Chasing Kane Read Online Free PDF Page A

they broke up, anyway—took off, leaving the local circuits hungry for artists that could provide that unique sound right in their back yards.
    Our lineup was comprised of instrumental-only acts like me and CJ, solo artists with their guitars, and larger ensembles that rounded out the folk sound with banjos, tambourines, and the whole nine. One of the groups, The Brewers, actually asked me to step into some of their numbers to add in a violin solo—called a fiddle by most of the folks in the genre. It’s the same instrument, which some people don’t honestly know, but has alias’ depending on the setting. I agreed to jump in wherever they needed me. Performing has always reinvigorated me in ways little else could.
    “We’re opening?” CJ asked when we arrived at the concert hall.
    I nodded, handing him his cymbal stand. “Damn straight.” I winked. “I’m a star.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Save your winks for the girls, Kane.”
    “You can have ’em. You know I’m spoken for. You were at the wedding.”
    “So you never flirt? A wink, that sideways grin of yours that gets everyone all hot and bothered?”
    Taking a deep breath, I conceded. “A little,” I admitted. “Just show. Georgia knows, sees it, all that. It’s just a performance thing.”
    He held his hands up. “Dude, I didn’t come out here to babysit you. I know you’re Captain Fidelity, and I admire that. Especially when your wife is my best friend, and I’d really hate to kick your ass if you hurt her. As for me …”
    The fluidity of his morals wasn’t shocking, but I did find some relief in it. Musicians, athletes, actors, anyone who is up for public consumption, is expected to maintain at least some level of availability for their fans. Despite knowledge of marriages, babies, girlfriends/boyfriends, whatever, part of the popularity of commercial artists is the ability of the fans to sink themselves into fantasies and daydreams, just enough that they come back for more. More songs, more shows, another interview, anything.
    That was the hardest adjustment for me as a commercial musician—the showmanship of pretending. At the meager beginning of my career, flirtation was second nature. As familiar to me as the bow I drew across the strings. As mine and Georgia’s relationship developed, though, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the idea. She knew how it had to be—she’s no fool. In fact, she got to know me while I played at a bar she tended when we first met. She was on the receiving end of the inviting smiles and casual glances. But as our pasts revealed themselves to each other, and our futures became one, I grew weary of not only my part in the act, but the attention I received. But maybe having CJ around to remind me of the social part of my job would make things easier, which would be a huge relief to Yardley, who always held her breath during post-show mixers with fans, wondering how stand-offish I’d seem.
    Reclusive is sexy, she’d always say. Unavailable is suicide.
    “Who’s that ,” CJ interrupted my thoughts, gesturing to a young woman testing sound equipment on stage. “Crew?”
    “Nessa? Nah, she’s in The Brewers. Lead vocals, sometimes keys.”
    “Keys?” he asked with a hint of mocking. “Keyboard or piano too good for you now that you’re a superstar?”
    “Whatever, just stay away from her, okay?”
    “Yeah,” he said inside a deep chuckle. “Whatever.”
    I gave Vanessa Crowley the once-over, instantly regretting the words I’d spoken—he’d taken them as a challenge. Her hair was black and pixie-short, save for one long chunky strand that was dyed blue and always hanging in front of her right eye. She said sardonically that it was there to make her eyes match. The left one was blue, but her right was green, which was enough to intrigue men up and down the California coast alone. She was of medium height—taller when she wore her signature combat boots—slender but strong, and had light,