Finding His Redemption Page 6

  * * *

  West

  “So, we’re gonna like, just start? I don’t get a list of questions ahead of time or something?” I ask, shifting nervously on the rehearsal room couch.

  Maxi rolls her eyes. Cute.

  “That wouldn’t be very spontaneous,” she points out, twisting around to shuffle in her bag.

  “Yeah, that’s kinda the idea,” I mumble.

  “What was that?” she asks, whipping back around.

  “Nothing.” I smirk and shove my hands in my pockets. We haven’t even started apology number one and I’m already over it.

  Carter and one of his minions walk in hauling yet another load of camera and lighting equipment. They go back to adjusting the setup pointed at the couch.

  “Do I at least get to know who’s up first?” I poke.

  Maxi finally emerges from her giant bag holding a moleskin notebook and pen.

  “You are,” she says with a sly smile.

  I narrow my eyes at her briefly but remember my resolution to play along. Well, as much as I’m capable of. I have my own internal bet on when I’m going to hit my limit, but that’s neither here nor there right now. Maxi wants to play just us? I’m definitely down with that.

  “All right,” I agree. “What do you want to know?”

  Maxi looks back at Carter. “We ready?” He gives her the thumbs up, the makeup chick darts in to powder our faces for the seventeenth time, and then the countdown begins.

  And then we’re rolling.

  Goddamn, I forgot how it feels to be in front of a camera. It’s like the first time you stick your hand down a girl’s panties. You feel like you have no idea what you’re doing, but you’re excited. And one wrong move and your night is toast.

  “So, West, with this interview, you’ve officially begun your apology tour. How are you feeling right now?”

  I wasn’t expecting her to dive in like that, and I gotta admit it throws me a little. It begins indeed. I do not, thankfully, spit out what was just going through my head. At least I have that much presence of mind.

  “Gotta say, Maxi, I’m nervous,” I reply with a grin that’s contrary to the truth I spoke. But the way her mouth tightens when I call her Maxi makes me smile wider. Maybe this will be fun after all.

  “I don’t blame you. You’re about to apologize to your bandmates, new and original.” She pauses, presumably for effect. “Who are you most nervous to apologize to today?”

  I take a deep breath and puff it out. Also for effect.

  “I think you all probably know,” I reply, donning a humble look for the camera. “While all my bandmates deserve an apology, no one deserves one more than Ward.”

  “You and Ward Pierce have been friends for a long time. But then, the same could be said of James Kennedy, couldn’t it?”

  I dip my head in agreement. “Yes. We’re all like brothers. But James was smart enough to stay away from the temptations that came with the gig. Ward was always right there next to me, yet somehow stayed on the right side of the line.” I chuckle dryly. “Well, the less worse side of the line.”

  “Not your side of the line, you mean?” Maxi asks, looking from me to the camera.

  The question makes me feel more defensive than I know I have any right to.

  “The non-addict side of the line.”

  Maxi has no cute retort for that. They never do when you drop the A-bomb.

  “Anyway,” I continue as if it’s no big deal — even though it’s a very big fucking deal — “because he was closer to it all, he suffered more of the consequences of my behavior than James did.” Not that they didn’t both suffer. We all did.

  “Ah, like the time you both got arrested after the Vegas concert in 2017?”

  Just the mention of that night has my eyes dropping in embarrassment. And the booze-deprived monster deep within wakes up. I’m not sure if it’s the mention of that epically embarrassing night, or because of the nerves that expand beyond my ability to rein them in. My finger finds my knee, drawing soothing circles. Calming it back to sleep.

  “Yes, like that,” I agree, looking back up and holding Maxi’s curious gaze.

  She swallows hard, and I know she gets how low of a blow that question was. But then, that’s what this whole charade is about, right? A bunch of low blows I’m expected to take because I had a problem I couldn’t handle on my own, borne of equal parts my own bullshit and the temptations I couldn’t avoid.

  “I see. It sounds like he’s definitely the most deserving of an apology.” She pauses. “I guess we’d better get started then,” she replies blithely.

  As if on cue — wait, of course it was a cue — Ward walks through the door and around Maxi to sit next to me on the couch. Exactly how we’ve sat so many times recently, Ward as ever acting as my moral compass, reality check, and shoulder to whine on all in one. Because I don’t cry on anyone’s shoulder, least of all Ward’s. In front of the TV, watching Moana? Like a little girl. But never in front of Ward.

  And yet, for some reason, as he sits down, smiling in that reassuring way he does, I feel tears prick the back of my eyes. Fuck.

  Happy thoughts. Rosie. Guitar Center. Tits.

  There, that did it. Tears gone.

  “Hey, man,” he greets me with a grin.

  I reach out and we fist bump. “’Sup, dude.”

  We both laugh and I look back at Maxi, who begins asking Ward a bunch of dumbass questions about when we met, moments that “defined our friendship,” and a bunch of other touchy-feely bullshit. None of his answers are unexpected, but then before I’m ready, Maxi turns to me.

  “So, you guys have been through thick and thin, and here you are now,” she sums up. “West, do you have anything you’d like to say to Ward?” She cocks an eyebrow, clearly signaling me to do my thing.

  Well, all right then. I take a deep breath and turn to Ward.

  “You don’t have to say it,” Ward offers, his smile slipping to the side.

  “Oh, I’m gonna say the shit out of,” I assure him. I look back at Maxi again. “Can I say shit on TV?” I look at the camera. “Probably not. I probably shouldn’t say fuck either then, right?”

  Maxi face-palms. “We’ll edit it later,” she mumbles.

  “Just keep going,” Carter says from behind the camera.

  I turn back to Ward and my smile hitches. “I’m sorry, Ward.” The words feel better than I thought. And suddenly they start pouring out. “I’m sorry I’ve never said I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the times you had to follow my drunk, stoned ass around trying to keep me from epically fucking up.” I glance up at the camera. Pretty sure that was two things I shouldn’t say on TV. Oops. I give a mildly apologetic look before turning back. “But most of all I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t strong enough to —”

  “You had me at ’sup dude,” he says jokingly. But I know what he means. I’m already forgiven.

  There are those damn tears again. I blink hard and nobody is more shocked than me when I practically tackle Ward in a hug. A bro hug, of course. I pat him on the back and pull away as soon as I realize what I’m doing.

  I look over at Maxi, and she’s looking at me like I just kicked her puppy.

  “Carter, can we pause or cut or whatever?” she asks.

  Carter, now seated to the left of the camera, looks up from behind his computer and nods.

  Maxi turns back, her eyes narrowed sharply. “That was too easy.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “I’m … sorry?” I reply. I didn’t even mean to mock her. It’s just a gift.

  She rolls her eyes. “Come on, West. If we’re going to do this, you actually have to do it. None of this over-the-top fake apologizing stuff.” She turns to Ward. “Did you guys practice this, or do you just naturally BS for the camera?”

  Ward stares back impassively. “Define ‘practice,’” he replies slowly.

  Maxi throws her hands up and makes a disgusted noise. It’s too fucking funny watching her lose
her shit, but I also don’t want to be here all damn day.

  “Keep your panties on, we didn’t practice. That was all classic West and Ward,” I assure her.

  “Really? Because it sounded extremely rehearsed. On your end at least.” Her eyes flick back to Ward. “And ‘you had me at ’sup dude’? Really?”

  Ward finally cracks a grin. “I thought it was funny.”

  I thought it was funny too, but I don’t say that out loud. Instead I hold up a fist and he bumps his against mine.

  “So not taking things seriously is going to be a theme here,” Maxi grumbles. “All right then. I take it back. If this is authentic, then I guess that’s what we’ve got to work with.”

  “As authentic as J. Lo’s booty,” I assure her.

  “Or Tyra Banks’ tits,” Ward offers.

  “Can we stop talking about famous women’s body parts, please?” Maxi begs, clearly sorry she ever stopped to question us.

  I don’t even try to contain the smirk because I know how much it gets under her skin. And sure enough, her eyes angrily dart to my mouth.

  “Are we ready then?” Carter asks dryly, causing all of our heads to turn toward him.

  He’s so quiet I’d kinda forgotten he was there.

  “Let’s do this. Rest of the band, then?” I prompt.

  Carter nods and whirls a finger high in the air.

  One of his assistants counts us down and we’re back to business.

  “And just like that, all’s forgiven,” Maxi says sweetly, tipping her head to the side. Then her eyes go comically wide. “Oh, but what about the rest of the band?”

  Another cue, clearly, as James, Nik, and Michael file in.

  A couple of assistants pop into the room, adding chairs for Nik and Michael as James sits on my other side on the couch.

  The process repeats on a much lower-key level, with each member of the band talking about our history, me offering a token apology, and them accepting.

  Then Carter has each individual band member sit on the couch alone and talk to Maxi about how they feel about me, where the band’s at, and our future. Again, nothing surprising. Or rather, the only surprise is how nobody seems to have anything really bad to say about me. Disappointments here and there, sure, but nothing as bad as stuff I’ve thought about myself in my own head. Or about what they must have thought at some point. So, either they’re playing nice for the cameras or they really are just that awesome.

  As cynical as I can be sometimes, I kind of hope it’s the latter.

  In any case, this was meant to be the easy one. Because it’s only going to get harder from here.

  Finally, what feels like hours later, they have us “rehearse” while they take some filler footage, and then we’re done.

  As I’m packing away Rosie, Maxi approaches me.

  “What are you still doing here?” I ask, zipping up the gig bag.

  “They wanted me for some additional post footage,” she grumbles.

  “Aww, so you didn’t get to hear us rehearse? Bet you’re really sorry you missed that,” I tease.

  “Oh I caught the end of it,” she assures me. “It’s not like I haven’t heard you play before.”

  “Ah, but up close and personal is different.”

  “I’ve heard you play up close and personal,” she retorts, hands flying to her hips.

  “Oh really? When was that?” I ask, actually curious.

  “A long time ago,” she says, her expression abruptly closing down. “Anyway. Carter asked me to remind you to not prepare for talking to your brother. They want it as —”

  “Spontaneous as possible, I know, Christ,” I swear. “Any idea when that little party’s going to happen, or do I just get called in morning-of like today?”

  Maxi shrugs. “Next week sometime. We’ll all have to get there at the same time, so I imagine there will be a bit of a heads up.”

  I suppress a sigh, unwilling to show any emotion around this woman. She’d probably eat me alive at the first sign of weakness. Normally I’m fine flying by the seat of my pants. But this … this is like waiting for a bunch of surprise ass-whoopings. As if I didn’t already have enough anxiety on a daily basis.

  Maxi watches me curiously as I process.

  “Stop shrinking me right now,” I tell her.

  She blushes bright red. “You just looked, I dunno, upset. I wasn’t ‘shrinking’ you. But …”

  “What?” I press.

  One of her shoulders lifts. “As much as this is the last thing I want to be doing, I know it’s probably the same for you. Harder, even. I know you’re getting the worse end of the deal here, so I’m trying make this go as smoothly as possible, and that includes making sure you’re okay.”

  I scoff. “Even though you hate me?”

  She returns my scoff with interest. “I don’t hate you. That would require feeling something for you. And that’s not a road I ever plan to travel down again.”

  Oh, well, now she’s got my attention. “You saying you used to feel something for me, Maxi?” I ask with a sly grin, leaning toward her. Joke’s on me, though, because she smells like lilacs and rain. Damn.

  She stiffens at my proximity. “I was young and stupid. You can’t possibly hold that against me.”

  I immediately think to myself, I’ve got plenty of things I’d like to hold against you. And then I internally bitch-slap myself. What the hell, West?

  “I don’t,” I reply abruptly. “And you don’t need to feel for me. I’m fine.” And with that, I haul Rosie off the table and get the fuck out of there. Away from everything that conversation stirred. Revulsion at being pitied. Attraction toward someone who has made my life into this hell. My own anxieties.

  I spend the whole drive home thinking about all those things and more. But as I fall asleep that night, it’s just Maxi on my mind, and I want to kick my own ass.

  I don’t get off on chasing girls who don’t want to “feel something for me.” I like my women willing and into it.

  So why can’t I stop thinking about Maxi Marshall?

  10

  Swallow My Pride by The Ramones

  * * *

  Max

  Almost a full week goes by before the next stop on the tour. I stand in the parking lot of the location just north of Corona, hands on hips, while Carter and his crew scramble around between two vans and the building, getting everything set up.

  “So, what genius picked a bowling alley?” I ask Alexsis with more than a hint of sarcasm in my tone.

  She laughs. “That would be Erik Westberg, West’s older brother.”

  I look at her in surprise. “Really? Because this seems like something Ford would insist on. You know, to make West look like just a normal kind of guy.”

  Alexsis purses her lips. “You said that like you think Ford is —”

  “A little full of himself? Yes, yes I do think that.”

  “He’s actually a really nice guy,” she returns with a frown.

  “Oh really?” I ask with interest. “And how do we know this?” Though I’m pretty sure I know.

  She grins, twirling a lock of blond hair around a finger. “Because he may have taken me to dinner last weekend.”

  I slap her playfully on the shoulder. “And you didn’t tell me this until now?” I gasp accusingly. “For shame, Alexsis, for shame.”

  “I didn’t know if it was okay, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer,” she admits.

  I smile, remembering the elated feeling that comes with the start of something new. Not that I’ve felt it in a long time. But it’s hard to contain, equal parts hope and delicious tension.

  But before I can ask for more details, a car with tinted windows rolls up. “Yeah, well, you may want to hold on to the rest until later. Looks like Ford’s least biggest fan just arrived.”

  And proving my point, West climbs out of the back. His hair looks damp and instead of his usual plain-black tee, he’s wearing a Ramones T-shirt. Black, of course, with the band na
me and logo on it.

  “The entertainment has arrived,” he says grandly, stretching his arms out. Then he looks up and frowns. He catches my eye and points at the building. “Maxi, what the fuck are we doing at a bowling alley?”

  I can’t help it, his confused, indignant tone makes me burst out laughing.

  “Hope you brought your bowling shoes,” I tease, pulling Alexsis toward the building.

  West trails behind us, his long legs quickly eating up the ground between us. “No, seriously, are we really doing this here?” he asks.

  “Apparently,” I confirm.

  And to my surprise, West laughs. “Erik.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I just look at him, waiting for an explanation. But he doesn’t provide one, following us into the building.

  As we approach the desk, I can see Carter and crew setting up at one of the lanes. Oh boy. We’re really doing this.

  “I hope nobody expects me to bowl,” Alexsis pipes up.

  I huff a laugh. “Don’t worry, I think West gets that honor.”

  West smirks at us both. “Yes, well, let’s get this show on the road then, shall we?”

  “Your brother’s not here yet,” I return. “At least, not as far as I know.”

  “Perfect,” West says, rubbing his hands together. “That’ll give me time to warm up. Do we have the place to ourselves?”

  I give him a bewildered look. Does he really bowl? He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

  “Um. Yes. I think we do,” I respond, still completely baffled by this turn of events.

  “Excellent,” he hums, turning toward the desk and engaging the attendant to get his shoes.

  “Alexsis,” I mumble.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are we really about to watch Kristoffer Westberg bowl?”

  “Weird, right?” she replies. I glance over at her, and she’s looking at West with the exact expression I feel right now. It’s just too unreal.

  “I have to admit,” I say slowly. “I’ve interviewed a lot of musicians. But I’ve never done an interview while they’re bowling. I have no clue how we’re going to pull this off.”