Sing to Me (The Highlands Book 1)

by Ali M. Cross

  But none of the lessons were with Nix. She pulled up the covers on her bed, fluffed the pillow and set the room to rights before picking out her clothing for the day. She wondered if she’d see him. If he’d come by to see if she was okay. Another man would call, but Nix didn’t seem to be that type. Whenever he had something to say to her, he always came.

  She laid out her jeans, T-shirt and a soft pink zip-up hoodie she’d found hiding in the back of her closet. Pink was a good color on her—not that she was trying to look good for anyone.

  When her eyes landed on the laptop sitting on the nightstand, her thoughts swung right back to yesterday—to Jeanine, Nate, and what Fiona was beginning to fear was the reason behind her attack.

  Like a moth to the flame, she crawled onto her bed and scooped up the laptop, opening the browser. She opened her email program, intending to email the detective assigned to her case. He’d emailed her shortly after she’d left New York, to make sure she had all his contact info in case she remembered anything. But did she remember anything? She hated to bring trouble down on Jeanine—to accuse her of something—if it wasn’t true. And how could Fiona be sure? The memories were just flashes. She’d seen Nate around before, she was sure of it—maybe she was just projecting because she was jealous of Jeanine and sad for her own loss.

  She closed the email program before it even finished loading. She was about to close her laptop when another thought struck her. Maybe she could find out a few things about Nix—not like stalk him or anything, but he’d said he’d Googled her, so shouldn’t she return the favor? It would feel kind of good to turn the tables on him a bit—to discover something about him so it wasn’t always about her.

  She typed Nix Elliot into the search bar, not really expecting to discover much except for maybe a Facebook or Twitter profile—but she didn’t see any of that. The first few returns were news articles about a band called Bloody Iris. The articles were all about angry fans demanding their money back because the band had cancelled all their appearances this year. She clicked on the most recent article, titled “Bloody Iris Announces New Lead Singer.”

  After eight months of auditions and negotiations, Bloody Iris announced today that Keith Montgomery will take the place of legendary punk prince, Nix Elliot. Elliot vacated his position as Bloody Iris’s front man and lead singer/songwriter after his parents’ deaths earlier this year. Reaction among fans has been mixed; some claim Bloody Iris is wrong to replace Elliot so soon while others believe Elliot abandoned them.

  The band has lost over 1.5 million in tour income, however their album, now possibly the last by Elliot, has already broken Platinum and is expected to reach Diamond by the end of the year.

  Bloody Iris will perform in Germany on New Year’s Eve with Montgomery at the mic. The event is already sold out.

  Fiona stared at the picture of Keith Montgomery, her thoughts muddled. The writer couldn’t be talking about her Nix Elliot—could he? She pictured Nix in her mind, trying to see him as a punk rocker, but she just couldn’t do it. Sure, he had the long shaggy hair, but his features were soft, his eyes gentle. He was the church’s choir director for heaven’s sake. She didn’t know much about punk rock but she was pretty sure it was hard stuff—lots of language and violence and . . . She shook her head. It couldn’t be the same Nix.

  She went back to the search results and scrolled down to the Wikipedia entry on Nix Elliot. The first thing she did was look at the picture. It showed a man about Nix’s height and build, but that was where the resemblance ended. The man in the picture was shirtless with a bleeding iris tattooed over his heart. His hair fell over his face, hiding his features from view. She was almost 100% convinced that this Nix Elliot and the one she knew couldn’t be the same guy.

  She read the article anyway, a sort of morbid fascination gripping her.

  Nix Elliot was born in Las Vegas to Vegas rockers Lulu and Rock Elliot. Lulu and Rock fronted the heavy rock band Lulu Rocks. They’d traveled the world, selling albums in the millions and finally settling down with a regular show at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. They had one son, Nix Elliot, who lived in Vegas being cared for by nannies, bodyguards and tutors his entire life until he started his own band, Bloody Iris, when he was fourteen.

  His parents encouraged his rocker lifestyle and let him travel the world with his band who found an audience primarily in the United Kingdom and Germany.

  Fiona read the timeline of this Nix Elliot’s life, from his first album to his first arrest—and the dozen more of both that followed. He rarely returned to the States and never gave concerts here, while overseas he was a household name. There didn’t seem to be any children or marriages—no mention of women at all.

  The article ended abruptly with the last paragraphs:

  On December 31st, while Elliot was performing in Germany, his mother passed away from breast cancer, a disease she had been fighting for sixteen months. On January 2nd, he returned home to discover his father’s body in his parents’ suite at the MGM. Autopsy reports later determined the legendary rocker had died from a heroin overdose.

  On January 4th, after twelve years with the band, Nix Elliot announced he was leaving Bloody Iris. He gave no reason or notice. The singer has not been seen or heard from since.

  Fiona leaned back against the headboard, her laptop balanced on her knees. It was so sad, to lose both parents like that. To not have seen them for so long, especially when his mom was sick. What kind of son doesn’t go home to see their mother when she’s dying? It just didn’t make sense.

  She tried to picture Nix doing that, but instead she saw him coming to apologize to her, handing her hot chocolate, encouraging her to give her family a chance.

  She sat upright, adrenaline rushing through her veins as she clicked over to the images tab and started scrolling. Album covers, Bloody Iris tattoos, and concert pics filled the page. Toward the bottom of the results were images of a funeral. She clicked through on one that showed mourners standing around two caskets. One of them had to be Nix Elliot, but they all had kind of shaggy hair and all wore sunglasses.

  She clicked through to the full article and was surprised to see a bunch more images associated with it. They seemed to be a burst of photos all taken after the service as people were getting into their cars—scratch that, one person. A tall, lean, pale-skinned man with long, shaggy brown hair. His glasses were in his hand, his hand thrust out to block the photographer’s view. But there was one picture, just as the man got into the backseat of the waiting car, where he dropped his hand and his face could be partially seen.

  Fiona clicked on it and zoomed in. It was her Nix.

  Fiona slipped out of the house without seeing Lindsay or Gavin. The smell of sausage and eggs filled the house, but she didn’t see her sister, and she was glad for that. She had stuff to think about and she wasn’t ready for conversation.

  While she fed the dogs and petted their wagging bodies, she thought about Nix and all the times he’d stressed to her that she should be glad to have the family she did. She thought about his soft eyes and lips. The way he’d kissed her with so much tenderness—there was no way she could imagine him singing those head-banging songs Bloody Iris was famous for.

  The lullaby he’d wound through Silent Night played through her mind instead. That was the Nix she knew. Could they possibly be the same man? She hardly wanted to face the truth.

  She thought about the death of Nix’s parents and his subsequent abandonment of his old way of life. Of Variety, of church, of the music he was arranging. Of Sailor, of their kiss. She was searching for a way to make them all into one person, but it was hard. How did he hide his bad-boy past so well? How had he given it all up to live in this odunk town? How could he give up his music to lead a small group of mediocre singers through Sunday service? Who was Nix Elliot?

  She moved through her chores, chatted with Lindsay about mundane things, and watched for Nix all day.

  But he didn’t come.

  “Hell
o?”

  “Nix Elliott?” a man’s voice asked. Dread pricked along Nix’s spine. The hardness of the man’s voice combined with the New York area code meant this could only be about one thing: Fiona’s attack.

  “This is Nix.” He pulled a stool down from one of the tables and sat, the fingers of his free hand digging into his hair.

  “This is Detective Maynard from the New York Police Department. You spoke to a desk sergeant earlier this week about a possible lead in the Fiona MacDonald case.”

  “Yes,” Nix confirmed. He’d assumed Fiona had been attacked, but it still stung to hear he’d been right. How terrifying that must have been for her, and she’d been dealing with the consequences all alone.

  “I wondered if you’d walk me through what you told my sergeant.”

  “Uh, sure.” He relayed what little he’d gleaned from Fiona’s nightmare and his own detective work, ending with the revelation that Nathan Hall was the fiancée of now-lead but then understudy, Jeanine Nowak.

  “Do you have any personal connection with Mr. Hall?” the detective asked.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just doing my job. And what about Ms. MacDonald? Does she have a relationship with Mr. Hall?”

  “Not that I know of. She doesn’t even know that she said his name, okay? Look, what’s this about? Did you investigate Hall’s alibi? Did you find out if he did this?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. You have ties to the music industry. Had some success, as I understand it.” Nix didn’t know what the guy was getting at, but he sure didn’t like his tone of voice. Nix hadn’t had anything to do with Fiona’s attack. He hadn’t even known her then.

  “Some,” he said, working hard to keep his voice even.

  “Well, thank you Mr. Elliott. If I need anything more, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait. Can you give me any—” The call was ended before he could even finish asking his question. “Jerk,” Nix said to the phone.

  He stood, his movements tight with fury. He began pulling chairs down from tables and slamming them onto the floor, each impact harder than the last.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Kipper said, lunging forward and putting her hand on his arm. “What’d these chairs ever do to you?” She took the chair he was holding and gently placed it on the floor. Nix glared at her.

  Kipper leaned back, her be-ringed fingers splayed across her chest. “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong—at least not yet—but if you need to go a few rounds with someone, I’ve been known to kick some—”

  Nix turned away and grabbed another chair, using more restraint this time. “I’m not gonna fight you, Kip.”

  “Wanna talk about it then?” she asked as she pulled down the last chair for that table and moved onto the next. Nix followed her, but was quiet while they each set up the chairs.

  The thing he liked about Kipper was, she was never in a hurry to get in anyone’s business, but when invited, she was a great listener. She was one of the reasons the club was so successful and he counted himself more than a little lucky that he’d found her and she’d been willing to take a chance on him and his little club-that-could.

  Kipper was a superior bartender, a pretty good bouncer when the need arose, and a great ear for those lonely-hearts that just needed to talk to someone from time to time. And the fact that she was hot didn’t hurt one bit.

  Nix sighed and pulled out the chair he’d just set on the floor, and sat down. Kipper followed his lead and they sat there, Nix with his hands in his lap and his head bowed, Kipper with her elbows on the table and her chin resting in one hand.

  “It’s Fiona.”

  Kipper knew all about Fiona by this point. Somehow Nix found himself with lots of reasons to talk about her over the last couple weeks. He hadn’t told her about his suspicions about the attack but he knew Kip would never spill the beans. Never.

  “I just got confirmation that something happened to Fiona before she came out here. Something bad. Criminal. I suspected but I—well, Fiona never admitted it was true but now I know for sure.”

  “Is she gonna press charges?” Kipper asked, her eyes steady on Nix. Kipper knew a thing or two about out of control men and how they can ruin a woman’s life. That was one of the reasons she was here, starting over, just like him.

  Nix shook his head. “Until recently she hadn’t remembered anything and the cops had nothing to go on.”

  Kipper cursed and leaned back in her chair. “But now?”

  “Now…maybe they do. I…” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. He caught Kipper’s gaze, practically begging her to absolve him of this guilt he felt tearing at his heart. “Kip, I did something. Something Fiona doesn’t know I did. Something she didn’t ask me to do.”

  “Hey if you’re gonna tell me you told the cops who that—” she paused, obviously searching for a word to replace the one she wanted to call Fiona’s attacker, “jerk was, then I think you did the right thing.”

  Nix pushed back from the table and paced, shoving both hands into his hair. His fingers caught in tangles and he realized he must have been doing that a lot today. “I don’t know, Kip. Fiona’s proud—and private. She’ll flip if she finds out what I did. The first time I suggested she was hiding the truth about being attacked she freaked out. She hated me for guessing. For knowing.

  “She doesn’t know that I’ve figured out anything about who might have attacked her—and if I’m wrong, and I’ve just accused the wrong guy…I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.”

  “Well,” Kipper said. “At least you tried. You were trying to protect her. I’m a little proud myself—in case you haven’t noticed—and if it hadn’t been for some guy butting in, I might just be dead right now.”

  Nix whirled to face her, but Kipper just shrugged and stretched her legs out beneath the table. Again, he was so impressed with her confidence. She wasn’t at all ashamed to admit what she’d been through. She knew none of it had been her fault.

  “Yeah, well. I was stupid. And don’t get any ideas—” she jabbed a finger in Nix’s direction, “I got smart awfully fast after that. And if your girl is strong, and I hope she is, so will she. But for now, you might’ve just taken a—a criminal—off the streets and saved someone else from his—” She shook her head and slammed her fist on the table. “Can I swear now? This is a club for –” Nix cut her off with a grin and shake of his head.

  “Nope. While you work for me, you keep your language clean.”

  “Ya know, working here is no walk in the park. You pay me crap and I have to listen to bad talent every night. It’s like torture.”

  “Go ahead and leave, then.” Nix’s grin grew wider and Kipper grinned back.

  “Maybe I will.” She stood and shoved her chair up to the table, spun on her heel with a whole lot of attitude and walked away.

  But only to the bar. Nix knew she’d be sticking by him. She was just that kind of friend.

  IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT, FIONA KICKED HER tangled sheets away and groaned. She hadn’t been able to sleep because all she could think about was Nix. About why he hadn’t come to check up on her and about who he really was. She had to know—the not knowing was driving her crazy.

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. She leaped out of bed, threw on a Jacobs School of Music hoodie over her plaid flannel pajamas, stuffed her feet into a worn pair of Uggs, grabbed her keys and silently made her way out to her car. She banished all thought from her mind as she drove to Variety. She was doing this. Right or wrong. She put the car in park, marched around back, climbed the dark stairs and knocked. Nothing.

  It was pitch black outside. She’d had to use her phone’s light to see her way up the stairs, but it didn’t illuminate much. Now she wondered just how insane she was traipsing out into the night at—

  “Hold on!” a muffled voice said from inside. It was only then that she realized she hadn’t stopped banging on his door. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks despite the co
ld, but she determined she’d ignore it. She was here. In the middle of the night. In her pajamas. She was past feeling embarrassed about it.

  She waited impatiently for the door to open. First the light popped on, then she had to move to the side to make room for the door to open outward. Nix stood there, silhouetted against the dark interior of his apartment, his hair mussed, his feet bare. He wore a baggy V-neck white T-shirt and scrub-like pajama bottoms. The edge of a tattoo over his heart peeked out from the collar of his shirt—she recognized it from the pictures she’d seen online.

  Nix noticed her looking and jerked his collar to cover the tattoo, but she’d seen enough.

  “I know who you are,” she said in a whisper.

  He stared at her for a minute, his eyes tight and searching. Finally, he sighed and pushed the door open wider. “Wanna come in?”

  To say he’d been shocked to see Fiona at his door at this time of the night—or morning—would not be overstating things. As he closed the door behind her, he scrubbed his hands through his hair, completely stumped as to why she’d be here.

  He looked at her in the dim glow of the kitchen appliances and felt a literal tug in his heart. He loved this woman. Even now, with tiny strands of hair standing out around her face and frizzing from her braid, her oversized sweatshirt and ugly-as-all-get-out boots. He loved how her cheeks were flushed like she was embarrassed, but she held her chin high to prove she was still in control.

  She was in control, he knew. She was calling all the shots and he’d accept whatever she decided. But that didn’t stop him from hoping, and he’d hope she chose him until the second she boarded a plane for New York—and maybe even longer.