Hidden Depth (Lockhart Brothers Book 4) Read online

  Hidden Depth

  Copyright © Brenda Rothert 2017

  Published by Silver Sky Publishing Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-9985507-0-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Cover Designer

  Regina Wamba, Mae I Designs

  www.maeidesign.com

  Interior Design and Formatting

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  www.typeAformatting.com

  Editor

  Lisa Hollett, Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Copy Editor

  Taylor Bellitto

  For Janett, Lisa, Taylor and Christine. You guys know why.

  Contents

  Hidden Depth

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About the Author

  Books by Brenda Rothert

  Acknowledgements

  Elle

  I THOUGHT I HAD wrapped my arms around the world. Fortune and fame are the ultimate dream, right? But when an act of violence shattered all my notions, I was forced to face painful truths. It wasn’t until I’d lost so much that I found the one thing that really matters—and the place that made anything seem possible.

  “IT’S PERFECT,” MY ASSISTANT Chloe says, grinning proudly as she tucks a loose strand of my hair into the floppy beach hat.

  “I’m not sure I’d use that word,” I say, giving her a skeptical look.

  “Don’t be hatin’ on the hat. It’s a perfect disguise hat.”

  “It’s a beach hat, and it’s February in St. Louis. How is this not going to draw attention?”

  She lowers her brows and tries to fold the sides of the hat down. “You think it’s easy making a redhead incognito? A redhead who happens to have one of the most recognizable faces in the world?”

  I roll my eyes at that. “Stop. You don’t need to kiss my ass.”

  “I know. But I saw a BuzzFeed article this morning about the most recognizable faces in the world, and you were one of them.”

  My lips part with surprise. “Really?”

  She nods and then stands back to eye the bright pink hat. “With the sunglasses, I think we’ll be ready.”

  When she breaks out a pair of black sunglasses with round lenses large enough to hide half my face, I roll my eyes. “Those are the very definition of conspicuous.”

  “Hey,” she says defensively. “I did the best I could. That little souvenir shop was the only place I could find with hats.”

  “When I sent you out to pick up something, I was thinking like . . . a hoodie. Not Jackie O doing a flamingo impression.”

  “It’s a short trip from the room out to our bus. Just keep your head down.”

  There’s a knock on the door to my suite, and when Chloe opens it, my bodyguard Andre walks in. “Ready, Elle?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, noticing his smirk. “Laugh it up.”

  “It’s just that it’s sort of a . . . loud disguise.”

  Andre kind of looks like The Rock, if The Rock had gotten his nose broken lots of times in fights, and if he were covered in tattoos. Andre’s usually pretty quiet, and since he’s only been my bodyguard for a few months, we’re still adjusting to each other. I’m not quite comfortable firing off a comeback at him yet.

  “I’ll give you that,” I say with a sigh.

  “I’ll carry that,” he offers, reaching for the bag thrown over my shoulder.

  “Thanks.” I hand it over, wincing a little.

  “How’s the shoulder?” he asks, his brows lowering with concern.

  I give him a half shrug. “It’s sore.”

  At my concert last night, I hurt my shoulder while dancing. I just twisted it in a funny way on accident, and by the end of the performance, it was throbbing. The doctor who travels with me on tour said I have to go to the hospital for tests when we get to Chicago later today. I’m not looking forward to that, and I’m also not canceling the Chicago show if he suggests it.

  “You’ll be okay,” Andre says. “You’re only twenty-four, so your body heals fast.”

  “How old are you?” I ask him.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  I can’t believe we haven’t had this conversation yet. I squint as I look him over—laugh lines, grayish temples, and all. “Thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-eight,” he says, opening the door for Chloe and me.

  Chloe is wheeling a giant suitcase behind her, and Andre insists on taking it, as well as the bag she has slung over her shoulder.

  “The other bus left half an hour ago,” she says. “Ours is waiting.”

  I nod, my mind already moving on to Chicago. It’s one of my favorite places to perform. My backup dancers and other crew members ride on another bus, because I like to decompress when I’m on the road. It’ll just be me, Chloe, Andre, and our driver on the main bus.

  I’ve come a long way from my days traveling between county fairs to perform in talent shows. At the time, I didn’t even realize how rigorous a schedule it was. Now I think back and wonder if my parents were confident I’d get a break, or if they thought they might be sacrificing everything only for me never to make it.

  “Colin was on the list, too,” Chloe tells me as we step onto the elevator.

  “Hmm?” I look at her absently.

  “Most recognizable faces in the world.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  At the mention of his name, I remember that I owe my fiancé a text. He wrote me last night to congratulate me on the show, as he does every time I have one, but I was so tired by the time I finished the after-show party that I went to bed without texting him back.

  He won’t mind. He’s filming an action movie in Brazil, and they’re working crazy-long days to stay on schedule.

  As the elevator slows, Chloe moves up to the front, and I stand behind Andre. We’ve gotten mobbed as soon as those doors open at hotels so many times that we’re practiced now.

  I’m holding my breath as the “ding” sounds and the doors slide open. I never imagined myself hoping a crowd of fans wouldn’t be waiting, but today, I do. With the late night, I only got four hours of sleep, and my shoulder hurts more than I want Chloe or Andre to know.

  Chloe is technically my assistant, but really, she’s the one in charge. If she tells my manager I’m not well enough to perform, I won’t have a chance of convincing him I am.

  “Clear,” she says. I hear relief in her tone.

  Sh
e has to be tired, too. When Chloe isn’t at my side, she’s nearby, waiting to see if I need anything. If I sleep four hours, she sleeps four hours. Same with Andre.

  The three of us creep across the lobby of The Marquis, a posh boutique hotel in downtown St. Louis. I’d like to stop at the front desk and tell them how much I loved the pillows and bedding in my room, because when you’re exhausted, you appreciate those things, but I know better than to risk it. I’ll ask Chloe to send them a note of thanks.

  We’re not exactly inconspicuous—a giant Samoan man rolling a sparkly purple suitcase, a pop star in a pink floppy hat, and her blond assistant shooting looks all over the place to see if anyone’s noticing us.

  “Excuse me . . . is that you, Elle?”

  I freeze. Chloe turns and opens her mouth to explain that I have to board my bus. She never minds being the bad cop.

  I turn too, raising my eyes from the ground just enough to see a middle-aged woman and a young girl standing near us. The girl has huge brown eyes and is wearing a T-shirt with my picture on it.

  “It’s her,” she breathes, tears filling her eyes.

  “Can we get a picture?” her mother implores. “Please?”

  “I’m sorry,” Chloe says. “Elle can’t—”

  “It’s okay.” I bend down to the girl’s level. “Tell you what. If you can come behind that big palm plant with me, we’ll definitely get a picture together.”

  She nods vigorously and blurts, “I love you so much.” Immediately, her cheeks darken with embarrassment.

  “Thank you. That means so much to me.”

  We move behind a giant indoor plant that conceals us from most of the people in the lobby. Andre’s phone dings with a text, and he pulls it out of his pocket to read the message.

  I take off the ridiculous hat and shake out my hair.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the girl.

  “Sara.” She’s looking at me like she has a thousand things to say but can’t remember a single one.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eight.”

  “Did you come to the concert last night?”

  Her face falls. “The tickets were too expensive.”

  Her mother laughs nervously. “We would have loved to go, but I’m in nursing school. I told her when I graduate, you know . . . we can go to a concert then.”

  “Tickets are expensive.” I nod in agreement. “I wish I could do more about that.” I look down at Sara. “If you give me your address, I’ll send you some cool stuff. And I’ll make sure you get tickets for my next concert in St. Louis.”

  Sara’s mom is gushing with excitement, and Sara’s wiping away tears. It makes my heart happy to make her day this way. And I know much of her reaction isn’t about the stuff I’m sending or the concert—it’s about finding out I’m not an asshole who blows off my fans.

  Sometimes I can’t spend as much time with fans as I’d like, but I never say no to a kid. I don’t care if it means I’m late. Kids get the royal treatment every time.

  Sara’s mom gets out her phone for a photo, and Chloe gets my attention.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but the bus is having mechanical trouble.”

  “Uh . . .” I’m not even sure how to respond to that. This is my fifth year touring, and we’ve never had mechanical problems.

  “I can take a look,” Andre offers. He was a mechanic before becoming a bodyguard.

  “Would you?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  I nod slowly. “Okay, go ahead and load the bags and do that now if you can.”

  He gives me a skeptical look. “I’ll wait until I get you on the bus.”

  I wave off his concern. “I’m okay. The hotel entrance is like twenty feet away, and I’ve got my hat.”

  I turn back to Sara and her mom. “Sorry about that, guys. Ready for that picture?”

  Sara’s mom takes several shots, and then I have Chloe get a couple photos with my phone.

  “So Sara, what’s your favorite subject in school?” I ask her.

  “I like reading,” she says shyly.

  “Me too.” I hold up my hand for a high five, and she gives me one. “I used to travel a lot to fairs and auditions when I was younger, and I always had a book with me. I think reading so much made me into a better songwriter.”

  I glance up at her mom, and then back at Sara. “So how proud are you of your mom for going to nursing school?”

  “I think it’s cool,” she says.

  “It’s so cool,” I agree. “That’s a lot of hard work. And she’ll be helping people every day.”

  She’s giving me that look I know well again. So many questions she wants to ask, but she’s feeling frozen.

  “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?” I ask her.

  “Do you like singing or acting better?”

  I smile. “That’s a good question. I feel more comfortable singing because I’ve been doing it for so long.”

  “What’s your favorite song of all your songs?”

  I think about it. “I think I’d pick ‘Back to You.’ What’s your favorite?”

  “That one.”

  Sara’s mom puts a hand on her shoulder. “Honey, we should let Elle get going.”

  I bend down and give Sara a hug. “I’m so glad I got to meet you. And I think your mom gave my assistant Chloe your address, so watch for a package in the mail, okay? And keep reading.”

  She smiles, still looking awestruck.

  “Do you want some sunglasses?” I ask her, handing over the Jackie O shades.

  “Thank you,” she says, clutching them to her chest.

  Her mom thanks us profusely and then steers Sara away. The little girl is looking over her shoulder at me the whole way to the door.

  “She’s cute,” Chloe says.

  “Really cute. Load her up with all the good stuff. Send her an iPod, too.”

  “You got it, boss.” She looks down at her phone. “Andre needs the key to your room on the bus because the toolbox is inside a cabinet in there.”

  “You’ve got it, right?” I tuck my hair back under the enormous pink hat. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom over there, and then I’ll be out.”

  “I can come with you,” she says.

  “It’s fine. I’ll be inside a stall. And if someone wants to talk to me through the door while I pee, it won’t be the first time.”

  “You look ridiculous in that hat,” she says with a laugh.

  “I’m sayin’. It’s like you tried to find the ugliest hat in the city.”

  She rolls her eyes and heads for the bus. I put my head down and walk toward the bathroom, hoping to avoid peeing in the tiny bus bathroom today. It smells funky.

  If we can get the bus up and running, I can nap on the way to Chicago. I’ve got three back-to-back shows there, and then a photo shoot for a magazine article.

  I only have two more weeks left on this tour, and then I’m spending a week in Hawaii with Colin. Just the thought makes me giddy. My fiancé didn’t make the Sexiest Man Alive list in People magazine for nothing.

  Even after seven years, I still can’t believe this is my life. I never dreamed this big. And I never take a single moment for granted.

  Justin

  I BLOW OUT A breath of frustration, making a cloud of cold air form in front of my face. The line at Starbucks is already out the door. People have their red faces buried in their phones as they wait, unfazed.

  Everything’s more complicated in the city. I should be used to it by now, after eight years. I moved to St. Louis for college at Washington University, then went to law school here. Now I’m helping out a former professor with some research at his firm for a few months. But even after nearly a decade here, it doesn’t feel like home.

  Lovely is home. The small Missouri town where I grew up always feels familiar in a way nowhere else ever will. As soon as I finish this short-term job, I’m moving home to join the family firm.

 
Then I’ll be able to walk into Gene’s Diner and get a cup of coffee in less than half an hour. Gene and Margie would laugh me out of the place if I asked for a latte or a cappuccino. They only serve black coffee, “loaded or unloaded” as Margie likes to say to differentiate between regular and decaf.

  I glance at my phone. It’s already close to nine a.m. I’m going to be late for brunch with the partners at Egan, Cargill, and Thompson, the firm I’m interning at. Good thing I’m not looking to get permanently hired there.

  Tom Cargill is the former professor I’m working for, and he’s hinted around that they’ll be making me an offer. He knows I’ve got a job lined up at home, but he says he has to at least try.

  The coffee is for him, so I figure it’s worth being late over. He’s been good to me, both during school and since graduation. He got me a coveted internship clerking for a federal judge, so I owe him.

  It takes another twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, and when I do, the barista gives me a friendly grin.

  “Hey, Scott Eastwood,” she says.

  I come here to pick up coffee for Tom on my way in to the office most days, so the baristas know me. They all think I look like Scott Eastwood.

  “Morning,” I say to the barista.

  “Usual?”

  “Yep. Give him some extra whipped cream.”

  “You trying to get a raise?”

  I smile. “No. He’s not gonna get this drink much longer, so I figure I’ll indulge him. His wife has him on some heart-healthy diet, so she told his secretary not to get him anything unhealthy. And I’m only working for him for the next few weeks, and then I’m moving back home.”

  “That’s a shame.” She looks down at my cup and then back at me, scrawling my name in black marker.

  I move to the side to wait, and she meets my eyes again.

  “Hey, how much like Scott Eastwood are you?” she asks. “Do you, like, smoke cigars?”

  “Occasionally, when I’m with my brothers.” I grin at the memory of Kyle’s bachelor party.

  “Oh, Lord. Brothers? How many of you are there?”

  “Five.”

  With a wistful sigh, she turns to the next customer.

  It takes another five minutes for another employee to hand me Tom’s drink. When I look down at the cup and see that the barista wrote “Scott Eastwood” on it, I shake my head and smile.