by Devney Perry
If the music dried up, if we had nothing to give the label, would they let us out? Or would we die in that room?
“Then what?” Graham asked.
“Luck.” That’s all fame was—luck and working hard not to screw it up. “We were in the right place at the right time. We got a gig on a Saturday night to play for a private event. It was a sixteenth birthday party for a kid whose dad had more money than he knew what to do with. The parents hired us and chartered a ferry boat to cruise around the sound. One of the guests, a friend of the father’s, was Harvey Hammel.”
Not many bands were able to get an hour of captive listening time with one of those most successful music producers in the business. Hell, the three of us hadn’t known who he was other than a guest of the party who’d lingered close to the stage.
When he’d introduced himself at the end of our set and complimented the one original song we’d snuck into the lineup, Jonas had nearly fainted.
Harvey had seen our potential, or so he’d said. Maybe he had liked how moldable we’d been. How easily we’d all taken instruction and input. Regardless, he’d taken us under his wing. He’d chosen to give us his expertise and experience, making Hush Note the giant we were today.
“After we signed with Harvey, things just took off. He helped us polish our debut album. He got us a deal with the record label. He spent hours and hours with us in the studio, picking songs that would balance the album but still show our range. The first single did well. The second . . . was an explosion.”
Harvey deserved a lot of credit for our success, but he was never one to take more credit than was owed. We were talented. Harvey would be the first to tell us that if it hadn’t been him, another producer would have snatched us up. Because Jonas and Nixon and me on stage . . . together, we were magic.
Something I doubted Graham wanted to hear.
“Do you still like it?” he asked.
“I love the music. When things click, it’s a feeling like no other. The rest has been an interesting ride. We’ve all changed.”
“How?” he asked.
I gave him a sideways glance. What had sparked this sudden interest in Hush Note? For a guy who’d shut off our songs in the truck and hadn’t had much to say to me since I’d arrived, why did he want to know?
But I wasn’t going to ask. I liked talking to Graham.
Too much.
Because once he’d been my safe place.
“Social media is hard,” I said. “That wasn’t a thing when we were starting, but it adds a layer of stress. Or I guess I should say it takes away a layer of anonymity, which is stressful. People want to see our lives. They want to know where we vacation and who we spend time with. There’s the tabloids and the press. The scandals always make a splash.”
“What scandals?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Jonas was a playboy. He’s gorgeous and talented. Women flocked and he used to revel in their affections. I mean, Nixon gets around, but Jonas as the front man was always in the spotlight. In the beginning, some chick would get her feelings hurt when he cast her aside and it would inevitably cause drama. He’s not like that anymore. He was just searching for the right person.”
Kira was everything Jonas had needed in his life. She filled the hole in his heart, and so did their daughter Vivi.
“And Nix?” Graham motioned to my phone.
Nixon, if he didn’t change, would shatter my heart.
“Nix is lost. On top of unhealthy relationships with women, he runs away from the past and into the arms of alcohol and drugs.”
But the bastard was so goddamn obstinate, he wouldn’t admit he needed help. He rarely went to his childhood home in New York, and though I couldn’t fault him for that, he’d never confided in me about what had driven him away in the first place. To my knowledge, Jonas didn’t know either.
Nix was fighting a war with his demons alone, and they were kicking his ass.
“Hmm.” Graham hummed. “And you? What’s your scandal?”
You.
My scandal was my solitude. Some speculated the reason I was never photographed with a man was because I was in love with Nixon or Jonas. Every year that passed, every hit that climbed the charts to number one, made my single status became more and more interesting.
The truly desperate tabloids liked to paint Nixon and me as a couple. They’d speculate that our “secret” relationship was tearing Hush Note apart. There was a time when they’d painted all three of us in a love triangle.
But the truth was, there were no romantic relationships in my life.
Maybe because I’d left my heart with the man on this bench.
“There’s no scandal with me.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed, catching me in the lie. Maybe he’d read some of those tabloids. Maybe he thought they were true.
Doubtful. Graham didn’t seem like he’d spent much time thinking about me since I’d left.
“The worst people say about me is that I’m the bitch,” I told him. “That’s normally how I’m portrayed. Maybe there’s some truth to it. We get a lot of people around us on a tour and everyone wants to be your friend. The bitch helps scare away those who aren’t genuine.”
Guarding myself ensured I wouldn’t be hurt.
Graham’s attention shifted to the piano, his eyebrows coming together like he was thinking over everything I’d told him. “Should we practice tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Meet here at the same time?”
“Sure.” He made a move to stand, but I put my hand on his arm.
“Wait.”
His eyes locked with mine, sending a jolt through my veins. The heat of his skin seeped into my bones, and I couldn’t pull my hand away.
“Why’d you ask?” I whispered. “About the band?” About me?
Graham jerked his arm from my touch and stood, taking one long stride away as his eyes turned to granite. “You traded your family—me—for your band. I guess I wanted to know what I was worth. Sounds like a womanizer and a drug addict.”
I flinched, his words a slap across the cheek.
His parting shot hit dead center, and he strode out of the sanctuary, keys in hand.
Graham had asked me my story so he could have ammunition. Something to hold against me. My hands balled into fists and I slammed them onto the keys, the sound harsh and angry. A scream burned in my chest, begging to be set free, but I shoved it deep. Then I stood and got the fuck out of this sanctuary where Graham’s scent lingered in the air.
One song. We had to get through one song. One funeral. Then I was going back to a life where Graham Hayes was just another painful memory.
Maybe this trip would be good for me after all.
My heart would have some new bruises when I went home to Seattle.
And I’d pour every ounce of this hurt into our next album.
Chapter Six
Graham
“Hi, Quinn!” Colin waved wildly as he ran down the aisle between pews.
She was on stage, at the piano, and her eyes widened as she took him in.
It was the cowardly thing to do, bringing my kid to our practice. But damn it, I couldn’t sit on that seat beside her with no one else in the room. With Colin here, I wouldn’t be tempted to ask her personal questions. Her life was none of my business and getting involved would only cause trouble.
Yesterday had proven that. I’d asked questions. I’d eaten up every word of her answers. And a part of me had softened toward her. I’d let a fraction of my resentment go, and when she’d touched me, I’d almost caved.
Her lips, soft and pink, had been so alluring. Her nose ring was shamelessly sexy. And her hand on my skin had been thrilling. I’d almost lost my fucking mind and given in to that magnetic pull.
Quinn hadn’t deserved my asshole remark. We’d both be better off if she hated me.
Besides, she clearly had something going on with her best friend Nixon. I had no interest in competing for her attention. My life was complicated enough as it was.
I had my business to run and a son to raise. Rock star drama was not my thing.
“Dad said you guys are playing a church song.” Colin plopped down on the bench beside Quinn. His knuckles immediately went to the keys and he rapped out “Chopsticks.”
We’d started piano lessons with Ruby about six months ago, but he didn’t love them, not like he loved the drums, so I hadn’t pushed. When he asked me if he could play football instead, I’d agreed. If he wanted to learn piano someday, Ruby said she’d be happy to teach him. But I’d had a front-row seat to the disaster that could happen when you forced one type of art upon someone passionate about another.
Bradley’s insistence that Quinn uphold a certain image, that she’d play certain music, was the reason she’d left town. No way in hell I’d ever risk ruining the relationship with my son over something so trivial.
“Why aren’t you playing a Hush Note song?” Colin asked her.
“Um . . . it’s complicated.”
“Why?” He’d ask over and over until he got a real answer.
“There’s going to be a lot of church friends of Nan’s here. I don’t think most of them like Hush Note music.”
“Yeah.” Colin shrugged. “They’re kind of old. And you don’t have Nixon or Jonas. But Dad could sing.”
Quinn’s gaze lifted, pleading for me to intervene. But my son was right.
What Nan would have wanted was a Hush Note song. “We could take a Hush Note song and sing it as an acoustic.”
“No.” She frowned. “Let’s just stick with ‘Amazing Grace.’”
I stepped on stage, nudging Colin out of my seat. “Find a pew, buddy.”
“Okay.” He jumped off the stage and shuffled to our regular Sunday seats. His was normally right in front of Nan’s and as he sat, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her space a long stare.
It was Wednesday. Nearly a week since she’d passed. So far, he hadn’t asked me much about her death. We hadn’t talked about the funeral because . . . well, no one was talking about it.
Walker had gone into overdrive at the Bridger project, working so hard I’d had to push myself to keep up as we’d framed a bedroom and bathroom today. My parents were avoiding the funeral subject because Ruby was avoiding the funeral subject. When I’d dropped Colin off with her this morning, she’d acted like today was any normal day, not one where she’d be finalizing details with the florist and caterer.
But in the church, Nan’s passing was impossible to ignore.
On Saturday, we’d dress in black and pay our respects. We’d say goodbye to a woman who’d not soon be forgotten. A woman my son would remember for years to come.
If all I could do to repay her for the love she’d given Colin and me was convince her granddaughter to play a Hush Note song on Saturday, I’d do my best. Yesterday I’d given up on the song without a fight.
Not today.
“‘Torchlight.’” I put my hands on the keys. “Want me to fumble through this or do you want to play since you actually wrote the song?”
Quinn glared. “I don’t want—”
“So I’ll play. What key?” It was B-flat. I knew the song and could play the melody in my sleep, but I butchered the opening notes intentionally, baiting Quinn to take over. Maybe what she needed to play was some fire and a shove. I hit three wrong chords in a row. “Oops.”
“Move over.” Her hands pushed mine off the keys, and her elbow jabbed mine so I’d shift on the bench. “Do you know the lyrics or should I write them down for you?”
“I can manage.” I’d played this song a million times, not that I’d tell her it was on my phone.
It was the only Hush Note song I’d ever purchased for myself because it was the one song that was undeniably Quinn. Her boy Jonas had written the lyrics, but she was there, in the pulse of the bass drum and the beat of the snare. She was there in the melody, even if she wasn’t playing the guitar or singing the vocals.
On the long nights when I was worn out but couldn’t find sleep—the nights when the anger was hard to muster and I’d missed her face—I’d listen to that song and recall the days when she’d been my friend.
That was what I’d always missed the most. Her friendship.
People had told us we were too young to know true love. I’d believed them as a teenager. A part of me believed them now. Was it really possible to find your soul mate at sixteen?
Whether it had been real or we’d only thought it was real, I wasn’t sure. But there was no mistaking the raw emotion in “Torchlight.” That song had been written by a woman whose heart had been broken by her love.
Broken by me.
But the pain in this song came through loud and clear.
I’d been wrecked because Quinn had abandoned me.
Maybe she’d been destroyed because in a way, I’d abandoned her too.
Quinn played the opening notes, changing the fast-paced rhythm to something slower and more subtle. Tingles broke across my forearms. My pulse raced. There was hardly a whisper of air in my lungs when Quinn began singing.
I’d meant to join in, but all I could do was sit and watch her croon to the rafters.
* * *
You are the dark. You were the bright.
Your voice was hope. Your eyes are fear.
You are the torchlight.
Here to incinerate my soul.
* * *
The final note echoed in the room, fading until the only sound was my pounding heart. What could I say? That was perfect? That was fucking agony? She didn’t need me here to sing that song for Nan. And the truth was, I wasn’t sure I had the strength to do it. To sing with Quinn.
Two small hands began clapping.
My eyes turned to Colin who was standing on the honey-colored pew, clapping with a huge grin on his face. That smile was wider than any I’d seen this week, since before Nan.
I cleared my throat. “That was . . . good. Let’s do it again. I’ll come in this time now that I know where you’re taking it.”
I wasn’t sure how, but I’d find the strength to survive this song. For Colin. Because if I sang beside one of his idols, maybe Saturday wouldn’t be quite so hard.
“All right.” Quinn’s fingers stayed glued to the keys, like now that she’d touched them, she was afraid to let go.
She sang the opening and I stayed quiet because it would be more powerful alone. Then when she hit the first chorus, I harmonized with her, trying not to overshadow her voice but simply lift it with my own.
Our vocals melded, curling into each other like old lovers. They were timid at first, testing and teasing. But when the thread of control snapped, we went at it with abandon.
I’d forgotten how natural it was to sing with Quinn. I’d forgotten how good we sounded together. It was different now. My voice was lower and deeper. Hers wasn’t as innocent and unsure. Maturity had changed us both, but the differences made it all the more interesting. There was a dynamic, sultry and surefire, that hadn’t been there in our youth.
My eyes were fixed on her mouth. On the lips that formed each syllable with perfection and grace. Quinn’s fingers moved in a fluid dance over the piano and her gaze tilted to meet mine.
Somewhere in the room, my son was watching. There was a tether in my focus always tied to him, but otherwise, the rest of the world faded away.
Quinn drew me in, wrapping me in her music, and reality vanished.
This had always been our thing. As teenagers, we’d drive around town with the windows down and the radio blaring. She’d beat her hands on the dash, playing an invisible drum, while we’d sing along to whatever station she’d picked.
Singing and music had been part of my entire life. Every other Sunday, I was the lead for the church band. Once or twice a month, I played in a friend’s band at one of our favorite local bars. It was a fun hobby, but it didn’t call to me like it did Quinn.
She was in her element, and I blindly followed her from beginning to end.
I leaned
in closer and her arm brushed against mine. A flush crept into her cheeks as she continued to play and a storm brewed in her blue eyes. The electricity between us crackled.
We’d been lovers once, but this was beyond any teenage fantasies. This was sensual. Carnal. I wanted her voice in my bedroom, whispering dirty musings in my ear as her blond hair draped across my bare chest. I wanted those fingers to tickle and torment the lines of my stomach like they did the piano’s keys.
Gone was the randy teenager who’d always done his best to make it good for his girl. Now I was a man, and I didn’t just want it to be good for Quinn, I wanted to hear her scream.
The song was over. She’d played the last chord while I’d been staring at her mouth. The swell of her breasts heaved as she breathed. The haze around us remained, and even as I blinked, I couldn’t bring it into focus.
Until my son began clapping again.
I tore my eyes away and stood from the piano’s bench to rake a hand through my hair. What. The. Fuck.
What was I doing?
“That. Sounded. Awesome!” Colin let out a whoop and jumped off the pew. He ran to the stage, bypassing me completely to take up my place beside Quinn. “You’re a really good singer. How come you don’t sing with the band?”
“Oh, I, uh . . .” Quinn forced a smile. “Jonas is such a good singer, don’t you think?”
My son didn’t seem to care that she’d dodged his question, but I studied her face. It was the same question I’d had yesterday. Why didn’t she sing?
I opened my mouth to repeat Colin’s question but clamped it shut. Was it any of my business how they’d decided to run their band? No. I’d already gotten tied up in that enough yesterday, and I wasn’t getting anymore involved.
This was not my problem.
“I think we should do that for Saturday,” I said.
“Okay.” Quinn knew it was good, and she knew Nan would have flipped over that rendition. “Should we practice it again?”
“Tomorrow.” There was no way I’d survive another round today. I waved Colin over. “Let’s go.”