It often seems as if everyone in my world revolves around Alan, even me, for as long as I can remember. And what is most infuriating about that is that he seems to hold us all emotionally hostage without effort, awareness or want.

It takes me a minute to decide, and Bobby just sits there waiting for me. With an aggravated sigh, I unbuckle and climb from the driver’s seat. Whatever there is in there, it can’t be worse than any of the other shit I deal with on a daily basis, and a part of me is curious about the Rowans since Bobby is such a difficult-to-read sort of guy.

Difficult.

Intriguing.

Definitely hot body.

I don’t need to complicate my messed-up life with him.

What the fuck am I doing here?

 

 

CHAPTER 3

My mouth drops.

I stand inside the main foyer and stare in disbelief. Fuck, I don’t know what I expected to find here, but it wasn’t this.

The inside of the house stirs instant reaction, like what you’d have if too much sensory simulation is forced on you all at once. I’ve grown up in modest affluence, and though I do know that our family has money, that we are privileged, somehow Jesse and Chrissie always made a point to live conservatively that way.

Chrissie believes in not ruining children with money, a philosophy that started the last generation with Grandpa Jack and his earthy, very humbly chic existence in Santa Barbara.

I’ve certainly watched enough episodes of Real Housewives of Orange County that I shouldn’t be surprised by anything found in an affluent Southern California neighborhood. But this house demands reaction.

I’ve never seen anything like this.

I shift my gaze to look out through the line of tall windows at the back of the house with its stunning view of the Pacific Ocean, and can’t help but think that as breathtaking as the location is, the house is just plain obscene. There is something absolutely creepy about the incredible amount of memorabilia strategically scattered across the walls from floor to ceiling. Pictures, gold and platinum albums, guitars in cases: they are everywhere. It’s like the fucking Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame in here.

But with only one inductee: Alan Manzone and the members of Blackpoll.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Bobby says. “Linda considers herself the official biographer of the band, keeper of the history, and takes that role too seriously.”

I stare at my left hand. Somehow Bobby caught it in his without my realizing it. He looks uncomfortable. Embarrassed. And something else I’m not sure of. I decide to skip over his remarks and be generous about this.

I smile. “Your mom loves your dad. I think it’s all kind of sweet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Bullshit. It’s vulgar and you know it.”

I shake my head. “Impressive, but not vulgar. And definitely sweet.”

I start to study the pictures on the walls. There are almost as many of Alan here as there are of the Rowans. Well, they do have a long history with him, just like Chrissie does, evidenced on the walls with the number of personal moments caught on film here.

Most of the pictures I’ve never seen before. They are private photos. Family photos. I don’t know how I know that. I just do.

I am halfway through the entryway when a series of pictures nearly drops me to the floor. Tucked in between the Rowans’ personal moments are personal moments of me that I have never seen before.

Christ, there are pictures of me as a small child, me with Alan, tucked into the history here. I stare at one of us on the beach—I couldn’t be more than four—and the side-by-side still of our faces is an undeniable visual confirmation of what I know to be true: that he is my real dad.

I start to hyperventilate and frantically continue searching the pictures.

“Kaley, what’s wrong?” Bobby asks.

I can’t stop shaking. “I’ve not seen any of this before. Not ever. Even my mom doesn’t have these photos.”

I jerk free of Bobby’s hand.

“What?” says Zoe, concerned and clueless.

I shove my face into hers. “There are photos of me all over these walls. Look. That little girl is me. There are photos of me I’ve never seen before. Me with Alan Manzone. They are everywhere!”

“So?” Zoe asks.

I’m breathing hard and furious now. “Do you know what it’s like to see pieces of your life you know nothing about in a stranger’s house?”

“We’re hardly strangers, Kaley. I was in the room the day you were born,” I hear someone say from behind me. “I consider us family, which is why you and your mother are on my walls there.”

I whirl to see Linda Rowan standing in a doorway, watching me.

“I was wondering how long it would be before you turned up here,” Linda says. “I’m glad to see that my kid isn’t a complete jerk and invited you over. I’ve been trying to catch Chrissie since she moved here in September. What’s up with your mom? Why is she avoiding me?”

I have to count to ten not to scream. I’m in full emotional free fall here and the conversation instantly transgressed to Chrissie.

“Mom is avoiding everyone these days.”

“Grief can do that,” Linda says sadly.

Trapped in upwardly surging fury, I snap, “Grief doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with any of it.”

Linda’s expression tightens.

Oh shit.

I hate that the bitch of the past months has chosen to surface now because Linda caught more than I wanted to tell with that remark and it shows clearly on her face.

“Aha.” Linda lifts her dark brows. “Don’t think you’re getting away without explaining that to me.”

She puts an arm around me and guides me to a large family room in the back of the house.

“Christ, Mom,” Bobby says. “Can you give her a chance to get through the door before you start the third degree?”

“Put a lid on it, Bobby,” Linda warns. “The girl looks upset.”

She motions me to sit.

“I’m not upset at all,” I state stiffly.

“Aha,” Linda says again in a strangely challenging and knowing way.

I shift my gaze and stare out the window. I should get the fuck out of here. Right now. This is not going to be good. Not for my mother. No way.

The afternoon has diverged so wildly from what I expected today that I can’t seem to catch my footing with each new shift. And somehow I’ve brought myself here, with Linda Rowan staring at me, clearly far more perceptive than her appearance suggests. She has a way of studying someone that looks uncomfortably like Dr. Phil, as if she is constantly analyzing those around her and trying to resolve a plan to fix them.

My temper spikes up again. I don’t need fixing and I won’t be the object of someone’s new pet project.

I stand up. “I really should go.”

“Like hell you’re going. What’s wrong with your mother?” Linda asks.

Not Chrissie again! “Not a fucking thing.”

Linda stares at me, dark eyes amused and not the least bit intimidated by me.

“So you think you can get me to back off with that burning black stare, do you? Sorry to disappoint you, love. I’ve been friends with the original, Alan Manzone, for thirty years. Consider me wrapped in a fireproof suit. Sit down.”

The barked order makes me flush and obey.

It is more than how intimidating Linda is or in being transparent to this woman; it is her knowing matter-of-factness about everything that puts me in check. Matter-of-factness is in fact intimidating.

Linda leans back in her chair.

“OK,” she says with a satisfied smile. She looks at Bobby and Zoe hovering in the background. “I want the two of you out of here.”

“There’s nothing she’s going to tell you that I don’t already know,” Bobby says.

He sinks protectively onto the arm of my chair. The gesture both amuses and annoys me.