Between Breaths (The Seattle Sound Series Book 2)

T
his is a work of fiction
. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

T
he opinions expressed
in this manuscript are solely the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the material in this book.

T
his book may not be reproduced
, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical, without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

I
SBN
: 978-1-945090-05-9

B
ETWEEN BREATHS ©
2016 by Alexa Padgett

E
dited
by Nicole Pomeroy and Sara Peterson

Cover art by Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Designs

H
ayden

“
W
oo
! Second encore! Let’s go,” Ets said, giving me a high five.

“I love playing Sydney. Nothing like the hometown crowd,” I said, scrubbing the towel over my face and hair. “Even midweek, their energy is amazing.” I let the tech powder my face again. Waited for the same treatment for Ets, Jake, and Flip. Our smiles grew wider as the raucous crowd screamed for more of us. Ets, my best mate, flung his arm around my shoulder, gripping me tight.

“You’re on fire,” he yelled. His gray-blue eyes lit up with joy and his eyebrow ring flashed in the stage lights. Sweat darkened his hair to a deep brown.

I stepped back out onto the stage. Blinding lights, the deafening roar of thousands of people excited to see me. To hear me play, sing. I raised my arms over my head and the screams grew louder. Yeah, baby. This right here—this was glory. And I was the high priest of rock.

I loved our fans. Loved that they connected with our music. Loved that I could sit at my piano and play this simple melody that’d run through my head for months to a rapt audience of thousands.

I rode the high as I sang, making sure I winked at the beautiful young woman standing right at the front of the stage, her strawberry-blond hair catching the light when she bobbed her head to the music. As our last song ended I dipped my head in her direction before taking my final bow and heading backstage.

“Fabulous show!” Our manager, Harry, slapped my back, his hand landing right on the sore muscles created from hours of lifting heavy equipment, even though I was told to leave those details to the roadies.

Bloody roadies. The rise in fame these last few months was still surreal.

Harry handed each of us a bottle of water. Sure, I would’ve preferred a beer, but I was the only singer other than Ets, and while his song skyrocketed us to the top of the charts this past year, my voice and compositions kept us there.

“We kicked arse,” Ets said, rubbing my chest. “You were on, Crewe.”

“You weren’t too shabby yourself, mate. Loved the play up the frets at the end there.”

Ets’s showmanship onstage kept our concerts fresh, interesting. Selling out.

“So did the fans,” Jake said. Ets’s younger brother, Jake played bass to his brother’s lead guitar. But Ets was flashier than his introverted, stocky sibling. Always close, not just in age but also in appearance, they balanced each other. Or had until Ets’s behavior turned erratic. Though he hadn’t said so, he was still hurt and angry that his longtime girlfriend ditched him for parts unknown last year.

I chugged the bottle of water, tossing it to Harry when it was empty. “Let’s do the meet and greet. Noticed a strawberry-blonde.” She was hot. All legs and tits. I grinned, anticipating the next few hours.

“She’s gorgeous. So’s her friend.” Harry licked his lips, thinking no doubt of the mostly nude women waiting for us in the next room.

“Go wild, Harry,” Ets said.

“Wait a mo’.” I dug my phone out of my pocket. I couldn’t hear the ring over the din of excited voices filling the space, just felt the vibration. I didn’t recognize the number—international. Seattle area code. My stomach tumbled over, landing somewhere much lower.

“Hello,” I said, cautious. Anyone with my phone number was here, at the venue.

I plugged my other ear, trying to hear the voice speaking into the phone.

“I can’t hear you,” I said.

“Your mother . . . Hospice . . . ”

“Hang on,” I said, and turned toward Harry. “Harry, I need to get somewhere quiet.”

He didn’t ask any questions—good bloke, there—and led me through the back hall to a room. He snapped on the lights, shut the door behind him.

“You ’right, mate?”

I waved him off, unsure how to answer. “Please start again. Who are you?”

“First, this is Hayden Crewe?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Kelly Winston. I’m a hospice nurse at the Bevins-Kline facility in Seattle. Your mother was admitted yesterday.”

“You sure you have the right person? What’s her name?” I asked.

“Miriam Hastings. She asked me to call you to let you know she’s here.”

“How’d you get my number?” I asked, too shocked by her words to think of anything else. My mum. No bloody way.

Kelly sighed into the phone. “I called your record label and jumped through a lotta hoops. Your mom’s in a bad way, Mr. Crewe. She has pancreatic cancer.”

My knees weakened and I managed to settle into a nearby chair.

“Pancreatic cancer. So—what? She’s dying?”

“Yes. The doctor said she has a week at most.”

I dropped my head as my neck muscles clenched. My mum, a woman I hadn’t seen in decades, was terminal.

“She asked for me?”

“She’s been asking for you constantly.”

“But she’s so young,” I said.

“She didn’t receive proper treatment.”

My chest tightened as my mind spiraled back to my dad’s last request as he’d gripped my hand in his age-spotted one.
Find your mother. If not for you, then for me. I never told you the whole story about her illness, Hayden. I didn’t understand it myself. You need to hear her version.

“Give me your information again.” I snapped my fingers, and Harry handed me a pen and a notebook. I wrote down the details, the pen shaking as I tried to press the point to the paper.
Terminal
.
A week at most
.

“I hope you can see her, Mr. Crewe. Miriam’s quite agitated.”

“Yeah. I bet. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

I ended the call and stared at the pad. None of the letters lined up. Bloody fucking hell.

Harry patted my shoulder, all paternal concern. “You ’right, mate?”

My eyes darted around the room. Small. Dusty. Two chairs and chipped linoleum. Five minutes ago I’d been playing Sydney’s greatest venue.

“No. I don’t think I am.”

“What do you need?” Harry asked, voice solicitous. “Who was on the line?” More than a spark of interest there. Ambitious bastard that Harry was, my personal life would be splashed across the Australian Broadcasting Corporation news segment faster than I could blink. The media would go digging into my mum . . . why my dad moved us back to Melbourne from Seattle.

Which I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to handle. Possibly because I didn’t know the answer myself.

I cleared my throat, trying to figure out how to thread the needle. “My mum’s in hospice. I need a ticket to Seattle. Like, sooner than now.” I stood, ready to put my plan into place. Actionable steps.

Terminal.
I shook my head. Crikey, she damn well better not die until I had a chance to ask my questions, get some answers.

Harry pulled at the vest under his tailored suit coat. His wife and three kids lived up in Darwin, a place he rarely went now that we’d hit the international charts. “Hayden, are you sure that’s smart?”

No, it wasn’t. I sure as hell didn’t want to fly halfway across the world to watch my estranged mother die.

“She’s dying, Harry. I
have
to go.”

I’d promised my dad I’d seek her out and hear her side of their story. He hadn’t said why I should after all the intervening years, and I never asked. Nor did I make finding my mum a priority. Now I was out of time.

“We’ve got a concert schedule.”

Shock reverberated through my chest. No wonder his wife stayed tucked up in Darwin. “She’s only got days to live.”

Harry scrubbed his palms across his cheeks, mouth hanging open. “Right. I’ll handle it. You get packed and head to the airport. I’ll text you the details.”

“I’ll be in and out, Harry. A few days, tops.”

Harry sighed. “Good. Yeah, good. We don’t want to screw over the fans. They bought tickets to these shows months ago.”

Tension crawled up my neck. “Do you think I’d choose
hospice
over playing with the band?”

Harry put his hand on my arm. I shook him off, so he tried to placate me with words. “You’re right. This is a tough time for you.”

“I plan to keep my commitments to the band, to our fans—as soon as my mum’s gone.”

Harry ran his hand over the buttons of his vest, and I struggled to process my emotions.
Why did we leave all those years before?
Next time Harry spoke, he was all business. Don’t know why I expected more from him.

“I’m walking a fine line here, Hayden. Everyone should be happy. The fans like that last tune you added to the LP. We’ll offer them the live version you did tonight. Glad you overruled Ets.”

Not what he’d said when they recorded the track. In fact, he’d sided with Ets, saying the song was too emotional.

People connected with my songs because they were real. Raw. I hadn’t known how else to pound out my fear and frustration after my dad died. So I’d written music. Lots of music. Most of which Dad would’ve hated, but the process was cathartic. And people responded to it.

“Don’t be gone long. Jackaroo is front and center right now. You’re at the top of your game, Hayden.”

“Got that. Spin us hard, mate. I’ll do my part. A live chat or whatever. Get me a piano, and I’ll play something for the fans we’re screwing over. Will you get me on the first flight that’s available? I’ll need a day at the hospice facility.” To deal with the paperwork and such. To ask my questions. “Then I’ll fly back. It’ll have to be two days with the time difference and flights.”

“There’s a plan. We’ll smooth this over. No worries.” He bent over his phone, fingers tapping. “Oh. Condolences.”

“What’s going on?” Flip asked, barging through the door. His dark hair lay plastered to his head, same as mine. “You ran off. Bad news?” He wrapped his arm around his longtime girlfriend turned wife. Cynthia, a petite brunette, was rounded with a bellyful of baby. Her light hazel eyes were focused on Flip’s face, full of love.

“My mum’s in final stages of pancreatic cancer. I’m off to Seattle.”

“Earliest flight leaves at ten tomorrow morning,” Harry muttered, hunched over his phone.

“Book it then,” I said.

“Gets you in during the afternoon tomorrow in Seattle. Benefit of the seventeen-hour time difference, I’d say. I’ll sort your hotel and a car.”

I clapped his shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”

Flip’s eyes were darker away from the harsh glare of the stage lights. “You’ll be ’right, mate?”

I half shrugged. “I’ll ring soon as I can, let you know when I’ll be back.”

“We’ll miss you,” Cynthia murmured, pulling me into her arms.

I shuffled back, swallowing hard. I offered my hand to Flip, but he also pulled me into a hug, pounding my back a few times to beat the point home. They wouldn’t ask the uncomfortable questions, but at least I wasn’t alone.

“Right-o,” I said, clearing my throat. “See ya in a few days. My leaving will give Ets his chance to shine.”

Flip chuckled low. “We’ll crash and burn if we’re giving Ets the reins. He’s on a quick boat to self-destruction.”

I rotated my head on my neck. “Don’t make me feel worse about this, Flip. I’m having a bugger of a time leaving.”

“It’s for family. That’s first.” Flip slid his arm back around Cynthia’s waist, emphasizing his point.

“I’ll touch base with you before I leave for the airport,” I said to Harry.

Our manager nodded, mumbling to himself. I tore the page from his pad and offered it back. He grabbed it and started making notes, still muttering.

“See if I need to do any promo. I’ll talk to reporters you set up in Seattle to get the Yanks excited about our tour there.”

I ran my fingers over the short hairs on the back of my neck, wishing for a massage. But I still needed to shower and pack. Just past 1:00 a.m. here. I snorted. My courtesy car would be by to pick me up in mere hours.

I walked out of the room, away from the fans screaming, noting the strawberry-blonde’s pout.
Me, too, love. I had grand plans for our night.

Instead, I climbed into my bus and walked straight to the loo. Stripping quickly, I stepped into the narrow shower stall, the tepid water running over my neck, down my back. The water took too long to warm up all the way, and I needed to wash away the sweat and fatigue before I was buried under it.

Three days tops to get there, say goodbye, and hop on another jet home. I’d be free of old promises and the obligation to a woman I could barely remember. And wished I didn’t.