Free Liar's Moon by Heather Graham

Tracy’s hand and started dragging her with him.
    “Leif!” she cried out in blind panic, fighting the pull of his long fingers around her wrist. “What are you doing?”
    “The old stuff, Tracy. We always hired vocalists. You know all the parts—come on.”
    “No!” she cried, still panicked. “Leif—”
    “Tracy, I know you know all the vocals. I know that you worked with your father. The old songs—the new ones. You know by heart everything that your father and the Limelights ever did.”
    “But I don’t—”
    “Just this once, Tracy. I dare you. Come on. Feel it. If you do, maybe you’ll understand your father better—and your brother.”
    “But they’ll know, Leif! I’ve kept my privacy—”
    He suddenly pulled her against his chest. She felt the power of will, the force of his eyes. It seemed that for long moments she didn’t even know what she said; she found herself lost in thought. Every man had a unique scent. Usually subtle, usually clean, but a scent as individual as eyes and faces and minds. And just like a face, like eyes, like strong, tapering fingers, it could be something that seeped into the memory—and beckoned one back.
    “Tracy, you can’t hide forever.”
    “That’s not—”
    “Tracy, I didn’t plan this, but it might be good.”
    “ Leif —”
    It was a shriek that she cut off abruptly because she couldn’t escape him—and she was suddenly just behind the footlights with the globe strobes ricocheting all around her.
    On stage, with her brother and the Limelights.
    Minus only Jesse Kuger…
    It seemed that pandemonium broke out; Tracy had never heard such a cacophony of sound. Sam went up behind the drums, Tiger took over from Jamie’s bass player, Leif was at the keyboard, and Jamie had the lead guitar.
    And Tracy had a mike stuck into her hand; she was ridiculously center with Jamie on one side of her, Leif on the other.
    They hadn’t discussed what they were going to do; it was instinctive, like stepping into comfortable, worn jeans. She heard the count from Leif and instantly knew that they were doing “Sunset Paradise”—the Limelights’ first top-of-the-charts single, a song nearly twenty-five years old.
    And still as fresh as a new day.
    Her father’s song. His first.
    And to Tracy’s amazement, she did feel it. The roar, the adulation of the audience. The beat of the music that shivered through the floorboards, that echoed all around her, that permeated her entire being. It lifted her above herself. It was chilling, it was wonderful—it was being outside of her body and into a magical chasm. This was it; it was what they had lived for—what, Jamie, too, meant to make his life.
    Perhaps it was good that she was so awestruck; when her harmony and solo parts came, they came naturally to her. She knew the song so well. Anything that Jesse had touched she had made her own. She was his blood, and she had st rived so hard to touch him…
    “Sunset Paradise” moved into “Man with a Mind”— Leif’s song. Then Tiger’s lighter “Red Letter Lady.”
    On and on…
    Until her father’s “When Night Comes”—a poignant piece on life and death, soft and haunting. A memorial to the man, if ever there could be one.
    And that was it. Tracy, suddenly confused, stepped backward, refusing to take part as they bowed, accepting the hysterical laud and praise that came their way. Leif led the way off; Tracy followed him blindly. Jamie was still on stage, his concert having been handed back to him. He was talking again with his pleasant banter, Tracy was vaguely aware—he would do one more number, and then it would all be ended.
    But for Tracy the awesome thrill departed as quickly as it had come. The fee ling was something like an all- consuming lust for gold. She understood it—yes! The invasion of the heart and soul—the horrendous power. But she hated it; despised it. Despised what it had done to Jesse. He had become something quite similar to a god, and in