Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3)

by Rebecca Yarros

  MUSES AND MELODIES

  Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Yarros

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9973831-4-0

  Yarros Ink, LLC

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  Editing by Karen Grove

  Copy editing by Jenn Wood

  Cover by Sarah Hansen © Okay Creations

  First Edition October 2020

  www.Rebeccayarros.com

  To Gina and Cindi—

  some things just work

  better in threes.

  #unholytrinity

  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

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgments

  LIES AND LULLABIES

  RIFTS AND REFRAINS

  The Hush Note Series

  Also by Rebecca Yarros

  About the Author

  1

  NIXON

  I didn’t just want a drink. I wanted a dozen. Whiskey. Tequila. Vodka. Anything that would take the edge off was fine by me.

  Wanted wasn’t even close to the right word, but after forty-five days in a rehab center that cost more than my penthouse, I knew I didn’t need a drink to survive—I wanted one.

  Since that wasn’t going to happen, I settled for another orange soda as the limo wound through the streets of Seattle. I’d devoured cases of this shit in the last six weeks, which may have amped up my sugar addiction, but at least it wasn’t booze or pills, right? I cracked open the top of the ice-cold can, and every set of eyes in the back of the car looked my way. Not that they hadn’t been staring since the moment I’d landed at the airport—now they were just blatant about it.

  “I made sure you had plenty of that stocked,” Ethan, our tour manager, said with a smile and nod that hit an eleven on the awkward scale.

  Jonas nodded, watching me like I was a grenade that had already lost its pin. “And we had your apartment cleaned out too.”

  As one of my closest friends and the lead singer of our band, Hush Note, he knew all too well what happened when I went kaboom. He’d been the one to haul me off the tour bus floor after I’d taken some unmarked pills with a groupie like a dumbass, then sat by my side in the hospital, waiting to see if I’d live through my stupidity.

  That had been my come-to-Jesus moment. I had become a liability, not just to the band but to my best friends’ personal lives as well…and they didn’t even know the why of it.

  “We figured it might help with…you know...temptations and staying clean and all that,” he added, when I didn’t respond.

  Now they were both nodding.

  “Right. Thanks.” One of the reasons I kept this trip to rehab a secret was because people never knew what to say or how to act after I got out. Before I went, they were all too eager to tell me exactly what they thought, but afterwards, I got the nuclear bomb treatment. Kid gloves, forced smiles, and a lot of fucking nodding—like they thought I might go off at any second if they made a false move.

  Since this was my fifth trip, and the only one I hadn’t walked out on, I knew they were annoyingly proud yet terrified it wouldn’t stick.

  At least we were all on the same page there. I was a Class-A fuckup, whose sins were excused because I had a symmetrical face, lean body, and magic hands when it came to a guitar.

  But my sins had long ago outnumbered my excuses, not that I could tell by the supportive, forced smiles on Jonas and Ethan’s faces. My first sin? I was an alcoholic who dabbled in drugs with the clichéd justification of numbing the pain. Go figure, that apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

  “You really do look great,” Ethan blurted.

  “Yeah. Your eyes are clear and everything,” Jonas added.

  More nodding. They’d turned into a pair of bobbleheads.

  Quinn, our drummer and the third musketeer in our band’s trio, scoffed. “Seriously, guys. Could you make this any weirder for him?” She shook her head beside me. “Relax. He’s still Nixon.”

  Still Nixon, just nuclear-bomb edition.

  “You guys didn’t have to come,” I said for the fifth time since they’d shown up at the airport. Sin number two: my friends were way better people than me—I didn’t deserve them. The minute they’d found out where I was and when I was coming home, they’d interrupted their happy little sitcom lives and shown up.

  “We wanted you to feel supported,” Jonas repeated the same answer he’d given the first three times. None of them had known about attempt number four.

  “Mission accomplished. I’m supported.” I raised my soda in a mock salute, then chugged half of it.

  Quinn rolled her eyes, but she was used to me acting like a dick, so I didn’t worry too much. These three had seen me at both my best and worst since we started the band eight years ago. From the bar stage to sold-out stadiums, we’d had one another’s backs. We never aired band laundry in the press or stepped out for solo projects. We were dysfunctional as hell, but we were a family.

  We turned the corner, and my building came into view.

  Jonas swore, which voiced my thoughts perfectly.

  A thick crowd of fans blocked the door and were currently going nuts over the sight of our limo.

  “I told you we should have taken an unmarked SUV,” Quinn muttered, flipping through her phone.

  “How did they know?” Ethan asked.

  There were always fans outside my building—Quinn’s and Jonas’s too—but this was ridiculous. Was that seriously a giant poster board of a missing person flyer with my picture on it?

  “It’s been six weeks, not six months,” I grumbled.

  “They had someone camped out at the airport.” Quinn turned her phone so we could see the photo on a popular gossip site. It was of our hug on the tarmac just after I’d come off the private jet.

  The driver rolled the partition down. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take us through the garage.” Smiling for the camera wasn’t on my agenda for today.

  We bypassed the horde of fans and took the private entrance down into the garage. There was a reason I paid so much money to live in this building. Not that I minded fans. I loved fans. Especially the female ones—even if they were off the menu for the foreseeable future. But there was something to be said for drawing a line between my public life and my private one.

  Once we were parked, I hauled my duffel bag out of the trunk and slung it over my shoulder. We all filed into the elevator, and I punched in my code for the penthouse. The buttons lit up as we passed the other floors, the silence filled by a piano acoustic of “My Heart Will Go On.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t have stopped at the bar on my way home or anything,” I said.

  “What?”

/>   “We didn’t think that.”

  “That’s not why we’re here.”

  They all spoke at the same time.

  “Right. Bunch of babysitters.” I laughed and shook my head.

  “We’re not babysitting you,” Quinn snapped, then narrowed her eyes at me. “We’re loving you. Deal with it.”

  “And honestly, we both feel like shit since we’re the ones who’ve up and moved on you in the last year.” Jonas pulled his hair back into a low ponytail with enough frustration to snap that little hair tie of his.

  “I don’t feel like crap,” Ethan mumbled. “I still live here.”

  The elevator dinged our arrival, and the doors opened to the opulent marble floor of my entry. Sin number three: I made ungodly amounts of money and spent it on ridiculous things because I liked nice shit.

  “Look, I fully supported you moving to Boston to be with Kira,” I said to Jonas as I pulled my key from my front pocket, then turned to Quinn. “And the last time I checked, I’m the one who told you to move back to Bozeman for Graham. You both deserve to be happy.” They did, and now that they’d both fallen in love and into ready-made families, I wasn’t going to be the one waving the “it’s not fair” flag, like some whiny prick.

  “What about you?” Quinn asked as I turned the key and opened my front door.

  “Oh, you know me. I’m delirious.” I flashed her a quick smile and walked into my apartment.

  It was definitely cleaner than how I’d left it. The blinds were open, and light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Seattle skyline and Puget Sound, illuminating every polished surface from the entry, through the massive kitchen, and into the living room, where I dropped my bag. Smelled nice too. Like lemons and cleaning supplies instead of pot and general funk.

  It was also quiet for a change. I’d bypassed more than a few passed-out people when I walked out six weeks ago.

  “I can’t remember the last time your place was this clean.” Quinn flopped onto the couch and kicked off her Vans.

  “The day he bought it,” Jonas answered, sinking into the massive armchair.

  “It’s not like I don’t have housekeepers,” I retorted.

  “Oh, those women are saints.” Quinn laughed. “You just never give them a party-free week so they can do their jobs. I would have run screaming by now, if I were them.”

  “I heard Ben paid them double.” Ethan gestured to the apartment and took the spot next to Quinn.

  “Ben.” We all groaned collectively. Our business manager did exactly what he was paid to do: brokered our contracts, handled our schedule and promotion, and shoved staff in our general direction when we needed them. He was a hardass, but he’d been one of the major reasons we’d skyrocketed. He’d also been the reason we were all on the verge of burnout from constant writing and touring.

  Jonas and Quinn had both agreed to slow it down after this next album…the album I was holding up because my lame-ass brain couldn’t write anything decent, which only fed into excuse number three billion and two to reach for a bottle: I’d never written a song sober, and quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I could.

  Add that to my inability to sleep and I was two for two.

  “I’m going to take a shower. How long are you guys planning to supervise me?” I questioned.

  “We’re not supervising you.” Quinn folded her arms across her chest. “And we’ll be here as long as you want us to be.”

  Hell. No.

  “Great, so you guys have flights scheduled for tonight?” I lifted my eyebrows and picked up my bag.

  They all averted my gaze.

  I sighed hard. “Guys. Go home to your families.”

  “We will,” Jonas assured me. “Once we know you’re okay. Now go take your shower. We’ll order up dinner. What are you in the mood for? Thai? Burgers?”

  News flash! I’m never going to be okay.

  “You guys pick, and don’t get comfortable. You’re leaving tonight.” I left them discussing food and headed up the stairs to the second floor of my apartment, pausing at the picture framed in the hallway.

  We were young then—eighteen and nineteen—with our arms around one another, smiling for the camera after our first show at the bar. Eight years later, Jonas was still the broody poet, Quinn, the blonde with the sharp tongue and the golden sticks, and me? I was just as fucked up as I was back then. Maybe even more so.

  Funny thing about money? It only amplified who you were on the inside—it didn’t fix you. It patched the cracks on the surface but generally greased the mechanics underneath so you destroyed yourself faster. I was past the point of fixing anyway. I’d only gone to rehab to keep from dragging the band down with me.

  I walked into my bedroom and froze. There was a very round, very nice ass peeking out from under my bed. It wasn’t the first time a fan had found her way into my bedroom, but it was the first time it had happened since moving into this building three years ago.

  “Son of a bitch, how big is this thing?” she swore, rocking her ass back and forth, obviously trying to tug something free. “Bigger. Is. Not. Always. Better!”

  Well, that was definitely a first.

  “I’d have to disagree with you on that.” I dropped my bag and slid my phone out of my back pocket to call security. Usually, I’d be down for a little anonymous hookup, but my rehab therapist had lectured me against using sex to fill the alcohol void, so Little Miss Nice Ass had to go.

  “Oh!” There was a distinct thud followed by a muted swear as the woman wiggled her way out from under my bed. She was a tiny thing and had some killer legs under that black skirt. A cloud of long, auburn hair appeared as she shuffled back on her knees, dragging a laughably giant bottle with her.

  Then I was the one cursing as she scrambled to her feet.

  Giant green eyes and plump lips appeared behind that curtain of hair as she tucked it behind her ears. “Hi.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I bellowed at Ben’s gorgeous, pain in the very nice ass assistant. Over the last few years, I’d had more than my fair share of fantasies involving my bed and that little redhead, but she’d always been in it…not under it.

  Sin number four: I always wanted what I couldn’t have, and Shannon was definitely on the “couldn’t have” list, for more reasons than I could count.

  “What? I got it all out before you got back! Well, all but this one.” She fisted her hands on deliciously curved hips. “Every bottle. Every can. How was I supposed to know you had the world’s largest vat of champagne under your bed? What were you going to do with that thing?” She motioned toward the novelty bottle that stood nearly as tall as she was.

  “Drink it with a really big straw. Now what the hell are you doing in my bedroom, Shannon?” But wasn’t it obvious? I groaned at the realization. “You’re the one Ben sent to handle everything.”

  “Welcome home.” She sang the sarcastic little tune. “It’s nice to see you too.”

  “Everything okay in here?” a linebacker asked from the doorway. How many people were in my fucking house? “Mr. Winters,” he addressed me with a nod.

  “It’s all great, Trevor. Could you please help me with this?” She motioned toward the bottle.

  “Absolutely.” He crossed the floor in front of me.

  “That’s a seventy-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne!”

  “Oh, did you want us to return it for a refund instead?” Sarcasm dripped from those pretty pink lips.

  My blood pressure spiked. God, the woman simultaneously turned me on and annoyed the shit out of me. Always had. She might have a body like a Sunday drive—all lush curves that demanded two hands—but she had a mouth like a Monday morning alarm clock. She was a color-coded, alphabetized checklist with no sense of humor, and I had half a mind to tell her to drink the damned thing herself if it would help dislodge the stick from her incredible ass.

  But I didn’t want that bottle anywhere near me. Even the thought of it made my
mouth water. I could already taste the sweet oblivion on my tongue.

  “Get rid of it.” It had been a gift anyway and wasn’t worth messing up my entire recovery for.

  “Thank you.” Her shoulders dipped slightly in relief as Trevor hefted the bottle and carried it out.

  “I’ll get it dumped, Ms. Shannon,” he promised as he hauled it away.

  “A little formal there with the Ms., isn’t he?”

  Her brow puckered. “He called you Mr. Winters.”

  I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this conversation. “Right, but that’s my last name. I thought we lost the whole title-before-the-first when we became adults, but I know how much you love your protocol, so hey, whatever floats your boat, Ms. Shannon. Now, is Ben coming too, or are you his emissary?”

  How many people needed to be here?

  “You are…” She shook her head. “If I’m stuck here with you, then at least tell me you know that Shannon isn’t my first name, right?” She tilted her head and folded her arms under her breasts. I couldn’t say if she had a nice set or not, considering she was always buttoned up to her throat like a librarian. Not that it mattered—I didn’t sleep with girls on staff.

  Wait…her name wasn’t Shannon?

  “It isn’t?” I narrowed my eyes. I’d been calling her that for the last four years.

  “No!” She shook her head, all indignant, like I was the one rifling through her bedroom. “And yes, Ben sent me to make sure all the…contraband was out before you got back. He’s on his way over.”

  “Well, I guess you failed that one.” I snorted. “But you wiggled it free so at least you’re not stuck here anymore. And I don’t really care if you stay or not, but I’m getting in the shower, so if you don’t want an eyeful, I’d get out.” I pulled my shirt off and headed for the bathroom.