Sing For Me by Rachel Schurig

Will

Iwalk Eva out to the front of the shop where the rest of her friends are waiting, wishing there was a way I could keep her here with me for longer. There’s something about this girl that makes it really hard to say goodbye.

“Did you do it?” one of the friends calls out from the reception desk.

She strikes a pose, her ankle raised for them to see, and they whoop and holler. “We need a group pic,” someone shouts, and they all gather up so Lulu can take the photograph.

The whole time she’s in my shop, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Not while she poses and talks to her friends. Not while she settles the bill with Lulu. And definitely not when she comes over to say goodbye.

For the first time in a long time, I feel excited. About a woman.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, an alarm bell sounds. We don’t do this, it warns me. We don’t take chances like this. Not anymore.

But the sound is muffled by the pounding of my heart, making it easy to ignore.

“Thanks Will,” she says softly, meeting my eyes. Something warm and searching fills hers. “Really. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It was my pleasure,” I tell her, the statement so patently accurate I want to laugh. I give her a wink instead. “I’ll be in touch.”

She graces me with one last smile, seizing my breath all over again, before she turns and heads to the door, her friends surrounding her. Half of them are whispering to each other, shooting me glances, but then the entire group has left before I can figure out why they’re quite so interested—and seemingly surprised—that I would flirt with their gorgeous friend. Surely a woman like that has men hanging all over her all the time.

The image of other men making a play for Eva has something pulsing in my chest. I don’t like it.

“Well this is interesting,” Lulu croons behind me, and I groan. I should have known this was coming.

“You’re looking pretty giddy, there, man,” Dave, one of my artists says.

“The boss likes redheads,” Quinn adds, clearly delighted by the entire situation.

“Um, the girl being a redhead is not the interesting part of all this,” Hannie says, leaning against Lulu’s desk. “Who knew that the boss likes pop music?” She gives me a devilish smile. “What would your dad think?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, the alarm bells getting a little louder in my head.

She stares at me blankly. “Wait, do you not know who that was?”

Lulu, Quinn, and Dave appear as bewildered as I am, and Hannie gapes at us. “Seriously, you guys? She’s one of the biggest stars in pop music.”

My entire body goes rigid. “Who is?” I hear myself ask even as my brain fills with worry and confusion.

“Eve.” She looks between the four of us, exasperated. “Oh, come on. Even if you don’t listen to that kind of music, you’ve heard of her. Eve.”

“Eve who?” Dave asks.

Hannie rolls her eyes. “I think her last name is Linnel? Linden? Who knows—she just goes by Eve. Like Adele, Madonna—”

“Eve? Holy shit!” Lulu claps a hand over her mouth. “I thought she looked familiar!”

Quinn squints at the girls. “Doesn’t Eve have blonde hair?”

Hannie rolls her eyes. “You do realize hair dye is a thing, yes?”

“Hang on.” I hold up a hand, my brain struggling to catch up. “Who the hell is Eve?”

“Seriously?” Hannie asks. “She’s a huge star, Will. You have to have heard of her. She’s been everywhere in entertainment gossip for the past four years.”

“I don’t pay attention to entertainment gossip,” I snap, maybe too sharply, because they all wince at my tone. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the dread that’s suddenly curling in my belly. “You’re saying she’s a… what? A singer?”

Hannie nods, her expression cautious now as she looks at me. “Yeah, Will. She was a pretty big deal. Her first album was the highest selling debut of any female artist in history.”

“Wait—she was a pretty big deal?”

Before she can answer, understanding dawns on Quinn’s face. “Hang on, she was in that fire, right?”

His words strike the shadow of a memory in me. I might have done everything I could possibly do to avoid the mere mention of the music industry over the last several years, but there are some stories big enough to filter through even to me.

“The Booker Club fire,” I mutter, barely noticing when Hannie nods. It had been all over the news last summer. Faulty wiring in the light system combined with outdated sound dampening materials had spelled disaster. The resulting stampede for too few exit doors in the dark club had only added to the panic.

People had died in that fire. More had been injured.

Evais injured.

The thought makes me want to puke. Was the fire where she’d gotten hurt?

“I’m pretty sure she hasn’t performed since then,” Hannie is saying, her voice sounding far away as my brain buzzes with this new information. “TMZ just did a feature, actually, wondering where she’s been the last year—”

“She’s a singer,” I mutter to myself, interrupting her. “Eva is a pop star.”

“Uh, dude, you doing okay?” Dave slaps a hand on my back. “You look a little pale.”

“Will?” Lulu asks, reaching for my arm, concern written all over her face.

I pull away, almost stumbling backwards. I have no intention of trying to explain it to them. Why finding out that Eva is a musician is such a gut punch to me.

“I have work to do,” I mutter, already turning to go. My brain is heading down that familiar path, relieving memories, dredging up all the old heartbreak.

I can’t do it again,I think as I half stumble back to the office. I won’t.

I made a promise to myself four years, two months, and twelve days ago. Never again will I let myself get caught up in someone like her. No musicians. No singers, no song writers. No one with even a passing involvement in the industry that ruined so many of my dreams.

It’s the one promise I can’t let myself break.

Music killed the only woman I’ve loved in my entire life. And I refuse to ever make that mistake again.

* * *

I probably shouldn’t be here.

As much as I love my family, I should be as far away from this house as humanly possible right now. There are too many forbidden memories tied up in this place. Sitting on my dad’s lap while he and his brothers wrote songs. Hiding behind the furniture while they discussed plans for the label. Listening to Wyatt practice piano. My grandfather teaching me to play guitar.

Sitting with her in my bedroom, our backs propped against the end of the bed, strumming my acoustic Fender while she sings. Eric Clapton. Alicia Keys. Billie Holiday. Her sweet voice haunting and perfect.

Stop.

I grip the steering wheel harder. I shouldn’t be here.

Before I can do the smart thing—put the car in drive and go—someone knocks on the glass. I blink over at the window, still trapped in the haze that’s descended over my mind, and see my little brother grinning at me.

“Hey! You showed up.”

I shouldn’t be here.

But I can’t stand the thought of Silas’s expression if I take off right now. I haven’t seen the kid in more than a week—probably a record for us—and I know he’s starting to get bothered by it. So I take a deep breath and pull the keys from the ignition.

Go in and say hi,I tell myself. Be a decent brother. Then you can go home and crash.

Si is no longer smiling when I climb out of the car. Instead he’s looking at me with an expression similar to the one my friends at the shop had worn.

Stop thinking about it.

“You okay, man?” Silas asks, peering up at me.Worried.

Great job, Will. Freak the kid out because you’re too fucked up to put on a happy face for ten minutes. Get your shit together.

I wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him into my chest so I can administer a noogie.

“Let go,” he complains, pushing against me.

I laugh, releasing him but managing to get in a decent cheek pinch. “I can’t help it, kid. You’re just so cute.”

He hits my hand away and scowls at me. “Jerk. I don’t know why I even asked you to come over.”

I grab him again, this time kissing the top of his head, obnoxious on purpose. Maybe if I can just tease him like I always do and act like everything is normal, it will start to feel that way in my head.

“You invited me over because you love me so much. I’m your favorite brother. Duh.”

He snorts and I’m relieved to see the way his eyes are twinkling with amusement, back to normal, no more worry. “Hate to break it to you, Will, but Wyatt is definitely my favorite brother.”

I smack a hand over my heart. “You’re killing me, kid.”

Silas is grinning now. “You could always try to buy my love. I have my eye on this sweet vintage Camero.”

“You know, I’m actually fine with being your second favorite after all.”

We’re nearly to the porch when the heavy oak front door swings open, revealing a gangly girl in a Wonder Woman t-shirt and a rainbow colored knit beanie. “Will!” she squeals, flying through the doorway and jumping from the top step of the porch into my arms.

I grunt, the force of her attack making me step back even as I wrap my arms around her.

“How’s my favorite sibling?” I ask her, winking at Silas. He rolls his eyes and pushes past us into the house.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” CeCe lifts her head to beam at me, showing off her braces and a killer set of dimples, and my heart clenches. God, I love this kid.

“Figured I should check in.” I set her down on the top step. “Make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

She smirks at me. “I’ve been getting into just the right amount of trouble.”

I throw my head back and laugh. Something in my chest is easing, like I’m not just going through the motions anymore. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

I follow Silas and CeCe into the house. “Are the parents here?”

“Just Mom,” Silas calls over his shoulder. “She’s in her office, making calls. Dad is down at Uncle Reed’s.”

“Shocking, right?” CeCe deadpans. The kid’s always had a sassy mouth.

Before we even reach the kitchen, I can hear a jumble of voices. “How many of the Littles are here?” I ask.

CeCe stops in her tracks, hands going to her hips as she glares at me. “Don’t call us that. How many times have I told you? Our squad name is the Fierce Five.”

“The Freaky Five,” Silas mutters, earning a smack from CeCe. But since our little sister weighs about ninety pounds soaking wet, I’m gonna bet he’s not feeling much pain.

We walk into the kitchen and I can see that my guess was correct. Violet, Ash, and Vega—three of the five Littles—are sitting around the kitchen table, a game of Risk spread out in front of them.

“Hey, Will,” Violet and Ash call in that somewhat unsettling unison only twins seem to achieve.

“Hello, small children,” I say, pulling on Vega’s dark ponytail as I pass on my way to the fridge.

“Grab me a beer,” Silas calls.

“Hilarious.” I grab an armful of sodas and set them on the table to a chorus of thanks from the kids before taking one for myself. I join Silas at the counter, hopping up on the granite top and swinging my legs. “How are we all doing?”

“Good,” Violet says. “Hey, did Rose tell you Fox has a girlfriend?”

“Don’t gossip, Vi,” her twin brother Ash scolds.

Violet rolls her eyes. Unlike the older children in their family, Violet and Ash take after their mother, right down to the green eyes and the tightly curled brown hair. “Like everyone isn’t already talking about it.”

“Fox is eighteen,” I point out. “Kid had to find a girl who could stand him sometime.”

Violet’s eyes spark with glee—what thirteen-year-old doesn’t like to hear teasing about an older sibling?

I take a sip of my soda. “What else is new? Tell me all the Ransome family gossip.”

My siblings and cousins immediately break into chatter, all of them talking over each other. It’s always like this with my family—loud and crowded and more than a little overwhelming. The familiarity brings me more comfort than I would have imagined.

As famous as our family is, with so many kids even the media occasionally has trouble keeping us all straight. Our parents do their best to keep the family out of the press, of course, but when you own the most successful record label in the country—on top of being members of one of the most popular rock bands of the last twenty-five years—the public tends to take note of your personal life.

My dad, Cash, and his brothers, Reed, Lennon, and Daltrey, were all named after famous rock legends. My grandfather, a musician himself, had his four boys playing music from the first moment they could hold an instrument. The way my dad tells it, there was never really a time in their lives when the band Ransom didn’t exist—they started playing together as kids in the garage and never stopped.

After years of touring and making music, they decided to start up their own label—Six Man Band Records. Ransom still writes and records, even touring on occasion, but the new family business gives them the ability to be more settled.

Wanting their kids to grow up the way they had—inseparable—my dad and his brothers bought houses in the same neighborhood, within blocks of each other. When they went out on tour, they packed all the kids up and took us with them. My childhood norm was sleeping on narrow bunks next to my cousins on the tour bus, our parents wrangling us into our home school lessons while we rumbled down the highway to their next show.

“Silas?” a voice calls from the front of the house.

“Back here!” he calls and our cousin Presley appears in the doorway.

“Hey, kids,” she says, then startles when she sees me. “Will! What are you doing here?”

I shift on the counter, a little niggle of guilt swimming in my belly. Has it really been that long since I’ve been home that they’re all so surprised to see me?

Before I can answer, Presley turns to her little sister. “Vega, Mom said to tell you that you have fifteen minutes.”

Vega makes a face. “We’re in the middle of a game.”

Presley shrugs, unconcerned, and jumps up to join me and Silas on the counter. “How’s life at the tattoo parlor?” she asks me, swinging her red Chuck Taylors.

All four of my Uncle Reed’s girls look nearly identical, with their dark curls and sharp blue eyes. Unlike her much prissier sisters, Presley doesn’t have a girlish bone in her body, much to her mother’s bafflement, and spends most of her time with the male cousins around her age, particularly my brother. Today Pres is dressed in her typical outfit of ripped-knee jeans and a t-shirt, hair tucked into an old faded ball cap with the Six Man Band Records logo scrawled across the front. She cuts a sharp contrast to little Vega, who’s decked out in a pink leopard print sundress and a pair of sparkling platform sandals.

“The shop’s fine,” I tell her, then change the subject quickly so my mind doesn’t wander in the direction of my most recent client. “What’s new at your house?”

She shrugs. “Same old. My sisters are annoying and my parents are always on my case.”

At the table, Vega snorts in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Ever since you started playing drums, Dad has been like, obsessed with you.”

“You’re playing drums?” I blurt out before I can remind myself that I don’t take an interest in the musical pursuits of my family members.

Presley sends Silas a furtive glance that I can’t quite read. “Uh, yeah,” he says, answering for her, voice guarded. “We’ve been playing together a lot. I guess we’re kind of forming a band? We, uh, actually have a gig booked in a few weeks.”

I hate the expression on my brother’s face. He looks wary, like he’s afraid of how I might react to this news. Over at the table, all of the Littles have gone quiet, watching us. Watching me.

I try to push down the bile rising in my throat, the surge of fear I feel at the idea of these kids going down that path. They’re too young for this shit. There’s no way they can possibly know what the industry is like, what it does to people.

“What kind of gig?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

“Just a birthday party,” Silas says quickly, appealingly. “A kid Lyric knows. She’s, uh, singing for us.”

I blanch at that. “Lyric?” Our cousin is only fifteen. And has a history of serious health problems. No way should she be performing. “Does Uncle Lennon know about this?”

“Of course,” Presley says, shooting Si another worried glance.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Will,” Silas says, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from blowing up at him. He has no idea what he’s talking about.

“I should go say hi to Mom.” I stand, ignoring the way they both wince at my sudden movement.

“Will—”

I force a smile to my face. “It’s fine, kid. Have fun.”

“Will!” Vega calls as I turn to leave the kitchen. “I have another shoot coming up, you know. You promised you’d help me and you’ve missed the last three.”

“I’ve been pretty busy, Vega—”

“Will.” God, it’s uncanny how much she looks and sounds like my Aunt Paige. And just like Paige, Vega has the obnoxious ability to talk people into doing whatever she wants. Which means in the very near future, I’m going to be helping her produce the latest video for her YouTube channel.

“Text me the details,” I tell her, knowing there’s no sense in arguing.

I turn again to leave but this time catch sight of Presley, staring at me with guilt and concern in her eyes.

I flick the bill on her ball cap. “Say hey to your sisters for me.”

She nods, slightly mollified, and my stomach clenches at the mere thought of this sweet little girl ending up like her.

Like Skye.

Stop it. Don’t think like that.

I manage a genuine smile for my brother and cousin. “See you guys around,” I tell them, heading to the door.

“Bye, Will!” the younger kids call after me.

“Goodbye, small ones.”

“Fierce Five!” CeCe yells at my retreating back.

Once I’m clear of the kitchen and out of sight, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths through my nose as I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself get so worked up over this shit.

And of course, I know exactly why things are hitting me so hard today. It’s because of Eva. She showed up in the shop and got me all mixed up, thinking about things that I shouldn’t think about.

“Will?”

My eyes snap open to see my mother at the end of the hallway, hovering in the doorway to her office. “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

Immediately some of the tension in my chest eases and I push off the wall, heading towards her. She meets me halfway, wrapping her arms around me, and I inhale deeply, her familiar scent relaxing me further.

My mother is the best person I know.

“Hey, Mom.”

She pulls back so she can study my face, her brown eyes appraising. “You’re upset.”

I huff out a laugh. She’s always been so damn perceptive. I kiss the top of her head. “I’m fine.”

“Did you get something to drink?” She starts to move towards the kitchen. “What about a snack or—”

“I was just in there,” I say quickly. “Place is overrun with tiny humans.”

She laughs at that. “What else is new?” She pats my shoulder. “Come sit down. Come talk to me.”

I follow her back to her office, smiling in spite of myself at the familiar sight of her plush cream carpet and elaborate crystal chandelier. My dad had the room designed just for her, back before CeCe was born, when my mother was the only female in a family of rowdy boys. The furnishing and decor are soft and feminine in a way the rest of the house has never been.

My eyes catch on the canvas print behind her desk—my parents on their wedding day, both their arms around a ten-year-old Wyatt, my mother’s belly huge under her gauzy white dress. I had been born less than a month later.

She turns to see what’s caught my attention, a soft smile tilting her mouth as she joins me in gazing at the picture. “Sometimes that feels like yesterday,” she murmurs. “And then I look at you and can’t believe how big you are.”

“I think Silas has grown a whole inch since summer,” I say. “He’ll be as tall as me soon.”

She grins wickedly. “Don’t tell your father that. He desperately wants to be taller than at least one of his boys. He’s in total denial, of course.”

I chuckle. My dad is the shortest of his brothers and sensitive about it. Wyatt and I both take great pleasure in the several inches we have over him.

My mom sits on the pristine eggshell blue armchair in the corner. I used to kneel in front of that chair when I was little, rubbing my cheek against the soft velvet fabric while I played with my trucks. I take a seat across from her on the cream sofa.

“I’m so glad you came by the house. How have you been?”

I stretch my legs out in front of me, running my hands over my face, my beard scratchy. I could use a trim.

“Shop is busy,” I say. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“You work too hard,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

“You’re one to talk.” She gives me a rueful smile and doesn’t argue. My mother runs the family’s charitable foundation, manages her kids’ hectic schedule, and keeps my dad in line. She’s pretty amazing.

“Speaking of.” She stands and retrieves something from her desk. “I was going to bring this over later in the week if I didn’t see you first.”

I frown at the thick creamy envelope she hands me. “What’s this?”

My mother crosses her arms, giving me the no-nonsense face I saw so many times when getting into trouble as a kid. “Don’t tell me you forgot about the gala, Will. It’s the most important fundraiser of the year.”

Shit. I had forgotten. “Mom—”

“Don’t even try it.” She pierces me with a knowing glare. “You will be there. This is not a discussion.”

I try not to sigh. I know there’s no getting out of this. The Sunshine Foundation gala occurs every year, my mother throwing herself into the planning for weeks on end. The night with the family brings in nearly twenty percent of the foundation’s yearly operating budget. If I even tried to skip it, my uncles would probably show up at my door and forcibly drag me there.

“When is this?”

She narrows her eyes. “A week from Saturday. I’ll arrange to have your tux delivered.” Her expression challenges me to argue.

“Yes, mother,” I intone, and she laughs, the tension falling from her face.

“Good boy.” Her phone dings and she glances at the screen, a soft smile lighting up her expression. She only wears that smile for one person.

“What does Dad have to say?”

She looks up from the phone. “He wants to know what to bring home for dinner.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “I’m in a greasy Chinese food kind of mood. What do you say?”

My instinct is to beg off. Come up with an excuse to leave before my dad gets back. As if she can sense what I’m thinking, my mother frowns at me.

“He misses you, Will.”

I roll my eyes. “I saw him a few weeks ago.”

“Three weeks,” she says, her voice sharp. “Believe me, he keeps track.”

I feel a sharp stab of guilt. I don’t want to hurt my father. I don’t want there to be a distance between us. It’s just hard, sometimes. For me to be around him and my uncles, when so much of their lives revolve around the very thing I do my best to avoid.

And harder still to make myself forget the role the four of them played in what happened to Skye.

“Stay and have dinner,” my mother urges, leaning over so her soft hand can run over the back of my suddenly tense shoulders.

“Will you kick out the hordes of excess children currently in our kitchen?”

She laughs, squeezing my shoulder. “I think that can be arranged. This will be an exclusive Warners only dinner.”

I manage a grin. The cousins sometimes refer to each other that way, using our mother’s maiden names to differentiate between so many Ransome branches. “You guys really should have hyphenated our names,” I tell her. “Would have made things a lot simpler.”

My mom rolls her eyes as she types out a response to my dad. “Oh, yeah. Your uncles would have been totally mature and not at all obnoxious about that.”

“You say my uncles as if Dad wouldn’t have been the most obnoxious of all.”

She finishes her text and slips the phone into her back pocket before reaching for my hand. “Come on. Let’s go send some superfluous children packing so we can eat.”