Page 2 of When the Storm Breaks
A shadow crossed over her face. “Because it’s what your momma chose.”
“Music didn’t kill her though. It wasn’t music—”
“I know.” Maw Maw cut me off. She didn’t like to talk about what happened to my mom. She didn’t really like to talk about my mom at all. I wish I’d gotten a chance to know her, but she’d been taken away from us when I was six months old and Landry was three and a half. And neither of us would ever,not in a million years, forgive the man who had killed her.
“Just promise me one thing.”
I nodded.
“Don’t chase fame. It’s too fickle and the cost is too great.”
“I don’t care about being famous. I just want to play my guitar and sing for a living.”
She pressed her lips together but didn’t comment. Then she abruptly stood up from the table and stuck her head in the refrigerator, blocking my view. She came out with celery, carrots, chicken, and Andouille sausage and set them on the counter. “Come. Help me with the gumbo.”
It might be my thirteenth birthday, but it was also a game day. When the Saints played, we always had a crawfish boil and gumbo with one chicken heart and a gizzard thrown in the pot for luck.
“Okay.” I eyed the onions and the stainless-steel knife on the counter. “But it’s my birthday so I’m not chopping the onions.”
Maw Maw smiled. “Tears are a good thing. They cleanse the soul.”
I pulled a face. I hated chopping onions. I hated crying too. By now, I probably had the cleanest soul in all of Louisiana. While I chopped the hateful onions, my tears fell freely, cleansing my soul.
Raucous laughter alerted me to my brother’s presence and I hastily wiped away the tears on the sleeve of my hoodie before the boys caught me crying.
“Hey little sister.” Dean tugged the end of my braid. The scent of weed clung to his clothes, and he moved his lips a hair’s breadth from the shell of my ear. “I have a birthday surprise for you.”
I gave him a little shove to give myself some space then turned my head to look at him, my curiosity piqued. Hazel green eyes danced with mischief and he wore a smirk. The boy was trouble. Always had been. Everyone said he’d end up just like his Pops. A drunk and a gambler. I suspected the black eye he was sporting was compliments of Virgil Bouchon. His Pops was a nasty drunk.
But I knew Dean had a different destiny. Music would save him. Landry and I would make sure of it. I arched a brow, not wanting him to know that I cared. About his well-being. Or about his stupid surprise. Knowing him, he was lying about it. If he’d even gotten me a gift, it was probably stolen. “Oh yeah? What kind of surprise?”
“Keep your hands off my sister,” Landry growled from the doorway. Dean laughed and sauntered out of the kitchen. Seconds later, he was playing the chords of Happy Birthday on the Stratocaster he’d gotten at a pawn shop. Gus set the rhythm on the bass guitar and Landry kept the beat on the drums. All three of them sang Happy Birthday, even Gus who barely ever opened his mouth to speak let alone sing.
Someday we’d make all our dreams come true. Me and the band. I’d do what my mom hadn’t gotten a chance to. I’d go out to L.A. and dance among the stars. Write my lyrics on the sky. Blaze a trail straight up to the heavens. I wouldn’t chase the stars like she had. I’dbea star. I didn’t even need Maw Maw to confirm it.
In my heart of hearts, Iknewit was my destiny.Ourdestiny. Acadian Storm. That was our band’s name and someday we’d be playing sold-out stadium concerts in front of thousands of screaming fans.
I’d do whatever it took to make it happen. I’d sacrifice anything and everything to make our dreams come true.
At thirteen, I had no idea how true that would be.
Chapter One
Shiloh
I finished packingup the last of my things and zipped the case. It felt like I spent most of my life living out of a suitcase. Dragging it down the curved staircase, I held onto the wrought iron banister for support.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I glided my bag across the Italian marble foyer and left it by the front door then went in search of Bastian. There were twenty-two rooms in this house and he only used one—the “Blue Room.” It looked like a cross between a boudoir and a French nightclub. I opened the carved oak door and stepped inside. French doors opened to the terrace and the pool, affording a view of the Hollywood Hills but heavy midnight blue curtains were drawn to ward off the sunlight. A jewel-toned chandelier cast light on the man who preferred the darkness to the light.
“Those cigarettes are going to kill you,” I observed as I moved further into the room, past the low-slung, midnight blue velvet sofas, my boots soundless on the Aubusson rug.
Bastian was sitting at the black baby grand, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted against the smoke. He was wearing a purple velvet robe and a gray fedora, the ends of his dark hair curling where they hit his collar. “L.A. is sucking the soul out of me.” His hands—insured for millions—played a jaunty medley of the bubblegum pop tunes he claimed to detest. “Through a pixie stick. It’s a slow, arduous process. But the City of Angels won’t rest until it’s consumed every last drop of my liquid black soul.”
I rolled my eyes—what a drama queen—and leaned my hip against the piano.
Bastian Cox was a British rock god. A gifted poet. A living legend who was notoriously difficult to interview. He was also my best friend. He’d been there for me through all the ups and downs of the past few years. I adored him. He was so talented. An unhinged genius with madness running through his veins. “You need fresh air and sunshine, Liberace.”
He shuddered. “I need gray skies and thunderstorms.” He switched gears and played a jazzy, sultry ballad I didn’t recognize. A torch song. It sounded like something that would have been sung in a Parisian nightclub in the 1920’s. “Sing for me, my little chanteuse.”
