Unattainable Read online

  Unattainable

  VICTORIA ASHE

  Black Lyon Publishing, LLC

  UNATTAINABLE

  Copyright © 2018 by Victoria Ashe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way by any means without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Please note that if you have purchased this book without a cover or in any way marked as an advance reading copy, you have purchased a stolen item, and neither the author nor the publisher has been compensated for their work.

  Our books may be ordered through your local bookstore or by visiting the publisher. Author may also be contacted via publisher.

  BlackLyonPublishing.com

  Black Lyon Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 567 Baker City, OR 97814

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, events, organizations and conversations in this novel are either the products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used in a fictitious way for the purposes of this story.

  ISBN-10: 1-934912-79-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-934912-79-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017931894

  Written, published and printed in the United States of America.

  Black Lyon Contemporary Romance

  For K and a day at the fair.

  You never know when inspiration may strike.

  ONE.

  July

  The sublime irony of the phrase washed through him, as it did every time some reporter somewhere called his contribution of lyrics and vocals the “guiding light” of the band.

  Strong emotions led to strong writing. That had always been the way of tormented souls, hadn’t it?

  John Leaven squinted at the glare reflecting off metal outside. Probably the chain link fence that held the crowd back. Or the tin roof that sheltered the stands. He shut the magazine and flung it with one casual snap of his wrist across the table.

  His words were creations of darkness—with pain and grief the catalysts. Enduring happiness was something he considered ever so slightly out of reach, but why that was, he’d stopped wondering.

  He leaned back and inhaled deeply. The blue sky combined with the orange sun and dry Boise air felt blinding and suffocating all at the same time—even from behind the darkly tinted windows of the tour bus.

  His touring days should have been done, except for the fact that he couldn’t shut them off and return to … what? A day job? His band was poised on the verge of glorious superstardom for no other reason than that they’d toured their asses off over the past ten years. With a little more time, maybe they could be just as big as the bands that once inspired them—and yet something all their own.

  He took the earbuds out, finished pushing the magazine in front of him off onto the floor, and let out a string of words unfit for more delicate ears.

  As he took one last peek out the bus window at the audience filing in through the cement tunnels to the stadium, the old rush failed to come. The butterflies in his stomach? The ones that made him wonder what he was doing with his life, if he’d remember those acclaimed lyrics, if he’d even remember how to play his own guitar once the lights hit—those butterflies came.

  Just once he’d like the excitement without the anxiety. Now there was nothing sitting there in a blue Solo cup to help numb the fear and ease him out onto that stage.

  He tucked a strand of brown hair dyed with a streak of crimson back behind his ear and reached for a bottle of water. The evening show didn’t start for another hour, and yet people had already waited in that blinding sun since early afternoon to squeeze near the speakers at the front of the stage. He understood them. And yet he didn’t.

  The piece of hair popped back out again. Maybe he’d cut it even shorter next time.

  If he was aiming for meaning, the world kept pivoting him in the opposite direction. He was sitting alone on a tour bus thinking about his hair, for the love of Christ.

  He also felt very little pride in the solid year he’d spent on the straight and narrow.

  “But I’ll keep at it.” He answered some unspoken question out loud with just a hint of contempt. “They never filled the void anyway, now did they?”

  He didn’t need to define “they.” If there was any sentient being in some alternate dimension in the universe hearing him, watching over him, then he or she would already know exactly what he meant.

  Maybe one day his lungs, liver and emotions would all heal. He could already feel the difference all the way through. Hear the difference in his vocals when he performed.

  The music would carry him through as it always had. Always would. The words in his head always drew him back to it, and it was the one habit he could call positive. So maybe somewhere in all that, there really was a guiding, shining light. Maybe.

  “John?” came his tour manager’s voice.

  He turned toward her. Lanyard around her neck. White polo shirt tucked into black slacks—just like the rest of the tour company. Uniforms, uniforms, uniforms.

  “I need another five,” he said.

  “We’ve already had them corralled behind stage for the past half hour. In the sun.”

  “Fine.”

  He hated this part. He had zero desire to step out there and meet or greet. Yeah, it was time to quit touring—for good, this time.

  Even as he thought it, he knew just how full of crap he was.

  •

  Anna Anderson handed the legal-sized promo photo she’d been given earlier to the guy behind her, but her teenage niece, the one whom she was supposed to be showing a fun time, clung to hers with all ten fingers.

  The girl looked at her like she’d lost her ever-loving mind.

  “What? They just vetoed photography and now autographs. What’s the point of the picture?”

  “But you could have hung it on your wall even if they didn’t sign it,” Heidi whispered.

  “I outgrew that when I was your age.”

  “You aren’t that old, you know. The singer is two years younger than you. His cousin is the one on drums, and he’s older than you.”

  “Comforting. Thanks. And by the way, if they’d signed it, I would have sold it on eBay.”

  The blond lady with the lanyard stepped out again from behind the buses again, behind the security guards. “Okay,” she said. “The backstage party has been cancelled. We’ll have a brief meet and greet and that’s it. If you look underage and want to drink the concessions beer, you’ll need a sticker. This rather large gentleman to my left has them. Show him your I.D.”

  Why were the fans around her nodding? This was okay? Some twenty of them had won not only tickets in a radio contest, but backstage passes—to a pre-show party that now clearly didn’t exist.

  A faint breeze carried a hint of stale beer and concession stand nachos. She loathed the smell. In fact, she loathed the entire group around her.

  “These are the rules,” blondie blond continued. “You can argue them, but you won’t get anywhere. We’ll form a line, one at a time into the tent. When it’s time to meet the band, we’ll take a picture for you and post it to Flickr with this—” She produced a stack of labels with passwords printed on them. “This will get you into the web site. The pictures will be there later tonight for download.”

  Then the woman walked away and security closed its ranks.

  “Thanks for the photo,” the guy behind her said.

  “He absolutely loves John,” his friend added. “You should see the shrine he has to him. Like, a whole wall in his apartment is this pure Leaven shrine. A shrine. Photos floor to ceiling.”

  Which one is John? she wondered, s
quinting at the photo she’d given up. She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. The ninety-degree heat produced sweat at her temples. She was glad she’d pulled her long hair up into a ponytail. This was miserable.

  Heidi bounced. “We’re moving! Aunt Anna, look. They’re in that tent!” She clapped like a skinny, two-legged trained seal.

  A little thrill of excitement zipped through her. It wasn’t every day a person met a band this big, and she did love their music, she had to admit.

  “They’re just people,” Anna reminded. “Just like you and me. They have a different path is all. They have different gifts. We all do. No two people alike. Everyone with gifts.”

  “I know, I know,” Heidi said. “But I really like how they use theirs, and I can’t wait to post this on Facebook!”

  They were behind the stage quickly. She ignored the roadies as one of them scanned Heidi and passed her off as too young—before his interest landed on Anna herself. She looked away as a nod and a raised eyebrow told her if she nodded back, they wouldn’t be watching the concert from the stands. They’d be backstage.

  “Yuck,” Heidi whispered.

  Smart girl. Perceptive.

  “No kidding.”

  The first two fans were pushed into the tent, then walked to stand beside two wiry men in plaid shirts. Average height. One had the sides of his head shaved—but not the top. The three security guards at the tent’s flap blocked her view of the rest. Then, just like livestock, the next pair was prodded over to the band.

  Then lanyard woman pinned the flap back just a tad.

  There were four of them lined up against the back wall of the canvas tent. Three in mirrored aviator sunglasses. One who looked just precisely like she’d picture a serial killer slash truck driver when he smiled. He smiled nonstop.

  But the one … the one on the far end. He was different. He had stepped back at least two feet away from the others as the photos snapped. He may have been the most normal of the group. Or the least.

  The other band members smiled and clowned for the camera, but that one—he stood there and sulked.

  Both his hands were shoved as far down in the pockets of his loose jeans as it was possible for them to get. He didn’t smile. A baseball cap was pulled down firmly, shading eyes that didn’t need shaded inside a tent.

  A strand of dark hair with what looked like a streak of red dye slipped out from behind an ear. And just like that, one hand came out of his pocket to fix the hair, then right back in it went. But he looked at her. She saw him do it. For a tiny second, he turned and peered straight into her before looking down at the ground.

  A dart of energy zinged through her chest, forcing her to steady her breath.

  The last two fans in front them went—herded through like cattle again without so much as a word from the man they seemed to idolize.

  Why are they letting themselves be treated like this?

  “Ma’am? Your purse?” a guard asked. “We can hold it so it’s not in the way of the photo.”

  “I’m fine holding it.”

  He looked baffled.

  It took her a slow second to realized the guard was nervous for the band, nervous in general. How many nutcases they dealt with on a tour, she could only guess. Case in point: Shrine Man behind her. She looked the guard over, then let him hold the purse. He was sincere. Honest. First time on the job, I’ll bet.

  Heidi was frozen in her tracks, and Anna put her hand on the middle of her back to propel her forward to meet Leaven, the only rock band whose music they could ever agree on.

  She started with the nearest man, held out her hand and shook his. “Hi!” the drummer said. She didn’t catch his name, but the two on either side of him immediately caught her hand, then Heidi’s, and properly introduced themselves.

  Anna took a quick look at the one without sunglasses. None of them looked stoned. Hard to tell with men who might be used to functioning high for all she knew. She couldn’t smell alcohol anywhere now—and Anna had an olfactory sense that went unrivaled. Just a case or two of bottled water sat on the corner of the stage outside. So far, so good.

  Heidi settled in for her photo, and Anna turned toward the last man. He was tall—six foot two maybe? Two hundred twenty pounds? Her stomach did a little flip. That he was sexy seemed inexplicable to her. Since when was surly—attractive? He didn’t look like an alternative, post-grunge, rock—whatever he was supposed to be. He looked exactly like a logger. Then his aloofness created the onset of an anger, mild, though noticeable enough to start its percolation inside her.

  She could see his eyes avoid hers even through his sunglasses. He glanced again. Then looked at the ground.

  She turned to him. “I’m Anna,” she said, and held out her hand. Deliberate. Stubborn. She knew it was only a split-second, but she sensed him assess the situation as he pulled his hand from his pocket.

  “I’m John,” he answered. His hand was gentle yet firm.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  His voice. Quiet. Deep. And that accent? It rolled through her.

  For a moment, Anna sunk inside herself and simply felt. A wave of tension lifted away, and another wave of warmth came into him.

  He liked her.

  She didn’t know what the heck she thought of him.

  She sent a quick prayer of thanks for the particular gifts she’d been given, for in that moment she realized she was standing next to one of the most insecure men she’d ever met—a man who truly didn’t think he was worthy of someone decent. Not a friend. Not a girlfriend. No one. And just as surely as he oh-too-respectfully placed the palm of his hand against the small of her back for that stupid Flickr photo, he’d tossed her into the “good” category.

  Thing was, he was right.

  TWO.

  Ladies and gentlemen, multi-platinum-selling, Grammy-nominated artists … Leaven!

  The words rang through Anna’s head for the hundredth time, pounding in rhythm with her pulse—the headache brought on by the stark lighting, no doubt.

  The room was white. Glaringly white. A veritable scene from a horror movie—the white paint, the white tiles, the echo of each footstep down the hall behind her. This day the discomfort it all triggered was more than she cared to handle.

  Usually she could take a person’s energy—even from the most fascinating of people—and clear it out, shove it away. Get. It. Off. Of. Her.

  But John Leaven refused to be dislodged from that part of her brain that insisted on being just a bit too empathic. And so she sat squinting at the glaring white wall in front of her.

  “He’s like a mind virus,” she murmured to herself.

  “What’s that?”

  Anna sat up a little straighter in the white chair, her subtle movement swiveling the entire seat when she didn’t want to swivel. “Hi, Bruce. Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  A line of tiny corked bottles sat in front of her on the slick counter, waiting to be sized up by that intricately developed olfactory sense that kept Anna employed whenever she wanted to be. The outdated fluorescent tubes above annoyed her most of all, pressing their light into her eyeballs. They hummed, which added insult to injury.

  “You haven’t done much perfuming today,” he said. She realized she didn’t care for the man. She hadn’t given him much thought before.

  “No I haven’t,” she finally said. “I keep sitting here smelling the new plastic on these chairs. Not a good choice. And you know what? It’s time to get home for the baby sitter anyway.”

  “Why don’t you call it a day?” he suggested. He didn’t even shrug, much less look up from his clipboard as he spoke. The clipboard was plastic, too. Neon pink. Which almost made her laugh.

  “I think I will call it a day.”

  Her financier-of-the-moment nodded a silent assent. She was on contract anyway. Her schedule was her own to set. It seemed that those possessed of artistry of any type were expected to be un
reliable somehow. Which struck her funny. Someday she’d have to try it just for the incredibly foreign adventure it would be.

  She hopped off the chair, grabbed her purse and sunglasses out of a drawer, and headed out. Her shoes squeaked with every step atop the sheen of the floor, all the way to the main double-doors.

  She pushed them both open with a smile and just a hint of drama.

  Outside, she inhaled the summer air filled with dust and sunshine—the best perfume of them all. She thought for a minute about hitting the Carter’s store. Or the mall. Or maybe going home to get the car, then heading somewhere farther out while she had help at home for potentially a few more hours if she asked.

  Summer beat down on Boise, Idaho the way it usually did—dry and gritty with only the river through its parks and the reservoirs around it to break the monotony.

  It’s nice to meet you, too …

  “Forget the mall,” she muttered.

  Though her house was about three miles away, she tightened up the laces on her Skechers and walked, sometimes jogged, each one of them, letting the previously stagnant blood in her veins flow with lovely endorphins. They cleared her head and burned away all that was stale.

  She was thirty-eight, fighting off fifteen pounds of baby weight that should have been gone three years ago, but she felt ten years younger when she was able to walk. She ought to walk more often, she decided, but then—where was the time?

  A spare minute was nonexistent, and whenever she managed to find one, she was so tired all she wanted to do was … nothing. Except for that concert for Heidi, she really hadn’t had room to breathe in months. Months.

  It was Biblical, she thought, the tale of the original fruit having to fall and die in order for a seed to sow and a new fruit to grow. She supposed the selflessness demanded of motherhood was like dying unto one’s former self. She missed herself, though—sometimes. Death sounded so final. She told herself motherhood was more like … hibernation maybe.

  She picked up a tiny pink tricycle and packed it back inside her front yard. Slowly, slowly her life’s energy was coming back to her. She could feel the balance of her old self struggling to awaken.