Brady
WAR OF ART
“And I love the pretty girls and how they sway
In rhythm when I play.”
Performed by Tim McGraw
Written by Warren / Warren / Spillman / Miller
The jet landing on the runwayin Albany jerked me out of a fitful sleep. I dragged a hand through my sandy hair and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I fought against the exhaustion trying to pull me back under. It felt like I could sleep for a month straight and never rid myself of the bone-weary feeling gathered deep inside my soul.
It was due to much more than the long days of the world tour I’d just wrapped up. This tiredness was tangled with the twisting doubts circling through me that the critics might be right. My musicwasstale and repetitive.
My songwriting partner, Ava, would rant and rave at me if she heard my silent agreement with the naysayers. The lyrics, hers and mine joined together, weren’t exactly the same, but the rhythms and chords blended so precariously close to all the other songs I’d released that it was hard to tell the difference between my first album and my third. There was no growth. No hint of change.
The reviewers had heard the truth I was trying to hide from myself and the world. There was a hole in my world?in my soul?and it reflected in my music. A gaping emptiness that begged to be filled. Knowing it only made me more of a cliché than ever before.
I needed a break from it all to try and find the heart that usually drove me.
As the jet doors opened, I wondered if staying with my family for the holidays was really the smart choice. I was pretty sure it would take the utter fatigue I felt and amp it up by about a hundred watts until every single part of me ached. But I hadn’t missed a Christmas with my family yet, and I wasn’t going to start now. It was bad enough we’d all left Cassidy alone for Thanksgiving. Oddly enough, my little sister had seemed relieved we wouldn’t be there to cut the soy alternative turkey with her.
As my bodyguard, Marco, and I walked down the stairs, high-pitched screaming exploded into the chilly air. My head jerked toward the private airline terminal where a crowd was being held back by rope and security personnel I didn’t know. There seemed to be a revolving door of them these days with Garner’s company. It made me even more grateful for the man at my side, who’d been through the fires of hell and back with me.
A black SUV with tinted windows pulled onto the runway in front of us, blocking me from the crowd at the terminal.
“Your parents are in the SUV and ready to go,” Marco said, his deep voice matching his muscular frame. His black hair and dark eyes almost matched the black he always wore. He was so dark from head to toe, he could almost be a shadow if his skin wasn’t the shade of cut oak instead of deep night.
The crowd grew frenzied as we hit the tarmac. My name squealing out of hundreds of fans echoed around the space. I wasn’t sure I had much to give them today.
“How’d they find out we were even here?” I asked.
Marco didn’t respond, as unsure as I was of how the press and the fans found things out. He just stood there, waiting for my move.
The crew of the private jet set our luggage down, and we moved toward the SUV in tandem. As Marco threw the cases in the back, the only other long-term member of my security team emerged from the driver’s seat. Trevor was as opposite to Marco as you could get. Light hair. Light eyes. Lean instead of Marco’s mean. But they were both smart, savvy, and had proved themselves over and over again, even when there had been gunfire and loss of life. I didn’t know what I’d do if they weren’t watching my back.
“Hey, Trev, enjoy your holidays,” I said, pulling him into a brief hug.
“You too, man,” he said, slapping my back before pushing me away with a fist to the shoulder. He exchanged greetings with Marco before heading off toward the main terminal and the flight he was catching home.
The back door of the SUV opened, and my dad stepped out followed by my mom. Her face lit up at the sight of me, and my heart lurched with regret at my earlier thoughts of not wanting to be with them for Christmas. My parents loved me. I loved them. Love was never a limited commodity in our household—only understanding.
Mom looked older than when I’d seen her in August, but she was as carefully put together as she always was in her tailored jeans and fitted jacket. She was in good shape for a woman closer to sixty than fifty. Her hair had once been the same dirty-blonde color as mine but was now littered with white, making it seem like she’d spent hours getting highlights in a fancy salon.
“Mo leanbh,” she said as she enveloped me in a hug. No matter how old I was, I was still her baby. It was reassuring and disconcerting.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, hugging her back tightly.
Mom let me go, and Dad took her place, wrapping me in a hug of his own. His clipped gray hair and beard made him look a bit like the Grissom character onCSI, the Basque heritage showing in his square face and square body that I’d inherited.
He patted me on the back and stepped away. “It’s good to see you.”
“Marco!” Mom greeted my bodyguard with almost as much enthusiasm as she’d greeted me.
Dad pounded him on the back.
The crowd grew frantic, screams blaring through the cold air that filled the Albany skies with clouds and pending storms.
