Deepest Blues

by Heidi Hutchinson

  “Weirdo.”

  Then she went to the bathroom where she checked her brand new stitches. “Yeah, I'm the awesomest,” she agreed dryly.

  “I have to get back to work,” Clarke said abruptly, standing up.

  “Please, wait,” Ilsa pleaded, scrambling to her feet. “Talk to Mike first. Don't leave. He'll think I told you on purpose.”

  Clarke stopped in front of Ilsa. “I know you didn't. But I really must go.” She went to step around her when Mike filled her view.

  “What happened? Where are you going?” His hand gently cupped Clarke's face and his thumb rubbed wetness across the apple of her cheek. So she was crying. She'd had no idea.

  “Mike, I didn't know. You should have told her.”

  Clarke was vaguely aware of Ilsa's impassioned words. Mostly she stared at a face she thought was so familiar, but she realized she didn't know him at all.

  Without saying a word, she rounded Mike as he stood rooted to the floor. She didn't know if Ilsa continued speaking. She didn't know if Mike tried to stop her. She wasn't aware of anything until she reached her office, had the door locked and sank into her chair.

  Her heart continued its steady thumping.

  Keeping her moving forward.

  Keeping her alive.

  She flipped open the file of sample specs from another potential board maker as they tried to woo Shane with their impeccable board construction.

  ***

  Mike stepped up to Ilsa so they were toe to toe.

  “What did you tell her?” he asked, hearing the panic in his own voice.

  Clarke had just looked right through him.

  Looked. Right. Through him.

  “We talked about Paul, I thought she knew. You should have told her.” Ilsa's voice was rising in pitch even as Mike's stomach filled with lead.

  Mike closed his eyes. He should have seen this coming. No, he should have told her weeks ago.

  He dug his wallet out and threw money on the table without bothering to count it. This place had to be so sick of him leaving like this. He turned to go and realized he couldn't talk to Clarke with Ilsa present. They needed to be alone.

  Shit. He hoped she was at work.

  “You have to talk to her,” Ilsa said, surprising him.

  “No shit,” Mike snapped in response. He immediately regretted it. “Sorry.”

  “I'll get a cab. Go, talk to her.” Ilsa led him out the front door and pulled out her cell.

  “You sure you'll be okay?” he asked, not really knowing if he had a choice but to believe her. He had to talk to Clarke, and somewhere in his head he was afraid to leave Ilsa without a chaperone.

  “Charice is in town. I'll go to her place. Just call me later.”

  Mike studied her compassionate face. Gorgeous in every moment of her life. Perfectly poised, unable to look anything but angelic. He nodded without responding then hurried down the street. Hoping Clarke would be predictable enough that he would know where she had gone.

  He ignored Lia's piteous attempt to stop him as he jogged up the stairs, taking two at a time. The office door was closed and he tried the knob before being reduced to knocking.

  “Who is it?” she called from the other side.

  Mike ran a hand through his hair and placed the other one on his hip.

  “It's me.”

  He was taken aback when the locked flipped and the door swung open. She ushered him in and closed the door again. But before he could say anything, she beat him to it.

  “Say what you need to say and please leave. This is where I work, and I really don't want a scene.”

  His eyes raked over her coolly impassive face. But her eyes swirled with color as they tried to settle on one emotion. It gave her away.

  It was like watching a lover let go.

  The pain was excruciating.

  “Clarke, I'm so sorry,” he began, breathing heavily. “I should have told you sooner, but I just never knew how. The timing was always wrong.”

  She nodded solemnly. “You're right. There's never a good time to tell someone that they let your brother die alone. Or that he wasn't really a user and had made one bad choice one time that cost him everything. There's never a good time to try to ease the pain that a loved one carries around with all of their unanswered questions.”

  “Dammit, Clarke,” Mike growled. “It wasn't like that. Paul was my friend.”

  “I'm learning very quickly how you treat your friends.”

  He stared at her, the silence around them heavy like a boulder.

  Mike breathed in slowly as he braced both hands on his head. He let them fall and slap against his sides.

  “Paul was my drum tech. He'd just joined the tour in Europe. We hung out a lot, but no, he wasn't a user, though he was with me a few times when I did. He loved life, everything about it. He was always taking pictures and talking about how surprised you were going to be when he got home to show you everything.” Mike licked his dry lips and looked to the ceiling for a moment. “He talked about you all the time. He wanted for us to meet. Badly. He made me promise that when the tour finished, I'd come home with him so I could meet his sister.”

  Clarke's mouth was small. A muscle in her cheek jumped occasionally, but otherwise she gave no indication of whether his words were registering.

  “He wasn't supposed to take anything that night. Someone talked him into it while I was in the other room. I was never worried about Paul because he never did stuff like that. When he quit breathing, everyone bailed. I was so... out of my mind, Clarke. It's amazing we made it to the hospital at all.”

  He'd never talked about this with anyone except his counselor in rehab. Reliving that night was awful.

  “I knew, once we got there, he wasn't gonna make it. I was terrified. I had no idea what to do, so I left.”

  Mike sank into the chair in the corner. His head dropped into his hands. His breathing was labored as he struggled with the memories. The guilt. The blame. The complete and utter despair that he had kept to himself and relived all too often since that night.

  “That was when I decided to get clean. It was losing Paul that scared me into stopping what I was doing. A week later, when things ended with Ilsa, I decided to be done with it. Because what was the point in trying? When guys like Paul could make one lousy frickin' choice and then not be there anymore. And pieces of shit like me got to keep trying.”

  “But they saved you.”

  Mike's eyes slid to hers. She knew it. She recognized that he was the one who deserved to die in that place and not Paul. Paul's life was just beginning. And it was because of Mike that he wasn't there.

  That's why Mike hadn't told her yet. Because he already blamed himself. He couldn't stand to see the same thing in her eyes. But there it was.

  Clarke took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I would really like anything of Paul's that you might still have.”

  Mike nodded slowly.

  “I'm not a big grudge holder,” she said quietly. “I'm going to need some time to process all of this, and then we'll be okay.”

  Mike heard the words, but he wasn't sure what to do with them. Did she really believe that this wouldn't change... everything?

  “I'm not saying that everything will go back to business as usual. You and Ilsa have a connection to my brother that I can't ignore. Because of that, I think it's best if we put a little bit of space between us until I'm more comfortable with... things.”

  Mike felt his heart shut down. He was hoping she'd lose control, yell at him, tell him what a rotten bastard he was. Something.

  Quietly telling him that he was no longer a part of her life was a pain he hadn't imagined could exist.

  “Please leave now,” she requested in her measured way.

  Mike nodded and stood to go. He stopped in front of her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Wouldn't let him see the colors swirl, wouldn't give him any sign of hope. He supposed that was fair.

  He never had been very good
at happy endings.

  Chapter 16

  Alive

  Clarke's hands trembled as her fingers fluttered over all the prints in the huge boot box. Size twelves. Harley Davidson. Paul's chosen footwear.

  She focused on the contents again. Hundreds of color photo prints.

  Harrison had dropped this box and a canvas bag off at her office earlier that day. The bag undoubtedly held Paul's camera. She had opened neither until she had gotten home and could do it privately.

  She'd locked the door. Turned off the house phone as well as her cell phone. Put the stereo on Paul's favorite album, Pearl Jam's Ten.

  Then she poured herself a glass of wine. It seemed appropriate.

  Putting the box on the floor in the middle of the living room and setting the camera bag aside, she finally did it.

  She got around to missing her brother.

  For almost three years, she had let her anger at him for dying the way he had keep her from really feeling the loss. She had believed him to be an addict. A lying, manipulating user whom she hadn't known at all.

  She picked up a handful of the photos and began to thumb through them slowly. Pictures of London. People on the street. People on the crew. People in pubs. The band. Tons of pictures of Mike and Ilsa. Pictures of the scenery as they traveled from location to location.

  Ilsa hadn't been lying, Paul had captured every moment of his life.

  She thumbed through a few more, stopping when she saw her brother's smiling face. It was a picture he'd taken with Mike. His eyes were clear, his skin a golden glow. More evidence that he had indeed been who she had always thought he was.

  She dug through the box, her fingers hitting something more solid. She got a grip on it and pulled a digital videotape cassette from the box. She turned it over a few times in her fingers before she really grasped what it was. Lurching to her feet, she opened the canvas bag and pulled out the camcorder and connective cables. In a matter of minutes she had the system connected to her television. Turning the stereo down but not off, she hit play on the tape.

  The screen filled up with Paul's face as he had the camera pointed at himself.

  “Hey, sis!” he yelled, the wind in the shot nearly drowning him out. “I know you're gonna kill me when I finally get around to sending this to you, but I hope you understand.” He laughed and then the camera faced forward again, this time, Mike's face took up residence on the screen. “Say hi to my gorgeous sister, Michael.”

  Mike gave a cocky half-grin and low wave.

  “Clarke has the most enormous crush on you. I caught her kissing your poster in her room one day. You might think that's cute, but it was like a week before I left home. She's a grown-ass woman with a teenage crush. As soon as she sees this, she'll start plotting my demise.”

  Mike chuckled and moved his hair out of his face. It had been longer back then, Clarke absently acknowledged.

  The camera swung around again and Paul spoke directly into it. “He has a girlfriend right now, Clarke, but I don't think it'll last. She's too high maintenance. He'd be much better off with you.”

  “I don't think I can handle two Matthews in my life,” Mike objected with a laugh from off screen.

  Paul made a face and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude, you already promised that when this tour was over you were coming to visit.”

  “And I will.” The camera spun again, Mike kept talking. “If she's anything like what you promised, how will I ever resist her charms?”

  Paul's face returned and his eyebrows waggled knowingly. Clarke couldn't help it. She laughed. Even as hot tears ran down her cheeks.

  ***

  It had been three days since Harrison had dropped off Paul's stuff with Clarke. Three days that had gone by with no communication from Clarke whatsoever. He had no idea if she'd looked through everything or not.

  It had taken quite a bit of bribery to get Blake to go over to his place in Boston and ship the items to him without telling him why. But he'd done it.

  And Harrison had been his errand boy without asking why. Though it was becoming pretty obvious that something was going on. No one was asking him what it was.

  Ilsa had decided to move in with her friend Charice for the time being. Mike wasn't sure how he felt about that, since Charice still drank socially. He didn't know if Ilsa could handle that. So it wasn't a surprise that he was over there nearly every day just to keep an eye on her.

  That's where he was when Harrison called to tell him about Greta's surprise wedding reception.

  “It's this little bar called Pauly's. My parents rented out the whole place and you should really be there.”

  “Yeah, what time?” Mike asked, immediately wondering if Clarke would be there as well. He wouldn't talk to her unless she initiated the contact, but he still wanted to see her.

  “Show up around seven. Should be a good time.”

  “Will do. Thanks, man.”

  He hung up to see Ilsa hovering in the doorway.

  “My friends' wedding reception is tonight,” he answered, knowing she was getting ready to invite herself along.

  “Is it formal or casual?”

  Yep, that made sense, though. Ilsa had slipped into the ease and comfort of a relationship with him even though nothing had been declared.

  “Uh, casual.”

  It wouldn't matter, she'd still be overdressed.

  Gorgeous. But overdressed.

  ***

  Clarke watched her best friend dancing with her brother and sister on the dance floor to Pharrell William's “Happy.” Her dark hair was flying all around as usual. Ridiculous, loud, bright, and completely the center of attention.

  Completely and blissfully happy.

  As it should be.

  She smiled. But it was a smile borne of happiness for her friend, competing with feeling sorry for herself. It was a terrible smile and she could feel it.

  Clarke had even dressed up. She'd borrowed a cute, flirty dress that was modest at the neckline and hit her mid-thigh. Her shoes were a nightmare though, pencil-thin heels with a platform in a gorgeous blush color. Her feet hated her right now.

  The O'Neils had rented out Pauly's and surprised Greta with an impromptu wedding reception. It seemed appropriate, considering it was where Shane and Greta had first spoken.

  Initially, Clarke had been beyond leery of the two of them hanging out together. They both had very magnetic personalities, and Clarke was envisioning the heartbreak to end all heartbreaks. She just didn't know who would be breaking whom. But now that they were married, and their love was all sorts of official, it made total sense.

  The place was packed. Greta had a lot of friends. But Clarke knew that she was the one who was closest to her, well, besides Shane. She should be out there dancing with her friend. Celebrating with fervor, like the rest of the crowd.

  “Hey,” Brady nudged her elbow with his, “you look like you're gonna be sick. You okay?”

  Leave it to Brady to notice exactly what she was trying to hide.

  “I'm okay,” she lied.

  “You've been a little... off lately,” he said gently, and she rolled her eyes. “What? I notice things about my friends!”

  “I'm fine,” she lied again, this time with a hopefully more convincing smile. “Just tired. Been busy at the shop, stuff like that.” She left out the part about her watching her brother's home movie on repeat until she fell asleep.

  “Right.”

  Brady looked around the room, and Clarke hoped he wouldn't ask about it. Her hopes were dashed.

  “You and the musician seem to have cooled off. That wouldn't have anything to do with that mopey look on your face, would it?”

  Her eyes drifted along the edge of the revelers until she saw him. Mike Osborn, drummer extraordinaire. Tonight would have been a whole lot easier if he hadn't come. But that wasn't fair to him. Greta was part of the family, it would be way weirder if he weren't here.

  Clarke felt the hair on her neck stick up and she
inhaled slowly as her eyes shifted to the tall, svelte blonde hooked to Mike's side. The supermodel was staring at Clarke openly, like you would study an exhibit at an art show that you didn't quite understand. Clarke held her gaze for a few more seconds before breaking the contact first. She had nothing to prove, no reason to feel uncomfortable. She hadn't done anything wrong.

  “Mike and I are friends, that's all we've ever been.”

  And that's all they would ever be.

  ***

  Blake wanted to punch somebody. Okay, not somebody. A particular somebody. His name was Mike. Mike the drummer. Mike, his stupid frickin' idiot friend. Who had shown up at a wedding reception for the equivalent of their little sister with the woman who had nearly killed him and had almost destroyed the band altogether.

  They were just standing over there. So smug. Ilsa in her high class classiness and Mike is his asshole holiness.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy asked, interrupting his thoughts. She gently touched his forearm. But even her soothing touch couldn't stop the freight train that was blazing through his thoughts and making him envision sticking someone's head through a wall.

  Not just someone. A particular someone.

  “Seriously, Blake, you look like you want to kill someone.” Lucy touched the corner of his jaw and his eyes slid to hers. “Oh geez,” she said, her eyes widening when they met his. “Should I go get Luke?”

  “Not sure that would be the best idea, darlin'.” Blake looked around the room and saw Luke standing in a corner, a similar ire clouding his face. Luke's ice blue eyes connected with Blake's and he gave a subtle nod.

  Blake relaxed his features and looked down at his wife. “Lucky, can you and Lenny get Shane and Greta's gift out of the car? I have to run to the bathroom really quick.”

  “O-okay.” Lucy frowned. She knew something was up, but she wasn't going to push it, thank God.

  Blake waited for her and Lenny to clear the building before he motioned to Harrison and Sway, his forever comrades. They each took Mike by an elbow and quickly escorted him to the men's restroom.

  Mike looked mostly annoyed as he yanked his arms free from his friends. “What is it now?”