Waiting for the Sun (Waiting for the Sun #1) Page 4

  “I’m sorry.” Darian’s eyes grow dark and distant. His smile falters. “Were you close? Shit. Sorry, that was really—”

  “It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “We were very close. I’m an only child…or was an only child.”

  “Your mom?”

  I shake my head, and he nods in understanding.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I was an only child too.” He spears a green bean with his fork and moves it around his plate. After a few rotations, he sets the fork down and looks over at me. “So, Francesca, kindred only child, what’s your favorite Doors album?”

  I tap my finger against my chin. “Hard to say. It depends on my mood. Being a Texas girl, I favor the blues over the psychedelic stuff, but I love them all. I tend to waver between Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman. What’s your favorite?”

  “Hands down, Strange Days.”

  “Ahh…the melancholy album.”

  His brows knit together. “The melancholy album?”

  “Just as Waiting for the Sun is the romantic album.” I stab my fork in a piece of steak and dip it in butter. “Comparatively speaking, of course.”

  “Then I suppose you’re right—comparatively speaking.” He leans over the table, resting his chin on his palm. “So, you’re a Cross to Bear fan too?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve heard of them considering your line of work, but they’re not what you think. They’re not some boy band.” I take a bite of the buttery steak.

  “I’m mildly familiar,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile, “but I guess I’ll have to pay more attention.”

  “Jane and I have been fans for years, but we’ve never seen them live. They never come to Texas. You should check them out. They’re in Miami all the time.”

  He glances down as he takes a sip of water, his smile curving above the lip of his glass. “Maybe I will.”

  After dinner and a final glass of wine, Darian walks me to my room—the long way, all thirty seconds of it. “The suite’s at your disposal all week, if you’d like to stay.”

  Thank you. I’d love to. The words itch to leave my lips. “Thank you, but no,” I say instead. “Jane will be here tomorrow.”

  “I should warn you. I’m going to try to change your mind,” he says, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “Just try not to leave too early?”

  I pull my key card out of my purse. “I expect her around eleven. She’ll want to avoid traffic.”

  “Eleven,” he repeats. “I can work with that.”

  I can’t quite figure him out. He refuses to call me Frankie, favoring Francesca for reasons unknown to me. He’s bold and demure. Confident but not self-absorbed. And he’s beautiful. Have I mentioned that yet? On the surface, it’s his boyish features—his long, heavy lashes, the tiny dimple that only appears when he laughs, his smile.

  But it’s what’s lingering beneath the surface I’m most attracted to. There’s a vulnerability there, a sadness I can relate to. I feel it each time I look into his eyes. They contradict his youthfulness, like they’ve seen more than his years suggest. And, staring into them now, I get the strangest feeling something big happened tonight.

  “Thank you for your company,” Darian says after a short span of silence.

  “You’re welcome. I mean, thank you.” I feel my entire body blush, and I don’t know if it’s the wine or the confinement of the corridor or the fact that he’s standing so close to me. Maybe it’s all three. “I had a good time. I felt very safe.”

  He laughs, and his eyes hold mine for several seconds. “I hope I’m able to do it,” he says. “I hope I change your mind.” He slips his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall by my door. “Besides, it would be a pity for you to waste a vacant suite and such charming company.” His attempt at smug is foiled by reddening cheeks and a shy smile.

  I close my fist tight around my key card as I fight the urge to cave. “So, I’ll see you in the morning then?”

  He shrugs. “If I succeed.”

  “Goodnight, Darian.”

  “Goodnight, Francesca.”

  My phone buzzes a text from Jane the second the door closes behind me. I check the time—eleven fifty. I have ten whole minutes before she calls in a SWAT team. I use half of them to brush my teeth and change into a nightshirt and the other half to clear my bed of pillows.

  Frankie: I’m home Mom. Had a good time. See you when you get here.

  Jane: Check your e-mail.

  Jane isn’t one to cut corners. Her e-mail resembles a modern-day War and Peace that includes hyperlinks, JPEGS, and a spreadsheet. It’s flagged urgent, and the subject line reads, OMG.

  Her flair for drama brings a smile to my face but does little for the tightness in my chest. I darken the screen, set my phone face-down on the nightstand, and climb into bed. I’m leaving tomorrow, and after that, I’ll probably never see Darian again.

  A heavy sigh fans the hair from my eyes.

  I’d like to see him again.

  I lie on my side, burrowed beneath a mountain of covers, and stare at the upside-down phone as if I expect it to do something. It just sits there, taunting me like it holds the secrets of the universe.

  It holds a spreadsheet, Frankie.

  Ten long minutes pass before it lights up and vibrates across the glass tabletop.

  Jane: Can you believe it?

  Jane: Wait, how far did you get?

  Jane: R U asleep?

  Frankie: I’m awake.

  Jane: Well?

  Frankie: A spreadsheet? Really?

  Jane: OMG just Google him then!

  “Fine,” I say, folding like a cheap suit. “I’ll just Google him then.”

  My conscience weighs heavy on my shoulders as I open my browser. Typing Darian’s name into a search engine just feels wrong.

  Like you said, you’ll probably never see him again.

  And he owns a record label; surely, there’s no harm in checking out his company. Pushing the guilty feeling aside, I scroll through the hits on my screen. There are more than I expected, and when my finger stills over an actual Wiki page, my curiosity gets the better of me. After that, I can’t click through the pages fast enough.

  Darian Fox is founder and CEO of Fox Independent Artists, Inc., a thriving indie record label he launched in his late twenties. Prior to that, he was lead singer and guitar player in a moderately successful rock band based in Miami, called For Julia.

  My face breaks into a grin. I was rescued by a rock star; no wonder Jane was so insistent.

  There’s a wealth of information on the label—bands signed, awards won, upcoming releases, upcoming tours. There’s even an editorial in Rolling Stone. I browse through the bands on his website, and I recognize many of them, not the least of which is Cross to Bear.

  I bark out a laugh. “‘Mildly familiar,’ my ass.”

  There’s much less on For Julia. I find a feeble attempt at a fan site—iheartjuliaforever.com—with a few promo shots of the band. My gaze goes straight to Darian. Despite his boy-next-door features, he looks like a rock star. His presence is commanding, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s joined by three other guys.

  Cute and sexy, I think as I navigate the site. Don’t see that every day.

  For Julia had a devoted regional following and was expected to skyrocket to stardom. They found success through a handful of national singles, but their breakout hit was “Halcyon Girl.”

  I wonder if I’ve heard it. Probably not, considering I was ten when it was released, and at ten, if it wasn’t on American Idol, it wasn’t on my radar.

  I open another web page and search for the song, but I have no luck. I can’t even find lyrics.

  That’s odd. How does a song just disappear?

  I return to the fan site and learn For Julia disbanded following the death of the band’s namesake—Darian’s wife.

  Holy shit.

  My head starts to pound. I
Google For Julia and death and…

  MIAMI-DADE COUNTY, FL (AP)—FOR JULIA FRONT MAN, DARIAN FOX, LOSES FAMILY IN MYSTERIOUS PLANE CRASH OFF THE COAST OF MIAMI

  Caribbean Air Flight 356, bound for Nassau, Bahamas, plunges into the Atlantic Ocean shortly after takeoff from Miami International Airport Sunday afternoon, killing all 88 passengers and crew. For Julia front man Darian Fox’s wife, four-year-old daughter, and parents are among the casualties. The cause of the crash is unknown.

  Is this…no, it can’t be…

  My stomach roils as I push up against the headboard. With a trembling finger, I scroll down to a picture of Darian and Julia, and then—oh my God—I inhale a sharp gasp as my eyes land on an image I know all too well.

  “Anabel.”

  It is. This is that crash.

  My mind jumps back almost ten years to that miserable Sunday in May, exactly one week after my twelfth birthday.

  I was lying on the couch, half-reading Harry Potter, half-listening to reruns of Laguna Beach on MTV, when the story broke. Dad sat in his recliner and turned up the volume, drawing my full attention to the television.

  MTV ran a clip of the Fox family at the beach. The heartbreaking sobs of a little girl with brunette ringlets and big brown eyes echoed loudly in our small living room. She was inconsolable after a large wave leveled her sand castle. Her mom giggled at her dad’s desperate attempts to calm her.

  “I’ll build you a new one,” he said. “Even bigger.”

  It didn’t work; she only cried harder…

  That night was the first time I dreamed of the sobbing little girl on the ill-fated plane as it spiraled out of the sky. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the image out of my twelve-year-old head. The nightmares lasted for months and resulted in my fear of flying. I was in college before Jane convinced me to go to Cancun for spring break, and I only fly now with the help of Xanax or a cocktail or six. How does Darian do it?

  How does Darian do anything?

  My throat grows thick with tears. I had time. I knew my dad was sick. I knew the end was coming. Darian had no warning, no chance to say goodbye. They were all just…gone.

  His entire family.

  Dad was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at fifty-seven. I was only sixteen. We had four precious years together before his disease took me away from him. After the fifth, it took him away from me.

  “Frankie, I want you to stop fussing over me and sit down. I have something I need to say to you before it’s too late.”

  “You’re being dramatic, Dad. You’re fine. You had a bad spell, and now you have a prescription.”

  “Frankie, stop. It’s Alzheimer’s, not the flu. Yes, I’m fine now, but you heard the doctor. These ‘spells’ are going to keep happening, and they’re going to get worse. Now, sit down.”

  His tone made me flinch. I moved to stand beside him at the table, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit.

  “One of these days, my mind will go, and when that happens, I don’t want you spending every waking minute at my side. It won’t do either of us any good.”

  “Dad—”

  “Frankie…” His voice splintered around my name, causing the backs of my eyes to sting. “You are a bright, beautiful girl. You have your whole life ahead of you; don’t waste it. Come out of your shell, conquer this flying thing, and see the world. Live a little.”

  He pushed back from the table, wildly flapping his arms, and I smiled through the ache in my chest.

  “What have I always told you?”

  “Be the butterfly.”

  “Yes. Be the butterfly, Frankie. Spread your wings and fly.”

  My phone buzzes in my hand, pulling me back to the present. I dry my eyes on my shirtsleeve and force a smile, determined to remember that day as a happy one.

  Jane: You OK?

  Frankie: It’s so surreal.

  Jane: Are you going to tell him?

  Frankie: No way. That crash gave me nightmares but it destroyed his life.

  Jane: I think it did a little more than give you nightmares.

  Lying down once more, I draw the covers to my chin and open my browser. Anabel’s smiling face stares back at me from the screen.

  Julia was Darian’s high school sweetheart. He married her right after graduating from the University of Miami, and their daughter, Anabel, came nine months later. After the accident, he dissolved the band and launched the record label.

  There are several reports chronicling the crash as well as speculation on his subsequent inheritance. Nothing else personal has been reported since.

  Frankie: She was his daughter. My nightmares were about her.

  Jane: I know.

  I imagine Darian in his twenties, happy and loved with a young family and a promising career. But in one disastrous moment, everything was ripped from him. The son, husband, and father became orphaned, widowed, and childless overnight.

  Losing my dad was devastating, but it was inevitable. Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around and not their whole family all at once. I can’t begin to wrap my head around it.

  Frankie: I feel connected to him somehow.

  Jane: You are in a way.

  Frankie: It’s weird though. I felt it earlier, before I knew.

  Jane: What are you going to do?

  Frankie: He asked me to stay.

  Jane: Just be careful.

  Frankie: I have my Taser.

  Jane: That’s not what I mean.

  I set my phone on the nightstand and turn off the lamp. My eyes burn the second I close them. My chest feels hollow. I was so young when it happened, so consumed with the cries of a four-year-old girl and the nightmares she gave me, I never once thought of her father.

  Her father.

  But he’s all I can think of now, and as I drift into what will surely be a fitful sleep, my heart breaks.

  CHAPTER 3

  Touch Me

  Drew: Sorry man. I was “tied up” when you called. ;-)

  Darian: Thanks for that visual.

  Drew: You said you met a girl?

  Darian: No. I said I saved a girl. All knight in shining armor like.

  Drew: Nice. Did you get laid?

  Darian: You’re such an ass. Get this. Her favorite band is CTB.

  Drew: Ahh…so you’re going to get laid. You just haven’t yet.

  Frankie

  I open my eyes and stare at the paneled ceiling in a weary fog. My thoughts pick up right where they left off last night, the sun-drenched morning doing little to dampen them.

  Better snap out of it, Frankie. You can’t be all doom and gloom in front of Darian.

  I force a smile and chant through my teeth, “You’re fine. Darian’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  A knock at my door has my tangled feet warring with the covers. I jerk out of bed in a panic and breathe a sigh of relief when the words, “Room service,” drift through my suite.

  Room service?

  I open the door to a stack of lidded plates. A heady bouquet of sage and maple syrup pushes into my room, followed by the server with his heavily stocked cart.

  He stops in the foyer and straightens. “Ms. Valentine?”

  I manage a nod.

  “Inside or outside?” he asks.

  “Um…inside’s fine.”

  I stare, wide-eyed, as he transfers the plates to the dining table and begins removing the lids. I consider asking if there’s been a mistake, but my rumbling stomach is quick to silence me. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, fruit, biscuits and gravy, orange juice, coffee, champagne…

  Champagne?

  A smile pushes through the morning’s melancholy.

  Darian, what are you up to?

  The server’s gaze bounces around my empty room before settling on me in my I don’t do mornings nightshirt.

  “I’m expecting guests,” I blurt out. “Pajama breakfast.”

  He sets the stack of lids on his cart. “I apologize
, ma’am. My ticket said one diner. I’ll send up additional place settings.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How many?”

  I glance at the table, which is completely covered with food. “Six. Yeah, I think that should do it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, then presses his lips together as if to suppress a smile.

  He holds up the bottle of bubbly, and I shake my head in a decisive no.

  But if you have a Diet Coke on that cart somewhere…

  “Very well,” he says, placing it back on ice. “And I was instructed to give you this.”

  He hands me an envelope, and I wait anxiously as he packs up his cart and wheels it out of the room. The second the door closes behind him, I tear into it.

  Inside, I find a flyer for Stoli and Seventh—otherwise known as the party. One of the only day parties you can’t get into without a badge. You can’t even sneak into it. I know; I’ve tried. At the bottom of the page there’s a hand-drawn arrow in red marker. I flip it over.

  A BADGE AWAITS YOU AT THE FESTIVAL REGISTRATION BUILDING.

  IT’S NONREFUNDABLE. I’D HATE TO SEE IT GO TO WASTE.

  DF

  A what awaits me where? He got me a badge?

  Excitement swells like a balloon in my chest and then deflates at the thought of actually having to face him.

  “But you’re not facing him,” I whisper. “Not really.”

  The Darian I met yesterday is not the Darian I Googled last night. The one I met laughs and jokes and smiles. The one I Googled wouldn’t be capable of such things.

  I hug the flyer to my chest.

  You shouldn’t know anyway. Just pretend you don’t.

  I round the corner onto Brushy Street wearing a pale pink sundress, a blue jean jacket, and a pair of black Converse sneakers that should probably be replaced. I spot Darian immediately. The patch of brick on the side of the warehouse housing the Stoli and Seventh party frames his silhouette as if he intentionally picked the spot. His charcoal suit and cream-colored oxford bear a striking contrast to the rustic wall behind him, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was disrupting a photo shoot. Focused on his phone, he doesn’t notice me until he hears the gravel crunch beneath my shoes. He looks up and smiles.