Striking Edge Read online

  Potential employers would rather hear a lie than the truth. When they asked Shep that question, he made it clear that people were something he tolerated because that was the only way he could get paid to do the things he loved. Hiking, climbing, rafting, zip-lining. He did it all.

  And he did it damn well.

  In huge part due to the way he was raised, a little differently from his four brothers and sisters.

  When he was ten, his parents decided to take him out of public school. Other kids didn’t like him, many teachers didn’t understand him, and a so-called normal education didn’t fit him.

  So he spent the rest of his childhood being what they now called free-range. Like a chicken.

  His dad had called it life.

  Shep had once read a book that labeled it unschooling.

  It all meant the same thing—that he’d been allowed to explore the things that interested him.

  Guiding for an idiotic TV show did not interest him.

  But maintaining his independent lifestyle did. And if he lost his job, he wouldn’t be able to keep the news from his family. They would rally behind him, try to lift him up. Maybe even badger him into moving back in with his mom and dad.

  Uh-uh.

  Shep liked being able to live his life on his own. He’d discovered it was much easier than sharing a space with others, even people who claimed to love him.

  “Fine,” he finally said, and even he could hear the grudging tone of his own voice. “But you better tell the TV people that we do things my way. If they have a problem with that, then they can go fuc—”

  “How ’bout I handle that?” Dan cut him off. “And I’ll make it clear that you’re the expert in these mountains.”

  “It will take me at least a week to check and double-check all my equipment.” On a tour like this, he would need more than just day hike basics. “So when does this damn thing start?”

  Dan stepped off the platform as he said, “Tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  It was drizzling in Southern California, making the trail she was running on a mini-mudslide. And because Joss was staring up at the sky, paying more attention to the rain, a magic weather unicorn, than she was to where she was going, her foot slipped, and she went down on one knee.

  The fire road near her home in the Santa Monica Mountains was littered with sharp stones, and one made a painful acquaintance with her kneecap.

  Before she could get her feet under her again, it began to rain harder. Maybe she’d somehow caused the skies to spit. After all, the sun had seemed dimmer ever since…

  Since she’d abandoned and betrayed the people she loved most in this world.

  Maybe the only three people in the world who loved her.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. Everyone loved Joss Wynter. After all, she’d filled arenas full of screaming rock fans.

  But her band—Chris, Winston, and Miguel. They knew and loved the real her.

  When she and the rest of Scarlet Glitterati had hit the big-time music scene nine years ago, Joss had been dissected by every industry publication, featured on every blog, and interviewed on every major media outlet.

  They described her as a fusion of the best of female artists. The vulnerable songwriting of Joni Mitchell. The sexy charisma of Debbie Harry. The velvety power of Stevie Nicks. The playful cheekiness of Katy Perry.

  So Joss was either one-of-a-kind or some kind of Franken-musician.

  But the fearlessness of Tina Turner? That, she could no longer lay claim to.

  She pushed herself up from the ground and resumed her run, trying to ignore the two men following at a respectful distance. They knew better than to offer help.

  Joss didn’t want help. Didn’t deserve help.

  And after Celebrity Scoop published an article about how she’d gone behind her bandmates’ backs to negotiate the terms for a solo career, the public had turned on her. The tabloids and social media had been full of so-called news about how she’d put the band on a helicopter while she’d stayed safely on the ground in a billion-dollar multimedia company’s limo.

  Headlines like Superstar Singer Guilty of Band Betrayal, Joss Clinches Solo Career by Killing Off Band, and Scarlet Glitterati Blood on Wynter’s Hands were accompanied by stories of how Joss had hired the private helicopter that had crashed minutes after takeoff.

  Now, people who’d once adored her made death threats.

  The applause she’d once reveled in had turned to apathy at best, anger at worst.

  As she approached her house, she slowed to a walk, barely registering the incredible Topanga retreat she owned. At over six thousand square feet, it had retractable glass walls that opened to a pool and breath-stealing views of the canyon. When was the last time she’d pushed back those walls?

  She couldn’t remember, and she avoided them today, entering the house through the garage instead. Her home was no longer a respite. It felt like a prison of her own making.

  In the past, when Joss felt alone or sad or just misunderstood, she’d reached for her guitar. Now, Fiona—her favorite old acoustic with a scarred body and abused tuning keys—sat propped in the corner of her living room.

  After the accident, she’d shoved the guitar deep into the coat closet, but the next morning, Fiona was back in the great room. As if Fiona had opened the closet door and strolled out by herself just to mock Joss. The incident shook her, but when she mentioned it to Jerry, her manager had gently reminded her that she was prone to sleepwalking when she was under stress.

  And she’d been suffocating under ten tons of the stuff for three months now.

  She couldn’t stand to look at her much-loved guitar for another minute. The jittery feeling that constantly crawled under her skin threatened to burst out. To finally eat her up. She needed… something.

  Anything.

  So she reached for the phone and punched speed dial to Jerry. He answered before the second ring as he always did with her.

  “Hey, Jojo,” he said, his voice booming with a bit too much cheer, like he thought he could pour the emotion into her and fill her up. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “I can’t stay in this house anymore. I need… I need something. I can’t breathe.” Even when she was outside, the air pressed in on her, maliciously compressing her lungs.

  “I thought we agreed you would lay low for a few more weeks. Long enough for some other shit to hit the fan and for people to forget all the caca in your life.”

  “I’ll wear a disguise. Pretend I’m covering Scarlet Glitterati songs.” She could hear the desperation in her voice even though her hands were shaking and her stomach was heaving at the thought of touching that damn guitar. “I will sit on a stool in some shithole bar out in the Valley. I’ll do anything to stop the”—Silence. Grief. Guilt. —“boredom.”

  Jerry sighed. “Maybe you need more appointments with Dr. Whitmore.”

  “If my therapist comes here any more often, the rags will start the rumor that I’m sleeping with her. And although I have no problem with nonbinary relationships, and she’s an attractive woman, that wouldn’t do a damn thing to help this situation.”

  “Neither would you wandering around Los Angeles in the state you’re in.”

  “I am dying.” She was. Just as surely as… Shut it down.

  “I did have a nibble of something, but you would hate it.”

  “I’ll take it.” Joss’s heart lunged against her ribs. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Smaller venue is fine.” In fact, that would be best. Fewer people to witness any meltdown that might attack her on stage. Because if she wasn’t out there, wasn’t in front of people singing and making them love her, then she would no longer be anyone special.

  “It’s TV.”

  Okay, TV would be forgiving. If she flubbed up, froze on stage, forgot the lyrics, they could just edit out any mistakes.

  “Tell them yes.” Maybe her lungs were tight as she said it, but she couldn’t be in this house, alone with
all the ghosts, any longer. “I don’t care if it’s an award show. Hell, I’ll even do something on American Idol or The Voice.” She could be a judge like Katy or Kelly. That was even better. Safer. She would be able to win her way back into the public’s hearts without singing a note. “When do they need me?”

  “You’ll have to catch a flight at—”

  Her heart did something inside her chest that should’ve been anatomically impossible. “No helicopters.” She’d sit in twelve hours of LA traffic hell if she had to.

  “This show doesn’t film in LA, so you’ll be on a plane.”

  A plane. Maybe she could do that. She’d known she would have to fly again at some point. Surely it would be easier to keep her cool inside a big, enclosed metal tube than inside of something the size of a bumblebee. A tiny insect that could fall out of the sky so easily.

  “You’ll have to hop on a red-eye to the east coast, but if you’re serious about doing something, this is our best option. You could take a sleeping pill to get through it.”

  East coast. New York. “You got me a spot on Jimmy Fallon?” Doing the Tonight Show would be tough, but Jimmy was known for being kind, for having a light touch when needed.

  “Not exactly, Jojo. But I promise that if you do this show, do a good job and open up a little, people will come around, stop blaming you. Heck, if you work hard enough, you might even win the whole thing.”

  “Win?” She paced back along the huge glass doors, purposefully avoiding the corner where her guitar sat. “Win what?”

  “I’ll text you the airline ticket as soon as my assistant can book it.”

  Foreboding smothered her, and she gripped her cell so hard that her knuckles ached. Why wasn’t Jerry telling her the name of the show? “Where am I flying?”

  “Direct from LA to Charlotte, North Carolina. From there, we’ll have a driver take you out to a place called Steele Ridge.”

  That… that sounded like a town with a population slightly smaller than New York City’s. “And then?”

  “And then you’ll woo back your fans by winning the reality show Do or Die.”

  2

  Shep stood a good fifty feet from the chattering crowd gathered near Deadman’s Creek. Unfortunately, Dan had accidentally alerted half the damn state of North Carolina that Do or Die would begin filming today. Shep’s boss had been strutting around, bragging that he was solely responsible for snagging the attention of the show’s producer, and with every minute that passed, the waiting mob became louder and more impatient.

  Shep didn’t need to absorb any of their restlessness or edgy excitement. This was a job to him. All this rah-rah crap was just that.

  Stupid crap.

  And it looked as if it was making Maggie’s life a bitch today. She had deputies posted all along the creek banks. So far, the worst that had happened was a jostling match gone wrong when Donny Preckwinkle caught an elbow to the eye.

  Shep lifted his chin in the direction of the ambulance that was serving as a first aid station. His brother Cash was over there, smiling his Don Juan smile and treating a couple of cases of late season heatstroke. Since both patients were pretty girls in their early twenties, it was more likely they were actually suffering from firefighter fever. Cash had always been a female magnet.

  Those two women would be disappointed when they discovered Cash was happily locked down these days. He might smile and flirt on occasion, but he loved Emmy McKay. So much that when they were together, the ferocity of their feelings made the air quiver with something Shep didn’t really understand.

  Probably because he didn’t understand how to love another person. And Shep didn’t like to think about things he didn’t understand.

  Beside him, Puck sensed his unease and leaned against his leg.

  Stroking a hand over the golden retriever’s silky head, he said, “I know, buddy. I’m tired of waiting, too.”

  He reached into his pocket for his length of cord and tied a series of knots—a barrel hitch, a double overhand, and a fisherman’s knot—to keep his cool. The original agreement was that the Do or Die people would arrive in Steele Ridge at noon. It was now 2:08 p.m.

  For some reason Shep would never understand, many NTs—neurotypicals—had no concept of time. To him, being punctual was as natural as breathing. If he said noon, he meant noon. Not 11:59 or 12:01.

  If this was the way the TV crew planned to operate during filming, Shep would be having a meeting with them. The holy-come-to-Jesus kind.

  “What’re you frowning about?” Maggie posted up beside him, her eyes still scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. “You going on overload?”

  Shep grunted at her mention of the term his family used when he was coming close to hitting the wall. When he became so overstimulated or anxious that he had a hard time controlling all the quirks that made him different. Well, at least the ones that tended to really freak people out. Like listing aloud all the flora and fauna native to the state, body rocking, and knocking his head against hard stuff like the sweet gum tree behind him.

  “I’m okay.” For now. “But I already know the trip with these people is going to be worse than I thought.”

  “Mr. Optimism strikes again.” Maggie laughed and gave him a quick hip bump. “Maybe it’ll go better than you think. After all, these are famous folks. Maybe you’ll be forced to share your tent with a pretty actress.”

  “I don’t like to share my space. You know that,” Shep stated. That had been one of his ex-wife’s many gripes about him. Shep liked his space—both physically and mentally. Amber had been forever trying to crawl into places with him. And it had made Shep feel as if he’d been shoehorned into a tiny teepee with a T. Rex.

  “I was just kidding. I bet they all bring their own tents. Don’t you think, Way?” Maggie asked as their brother strolled up. Way was the middle Kingston sibling. He blew in and out of town for work and on his own whims. Maybe his years in the Marines had given him a taste for freedom.

  “Tents? Have you ever watched Do or Die?” Way cut Maggie a sideways glance that Shep filtered through his file of facial recognition prompts. Most kids used flash cards to learn stuff like letters and multiplication. Shep’s dad had adopted them to try to teach him how to read other people’s expressions and body language.

  But they were still like Swahili to him most of the time.

  He thought Way’s side-eye at Maggie meant some kind of ridicule. “Mags, I am not a hundred percent sure, but I think Way is patronizing you.”

  “I think you’re right.” But rather than take a shot back at Way, Maggie just shook her head and said, “No, I haven’t seen the show. I have better things to do on Wednesday nights than watch a bunch of celebrity city slickers whine about the state of their manicures after being forced to climb all the way out of their limos.”

  “Jay takes a limo sometimes,” Shep said, thinking about his sister’s pro athlete boyfriend. “Does that affect his manicure?”

  Maggie dropped her forehead into her palm and laughed. “I’m sorry. I was being sarcastic. Yes, Jay does ride in a limo sometimes. One of those pro football player perks. But so far as I know, he’s not into manicures.”

  “Then I don’t understand…” Shep trailed off because sometimes a topic wasn’t worth going into. Sometimes he understood that he just wasn’t going to understand. So he asked Way, “Do you watch Do or Die?”

  “I’ve caught it a time or two.” Way stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked away.

  “Your neck is getting red, which I think means one of two things. You are uncomfortable with admitting you watch the show. Or you are lying. Or maybe you are aroused”—he glanced down at his brother’s crotch—“okay, it’s not that.”

  “Jesus, Shep.” Way rubbed at the pink skin. “So I binge-watched the last season. Maggie, you gonna arrest me for that?”

  “Last time I checked, questionable taste isn’t against the law.”

  “Hey, sometimes the challenges—or what the
y call opportunities—are interesting,” Way said.

  “So that’s what interests you.” Maggie’s smirk meant she was baiting their brother.

  “Fine, so there are usually hot women on the show. And sometimes by the end, they’re…” He cast a quick look at Maggie.

  To prepare for guiding the group, Shep had watched every Do or Die episode last night, so for once, he knew exactly where Way’s mind was. “What Way is trying to say is that even though the women are sometimes dirty and probably smelly, they tend to lose articles of clothing. In the Maui show, some actress was down to a thong and a lacy bra by the end of the competition.”

  “She won, too,” Way said.

  Maggie snorted. “I wonder why.”

  “Hey. She was the last woman standing. She deserved to win.”

  “Actually,” Shep said, “the comedian guy in that episode would have won if the thong girl hadn’t bent over while they were crossing that rope bridge. She shifted her center of gravity, and it threw him off-balance.”

  “No, Shep,” his brother said. “I think her perfect ass cheeks were what affected his balance. And speaking of perfect, I heard a rumor that one of the contestants in this episode is Joss Wynter.”

  “Who told you that?” Maggie asked.

  “Ran into Dan the Man at Triple B last night.” Way pointed toward where Dan was, if his wild arm movements were any indication, regaling a group of women with a tall tale. “Couple of tequila shots and his lips got loose.”

  Shep grunted. He’d known these celebrities would probably be challenging, but Joss Wynter? From what Riley—his sister and a big Scarlet Glitterati fan—said, the musician made Jennifer Lopez look low maintenance. “Riley told me that Joss Wynter owns over three hundred wigs. But if there are only three natural hair colors, why would someone need that much fake hair?”