West of Mars

Most of my readers know I consider myself to be a self-respecting metalhead. To that degree, I’ve seen author Joel McIver’s name around. I had yet to pick up one of his books — professional jealousy, don’tcha know — but when my friend Mary at BookHounds turned me on to To Live is To Die: The Life and Death of Metallica’s Cliff Burton, I knew it was time to stop being green with envy and take the plunge.
I got a copy from the good folk at Jawbone Press, and was off and reading.

The first thing that struck me was the energy in the narrative. That’s the best word for it: energy. There are other words that work well, too: enthusiasm, passion, depth of knowledge. McIver is more than a fan of this heavy metal world we both adore. It’s his life, and it shows.

And you ask why I’m jealous of the man?

If I have any complaint with the book, it’s that we really don’t get to know Cliff all that well. There are two reasons for this, of course: he was a very private person who didn’t let people in very easily (if at all) and, well, he’s a little hard to reach with in-depth questions. The guy is, after all, rather deceased.

Which truly sucks. I’m intrigued by Cliff Burton. By a guy who wore bell-bottoms when no one else would. By someone who had enough money to move out but stayed living in his parents’ small apartment. By a musical genius whose presence, all these years later, still hovers over the band he found success with.

I may not entirely agree with all of McIver’s statements about the twists and turns the Metallica musical catalog has taken since Cliff so rudely left the guys, but McIver makes me understand where he’s coming from. I can respect that, especially when it’s put forth with such enthusiasm and energy.

Best of all, McIver breaks down Cliff’s parts in each of the three albums of songs he contributed to. As a non-musician, at first I thought I wouldn’t care about all that gobbeldy-gook. More kudos need to head McIver’s way, however, because not only was it completely intelligible (and, to be fair, I did have a number of years of piano lessons and the high school drumline, so it wasn’t entirely a foreign language to me), but I found myself reaching for my iPod, pushing my headphones more securely into my ears, and listening hard for Cliff’s parts. Lo and behold, I could hear them. I got it in a way I never have before.

Needless to say, that led to a marathon of music listening, sometimes with the book open so I could follow along and sometimes (Yes, I’m going to admit this) on an exercise bike at the Hoity Toity Health Club. Hey, sometimes you do what you have to do and with the entire Metallica catalog on my iPod, how could I resist? Besides, people tend to leave you alone when you’re bicycling furiously, hands plastered to your ears and that distant look of concentration in your eyes.

While I’d been hoping for more details that would flesh out who Cliff really was, what I brought away To Live is to Die wasn’t so much about the man, himself, as opposed to the man’s music. And for someone who always focused more on the music than on the men (and women) who make it, that suits me just fine.

So I’m over my professional jealousy of Joel McIver. Mostly. Sort of.

Okay, I’m not even close to it. But I’ll certainly find a comfortable spot on his bandwagon and devour the rest of what he’s written.

“So JR was one of those kids who went to a school that had to cut their music program. What’s the big deal?” Kerri asked later that night, once Daniel had taken the manager to his house and the rest of the band had dispersed.

“So this turned into a fucking pet project of his,” Mitchell said. “Something that’s supposed to grow and advance the cause. We’re now supposed to save every last poor kid in the States, just so they don’t wind up like him.” He hung his head and shook it gently.

Kerri knew he was watching the ends of his hair dance. Usually, it amused her. Tonight, she was too baffled by Mitchell’s violent and childish response to react properly.

“Was it supposed to be yours and no one else’s?” she asked carefully. Next, he’d start accusing her of pandering to him, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. But when he got in these moods, anything was possible.

Except violence, thankfully. Unless Trevor showed up, and then it wasn’t violence. Not really.

“It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than fun,” he insisted. “That’s it. Fun. Fun for our fans, fun for us, fun for the crew and the media and everyone. Except fucking JR had to come in and fucking ruin it for us. Move out of All Access and into the Rocket Theater. Party with the fucking drag queens–”

“Watch it.”

He snarled. She stared him down. “If it’s not fun anymore, then don’t do it,” she said.

“It’d be fun if JR would stop fucking trying to grow it! It’s supposed to be small and stupid and silly and what people want to be part of. It’s not supposed to be huge and country-wide and taking on a life of its own.”

Kerri covered her face with her hands.

“What?” Mitchell demanded.

She looked up. “The problem with creating something awesome and amazing is that it does take on a life of its own. You should be flattered.”

“It just wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Kerri tried not to sigh too audibly. “Well, it is, so you need to deal with it.”

“No,” Mitchell said. He stood up and immediately started shuffling his feet, like he was ready to go out for a run or something.

Except, Kerri had never known Mitchell to run. Not unless he was chasing Trevor, anyway.

“When it starts hitting too close to home, like JR just made it do, the fun disappears. It turns into the same stupid sort of responsibility that the entire fucking band turned into. Every time we turn around, we owe people shit. And now we owe JR ’cause his life would have been so fucking different if he’d only been able to play a fucking instrument.”

“Maybe his lack of musical background is part of what makes him such a good manager,” Kerri said.
Mitchell gave her a sharp glance, like he’d had the same thought and hadn’t been able to justify believing it.

“You’re letting this get to you,” Kerri said. “You’re not responsible for your manager growing up poor.”
“No, now I’m responsible for him being fucking rich.”

“He’s every bit as responsible for you and your success. It goes both ways.”

Mitchell growled. Kerri bit back a smile; he hated it when she sounded like Trevor, pointing out the obvious.

“I’m still not making a benefit song,” he said, sneering the last word.

“Don’t. No matter what connection JR’s got to it, the benefit is still your baby. Besides, what did Daniel and Eric say?”

“No.”

“There you go. What are you so stressed about?”

Mitchell turned his back on Kerri and mumbled something that sounded like I feel responsible now.

She didn’t doubt that he did.

I had a record number of entries for my Gratitude Gives, which makes me think I’ll be doing lots more of these in the future.

Offer congratulations to the following folk:
Lisa, who wins a copy of Trevor’s Song
BJ, who wins a copy of Demo Tapes: Year 2
Cathy, who wins a copy of Demo Tapes: Year 1.

Really, the books can be read in any order, so you’re all starting in the perfect place.

I’m off to send some e-mails and get some addresses. In the meantime, if you didn’t win but still need copies of my books, check out The Books page. Click through to the book you’d like and you’ll be taken right to the handy-dandy buy links. Remember, at least 50% of my reported royalties in November and December will be headed to charity!

The Jewish tradition, I’ve been told, happens on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. C’mon. You know the drill: Chinese food and a movie. It’s a tradition I was raised on, myself.

I wonder if I’m seeing a new trend: on the night before Thanksgiving, Jews go to the theater.

Okay, so I only saw six people I know, out of how many thousand Pittsburgh’s Benedum Theater holds. But a trend’s gotta start somehow, right???

The show last night is completely relevant to my life. Rock of Ages is in town, with American Idol star Constantine Maroulis playing the role of Drew. I’m an avowed American Idol non-fan; I’ve watched about ten minutes of an episode in all the years since it began. I was more into the idea that Dee Snider would be on the bill. I’d seen a press release that he was joining the cast, but… a search at Blabbermouth tells me he’s actually on Broadway, not touring as I’d first heard. Dude, you dumped me for Broadway???? ME???

Yeah, apparently so. Buy more of my books, will ya, oh readers of this here Meet and Greet? I need to be a bigger star.

Anyway, Rock of Ages. The producers describe it like this:

“It’s the late 1980s and the final countdown is on for a legendary Hollywood rock club facing its demise at the hands of eager developers. When a young rocker hungry for his big break and a small town girl chasing her dreams land on the scene at this infamous venue, how far will ambition drive them? And will it be lights out for the club and all the regulars and rockers who have made it their home?”

Like I said, tailor-made for me. And then the music… Journey, Twisted Sister, Night Ranger, Styx, Extreme, Pat Benatar… the list goes on. Bon Jovi. Joan Jett. Foreigner. REO Speedwagon, whose “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” becomes a crux of the show. I may have progressed, musically, beyond this point, but that doesn’t mean there’s no small nostalgia attached to all those songs. After all, those are the songs that made ME almost take a couple of different job offers at New York City record labels. Those are the songs that turned me into the rock and roll writer you all love so much.

In a sense, that was my life up there, complete with the same ending my own rock and roll life has had. And while the storyline itself is a bit cliched — there’s even a self-referential line about how there needs to be a love interest — the message comes through loud and clear, and it’s this message that makes the show so freaking brilliant. The message that it’s okay to fail at a dream you thought you totally wanted. It’s okay to find peace and happiness with another sort of life — even one that’s more mainstream.

Because, really, how many of us with rock and roll dreams DO get to see them come true? And if you’re going to turn out like scene-stealing Stacee Jax, do you really WANT those dreams to come true? Ugh. Jax is a trainwreck, brilliantly played by MiG (anyone else vaguely remember him from Rock Star: INXS?). Horrible name; I wish he’d change it to something that sounds less like a Russian fighter jet.

I’ll let him keep the name if he keeps performing the way he did. Holy smoke, did he run off with the show — and that’s no small feat. The character of Franz is a hoot, Regina (pronounced with a long i — go on. Say it out loud. Best line of the night, “Your name rhymes with pussy!”) is annoyingly perfect, Lonny’s a scream, and Dennis … like Stacee Jax, I have known Dennis in my own past life as the city’s metal chick. Still, MiG as Stacee truly steals the show. He’s perfect: a washed up jerk who is labelled asshole by his entire band (who goes on to greater success without him), who can’t be bothered to get a girl’s name right but drags her into the bathroom anyway, who at times can’t stand up ’cause he’s so soused.

You know, I may miss a lot from my old music biz days, but I do NOT miss jerks like him.

All in all, this show is great fun. It’s raunchy the way the 80s were raunchy (I’m glad I didn’t bring The Boy Band!). It’s loud. It’s got a darkness that balances out the innocence of lead characters Drew and Sherrie. But ultimately, it’s a musical and the music is what it’s all about. Many of the beloved old hits are turned into mash-ups (see what watching Glee taught me?) — and like on Glee, they’re well done. The songs help move the story forward, they add color… I mean, hello? This is 21st Century Musical Theater. It doesn’t break new ground, but the handles the familiar structures and rules really well.

There are more musicals about music on the horizon, too. Memphis. American Idiot. And others not on my radar, or that I’m forgetting to mention here.

C’mon gang. Buy my books. Make me a star, and make those shows come here in search of the West of Mars Seal of Approval. Rock of Ages sure got it. What’s next?

Bring it on.

Note from Susan: I wrote this last Tuesday, just after getting home from the vet.

She was the cat I wasn’t supposed to have.

***

It happened like this: my sister was still in vet school when I graduated from my MFA program. Therefore, my graduation present was going to be a cat.

I knew that. I knew the kinds of cats my sister picked for herself and for our other sister. I knew I was going to get something special. No ordinary cat for Susan, who herself is far from ordinary.

And then my phone rang. “I found your kittenzz!” my sister trilled in my ear. She put the emphasis in the right place; there was no doubt she’d found me more than one.

I tried protesting. I was going to be moving back to Pittsburgh. I had no job lined up, no income on the horizon. And now I’ve got not one but two kittens?

“Mom will help pay for the extra spaying,” my sister told me. Apparently, sister and mom had talked it out before this phone call.

I wasn’t going to say no — but I wasn’t going to say yes, either. I was uneasy about this. We’d had cats when I was growing up, and there had been that orange tabby who’d hung around my grad school apartment who I’d called Enigma, but to actually take care of a cat, myself? And now I was going to have two?

My sister explained the scenario: there were only two kittens in this particular litter. Two little Devon Rexes. She’d laid claims to the little boy for me, but so far, no one had claimed the little girl. If she was still there when my sister went back to pick up the boy, a choice had to be made: take the girl, or put her down.

***

That’s how I wound up with my Chanterelle. My sister named her because she was blue and she and her brother were covered in ringworm (so was I, eventually). Ringworm’s a fungus. A chanterelle is a gourmet French mushroom. A mushroom’s a fungus. Naming my kitty Chanterelle made sense. And it fit her.

From the get-go, Chan had a sensitive stomach. I’d have to change her food every time I went to the store for more. Friskies this time, Cat Chow the next. I tried different formulas. Still, she’d throw up more than any cat I’d ever seen. And it wasn’t hairballs, either.

About six years ago, my husband and I got tired of the 3AM puke fests, and my sister helped me track down a vet who specialized in internal medicine. With Dr. Kellerman’s help, we diagnosed Chan with irritable bowel disorder. We put her on prednisone and a special diet. The vomiting, by and large, stopped.

We spent six years playing with medicines, adding some, changing dosages… it was a game of trial and error. Chan lost her vigor faster than her brother, Cooper, did. She lost interest in catching flies between her paws. She didn’t get a case of the nuts as often. But she would still play. And of all the cats I’ve ever known in my life, she was the most snuggly. She would walk up to anyone and plop in their lap — more so before we moved into the house we’re now in. As a kitten, safe in my apartment, any visitor’s lap was fair game. I had to tell dates to not bring me flowers because Cooper would eat them and Chan would tip the vases over to watch the water flow out.

Heck, that was Chan’s game. If I left a water glass on the floor — and before I had kids, there was ALWAYS a water glass on the floor by my feet — Chan was likely to knock it over. Just to watch the water flow out.

***

That’s how it is with a Devon Rex. Cooper and Chanterelle always had the run of the house. As an owner of a Devon, you’d better know these things up front. I can’t tell you how many friends I’d simply shake my head at when they’d say, “MY cat knows better than to do THAT.” Their cats, you see, weren’t Devons. They didn’t eat tape, or lick the water in the water pistol that many cat owners use to keep the cats off the dining room table.

Nope, we put the pads on our dining room table and gave up the battle. We laughed during dinner when Cooper would jump on the island and lick off whatever oils remained. I have pictures of us snatching Chan off a fully occupied Thanksgiving table, as she tried to pick her way among the fine china.

This is life with a Devon.

During those short two years in my city apartment, I had two cats who would jump into the bathtub when I’d run the water for my shower. I had cats who sat on my windowsills and looked for me when I went out. I became cat furniture, and the woman who’d turn on the faucets so my babies could drink running water. It wasn’t that I wanted to. Quite the contrary. But when you own a Devon…

***

About ten days ago, I found blood on the stairs leading to the second floor. On the exact stair that Chan likes to sit on, in fact. It was little drops of bright red blood. I went upstairs to check on her, but she was okay, curled up in the discarded comforter the cats adopted and turned into their cave, burrowing into its many folds. I looked both cats over, wondering if someone had gotten cut somehow, but nothing.

I came back down and cleaned up the stair. I found blood on two more.

I went back upstairs and found Chan hunkered at the far end of the cave, looking scared. And pools of blood in the cave.

We rushed off to the vet. I left the front door unlocked and wrote a note to the kids to come in and start their homework. I came home two hours later and stayed just long enough to load up on snacks and to hug the kids; Chan and I were headed down to the ER.

She stayed there for two nights and came home with a slew of medicines, but even before my sister and Dr. Kellerman told me they were nothing more than band-aids, I knew it. I could see it.

Yet Chan wasn’t ready to leave us yet. Every time I thought she was, she’d rally and eat and roam the house. I moved a litter pan up to the first floor to spare her the trip to the basement. She liked that. She liked being with me or the kids and would crawl in our laps as we sat on the couch, usually under one of my Mexican blankets. She purred like crazy.

But she was slipping away.

Monday night, as the kids and I gave Chan her 8PM medicines, we could tell she’d had enough. The three of us looked at each other and burst into tears. The Girl Band cried for an hour, long past her bedtime. I sat with her and cried, too.

Dr. Kellerman had wanted to see me and Chan this morning. I’d said awhile ago that I wanted her and her tech to be the ones who let Chan leave us, and although the tech had protested, we all knew it was coming. Really, it couldn’t have played out more perfectly in that regard. I think Chan wanted Dr. Kellerman to do it, too.

The Girl Band ran for the bus stop in tears this morning. I drove the Boy Band to school with his cello, Chanterelle in her carrier in the front. Chan cried at every turn, every bump in the road. And so, as my son was getting out of the car, I pulled Chan out and held her the rest of the drive from the school to the vet. Yeah, yeah. Sue me for being dangerous. But Chan was so unsteady by this point — I’d been calling her Wobble for a few days now — and so uncomfortable, being in the carrier hurt. After all she’d been through, I couldn’t do that to her. So I held her. I carried her into the vet’s office that way.

A woman was there with her dog. She saw my tears as I waited for Dr. Kellerman. She’d lost two cats and a dog over a particularly nightmarish twelve days last summer. Her condolences were sincere. As have all of you guys, on Facebook and Twitter.

Knowing it was time, knowing what all this poor cat had gone through… knowing that if it hadn’t been for my sister moreso than me, Chanterelle would have never had a life at all… none of that makes this easier. Cooper and Chan made it possible for me to work here at home and be a writer. They are my constant companions.

I hung Chan’s collar on my Shelf of Stuff just to my right. Taking it off her skinny little chicken neck was the worst part of the whole thing. But she was oh, so ready. I think we all were, as ready as you can ever be when faced with a cat who is sixteen and a half years old, chronically ill, and fading fast.

I’ll miss her terribly — I already do, even though I’m writing this at a time of day during which she’d usually be asleep. I miss my little love bug, my water bug, my venus flytrap. We called her Buggie. We called her Chanterellie. Rellie. Relly-Belly and Bells. She and Cooper predated my husband, they predate my kids. Sixteen and a half years is a long time for a cat, and I hope I was able to make them good years for a kitty who was, I suspect, sick from the start.

The Girl Band is already planning for a set of kittens. I promised. Now I’ve got to find a follow-up act that won’t disappoint. After sharing your life with a couple of Devon Rexes, any old cat simply won’t do, no matter how cute it is.

We turn our faces forward, pink collar in our hands to help us remember.

Another note from Susan: In the week since all this happened and I wrote this, I’ve applied to a local shelter to be a foster home. I figure we’ll see how Cooper will do with another cat bugging HIS mom, and we’ll let the kids see what a normal cat is like.

One last note: If you click on the link in the cats’ breed above, you’ll be taken to a website devoted to the Devon Rex breed. The page I linked to has a picture that’s purportedly of Kirlee, the first Devon. Two things are interesting here: one is that every other picture I’ve ever seen of Kirlee has shown a white cat. Second: that cat in that picture could be my Chanterelle.

Yep, I’m tying this Three Word Wednesday post into the Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Sales are picking up, so be sure to be part of this extravaganza. The more books you buy, the bigger our own donation. No benefit song needed.

If the guys in ShapeShifter had learned anything about their motor-mouth manager, it was that as soon as he stopped with the verbal diarrhea, the band was in serious danger.

“A proposal has been made,” JR said.

Mitchell pushed back into the couch. Like backing away would help.

Trevor noticed Eric and Daniel were doing it, too. He figured a smart person would brace himself, but no one had ever told Trevor he was smart. Besides, whatever it was couldn’t be worse than Mitchell bringing Rusty into their lives.

Trevor Wolff hated to be wrong.

“As part of the Musical Hanukkah Celebration,” the manager said, still so slowly, a person could actually, honest-to-God make out where each word began and ended, “it’s been suggested.”

“Out with it already!” Mitchell roared.

JR scratched the back of his hand. His momentary silence was both a delight and a cause for serious concern. This was going to be bad, Trevor realized.

The manager drew in a breath, but when he spoke, he wasn’t off to the races like usual. “All the bands participating in the event get together beforehand, say before Thanksgiving, and collaborate on a song. Think We are the World, or Live Aid.”

Trevor expected Mitchell to lose it so utterly, he’d blow a few gaskets and they’d have to rush him to Amy’s office for some doctoring. Instead, the guy had face-planted in his own lap, hands dangling on the floor, oh-so-happy to have had this shit land on his head. Clearly, the guy wasn’t going to be able to come through in the clutch. Not this time.

“M?” Eric asked. “You okay?”

Mitchell shook his head. Trevor figured that couldn’t feel good, with his nose scraping his legs. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so bad; the guy didn’t have the sort of schnozz Trevor did.

“Need a barf bag?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell kept shaking his head.

Trevor leaned forward and peered more closely at the big idiot. The guy’s face was bright red; how he wasn’t shaking with rage, Trevor didn’t know.

“Quit showing us Rusty’s favorite fuck position and fucking talk to us already,” he said, turning his back on the guy. He began to count.

Sure enough, he’d only gotten to three when the dragon let the fire-breath out. “A fucking benefit song? On top of everything else we’re doing here?”

“It’s great publicity,” JR said. Something must have loosened his tongue because he started blathering about the exposure and the money they could earn. “It’s about kids, Mitchell. Daniel, Eric, talk some sense into the guy will you please We can bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars just by pricing this as a ninety-nine cent download Hundreds of thousands!”

“NO!” Mitchell howled. He jumped to his feet and got in JR’s face, shutting the manager up. “There will be no benefit song, do you fucking hear me, JR? Bringing other bands in other cities into this thing was bad enough. The whole idea here was to have fun, remember? Where the fuck did that go? Why the fuck is this all about the money to you?”

JR’s face turned red.

“Oh, motherfucker,” Mitchell said. It came out in a breath, airy and defeated.

Trevor couldn’t agree more.

This piece will be continued! In the meantime, pick up my books or make a direct donation — the latter option will get you an entry into a raffle for some great books that I did not write!

Be sure to stop in at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat, as well — see what’s been posted and add your own fiction!

If you’re here in search of my Gratitude Give, here’s the link. This sticky post will remain until November 28, at which point I’ll pick a winner.

In the meantime, don’t forget to buy my books or make a direct donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. It’s all part of the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration we do over here at West of Mars. Here’s the link for the details.

As the blog world continues to evolve and change underneath my feet, I’m doing my best to adapt and grow and change with it. It’s not always easy — after all, when I first started blogging, posting fiction was a rarity. Now there are multiple prompts and Twitter hashtags devoted to it.

Many of you guys have stuck with me from the first. With your support, I’ve been able to put out three books, with more on the way.

And now it’s time for me to give back.

As part of the Gratitude Giveaway over at I am a Reader, Not a Writer, I’m offering one print copy of each of my books: The Demo Tapes: Year 1, The Demo Tapes: Year 2, and Trevor’s Song. Each book will be autographed to the winner (or whoever the winner specifies).

I’m going to have to limit my shipping to the US and Canada only; right now, at least half my reported royalties until the end of the year are headed to charity. That means I’m only recouping half of what I’m spending!

Entry is easy. Tell me which book you want to be entered to win. Join the Google Followers (this is really important, as there are some future events that say I have to have x-number of followers before I’ll be allowed to join in!). And sit back and wait for me to announce the winners on November 29.

And if you’re an International friend and are willing to read an e-book and post a review online, let me know. I’ll hook you up with a coupon code for a freebie of any of my books at Smashwords (heck, any of you who’re willing to read an e-book and post a review can ask for this, in addition to winning an autographed print copy for your shelves!)

Go visit more of the 180 or so blogs joining in. See what else they are giving away. Have some fun, meet some new folk.

And remember, if you want to support me AND a charity all at once, at least 50% of my reported royalties between now and the end of the calendar year are headed to help kids make music. If you make a direct donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation, you will be entered to win some pretty nice books.

And I’m meowing at the cover of Francis Ray’s It Had to be You. LOOK at this cover model!

Hot, huh?

Yep, it’s another rock book — about a hot rock producer and … of all things, a violinist!

What a cool twist. Violins and rock music… sounds a little bit like a certain Finnish band I happen to simply adore…

Given how much I liked What the Librarian Did (read my review) despite its flaws, I’m curious to know if Francis Ray can pull off the rock world, too.

My friend Candy requested some Trevor. I doubt this is what she had in mind, though. It’s pretty dark.

Getting away was the immediate need. Getting away, getting safe. Helping Eliza and HJ get away, too. Jeremy would take care of himself. He always did. He’d stay there and taunt Hank for awhile, give the rest of them time to get away, and then somehow escape without too much damage to himself.

He’d turned it into an art form.

It had to be something like that. It sure as shit wasn’t a gesture of kindness on Jeremy’s part. Fucker had no kindness in him. In his own way, he was worse than Hank.

He gave HJ a shove to help him get further under the trailer faster, then held out a hand to Eliza. Of all of them, it bugged Trevor the most that she had to face this shit. She was the only girl. She was the family treasure. Even Hank said so. He cried before he whaled on her.

But he’d started doing it anyway.

Trevor figured it sucked, but not so bad if the fucktard never found Eliza’s bedroom. He and Jeremy slept in there sometimes on nights when Hank wasn’t needing some exercise, taking turns, keeping her company and guarding her from things that went bump in the night. Or worse.

Eliza took his hand and turned her face to his. She was biting her lip, but it trembled anyway. Her eyes were big, huge, scared.

Trevor knew the feeling.

“C’mon,” he whispered to her. “The faster we get safe, the sooner Hank gives up looking for us.”

A tear leaked out of one eye. “Trevor.” Her whisper started to get loud, to turn into one of those whines that wound up sounding like a fucking air raid siren from those old movies his mom would watch sometimes.

Trevor tried to shush Eliza, whipping his head around to look for people in the window and door of their trailer. Hank didn’t know about this hiding place, right under his stupid fucking nose. He figured sympathetic neighbors were hiding his kids, even though he’d put fears worse than God into them and now, none of ‘em would even so much as look at the Wolff kids.

Trev bent down so he was closer to Eliza’s eye level. “It’s okay. We gotta get under there for awhile and then when Hank passes the fuck out, we’ll come back in. Come on, Eliza. You’ll like it under here. Me and HJ fixed it up. We got bottled water and maybe there’s some cookies left, too.”

“When I grow up,” Eliza said, her voice rising again. Trevor waved it down. She whispered, “I’m gonna play the violin. I’m gonna go all over the world. And I’m never gonna be scared again.”

Trevor swallowed down the impulse to cry. She was fucking eight years old. That was too fucking young to want to run away.

Then again, HJ was nine. He was eleven. Jeremy was twelve. They were all too fucking young to have to face this shit.

A crash came from inside the trailer. With a terrified squeak, Eliza dove for the hiding space. Trevor followed on her heels, not wanting to know if that had been Jeremy or their mother who’d just gone flying.

He let Eliza climb onto his lap, let HJ snuggle up against his side and cling to his arm like it alone was the only thing that would save him. He’d figure out a way to get them out of this mess. He would. After all, he was Trevor Wolff, and Trevor Wolff could do anything he set his mind to.

Somehow.

More Three Word Wednesday for you (immediate, treasure, gesture), and some Friday Flash as well. Remember, too, that 50% of my reported royalties in November and December are being donated to charity, to help fund music programs in schools. Join in — and if you already have my books (and so do your friends; autographed books make great gifts!), remember that if you use my donation link on the contests page, you’ll be entered to win… more books!)

Yep, I’ve also linked this at Weekend Writer’s Retreat and Writer’s Island. What can I say? I like maximum coverage. Which is a dangerous thing to say when Trevor’s around…