Bobbi's Canon: Round 2

By Barbara E. Stefano

Still reeling from unimaginable loss, Bobbi Lane struggles to find her footing again with a new band, a new bachelorette pad, new notoriety ... and new love?

But things are never quite that simple in the mixed-up, muddled, shook-up world of bar minions and egotistic musicians. Just when things start looking up, a perfect storm of manipulations and betrayals sends the vulnerable singer into an irrevocable collision course with fate--with tragic results.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara E. Stefano
• Release date: May 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310892448

Barbara E. Stefano

Barbara E. Stefàno is a professional ghostwriter, freelance news and features writer and editor, and an amateur musician with a long history with bands in St. Louis and surrounding areas. She lives in rural Missouri with her husband, Enzo, and her three rescue dogs, Tweak, Butters and the irrepressible Tilly.

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Barbara E. Stefàno

Bobbi’s Canon: Round 2

Copyright © 2015 by Barbara E. Stefàno

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

For more information:

www.BarbaraEStefano.com

eBook design by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

ISBN-13: 978-0692440612 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0692440615 (pbk)

Dedication

Bobbi’s Canon: Round 2 is dedicated to Dave Harmon, a fellow musician and friend who passed away in 2013 after a long career of bringing joy to others through music. The consummate musician he was, he left us wanting more. Dave was the last bassist I had the pleasure of performing with—the musical and human heart of band—and was truly one of the sweetest men on Earth. You’ll see Dave’s inspiration pop up in the tenderness of Rodney and the unabashed affection and enthusiasm of Tad—and, most of all, in the love of music that runs throughout.

Acknowledgements

I want to acknowledge my niece, Dawn Herbert, who was kind enough to beta read not just one, but two books for me, all while in the midst of intensive college coursework and being an amazing mom of two. Dawn, both rounds of Bobbi’s Canon are infinitely better for your having read them and given such pithy feedback.

I also wish to acknowledge the people whose encouraging words kept me going when I needed the support. Many within the Indie Author Group on Facebook prodded me to persevere when I felt I had no other support, and gave valuable advice when I got stuck. There are too many individuals to thank, but many were there with messages of praise and hope at just the right moments. I hope you all know who you are!

Contents

Preface

1: I Fall to Pieces

2: Movin’ Out

3: Down by the River

4: I’m Your Captain

5: A Legal Matter

6: What a Concept

7: Studio 54

8: Crawling Back to You

9: Playing in the Band

10: Turn the Page

11: Hey, Mickey

12: You Can’t See Me

13: I Lie Around

14: The Morning After

15: Don’t Speak

16: Talk, Talk, Talk

17: Keep Pushin’

18: Suspicion

19: Bad Moon Rising

20: Wine, Woman and Song

21: Hooked on a Feeling

22: Don’t Dream It’s Over

23: I Don’t Want to Know

24: Pride (In the Name of Love)

25: Rape Me

26: Final Countdown

27: The Warrior

Preface

October 12, 1993

Droplets of blood pit-patted onto the slide of the Springfield 1911 nestled in Bobbi’s lap and she wondered if the wet gun would still fire.

She wondered, for that matter, if she remembered to insert the magazine after loading the rounds. A frantic check of the gun confirmed the presence of ammo, but in that moment of inattention to the road, the passenger side wheels of the Grand Prix dropped off the blacktop. Bobbi wrested them back over the curb, and the sudden jolt brought on a fresh gush of blood from her mangled nose.

Shit …

Swiping the stream from her lips with the back of her pistol hand, she willed the shuddering to stop. Every muscle in her body ached right down to the bone, but most galling was the sharp, searing pain between her legs. She was sure she was still bleeding there, too.

Mickey Green, you’re a fucking dead man, she croaked between gritted teeth, stepping on the gas harder the nearer she got to Handsome Dan’s Bar & Grill.

I’ll shoot off his dick first, she thought. It would be a fate worse than death for that man-slut.

It wasn’t yet dark, but Dan’s lot was full when Bobbi squalled to a stop, parked askew behind a row of cars near the door. She leapt out, gun in hand, leaving the door open and her car running as she charged through the front entrance of the club.

Mickeeeeeeyyyy!!! Mickey fucking Green, show your face, prick!

I must be a sight. Screeching like a banshee in the middle of the bar with a busted up face and running makeup.

Oh, and carrying a big gun.

But barging through a sea of mostly taller men and women packed into Dan Denny’s bar, Bobbi found most of them focused on her disheveled appearance, oblivious to the weapon that swung at her side out of their sightline. Dan, who stood midway through the kitchen’s swinging doors looking gobsmacked, mutely pointed her toward the back service entrance.

A mic stand propped against the metal door held it open—and there Mickey was, unloading speakers from the back of his battered van. Acting like he hadn’t just beaten and raped a bandmate.

You sick fuck.

Bobbi noted the charred wood of the makeshift bumper and smiled a bit—a twitchy, temblor of a smile. Her heart pounded as she stepped into the open doorway, the sticky Springfield tucked behind her back.

Mickey, you’re gonna be sorry you did what you—shit …

Tonight of all nights, Dickhead Junior had chosen to tag along with his old man to help unload. At thirteen, Little Mickey was too young to attend his dad’s bar gigs, but on rare occasions he rode shotgun to the venue and got a ride back home from Mickey’s girlfriend, Lena, or his mom. The lanky boy hunkered inside the van, handing equipment down to Mickey.

Shaken and petrified, Bobbi slid the Springfield across one of the tables shoved against the wall near the door and concealed it underneath the chairs stacked atop it.

What the hell am I doing? What now?

You fuckin’ cunt!

Before Bobbi could react, Mickey had closed the distance between them. She flicked a hand under the stacked chairs and fumbled for the pistol, her tender fingertips brushing against the hard steel. The enraged Mickey grabbed her wrists, jerked her out of the doorway and pitched her to her knees at the back of the van.

Nice handiwork on the bumper, bitch, he snarled, shoving her face toward the charred wood. But the capper was the fuckin’ soda in the soundboard.

Confused, Bobbi shot a nervous glance toward the service door, now several feet away. Mickey snatched her up by the shoulders and leaned into her face.

You’re fucking lucky my kid’s here, he whispered in her ear, digging his fingers into the flesh of her arms. But you’re going to be very sorry you messed with my studio.

What does he think I’ve done?! Her brain short-circuited—she had no defense against Mickey’s vague accusations, and no physical defense against the accelerating physical threat.

A hair-trigger panic overtook her and she reacted: Pulling one arm loose she served up a quick slap across Mickey’s cheek—and he lost it.

The man let loose with an animalistic howl resonant with hate and rage. His fingers latched onto Bobbi’s neck, and he lifted her off the ground. She clawed at his hands and landed a few more aimless, defensive blows to the side of his head.

With two quick pivots, he slammed her sideways into the open van door, and then tossed her several feet in the opposite direction. Bobbi’s feet hit the ground off-kilter, and her shuffle to regain footing propelled her onto her back into the dirt and gravel of the alley. She rolled over onto her knees and geared up for a run to the door—and the loaded 1911 tucked away inside.

But a kick to the ribs sent her back where she started, splayed out ungracefully in a short skirt that no longer had underwear underneath.

"If you fucking hit me again, I’ll fucking kill you!"

Not if I kill you first, Bobbi thought, gulping air and wincing in pain. Her salvation—and his damnation—was mere feet away.

Jeff Bergman coolly handed Alan Rickard his shop bag, excused himself and stepped behind his ambulance to vomit.

A ten-year veteran EMT, Jeff hadn’t puked on-scene since his sixth month in the field, when he was called upon to intubate an eight-year-old whose lower jaw had been torn from him by his own father in a horrific domestic attack. But one look at the mangled mess in the alley behind Handsome Dan’s, and his fried chicken lunch came up entirely of its own accord. Literally, a gut reaction.

There was something about facial injuries that was universally abhorrent to the men and women in this line anyway. The reaction was more visceral when the violence involved women and children—those most helpless among them. The sin of breaching that obligation to protect the smaller and weaker was cardinal.

As quickly as he had dismissed himself, Jeff calmly stepped back to survey the scene. One skinny, female form with a swollen, pulpy orb where a head was meant to be, one hysterical teenager, and dozens of shell-shocked onlookers getting a gruesome eyeful. He swiped his mustache with the back of his arm and reclaimed his bag from Alan with a casual, ’sup? nod.

Hey, darlin’, you still with us? Jeff pulled on his rubber gloves and knelt over the bleeding woman, leaning close to listen for breath. He placed his hand on her wrist in search of a pulse, his fingertips bobbling along a jagged set of scars that crisscrossed the flexor tendons.

Side-to-side cuts—oh, honey, that’s an amateur mistake. It was how a lot of rookie depressives botched their first suicide attempts, usually on purpose. The ones who meant it did their research. If she wasn’t sincere before, today just might swing it for her, bless her little heart.

A faint throbbing in the wrist.

Alive and kickin’. I had a feeling about you, he drawled reassuringly. You’re a tough little bird, are you not?

There was a depression in Bobbi Lane’s forehead large enough for a murder of crows to bathe in, and her eyes were black and clamped tightly shut. Jeff palpated above and below the dent for additional fractures, and the girl gurgled and twitched. For a brief moment, her right eye sprung open and rolled around wildly; Jeff couldn’t determine if she still had a left eye. Bobbi took a random swing in the air with her left arm, coughed and fell still, groaning.

"Whoa, baby! There’s that fightin’ spirit we like to see. Now channel some of that piss ‘n’ vinegar into a … uh, a good holdin’ still pose, por favor."

Alan fielded a flurry of breathless play-by-plays from the bystanders who closed in on the ambulance, and Jeff listened in.

Where were most of the kicks and punches landing? he asked, holding up a hand in a gesture for calm.

In the fuckin’ face, genius—it’s not rocket surgery, Jeff joked to himself. Gallows humor. Sometimes it was the only way to stay sane after seeing the sickening evil people perpetrated upon one another.

Bobbi sputtered and gasped, and Jeff located the left eye, swaying loose against her broken cheek.

All hands on deck, Al, he called out. Then turning back to his patient, Shh, shh, shh … You’re in good hands now, ‘kay?

You’re safe now.

[ 1 ]

I Fall to Pieces

December 1992

Maneuvering two bodies in a space the size of a Christmas tree box could be a serious mood-killer. But, enough to drag Bobbi from a promising forget-your-sorrows fuck? No, she had voices to drown out, voices that beckoned her to the back of her Grand Prix with a reasonably good-looking and well-hung gent she met in The Dive. A man whose name now escaped her.

Take me, she panted, running a firm hand over the growing bulge in his jeans. Don’t hold back, just fuck me right now.

The plea sounded so desperate and clichéd, but something in the mix of writhing bodies, laughter, and thumping music back in the club brought to mind the departed Robbie Westbrook, and brought Bobbi dangerously close to experiencing feelings. And feelings of late were a burden she felt ill-equipped to bear. The last time she allowed herself that indulgence, the flood of emotions carried her all the way to a boat launch on the Mississippi with a razor and bottles of assorted pills in her lap, ready for an encore of her last failed exit attempt.

Bobbi pushed the young man back onto the back seat and straddled him, making a grab for the buttons of his Levis. Rattled, the gentleman, a curly-topped man of about thirty, fumbled with her shirttail, becoming more hesitant the more forceful she became. She kissed him. He pulled back.

Don’t you want to, uh … talk a little? he asked.

Bobbi tried to conceal her irritation. No, I wouldn’t be jamming my tongue down your gullet if I wanted to converse. She so did not want to get to know him better. It was terrible, she knew, but there it was.

Well, what would you like to talk about, handsome? she asked, saccharine-sweet and wholly insincere. Leaning in close, she shimmied out of her slacks, nuzzling the man’s ear and popping loose the top two buttons of his button fly.

Uh, nothing. Nothing at all. Emboldened, the young man lifted Bobbi’s shirt over her head and pulled it off. When he fondled her breasts, she redirected his hands to her satin panties.

Rip ’em off, she instructed him. The man cocked his head to the side as though he couldn’t possibly have heard her order correctly. She folded his fingers tightly around the soft fabric at the hip.

Give it a tug. Hard. He looked at her uncertainly, and she nodded.

With a quick, sharp yank right at the side seam, he pulled the satin open with relative ease. Bobbi worked her hands behind her back and unfasted her bra—she was totally exposed.

Now fuck me.

I think you have a stalker. Behind you—don’t turn around!"

Sherl Lane-Craft squinted intently at the sandy-haired young man who had followed her and her little sister several blocks to Blueberry Hill and taken a seat at the next table. There was something vaguely familiar in the square-jawed, sober-looking youth—Bobbi could see that much in Sherl’s expression—and it was killing her not to pivot in her seat for a good look.

Anyone you recognize? she asked, irked. Is it the dude from NBC with the God-awful plush Pergo remnant he calls a toupee?

No, no faux follicles on this one. He’s pretty cute, actually—kinda Robert Redford-y. I think he’s one of the newbies at CNN.

A pen and tiny notepad peeked out from the front pocket of his business shirt. That and the dark, crisply pleated slacks screamed yuppie with aspirations.

Three months after Robbie Westbrook’s death, local and national news hounds were still clamoring to get an exclusive with the grieving girlfriend who watched him die. Brilliant comedian on the brink of stardom overdoses on a cocaine cocktail after a Machiavellian manipulation. Girlfriend self-annihilates. The networks were salivating all over the made-for-TV tragedy. Bobbi’s physical beauty and talent—and her stubborn and persistent evasion—intrigued them all the more. Can’t pursue what doesn’t run from you, right? And a story chased and caught was infinitely more savory than one scavenged.

We should have waited for a damn booth, Bobbi grumbled, fussing with her menu. Let’s just leave.

I’ve got a better idea. Sherl scooted her chair from the table, filling the room with the frictional groan of wood on wood, and stood up.

Hey, Dan Rather-Not!

Her exclamation drew the attention of every patron in the bustling diner. The young blond fidgeted, pretending to read his menu.

"Yeah, I’m talking to you, Poindexter. We totally saw you follow us through, like, the entire Loop. She’s not doing interviews, so why don’t you order your burger to go and break in those pleather shoes somewhere else, douchebag?"

Bobbi lowered her head to the table and laughed until she snorted. Red-faced, the cub reporter rose from his chair and slid a business card in front of the snickering Bobbi before turning to walk out.

In case you change your mind …

If she changes her mind, she’ll call Barbara Walters, Sherl shot back. Friggin’ Loser!

Several customers applauded, and Sherl took a quick, playful bow, then plopped back into her seat, more than a little satisfied with herself. Bobbi shook with barely stifled laughter, her cheeks blazing a bright red and her eyes watering profusely.

"Okay, that was worth the aggravation