I looked around, taking in the wood paneled walls, the cheap metal tables, the U-shaped bar with the video-trivia games bolted to the ends. There was a small, cleared out space in the corner by the window, with a raised, rickety looking stage sitting on small risers. It was smaller than even the ones I had played as a kid. I went over and took a seat next to one of the trivia machines and studied my frozen hands.
There was no nostalgia here. I had no memories sniffing around the back of my head like dogs trying to catch a scent.
I could relax. I did relax.
But only for a moment.
The man four seats down twisted on his stool. I could sense him studying me and wondering is he should say something. He wondered so long it was actually a relief when he finally spoke up.
"Sorry," he said. "But, you're Jonah King right?"
Instantly I was on the alert. After losing my manager and having my appearances cancelled, the last thing I could afford was a pissed of Tweet from some aggrieved civilian. Even though I was home, I still had to be extra sure to answer all autograph requests with a smile and a witty joke. "I am," I said, pasting my practiced smile into place. "How are you?"
But the man wasn't done talking. His face was familiar in the vague way every face was familiar in this town. "Yeah, you're definitely Foster King's boy. It's all in the eyes, that's for damn sure."
I blinked. It had been a long while since 'Foster King's boy' was how people knew me. "I've heard that before," I said carefully, still not quite sure where this was going.
He nodded and sipped his beer. "Sorry about your Uncle. Andrew was so excited about the spring musical."
I blinked, then remembered. Right. Gid was a music teacher. I looked at him again, inhaling sharply. "I remember you."
He grinned showing yellowed, nicotaine stained teether. "Yeah. Wondered if you were gonna. I'll save you the brain strain." He held out his hand. "Jack McLean. I was a year behind you and a year ahead of Gabe."
I nodded, feeling more at ease now. "Until we left, yeah."
"Now you're back for a little while, huh?"
I licked my lips. "I'm working on a new project," I lied smoothly. He raised his eyebrows, the impressed look on his face emboldening me. "Stripping it down, getting back down to my roots, you know?"
The lie must have sounded believable because Jack looked impressed. "Well if you're gonna be hanging around a while, you need to know what's what."
I took a drink and listened as Jack brought me up to speed with the town gossip. He was really gifted at summarizing. In no time flat I knew which of our classmates had ended up in jail, and which of those charges were 'complete bullshit.' I also learned who had ended up with six kids but never got married and who left town to become 'some big city hotshot.'
Through all of this, the bartender - who I was pretty sure was at Gid's wake but didn't say a word then and said more of that now - brought me an assortment of craft beers from the brewery down the road. I felt my shoulders unknot.
"Jonah fucking King."
"Jesus," I almost fell off my barstool when I saw Taylor Graham suddenly behind the bar. With a beard. "Tay. What are you doing here?"
He grinned. "I work here, what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off banging groupies somewhere?"
Taylor hadn't changed. Except everything about him had. The eager face was still there, but ringed with a giant, bushy blond beard that looked like it should be groomed using hedge trimmers. The same hopeful smile was hidden under all that hair, as well as an extra one hundred pounds and several inches. But it was still Taylor, still looking at me with that hero worship. He'd played with us a few dates back when we were doing local festivals. And honorary King Brother, we'd called him, until our slimy manager Bennett put an end to that.
I had to smile. "Need to rest sometime, don't I?" But anxiety settled in a knot right between my eyes.
"Been following your solo stuff," Taylor went on. "You seem like you want to move in a different direction."
"He's getting back to his roots," Jack piped up.
Taylor's smug expression made me instantly regret the lie. "I mean, I'm stripping down a list, yeah. But new direction?" I waved my hand. It was one thing to have self-doubts. It was another thing to let Taylor know I had them. "Why fuck with what works though, you know? When you got a winning formula."
He nodded, wiping the same glass, spinning it around and around in his hand until it was streak free and spotless but still he didn't put it away. His smile was so wide it looked like it hurt. "Yeah, yeah well of course, man you're on top" He shook his head and seemed to suddenly notice the glass in his hand and set it down with a clang. "Shit, how long you in town? And sorry about your uncle but the way. But seriously, if you're around for a while we'd love to have you play a set."
I looked over at the small, rickety stage. "You mean, here?"
"No, Madison Square Garden," he deadpanned. "Of course here."
I grinned. "You want to put me on as opener or closer for the small town dreamers?"
"What, we're not good enough for you?" He was smiling, joking, but there was a hard glint in his eyes.
I laughed. "Sure man. I've been dying to play a half-empty bar. Just to switch it up, you know? I was getting tired of huge crowds of people screaming my name. It'd be nice to go back to being ignored in the corner of a bar."
A shadow passed across Taylor's face. I looked at him, and then Jack who was studiously looking away, draining his beer at a rapid clip. I swallowed and lowered my voice like I was letting them both in on a secret. "It's just... not many people know I'm in town, and we're kind of trying to keep things private, be there for my family."
"Nah sure, sure, I get it. Bad timing." He whistled between his teeth as he swiped the bar with his rag, but the friendliness had dissolved from his demeanor. "What can I get you?"
"Another one?"
"That's five dollars."
"Guess your drinks aren't on the house any more," Jack chuckled, having watched this whole exchange.
"He can afford it," Taylor said, smiling through a snarl.
I had fucked something up and I didn't know what it was. That was the fucking problem with coming home. These people all thought they knew me, but they had no idea.
I slapped down a twenty and stood up. "Keep the change."
Chapter Eight
Ruby
It was the last bag of kitten food on the shelf and it was marked reserved. "Looks like it's got your name on it!" Randi cackled. "Literally!"
I grinned at her pun. The bag did indeed have my name on it. Or rather, the name of my nine week old kitten. 'Reserved for Ginger Riley,' was written across the front in black Sharpie. "Thanks, Randi," I said. "You're a life saver."
"She's eating well?" The owner of Fur Real Pet Store was covered in cat hair the way any good pet lover should be, and she was very interested in Ginger's appetite. "My last litter of fosters took a while to get used to dry food."