Outsider (48 page)

“You
didn’t sell it,” she said quietly.

“I
could never. It’s yours. Take it.”

She
opened the closet and retrieved the worn case—also right where she’d left it.

“Reagan?”

She
glanced up at her father, confused by the tremor in his voice.

“Will
you play it for me one last time before you go?”

A
simple request, but an oddly weighty one. She wouldn’t refuse him, though. As
much as she wished she could deny his demands, she still wanted his approval,
no matter how temporary.

“My
stool is missing.”

“I
took it to school.”

She
smiled. “Budget cuts again?”

He
shook his head. “I keep trying to find a student to fill it, but no matter how
many try, none are ever talented enough to outshine its original owner.”

Reagan
dropped her chin to hide the tears suddenly swimming in her eyes. She wasn’t
upset that he was trying to find her replacement. She was touched that he
missed her enough to try. She hadn’t realized Trey had left the room until he
returned with a chair from the kitchen table. Kneeling on the floor, she
polished the smooth wooden surface of her cello ritualistically. Removing her
bow from its case, she tightened the screw to stretch the bow hair to proper
firmness. A quick rub of her thumb over the bow had her reaching for a cake of
rosin. She’d missed this, she thought as she tuned the strings. On tour, a
guitar tech handed her a perfectly tuned guitar and pointed her toward the
stage. That little perk didn’t give her the same feeling of personal connection
to her instrument that she felt when she prepared the cello herself.

She
settled into the chair and lifted her bow, gliding it across the four strings,
her ear listening for even slight discrepancies from perfect tone.

“She
has a great ear,” her father said.

Trey’s
ornery grin told her that his mind had gone to the gutter—as usual—but he
didn’t comment.

Reagan
took a deep breath and started to play. What began as a perfectly orchestrated
rendition of Bach’s Prelude to Cello Suite No. 1 in G soon morphed into the
classical-inspired metal riff that she couldn’t get out of her head, the one
she’d tried to perfect countless times on the electric guitar even though it
had never felt right. It felt right now. The notes consumed her, tugging at the
part of her soul intrinsically bound with music and sound. She relished the
feel of the strings beneath her fingertips, the shivers of delight and
excitement dancing along her spinal cord, and the familiar jerky motion of her
right shoulder and elbow as her bow played across the strings. When the last
note faded, she dropped her bow and sucked in a deep breath.

“What
was that?” her father asked.

“That
was amazing!” Trey said, clapping. “That’s what that was.”

“Something
I’ve been trying to compose on guitar.”

“Too
many strings,” her father said, shaking his head.

She
laughed and nodded. “Too many strings. Maybe I should switch to electric bass.”

“Please
tell me you’re joking,” Trey said.

“Joking,”
Reagan said, sliding her hand over the body of her cello, the familiar curve
and hard smooth surface like a cherished lover beneath her touch.

“How
could you give it up, Reagan?” Dad asked. “Don’t you see that you were born to
play cello? Your grandmother saw it in the two-year-old who tirelessly watched
her play. I saw it in you every time you touched bow to string. I
still
see it in you.” He shook both fists. “My God, did you hear what you just
played?”

“I
gave it up because you made me hate it, Dad. The constant pushing, your
insistence that it was the only thing good about me, that it was the only thing
I should focus on. There’s more to me than this instrument, Dad. That’s what
you’ve never been able to see.”

She
looked to Trey for his support, but he was staring uncomfortably at his boots.
Or maybe that smirk on his face was pride. He probably thought she never stood
up for herself to her dad, but she had. Or she’d tried to. She’d wanted her
father to understand she had broader dreams than the ones he though were
appropriate for her, but when he’d obstinately refused to let her find the path
she wanted to take, she’d felt she had no choice but to leave. And she didn’t
regret that decision for a second. She only regretted that it had destroyed any
admiration he’d once had for her.

He
didn’t say anything, probably because he knew she was right. “Your mother
called a few days ago,” he said quietly.

It
took her a second to recover from the surprise before she said, “What did she
want from you this time?”

He
shook his head. “Nothing. This time she wanted something from you. I didn’t
give her your number. Should I have given it to her? I tried calling to ask
you, but by then you’d stopped taking my calls.”

“I
shouldn’t have blocked you,” she said. “I just couldn’t stand one more person
thinking I am what I was portrayed as in that fucking tabloid.”

“I
burned it,” Dad said, the first smile of the visit gracing his lips. “And then
yesterday I got another one in the mail. At least I think that’s what was in
the envelope. I didn’t bother to open it.”

She
had to hug him for that. After setting her cello in its stand, she approached
him, watching him for signs of rejection. He didn’t turn away when she lifted
her arms in his direction or when she crushed him in a fierce embrace. They
hadn’t touched since she’d arrived, and the little wounded sound he made in the
back of his throat as he squeezed her uncomfortably tight unleashed her
tears—damn the hardened old bastard for making her cry.

“Was
it sent from Seattle again?” Trey asked, shattering the rare tender moment with
her father.

“I
didn’t check,” Dad said. “It’s in the trash can in the garage if you want to
dig it out.”

Reagan
chuckled when Trey said, “On it,” and left in search of a clue.

“Should
I have given your mother your number?” Dad asked.

“What
did she want?”

“What
do you think she wanted?”

Reagan
hoped she was wrong when she guessed, “A backstage pass to an Exodus End show?”

“You
guessed it.”

Reagan
closed her eyes and released a heavy sigh. “Give me her number. I’ll think
about calling her. I’m not sure I want her back in my life. She’s only good at
one thing.”

Leaving.
Reagan didn’t have to say it. Her
father knew it as well as she did.

“Maybe
she’s ready to settle down,” he said, his gaze shifting to the floor. “It was
good to hear her voice.”

Reagan
shook her head and pressed a hand to his scruff-roughened cheek. “Stop waiting
for her, Dad. She’ll never come back to us. Not for keeps.” He was a brilliant
man. Surely he should have figured that out after two decades of being strung
along by the woman. Reagan had given up on her long, long ago.

“She’s
a free spirit,” he said, his laugh bitter. “I tried to squash that out of you,
and you left anyway.”

“I’m
right here, Dad. And if you’d stop trying to rule my life, I’d be here a lot
more often. I miss you. Every day I miss you.”

“I
miss you too, tiger, but you know I can’t sit on my hands and keep my mouth
shut when I know you’re throwing your talent away on mindless rock music.” He
visibly shuddered at the horror of it all.

Reagan
laughed. “You’re about seventy years too late, maestro. Like it or not, rock
‘n’ roll is here to stay.”

“So
you didn’t come to get your cello because you’ve had a change of heart?” He
lifted his brows, his eyes imploring her to tell him what he wanted to hear.
That look was uncomfortably familiar to her.

She
pressed her lips together. “Actually, I hope to play some classically inspired
metal music on it for about thirty thousand people tonight. Assuming I can
convince four infamous, career-driven metal heads that it’s a good idea.”

“It’s
a great idea,” Trey said, holding up a slightly stained envelope. It still had
a few coffee grounds stuck to the surface. “Mailed from Seattle three days
ago.”

“Before
the newest edition was published?” Reagan pulled the envelope out of Trey’s
hand and examined it. No return address. Her father’s address had been handwritten.
The postmark was the only clue to its origins.

“I’m
guessing that rag is printed in Seattle,” Trey said. “Or maybe that’s not a
copy of the new issue.”

“I’m
going to open it and find out,” she said, tearing at the seal.

All
three of them flinched at the headline accusing her of cheating with Ethan
while Trey attended a funeral. Someone had circled the picture of her and Ethan
climbing the stairs to their apartment in black marker and had written,
What
kind of slut did you raise, Mr. Elliot
? beneath it.

Dad
snatched the paper out of Reagan’s hand, nudged Trey aside, and stormed out of
the room. By the time Reagan caught up to him, he’d already lit the gas stove
and was about to touch the paper to the blue flame.

“Wait!”
she said, pulling the paper from his grip before he burned the evidence. “There
might be more clues.”

“Clues?”
he said.

“Someone
is out to get me. I want to know who it is so I can put a stop to this
bullshit.”

“Hopefully
Ethan has already caught the jerk,” Trey said.

“You
know Ethan?” Dad asked, pinning Trey with a heavy stare.

Reagan
cringed, hoping that Trey didn’t spill the truth and destroy the rare ceasefire
between her and her father.

“Yeah,
I love the guy,” Trey said, and Reagan’s stomach plummeted. “He’s one of my
best friends.”

“Never
met a man who could be best friends with his woman’s ex,” Dad said, watching
Trey closely.

“I’m
a little unusual,” Trey claimed, his face brightening with a smile.

Reagan
laughed. “A little?” When she leaned over to kiss his cheek, Dad stiffened.
“You’re one in trillion, babe.”

She
took the tabloid to the counter and spread it out, searching through every page
for anything out of the ordinary. She had to chuckle at the devil horns someone
had drawn on her pictures. She didn’t know who she’d managed to piss off, but
their animosity was so over the top it was almost humorous. Almost. Another
message had been written across the back of another page, again in black marker.
Don’t you think it’s time you reeled in your little girl, Pops
?

“Pops?”
She looked at her father, who was scowling. “Who would call you Pops?”

“Someone
with a death wish,” Dad said, and Trey laughed.

“Good
one, Mr. Elliot.”

“You
can call him Gary,” Reagan said. “You’ll be his son in about two weeks.”

Dad
groaned. “Maybe you’ll change your mind by then.”

“Don’t
bet on it.”

While
Dad glowered, she and Trey went through the tabloid a second time. She couldn’t
explain why, but being proactive gave her the detachment she needed to think
objectively about the situation. She was certain that eventually she wouldn’t
have to get mad or hurt. She could get even.

Her
phone rang and seeing it was Dare, and assuming he was looking for his brother,
she answered, “He’s with me.”

“He’s
always with you,” Dare said, “but that’s not why I’m calling. You’re late for
rehearsal.”

The
rehearsal she’d arranged. “Sorry. I got held up at my dad’s. I’ll be there soon
with my cello and your brother in tow.”

“Just
so you know,” Dare said. “Sam insists on having a say in this decision.”

“Sam?”
Dear lord, man, loosen the leash.

“Yeah,
it’s in—”

“The
contract,” she finished for him. “See you in about forty-five minutes.”
Assuming there was no traffic, that should give them time to get back to the
arena. She ended the call and turned to Trey. “We have to go now. I’m late for
rehearsal.”

She
went back to the den for her cello and carefully but hurriedly packed it into
its well-worn case. She twisted the screw to loosen the bow hairs before
packing the bow in a separate case. When she lugged the instrument to the
kitchen, she was surprised to find her dad laughing at something Trey had said.
So it was official: Trey Mills could steal any heart he desired. Even the
heavily guarded one that beat within her father’s chest.

“Since
you have the day off, Gary,” Trey said, “maybe you’d like to see your daughter
rehearse. I won’t go so far as to presume you want to watch her rock the faces
off thirty thousand fans tonight, but if you want to—”

“I
have some yardwork I should catch up on,” Dad said, glancing out the window at
the now-overcast sky.

Should?
Did that mean . . . 
“Please come,” Reagan said, plucking at his sleeve. “It would mean a lot to
me.”