Kit & Tully

  Book 4

  ZERO CHANCE

  Mocha Von Bee

  For Tom, with thanks for all that you’ve done and all that you’ve given me.

  Get First Summer Free!

  FIRST SUMMER is a companion to FIRST KISS. It tells of the summer Kit & Tully first met from Kit’s point of view.

  Find out about Kit’s first impressions of Tully

  Discover what her home life is really like

  Get the inside story on her friendship with Felice and Spike

  And, most important of all, Kit’s take on Aonghus…

  Join my Newsletter and start reading FIRST SUMMER!

  Fourth Letter From Aonghus

  Dear Reader,

  Fate has clearly pointed its finger and if you are wise, you believe in me now. Unfortunately, that is not the case for all the characters in our story. But these things are, after all, subjective and perhaps you haven’t made your mind up yet either.

  It doesn’t matter, there’s still time.

  It is a sad but true fact that when a fairytale comes to an end, there’s always someone waiting in the wings to have a good laugh… In this case, it’s the character everyone loves to hate.

  But perhaps when you see things from his perspective, you might feel sorry for him. Or then again, maybe not.

  I give you, for your perusal, Bad Boy, Mac Whitehead!

  Yours,

  Aonghus

  Chapter 1

  The Rock Bar is a new venue, just opened up, and word on the street is that’s where it’s at. I straighten my shoulders, drop my head and push through the door. It’s all in the way you walk in, you gotta look like you own the place. Getting that mixture of confidence and stealth just right, is key to looking like a famous person who doesn’t want to be recognised. The bar has a grungy vibe, and runs the whole length of the building. It’s done up in the latest style, with copper pipes giving an industrial feel, and the usual array of bottles reflected in glass.

  All the in-crowd is going there, so there’s bound to be people I know. And I am famous, kinda. That’s what’s great about Dublin, everyone knows you. My band had a hit album eighteen months ago, but, yeah, we got a few things wrong and then we split up. These days, I’m going solo, which means I get to choose who I work with and when. It’s not Black Death on the posters any more. It’s me, Mac Whitehead, and I’m the one the fans wanted most anyway.

  I always got a kick out of walking into a bar with the guys around me. It was impossible to miss our entrance. We were a striking crew and you knew at once we were a band. Girls love bands, they really do. These days, everyone dresses like a musician so, when you’re on your own, it’s not quite so obvious you’re in a band. You have to find a way to work it into the conversation so it doesn’t sound like you’re spinning a line. And it’s better if the chicks work it out for themselves, makes them feel sharp, and chicks like being smart, puts them in good humour. Once that happens, the birds are ready to eat out of your hand.

  There’s a knack to scanning a bar without looking like you’re doing it, which I mastered a while back and it always comes in useful. Straight away, a girl catches my eye and I assess her automatically. She’s a nice-looking piece, all dolled up to the nines with full-on hair and make-up, probably a hairdresser, good in bed and knows it, high maintenance. She catches me looking at her and she lifts her glass, some kind of pink cocktail, so that the big engagement ring on her finger catches the light and sparkles at me. I put my hand to my heart and give her a devastated look in response. She tries not to, but she can’t help cracking a smile.

  Who doesn’t love the perfect manicured blonde?

  Then there’s that kid Felice Carr was going out with, though what she saw in him was beyond me. Felice needs a man, a real man, not that Danny dude. Though if he’s here, that means Dervla is with him. Sure enough, just as I spot her, she waves at me through the crowd. Hooking up with her at Felice’s New Year Party was a mistake. We were both very drunk. And it was like there was something in the air, everyone was getting it on. A couple of days later, we ran into each other in a bar in town and that’s when I found out she’s in Danny’s class. They claim to be best friends but I know different. Dervla has a crush on him, though she won’t admit it.

  To be honest, that’s why I let it continue. It was too much fun not to and it had the added advantage of pissing off Felice. There is so much tension in the air between Felice and I. It’s weird because she isn’t my type, and we don’t get on, yet we can’t ignore each other. Sometimes it’s like sparks are actually flying, which goes to prove it’s not necessarily a problem if a girl doesn’t like you. There’s something compelling about Felice, dangerous, unpredictable, exciting. I guess that’s the same thing girls say about me.

  Dervla comes over, a goofy grin plastered across her face, and sits beside me. I’m getting worried she might think there’s more going on than there’s meant to be. With Felice back in London, the novelty of using Dervla to wind her up has worn off. Don’t get me wrong, I’m upfront that I’m not promising roses and eternal devotion. It’s a mutual, no strings deal, the kind of deal you’d expect someone like Dervla, with all her bullshit artsy ideas to jump at, but that’s the thing, girls never do. Instead, they start thinking about more, and that’s the dangerous part, because once they think about more, they want more.

  A guy has joined the perfect blonde at the table. The fiancé –– I can tell by the way he hands her a fresh cocktail and slips into the chair beside her. He looks vaguely familiar, but Dublin is small and he’s probably just someone I’ve seen around. But then he narrows his eyes at me and the steely glint of menace is unmistakeable.

  “Do you know that guy?” I ask Dervla.

  “Who? Gary? Why?”

  “I think I’ve seen him before but I don’t know where.”

  “He was at Felice’s New Year Party.”

  “That’s right,” I remember him now, “he spent most of the night chatting up Kit.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t chatting her up,” Dervla says immediately. “It’s just he was there on his own because Cheryl was away skiing. They’re engaged and the wedding is next year. I’m going to be a bridesmaid. Gary is my brother.”

  “Your brother?” I don’t know why I’m so surprised but it’s certainly not good news. There’s something about weddings in a family, they’re contagious. One sibling gets married and everyone else suddenly decides they want to get hitched too.

  Besides, if Gary and Cheryl get married, it will be a disaster. Both of them are bored of each other. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s there in the way he’s watching everyone and everything in the bar except his fiancée, who twirls the umbrella in her cocktail and tries to pretend she isn’t looking over at me. I’ve never really understood why couples, who are so obviously over each other, stick together. Maybe they feel like they’ve invested so much time and energy into their relationship they can’t let it go. Or maybe it’s just the familiarity of routine, the same way people stay in jobs they can’t stand.

  Me, I can’t do that. It’s all about the excitement of the chase. Once things settle down and get boring, I’m done, out of there and onto fresh pastures. Joe Killeen has known me longer than most, and he says it’s because I’m young, sowing wild oats, but I don’t think I’ll ever change. What would be the fun in waking up next to the same woman year after year for the rest of your life? Where would be the spice and variety in that?

  “Earth to Mac,” Dervla nudges me, “so what about it?” She’s waiting for an answer.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Do you want to leave now?”

  No, I don’t. Dervla is a dead loss. She might be pretty and enthusiastic in bed, but that’s as far as it goes. Even though she’s in art college, it’s much the same as dating a schoolgirl. She lives at home and has no money or independence, except what her parents give her. I squeeze her hand under the counter, “Hey, the night’s still young.”

  “I’ve an early start tomorrow.”

  “I’d better not interrupt your beauty sleep so.”

  A hurt, surprised look, flickers in her eyes but she recovers well and leans in for a kiss, “Perhaps I’ll see you later in the week?”

  Across the length of the crowded bar, I catch Gary’s eye. His look says it all. Don’t mess with my sister!

  “Sure,” I whisper in her ear as I help her into her coat, but I don’t mean it. That’s all Dervla needs to complete the package –– a protective big brother.

  Right at that moment, the barmaid finally stops chatting to Danny and turns to take my order. When I see her face, I have to clench my jaw to stop it from dropping to the floor. Suddenly, the bar might as well be empty with just the two of us in it.

  Kit Lawless.

  What the actual fuck?

  Why did nobody tell me about this?

  Chapter 2

  Last I heard, Kit was heading off to the United States to join that snake in the grass, Tully Cabe, on tour. But obviously she didn’t go, since she’s here staring at me from behind the bar. The thing is I know girls like Kit, privileged girls with well-off parents who go to nice schools, get good marks in their Leaving Cert and study for prestigious degrees in Trinity. They don’t work behind bars, not usually.

  “What can I get you?” Her tone isn’t friendly, but then Kit doesn’t like me. She never has.

  I order a pint and think about how to start a conversation, but Kit isn’t giving me any openings. You can’t just pour a Guinness and ser ve it straight to the customer. Everyone knows the key to a good pint is time. You need to let it stand and settle, before topping up the creamy froth. But Kit slams a grey Guinness straight down in front of me, along with the change, and swishes off to serve someone else.

  Luckily, I spot Mike Meara at the far end of the bar and make my way down towards him.

  Mike Meara and I go back a while. He’s a sound engineer with a lot of connections in the industry and he’s the kind of person who gets on with everybody. We’ve worked together before and you could describe us as friends, but if I’m totally honest, Mike Meara has this way of getting on with everybody without really letting you in.

  A bit of an enigma, that’s what he is. It’s a good look. The girls love it, but it’s wasted on Mike Meara because he never shows interest in any of the girls.

  I slide in beside him. “Haven’t seen you around for a while, have you been away?”

  “Yeah, I was in Berlin for a few days last week.”

  “Cool!”

  “You got to be open to new opportunities.” Mike Meara delivers this statement like he’s giving me a piece of advice.

  But I’m not in the mood for advice or travel chat. “Thought she was going to America to meet Tully?” I say with a sideways glance at Kit.

  “No.” He takes a sip of his pint, clearly enjoying not telling me what I’m dying to hear. Mike Meara always knows what’s going on, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let you in on it.

  “She won’t last long if she keeps ruining the pints,” I take a rueful sip of my Guinness, “what’s she doing working here anyway? Wasn’t she in Trinity or somewhere?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Mike Meara downs the rest of his pint. He’s just about to rise to his feet, when a hand comes down on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Mike, you’re not heading home already. Let me get you another round, and one for your friend, on the house!”

  Sure,” Mike Meara sinks back into his seat, “Mac, this is Jason. He owns this place. Jason this is Mac Whitehead. He used to sing with Black Death.”

  Mike Meara’s uncomfortable reminder that I haven’t yet made a name for myself as a solo artist stings. I know people think I’m washed up, finished, yesterday’s news. But they’re wrong, this business can turn around in a heartbeat. All you need is the next hit! The problem is it’s been eighteen months since the Black Death album that did so well –– but just not quite well enough.

  When I announced I was going solo last autumn, I started telling everyone about the new album. It’s now January, but this is the bit I don’t mention, I’ve been stuck. It’s like there’s a brick wall in my mind, the musician’s version of writers block, and I can’t break through it.

  I mean it was my voice and interpretation that gave Black Death it’s unique sound, no question about that, but lyrics were never my thing. The others wrote those, like how hard are words anyway?

  Baz and I composed most of the music together, until he screwed me over. I worked on music with Tully Cabe too, taught him everything he knows and look how he repaid me, started his own band and hijacked the spot that should, rightfully, be mine.

  “Mac Whitehead, it’s an honour,” Jason is saying as he holds out his hand for me to shake. “That album was classic and ‘Plagued by You’,what a great song!”

  “Thanks, man! Nice place you got here.” The building is old, used to be some kind of grain store so there’s plenty of space and high ceilings and some odd shaped windows in unexpected places and there’s a small stage for live acts tucked in an alcove at the back.

  Jason follows my gaze towards the stage. “Maybe you’ll play here some day?”

  “Yeah, who you got lined up?” I ask, though I can tell already I won’t be interested. I know exactly what kind of musician would play in the Rock Bar, either the wannabes or the has-beens. I’m too well established to be a wannabe, and I’ve no intention of fitting into the latter category for some time yet, not when my solo career is still ahead of me.

  “A few new acts,” his words confirm my assessment, “some of them show promise but there’s no one as good as you. Maybe you’d consider a Saturday night? I can guarantee a full house.”

  “Thanks, I’ll think about it.” The sad part is it’s a better offer than I’ve had in a long time.

  “You should take him up on it,” Mike Meara says when Jason is gone, “he’s trying to get the place going, build it up as a music venue. It’s always a good thing to be one of the first acts in a new place.”

  “Only if the place does well,” I point out.

  “There’s no reason why Jason won’t do well here,” Mike Meara says with a shrug, “but, even if he doesn’t, you’d still get paid.”

  “You really think I should do it?” Sometimes, I feel like Mike Meara says these things deliberately to needle me, but his manner is so casual and offhand, it’s hard to tell for sure.

  “I don’t think anything. How you make your money, whether it’s through music or working for Joe Killeen’s father is up to you. I’m heading home.” This time when he gets to his feet, Mike Meara stays going. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it gets me every time, the way he always knows everything. I can feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck as he disappears into the night.

  Like I say, sometimes it’s hard to gauge how much of a friend Mike Meara really is, but he’s right about one thing. I need to get a new album out. Part of me wishes he’d stayed to chat, because now I’m on my own again and I’d rather face Kit in company. It looks better, less desperate. Kit Lawless isn’t my type and she doesn’t fascinate me against my better judgement in the same way Felice Carr does. No, there’s just one thing about Kit that interests me and that’s Tully Cabe. She’s a way to get to him. It’s time for me to order, but I don’t want the barman, I want Kit. I move up to her end of the bar. She barely gives me a second glance as I ask for another pint.

  “So,” I say to her, “Tully too big a rock star to go out with you these days?”

  Her fists clench and her throat tightens as she chokes out the words, “Fuck you, Mac!”

  I’d laugh except I’ve already dug myself into a deep enough hole, but it was too good an opening to resist.

  Chapter 3

  Next day, I slip into Sean Killeen’s office after lunch. Believe it or not, his new secretary cum receptionist is Tully Cabe’s mother, Anne Marie. She’s part time and only works mornings, so she’s not around, though there is a discreet photo of Tully tucked into a corner of the reception desk, beside the phone. Everywhere I go, that cheery bastard is grinning at me, a reminder of all that I’m missing out on and that he’s the one who’s getting the fame and glory that should rightfully be mine.

  Anne Marie has a pile of magazines shoved into a rack on the floor behind her chair. Every single one of them has either a cover or an inside spread devoted to the wild success of Four and charismatic lead singer, Tully Cabe. I pull out a random issue and go through into the empty office. I sit down at Sean Killeen’s desk in his swivel chair, push aside one of the many piles of paper, light a cigarette, put my feet up on the desk and put the phone on speaker as I dial Joe’s mobile number. Then I flick idly through the magazine as I wait for him to pick up.

  Inside there’s another photo of Tully, while the article is full of the usual shite, all about how Four has taken the US by storm with two Billboard awards, an unheard of triumph for an unknown band from Europe. It goes on about how the six week tour keeps being extended due to popular demand, and reminds us that Four have now been on the road in the USA selling out every venue they play for a phenomenal three months, and there’s still no sign of them coming home. It seems like the more they perform, the more people want to see them.

  The writer's name on the rave article stops me in my tracks –– Spike O’Toole. He’s someone else who got his first break from me. After our hit with ‘Plagued by You’, he had his tongue out to interview me and was falling over himself when I finally agreed to speak to him. It was a huge deal for Spike at the time, and it didn’t do me any harm either. His interview headline, ‘Mac Whitehead: The Man Behind the Myth’ made the cover of Dublin Music Mag with a picture of me beside it. It was a pretty cool photo and I still have a copy of that issue. Though I saw it more as a sign of things to come, that was pretty much the height of my success with Black Death because the band broke up a few months later.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9