Danny Boy had driven Shay’s 918 Spyder Porsche to get him. The thought of Danny Boy handling the 900 horsepower hybrid gave Shay heart palpitations, and he made a mental note to hide the keys when he went back to San Francisco. He’d buy Danny Boy a sedan of some type, something that if he wrecked it, wouldn’t be at a loss of a million dollars like it would be for the Porsche.
“You look well,” Shay told him. He meant it. His brother had gained some much needed weight and had color in his cheeks. And he’d stuck around, living at Shay’s house in Dublin for a longer period than he’d been in one spot for years. Shay was still surprised every time he saw or spoke with Danny Boy. The guy had righted his life, and by all counts it was due to a dog.
When Danny Boy brought Roscoe on tour, Shay had thought of it as another way he’d be inconvenienced and held responsible by the rash act of his brother. He assumed Danny Boy would pawn the dog off on someone else before long, but it turned out their bond was not a passing fancy. Roscoe really had become something of a service dog for Danny Boy, serving as a centering point. As a recovering addict, Danny Boy latched onto Roscoe almost as intensely as he had drugs. But there were only positive side effects this time. Danny Boy became more grounded, less tortured by the chaos in his head, and actually committed to going to both NA meetings and therapy sessions—as long as he could have Roscoe by his side.
This was the only reason why Shay was tolerating the fact that the dog was in his car with them, panting and threatening to drool on the fine leather seats.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Danny Boy said. “How’s Jessica?”
“Busy. I’d never see her if I didn’t live with her,” Shay said with a laugh.
“So, this living in San Francisco thing is going to stick, is it?”
Shay hesitated to respond. As had been the pattern of his life, he wanted to make everyone happy. He didn’t want to disappoint Danny Boy by saying his relocation to San Francisco was permanent. But, he had also been working on putting himself first. The biggest part of that had been moving so he could be with Jessica. But it had also been letting Danny Boy know he wouldn’t tolerate being used and manipulated anymore. At the time, he’d feared it would send his brother into a drug oblivion. He’d feared he’d feel guilty for the rest of his life for doing what he needed in order to be happy. But Shay finally came to terms with the fact that he would never be able to make decisions for his brother and that would have to be okay. After a setback, Danny Boy had managed to pull himself together and kept it going. Shay was still learning to trust this new version of his brother.
“Yeah, it’s sticking,” Shay said cautiously. And then, because his old caretaker tendencies would never really die, he added, “You and Roscoe should come out and stay with us for a while. It’s a great city. And I’m into this high-speed sailboat racing thing. You’d like it.”
“Yeah, maybe so. Roscoe allowed on the boat?”
“Of course.”
“Grand. So, you’re really recording new stuff now?”
It was as much of a surprise to Shay as it was to Danny Boy. They hadn’t had all that much downtime since the end of the tour. But Shay wouldn’t argue. Being in this band had been the driving force to his life and always would be.
“Looks that way. Gav and Conor had their heads together out in Los Angeles. Guess it led to this.”
“Well, I’m happy to have you home for a while.”
“Me, too, Danny Boy. Me, too.”
Shay pressed down firmly on the accelerator and the Porsche responded like a dream.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Felicity watched as a series of caterers streamed into her house, feeling removed from the activity swarming all around her. They were setting up for the dinner party that night. It wasn’t a huge group, but still required the food, flowers, and other décor that she wasn’t especially good at setting up.
Tonight she and Conor would tell everyone—including his parents—that they had gotten married. And that they were expecting a baby. Make that two babies. Her head still swam at the idea that they were going to be this family of four. Conor hadn’t seemed fazed. Not that much threw Mr. Control anyway. But it was a big deal. Sharing the news would make it feel all that much more real. Felicity was both nervous and excited. She imagined that was what she would feel a whole lot of in the coming months.
Conor had only slept for a few hours before going straight back to the studio. He and Gavin were on a tear and it was exciting to be near it. Felicity could tell something special was happening with the two of them. They were actually writing together again, unlike with the last album where it had been almost all Gavin writing the lyrics. It was likely that she would have to call Conor to be sure he didn’t forget their eight o’clock dinner. She didn’t mind, though, because he had been happier than she’d ever seen him.
It had started as a loose, extended jam session when it suddenly clicked into something with shape. The boys of Rogue were in the midst of the fleeting sensation musicians craved but rarely captured. It was like they could all read each other without having to say a word, like they knew how the notes should change in parallel with each other. It was a high.
But it was also fragile and so they didn’t dare stop to acknowledge it. Their longtime producers and the studio crew could sense it as well. They kept out of the way as the music flowed. When they finally came to a stopping point, every one of them had messages on their phones.
Looking at the clock, Conor expected it would be a reminder about the evening’s dinner, even though it was only a little after seven. But when he saw the text, it wasn’t anything as banal as that. What he read made his heart twist in his chest. He looked up at Gavin who was also checking his cell. His friend’s face was white. The blood had left him with the news that Christian Hale had committed suicide.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Conor’s response was pure instinct. He rushed to Gavin and pushed him into a vocal isolation sound booth, oblivious to everyone else watching. The two men filled the small booth, and all Conor could hear was Gavin hyperventilating.
“Stop,” Conor told him. “Control yourself. Breathe.”
“Get off me,” Gavin shouted and pushed him.
But there was nowhere for Conor to go, which had been the reason for forcing Gavin in there. “Just try to breathe, Gav.”
“Fuck off!” Gavin swung at him but it was a weak attempt that Conor blocked.
“Listen to me. Listen, Declan,” Conor said, using his friend’s middle name to try to get his attention. It had always been a way to signal that he was making a serious or significant point. “This is fucking awful. This is tearing me up just like you. But I know you and I don’t want you to go off the fucking rails right now. Don’t let this be an excuse to do something stupid.”
“He’s the one who did something stupid. That fucking cocksucker bastard!” There were tears falling down Gavin’s face, but at least some of the color had returned. “How could he—no, I don’t believe it. This is bullshit. This didn’t happen.”
But the text had come from Patsy, Christian’s wife. She had apologized for the mass text, but wanted them to know before the press announced it. That made it impossible for Gavin to go into denial.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Conor said. “You’re going to rage and scream and yell. Right here. Right now. And then you’re going to catch your breath so you can speak with Patsy. Because she doesn’t need you out of your head when you call. And then, we’re going to go to my place and we’re going to have fucking dinner and toast to Christian and try to celebrate what we have—in his honor.”
Gavin shook his head vigorously. “No. No, this isn’t happening. He hasn’t done this.”
“He has. He hung himself. That big bastard decided he was done and there wasn’t one goddamn thing any of us could have done about it.”
“Don’t say that.” Gavin pressed his palms against his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “I just spoke to him t
he other day. I knew he was depressed. I could have done something. I should have done something.”
“Fuck him for this,” Conor said. “Fuck him for doing this to Patsy. And to you. And to all his friends. And his fans. Fuck. Him.”
“Fuck you, Conor. How can you fucking say that?” Gavin pushed him in the chest and Conor took it. He took the next few pushes, too, until he was backed against the foam-lined wall.
“Fuck him, because while everyone else is trying to fight their demons, he gave in and let them win.”
“Shut up. Just shut your mouth.” Gavin pushed his forearm under Conor’s chin and raised his fist to punch him.
Undaunted, Conor pressed on. He wanted to get every emotion he could out of Gavin. He wanted it out now instead of allowing it to fester and turn into something Gavin might use as an excuse to turn to cocaine or something worse. “You know you’re thinking it, too. He was weak.”
“He was depressed. He was sick. He wouldn’t have done this if he had control. He wouldn’t have done this if he was able to think straight.”
“Gav, he was all of that,” Conor said softly. “He was weak and sick. And even with a wife who loved him and friends who tried, there was nothing anyone could do. Not even he could help himself.”
That registered with Gavin, and he slowly lowered his fist and stepped away from Conor. He backed up until he was leaning against the opposite wall. Covering his face with his hands, his body began to shake. He was wracked with grief, crying without shame.
It was only then that Conor felt the full weight of the news. The idea that Christian was gone was unfathomable. He had been a part of their lives since Rogue's beginnings when they had supported Scandal on tour. He had been instrumental in teaching Rogue about the industry, but it was his genuine friendship that had resonated more than anything. While Gavin was closest with him, he had left an indelible impression on Conor and the others as well.
Conor didn’t tear up, but he did feel the void as an oppressive weight upon his whole body and he slumped down until he was squatting on the floor.
They stayed like that in the room together for a long time. Finally, Conor took a deep breath and stood. He went to Gavin and put a hand on his shoulder. Gavin shook his head, despondent.
“Let’s call Patsy. She needs to hear from people who loved him,” Conor said.
“I can’t face this.”
“You can. You know why?”
Gavin was silent, staring at him with glassy eyes.
“Because right now, this isn’t about you. Let’s do what we can for her. We owe him that.”
“God, he must have been in so much pain to do this.”
“He always put up a good front, but there was darkness underneath—and in his music. He couldn’t escape it anymore.”
“He joked once about it. But we both dismissed it as stupid. We agreed life had too much to offer to give it up.”
“That’s the fucking truth,” Conor said pointedly. He waited for Gavin’s unequivocal agreement.
“Don’t I know it,” Gavin replied and Conor breathed easier. “Jesus, I just wish I could have talked to him one more time. If I had known how bad it was—”
“It’s not on you, Gavin. Don’t you dare go there. Yes, you were his friend, but you lived half a world away. You weren’t the one in his life day in and day out. There’s no way you could have known this was coming.”
Gavin looked down and nodded. “Let’s call her.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The mood at dinner ran the gamut of emotions as everyone took the opportunity to share their stories about Christian with each other, some of which made the group laugh and some of which elicited tears. But the overriding sentiment was one of disbelief. This news wasn’t going to sink in for some time.
After most of their guests had consumed enough wine to have a solid buzz, Conor decided to try to turn their attention to the blessings they possessed. Tapping a knife against his wine glass, he got the attention of the room, including his parents, Felicity, Gavin and Sophie, Shay and Danny Boy, Martin, James and his wife, and Felicity’s assistant and her partner.
Standing up at the head of the long table the caterers had put together that spanned the living and dining rooms, he surveyed the group of people before him. “So, em, the original motive for having you all here is something I hope will restore some of your faith in life in general.”
There was subdued relief at this idea. They had all been exhausted by the evening, and Conor realized that while it had been a good thing that they were together to share in the grief of this awful event, the news he had wouldn’t do much to offset their heartache. Still, he forged ahead.
“First, I’d like to introduce my wife,” he said and held out his hand to Felicity. She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet to stand by his side. He put his arm around her and she leaned into him.
“Wife? How’d that happen?” Martin asked as the rest of the group cooed and offered congratulations.
“After L.A., Marty, we went to Formentera,” Conor said patiently. “I asked her to marry me and we did it right there.”
Conor’s parents, who had always loved Felicity—even being so bold as to not so subtly hint that they thought she was his better match when Conor was engaged to Colette—were on their feet, hugging her and welcoming her to the family. Felicity, hormonal and emotional from the sad news of the day, burst into tears and the room again fell into a gloomy silence.
“You’ve got other news, haven’t you?” Gavin asked.
The leading question was the push Conor needed to keep going. “Yes, yes. So, you all know that we’ve been looking into adoption. The good news is that everything is moving along and we expect to have a baby of our own in the early part of the New Year.”
There were cheers for this, with lots of clinking glasses and toasts.
“Thanks, we appreciate that,” Conor said. “But there’s even more to tell you.” He looked at Felicity and she smiled up at him. Her mild morning sickness had passed and she was reveling in the pregnancy now. The changes to her body had been minimal so far, but her ravenous appetite and the progression of the pregnancy was sure to change that soon. “I somehow got this beautiful woman pregnant, too.” It made him absurdly proud to make this declaration.
“I knew it!” Sophie said. She got up and hugged Felicity.
The rest of the evening turned lighter, as playful talk of the next generation of Rogue dominated. Everyone gratefully embraced the opportunity to, at least temporarily, put aside their grief. Still, Conor kept a watchful eye on Gavin, and would continue to do so in the weeks and months ahead.
CHAPTER SIXTY
In the following days, new stories trickled out, identifying interviews in which Christian spoke about moments of “darkness” and other indicators of his struggles. His fans flocked to his beachside home and set up an impromptu shrine of notes and flowers. His surfing friends held a memorial in the ocean.
Gavin watched it all with a heavy heart. He, Conor, Shay, and Martin traveled to Australia for the funeral. Gavin was a pallbearer along with Christian’s bandmates. Patsy insisted that the service be a celebration of her late husband, inviting all the guests to share the things they had loved about Christian. In that way, it was cathartic.
But upon returning to Dublin, Gavin fought to overcome his own depression. He had fantastic support, of course, beginning with Sophie who was, as always, the one who knew exactly how to care for him. She let him sulk, but not for too long. She pulled him out of his head by getting him to talk about Christian, and having him acknowledge the turmoil of emotions he was still trying to process.
Just being with Sophie and Daisy was good medicine for his ails, but Conor was also a steady presence. They had put their studio time on hold, but Conor came over daily, reestablishing the exercise routine they had once enjoyed of running together, followed by weights in Gavin’s home gym. Some days they barely exchanged a word, other days they talked throu
ghout their workout and extended their time together until late in the evening, hashing out plans for the next album.
As comforting as his presence was during these visits, they talked around the edges of what had happened with Christian, never directly confronting it until one evening, when they’d gone out for a pint. Sitting at a back corner table in Finnegans pub on Sorrento Road, they had the place to themselves as it was past closing time. The staff didn’t dare approach them to ask that they leave and instead went about their cleaning and closing procedures, likely with the hope that the rock stars would get the hint and vacate.
Instead, Gavin leaned back against the carved wood paneled wall and enjoyed a sip of his Guinness. Conor sat opposite him in a padded leather-backed chair, just as relaxed.
“Tell me something, Con,” Gavin said. He put his legs up on the bench seat.
“Sure.”
“Did you think I was going to run out and kill myself after finding out about Christian?”
Conor had been watching the muted television up on the wall, trying to follow the play by play of an all-German soccer match. But now he stiffened and looked at his friend.
“Not exactly.”
“No?”
“Why are you asking?”
“As soon as you saw that text, you rushed me. Forced me into that booth. Made me confront everything at once. Why? What was the urgency? Why couldn’t you just let me process it in my own time?”
Conor sat up straight and met his eyes, and Gavin expected an answer. But Conor was quiet, obviously considering his next words. Gavin had been trying to goad his friend, but it seemed Conor’s normally controlled manner wouldn’t be so easily undone. Still, Gavin waited for an answer. The question had formed loosely in his mind at first, and only after the funeral and the chaos of emotions had subsided. But then, it solidified around wanting to understand Conor’s response to the news. It had been a dramatic one, making Gavin wonder if Conor thought Gavin was still the emotionally fragile kid he had once been. Gavin thought Conor knew him better than that, but the way Conor had forced him into the sound booth made him doubt that.
Finding Rhythm (Rogue Rockstar Series Book 4) Page 25