Sara's Song by Fern Michaels

you think you’re retarded?” Dallas had just stared at him and walked away. What the hell did retarded mean anyway? How could somebody with Dallas’s gift be retarded? How could he write songs, record them, and then perform them on a live stage for millions of people if there was something wrong with his mind? And if there was—and he didn’t believe that for one minute—then it was because of falling out of that tree. It was Adam’s fault for not taking him to a doctor. Son of a bitch!
    Maybe he should take a step backward and give Dallas the freedom he wanted. Instead of going to Los Angeles, he could change his ticket and go to South Carolina. He could call ahead and have someone come in to get the fifteen-room house on Battery ready. He could spend the next two months doing whatever he wanted to do. He could sleep, read, watch stupid shows on television, putter in the walled garden, prepare for the holidays, throw a party. Hell, he might even get a Christmas tree, a real one that would smell up the whole house. He’d go to Harris Teeter and stock his pantry and refrigerator the way normal people did. He’d go to the post office, the bank, eat lunch out, stroll through the marketplace. Things he had promised himself he’d do when he bought and renovated the historical house. Ha! He hadn’t been in the house in two years.
    He’d spent over a million dollars renovating the house and the walled gardens with the hope that someday he’d move there and settle down. Maybe this was the someday he’d been waiting for.
    But how was he going to cut Dallas out of his life? By. his own choice, he could never do it. If Dallas took matters into his own hands, there was nothing he could do but stand in the wings and be ready to pick up the pieces if he fell. If it meant calling it quits, then that’s the way it would be.
    Sweat beaded on Adam’s brow. What would happen to Dallas if he broke up the band and married Sandi Sims? How long would it take her to realize he didn’t have both paddles in the water? Would she go to the tabloids? Of course she would, and she’d get seven figures for her story. Dallas would be devastated and withdraw further from the real world. He was already on the edge because of Billy’s death.
    â€œI hate this business. I fucking hate it!” Adam hissed through his clenched teeth. Damage control. One always had to be prepared and be one step ahead of the ghouls. He needed a plan. A headache started to hammer behind his eyes. He closed his eyes tight to stop them from burning. Maybe he should try for sleep again. “Oh, no!” he muttered. If he went to sleep again with this headache, his other nightmare would take over. There was no way he was going to deal with a set of parents who had left him and his brother on the steps of the police station and never come back for them. He bolted for the shower, his personal demons thrashing at his heels.
    Â 
    Â 
    At eight-fifteen, Adam was airborne. He’d taken care of business as soon as it grew light. A cleaning service would have his house on the Charleston Battery aired and cleaned by noon. From his upstairs bedroom, he could see Fort Sumter off in the distance. He tried to look forward to getting there, but his thoughts continued to drift to the ominous things Dallas had said. The investigative team of Moody & Moody had been hired to do a comprehensive background check on one Sandi Sims. The $10,000,000 check had been deposited on his way to the airport via the night deposit slot. As far as he was concerned he was a free agent until January 2 or until his brother Dallas severed the tie that bound them together.
    Adam stopped for lunch at Magnolias, ordering a third cup of coffee until he was certain the cleaning crew would be finished with his house. With no taxi in sight he opted to walk to the Battery, asking the hostess if she would hold his bags, he would pick them up