Someone to Watch Over Me Page 21

  “I’m not a kid.”

  “You’re running off with the rock star. You’re a kid.” Letting me go, she eyed Tate with circumspection. “I don’t have to threaten you. I know you’ll treat her well.”

  “Like gold.” Grasping Em’s hand, he gave her a firm shake. Garrison followed. He held Tate’s hand a moment longer. The two shared a brief exchange then ended with a pithy nod.

  “Let’s gggoooooooo!” Carter yelled from the bus. “Time’s a wasting!”

  “Come here kiddo,” said Em, lifting Levy and hugging him tight. “I’m gonna miss you. You gonna miss me too?”

  “No.”

  “Well darn.”

  “I gonna ride da bus.”

  “I see. You go on then. Go ride the bus.” Dropping Levy back to his feet, she gave him a swat on the rump and watched him scale the stairs of the bus. “Ungrateful little shit.”

  Fighting tears, I hugged Em one more time, and Mr. Craig. Then I strode to the bus and helped Levy up the last step. I wasn’t one for long goodbyes. They made me weepy.

  Inside, Carter had stuffed his cheeks with Snowballs, his mouth and shirt speckled with pink coconut. “What’s up, Coop. You all ready?”

  “What’re you eating, Carter?”

  “Me?” Carter looked left and right. “Nuffing.”

  “So you’re not eating my Snowballs.”

  “No.”

  “I guess that’s not coconut all over your shirt either.”

  “Hmm?” Glancing at his shirt, he grimaced and plucked at the fabric, sending shredded coconut all over the floor. “Damn, darn, I mean darn. I had to eat something, Coop. My blood sugar was low.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s true. Really. And your kid ate my jerky.”

  “Actually, Tate ate your jerky.”

  Carter goggled at me. “You let Tate eat jerky? Are you insane?”

  “What?”

  “You’re married to the guy, and you don’t even know not to give him jerky? It gives him gas, Coop. Bad gas. Every time.”

  Tate, who had come on the bus behind me, squeezed past and dropped his duffle just inside the bedroom. “Does not.”

  “Does too.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” I’d only seen him eat it once before, the day we went to the picnic at Jess’s house. I must’ve checked Levy’s diaper a dozen times that night. “You blamed it on my son.”

  Sticking to his story, Tate quickly denied it. “Come on, Coop. It was Levy.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Carter advised, tearing open another Snowball. “He used to blame it on the dog too.”

  “It was the dog!”

  Grabbing the second Snowball from Carter’s hand, I made my way to the back of the bus.

  “Come on,” Carter whined, “that was the last one!”

  “I know.” I’d have to remember to stash a box of them when we stopped at the grocery store. As the bus started up the drive of Mr. Craig’s farm, I braced myself on the wall and watched out the back window as my car tagged along behind us.

  “It’s not going to fall off, Coop,” Carter called after me.

  “I’m not looking at my car,” I lied. “I need my laptop. I have work to do.” Satisfied with the safety of my car, I fished through the pile of bags for my computer. I’d only gotten the Mini back the day before and I was anxious to keep it unscathed. Tate even bought this skirt thing that stretched between the bus and my car so that it wouldn’t kick rocks onto it.

  Stealing one last glance out the window, I ambled back into the living room, as it were. I stuffed the last of the Snowball in my mouth and licked the marshmallow from my fingers. Carter was digging through the bag of Levy’s snacks. Tate was on the sofa with his tablet and his guitar. Levy was watching with rapt attention as he plucked at the strings. Jake and Shane were playing a game of cards at the built in, so I sat beside Levy and opened my laptop.

  “I thought you were quitting,” Carter inquired, still ruffling through the bag.

  “I thought I was too, but they asked me to stay.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “My vendors love me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They come in once a year. The company takes them out to dinner. It’s boring, stuffy, corporate, you know. This year I had to make the arrangements since I’m the low man on the totem. I took them to Din Tai Fung.”

  “They’re from Asia and you took them to a Chinese restaurant.” Carter said this as if I were daft. I understood what he was implying, because everyone at work had thought the same thing. All of our fashion designers and product managers, at one time or another, had been to China to visit our vendors and tour the factories. They all had told me the food wasn’t the same.

  It was like asking for a Philly cheese steak in Iowa. There was no equality. Just as our food varied from state to state, Asian food varied from country to country. It was regional.

  But I wasn’t daft. I knew exactly what I was doing. “I didn’t just take them to any old restaurant; I took them to a Karaoke bar. They L.O.V.E. karaoke. They think I’m the shit.”

  Lounging back on the sofa, Tate strummed idly at his guitar, periodically jotting notes in his tablet. At my claim—or so I thought—his mouth curled into an impish grin.

  “What’s so funn—” My nose wrinkled, picking up something that could only be compared to the water treatment plant. “Oh my God! You just farted, didn’t you?”

  “Ew stinky!” Levy cried, covering his nose. “Das a stinky smell!” Crawling into my lap, he was under the impression that I could somehow spare him from Tate’s gastrointestinal issues.

  Carter retreated to the front of the bus and opened one of the windows. Jake and Shane battened down their cards and followed suit by opening the windows beside the dinette.

  “Oh come on!” Tate scoffed. “It’s not that bad!”

  “Come up here kid,” Carter said, snapping his fingers as if Levy were a dog. “That stink will rot your brain out.”

  Taking Carter up on his offer, Levy abandoned my lap for a space beside Carter in the captain’s chair. Carter indulged him by spinning the seat in circles until he was dizzy.

  “So, how long will this go on for?”

  Tate raised his brows at me, as if to say, “Do you really want to discuss this?” No, I really didn’t. Instead, I fixed him a glass of water with a little baking soda, and hoped for the best. First, though, I had to persuade him to drink it, which he didn’t look inclined to do.

  “That’s medieval.”

  “It’s Alka-Seltzer, which I would’ve given you if you had any.”

  “People use it to deodorize their fridge.”

  “Then it should work on your bowels.” Passing him the glass, I stood in front of him until he drank it. “You’re not supposed to sip it like wine, or allow it to spread across your tongue. Just chug it.”

  “Are you sure you can’t live with the gas?”

  “Did your mother never make you drink this stuff?” I asked before I could seriously think about my question. Tate had never talked about his mother before. I naturally assumed that if he wanted to talk about his parents’ divorce, he would’ve told me already.

  “No, my dad always said to drink milk.”

  “Milk’s hard to digest. It causes more gas.”

  “That explains why it never worked.” Lifting the glass, he manned up and tossed down the contents in a few large gulps. “Wow, that’s nasty. I’m kind of glad she wasn’t around now.”

  Taking the glass from Tate, I gave it a quick wash. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure where they kept the dishtowels.

  “On the right,” Tate told me. “Bottom drawer.”

  “They’re not in there,” I said, stumped when I found the drawer empty. When I stood, I found Tate perusing my body, my backside in particular. “You’re such a pervert. You just wanted me to bend over.”

  Tate smiled wickedly with not an ounce of remorse. Setting his guitar down, he graspe
d my wrist and pulled me into his lap. “She’s a doctor.”

  “Who?” I asked, as he rested his guitar on my lap. Reaching around me, he placed the pick in my hand and positioned my fingers over the strings.

  “My mother. She’s an ENT.”

  “Convenient.” With all the injuries a vocalist could incur, her profession was ironic. At his command, I strummed the guitar. Lord, was it awful. I’d heard cats in heat that sounded more harmonious. Tate obviously agreed, because I could feel him laughing beneath me.

  “Not really. We don’t talk.” Lifting my arm, he shook it until my hand flopped around on my wrist. “Loosen up, like you’re shaking water from your hand. You’re too stiff in the wrist.”

  “At all?” Again, I strummed the guitar, but with much more success. The sound was somewhat musical. Somewhat.

  “That was terrible.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” I could feel my face flush with embarrassment. I tried several instruments throughout elementary school, and failed miserably at all of them, but I’d never admit that to Tate, not now. Pouting, I passed him back his pick. He softened my failure with a light kiss. I settled my head on his shoulder while he picked through a soft melody.

  “Not since she left,” he said, answering my question.

  “That must’ve been hard. What were you, fifteen?”

  “They divorced when I was fifteen. She had left long before that. The hospital was always her priority.”

  Suddenly, Tate’s earlier words came back to me. ‘You’re not the only one taking a chance here, Cooper, or the only one with a past.’ I had assumed that he was speaking about a girl, but now I wondered if it wasn’t his mother. It made sense. She had walked out on him.

  “That sucks.”

  “It’s all water under the bridge now.” He lifted one shoulder with disregard. “I only brought it up because you look like you swallowed a frog.”

  “I didn’t know if it was something you’d rather not talk about.”

  “We’re married, Coop. It’s only natural that you want to know about my family.”

  Again, the butterflies in my stomach roused. I wondered how long it would take before I got used to hearing that. It was as if I were living in a dream. Everything happened so fast between us, and the conversation reminded me of just how little I knew about Tate.

  “Do you ever think about contacting her?”

  “She tried to rekindle things between us a few years back, after I graduated, but I had just signed with Angeles Records. I didn’t have the time. Honestly, I just didn’t care enough to spend the effort. By then, it was too late. I’d found my way. I didn’t need her anymore.”

  “That’s sad.”

  A smirk crossed his face, fleeting and sardonic. “That’s life.”

  “I know all about life, Tate. I just meant that the whole situation is saddening.” The two had nothing stopping them from having a relationship, and both chose to turn their backs on one another. “I’m sorry for you.”

  “Hey.” Glancing up, I met Tate’s eyes. He pressed a brief kiss to my lips. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For caring about my hardships when you so many of your own.”

  “What can I say; I’m not actually the center of the universe.”

  “You’re the center of mine.”

  “You really do say the sweetest things.”

  “I still want to fuck your mouth.” A puckish smile spread across his face. He went back to finger picking his guitar.

  “Tell me about your dad.”

  Surprising half of the occupants on the bus, Tate flubbed his down stroke. The E string buzzed discordantly. “My dad?” he repeated. “He’s, um…he’s an artist.”

  “What’s his medium?”

  “Whatever suits him at the moment.”

  “Anything notable?”

  “Strawberry Island.”

  “Your first album cover?”

  “The same.”

  Placing my hand over Tate’s, I stilled his playing. “You need to slow down. I can’t keep up with these long-winded answers of yours.”

  Glancing around the bus, Tate eyed his band mates. Carter was still playing idly with Levy, who was sitting on Carter’s feet. Carter was like a human seesaw, lifting Levy in the air and lowering him down again. Shane and Jake were still involved in their game of cards.

  “Tate, you don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to. Just say so and I won’t ask you anymore questions.”

  “Screw it. You’re going to find out sooner or later.” Running a hand through his hair, he panned the room again. “If I don’t tell you, my dad will. He’ll never let it go. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t called me on it already.”

  “‘You’re going to find out sooner or later’ is not a promising start.”

  “No, no, it’s kinda embarrassing, that’s all. You know the story behind the band’s name, right?”

  I nodded. “I meant to ask you about it, actually. It’s a pretty dark story. What made you choose something so morbid?”

  “Because Ben Ure and his wife are my ancestors.”

  “Oh. Wow. Would it be rude if I said I was sorry?”

  Tate arched one dark brow with dry amusement. “You can imagine why it’s not public knowledge. Would you want anyone to know you were related to Ben Ure?”

  “Not at all.” Who’d want to be associated with a man who threw his slaves to a watery death so that he could escape arrest? Who wanted to be related to a slave trader period?

  “His wife was American Indian. Somena, I think. I don’t know. I can’t recall all the details. I never took it seriously. She was my great grandmother five times removed or something like that. My grandmother swore to it, but I just thought she was a kook. When she passed away, though, my dad was going through her things and he came across our family tree. It was true, all of it.”

  “I guess I can see it.”

  “See what?”

  “That you’ve Native American in your blood.” Watered down as it was, I could still see it in his features and coloring.

  Again, Tate rolled his eyes. “My dad’s going to love you.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  Tate smiled awkwardly. One more time, he panned the bus and leaned closer to my ear. His voice came out low, hesitant for anyone else to hear. “My dad, he embraced his heritage with heart and soul. But me, I don’t put any stock into this kind of stuff, just so that we’re clear. I don’t believe in vision quests or any of that Native American mojo.”

  “Ok,” I said hesitantly. “I still don’t understand what the big deal is.”

  “I’m getting to that. A few years ago, well, more than a few, I was sick. Really, really sick. My fever was so high that I had hallucinations and everything. My dad prefers to call them ‘visions.’” Rolling his eyes, Tate expressed his opinion on the notion.

  “Visions. Like prophecies of the future?”

  “Yes and no. They’re symbolic or metaphorical, and dependent upon interpretation. They’re supposed to give you ‘spiritual guidance’ and a ‘deeper understanding of your life’s purpose.’” He said this in a manner that implied he’d heard it a thousand times before. “Anyhow, I don’t remember a lot of it. I was just a kid, and it was a long time ago. Everything’s kind of fuzzy. It involved this Red-tail. A hawk, you know? She was perched on this branch, wearing a hood and jesses. She was beautiful. Beautiful, but sad. It just seemed wrong for something so majestic to be confined. So I took them off. As I pulled the hood off, she spread her wings. She was just amazing. Amazing. I remember being in awe. And I remember being afraid. She was huge, and imposing, but letting her go was worth every ounce of fear.”

  “Overall, that doesn’t seem so weird.”

  “I didn’t think so either. It was just a dream. But that’s not all. This is the kicker. When I was recording my first album, I asked my dad to do the cover art. It was a kind of dedication to him. He made me who I am, you know
? He was always there, even at my worst.

  “So about a month later, he hands me this illustration.” Holding up his tablet, Tate showed me the image from his first album, which, as I mentioned, looked uncannily similar to me. “And he tells me that while subtlety works on some, others need a good hard slap in the face. And he laughed. No explanation. No anything. He just laughed.”

  It didn’t take long for me to construe what Tate was implying. I was the falcon. And although he had his own deep-seated fears, he was freeing me from my own emotional bondage.

  “You’re kidding.” Taking the tablet from his hand, I studied the image. My God, it was me. Well, not exactly me, but it was a pretty damn close interpretation.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “God, the girls at work would go crazy over this. They were all ranting and raving about fate and how much I looked like this damn picture.”

  “Coop, if you tell anyone about this, I swear, the retribution will not be pleasant. Humiliation will be putting it lightly.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “People will look at me like I’m a fruitcake.”

  “But you don’t believe any of it.”

  “No.” Flipping the cover shut, Tate placed the tablet on the side table. “No. It’s just a coincidence. It’s simple to connect two imminent events by twisting words until they fit the right outcome. Look at Nostradamus. He supposedly made over six thousand prophesies anywhere from the French Revolution to 9/11. It’s all a bunch of crap.”

  “It’s certainly unnerving.”

  “The media would tear it apart.”

  “Dude!” Carter exclaimed. “Did you fart on my feet?” Answering Carter’s question, Levy’s giggle burbled across the room. “You did! You farted on my feet!”

  “I no fart! I poopie!”

  “Aw God! Get off! Get off now! Cooper, come get your kid! He just sh—poopied on my feet!”

  “I no poopie on yew feet! I poopie in my diaper!”

  “Which is resting on my feet! Go, kid, go tell your mom to clean you up.”

  “Yew cween it up!” Levy pointed a pudgy finger at Carter.