To Catch a Falling Star (2 page)

So every morning, for exactly half an hour, I secretly indulge with a concoction of all things depressive. Then, I put my happy face on. And up I go.

I scramble out of bed and slide my fingers along a picture frame. “I miss you.” I whisper to the beautiful boy grinning at me. Caged in the frame is a distant version of us, smiling at the camera. We were sixteen and full of dreams.

In bare feet, I pad down the hall. By Ella’s door, I stop and peek inside the room to watch her sleep. Her wild curls tumble over her face. Her chest moves slowly up and down. I can honestly spend the reminder of my day, just gazing at her. I sigh, then head downstairs.

In the kitchen, I grab the extra-large Live, Laugh, Love coffee mug, fill it with the fresh brew, and sit at the kitchen table. The folder Will handed me last night remains unopened. It contains the medical and criminal record for Tarry Francis. The famous musician is the best friend of Portia, my sister-in-law.

I briefly met Tarry about five years ago when he came for Will and Portia’s wedding. It was Thanksgiving week and he arrived on Thursday.

As we do every year, we served dinner at the homeless shelter. To my surprise, Portia, one of our generation’s greatest Hollywood stars, along with Tarry and Nillie, her two best friends, volunteered with us. It was all over the news. Reporters hounded my father for weeks trying to get a scoop on the story. People from the shelter, me included, were star struck with Tarry’s enthralling presence.

I clearly remember his silver-gray eyes staring at me throughout the evening. He didn’t hit on me, as he is notorious for, but his eyes followed my every movement and made me feel uncomfortable. At the time, I was married and pregnant. It was creepy, to say the least.

For the last eight years, Tarry’s consecutive number one hits on the music charts have earned him AMA, MTV, and Billboard awards. He’s also received twenty-two Grammy Awards.

Early in his career Tarry was a pop idol. He has since metamorphosed into a rock ‘n’ roll singer. He has been under the heavy scrutiny from the media. There are those who claim Tarry owes his tremendous success to being the only son of the owner of Highma Music Group. Being one of the world’s major record labels since the thirties, Highma happens to produce Tarry’s music.

In recent years, his life has been a downward spiral of events. Without regard to his career or the perception people have of his talents, he has squandered his image with his outrageous behavior and perpetuating his image as one of the bad boys of music.

Now, as our paths cross again, I am as anxious as ever. First, because the man is hot as hell. Second, because of the emotions his stare raised in me. The depth of pain inside his silver-gray eyes rocked me on a deeper level than anyone could have ever prepared me for when meeting a stranger. Tarry has the saddest eyes I have ever seen, which I think is part of his sex appeal. One peek at those broken and lost eyes and a desire swamps you to want to cuddle him and make him happy.

I ponder the last few years of Tarry’s life. It is a mystery how he manages to maintain his fame. Yet, his fans seem to feed on his self-destructive behavior. During his world tour, he managed to cause a riot on stage in each country where he performed. Also, he always leaves with a groupie or two hanging on his arms.

In one small European country, he went to jail for having sex on stage. Seriously, who does that during a live concert? At another show, he collapsed on stage. He passed out during the performance, poof, just like that. In a sold-out crowd in Brazil, one of his greatest live audiences to date, he got into a fight with his bass player. He broke the man’s nose and cheekbone. At his last performance, he refused to play the rehearsed songs. His band, abandoned him on stage. After the others left, he sang alone a repeated version of “Sweet Death Agony.” When he went to jail in England for smoking pot on stage, he said to the reporters, “Oops, wrong country.”

Last year in LA, he drove his metallic blue Bugatti into a pool. He was quoted as saying, “I just wanted to prove a point.” We have yet to know what the point was. Yikes, how do you ruin such an expensive car to prove a point?

If none of the awful stories about him were enough, Tarry has an unorthodox lifestyle that includes polyamory, a fancy term for dating multiple partners at the same time. He has dated and lived with two French top models, Monique Pier and Nola Tursan.

A shudder runs through me as I mull over the bad womanizer rep that Tarry owns. Yeah, I kind of follow his career through TV and magazines. I know that a great deal of news is just sensationalism by the media. But Portia has been worried sick for the last few years and has told me that most of the reports about Tarry are true.

Since his last tour, Tarry has disappeared from the spotlight. But then, two months ago Tarry and Monique were found passed out in a hotel suite in LA. They had overdosed on speedball, a mixture of heroin and cocaine in the same syringe. Monique died at the hospital. Since then, Tarry has been detoxing at a celebrity rehab center near LA.

Knowing I won’t have the time to read it later, I open the file on the notorious rock star:

Assault, possession of an illegal weapon, driving without a license, driving while under the influence, possession of false identification, possession of illegal substance, resisting arrest, and violation of parole are a few of his previous charges.

I continue to scan through the dense file until I spot the documentation of his prior therapist. It reads, “Patient participated during daily treatments during past week. Presents with passive-aggressive behavior and decreased motivation. States continuing daily hallucinations, presents with delusions and paranoia. Uncooperative, unpleasant, and arrogant. Contemplates death. Denies suicide idealization. Will continue to benefit from intensive psychological intervention. Will also benefit from a referral to psych to reevaluate current meds. Poor minus potential of achieving established goals.”

I drink the bitter Colombian brew, a habit I learned from my mother, and continue to read Tarry’s file. Wow, the term “wildlife” sums up this dude’s life. Miserable, yeah, but far from dull.

I read the court order from the judge releasing him from rehab under the care and responsibility of Will and Portia. He is supposed to undergo regular therapy for six months before presenting a clean and sober version of himself before the judge. And that’s where I come in. That’s why I’m sitting here reading over the details of this file.

Oh, I so wish Dad was here. He’s the senior pastor of our church. But Mom and he are in Colombia, visiting with my sick grandmother. In Dad’s absence, Pastor John, an associate pastor, oversees the parishioners, but I provide counsel to all the people who receive free counseling from our church.

MY CAR TIRES screech to a halt in the parking lot. I glance at my watch. “Shit, I’m so late.” Wondering if Tarry waited, I scramble out of my ancient Ford and sprint to the church offices.

Prior to today, I had two overly simple commitments: Mondays were with a couple undergoing marital issues and Wednesdays with the AA weekly group meeting. Now I am stuck with this very complex case.

Why did I agree to get my ass dragged into this? Because you can’t say no to Will, you idiot. I reprimand myself for the hundredth time. I’m a single mother, I work overtime as a police officer, and I teach belly dance classes to meet my financial needs. Those simple reasons would have sufficed, should I need to justify my actions to my guilty conscious. But, no, I jumped into committing to counsel the infamous Tarry. Who, I may mention, can afford the best shrinks in the nation.

I yank open the door and rush inside the building. Breathless from running, I scan the hallway and I spot him sitting on a fold-up chair in front of my office. His head is down, his shoulders hunched, and his long legs crossed. Noticing my presence, the controversial rock star glances my way. Honestly, I’m nervous as heck. Trying to calm my tangled nerves, I inhale a deep breath of air.

“Hello, I’m Melody Fisher, Will’s sister.” I approach him, reach out my hand, and attempt to smile.

Tarry slowly stands. Immediately his masculine and sexy presence fills the empty hall. He wraps his long hand around mine. The touch of his calloused fingers causes an electric spark to erupt from my hand and travel through my body. Just as the first time we met, he holds my hand longer than necessary.

“Hi, Melody, good to see you again,” his voice rumbles through the empty hall. I frown. “We met…” He arches his brow and adds. “At Will and Portia’s wedding.”

Wow, he has a good memory. It’s been over four years. “Oh, I remember you. I’m just surprised you remember me. I was huge,” I say, referring to my pregnancy. “I’m very sorry for being late. I got caught up at a crime scene.”

“No prob,” he says, unimpressed with my apology.

Balancing his folder and my purse in one hand, I slide the key into my office door, swing it open, and wait. He glances my way and unhurriedly swaggers his way inside. I resist the urge to rush him since I’m the one who’s late.

I circle my desk, drop my purse beside my chair, and gesture for him to sit. He slouches in the chair and crosses his arms. How can someone be so sexy, sad, and attractive all at once? Oh, and unapologetically uninterested.

Did I mention distracting? Summoning my wits, I sit in my chair and smile.

“Will must have explained why I’m the one meeting you today.” I see on his face that he couldn’t care less. He doesn’t answer, so I proceed.

“Oh, well. Dad is away, so here I am.” I sigh. Briefly, his silver eyes examine my body, as if stripping me. Then they turn into an apathetic stare. “Given the emergency and uniqueness of your case, Will asked me to see you until Dad gets back.” He nods. Am I boring him?

“First, let me tell you a bit about my background,” I say as his uninterested eyes rummage through the room. Yeah, he is bored.

“I graduated from the University of Connecticut with a degree in psychology, but I currently work as a police officer. Occasionally I assist with the counseling program offered by the church. I have a limited experience with substance abuse, though it was my area of interest while in undergrad.” His eyes meet mine briefly.

“But enough about me. Tell me what brings you here.” Waiting for his reply, I open my notebook and grab a pencil. Silence permeates the room. I look up, and our gaze meets. Like a lazy cat, he stretches his lean body. Slowly, he examines my face. He briefly stares at my lips. My mouth goes dry, and I squirm in the chair.

Finally, his eyes glint with what I perceive as irritation. “You didn’t read my damn file?” he asks.

“Yes, I read it.”

“So you know what a fucking screw-up I am.”

“Yes, I know,” I say calmly.

His eyes narrow slightly. Huh, got your attention. I pat myself on the back.

“Why the redundancy?” His harsh voice is a sexy rumble.

“Because I need to know if you have had enough and only you can voice that,” I say.

“Yeah, you’re damn right I’ve had enough. Why else would I be here twiddling my fingers and playing patient while you play the good therapist who saves the fucking day. Oh, yeah, because of a goddamn judge’s order,” he says with anger, resentment, and defiance.

“I like that you are able to answer truthfully. That’s a good start.”

“Truth is I’ve had enough of it all. Including these fucking good-for-nothing therapeutic sessions.”

Repressing the need to cringe at each time he drops the F-bomb, I inhale. With the tip of my pencil I push a picture frame with Ella’s photo in it toward him. “See this face?” He arches his brow. His eyes remain impassive.

“I have not had enough time with her today. Right now, as we speak, she must to be wondering where I am.” My voice is calm, almost sweet. “So, if you think for a moment that you are going to waste my time, you are utterly wrong. I’m here attempting to help you as a favor to my brother and his wife. But trust me, Tarry, I’ll not put up with your lack of cooperation or tantrums.”

He blows out a long breath of air and runs a shaking hand through his tousled hair.

“Listen, I’m on a fucking ledge.” He sinks more deeply in the chair. I notice for the first time how skinny he is.

His silver-gray eyes fix on mine. They are vacant. It tugs me deeply. I want to reach inside his soul and snatch away the rooted pain he seems to carry.

“Please elaborate,” I say.

“There is nothing in your bag of tricks I haven’t done at counseling before.”

“It’s never about the therapist, Tarry. It’s about what you want to accomplish. Your goals and aspirations. Let me ask you, Tarry, what inspires you?” I inquire using the best condescending tone I can muster.

His jaw muscles tighten. “Hell no. You won’t get to sit on your comfy chair lecturing me on what I want to accomplish. Do you think for a minute that I enjoy living in hell? But we both know the upcoming result of this therapy. You will find a shitty excuse from your dumbass textbooks to appease you for your failure with me; I will continue to be the loser I’ve been my entire life. Do you have any idea of the fucking hole I live in?” he says in one breath.