Key Change (paperback)

Before Hannah was a 9-5 working, dinner making, homebody, she was Ashton James: a paparazzi-stalked pop star with more enemies than friends.

These days she has one priority: keeping her sister safe and away from the public eye.

Hannah was doing a great job, until the pesky little brother of an ex-fling discovers where she is, and wants her help launching his career.

Now she has to trust Johnny—whom she betrayed in more ways than one—to protect her whereabouts. Johnny may have an infuriating moral compass and the timing of a storybook hero, but is he immune to the temptation of revenge?

Johnny’s focus has always been his music business, and a bad influence like Hannah is the last thing he needs at work, or around his brother.

But some things are too powerful to be stopped. For someone like Hannah, second chances—in life and in true love—don’t exist. She didn’t think so, at least.

Johnny is about to prove her wrong, and being wrong has never felt so right.

'Key Change' is a full-length contemporary romance, can be read as a standalone, and is book #3 in the Common Threads series, Seduction in the City World, Penny Reid Book Universe

Prologue

ASHTON JAMES BARES ALL AT NMA
“It’s all fun and games until your tits come out—then it’s a party!” Ashton James was quoted as saying on the red carpet just hours before she had to be removed from the evening’s activities by local police.
Party indeed.
Backstage video has surfaced of the pop music bad girl’s bizarre altercation at the National Music Awards over the weekend.
CelebX originally broke the story that Ashton James, stripped naked and threw punches backstage before having to be escorted out by police.
Ashton James, known for her outspoken and abrasive personality, had been nominated for three awards that evening, including album of the year. She was slotted to perform during the show but sources reported that she never showed up for rehearsals and her set was scrapped.
Witnesses claim to have seen her arguing backstage with her longtime manager, Terrence Shields, right before she announced the winner of Best New Artist (Zara Lorna).
When Album of the Year was presented to Michelle Keith, a clearly intoxicated Ashton James stormed the stage and physically attacked the album’s producer, Coach Riley. Security intervened, carting Ashton away.
New video provided by an anonymous source shows Ashton backstage arguing with several unnamed persons. The argument quickly escalated when Ashton removed her dress and shoes, and began throwing punches.
Police were called to the venue, but no arrests were made.
Attempts to get a statement from Ashton James’ publicist have gone unanswered. Terrence Shields and the National Music Award Association also declined to comment.

 
Chapter 1

How I Roll

HANNAH

The hardest part about reinvention?
The motherfucking paperwork.
Hannah’s left eye twitched involuntarily. She shoved her glasses to the top of her head and rubbed her face with both hands.
The glasses weren’t prescription. They were large, boldly framed, blue light filter glasses that she only wore for work and in public.
They were absolutely hideous and she loved them.
Most of her wardrobe consisted of blacks, grays and boring.
At first it hadn’t bothered her because boring meant invisible—which was the entire point.
But after a few months she began to incorporate ugly things into her wardrobe daily.
Personal experience and subsequent observation confirmed her theory—ugly was a different kind of invisible.
Taking a deep breath, she reread the text she’d received and stifled the sigh.
It was from a number not saved in her phone, therefore it could only be one of four people. The context of the message narrowed it down to one.
Unknown: two more things popped up this week. Meet me in the usual place at the usual time.
She tapped out her affirmative and slipped the phone back into her bag. She probably wouldn’t get fired if she got caught breaking the rules, but she also didn’t want to attract any extra attention.
Lowering her glasses back onto her face, she unmuted the headset.
The customer was still yelling but Hannah sensed it was coming to a close.
At least she hoped.
“Have you disconnected the surround sound?” Hannah asked when the woman paused to take a breath.
“I already told you!” Ms. Fairbanks shouted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“The surround sound will be connected at the—”
“Repeating yourself isn’t going to do me any favors, you little hot dog. What I really want is to speak to your supervisor!”
Hannah scrunched her nose and silently bared her teeth at the computer monitor. This would be her second supervisor referral this month. One more and she’d get a written reprimand.
“Absolutely. Please hold.”
Hannah pressed the button on her headset, suspending the call.
She hadn’t even had a chance. Ms. Fairbanks had been on hold for thirty-seven minutes before she’d ever gotten to Hannah’s line.
Which meant that she’d had an extra thirty-seven minutes to stew in her distress.
The distress being that her surround sound was fucked up but she thought it was the television. Hannah had tried to talk her through resetting the system but it hadn’t worked. Nine times out of ten it was user error. But the user wanted very badly to yell at someone for it.
Enter Hannah.
For eight hours a day she took calls from people who couldn’t get their shit to work. She’d run through the troubleshooting script so many times she could program televisions in her sleep in four different languages.
But that didn’t mean the person on the other end had to listen to her. Or be nice to her. Or even kind of respect her.
And Hannah was fine with that.
Mostly.
Respect wasn’t something she expected from faceless strangers.
She couldn’t say the same for her coworkers. They always took being bitched at so personally.
Hannah didn’t give a shit.
And she wasn’t paid to give a shit.
Speaking of…
“I have a request for a supervisor,” she spoke into the headset.
Collin swore under his breath before taking the call.
See, Collin did get paid to give a shit. So he was usually pretty pissed off.
Part of her sympathized with him but that’s why he made the big bucks and she made minimum wage.
Hannah glanced up in time to see the time clock hit the fifteen after mark and she logged out.
Some people stayed late. Super late. Trying to hit numbers and reach records that might reward them with a gift card to a sports bar downtown or a plaque with their name on it in the break room. Some were working their way up to middle management so as to leverage the promotion and get hired out of the cesspool that was Superior Electronics Inc.
Not Hannah though.
Nope.
She was more than content working in the customer service call center of the mediocre television manufacturer. They didn’t suck. And she couldn’t really ask for much else.
She’d wanted a job where she could be invisible but productive and leave at the same time every day. It wasn’t food service and she didn’t have to interact with people face-to-face too often. She was paid on time and she could leave work at work instead of it being her entire life.
Though she knew she’d lucked out with her locked in schedule.
She’d heard what her co-workers whispered about her. Having a consistent daytime shift when the others had to rotate, meant they assumed she’d slept with someone at the top somewhere to get what she wanted.
Which, hilarious.
Hannah had no issue being labeled the “office slut” so long as it meant they left her alone and no one tried to be her “friend.”
Though she often wondered what it would be like to sit with her co-workers and swap best and worst call stories, talk about their day, share personal information about their lives…
But it was too risky.
She couldn’t make any close connections for two main reasons. First, she’d have to lie. And no healthy relationship could be established, let alone survive without honesty. Second, telling the truth would be the kind of distraction that could harm Piper.
And protecting Piper was rule number one.
“Hey, Hannah.”
She nodded at TJ as she slid on her generic black coat and buttoned it up to the top.
“Do you have plans for lunch tomorrow? I was thinking of going over to Wylde Pub. Would…” TJ cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. “Would you like to join me?” The question came out like a squeak.
Hannah pulled her knit cap over her head, covering most of her long dark hair, the rest of it tucked inside her coat.
She didn’t know TJ outside of the fact that his cubicle was two down from hers and he sometimes smelled of cigarettes. She suspected he only smoked when nervous because she could smell it now.
Ah, vices.
Everyone had them, no one talked about them.
A person’s private shame.
She could relate.
She slung her bag over her shoulder — not a purse, more of a cross between a messenger bag and a small backpack — and secured it to her person as she contemplated how best to decline his invite.
“I appreciate the offer,” she said quietly with a small half-smile. “Maybe some other time.”
But probably never, she added internally.
“O-oh.” TJ shifted, not sure how to proceed.
Had that been mean?
Hannah replayed her response again. He’d asked a question, she’d answered. She didn’t snort or laugh in his face. She also hadn’t commented on his clothes or hair or posture. In fact, she hadn’t even thought of any insults that had needed to be stifled.
Hey! Growth!
She hadn’t been mean! (Internal high-five!)
But rejection was awkward. That’s probably what he was feeling and why he couldn’t meet her eyes anymore.
Was that unprompted empathy for a stranger she was experiencing?
Whoa. Big day for Hannah.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, trying to soften the moment and also end the conversation for both their sakes.
TJ nodded, the tips of his ears turning red.
Man, that sucked.
For him.
That had actually been kind of a cool moment for her and what she’d been working on. But TJ was probably feeling the opposite of cool.
Hannah exited the building and the cold, crisp air of an early Chicago winter blasted through her thoughts and had her refocusing to the next part of her day.
Her favorite part of the day.
In the beginning, riding the train to and from work had been…uncomfortable. She’d had to battle huge spikes of anxiety. But she’d pushed through and now her daily train ride was just another part of the routine.
She recognized the usual commuters even though she didn’t interact with them. Not directly.
A smile for the toddler balanced on her mom’s lap; saving the seat for the grumpy man with a WWII emblem on his hat; making room for Napoleon the service dog and his handler.
Small occurrences that she had become accustomed to and had fit into her comfort zone.
Being able to recognize everyone around her added to her sense of security. If ever anyone new showed up, she knew how to avoid direct eye-contact and which stop to get off in case they tried to follow her.
But the likelihood of that happening grew smaller with each month that passed and her life was relatively undisturbed.
She was surrounded by people all of the time. They were in her life in a safe and careful way. But not in a way she might hurt them.
Because she would hurt them.
It was just in her nature.
So, she stuck to the routine.
And the longer she kept the routine, the more space existed in between who she was and who she was becoming.
The routine was the key.
A necessary evil for humans to maintain healthy and balanced lives.
(Even though Hannah had watched several true crime shows that argued it was a set routine that had led to the victim’s grisly murder.)
And where did her routine fall on the spectrum of healthy and balanced?
Good question.
One she asked herself at least once a day.
She was somewhere between life and death.
The ever-important middle space.
The subway lurched through the stop before hers and she moved closer to the exit.
Routine and rhythm had been natural skills she’d been blessed with and had continued to cultivate her entire life.
It had been an invaluable skill in her previous life — the one of which they did not speak.
And now it kept her on track.
Kept her clean.
Well…clean-ish.
She doubted she’d ever be truly clean.
But clean enough would work just as well.
When the subway stopped again, she was already at the door. Then she was on the platform and moving with the small crowd to the CTA exit where she would continue on her usual route to the sidewalk, and onto her apartment. First thing she’d do when she got home was take off her bra. Then make dinner for her and Piper, do a load of laundry, and shower before bed.
Maybe some meditation before she went to sleep.
Which was so different than it had been a year ago.
Being alone with herself in the beginning had been terrifying.
Too many nights she had ended up just watching anything she could find to keep her mind occupied and keep herself from thinking about all the things.
Running away from reflections and echoes.
But these days there was less running and more rumination.
She kept track of heartbeats, home cooked meals, steps to her door — the first place she’d ever called home.
She tried to keep the things that mattered at the forefront of her mind.
Her determined stride towards the CTA exit was interrupted when a sound hit her ears. She was so startled by the intrusion she stopped short.
A clear tenor voice permeated the din of other buskers and CTA passengers. It was accompanied by an acoustic guitar that picked its way through the melody instead of strumming along, creating two singers out of one.
The person behind her collided with her back and pushed off her to go around without so much as an apology.
But Hannah was too caught off guard by the song to care.
She tilted her head in the direction of the music and moved towards it.
Her stomach clenched with the deviation from the routine, but she had to at least answer one question.
Who would be singing this song?
Her eyes scanned the buskers on the platform, her experienced ear picking through the sounds until she found what it was that had caused her pause.
The busker wasn’t new.
A young man she had passed more times than she could count. Probably in his late teens, maybe early twenties. Brown, glossy hair, square jaw that hadn’t finished revealing its future glory, fingerless gloves, strumming a used but lovingly cared for guitar. His jeans were clean and so was the gray hoody that accompanied his “starving musician” look.
She paused in front of his open guitar case and listened to a song that was more than familiar to her.
Chills raced over her arms and she was glad to be wearing thick layers.
More than just straight covering the song, he’d sped it up a half step and switched the pronouns, putting his own stamp on it.
The song picked up in intensity at the bridge and Hannah smiled to herself because she’d always loved this bridge and she’d never heard it sung with such conviction.
Again. Chills

“Ooh, I’m over my head
Trying to be clever,
My heart is underfed
Because my love doesn’t matter.
And you say that you need me
But you’re giving hope to things that can never be…

If I kiss you with my eyes closed tight
I know our bed won’t be cold tonight,
I always get lost in your lips,
And my world, my heart
Is yours to twist

It was a song she hadn’t heard in a long time. One she’d recorded on her first album.
Shit, it felt like a million years ago.
One of the rare songs she’d written herself that had been green lighted by the studio.
Also, one of the last times she even tried to put her own work out there.
It had never been an audience favorite.
To be fair, it had a different sound to the rest of her stuff. It was more introspective and deeply personal.
Having it rejected en masse had been enough to teach Hannah that her heart wouldn’t get her what she wanted.
But her ambition would.
And it did.
Her ambition also got her herpes.
But that was another thing entirely.
The song finished and the busker fluttered his overly thick eyelashes at her with a small smirk.
Now was the part where she would slip a few dollars into the guitar case.
And she would.
In a second.
“Interesting song choice,” Hannah remarked flatly.
The young man’s eyes sharpened on her and the skin around his mouth tightened as he looked her over.
She wasn’t worried about being recognized.
It hadn’t happened in ages and she had done a fairly decent job at changing her trademark “look.” The fact that she was mostly covered, even wearing glasses when she didn’t need them, definitely helped her feel bolder.
Though engaging a musician in a conversation about one of her own songs put her at a certain risk and her heart quickened.
Oh boy.
That felt good.
It was a small shot of adrenaline in a body she had been keeping as bored as possible.
A bland routine. A life with no surprises. That’s what she had successfully designed and maintained.
“You know it?” the busker asked with a suspicious tilt of his head.
“A forgettable song on a forgettable album,” she responded.
She wanted to tell him that his rendition was world shifting. That his style and spark were fresh and bright and she could make a phone call and change his life.
But she wasn’t going to do any of those things.
Because more than his life would change.
And Hannah had priorities.
He huffed a harsh laugh and shook his head, his long bangs swinging into his eyes. He pushed them back with one hand. “Disagree.”
He held her eyes unflinching but didn’t expound on his opinion.
Hannah’s lips twisted to the side as she tried to fight the smile creeping into her expression. She dropped a five into his case and pursed her lips.
“Get some better material, kid.” She lifted her chin and walked away.
When she hit the steps, she heard his clear voice singing the song again.
Little shit.
Hannah snorted a laugh and jogged up the steps to the street.
Now she had a story to tell Piper at dinner.
But first she had to hurry to her clandestine meeting before her contact thought something had happened to her and called in reinforcements.

***

The doors to the elevator slid open revealing one Alex Greene.
He had a laptop balanced on one hand while he used the other hand to type and scroll rapidly.
He glanced up through thick eyebrows and even thicker black glasses.
Hannah’s gaze bounced from him to the intimidating man taking up the other corner of the elevator.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted, stepping inside.
Quinn Sullivan pressed the button to close the doors.
The elevator moved smoothly between floors for a few seconds before Quinn hit the emergency stop and the lift came to a halt with a bounce.
This was their chosen office, their meeting place, their secret tree house.
Quinn had an actual office with real security in a high-rise with all the bells and whistles.
But when Hannah had first met with him nearly two years ago, she’d felt overly exposed in the shiny building with all the windows.
He’d compromised and they’d moved their meeting places all around the city until he’d convinced her to move into the building he owned (and also lived in). That’s when the service elevator had been employed as their new office.
It had been Alex’s idea.
Something about the heavy, reinforced steel, and the obscure location making it “safer” than meeting out in the open.
His paranoia was reassuring to Hannah who had been afraid she had been taking it too far.
But nothing compared to how Alex Greene operated in his day-to-day life. And because of that, she knew she could trust him to keep her invisible.
“Two things showed up this week in my search that I thought should be addressed,” Alex started right in without saying hi or even nodding in her direction. Again, another trait she appreciated.
He turned the laptop screen to face her.
“Your name appeared in a writing credit in the Double Blind Study box set scheduled to release next year. So far it’s caused minimal waves in the fan chats. Most people hate you too much to care where you are.”
Hannah shrugged, because, no shit.
And leave it to Luke Casey, her ex and lead singer of the famous rock band, to remind her of a time in her life where she had tried and failed in spectacular fashion.
She knew without Alex telling her what song it was.
She and Luke had written it together, in the early days, before all the fuckery.
“It’s for something called… ‘Somewhat Alive’ and the band has asked you to rerecord your vocals for that.
“Also, for some reason your name was listed as a topic for a behind the scenes episode on a web series that launched last month. The episode has not been given an airdate, but the title is ‘Where Are They Now?’”
“Huh?” she asked.
He turned the laptop back around and clicked rapidly while speaking. “From what I’ve been able to find, it doesn’t seem that they actually know where you are but they’re using your image as clickbait.”
Hannah shook her head in an attempt to straighten out the information that had been fired at her.
Clickbait wasn’t a new tactic. And Alex’s instincts were usually spot-on for things such as this, so she trusted him that it wasn’t anything else.
But the vocals on the DBS track?
“What do you want to do about Double Blind Study thing?” Alex asked without looking up from his screen. “So far the official stance has been that you don’t really do that anymore. I had Sandra pose as Melanie, your personal assistant, in case anyone asks. She told them no, but they’ve continued to send emails and call the dead line.”
The dead line was one of the first things Alex had set up for her. It was exactly what it sounded like: a phone number that went nowhere. That and a vague email address were all that remained of her previous career.
No publicist, no manager, no entourage.
Just her and these two weirdos in an elevator.
Her gaze bounced between Quinn and Alex.
“What if I want to think about it for a minute?” As the words left her mouth she felt rather than saw Alex’s disappointed scowl. He loved to say no to people obsessed with their own self-importance.
Alex stopped typing and leveled her with his intense stare. “What’s there to think about?”
So. Much.
But all that came out was, “It’s complicated.”
Alex’s scowl deepened, and he opened his mouth to say something when Quinn got there first.
“Think about it for a couple of days and get back to us.”
She nodded her thanks and pressed her lips together. If they were waiting for her to open up and share any of those complications, they were going to be in that elevator for a long time.
Quinn must’ve sensed that because he tilted his head slightly and rocked back on his heels. “How’s the job going?”
“Boring. Just like I wanted,” she replied with a smirk.
He studied her with his all-seeing gaze and she fought the urge to look away.
“Maybe you should think about getting a hobby,” he suggested after a beat.
This was Quinn’s way of saying he cared. He got bossy.
Which was honestly adorable.
Add his dangerous good looks and driven personality and Hannah would be all about rearranging some of her current priorities.
But Quinn was happily head over elbows in love with his wife. He was also very protective of her, which was probably why even though they lived in the same building, Hannah had never seen her. Which added to his appeal in a very different way.
“Yeeaahh,” she drew out with a thoughtful squint. “The last time I had a hobby I tried to recreate the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling of my very expensive New York City apartment.”
“I didn’t know you were a painter,” Alex remarked. “How did it turn out?”
“Well since I’m not a painter and just an ambitious alcoholic, not well.”
Alex barked a laugh and quickly silenced himself.
Hannah smirked.
“Alcoholism isn’t a hobby,” Quinn reprimanded coolly.
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I was trying to be funny about it.”
Quinn’s lips twitched and he disengaged the emergency stop. The elevator began moving, bringing their secret rendezvous to a close.
Hannah’s eyes flicked over Alex’s knit cap that adorned his head. She’d seen it before but always failed to ask about it.
“I like your hat,” she said, a strange feeling circling in her chest with the small compliment.
“Thanks. My wife made it for me. She knits.” A slight blush touched Alex’s cheeks.
“Hm,” Hannah remarked as the lift came to a stop at her floor. “Maybe I’ll take up knitting. That’s a safe hobby, right?”

***

“He’s the killer.”
“Who?”
“The building manager.”
“No way.”
Hannah shrugged and shoved a forkful of noodles into her mouth.
It was Stir-Friday. Sesame chicken and Hawaii 5-0.
Another part of the routine.
But truth be told, probably Hannah’s favorite.
It was the one night a week where she didn’t make Piper do her homework and they had “family time.”
How weird was it that Hannah had a set routine let alone a designated “family night?”
Super weird.
Eighteen months ago, she would have never predicted this.
How could she?
But here they were.
She glanced to the end of the couch where the twelve-year-old sat curled up devouring her own bowl of noodles and stir-fry.
Even though the run-in with the busker singing one of her songs had set off a flurry of memories and “what-ifs” throughout the evening, nothing in the world could get Hannah to change what she’d gained all those months ago.
Piper dropped her fork in the bowl with a gasp. She turned her wide eyes on Hannah—striking blue eyes that matched Hannah’s own. “How did you know?”
Hannah chuckled but didn’t reply.
“Whatever. One of these days I’m gonna figure out how you’re cheating, and then we’ll see who the smart one is,” Piper grumbled without any real ire.
“Not cheating. I’m just that good,” Hannah teased with a single shoulder shrug.
Piper sighed and stood up. “Is there more?”
“Yep.” Hannah nodded. “Made extra. Thought you might be hungry tonight.” She watched the pre-teen shuffle into the kitchen of their luxury apartment.
At first, the swanky accommodations had been a source of contention between them.
Piper had been raised in a lower income home and she wasn’t used to high-end living. She had thrown it in Hannah’s face multiple times a day for those first few months.
But Hannah couldn’t risk their security just to make the young girl more comfortable.
It was an unfortunate but expected residue of her previous life.
Still, Hannah compromised in all the places she could. The décor was modest, even minimal. Clothes, shoes, accessories were as middle-class as she dared. Piper had her own mobile phone but it was a basic design. There was only one computer in the home and it was used in a shared living space.
Hannah had learned as much as she could from parenting blogs and books recommended to her by their family therapist.
Was she doing it right?
Probably not.
But she was trying as hard as she could.
And that had to count for something.
She hoped.
She hoped so hard some days she was positive that her hope was the only thing getting her to the next day.
“How was practice today?” Hannah asked.
Piper had decided to join the basketball team at her new school.
Hannah wasn’t a “sports person” but she didn’t try to discourage the younger girl from doing something she was interested in.
“It was okay,” Piper returned to the couch and frowned at the floor as she thought.
Hannah waited, having learned that as soon as Piper sorted through her thoughts, she’d share. But pressuring her often meant Piper second-guessing herself and internalizing too much.
As the only parental figure in Piper’s life, Hannah was bound and determined to be a positive one. Which was why she’d been going to both family counseling and individual therapy for a year. And would continue to go indefinitely.
Because if she failed at this guardian gig, it wasn’t going to be from lack of trying.
She would try the fuck out of it.
With everything she had.
“The other girls don’t seem to like me that much,” Piper finally confessed.
Hannah swallowed, a heavy weight settling in her stomach.
Her first instinct was to ask her if she wanted her to “fuck ‘em up.”
But that probably wasn’t good advice for anyone and especially not a seventh-grader.
But most especially, not Piper.
Piper was good and clean and pure and nothing like her older sister.
They shared nearly identical facial features—same dark, nearly black hair, pouty lips, high cheekbones, severe blue eyes, thick eyelashes, perpetually sun-kissed cheeks. But where Hannah’s body was that of a fully formed (and enhanced) woman, Piper was gangly and flat-chested—puberty having decided to wait a little while.
More than likely due to the emotional stress of the past couple of years.
Which was another contributing factor to Hannah’s determination to make Piper’s life as secure and stable as possible.
Still, Piper was a gorgeous girl.
And being pretty in middle school had its drawbacks.
Especially when it was paired with a sweetness like Piper’s.
Misplaced jealousy could make girls be horrible. And Hannah knew that from experience.
But not from Piper’s side, from the horrible side.
Hannah wasn’t sure what to say in this situation. Then Piper turned those blue eyes on her, wide and worried.
“I just wish I could make a friend, you know? Just one.”
Hannah bit her bottom lip and quickly set her bowl aside. She opened her arms to the younger girl and Piper crawled across the couch to settle against her big sister. She curled into Hannah’s side and fixed her eyes on the television and continued to eat her dinner.
Hannah wrapped one arm around Piper and stroked her dark hair back as she pressed her lips to Piper’s temple.
“Oh, beautiful girl,” Hannah murmured. “I wish that for you too.”
Piper deserved a happy life with beauty and good friends.
She didn’t deserve Hannah Lee James, formerly Ashton James, as a guardian.
But here they were.

***

JOHNNY

“You’re late.”
The front door closed with a slam.
“I know,” Shawn sighed. “It was a choice.”
Johnny Enamorado Torres smirked at his little brother’s reply and flipped the pancake.
Perfect.
Just like the last two.
“Pancakes for dinner?” Shawn questioned as he removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch. “Is this one of those things I’m not supposed to tell Mrs. Grayson?”
“Tell her whatever you like,” Johnny replied. “But if she takes you away from me, there won’t be any studio time in your future.”
Not that it mattered. The seventeen-year-old would be eighteen in less than a month. So Mrs. Grayson could suck it at this point.
But still, just the mention of their assigned social worker had his stomach trying to tie itself in knots.
Mrs. Grayson was a decent enough person. But she represented a system that hadn’t exactly made their family life easy.
Johnny was looking forward to putting that part of their lives firmly behind them.
The silence that followed his statement had him looking over his shoulder to see if Shawn had heard him.
The younger man stood with his mouth agape, arms lax at his sides.
Yeah, he’d heard him.
“You got it? It’s finalized?” Shawn finally asked. “All the papers have been signed?”
Johnny took a deep breath, feeling the pressure of pride and terror in his chest, pushed it aside and kept his voice steady.
“Why do you think we’re having pancakes — oof!”
He was slammed in the back with Shawn’s hug.
Johnny closed his eyes as his lips curved into a smile. Hugs from this kid had always hit him much deeper. All the way into his heart, a part of him he only felt when Shawn was involved. His soul maybe?
It was warm and huge and powerful.
And it made Johnny feel blessed.
Not #blessed.
But as if a power higher and greater than any in this world had looked at him for a moment and he’d found favor.
He cleared the emotion from his throat. “Set the table for me, would ya?”
Shawn chuckled and let him go, moving towards the dishwasher. He began unloading the dishes they’d need to eat.
There were only a few things that Johnny had decided were important when Shawn had come to live with him thirteen years ago.
One of them was eating on real plates.
When Johnny had been a bachelor and didn’t have to share his space with anyone, he’d had no issue with using paper plates (if anything at all). But becoming a guardian had changed his view on some things.
Kids needed stability.
And paper plates were the antithesis of stability — especially the kind Johnny used to buy in bulk. They had basically been glorified napkins.
So he’d bought a set of used Fiestaware at a Goodwill. They were orange. And they’d lasted more than a decade. Four dinner plates, four lunch plates, four bowls. Though two of those never left the cupboard. They washed their dishes every night and just took them from the dishwasher as they needed them, returning them at night and running the machine at bedtime.
“I was right, by the way,” Shawn said, setting the plates on the small folding table they used as their place to eat.
Johnny had never bothered with tablecloths or anything and the table had been covered in some type of lacquer to make it shiny and hard. The table he’d found in a garage when he’d been helping a friend move. It was going to go to the dump until Johnny decided it could be useful. For a year it had been a desk for his recording tech.
And then Shawn came and Johnny decided they’d be eating dinner as a family every night at a table — not in front of the TV— so they would have to look at each other.
Conversation had been difficult in the beginning. For Johnny. His thoughts had been distracted and he’d had to deliberately focus on conversing with the youngster.
But given enough time and shared meals, they found an easy rhythm. Johnny had always known it was Shawn’s sweet disposition that helped them reach that place sooner.
Of all the hand he could have been dealt in his life, ending up with Shawn was the greatest blessing of his life.
“What were you right about?” Johnny asked, wondering which bet he’d lost this time.
“It’s her. It’s totally her. She looks different but not much. I mean, she’s the kind of chick that stands out in a crowd anyway but —”
“Woman,” Johnny corrected. “We don’t say chicks.”
Shawn muttered under his breath, adding silverware to the table. “Fine. Whatever. Woman then. But it was her.” He crossed his arms over his chest and faced Johnny. “Which means you owe me fifty dollars.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Johnny waved a hand in the air as he tried to catch up to what Shawn was saying. “Who are we talking about? And I owe you what now?”
Shawn’s mouth flattened along with his expression. “Ha ha,” he said, not sounding amused in the least. “Don’t try to get out of this one. You know how long it took me to learn that damn song.”
Johnny studied Shawn’s serious expression and debated how to address the current update to their reoccurring argument.
“Did you speak to her?” he asked carefully.
“Yes,” Shawn answered smugly. “I played her song and she came right over to me.” He dug in his pocket and produced a five-dollar bill. “Gave me this.”
Johnny’s gaze flicked to the bill and back to the determined glint in Shawn’s eyes. “That’s hardly conclusive evidence. Did she say it was her song?”
A crack in Shawn’s conviction showed for a moment as he swallowed and dropped his eyes to the floor. “Not exactly.”
“Hm,” Johnny said and returned his attention to the last pancake on the skillet.
“But it was her. That’s a face you can’t fake.”
Except for the fact that most of her face was actually fake.
But Johnny didn’t point that out.
This time.
“Ashton James does not ride the Pink Line on a regular basis,” he said instead.
“Yes, she does.” Shawn opened the refrigerator and his voice muffled slightly as he ducked his head inside. “Every day at 5:35 she gets off at Washington and Wabash and heads east.
“Slow down, stalker, I don’t have bail money this week. I emptied the savings. Or maybe you forgot.”
Shawn sighed in exasperation. “I didn’t forget. But I don’t think it’s coincidence that the same day everything becomes final at the studio, I have a conversation with the Ashton James. I feel like it’s… what’s the word? Kismet!”
Johnny set the plate of stacked pancakes on the table and pulled out his customary seat.
“A conversation? What did she say?”
Shawn shrugged and sat down, reaching for the pancake pile immediately.
The appetite on this kid.
It was a miracle Johnny had managed to save enough money at all.
“She said it was a forgettable song on a forgettable album and told me to get some better material.”
Johnny paused, holding the syrup aloft as he blinked at Shawn.
Shawn shoved a half of a pancake into his mouth and smiled boldly at Johnny, as if he could read his thoughts before snatching the syrup out of his hand.
While Johnny wasn’t convinced Shawn had discovered Ashton James’ whereabouts, something about those words rang true.
Though Shawn knew the story of the time Johnny had known the famous songstress and he could be lying just to make a point.
Johnny narrowed his eyes at the beaming younger man.
No.
They’d been doing this long enough for Johnny to pick out the tell-tale signs of deceit.
Still, he wasn’t exactly ready to hop on board Shawn’s crazy train.
Besides, even if it were Ashton James, all nonsensicalness aside, did Johnny really want Shawn to be influenced by her?
He literally couldn’t have a bigger nope.
“Come with me on Monday. You’ll see for yourself.”
Johnny rolled his eyes. “Not tomorrow?”
“No.” Shawn suddenly sounded defeated. He rolled his eyes. “Tomorrow is the first day of my mandatory concession stand service, remember?”
Johnny groaned.
Every year the school somehow managed to not only get an obscene amount of money from him for tuition, but also get them to work for free on their weekend for a quarter.
It was compulsory labor is what it was, and he was fairly certain that they were violating at least a dozen child labor laws but he didn’t have it in him to fight this one.
He’d learned a long time ago how to pick his battles.
Freedom from making popcorn on the weekends wasn’t one.
“Right. So we have…that to look forward to.”
Shawn grinned, knowing how uncomfortable it made Johnny.
“Maybe you’ll finally find a girlfriend,” he teased.
“I have no interest in those women,” Johnny grumbled. “Besides, Sarahi would start an actual riot if I dated someone she didn’t approve of. Remember when she saw me out to dinner with Grace Limoges?”
Shawn barked a laugh at the memory.
Johnny shook his head and whistled under his breath. “I still can’t go back to La Familia.”
“Speaking of, let’s get La Morena on Sunday. Is Nikki gonna be there?”
Johnny heard the slight inflection in Shawn’s voice when he’d said Nikki’s name.
“She has the weekend off.”
“Cool.” Shawn nodded and folded another entire pancake into his mouth.
“But Sunday is a good plan. Bring your stuff and we’ll record as much as we can.”
The rest of the meal Shawn chattered on and on about what he wanted to record first and what kind of techniques he wanted to play with. Owning the studio and making their own music had been a shared dream between the two of them for a very long time.
But they’d both refused to celebrate or dream out loud until the final paperwork had been done. Mostly due to them both having experienced heartbreak at the last second.
Sometimes dreams fell through.
After the dishes were done and they’d watched a movie, Shawn went to bed.
Johnny waited until the light under the bedroom door went out, then he waited another thirty minutes.
Making his way to his bedroom, he softly closed the door behind him.
Taking out the laptop he went straight to Google and searched for Ashton James.
It was a hopeless quest.
Like so many times before, there was no information on her current whereabouts. Not that she was a missing person, but she had seemingly dropped off the grid.
Her last public outing had been an awards show two years ago where she’d shown up drunk and thrown a drama with her titties out.
That was it.
Everything that came after that was speculation and rumor.
Some said she’d gone to rehab, some claimed she’d died and was being replaced by a look-a-like, others said she never existed at all and we were all pawns in a cosmic practical joke.
That was enough of that. No more Tumblr.
Johnny closed the laptop and set it aside.
He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
All he’d been was a session musician on her first album. He’d done his job and gotten paid. He shouldn’t have any lingering thoughts about her at all.
Except that he had.
He lingered.
Every moment with her was burned into his mind.
Knowing her was an experience he’d never gotten over for all the wrong reasons.
He knew one thing, if Ashton James was living and thriving in Chicago, he would do anything in his power to keep her away from Shawn.