Exposing Dallas

By Lindsay Mawson

Famed musician Dallas Korbin is about to play the biggest show of his career at Madison Square Garden. He has been trying to ignore the unsettling dreams, the ringing in his ears, the desperate screams of a little boy... and the blood. Tormented by a sudden inexplicable affliction, he finds himself following instinct to confirm if these dreams are more than just that. What he stumbles upon is a dangerous secret and news that will change his life forever. Suddenly, he is being hunted by not just an assassin but also by police, and the only way to escape this mess is by exposing the secret to the world. But at what price?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsay Mawson
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476267418

Lindsay Mawson

Lindsay Mawson grew up in Southwestern Ontario, spending much of her time delving into the creative. Many of her teenage and young-adult years were spent writing fiction. When she was not doing that, you could find her sketching lifelike portraits of celebrities, family, pets, including those by commission. Visit Graphite Portraits or more info.Lindsay is married with two children living on a hobby farm in SW Ontario. Among two dogs and two cats, their family consists of a number of chickens and a few rabbits. She is the author of three novels and many short stories, which can be found on www.lmawson.com and on her blog.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

JUBILANT SCREAMING, HANDS desperately reaching. The voices resonated as one collective sound, akin to the echoing roar of a vast waterfall, or the ever-heightening rumble of an inferno.

Occasionally, individual cries were distinct.

"Dallas!"

Though the sky was the colour of charcoal, lofty lighting towers on either side of the entrance shed a brilliant glow, and the one thousand watts emanating from each metal halide fixture blinded him. He shielded his eyes from the glare, and consequently from hundreds of camera flashes, despite that this action would be frowned upon by fans and the media.

"Dallas, I love you!"

Love. It was such a subjective topic, and one he hated to get into. He had somehow found himself cynical of its existence, and this was not for a lack of pursuit. Maybe he had come close a few times in the past, but those relationships had clearly failed, hence his enduring scepticism.

Now, platonic love he was well acquainted with, as well as this kind of love. The screaming, cheering, and adoring bond between fan and musician formed the gears of a symbiotic relationship unlike any he had ever experienced. He cherished this kind of love, imbibed it like a drug.

Dallas, tell me how you’re feeling tonight!

He offered Marci, host of the entertainment-news television show True Celebrity a sideways glance. A rookie to her job, she seemed not to realize that thrusting a microphone up her interviewee’s nostrils was not bound to elicit courteous responses to her questions. But considering he, too, was relatively new to this scene—if being almost two years into a successful stage in his career could still count him a novice—who was he to pass judgement?

"Feeling amazing! he replied with a clap of his hands, a tad excessive on the exuberance for the sake of those watching on television. How are you tonight, Marci?" Steady bursts of adrenaline spiralled from his hands, through his arms, and into his back, causing him to shiver. It was as good as any high.

"I’m doing great, Dallas, thank you for asking! Such a gentleman, as always! Can you tell me how the band feels to have been nominated for the Rock Album of the Year award?"

Rock Album of the Year. No five words sounded better together. Only three other bands had been nominated for this honour, all with less than half the success that he and his friends had met during these past twelve months.

"Dallas!"

Helpless to stop himself, he turned towards the voice. Standing behind the barriers between the crowd and the red carpet was a young blonde eagerly removing her white tank top. Now that she had his attention, she chucked it over the rail at him, and it landed just feet away. His eyes caught the black heart tattoo above her left breast as she worked on unclasping her hot pink bra. Just seconds before the fan had a chance to present Dallas with her assets security was escorting her off the premises.

Someone brushed past him and leaned into the microphone. It’s truly an honour, and of course, without our fans, we wouldn’t be here tonight! Jeff leaned back and offered Dallas a supportive wink.

Dallas turned back to Marci now, noting the video camera to the left of her head and that formidable flashing red light that warned him he was blowing the interview. It was challenging him for more. He had never been a fan of video cameras; he preferred the vague human memory to the everlasting, durable digital record. With time, memories forgot unpleasant events, mistakes, and foolish actions. Film did not.

Sorry! he yelled into the microphone. There’s so much commotion; I don’t know how you can concentrate! Like Jeff said, the band is extremely appreciative that we are able to be at the Grammys tonight, representing our small piece of the rock world!

So modest— Marci continued to speak, but Dallas heard none of her successive words, his interest drawn by other passing celebrities and music greats that he had only ever dreamt of meeting.

A man’s voice echoed from somewhere behind him. "Hey, Dallas!"

Dallas resisted the impulse to turn around, to offer one particular fan more attention than he did another, but the caller remained persistent.

"Dallas! Hey, Dallas!"

The tone was urgent now, the innate frustration, anger, and hate difficult to miss, and so too was the deep Southern drawl. The owner of the voice sounded like he was looking for a fight.

"How will you feel if Dallas Korbin walks away a winner?" Marci asked.

The damned microphone’s foamy cover was suddenly touching his right cheek, and it felt moist, perhaps owing to the humidity of the atmosphere or the billions of microscopic spit droplets that had flown from dozens of mouths that evening. Repulsed, he pulled away from the mike and pivoted back towards Marci.

Uh—

"Dallas! I need your help!" the Southerner shouted.

Frustrated and distracted now, Dallas turned his back on Marci to meet the fans and explore the crowd for faces that he might recognize.

"Dallas!"

The voice was coming from the direction of the road.

Dallas? Marci called. Do you care to add anything to what your band members have just said?

Have just said? He had not heard them comment. He shook his head and stepped away from her, towards the street, where limousines lined up to drop off their VIP passengers.

"Dallas!"

An abrupt, crushing blow rocked his body just then, forcing him to stumble backwards. Agonizing pain exploded from the center of his torso and blasted into every appendage. It then tore into his brain, where every cell seemed to shatter into white light.

As though the shooter had been standing miles away rather than just fifty feet, the sound of the gunshot was belated, reverberating all around him, through him, a shockwave of immense proportion.

Jovial cheers transformed into petrified screams, and as a murky gray haze began to settle over his vision, he saw onlookers collapsing to the ground to take cover from the threat.

In his last few moments of consciousness, Dallas allowed his gaze to drop to his torso. Blood was diffusing across his white button-up shirt from a series of holes that had moments ago not existed. He held a trembling hand to his chest and then lifted it to his face.

Blood slid down his fingers and palm, onto the cuff of the suede jacket that he had been asked to wear—but damned if he could remember the designer’s name at this particular moment; he was bound to be asked at some point tonight.

Well… maybe not now.

His rapid, thunderous heartbeat swiftly began to decelerate, flounder, and his lungs refused to draw air. He squinted through the deepening darkness into the direction of the faceless shooter—faceless not because he was wearing a mask, but because a strange blur, like what one might see on television masking nudity, concealed it. The Southerner was still peering through the scope of the shotgun gripped tightly in his hands.

The last thing Dallas saw before the world grew dark was a wisp of smoke drifting from the muzzle into the damp evening air.

CHAPTER | 1

DALLAS AWOKE WITH a cry lodged in his throat. Even before opening his eyes, his instincts compelled him to scramble out of the blankets, away from the threat of demise, and away from the scorching pain that was still all too real.

The crown of his head connected with something unyielding and a sharp sting zipped through his skull, a dull throb following quickly in its wake. When he opened his eyelids, he found on three sides of him wooden panelled wall that had seen better days. Near his feet was a hole, the wall no doubt kicked in during an evening of action far more interesting than what he had seen lately. Grazing his scalp was another bunk.

Jeff was kneeling to his right with a lighter in his hand. A small flame danced from the wick.

Something stunk.

Dallas grabbed his head with a moan, felt the onset of a goose egg, and tried to gather his thoughts. He was not at the Grammys, but a passenger of a reeking tour bus, on which his band had spent nearly two full days in closed quarters with little reprieve.

Which meant he had not been shot. The relief of this realization was a cool, crashing wave. A moment of vertigo seized him. He gripped the bedframe overhead to avoid being swept away in the undercurrent.

In the aisle behind Jeff hovered Sean and Mike, hunched forwards and waiting on bated breath, as though preparing to witness a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, one that required full attention if they were not to miss it. At Dallas’s bewildered expression, all three men burst into laughter.

He grabbed his head again, hoping that the pressure would dull the throbbing. Despite having established that he was not in immediate danger, his heart still pounded. The light-headedness soon passed and left a searing headache in its place.

What the fuck are you guys doing? he grumbled.

Jeff laughed behind tight lips.

The burning in his torso, that which he had already written off as being the result of a morbid dream, grew increasingly evident. Though he loathed falling victim to his own paranoia, Dallas peered down at his stomach to find that he had become the guinea pig of some sick experiment performed by some simple-minded idiots.

How are you feeling this morning, buddy? Jeff let the lighter flame die and smiled.

The hairs on Dallas’s abdomen, specifically the ones that took residence in the vicinity of his belly button, had been singed off. Some were now black rather than brown, and some were white. When he rubbed his hand across his toned stomach, feeling, to his dismay, the early stages of a forming beer gut (touring life was not conducive to keeping fit), the white hairs turned to a powdery ash on his fingers.

Well, that explained the terrible smell that had overtaken the sleeping quarters. Dallas groaned, not quite annoyed enough and too lethargic to give them a good rebuking, and leaned back on the bunk. With his ear to the pillow, he could hear the strangely soothing hum of the bus’s engine.

I honestly didn’t think one person could hold that much tequila back without puking, man. Kudos. Sean leaned forwards and slapped him on the left shoulder, the one to the air.

Tequila, that God-awful stuff.

It occurred to him then that maybe the buckshot to the stomach was reminiscent of the liquor burning a hole through his digestive system.

Did I at least win the poker game? Dallas mumbled, not that he particularly cared. The buy-in was five bucks; he had hardly been seeking to fill the piggy bank. Really, he just wanted to change the subject.

His head pounded both from the bump and from what he recognized now as a hangover. Tequila. He hated tequila. How had they managed to lure him into that one? And he had gotten so drunk that he could not remember half the night? He was abruptly thankful that they had been trapped on this bus with nowhere to go, nowhere to get into trouble.

Mike snorted and turned away. Yeah, sure, buddy. You won.

Jeff and Sean could not hold back their laughter now. The three men were just short of rolling around on the floor in their amusement.

"What? Dallas demanded, now feeling the required energy seeping into his system. He sat up. Don’t tell me something you know I won’t want to hear."

All right. Jeff stood up and followed Mike to the front of the bus.

Sean remained. "You, uh… Do you remember anything from last night, Dally?"

Dallas attempted to reach that far back into his memory, to pull out something useful, but he could not even remember what they had eaten for dinner the previous evening. He shook his head and squeezed his eyeballs with his right hand, which only resulted in more pain.

Remember when we stopped for gas? Outside of Columbus?

Now he vaguely remembered the bright neon sign of the adjacent truck-stop restaurant, the one glowing 2 -Ho r Break ast, a few letters having burnt out. He also recalled someone shouting "Two whores! Brake fast!" as the building came into view.

Dallas shook his head anyway. These slight details were not worth mentioning when no other useful memories followed.

You mooned a cop.

Laughter erupted from the front of the bus.

Like hell I did, Dallas grumbled. He had never mooned anyone but his sister when he was twelve years old, she six. She had given him the exact reaction he had been hoping for, too, scrambling up from her Barbie playhouse, screaming like a banshee, slamming the door in his face. He had not mooned anyone since, at least not while sober.

But Sean’s shrewd smirk indicated that he was far from lying. The bassist snatched a yellow slip of paper from the kitchenette countertop behind him and held it up before his eyes. Here’s your citation.

Dallas shook his head and cursed, then seized the ticket from Sean’s grip. He tried to focus on the page, allowing time for his eyes to adjust after a night of beer-goggle vision. There were just a few words at the center of the slip.

This is a joke, right?

Sean slapped his shoulder again and broke into hysterical laughter. At the jolting impact, the tequila rumbling around in Dallas’s gut threatened to reappear.

You’ve even got the cops wrapped around your little finger, Dal.

Don’t worry! Jeff yelled from the front of the bus. You only made out with her on the hood of her squad car. We didn’t have time for you to go back to her place… or behind a dumpster.

All right, all right, enough bullshit, Dallas muttered. He closed his eyes and tried in vain to recall something from the previous evening. His memory faded when they had completed half a game of poker, which, at the time, he had not been winning. "What the hell were you guys doing?" he demanded, eyes closed.

At two in the morning? Mike called. Getting breakfast, what else?

Jeff reappeared beside Dallas with a can of orange juice in his hand. "If it’s any consolation, she was hot. Dark hair pulled back in a tight bun under that little police cap, tits out to here… She liked how forceful you were with her, but it looked like she could take you down in one hit it she needed to. Want to see?"

Dallas opened his eyes again and glanced at Jeff. See what? What are you talking about?

Jeff held his cell phone out to Dallas, who now peered hard at the LCD screen. Sure enough, there he was, his arm wrapped around a policewoman’s shoulders, standing with a blithe and cocky posture before her squad car. Both he and the woman were smiling, and it was clear by the way he leaned into her for support that he had been hammered. But the guys were right; she was gorgeous.

It was a shame he had no recollection of it.

Shit, he groaned and collapsed back on the bed. "Never again, got it? Don’t ever let me drink that much again."

Don’t worry, Jeff said, Mike was as liquored up as you—he was the instigator. Anyway, you just wait until we’re touring with the big timers, the ones that have thirty years of insane after-parties under their belts. You won’t know what hit you. Have to work on our tolerance now, big boy.

Dallas cringed and felt a burning bubble of old tequila fumes rising into his oesophagus. The idea of drinking ever again made him want to vomit. I’ll think I’ll save my liver until I really need it, then. Where are we?

Jeff glanced out the window, though with the random buildings passing at such a considerable rate, there was no way to mark their exact location. We’ll be at the drop point in about an hour.

Drop point. Jeff made it sound like they were about to perform a substantial drug deal rather than the biggest concert of their careers in the city that never sleeps, New York City. Home.

Exhausted, Dallas fought the blankets for his tangled left wrist and gazed at his watch. 10:01 AM. Wake me up when we’re there, he said and yanked the sheets over his head.

CHAPTER | 2

HE RAN HIS hand along the smooth, hard surface of the brand new Dodge Viper SRT10 Roadster in Anaconda Green Pearl—no, caressed it would be more aptly put. Up the sleek vented hood, across the narrow driver’s side mirror, up the frame of the windshield. He peered inside. Leather seats that curved with one’s body, slick dashboard features with RPM and MPH gauges that climbed higher than those did of any other vehicle he had ever driven. He had to be careful not to drool.

It’s all yours, an ambiguous voice said from miles away.

Pulled out of his trance, Dallas peeked up at the salesman, Burt, from the corner of his eye with as little attention as he would pay a foreign tourist standing before the Empire State Building. The car was beckoning him again, calling his name, crooning, Dallas, come sit down. Stay for a while, handsome. We’re gonna be great friends, you and I.

Burt held out his hand, the keys dangling in his clutch like glimmering wind chimes. Dallas mechanically lifted his hand and let the keys fall into his grasp with a soft jingle. An excited chill coursed his body.

Take care of her, Burt said with a smile. "Treat her like your lover. In fact, treat her better that your lover; this one won’t make you sleep on the couch when you’ve been out all night, am I right?" He nudged Dallas with an elbow and a wink as though the two shared a dirty secret.

Lucky I’m not stuck in that trap, then, Dallas said with a wince of a smirk. Sometimes it was difficult to convince others that he did not want to be in a relationship. Living an existence of upheaval with a complete lack of routine and sense of a true home grew to be taxing on the soul.

This car, though, it would elevate his spirits for a while, maybe even for a few months, and distract him from all of that. He gripped the keys, delayed shock now setting in. Burt nodded a goodbye and then moseyed back to his own vehicle.

Dallas glanced up at the two tour buses, which were parked on a diagonal across the tarmac of the commercial-vehicle refuelling station. Much of the crew had stopped there as well for a bathroom break, a bite to eat, and, of course, fuel, but many of them had gone on to the venue with the equipment. As he watched the scene, the rest of his band stepped off the first bus, each man inhaling a deep breath of fresh air and arching his head towards the warm sun. Luggage in tow, they headed in Dallas’s direction.

Jeff cheered at the sight of the Viper. "You, my friend, are driving me home."

Dallas grinned, offered his new baby an admiring glance, and peered to his right, where Jeff’s sister waited patiently by her old Ford Escort. Don’t think Tara will appreciate having driven an hour and a half just to watch you drive away in a car that could eat hers for lunch.

Jeff shrugged. She can follow us, admire our ride from behind.

"My ride, Dallas corrected and twirled the keys around his index finger. Besides, I’m stopping at my apartment before I head out to Smithtown."

Mike shuffled over to the Viper, but his attention was on the ground rather than Dallas’s new acquisition as he shouted into his cell phone. Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you in how many goddamned weeks and now you leave me high and dry like this? Thanks a lot, Nikki. Why do you have to be such a bitch sometimes?

Dallas’s chest tensed and the eavesdroppers waited on edge for Mike to speak again. The same question was likely bouncing through all of their minds: what had Nikki done this time to warrant such a reaction? It was true that Mike was more liberal with his profanities than the rest of the band, but the word bitch had rarely slipped off his tongue in relation to his girlfriend.

"Are you going to at least grace me with your fucking presence at dinner? Mike demanded. Silence. Yeah. Whatever. He pulled the phone away from his ear and ended the call. Fuck you, too, he spat and then glared up at the rest of them. I think she’s leaving me."

Dallas, Jeff, and Sean each grumbled something to the effect of No, she’s not, until Mike chucked his cell phone across the tarmac. It did not shatter as Dallas thought it might, but instead clacked and bounced twice.

She’s been fucking cheating on me, he said. "I know it… I know it."

You don’t know anything, man. I’m sure she’s dying to see you, Jeff said, ever the diplomat.

Mike shook his head. "We’ll see about that. Says she has a condo showing, but it’s probably a showing of a different kind—showing of assets. He paused and then sighed. Looks like I’m cabbing ‘er home. I’ll see you guys tomorrow." He trekked towards his phone, eyes to the ground, and retrieved it from a shallow pothole. He gave it a once over, deemed it okay, and then headed back towards Dallas. His despondent expression was impossible to ignore.

Dallas conceded. I’ll give you a ride, Mikey. He pressed a button on the key remote. The trunk of the Viper popped open with a soft click.

Sean gave them a wave and turned away. Nice wheels, Dal! See you boys tomorrow. He hurried towards a black BMW where his fiancée, Sarah, was waiting against the hood, arms and ankles crossed, long hair down in a messy but sexy do. Sean was going to have fun tonight. At least that made one of them. Sarah and Sean greeted each other with a passionate, groping embrace almost too risqué to watch without feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

Right, I’m off, Jeff said, peeling his eyes away from the bassist’s romantic reunion. Later.

Dallas and Mike both gave a distracted nod, unable to rip their gazes from the scene until Sean and Sarah separated for air. When Dallas surfaced from his stupor, he remembered that he had moments ago popped the trunk of his new darling. He would have to name her, but what? was the million-dollar question.

"She looks like an Elizabeth."

Mike shook his head and stared at the car. "Nah, that’s way too wholesome a name… It has to be something sexier, like Veronica."

"That is not sexy, Dallas replied. That name reminds me of the girl in high school—you know, Veronica Massey? Lots of zits? Scraggly hair? Pug nose? Don’t you remember she had a crush on you in freshman year?"

Mike snorted. Right, forgot about her. Okay, now you’ve tainted that name for me… He thought for a moment. Well, if the names of wrinkly old queens get your motor running, at least call her Lizzy or something. It has a more playful ring.

Sounds like a stripper, Dallas said with a smirk and lifted the trunk hatch. Their gym bags should fit just fine. He gently stuffed his own into the trunk and pushed it aside. As the drummer did the same, Dallas warned, Watch her paint job.

*

THEY SAY ONE can never know true power until they feel it between their thighs, referring to the thrill of riding a motorcycle—say a Harley or a Chopper, or even one of the sports models, like a Ducati.

Piloting the Viper (the ground version, not the jet) was probably comparable, maybe better, but instead of the power being between his thighs, it was all around him, beneath him, on top of him. He was encased in a sleek package of pure adrenaline. Six hundred horsepower under his control was three times what he had ever personally managed.

To be honest, he became paranoid to touch the gas paddle. With its 8.4 litre, V10 engine, the car could accelerate to sixty miles an hour in under four seconds. The slightest pressure on the throttle caused the car to rock forwards with an unexpected jerk and a ferocious growl of the engine, treating both occupants to a nice case of whiplash. Subsequently, he would slam on the breaks to avoid rear-ending the vehicle in front of him.

Twice, Dallas stalled the car at a red light, though he had considered himself a master of stick shift prior to this occasion. Mike silently endured Dallas’s lack of skill in driving a vehicle suitable for a racetrack the entire ride, stewing in his own anger.

It’ll be fine, Dallas said as they waited for a light to turn green. The honking of the city traffic only aggravated what remained of his hangover.

"You don’t know, Dallas, Mike said. I called her after the show in Phoenix and she was completely distracted, wasn’t paying attention to a fucking thing I was saying. I could… I could hear things in the background, like kissing noises. She was probably giving some new guy head at the same goddamned time."

That would be talent, Dallas muttered and seized a deep breath. He held it as he pondered Mike’s words. Maybe… maybe she was watching a movie or something. Maybe she has a secret porn fetish.

Mike shook his head. "Nah, she was giggling at shit that wasn’t remotely funny, like there was someone else in the room with her. She kept the conversation brief, too. I think this is it. If she actually shows up for dinner, I think she’s ending it. Five years down the drain. Poof! Up in smoke."

Dallas did not reply. He knew that nothing he suggested would be contemplated, and in all likelihood, Mike was right about Nikki. Dallas had never really liked her. He could carry out a civil conversation with her, but by no means would he consider it a loss if she were no longer around. She was simple-minded and, yeah, a bitch—Mike had that one right. She acted more like his mother when they were together than his lover, which was a complete turn-off.

He pulled up to Mike’s building on East End Drive and gave him an encouraging pat on the back as he exited the car. When Mike retrieved his things from the trunk, he gave a quick wave and stole up the front walkway. Dallas revved the engine with a smirk and Mike turned back to give the thumbs up, allowing a hint of a smile to touch his lips.

Unlocking the deadbolt of his Park Avenue apartment was a relief, particularly because Dallas knew what waited behind it. He had barely pushed the door open when a squeal erupted from inside and arms wrapped around his neck.

"Dally!"

He stumbled backwards and dropped his bag with a smile. Meghan—hi! He hugged her back.

I’ve missed you so much! she exclaimed and pulled out of the hug.

His sister had dyed her blonde hair a deep auburn and it appeared that her nose ring had increased in size.

I’ve missed you too. What’s with the hair?

She ran her fingers through it. Oh, like it? I think it fits the persona I’m trying to portray, right?

Persona?

Meghan slumped in her spot and sighed. Yeah… How about we skip mom and dad’s tonight and go get drunk or something?

Dallas knew this was not a good sign. His sister was generally excited to see their parents, being the youngest and therefore spoiled. What did you do, Megs? He meandered into the living room of the open concept apartment and plopped down on the couch.

She mimicked his actions and released a vocal sigh. I dropped out.

"You dropped out? Of college? Again?"

Meghan nodded and looked shamefully down at her hands. I’ve got a job, a proper paying job. Full time.

Doing what?

Meghan smiled, crossed her legs, and allowed her excitement to show. "Tattooing! It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, you know that! I love it! I’ve been there about a month."

Dallas sighed and realized that his visit this evening would not be as pleasant as he had expected it to be. They’re going to be pissed.

I know, she said, "but summer classes suck, on top of my lack of interest in the program. Anyway, that’s why I was hoping you’d ditch with me… So, how was the drive to New York? You didn’t get into any trouble, did you?"

Dallas glanced up at his little sister and decided that the truth was too embarrassing to speak of. Of course not. You know me, I’m a good boy.

*

WHEN THEY ARRIVED in Smithtown, Long Island, Dallas felt a sense of nostalgia, though it had only been four months since the band had last visited home. As teenagers, he, Jeff, and Mike had lived within only a four-block radius of one another. Going home reminded them of the good ol’ days, being kids without a care in the world and having big dreams. Though he wanted to stay longer, their time in New York was to be brief. In two days, they would be heading back to their temporary home in Los Angeles, City of Angels, the city of eternal smog.

Here we go, Meghan murmured as they stepped up to the front door. Pray for me. I’ll need it.

The talk went about as well has he had thought it would: badly. He tried to stand up for Meghan but wanted to stay out of the firing line. When things had settled down, the family exchanged small talk but never delved into anything much deeper than what cities Dallas Korbin had recently visited, or when his mother had acquired a second Michelin Star for the restaurant at which she was head chef. His father asked if Dallas had any new prospective girlfriends; he answered a bitter no.

I’m too busy right now for a woman, he had muttered before swallowing a large gulp of beer.

It was not entirely untrue, either. The band was always busy. But Dallas was no saint, and had experienced his share of flings. One thing he had learned from this was that no matter how demanding life was, there was always time for women, relationship or not.

*

DALLAS AND MEGHAN left as early as they could. He retreated to his bed upon arriving home and lay awake for a while, staring at the stuccoed ceiling with only the light of the television illuminating the room. Despite his best efforts, his mind returned to his nightmare.

He felt the burning of the buckshot-tequila-lighter as though they were a fresh wound, and he rubbed his abdomen. The skin was a little sensitive now, the heat of the lighter having likely kissed the top layer many times, but everything felt whole, as it should.

CHAPTER | 3

THE LIGHT THAT emanated from the sun behind the hardwood canopies sparkled all around him. Though the treetops billowed in the breeze, he felt no sensation of wind on his skin. He might have considered it a perfectly still day if not for the frenzied quivering of the leaves and the dancing of shadows on the long grass in which he stood.

On all sides of him, cicadas were in full song, their long, high-pitched, hissing buzz swallowing him in a common chant. Yet, despite the peacefulness of his environment, not one bird sang, their silence prompted by the crackle of feet stepping over twigs and dead foliage some yards from him.

The sound of the footsteps filled him with dread.

Dallas peered through the dense forest surrounding him but failed to find anyone approaching. Standing at the center of a small clearing only twenty feet in diameter, on lush grass that was so green it was almost blue, he could find no indication of how he had even arrived here.

"Dallas…"

The whispering voice seemed to lure him from all sides, lacking a source, but as unmistakable as that Southern drawl he had already grown to fear.

As Dallas prepared to turn around in search of his stalker, fire ignited within him. As it raged from his lower back throughout his body, he staggered the one hundred and eighty degrees to discover the faceless man. There he stood with a seven-inch blade in his hand, the wooden handle of the hunting knife detailed with bronze plates and engraved with letters that were indecipherable from Dallas’s angle. The blade looked like a collector’s item, a weapon of the nineteenth century, maybe, from the days of the cowboys.

Blood dripped from the serrated blade, streaking the grass at their feet. As Dallas’s mind tried to process what was happening, the faceless man leaned close. The choking scent of his cologne flooded Dallas’s nostrils and united with the pain, devastating the last of his courage. Vertigo was eroding his senses. He dropped to his knees.

That’ll teach y’all for sticking your noses where they don’t belong.

Too weak to question, Dallas touched the wound lying overtop of his left kidney, and felt the warmth. His hand returned glazed with blood.

He lifted his eyes to the faceless man, horrified and bewildered. Taking advantage of Dallas’s moment of shock and defencelessness, the Southerner lunged, driving the knife deep into his victim’s heart.

*

DALLAS SAT UP in bed, unable to stifle his cry of terror this time. In panic, he grasped at his chest and back, combing for injuries, while simultaneously searching the darkness for his attacker.

When he realized that his body was intact, his nerves began to unwind. In an attempt to keep control of his anxiety, he turned his attention to the glowing television.

Just a dream.

He seized a deep breath and strained to build a brick wall in his mind around the nightmare, behind which the incubus might quiver in its struggle to break free of its enclosure, but behind which it could not be seen or accessed. Yet, because his heart was still racing, adrenaline still pumping, and because the sweat that had moistened his skin was now cooling and further chilling him, forgetting was not so simple.

Disconcerted, he sighed and lied back down. He rarely dreamed, and even rarer were nightmares. Experiencing two within twenty-four hours, two with the same faceless man, and two involving his own death, was nothing less than unnerving. What had he said to Dallas? That he should not have gotten involved?

Involved in what?

He closed his eyes and tried to slow his respiration.

"You’re watching MTV," the television advised him.

He could turn the TV down, or off, but now the darkness seemed too pressing. He simply listened.

"Thanks for tuning in to True Celebrity! I’m your host, Marci Adams! Tonight we’ll cover the hot new sensation in the music world, Dallas Korbin; actress of the new hit comedy, My Friend, Sherry Moore; and stay tuned to the end of the show to find out who has won the grand prize of our contest, Can You Guess These Lips?

"First of the evening is Dallas Korbin. Tomorrow night the band will be rocking New York City at Madison Square Garden alongside Irksome Night. All nineteen-thousand tickets have been sold, so I am sorry to tell you that if you have not purchased yours by now, it’s too late, folks! Let’s take a quick look back at Dallas Korbin’s whirlwind career so far!"

Dallas sighed and glanced at Marci on the TV. Her voice was as bubbly and annoying as it had been in his dream on the tour bus.

That dream.

He closed his eyes.

"Last year, we were bestowed with the band’s first hit single, Let Me Go, which remained at the top of the charts for fifteen consecutive weeks. Since then, we have been graced with another three hits, all of which have done equally well. Their latest hit, Cheated, is in its seventh week of being in the top ten of our music billboard.

"From pounding the pavement in New York City for gigs, to touring the United States with Irksome Night on the Far Away Gone tour, it’s safe to say that Dallas Korbin has lit a spark in the hearts of many fans of the rock world. This is not mentioning the adoring female fans that follow the band merely because its members could moonlight as Calvin Klein models! The fates that threw these four men together sure knew what they were doing!"

Dallas snorted. Models? That was a new one, but hardly unappreciated. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair to push it out of his face.

"Dallas Korbin has sold almost two million albums since its debut last August, Within the Shackles continuing to generate sales as quickly as the day of its release. Here is what the band had to say about their success."

Dallas attempted to recall the interview from last week, thought that maybe he could repeat the words he had spoken. However, rather than picking the lines that the band typically used, the ones where they thanked the fans and their loved ones for support, etcetera, etcetera, the show’s producers picked candid moments to air.

Sometimes it gets to be a bit much, his voice was suddenly saying, a laugh insinuated in his tone. I never thought in a million years that the paparazzi would give a shit about me using the john at a gas station, or where I sometimes buy my coffee.

How has it been for you guys? Jeff? Marci asked.

Jeff, their lead guitarist, laughed. Hey, I love it. This is what I’ve always wanted to do, so… the paparazzi come with the territory, I suppose.

"But there have been times were I could have decked some of those bast—fellers," Mike added, making an honest effort not to swear. His outspokenness and quick temper were what the drummer was known for best.

Sean remained quiet during this conversation. He had never been one for public speaking.

What about you, Sean? Marci probed.

Sean paused and cleared his throat, audibly nervous. Well, I… It’s just been amazing, he said. That was the end of that.

Marci giggled, but in as professional a manner as possible. So, when can we expect your next album to hit the stores? This question had been directed at Dallas, lead singer, songwriter, and rhythm guitarist.

He opened his eyes now to analyze his expression for signs of the pressure that he had felt while answering her question. Well, we’ll be back in the studio once the tour is complete and we’ve had a bit of a rest, but within the month. It’s quite a deadline, and we’ll really have to buckle down, but we plan to have a finished product for our fans before Christmas.

Buckle down. The phrase was okay, but he should have said that they would have to put the pedal to the metal; it was more suitable to describe how quickly and diligently they would have to work in the