they were alone. One thing had become crystal clear to him. He wanted
Allie and he didn’t want to wait. He needed her with him. He needed to spend
more time with Allie, to give them a chance, and a tour was one of the worst
places to do that. The constant traveling, the tension of each concert, the
public attention, none of it boded well for a relationship. He wanted time and
space so he could do normal things like go out to dinner and find a place to
live together. Wake up in the same bed with nobody else in the next room.

It sounded great. Better than great.

Once the media realized it was getting no more out of him,
it moved on to Riku and his outrageous clothes, a perennial source of
fascination. Zazz rivaled him when the mood took him, but tonight he was all
ripped T-shirt and jeans, tight fitting and low slung, but just jeans. Riku’s
animal print, extravagantly fringed jacket and matching pants had drawn the eye
tonight, and they were new, bought, or so he told them, from the bangin’
vintage store he’d taken Allie to. They wouldn’t be able to move tomorrow for
customers. That ensured Riku a warm welcome when he decided to drop back that
way.