The Song in My Heart (12 page)

Erika couldn’t fathom not being able to sing anymore. The very thought was like a fist around her throat.
Poor Dess, my God, how did she ever cope with that?
Erika stole a glance at her, her face a picture of concentration in the orange glow of the flames as she effortlessly strung notes into a melody that sounded sweetly anguished. Erika swallowed against the urge to go to her, put her arms around her and simply hold her.
I would die if I couldn’t sing
, she thought. She almost did die before singing saved her. But she couldn’t think about that right now.

“That sounds beautiful,” Erika said in a voice rough with feelings she didn’t want to explore. “Don’t stop.”

“I’ll keep going if you can think up some words,” Dess replied with an encouraging nod.

Sloane’s eyes lobbed back and forth between them, as though she were watching a tennis match. Her silence was awfully un-Sloane-like.

Erika began to hum the melody along with Dess, closed her eyes and let the words bubble to the surface without thought. “Last night I had the sweetest dream,” she sang. “You were here just loving me. It must be written up there high, so high among the stars. You’re the muse when I need you, you are the song in my heart.”

Sloane set her glass between her legs, began clapping. Maggie’s ears perked up in approval. And Dess. Dess’s smile was nothing short of triumphant. Erika wanted to cry.

“Wow,” Dess said. “Where did those words come from?”

Erika simply shook her head. She had no idea.

Sloane erupted from her seat. “Ladies, that sounds like a number one hit to me. Seriously. Let’s perform it.”

“No.” Panic throbbed in Erika’s throat. “It’s just words, it’s—”

“It’s perfect is what it is,” Sloane said. “Dess?”

Dess shrugged, but the smile refused to leave her lips. “It’s a good start.”

“Then let’s work on it. Now.” Sloane disappeared and returned a moment later with a bongo set, which she set on her lap.

“I don’t know if I can write a song on demand,” Erika confessed, panicking a little. It usually took her weeks of solitary struggle and included lots of swearing, hand-wringing and trashcans full of balled-up paper. A love song was the hardest of all. Not only to write, but to analyze, to think about the words and where they came from. A love song told a story from the heart, and heartfelt stories were the hardest to express.

Dess reached over and placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’ll help you every step of the way. We’ll do this together. Do you trust me?”

That was easy to answer. Whatever Dess’s faults, Erika knew without question that she was reliable, trustworthy, more than capable. It was herself she didn’t quite trust. Not only did she not entirely believe in her own talent behind the smokescreen of bravado, but she feared Dess didn’t trust her either.
And why should she?
Erika admonished herself. She was young, unknown, raw and given to wandering off with young, horny groupies, she reminded herself.
God, Dess must think I’m a total flake.
Dess hadn’t said anything to her about the other night, but she didn’t need to. Erika had seen the disappointment in her face at catching her with Bailey or Hailey or whatever the hell her name was. The look had said far more than any words could have, and Erika didn’t want to ever be the cause of her disappointment again.

“I trust you completely, Dess.”

“Kid,” Sloane said with a grin. “I don’t know if I’d go
that
far.”

Erika kept her eyes on Dess. “Anything you want me to do,” she whispered to her and saw the slight surprise, then the quiet acknowledgment, in Dess’s eyes. Dess clearly understood that anything meant…well, anything.

Chapter Ten

The Des Moines festival promised to be more demanding than their first gig, with a schedule of four separate performances for their group over three days. Sandwiched between those were the extra workshops and jam sessions the musicians were encouraged to sign up for.
Oh well, what the hell
, Dess thought as she eyed the list of volunteer opportunities.
If I’m going to be kept busy, it might as well be crazy busy.
She signed her name—or rather, the name Dora Hessler—to lead a guitar workshop for kids.

She kept her dark wig snugly affixed and her sunglasses firmly in place every time she stepped out of their trailer, but fearing that her true identity would be revealed, Dess stayed intentionally aloof from strangers, including other musicians. When she did talk to them, she said as little as possible without being rude. She was careful not to make up things that would trip her up whenever anyone asked about her background. She hated all this lying business and figured the less she talked about herself, the fewer lies she’d need to make up.

Tonight’s set came in the third slot of the evening lineup. As smooth as their performances had become in such a short time, Dess had pronounced earlier in the afternoon that they weren’t yet ready to perform the love song she and Erika had been working on. The level of emotion Erika had exhibited with the song, tentatively called “The Song in My Heart,” had surprised Dess. She’d been unfair in pegging Erika as primarily an upbeat, raunchy singer who thrived on the grittier stuff. Oh, how delightfully wrong she’d been! Erika gave her goose bumps when she sang their ballad with those powerful vocal cords of hers—vocal cords that seemed directly linked to her heart when they sang about joy or despair. Watching Erika belt out a song onstage beside her now, Dess wondered just how many layers, how deep were the depths in this talented young woman who was still such an enigma to her. She’d probably never know the answers to those questions, would never be let far enough inside, but she did know with certainty that the sky was the limit for Erika Alvarez’s music career if she kept working at it and if luck shone its capricious light on her.

The crowd, generous in its appreciation, exuberant in demanding more, barely let them off the stage after their final song. The whistles and shouts of “more” continued as they rehydrated backstage and scurried to put their instruments away to make room for the next band.

Cutting a path through the backstage chaos, a long-haired young man with a guitar slung behind his back marched up to them and bowed deeply, like a subject before his queen. Erika grinned at the display of deference.

“You dudes were sick!” he enthused, and Dess laughed out loud at his choice of words. She couldn’t remember a time she’d ever been called “dude.” Or “sick” when she wasn’t ill.

He was trying to look cool, but he couldn’t find the off button for his grin. “No, I mean, you guys were
fucking
awesome, man. Hey. My band’s up after this next set. You ladies like to join us for a song?” His anxious eyes darted between Dess and Erika, Sloane having already wandered off.

Dess started to back away. Time to play it safe. “Afraid I can’t, but thanks for asking.”

“You? Please?” Puppy dog eyes implored Erika. “Your acoustic version of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ was, like, the sweetest thing ever! Sing it with me at the end of our set. Electric, though, not acoustic, okay? That’d really be the bomb!”

Erika shot Dess a questioning look, and Dess nodded back. The guitar player’s group, called Sun’s Up, was a bit heavy metal, but they were popular. And good. Exposure from appearing onstage with them would help Erika gain recognition much quicker and with a young audience, which was always a bonus. “I’ll be right out there, watching,” she whispered to Erika, jerking her head toward the audience. “Go get ’em.”

Secretly, Dess relished the opportunity to watch Erika perform from the vantage point of the audience, and the anticipation vibrated through her body like a tuning fork. It was a chance to analyze Erika’s talent more objectively. And to see firsthand, at ground level, the kind of effects she had on the crowd.
Yeah, that’s it,
she told herself. It would be an appraisal, an adjudication. As Erika stepped onstage to the opening riff of the Guns N’ Roses song, the vibe of the crowd was one of urgency, blatant sexuality and a devil-may-care happiness. It zapped Dess like an electrical shock, catching her up in it, giving her the slight sensation of floating above the crowd, yet being at one with it too.

The pure charisma and sexuality of Erika kept Dess’s eyes, ears, all her senses keenly riveted on the young singer. Without her own guitar playing to concentrate on, she was caught like a pinned butterfly as she watched Erika pour every ounce of her energy into the duet with the long-haired metalhead. It wasn’t long before she ruled the stage like it was her kingdom, like the band was
her
band, like this was
her
set. She gyrated with the lead guitar player, effortlessly out-dueled her singing partner, teased the crowd with every movement and expression. At times she gestured to the crowd to come closer, planting her legs apart like she was ready for them to rush the stage, and in the next instant she was stomping around with her face to the sky or giving the audience her back. They were eating out of her hand, begging for more, and she gave it to them, launching into a Linkin Park rock song.

Sweet Jesus
, Dess thought, as she watched those tight, denim-hugged hips gently, then sassily, sway and grind. And that leather vest—barely containing those gorgeous breasts that looked like fruit you could reach up and pluck. Dess’s hands itched. Her breath fluttered in her chest like she was a teenager who’d never been laid before. She hadn’t felt this sexually hot for anyone in years, maybe decades. Even Dayna hadn’t made her feel this way—like she wanted to grab Erika by the wrist and thrust her hand where she knew she needed release. It was crazy. Shocking in its intensity and inappropriateness. Maybe she was in some kind of perimenopausal craziness—a sort of last-ditch onslaught before the old hormones dried up. That smart ass Sloane would undoubtedly agree with her.

She glanced quickly around her and noticed how men and women, all ages, not just the younger ones, were clamoring for Erika, looking much the way she supposed she herself looked—sweaty, breathless, on edge. And it wasn’t only because of the way Erika looked and strutted around, but also because of her voice, which was not of this earth. Dess tingled as she realized that those around her had also recognized that Erika was something special.

God, had Sloane ever been right. Erika Alvarez had it, whatever exactly
it
was. She was a star in the making, and the thought both thrilled and frightened Dess, because she knew every high, every low of the sweetly agonizing journey to fame. Oh yes, she could attest to all the financial rewards, the endless accolades and compliments, the promises, the demands, the attention from all the
important
people. Even the little things, like walking unannounced into a five-star restaurant and being given the best table in the house, became a gratifying expectation. She also knew all too well about the pressure, the exhaustion, the people who did nothing but take and then take some more until there was nothing left to give. Fame came with a price. A price that, for some, was more than they could pay. Dess hoped with every fiber of her being that Erika would not be one of those, that she would be able to shoulder the awesome burdens that came with what she so desperately craved.

Once the show ended, Dess made her way back to the trailer and collected Maggie for a walk. Sloane and Erika hadn’t appeared, and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that they were hanging out with some of the other musicians. She steered Maggie closer to a cluster of trailers other musicians were camping in. She told herself she simply wanted to check on her friends, make sure they were okay. She was not, she reassured herself, being a mother hen. Sloane and Erika were adults and could handle themselves. Or at least Sloane could. She’d take a passing glance and be on her way.

In the distance, a group of eight or ten people sat around a campfire, drinking straight from bottles of hard liquor. Marijuana smoke choked out the campfire smoke, and there at the center of it were Sloane and Erika. Grinning, laughing, sharing a toke, completely oblivious to Dess and Maggie’s presence a couple of dozen yards away. Maggie perked up her ears, then her nostrils. Then she let out three staccato barks, like rifle shots, in the direction of the gathering, as if to warn the group that Erika and Sloane were her people and that nobody had better hurt them.

“Shh, I know, Maggie. They’ll be okay. They’ll be home soon, I promise.”
They’d better be
, she thought with rising concern. And Sloane damned well better look after Erika.

* * *

Preceding Erika, Sloane unceremoniously entered the trailer, launched herself into her bunk and began snoring almost immediately. Erika was still juiced from the performance—her one drink and the few hits of a joint had done little to settle her down. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.

“Thirsty after your partying?”

Startled, Erika turned sharply toward Dess, sitting in the dark at the dining nook. “A little.”

She unscrewed the lid and took a long drink. Even though it was dark, she could see a crease the size of the Grand Canyon etched on Dess’s forehead.

“Maggie and I saw you and Sloane a little while ago. Looked like you were having a good time.” Disapproval was evident in Dess’s voice, if not her words.

Erika thumped the bottle of water on the table, some of its contents sloshing over. Dess was not her mother, nor her boss. Or even her big sister. She didn’t need the third degree from her. “Look,” she whispered, not wanting to wake Sloane. “You got something to say to me, then let’s go outside and talk.”

She spun around and stalked out of the trailer, unsure if Dess would follow. She did.

“Before you ask,” Erika ground out, “I only had one drink and I shared all of one joint with Sloane. That’s it.”

Dess relaxed considerably. “Okay, fine. But just so you know, I wasn’t about to accuse you of being a pothead or an alcoholic or whatever.”

“No, but you feared I’m setting out on that path, didn’t you?”