Whiskey on Our Shoes

Whiskey on Our Shoes

TONYA PREECE

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Whiskey on Our Shoes

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2022

eISBN: 978-1-957228-75-4

Copyright © 2022 Tonya Preece All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

Illustrations by Chloe Preece

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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Version_1

To Tim.

Chapter One

Eva

A thrill races through me as I decide to ignore the wigs on my dresser and run a brush through my own hair. I don’t need a disguise when I leave the house today. I’m going out alone. No driver. No security. And no celebrity family members.

The opening riff of Welcome to the Jungle blasts across the upstairs landing from my brother’s room. Lor’s favorite Guns N’ Roses song is a good sign his physical therapy didn’t suck for a change.

Hopeful, I set down my brush and go peer through his half-open door.

He’s sitting in his hospital bed, playing air guitar. I’m sure he misses playing for real, but I cringe at the memory of the last time he tried. He got so pissed at the pain and weakness in his hands that the acoustic wound up on the floor with its neck cracked.

The song ends, and I call from the doorway, Hey, you must be feeling—

Fan-freakin-tastic. He gives me the smirk I know well.

Not much else resembles his former self, though. His face is thinner, and his shaggy blond hair cropped shorter. Last year, during the filming of a Polly’s Poison music video, one of his drunken pyrotechnic stunts led to a spinal injury and burns. He’s forty, twenty years older than me, but he looks even older from a hard and fast life as a guitar god.

He lowers the volume on the next song and motions for me to enter.

His room, like the rest of his huge house, makes me think of a Hard Rock Café. Concert posters, photos, and guitars hang on every wall.

You’re still going somewhere, right? he asks.

Desperate to get rid of me, huh? Smiling, I perch on the edge of his bed. I’m leaving soon, but I don’t wanna be chauffeured. Could I borrow a car?

His scruffy, unshaven face brightens. Take the Lamborghini. It’s a sweet ride.

Too recognizable. I don’t want to be spotted in one of his poison green custom cars.

Dammit, Eva. He shakes his head. Stop letting Mom’s paranoia freak you out.

I’m trying. See, no disguise. I point at my wigless head.

Nobody in Austin’s gonna bother you.

He’s told me this more than once in the two weeks since I moved in with him, but it’s not easy to let go of how our mom taught me to stay anonymous. One of her obsessive fans tried to kidnap me when I was three. Although I don’t remember it, the story haunts me to this day. Besides, I like being unknown in this family of celebs.

And, while Mom’s gone, Lor adds, you don’t have to worry about Crazy Carla.

Carla’s the latest celebrity gossip reporter who tracks Mom. She’s probably in L.A. where Mom’s doing a commercial for a new cosmetic line.

I understand but let me take baby steps. I’ll drive the Challenger. It’ll blend in better.

Boring. He rolls his eyes and nudges me off the bed. Go raise hell for the both of us.

Ha! That’s your style, not mine. I lean in and kiss his cheek. Be back in a few hours.

Take your time.

I stop in the doorway and glance back at him. He’s looking at his phone and doesn’t notice me pausing to watch him. For a moment, I consider staying. He’s bound to be bored. I should keep him company, shouldn’t I? We could play cards or watch TV.

No. I better go. When he asked me to live here, we made a deal: he’ll stay sober, and I’ll venture out on my own. This is my chance.

With a sudden surge of independence, I descend the long marble staircase and exit, leaving behind the safety and seclusion of Casa Lor.

Chapter Two

Alex

My classes are done for the day, and I head for my dorm, playing a voicemail from a missed call.

Hi, Alex. The speaker doesn’t identify herself, but I’d know the voice anywhere. It’s the one that lured me into what I thought was the best time of my life—and left me in ruins.

I stop on the sidewalk. My gut churns, but morbid curiosity keeps the phone to my ear.

I miss you, she says, low and sexy, like she thinks it’ll work. Call me, okay?

Not a chance, Angie, I mumble and block the unknown number.

What the hell would we talk about? We haven’t spoken in months.

Revulsion ripples through me. I shake it off and check messages for my errand service business. There’s one from a person named Lor, which sounds fake, but whatever, it’s work.

I message the customer to say I’m available now, and they reply right away.

Hey, man, thanks for the fast response. I need you to meet with a guy at Kudos Café near Lake Travis. He’ll give you a package to bring to me.

This sounds fishy, but I send a response.

As long as it doesn’t have anything illegal or hazardous.

No worries. What should I tell my guy you look like?

I’ll be the tall guy in a dark blue shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. Please confirm your agreement to my terms and conditions, and an invoice for prepayment will follow.

Cool. I’ll text further instructions once you have the package.

Within minutes, his credit card payment goes through and damn, he included a twenty-five percent tip. I need him as a regular customer.

I arrive at the café early and order a soda, knocking out some reading for my marketing class while I wait. Right on time, a guy approaches me, carrying a plain brown bag with handles. He has spiky blond hair and ear gauges. His neck tattoo is a…steampunk penguin? I stifle a laugh as he eyes my boots.

Are you picking up for Lor? he asks, and I nod. The bag’s heavier than I expected, and the top’s taped shut.

Tell Lor I said hello. The guy leaves before I can even ask his name.

I text that I have the bag, and Lor sends me a residential address that’s ten minutes away.

Enter NINE9999 at the security gate. Drive to the house, ring the bell & ask for Jojo. Tell her you need to hand-deliver the package to Mr. Jenson.

I’m intrigued and make the short drive with the bag on the front seat.

A little guardhouse is unoccupied. The code opens the gate onto a long, brick-paved driveway lined with perfectly landscaped shrubs and trees. A mansion ahead has a five-car garage and a balcony across the whole second story. Most deliveries, often for older folks, are to quiet neighborhoods and apartments. This place blows my mind.

Why didn’t Mr. Jenson send a butler for this errand?

I park in front of the house, grab the bag from my passenger seat, and ring the doorbell. Sweat trickles down my back. I feel out of place. I’m a small-town guy in jeans and have never stepped foot in a house this big. The door’s opened by a woman in a dark blue suit.

Hello, you must be Alex.

Yes, ma’am. I remove my cowboy hat with my free hand. Are you Jojo?

I am. She waves me into a huge foyer. Mr. Jenson only informed me he was expecting company a moment ago. Would you like something to drink?

Oh, no thanks. I don’t want to impose. If you’ll just take me to him, I’ll—

Of course. She leads the way up a massive, winding marble staircase overlooking a living room where platinum records and guitars are on display. Maybe I should recognize who this Lor guy is, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Jojo shows me into a room where a man’s sitting in a hospital bed. His hands and arms are scarred. I’ve seen scars like those before, from burns.

He glances up from an iPad as Jojo and I approach his bed. The biographer’s here, she tells him.

I squint, taken aback. Um, excuse me … what do you mean, bio—

Excellent. He sets the iPad aside and eyes the bag in my hand.

I’ll leave you two gentlemen to the task at hand, Jojo says and leaves.

"What task was she talking about?" I ask the man, more uneasy by the second.

Oh, don’t pay any attention to her. He waves a dismissive hand. You’re kinda young, but this could still work. How are your acting skills?

Chapter Three

Eva

I browse through a few clothing shops at a galleria but don’t buy anything. My shoulders are so tense from this new, undisguised solo experience, there’s no way I could enjoy trying anything on.

Heading back to Casa Lor, I stop at a place called Austin Creative Repurposing. I’ve read about it online, how they use recycled stuff to make art, and I want to check it out for myself.

A bell chimes as I enter, and a few people look my way. My skin prickles from the familiar fear of exposure. There’s no way anyone here would guess who I’m related to. Too bad my heart doesn’t understand that logic. It hammers away in my chest. I run my fingertips along the edge of my wig to check that it’s on right, but duh, no wig.

I glance around to get my bearings. ACR is a furniture showroom and art gallery. The air’s a bit musty, with a hint of tobacco. The scent, mingled with furniture polish, reminds me of pleasant days at my grandparent’s house in San Diego, and I relax.

A tall woman in a red ACR shirt greets me. Holler if you need help with anything.

Thanks. I clear my throat, embarrassed by the waver in my voice. I’m just browsing.

There’s a wall hanging with piano keys mounted on a long, painted board. It’s simple yet elegant. On another wall, several doors hang sideways with cutouts for photos. In between the doors, there are window frames made into shadowboxes. They’re above a table display of vinyl records that’ve been heated and molded into cool decorative bowls. Mixed in with The Rolling Stones and Metallica records is one for my dad and uncle’s band, The Fabulous Undertakers. Nobody here knows my connection to them either. I trace the familiar record label with my fingertip. The design accentuates the band’s nickname, FU.

The tall woman, whose name tag says Nadine, walks around with another woman and young teenage girl. Mother and daughter, I assume. It sounds like Nadine’s giving them a tour.

Everything’s one of a kind, she says. Artists and furniture makers obtain supplies from our warehouse, create new pieces, and sell them on consignment. She points to a clawfoot tub. This is the work of a volunteer. One side is sheared off, and it’s lined with padding.

Oh cripes, art skills aren’t required, are they? the woman asks. Jenny has none.

The girl’s eyes shoot daggers at her mom, and Nadine says, No ma’am, but we do hope volunteers have an interest in repurposing things otherwise destined for a landfill.

The girl rolls her eyes, and her mom scolds her in a hushed voice.

I’ll give you a moment, Nadine tells them. Stepping in my direction, she grimaces.

Yikes, I mutter. Sounds like they don’t get the point of this place.

Nailed it. She sighs.

The girl breaks away from her mom, storming out. The mother huffs and calls to Nadine, We’ll have to get back to you later, okay?

No problem. Nadine waves. Once the mother’s gone, Nadine introduces herself to me as the co-owner. "Since you seem to appreciate, or at least understand, our goal here at ACR, by any chance are you interested in volunteering?"

Um… Put on the spot, I falter, but I’m grinning. Something about this place makes me feel like I belong. What would I be doing?

Come on, I’ll show you the warehouse.

We exit through a back door and cross a parking lot between the showroom and another building. These are donated supplies. She points to rows of shelves, neatly labeled, holding stuff like paint, bolts of fabric, and bins with craft supplies. Volunteers sort and stock, rearranging as needed. Bricks, lumber, tiles, and metal are stacked on the other side.

Everything’s so organized. I’m impressed.

Thanks. We try. My stepdaughter, Blair, did the setup. What do you think of joining us? We’d love your help.

This would take time away from being with Lor, but he’s the one who insists I get out more.

I bite my bottom lip for a second, then say, Yeah, I’ll give it a try.

Yes! Let’s go to my office, and you can complete a volunteer application.

The simple form only takes a few minutes. Since I’ve kept my identity disassociated with the celebrities in my family, I don’t worry much about using my real name.

Nadine schedules me to volunteer on Tuesdays and Thursdays and sets a red shirt on her desk. As I reach for it, her eyes zero in on my left hand and widen in shock. Surprisingly, a lot of people don’t notice my left index finger’s missing. I’m prepared to brush it off as a childhood accident, but she doesn’t ask.

Instead, she looks away and opens a file cabinet. One more form. A liability waiver. How old are you?

Twenty.

Good, no need for a parent to sign.

Whew. That would’ve sucked. Mom’s signature could end my anonymity. Sloane Silver is a household name, like Heidi Klum.

Are you a college student? Nadine asks.

No. Fact is, one gap year led to another, and I have no clue what to do with my life.

On my way to the exit, Nadine takes me through an area of the showroom I didn’t notice earlier. I stop dead in my tracks. There’s a guitar on display, decorated with colored glass mosaic tiles arranged in intricate patterns. Nadine traces a green tile. The artist found the guitar beside someone’s trash near the lake. In the right hands, one person’s trash becomes another’s art.

I touch the back of the guitar’s neck. The burred texture of cracked wood confirms it. I was the one who threw this guitar out, at Lor’s insistence. And here it is, transformed.

Checking the price tag, I say, I’d like to buy this.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. Awesome. I’ll ring you up. Bonus, there’s a volunteer discount, albeit small.

Once I’ve paid for it, I carry the guitar to the Challenger. The glass tiles make it heavier. I carefully place it across the backseat. Before starting the car, I check my phone for the time and see a message from Lor’s personal assistant, Jojo.

Did you know your brother’s having someone write his biography? The writer’s here, meeting with him.

Frowning, I reread the message. There’s no way Lor finally agreed to let someone write his bio, not while Polly’s Poison wants to keep a lid on his condition.

Abandoning plans for a drink at the nearby café, I hurry home. At Casa Lor, there’s a black truck with a UT longhorn symbol on the bumper. I park beside the truck, grab my purse, and sling the ACR T-shirt over my shoulder on the way to the front door. Up the stairs, two at a time, I rush into Lor’s room.

Whoa, Eva. He sits up straighter. You’re back already?

I take a deep breath, relieved he isn’t drinking. What’s going on? Who’s this? I gesture at the guy in the room holding a cowboy hat.

Alex, Lor says. He’s here to work on my biography. Alex, my sister, Eva.

A strangled sound escapes my throat. Lor must’ve lost his freaking mind, telling this stranger who I am. He’s usually more careful, even if he doesn’t agree with me wanting to stay unknown. His eyes widen. Shit, I’m sorry.

Sorry doesn’t help now. I could run out, but the damage is done. It’s best to draw the attention away from myself. I set my purse on the bed and ask Lor, A biography, huh?

He says, Yeah, but Alex shakes his head.

My body tenses, thumbnail digging into my scar. Lor is nothing if not consistent. Despite his good intentions, he’s the king of self-sabotage.

Unfortunately, now we have an audience.

Chapter Four

Alex

Lor was explaining this biography nonsense when a beautiful girl rushed in. He introduced her as his sister, Eva, and her face became beet red. Now she looks pissed.

Her eyes bore into me, and she asks, Are you even a writer?

No. I give Lor an apologetic frown.

Dude! He groans. You caved so easily.

I’m just here to make a delivery, I tell Eva. I don’t know anything about him.

Delivery of what? She marches over to me. Where is it? Is it booze?

Uh, oh. My gaze darts to the bag on the floor near my feet. She goes straight to the bag, rips the tape off, and takes a bottle from it. Great. I’ve brought booze to an obviously unwell man.

Eva glares at me, then at him. We had a deal.

He flashes her a shit-eating grin and attempts to swipe the whiskey. Eva, give me the damn bottle.

She steps out of reach, turns on her heel, and heads for the door. I follow, wanting to convince her not to shoot the delivery guy, but she stops and spins around, smacking into me.

Hard.

The bottle slips from her hand. I drop my hat and hook an arm around her waist, pulling her out of the way right before the glass breaks on the hard floor. The amber liquid spreads into a puddle. My arm stays around her, and she doesn’t move.

She gazes at me with the prettiest green eyes. My pulse races. Time stands still.

Until Lor wails, Nooo! He cusses at us but doesn’t get up. The wheelchair on the other side of the bed makes me wonder if he even can.

I cough into my hand to cover a gag on the strong liquor smell and reluctantly take my other arm from around Eva. A red shirt draped on her shoulder falls to the floor. It has a logo, something called ACR. I grab for the shirt, but she snatches it first. The hem drags through the liquor on the floor, splashing some on her right shoe and the toe of my left boot.

Jojo runs in and grimaces at the spill and broken glass. Is that whiskey?

Yeah, and by the way— Eva gestures at me "—this guy is not a writer."

Jojo frowns at me, obviously disappointed, and I insist, "I didn’t say I was."

He’s right, Jojo tells Eva. DeLorean said it.

DeLorean? Lor must be short for DeLorean. Isn’t that the name of a car?

He’s sitting there with his arms crossed, scowling. Jojo shifts her annoyed frown from him to the mess on the floor. Where’s Stella when we need her?

Eva cups her hands around her mouth. Stelllaaa, she hollers in the direction of the open door.

Her Marlon Brando impression from A Streetcar Named Desire is spot on. I laugh without thinking. She silences me with a jaw-clenched stare.

Damn, she’s beautiful. It sucks she’s mad at me. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her.

I pick my hat up off the floor, and Eva whispers something to Jojo. The two of them look at me and back at each other.

What should we do? Eva asks her, loud enough for me to hear.

About what? I butt in, tired of being treated like this is all my fault.

Security. Eva retrieves her purse from the foot of the bed. How’d you get in the gate?

He texted the code to me. I gesture at Lor, or DeLorean, whatever his name is.

Great, now I’ll have to change it. Eva rolls her eyes.

Let’s discuss this elsewhere. Jojo indicates for Eva and me to leave the room with her.

Downstairs, Eva gets right in my face, or she tries to. She’s quite a bit shorter than me.

You said you don’t know anything about him, she says. Is that true?

Yes. Why would I lie about it? I look around and realize the platinum records on display say Polly’s Poison on them. "Ohhh. I didn’t recognize him, but I’ve heard of the band. I mean, who hasn’t, right? So, you’re his sister? What’s wrong with him?"

Whoa, there, cowboy, Jojo says and pushes through a set of swinging doors. Once again, Eva and I follow her. This time, into a huge kitchen. There’s a guy in a chef hat with earbuds in. He waves cooking utensils around in each hand, as if directing an orchestra.

He sees us and removes the earbuds. What’s going on?

Hector, three iced teas, please, Jojo says.

Say what? Eva plants her hands on her hips. This isn’t a social call, Jojo. This guy— she jerks a thumb in my direction —brought whiskey to Lor. He isn’t here for iced tea.

Excuse me. I straighten my posture and challenge Eva with a glare of my own. "This guy has a name. It’s Alex. And I didn’t know I was bringing him whiskey."

Where did you get it from?