Zenith Rising (45 page)

Then he turned, waiting for the band, that
wasn’t his band, to start. They were already prepped for Erica’s
song and Rob was the only change. The rhythm of drums started, then
the keyboard and guitar joined in. The music was lively and made
everyone sway to it. The women hummed the words. Then Rob brought
the microphone up close to his mouth, and sang the lyrics.

The words came easily, perfectly on key, and
his voice rolled over them, caressing each one with sincerity and
depth. He made the song more beautiful, giving it meaning and life.
It was an easy song to sing, and Rob sang it to Erica, from
Spencer. They danced to his beautiful voice around and around.
Erica’s dress blew out on the turns. Her hair reflected the late
evening sun as it streamed through the windows; and Spencer’s tall,
long frame was the perfect complement to Erica’s stunning, blond
features. They were a magnificent and breathtaking couple. Not so
long ago, people seemed to assume it would never succeed. Most
people discounted Spencer’s talent, until they heard him, and
assumed Erica would never settle down with him, of all men. But she
chose him. And now look
at them
, Rob thought.

The song crested, and his voice carried the
notes, evoking chills and some soul-searching as the couple, the
music, the sunset, and the beauty of the entire scene
manifested.

Rob’s voice faded and the band soon drifted
off. The couple slowly stopped moving. The room became quiet, as if
sighing with pleasure. Then a burst of applause and cat calls
erupted. For the Mattoxes, Rob, the band, and the wonderful moment.
Rob bowed. Glancing up, he made eye contact with Joelle who was
standing beside Nick. She smiled at him. Her face looked sad and
thoughtful. Remembering things Nick and Erica knew nothing about.
All the times he sang directly to her. For her. All the times their
love was as strong as Spencer and Erica’s, and as Nick and Joelle’s
was now. Rob smiled at Joelle, then turned. He replaced the
microphone before turning and leaving the small, elevated
stage.

Rob was glad to give Erica that song. He
liked being part of their happiness. And seeing his once lost and
depressed best friend, now with a beautiful wife and a chance for
true success. He was even glad his ex-wife seemed happy with her
new life, the one she’d left him to pursue. He was glad he hadn’t
destroyed her, as he once thought he did.

But nothing could ease the sudden, stark,
nearly agonizing punch of loneliness that overcame him then. He
realized they were all gone, moving on, and living their own lives.
And he was alone. Singing was no longer a calling, or a passion. It
had become a sad, aching reminder of every mistake he ever made.
Every opportunity he squandered. Everything he would never be, or
have the chance to strive for again.

Rob felt the ache and sting of who he’d
become, in his throat. He turned and left the beautiful ballroom,
the dense crowd of beautiful people and walked out the
double-doored entryway. He walked down the fifteen-foot-wide
hallway, to where the valets stood, waiting to retrieve cars. The
thick red carpet, under the covered overhang, squished under his
black dress shoes. Turning left, he walked on the sidewalk, around
the building, where he found a picnic table sitting in the grass.
It looked out over the water. The building behind him was lit with
a golden glow, and the music was muted, but hung in the air around
him. The sun was fast descending into the water. Twilight painted
the earth with purple and pink in rippled, lengthening shadows. A
flock of birds flew overhead.

Rob took out a pack of cigarettes from his
suit pocket. He tapped one and grabbed his lighter and lit the
cigarette that his throat was craving, as he once craved his first
drink of liquor. Breathing the smoke in deeply, he nearly sighed in
bliss as he exhaled. He sat there for a long time, just being
quiet. He was looking out, and trying to forget. He didn’t want to
think about or feel the loneliness that lodged in his throat and
made it ache. He ached for the taste of the alcohol being served in
copious amounts in the banquet room behind him. He could easily
have had some. To alleviate the ache and loneliness now plaguing
him. It would be so easy to go out, get drunk, find friends again,
and be the life of the party. Be someone. When he was drunk,
whether people liked him or hated him, Rob became someone. He was
loud, and fun, and exciting and outrageous.

He also became someone who could hurt others
and not care.

For that reason, Rob stayed right where he
was, sitting on the picnic table, and watching the night settling
over Puget Sound, and the treetops surrounding the hillside he
overlooked. Rob stayed there: alone, quiet, sober. Nothing new to
look forward to, and no one to go home to. Few friends were left to
care about him, now that he was sober.

“Excuse me, Mr. Williams?”

Rob turned his head over his shoulder,
towards the voice behind him that interrupted his brooding, pity
party. It was a woman’s voice: soft, tentative and unsure. Most
people were like that until they got to know him. But who the hell
ever called him Mr. Williams? Nobody. Ever.

A woman was standing behind him with her
shoulders back and her arms at her sides as if willing herself not
to fidget. She was small in stature, passably pretty, with red hair
in twisting, corkscrew curls around her head. She wore a
knee-length, blue dress with a matching sweater. A pair of low
heels completed her outfit. She must have been a wedding guest, but
who? He had no clue.

She stepped closer now that she had his
attention. He sat on top of the picnic table, and was nearly eye
level with her. She suddenly stretched her arm out. Startled, he
realized she wanted to introduce herself, very properly, and
professionally. She intended to shake his hand. Huh.

“My name is Rebecca. Rebecca Randall.”

Rob automatically took her small, white hand
and shook it loosely. When he released her, she quickly stepped
back and chewed on her lower lip. Her eyes seemed to focus on
something above him as she twisted her fingers together.

He exhaled a stream of smoke and nodded
towards her. “Okay, Rebecca Randall, why do you look as if I should
know you? Or that I’m not going to like that I do?”

“I’m... I’m one of Nick’s sisters. Rebecca
Randall.”

Rob’s cigarette burned too low and he tossed
it down. He slowly brought out another one, which he lit and
inhaled, all the while moving his eyes from her prim, little pumps
to her cork-screw, Raggedy Ann hair. He looked at her now with the
disdain she was probably prepared for. “Nick’s sister, as in Nick
Lassiter?”

“Yes.”

Rob blew the smoke out
. Great.
What
the hell would one of the great Nick Lassiter’s four sisters want
with him?

“Which one?”

“Pardon me?”

“Which sister are you? Are you the little
bitchy one who was so mean to Joelle?”

Rebecca shook her head and dug a hand into
the folds of her skirt. “No. No. That was Trina. She’s the
youngest. I’m the next older one from her.”

“So you know your little sister is a
bitch?”

She pressed her lips together and he could
see how uneasy she was with him. She had no idea how to respond to
his abrasiveness. He flicked an ash off his cigarette and leaned
back. He was suddenly enjoying the nervous, little housewife and
felt glad she found him. Why she did, however, he couldn’t begin to
comprehend.

“Yes, I know she can be. Especially to
Joelle, which bothers you?”

Rob narrowed his eyes at Nick’s sister. She
was braver than her little, freckled face said she could be. “I
know your brother tries to forget it happened, but I was once
married to Joelle for five years. I don’t want anyone to be mean to
her. And I sure as shit wouldn’t let my own sister be such a bitch
to my wife! But then, me and Nick aren’t the same kind of men, are
we?”

The youngest sister, who Rob was pretty sure
was named Trina, used to be Joelle’s best friend in high school.
Trina was the reason Joelle even spoke to Nick Lassiter. A few
years earlier, Nick recognized Joelle from the days when she was
friends with his little sister. Little sister, Trina, however,
didn’t like it when Nick hooked up with, and eventually married,
her former best friend. She seemed to hate it almost as much as Rob
did. Still, he didn’t get mean to Joelle over it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
drawn-up knees and pointed his cigarette at her. “What exactly you
doin’ by talkin’ to me, sweetheart? Big brother’s not gonna like
that. Or is that the point? You mad at him? Or Joelle? Think I’ll
help you with that?”

Rebecca flushed. She was a natural redhead
with ultra-white skin and a face spattered with freckles. The blush
started from below the neckline of her modest dress and traveled
from there to her cheeks and right up into her hair. To Rob, it was
like watching water being absorbed on a dry paper towel .

“No, of course not. I hoped I could just talk
to you for a moment. I saw you heading out here so I followed
you.”

“You followed me?” he asked, staring at her.
“Okay, sweetheart, you met me, and you have my attention; now what
do you want?”

“You were wonderful in there singing.”

Rob rolled his eyes. He found more often than
not that women got turned on by his singing. It made him go from
scary and loser-like to red hot, intriguing, and fascinating. Even
to pretty, little homemakers. He hated women who came on to him
solely because of his singing. He turned down more anonymous sex
with groupies during his years with
Zenith
, than any one man
had the right to.

He raised an eyebrow at Nick’s little sister.
She was very neat and cute. Curly strands of hair bobbed around her
face as she spoke, and her natural coloring, and blushing cuteness,
was refreshing, not sexy and hot groupie. Somehow, he couldn’t
picture this woman ever being the groupie kind. So whatever she
followed him out there for, must have reverted back to Nick. Rob
liked that thought even less than groupie girls wanting to fuck
him. “Yeah. I’ve been told that a time or two.”

She nodded. “Right. You don’t sing anymore,
do you?”

“No.” He lowered a foot to the grass. “Love
being reminded of that too.”

She dropped her gaze onto his foot. Her lower
lip was between her white, little teeth again. “No, I’m sure you
don’t.”

“Look, Ms. Randall, you need to speed this
up. Obviously, you know who I am. You know my history too,
apparently. Do you have something to say about Nick? Joelle?
Spencer? What?”

She suddenly took such a deep breath, it
raised her shoulders. She jerked her head back and looked him in
the eye. “No. None of them. Actually, I had something I wanted to
ask you.”

He tapped his hand against his cigarette box.
“So ask.”

“Well, see, I want to be a writer. No, I
mean, I am a writer.”

Rob watched her suddenly shake her head as
her blue eyes clouded with confusion. “You don’t seem so sure about
the writing part.”

She took a breath. “I meant to say, I am a
writer. I just don’t tell anyone about it. Because I’m not
published. Yet, that is. So it’s hard for people to take me
seriously.”

Rob nodded. “Right. Like I sing, but still,
no record label. Makes you not want to tell people. Makes your
talent seem less legitimate.”

Rebecca’s gaze came to his and she smiled.
“Yes. That’s exactly it! I don’t think anyone’s ever understood
that.”

Okay, great; they can bond over being
talented nothings. What the hell did she want? “Sweetheart, what
the hell does any of this have to do with me?”

“I want to write about you.”

His arm paused in mid-air as he lifted his
cigarette to his mouth. He stared at her for a long, silent moment.
“You want to write about me? Did I hear you correctly?”

She shook her head. “Yes. No. This isn’t
coming out right. I had it all worked out. I wasn’t going to blurt
it out. But I did. The thing is, I wrote one book already, and I’d
like to do a series. I know I can get published. I just need one
more book to really prove I can write, and prove it will sell.”

She was fucking crazy. “What are you talking
about?”

“I wrote a book called
Sober
Intentions
, and I want to make it a continuing series. I
started by doing a true to life book about several people going
through rehab and AA. But I found the more people I interviewed,
the more interesting they were. And the more I wanted to know their
entire stories, not just a bleep for a chapter. And now I want to
write about you.”

“You want to write about me as an alcoholic?”
he asked, his jaw dropping open. Having the guts to stand there and
ask him to reveal his most private thoughts to her,
Nick
Lassiter’s sister
, had him clenching his fists.

“Well, yes, but more. I want to tell about
you, and how you made it through getting sober.”

“You want to hear my most private struggles,
the essence of my entire life so you can publish it? You think I’d
tell you? Nick’s sister? Why in the hell would I ever do that?”

“For the money. I’ll pay you, of course. For
your time, your trouble, and your information.”

“You mean by exploiting the mistakes of my
life, my screw-ups, and my pain? You want to profit from that? I
thought you said you weren’t published.”

“I’m not. But I can pay you.”

He stared at her, blinking in utter disbelief
at the nerve, the gall, the balls! this little freckled-faced,
redheaded nymph must have.

He sneered in disdain. “I don’t need money so
bad that I’d sell what’s left of my soul. Besides, if you already
have money, why do you need to get published so badly?”

“I don’t. Have money, that is. And I want a
career as a writer, not just a hobby, everyone pats me on the head
about.”