Sing With Me: A With Me In Seattle Universe Novel Read online

  Sing With Me

  Anna Edwards

  SING WITH ME

  A With Me In Seattle Universe Novel

  Anna Edwards

  Copyright © 2020 by Anna Edwards

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect are appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by Kari March

  Editing by Tracy Roelle

  Proofreading by Sheena Taylor

  Published by Lady Boss Press, Inc.

  Contents

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  The With Me in Seattle Universe

  About the Author

  Also by Anna Edwards

  Singing is a way of escaping. It’s another world. I’m no longer on earth.

  Edith Piaf.

  Prologue

  Tate

  10 years ago

  I finish tidying up after the guys leave. We’ve been practicing hard recently as we’ve got our first performance in a few days. The gig is nothing special. I’m only fifteen, for Godsake. It’s not like I can perform in clubs yet. We’re the supporting act at a concert being held in school to raise money for new sports facilities. It’s slightly ironic as Liam, Cameron, Austin, and I are never likely to be found on the sports field. We’re not jocks. We’re the weird kids working on our band, day and night, dressed in ripped jeans and t-shirts printed with logos of the groups we’ve managed to see in concert. Today I’m in my Iron Maiden t-shirt. It’s one of my favorites but the black has seen better days—it’s faded to a gray color.

  I tuck my Les Paul Studio 2016 into its bag. It’s not the Les Paul Standard 1959 that I want to own eventually, but I’m lucky my parents are rich enough to afford a good guitar for me. It was their present to me this year for my fifteenth birthday. It was the first time my dad realized I wasn’t going to join him in the future, working as an accountant. I was destined for other things. So he embraced my career choice, soundproofed the garage, and bought me the guitar. I don’t play it all the time. I’m the lead singer of our band, Saving Tate. Why I need saving, I’m not entirely sure, but I’ll go with it because it’s a cool name. When my voice broke, I developed a deep and raspy tone that fits perfectly with the songs we play. Hopefully, we’ll get discovered one day and make it big. Until then, it’ll be performances in school halls.

  Finally everything’s put away, and I head back into the house. Needing a drink, I open the fridge and down a whole carton of milk. My parents are out at a society function tonight—my mother is big on the scene—and they’ve left my sister in charge of me. Heidi is five years my senior. She’s a bit of a disappointment to my parents because she left school with very few qualifications and hasn’t been able to hold down a job for longer than a few months ever since. She came home the other week with a new job, stripping is very lucrative apparently. My parents threw her out of the house, but evidently, she’s sensible enough to be allowed back to babysit me. I’m fifteen—I think I can look after myself better than my sister can. Heidi and I used to get on really well when we were younger. She mothered me until she turned sixteen and discovered boys and God knows what else. Since then, we fight constantly. I really do love my sister, but it’s been bliss with her not being in the house recently.

  Placing the empty milk carton into the trash, I make my way through the silent house.

  “Heidi.” I call out. There’s no reply…so much for looking after me. I bet she’s snuck out to see one of her deadbeat boyfriends. “Heidi.” I call again. “Fuck’s sake.”

  Cursing, I stomp up the stairs, faint music is coming from what used to be her bedroom. She stripped it bare when she left. I’ve moved my desk in there now and have been using it as a writing room. I’m determined to make the band a success, and I need a place to concentrate.

  “Heidi, you better not be reading what I’ve written.”

  I shove open the door—it ricochets off the wall and almost comes flying back at me. When I look in the room, I see Heidi slumped down in the comfortable chair I’ve brought in here. Her eyes are closed, and she looks like she’s sleeping.

  When she arrived here tonight, her clothes were dirty, and she looked exhausted. I wonder where she’s been staying—I hope it’s not on the streets. A pang of concern for my sister hits me in the chest. Maybe this is Mom and Dad testing her to see if she can prove she’s doing better, and they’ll let her come home again soon.

  There’s a blanket on a shelf in the room, and moving quietly, I pick it up and tiptoe over to Heidi. She’ll get cold wearing only a t-shirt and jeans. I go to place the blanket over her, but something catches my eye, a needle sticking in her arm. An uneasy feeling settles over me, she doesn’t have any medical issues that I know of, and I drop the blanket. Reaching out tentatively, I touch her wrist. Her skin is cold.

  “Heidi,” I whisper, but she doesn’t wake. “Heidi.’ I say her name a little louder.

  There’s no response—she doesn’t even flinch.

  Fear grips me in its icy throes, and I frantically start to shake my sister, but she can’t be roused. She makes no sound and doesn’t open her eyes, and when I let her go, she collapses onto the bedroom floor with a loud thud.

  Dead.

  I can’t breathe. My own lungs try to suffocate me with shock. I race from the room and downstairs to a phone. I need to call my parents, but my fingers aren’t working right. I don’t dial their number, though—I type in 911 instead. It’s only when I have a chance to think about it later that I realize it was the correct decision.

  Before I know what’s happening, people are running around the house while I remain standing in my sister’s room, watching as they try to get her breathing again. My mother and father arrive home, and I’m pulled into their arms as we all stand in silent prayer for the sister I adore, despite all her issues. Nothing works, though. Within a few minutes, she’s pronounced dead. Later, it’s established she died from a heroin overdose.

  It was the day my life irrevocably changed.

  The day my family never spoke of again.

  The day I buried deep inside me, knowing I could never allow it to come back to the surface, because I wouldn’t survive the memories.

  Chapter 1

  Zoey

  #WellLifeCantGetAnyWorseOhShit

  I’m not sure what time it is, but when I finally manage to drag my lazy carcass out of bed, the apartment is still dark and frigging cold. I have t
o be in early to work this morning to scan the World Wide Web for any news stories regarding one of our more problematic clients.

  The last time I did this, I spent the entire morning fending off questions about a threesome he’d had with a married couple. At least the man in question was getting some—definitely more than I’ve ever had. All the adults were consenting, so I personally couldn’t see why it mattered. However, to the world at large, it was seen as another misdemeanor to be added to his very long and widely publicized list.

  Sometimes my job is amazing, but at other times, it saddens me to witness how the love for all things celebrity can so easily destroy people’s lives.

  Washing quickly and throwing on one of my better suits, all of which come from goodwill because I can’t afford anything half decent, I manage to get dressed in a record five minutes. A quick brush through my hair and a swipe around with my faithful, year-old lipstick, which is almost completely used up, and I’m ready to race out the door. I’ll have to grab a sandwich later. I normally take my own lunch as it’s cheaper, but I don’t have time to make it today. I need to scan the headlines and have the highlights on my boss’s desk before he gets in, or there’ll be hell to pay, and I don’t need that kind of trouble.

  “Mom,” I call out as I leave my room. “Mom!” I shout again but don’t get a response, and I instantly fear the worst.

  It doesn’t take long for my suspicions to be confirmed. When I enter the lounge, my mom is passed out on the couch still wearing the clothes she went out in last night, and an empty bottle of whiskey is discarded on the floor next to her. How the hell could she afford to buy it? We don’t have any fucking money!

  “Mom!” I shout as loudly as I can and shake her.

  She stirs slightly and opens a bloodshot eye. Dark rings of mascara are smudged under her eyes.

  “Zoey Boey, what are you doing here?” She smiles at me, a grin revealing the gap from where she lost a tooth a month back due to decay. The rest aren’t in much better condition.

  “I live here, Mom.”

  “You live in a bar?”

  “No, in our house.”

  “Our house.” My mom sits upright and immediately covers her mouth.

  I know she’s going to be sick. Reaching around the back of the couch, I grab a bucket I store there now for such occasions. This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced this with my mother, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I manage to pass it to her just in time, and she brings up the contents of her previous night’s drinking. Let me tell you this, regurgitated whiskey does not smell the best. My stomach rolls, and I take a step back once she’s holding the bucket herself.

  “Oops.” My mom giggles. “I think I might have drunk a little too much last night.”

  “It’s not the first time either, is it, Mom?”

  “Nope.” She chuckles again, obviously lost amid her own personal joke no one else understands. “I should go to bed.”

  After putting the sick bucket down, she tries to push herself off the couch, but her legs won’t support her—it’s obvious she’s still drunk.

  “Let me help you,” I offer, stepping forward, but Mom holds her hands up to stop me.

  “It’s fine. I’ll rest here a bit longer and then grab a shower and head to bed. What time is it anyway?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Where are you off to at this time?”

  “To work, I need to be in early.”

  My mom waves her hand in the air.

  “You work too hard. You need to live a bit.” She laughs at her private joke again.

  I really don’t see what’s funny. In fact, the longer I stand here with the smell of whiskey induced vomit in the air, my temper is rising.

  “Unfortunately, Mom, someone needs to work to pay the bills, or we won’t be able to keep this apartment.”

  “Boring.” My mom snuggles down farther onto the couch, and my more caring side takes over. I reach for a blanket folded over the back of one of the other chairs and cover her with it.

  “It may be boring, but it’s a necessity, Mom. Speaking of which, where did you get the money for the whiskey?”

  “What whiskey?” my mom asks, and her eyes start to flutter shut as the effects of the alcohol claim her again.

  “Mom, concentrate,” I shout and fold my arms across my chest. “Where did you get the money for the whiskey?”

  “Money…” she responds, her words slurred as she drifts back into slumber or rather unconsciousness. “Pot in the kitchen.”

  I immediately want to scream, but I know it’ll do me no good. My mom has drifted off to sleep once more.

  “Fuck’s sake.” I stomp to the kitchen to look for the pot I’ve been saving money in for the electric bill. It’s the one bill I don’t have sorted as an automated payment. “Oh, Mom,” I growl, more to myself than her, with both exhaustion and frustration in equal measures.

  The bill needs to be paid later today, and now I have to find the money to do it, or we’ll have the power cut off. No sooner do I think that thought—you know, the one about how everything that can possibly go wrong to make my day really shitty will go wrong—when Murphy’s law strikes. The electric cuts out, the lights turn off, and the appliances stop working. I’ve been so busy with work lately I bet I’ve got the days mixed up. Tears well in my eyes, but I don’t have time to cry…I never do. An alarm sounds on my phone tucked into the pocket of my ‘Made in China’, really cheaply, jacket. I have to get to work or I’ll lose my job, and then we won’t be able to pay any of the bills.

  My mom’s always been like this—I don’t understand why. I pretty much brought myself up, so I don’t know anything different. I’m twenty-one and the mother in our relationship, not the child. We’ve tried counseling. She even admitted herself to a rehab clinic to dry out for thirty days. Nothing works for long, though. I don’t know what it is, but something has caused this darkness in her. Sometimes when she’s sober, we laugh and joke together, but in the end, the alcohol always takes over as she tries to bury whatever memories haunt her. It’s no life for either of us.

  I take what little money remains in the pot and tuck it into the purse I’m wearing over my shoulder. Then going back into the lounge, I check on my mother one final time and move her into the recovery position to prevent her from choking if she vomits again. I put on my aged court shoes and a coat that’s two sizes too big for me, but at least, it’s in a style from this decade, and I make my way out of the door.

  I always thought my life would be different, but all I seem to do is work and look after the apartment and my mom. I’ve no friends…no boyfriend. I don’t have time for them. This existence is mundane, and it feels like I’m slowly dying on the inside. I long to travel, to see new places, but I know it’ll never happen. I’ve never been out of Seattle my entire life.

  A headache starts behind my temples as I begin the mile-long trek to my office—I can’t afford to commute any other way. I pull the hood of my coat over my head to ward off the cold and walk along dreaming of a different life. A life that will never be mine.

  Chapter 2

  Tate

  #BabysittersSuckAndNotInAGoodWay

  “This is complete bullshit. We don’t need to be mothered.” Cameron, our lead guitarist, slams his fist on the table as our manager explains to us we’re to have a full-time publicist traveling with us on the tour. “We don’t need to be babysat. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

  I groan and lay my head down on the table. I was up until the early hours, writing songs. I don’t need this crap at ten a.m. I should still be in bed, preferably with my dick buried in a willing pussy. Instead, it’s full steam ahead with the final preparations for Saving Tate’s world tour starting next week.

  “See, Tate thinks it’s bullshit too,” Cameron continues.

  “You sure about that? He looks to me like he wants to sleep.” Liam, the band's drummer, thumps me hard on the back. “Did you have a good night?
Was she warm and flexible?”

  I slide my arm from under my head and flip him the bird.

  “This, right here, is why we feel it’s important to have someone with you. You’re all young lads, single and good-looking. It’s been a disastrous mixture in the past, and we want to make sure it isn’t this time,” the band’s middle-aged manager, Fred Wilder, explains.

  “We aren’t stupid,” Austin moans this time, his heavy Irish brogue filling the room with disapproval. “We may enjoy getting out dicks wet, but we always wrap them first.”

  “I’m sorry, but this isn’t up for discussion. Plans are already in place. The new publicist has been chosen and will join you on the bus for the duration of the tour. They’ll be my eyes and ears since I can’t be with you,” Fred insists, while reminding us he can’t tour with us as we aren’t his only group. Thank fuck for that! We’d have no fun and be tucked up in bed by nine pm every night with a cup of Ovaltine if Fred had his way. “They’ll be on call at all times, should they be needed. I’m not saying they will, but I want to be certain, just in case. This tour is important. It could launch the band into the stratosphere. You’re famous now, but this could make you a global success. You’ll be household names around the world. The pressures on you are about to increase, and this is where the publicist will be able to help if required.”