Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (3 page)

“Gee whiz.” Mary laughed. “You haven’t even been married a year yet.”

“You know Karen. She’s been ready to have babies since day one. And if
she
checks out okay, guess who’s next in line for the doctor?”

“Uh-oh. Now there’s where we may run into a problem.”

“Ha, ha.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Hey, I gotta run. Thanks for talking.”

“Call me anytime, brother. When will we see you?”

“We’re playing Cincinnati, remember?”

“That’s right. I’ll check your website for the dates. We wouldn’t miss it. Neither would the boys!”

“Can’t wait to see those big guys,” he said. “We’ll set you up with passes. Love you. Thanks again.”

“Love you, too. Break a leg, Godspeed, and all that good stuff.”

Everett closed the phone in his hand and leaned on his knees. He was where he was supposed to be, where God wanted him. But was his mind strong enough to stay the course, to be a godly example, not only for the day’s gig, but for life?

It would be a long road. He was well aware that he had blind spots and weaknesses. The serpent on his arm served as a daily reminder of the man he used to be. He wanted never to forget the Everett of old, how he would have gotten high or bolted right about then.

But he wasn’t the same.

He stood and made for the door.

It was time to rock.

Karen was so excited. She’d met two expecting mothers in the plush waiting room at her ob-gyn’s office. One, a petite brunette, was seven months along and let Karen feel her baby kicking and rolling within her hard, round tummy. Karen treasured the notion of someday seeing her and Everett’s baby on the ultrasound monitor. Could she possibly muster the patience to wait for that day?

She smiled as she recalled the last time she and Everett had discussed baby names. It had been fall. They were parked in his convertible at an old-fashioned drive-in hamburger stand. With his penetrating brown eyes and contagious smile, Everett surprised her by bringing up the topic and even introducing several names he’d come up with. The one he suggested for a girl was Joanna, which meant “God’s been gracious.” For a boy, he dug the name Cole, which meant “people of victory.” Karen adored them both. One of her top picks was Vivien—“full of life.”

The brunette said good-bye and Karen was left by herself in the tranquil waiting room, trying to picture her body at seven months pregnant and vowing to purchase the coolest maternity clothes.

She needed to speak to her doctor once more to go over all her results, then get on the road. She checked her watch. Everett’s concert had started, and she desperately wanted to make it, at least for several songs.

Admiring a subtly lit painting of a cabin by a stream, Karen prayed that thousands of people would come to Everett’s show, and that many would begin a relationship with Christ because of it. That had become the passion of Everett’s heart.

When Dr. Margaret Jannell opened the door to the waiting room, Karen was bewildered. Usually an attendant slid open the tinted window that blocked off the reception desk and asked patients to come back.

“Let’s go into my office, Karen.” Dr. Jannell held a blue folder across her chest in one hand, gold-rimmed glasses in the other, and propped the door open for Karen with her tall, slender body. “We’ll have more privacy in there.”

Privacy. What do we need privacy for? Why is she so serious?

The rest unfolded like a bad dream, like a slide show. Passing the enormous crystal-clear aquarium in Dr. Jannell’s office and its colorful assortment of stones and tropical fish. Being escorted to the soft, maroon leather chair next to the tinted windows that overlooked the busy parking lot. And the doctor’s words, the cursed conversation Karen feared only in the recesses of her mind.

“I’m sorry, Karen.” The blond, middle-aged doctor spoke softly, making direct eye contact. “The infection you had in the womb and Fallopian tubes, back when you had the abortion, has caused tubal infertility—”

“He said it was nothing!” Karen bolted to the edge of her seat. “The doctor said it would heal and I’d be fine. I am fine!”

This was a nightmare, right? It had to be.

Wake me…please.

“Karen, you’re right. Pelvic inflammatory disease, when treated properly, almost always goes away, especially in young ladies like you were—”

“He assured me!” She gasped. “The doctor promised me I could have babies.”

“No one should make that kind of promise. There are adhesions in your Fallopian tubes. The tubes are shut, Karen, as if they were mended together. I’m sorry about this. I know how much—”

“We’ve got to do surgery! Can we do that? I don’t care about risk.”

The doctor’s mouth had become a small, horizontal slit.

She shook her head.

And the room spun out of control.

The first placard Everett made out amid the frenzied crowd when he jogged onto the scuffed, black stage at the free concert at Queens Arena read: “Go to hell, Lester.”

A quick pan of the packed thirty-six-hundred-seat auditorium revealed more of the same. A skull and crossbones. Clenched fists. Beer cans flying. Angry faces screaming obscenities. Nazi swastikas. And dozens of revelers pushing with all their might to bulldoze the gate in front of the stage.

“Hey!” Everett’s booming voice pierced the room like a fog horn blaring on a battleship. If there was one thing this Cleveland boy knew how to do, it was take command of an audience.

“I don’t know why you came here tonight.
You
may not know.” His own words were all he could hear as they rolled off the stage with the mist from the dry ice machine. “But I’ll tell you what—we’re glad you’re here.
Let’s rock!”

Drumsticks clashed, flash-pods exploded, purple and yellow lights flooded the stage, electric guitars blazed, and Everett whirled the microphone stand as if it were a stick on the playground.

Five adrenaline-filled minutes later, Everett flew off the drum kit with his legs curled behind him, perfectly timing the end of the first song with his landing. The second he hit the stage, more explosives detonated, the stage went black, and Everett heard people cheering. A lot of people.

3

WESLEY’S THROAT WAS NUKED
and his nostrils burned raw. But it didn’t matter. He’d take a little pain in exchange for the buzz any day.

Flyin’, baby.

Forgettin’ the messed-up past.

Enjoyin’ the moment, the very
millisecond
he was livin’ in.

No worries about tomorrow, ’cause tomorrow he could be dead—like his brother.

Not goin’ there.

He and Tony Badino had met Brubaker at a flophouse in Fairview earlier in the day, where they smoked some of the new cristy just in from Pennsylvania. Now they were geeking in the Super Wal-Mart.

Tony was probably spellbound somewhere in the automotive department while Wesley was lusting over the Winchesters, Rugers, Weatherbys, and Brownings in sports and recreation. There were bolt-actions and pumps, lever-actions and semiautomatics—and all that lovely ammunition. Wesley had developed an affection for guns since hooking up with Tony—who was constantly buying and selling used firearms.

“Excuse me,” came an unconfident voice from behind, then three taps on the shoulder. Wesley turned and looked up at a tall, shiny-faced man wearing a bright blue vest—one of Wal-Mart’s finest. “Can I help you in some way?”

The guy looked concerned. Or was he annoyed? Curious? Honestly trying to help?
Wait a second
—
he knows I’m lit!

“I don’t need anything.” Wesley turned back to the glass case.

Scopes and choke tubes, magazines and barrels—

“It’s just that…you’ve been here a long time,” came the voice again.

Wesley faced him once more. The man wore a half smile and was tentative, examining Wesley all the way up and all the way down.

“Yeah. No. I just…” Wesley rubbed hard at his blazing nose. “I’m just lookin’. Okay? Is that a crime? There’s not a time limit for browsing, is there?”

Who am I foolin’? This dude knows the symptoms. Everybody knows. I’m a rail. He’s scoping the purple ring under my eye.

“No, that’s fine. You’ve just been standing in this area for, well, it’s been hours now.”

He thinks I lifted something. He’s called security. He’s stalling!

Walk. Just walk.

Walk fast!

Find Badino. Get out.

Wesley began to march, looking back at the man, who was staring, staring, staring.

BAM.

He crashed into a huge crate in the middle of the aisle, full of winter hats and scarves, and a sign that read Three Dollars Each. He peered back at old Blue Vest meandering toward him.

Move. Keep moving. To automotive.

That dude’s gonna call the cops!

Baby stuff. Music. Electronics. Photo department. Shoes and more shoes. Fabrics. Automotive.
Yes
. We got gas treatment and power steering fluid—car mats, wax, accessories—even those cool little air fresheners that hook to the air vents in your car.

There.
Badino. By the stereos, speakers, and fuzz-busters.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Wesley yanked Badino’s arm. “The guy by the guns made me. I think he called the cops!”

Tony fumed at Wesley with his meanest scowl. “You idiot, Lester.” He shook his arm free, turned down the volume to the sample speakers, and scanned the area. “Chill out! What’d you do?”

“Nothin’!” Wesley’s whole body jerked. “Dude said I’d been geekin’ over there for
hours
.”

Tony looked at his watch, one of those mod ones on a thick, black leather band.

“What time you got?” Wesley murmured, his head doing a one-eighty one way, then the other.

“We’ve been here awhile.” Tony looked back at the car stereo display. “I had my heart set on one of these bad boys…”

“I’m not kiddin’, Tony, we gotta blow. The whole store’s probably been alerted by now. Listen for an announcement like Code Red or something secret like that, you know what I mean? Where they use code words to alert the employees. Have you heard anything like that? Over the PA?”

“You’re losin’ it, Lester,” Tony puffed, examining Wesley up and down and giving the stereos one final touch. “We better scram, just in case you’re not hallucinating for once.”

Tony led the way by several paces, heading toward the front of the store. Wesley peered back toward sporting goods as he tagged along, but old Blue Vest was out of sight.

“You’re so paranoid. I can’t take you out in public.”

“Not quite.” Wesley’s heart drum-drum-drummed like a rabbit’s inside his baggy green army jacket. “We’ll be lucky to make it to the car. Keep your eyes peeled. You don’t have anything on you, do you?”

“Just the usual.” Tony sneered, buttoning the top of his coat.

“Are you crazy? How’d you get it?”

“Dude went to help a lady find somethin’. Left the pharmacy door wide open. No one else around.”

Wesley shook his head. “They’re gonna bust us for sure.”

“
They ain’t gonna bust
nobody
, Lester.”

They trucked past the paint, past the hardware, then past the toys, toys, toys. Past the pet stuff, beauty supplies, and pharmacy.

“I guarantee this place is going to be crawling with heat when we hit the doors,” Wesley whined. “You watch.”

“You watch me walk straight to the car, you wimp.”

A cold wind ripped through the giant entryway, where all the candy and pop machines, shopping carts, and arcade games were situated. The thin, orange-haired lady whose job was stamping returns shot them a crooked-toothed smile.

As they hit the huge parking lot, Wesley shoved his hands in his coat pockets and wrapped the army coat tight around his waist. Passing a homely Santa wearing headphones and ringing a bell by a red kettle, Wesley gnawed at the inside of his bottom lip again. Chewing, chewing, chewing. But there wasn’t any pain now—wouldn’t be for a few days.

Tony was four feet ahead of him, gray stocking cap tight over his head, hands cupped at his mouth, lighting a Marlboro. He took a lungful of smoke and waved his arm through the air in a big circle.

“I told you you were freakin’ out over nothin’. That’s ’cause that stuff we smoked was
la glass
, baby. One hundred percent pure
meth-am-phet-a-mine
!”

Wesley was relieved to be out of the store and breathing fresh air again. He even allowed a smile to break out as they hustled in the direction of the SUV.

Just get to the Yukon, get to the Yukon, get to the Yukon.

“I stepped all over that package we sold your buddy last night,” Tony boasted from his own little world. “That stuff was half baking soda and vitamin B
.” He cackled as a pang of sorrow unsettled Wesley then disappeared.

Footsteps. Coming quickly.

You’re just paranoid.

A stocky white guy in jeans, a tan coat, and a Mets stocking cap locked a big arm around Tony’s shoulder.

Wesley heard the words
in-store detective
and beat it for the SUV, the pavement feeling like it was a mile away from each step.

Keys out of pocket, dancing with each stride, he looked down frantically and hit “unlock.”

The Yukon’s lights flashed and horn beeped at the same moment Tony exploded, ripping the detective’s arm from his shoulder and whirling the dude around with all his might. In the fray, four yellow boxes of cold medicine tumbled to the pavement from beneath Tony’s overcoat.

As the detective’s eyes flashed toward the ground, Tony squinted and sent his legs into the air like a windmill. His right boot bashed the detective’s Adam’s apple, sending him crunching into the side of a maroon Toyota Tundra then to the hard ground.

Wesley brought the Yukon to life, and Tony found the passenger handle as it was darting backward. The detective gasped for air and clutched his neck as onlookers gathered at the store entrance some forty feet away.