Chasing Forever: Band on the run part one, page 1
Chasing Forever
Band on the Run Part One
Lara Wynter
Chasing Forever
© Lara Wynter & Lara Carter 2020
Cover Design by Wynter Designs
Editing by Annie Douglas Lima
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To Patricia and Julie, the best author BFFs a girl could ever wish for!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Afterword
Also by Lara Wynter
About the Author
Chapter One
The first thing I see is the picture. A lonely house on a hill. Weeping willows stand beside it, their long trailing arms blowing in the wind. The house is more of a cabin, really. It looks remote and peaceful there.
It calls to me.
I long to stand on that hill, my hair blowing in the wind.
It’s that thought that sends my whole world crashing down. I try to picture myself there on that windswept hill, but I have no idea what ‘me’ looks like. That can’t be right, though; how can I not know what I look like? I search in my mind, knowing the memories I need have to lie within me.
But there is nothing.
My breath comes in short pants.
Sweat pricks my forehead.
Sweeping a hand back through my hair, I tug a handful of the long strands in front of my face. It’s reddish-gold. Natural or artificial? Surely I must know the answer.
I sit up. My head swims in a blinding swirl of colors, light, and pain before stabilizing to a dull, throbbing ache. The skin on my legs is pale. Guess I don’t get out much.
I slip down off the bed.
The cold slate-gray vinyl floor makes me wish for the comfort of the bed. It’s a false comfort, though. I need answers, and staying in this hospital bed is not the answer.
There are two doors in the room. One looks as though it will lead out to the rest of the hospital. The other one is an internal door that I hope is a bathroom. At least my brain seems to still have some ideas about the world.
I push open the door, and sure enough, a shower with a chair and handrails takes up most of the room. A toilet, sink, and mirror are the only other things in the small space.
My hands grip the sides of the sink until my knuckles turn white. Bracing myself, I look up and into the gray-green eyes of a stranger.
My last hope of unravelling the mystery fades as I stare at the unfamiliar image in the mirror. It’s like being introduced to someone and told they’re important to you, but not knowing how or why.
This face features cheekbones that are prominent, with only a small smattering of freckles to break up the sharp angles. The nose is narrow with a slight upward turn at the end. The top lip is slightly puffier than the bottom one, but a red scrape makes it impossible to tell if it normally looks that way or if the injury is a contributing factor.
I study my reflection with a strange detachment. It settles over me like a weighted blanket. That feeling of the inevitable. I can’t outrun this, can’t avoid it.
I press down the hair along the part that runs down the middle of my head but there is no sign of different colored regrowth. So either I had my hair dyed recently or it really is this red-golden hue. The thin arched eyebrows are only a few shades darker than my hair, and my lashes are the same reddish-brown.
I try to ignore the bandage that wraps around my forehead, but it also is a clue. Did I hit my head and have all of my memories tumble out like so much trash?
I don’t think I can learn much more from staring at the strange, pale pixie-girl in the mirror. It’s time to move on to another source.
I move to the second door and take a tentative step out into the hallway. I’m overwhelmed by the noise. Strangers stride with purpose up and down the hall. Hospital workers and visitors freely intermingle. The staff wear dark blue uniforms or white coats with name tags fixed proudly to their lapels.
One looks up from her clipboard and notices me. Her mouth drops open before her lips pull back into a smile. She comes closer.
“You’re awake. Come back into the room so I can do a quick assessment.”
I dutifully follow her back to the bed and sit on the side, my legs dangling like a rag doll.
“I’m Doctor Blake.” She begins to poke and prod me in that way that doctors do. “You were brought in last night, suffering from mild hypothermia, a minor head laceration, and concussion. Do you remember what happened?”
I shake my head no.
“What's the last thing you remember?”
I ignore her question in favor of my own. “Who brought me here?”
“You came by ambulance. You had no ID on you, so we still don’t even know your name.”
“Join the club.”
Dr. Blake looks up from her poking and prodding. “You don’t remember your name?”
“Not my name or my face. I have no idea what happened to me before I woke up here. I’m like a newborn babe in an adult body. Heck, I don’t even know how old I am.”
Dr. Blake shines a painfully bright light into my left eye and then my right. “Sometimes a head injury can present with temporary amnesia.” Thankfully the light goes off. “Hopefully you’ll be back to your old self in no time. Your brain scans only showed minor signs of swelling, nothing to be overly concerned about.”
Huh, minor swelling of something as important as my brain doesn't sound like nothing to me. Not that I’m a doctor. Of course, I could be, but then I feel as though I’d have more information in my head about the things the doctor is telling me. Guess I can rule out one profession at least. Only two million more to go. I snort softly.
“Has anyone come looking for me?”
The pitying look doesn’t last long, but I see it nonetheless. “Not yet. I’m sure as soon as we figure out who you are, you’ll have swarms of visitors.”
“What happens if no one comes, and I still can't remember my life?”
She pats my hand. “Don’t worry about that now. We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.” She makes a few notes on the clipboard at the end of my bed. “You’re young and healthy. I see no reason why you won’t make a full recovery. Just try to rest if you can for now.” She smiles at me as though I’m a child in need of reassurance. I suppose it's justified, given the circumstances, but it still causes me to feel irritation creeping along my skin.
I smile back, suddenly wanting to be alone again. I know the appearance of being okay with this nightmare will get her to leave sooner than showing my distress will.
She takes the bait, reassuring me that someone will be along to check on me soon.
Lying back, I pull the blankets up under my chin.
Chapter Two
Willow
Two weeks. Two weeks of being stuck in this wretched place, and I’m ready to go insane. The hospital staff, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to call me Willow because of how often I’ve been staring at the picture of the willow trees and cabin painting on the wall. I guess it’s better than Jane Doe, but I’d give almost anything to know my real name. And a small voice inside cries out to know why no one has come for me.
I’ve learned that I have a very vivid imagination. I’ve pretty much pictured every possible scenario at this point, from my loved ones all being dead to them being abducted by aliens. The doctors here are still sure I’ll get at least some of my memories back, but I’ve kinda lost my faith in them. They haven’t proven to have any answers yet.
Nurse Becky comes in, holding a small pile of clothes. She hands them to me, and I hug them gratefully to my chest. I’m finally getting out of here. A thought that both excites me and terrifies me in equal measure.
“Get dressed quickly, Willow. Your caseworker is waiting downstairs.”
They really didn’t know what to do with me when no one came forward. One of the big problems is my age. They think I could be anywhere between seventeen and twenty-two, and therein lies the problem. There is a small possibility I’m still a minor, and if I am, that changes everything. So, rather than just putting me in some temporary accommodation, they want something a bit more structured for me. Just in case it turns out that I’m not an adult yet and I decide to sue them or something equally ridiculous.
I hastily pull on the jeans and a pink t-shirt that says, ‘Running is my life.’ I chuckle as I pull it on. I mean, it could be true. I’m actually pretty toned from some sort of exercise. Skinny but toned. Maybe I am a runner. Guess I’ll have a better chance of find
Out in the hall, all the staff are lined up along the walls. They clap and smile as if I’ve achieved something monumental by getting discharged from the hospital. Maybe they’re just happy to be getting rid of me? It’s kind of sweet, though, that they care even a little. Could it be that I’m not so unlovable after all? Being abandoned kind of messes with your self-esteem. Perhaps I’ll write a self-help book for the 0.00001% of the population that find themselves in this situation. I’m sure it’ll be a bestseller. Guess I can add sarcastic to my character traits. If I wasn’t before, I certainly seem to be now.
Downstairs, a woman introduces herself to me as Bridget. We exit the hospital. The sun is shining; the sky is blue. It’s a perfect day to start my new life in Seattle. Even the Rainy City has pulled out all the stops to celebrate my release. It seems odd that I know Seattle has approximately 156 days of rain a year, but I don’t even know how old I am.
I climb into the front passenger seat of Bridget’s Volvo and listen as she chatters on about how wonderful my new living arrangements are and how lucky I am to be able to live at Horsham House. In exchange for room and board plus a small allowance, I’ll be expected to undertake some light cleaning duties and stay out of the way.
Turns out Horsham House is a state-of-the-art retreat and recording studio. Some of the top bands from around the world come to record there. Hopefully, I’m not awestruck by famous people. Not that I’m actually likely to come across any. Bridget has gone to great lengths to ensure I understand that under no circumstances am I to approach anyone who even looks like they could be part of a band or even anyone staying with the bands. I like music, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve got plenty of problems of my own. Getting involved with drugs, alcohol, and pretentious rock stars isn't even on my radar.
I’ll be under the direct supervision of Maggie Turner. She’s apparently the manager of Horsham House and has been known to take in foster kids no one else wanted. If indeed I even fit that description. In the hospital I had to take a bunch of tests that showed I could have finished school and achieved reasonable grades. I just hate not knowing. I mean, I feel like an adult. I don’t think I’m a child, and if I am, what was I doing wandering around near the South Park Marina late at night? I read all the news reports, but there wasn’t anything that the police hadn’t already told me.
My palms begin to sweat as we leave the road and stop outside an ostentatious set of bronze gates. This is it. We're really here. I’m about to be abandoned to the care of a bunch of strangers...again.
Bridget punches in a code and the gates slowly open. We drive along a pretty, tree-lined drive that makes me think this place might not be such a bad deal after all. At least I’ll have space and greenery to escape into in my free time while my brain hopefully remembers to do its thing again.
My eyes open wide as the car pulls to a stop in front of what can only be called a mansion of epic proportions. Four stories of tall and stately architecturistic perfection. Is ‘architecturistic’ even a word? If it isn’t, it should be.
Bridget puts a hand on my knee. “Don’t worry. I’m only a phone call away. You can call me anytime, okay?”
I force out a smile. “Sure, thanks.” I don’t even know Bridget. Just like the few people I’ve met since I woke up, she’s in my life because she has to be, not because she wants to be.
I climb out of the car, Bridget right beside me. She steps right up to the large ornate wooden door and rings the bell.
“Uh, shouldn’t we be going to a side entrance or something?” Surely the staff don’t come in through the main door?
“It’s fine, Willow. Maggie is expecting us.”
I don’t know exactly what I think Maggie will look like, but when the door opens this isn’t it. Maggie must be over six feet tall with long, dark hair that hangs loosely around a well-lined yet still attractive face. She’s dressed in a pair of fitted, black jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
“Willow, welcome!” She steps forward and envelopes me in a bone-crushing hug that smells like citrus and sandalwood.
Bridget looks relieved and reminds me to call anytime. Maggie closes the door behind Bridget and turns back to me. At least I no longer have the bandage around my head, so I look somewhat normal, except for the ragged scar that runs down the left side of my forehead. Almost like Harry Potter, except bigger and uglier.
“No one told me you were a beauty. That could be a problem.”
I frown. “What do you mean? What does how I look have to do with anything?”
“Oh, darling, we have young amorous musicians staying here all the time. While they’re here, they’re locked away from the world while they record music. Sometimes they look for company where they shouldn’t.”
I shrug. “Well, they’ll just have to keep looking. I’m not interested in dating some pretentious pop star. I have bigger things to worry about.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Just stay out of the way and things will be fine. This is a great place to live. You’re very lucky to be here.”
Not exactly the words I’d use, but I guess it could be worse. But if I have to avoid everyone, it sounds like a lonely existence. “Are there any other workers here around my age?”
“Chloe and Amber are only a little older than you and work in the house. Matt runs the stables; he’s around your age, too.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Stables? What do musicians need with horses?”
“We have quite a few recreational activities here at Horsham House. It’s what sets us apart from other recording retreats.”
I smile. Maybe this place won’t be so bad.
“Naturally, you’ll be expected to steer clear of any recreational areas while they're being used.” Maggie looks me up and down again. “Actually, on second thought, it’s probably best if you just stay away from those areas altogether.”
I purse my lips. “So, you expect me to clean and what? Hide out in my room the rest of the time? Maybe this isn’t going to be the best place for me to recover my memories after all.”
Maggie frowns and shakes her head, her long hair swishing. “Not at all. Just do your best to avoid the musicians, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” This woman is making my head spin. “I don’t care about your flipping rock stars. I just want to get my life back! Do you have any idea what it’s like not knowing who you are?”
Maggie crosses her arms over her ample bosom. “No need for the snarky tone. How about I show you to your room? I’m sure things will look much brighter in the morning.”
I’m starting to think Maggie takes on foster kids more for the cheap labor than any genuine intrinsic kindness. Still, I follow along dutifully as we head up a massive staircase. It’s wide enough to fit a school bus. I smile at the mental image as we continue to climb. On the second floor, we turn up an equally wide hallway. What a waste of space. Seriously, you could park a car up here. Potted plants are stationed at regular intervals along the hall. I guess if I run across any of Maggie’s precious rock stars, I can just hide behind the shrubbery.
I touch one of the leaves as we walk past. Plastic. Guess watering the plants won’t be on my to-do list. We traipse all the way to the end of the hall before Maggie opens a door and pauses to usher me in ahead of her.
My jaw drops open in surprise. The room is huge. I thought for sure I’d be in some tiny broom closet. Being stuck in my room won’t be such a chore after all.
The room is divided into two sections. Half is dominated by a large ornate wooden bed that looks high enough to need a ladder just to get in. The other half is set up as a living area with a couch, TV, and bookcase. Through an open door, I can see a bathroom and a second door that looks like a closet or storage area.
