The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  “Wasn’t that his new song?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you had lyrics. I didn’t think Gavin wrote lyrics.”

  Knowing how this is going to sound, I say, somewhat resigned, “I wrote them.”

  I watch Chloe digest the information, sure that she’s judging me. I pretend to be a writer, but I’ve barely ever written a thing. I can’t even finish a short story that satisfies me. I don’t have music experience and barely even have music club experience beyond the past few months. She must be deciding whether I’m deluded or merely pathetic.

  “Did he ask you to write them? Did he give you a start?”

  Now I feel stupid. I answer dismissively, waving a hand and returning to my lock for something to do. “Oh, I was just playing around.”

  “By writing those lyrics.”

  “You know how music will get stuck in your head. He’s been playing it, and I guess it kind of got wedged in there. I just sort of heard the words of the chorus as I walked around, under the rhythm of my feet.” I give Chloe a glance. “It’s stupid, I know.”

  At first, she doesn’t answer, not taking my stupid-bait. I notice for the first time that Chloe has pale-green eyes. From a distance, they look brown. She has a natural pout in the set of her lips, and onstage, with her elegant clothing, she looks dead sexy. But it’s the kind of sexy that seems somehow superior, so men rarely approach her. It would be easy to believe that Chloe, with all her mystery and her prime spot in the lineup, thinks she’s too good for someone like me. But as much as I try to convince her that I’m stupid, she’s not rushing to agree.

  “You said the chorus. But you had all of the verses, too.”

  “I was singing out my ass. Making it up as I went along.”

  Chloe walks a few more steps. I almost think she’ll sit, but I have no intention to do the same. Then it will be awkward. Instead, she leans against the lockers, arms crossing as she makes herself comfortable.

  “You know,” she says.

  “Know what?”

  “You looked him up. Dug around.”

  “I found some of his songs,” I say.

  “But you know what happened. With Firecracker Confession.”

  I shift uncomfortably. I hope she’ll let me off the hook — but no, she’s waiting for my answer.

  “I know there was a car accident. His band died.”

  Chloe’s head shakes slowly. But she’s not saying no; she seems to be deciding that I’m baffling, or possibly an idiot.

  “Not just his band, Abigail. Grace was his girlfriend.” She watches me then adds, “And his songwriter.”

  My mouth was open. I shut it.

  “I … I didn’t know.” I’m trying to remember what I may have said to Gavin, particularly the times I pried too far and he seemed to cut me off. Have I been nosy? Intrusive? Have I — ?

  “You’ve just written him the only new lyrics he’s had since she passed.”

  Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus. Now I want to crawl into a hole and die.

  “I was just messing around,” I say.

  “Have you ever written lyrics before?”

  “I wasn’t ‘writing lyrics.’ I was … that was just stuff in my head.”

  She comes forward another step, and this time she does something curious for anyone else but perfectly expected from Chloe Campbell. She reaches out and takes hold of one of my earrings, inspecting it. They’re pretty things, set with diamonds — one of the few rich girl relics I’ve hung onto. And now, it’s like Chloe has seen the clue I’ve left literally hanging, and can see right through me.

  She lets go and says, “Are you telling me the truth?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  She sighs, her pouting lips pressing together as she seems to believe me. She leans back from the lockers and begins to stroll the small room. I turn to follow, and she stops once I’m looking out the window, seeing the darkening Old Town streets beyond.

  “The best of the stuff I’ve written comes right out of the air,” she says, her voice breathy. “The pieces I labor over, that I work on forever? Those are the songs I usually don’t bother to sing. It’s the spontaneous ones that are most honest. What I do on this stage, those are songs I wrote in an afternoon. They come to me almost whole, from nowhere.”

  “That’s spooky,” I say, unsure how else to respond.

  “What you sang just now? That hurt him. He won’t show it, of course, but I could see it on his face.”

  Is this an accusation? Is she angry? Does she think I’m a pretentious bitch, daring to dip my toe so publicly into waters that only true artists should swim?

  “I didn’t mean to — ” I begin.

  “He needed to hear it. And it was sweet, what you said.”

  I think back. I don’t even remember what I sang. So much of it was like Chloe described: out of nowhere, as if something else was using my mouth to sing words like a puppet.

  “Grace meant everything to him, Abigail. They were inseparable. Charlie was almost as close. The three of them were one of those groups of friends most of us envy. They didn’t fight. Three is supposed to be an unstable number, but there was never any jealousy. Charlie had a girl of his own, and he had no designs on Grace. Charlie and Gavin had been best friends since grade school, I guess. And when Gavin needed time to compose with Charlie, Grace understood because she was one of them. You could tell just looking at them that they were going to make it because they were three wills blending into one. I met them a year before the accident then ran into them here and there when we were all nomads. What Gavin and Grace had? It was special. You could tell.”

  “I … ” But there are no words. I don’t know what to say. Chloe’s story isn’t making me feel touched or even sad. Instead, it’s making me feel like I’ve trespassed. Like I’ve stepped where I don’t belong and am not wanted.

  “When she died, everyone who knew them thought that Gavin might, too. The car accident that killed them? Gavin was supposed to be in it. And it’s like he wishes he had been. For weeks, he would only second-guess everything. He was sure it was his fault. He wished he could have traded his life for theirs, but worse was how he seemed to just want to be with them, whether they could have lived or not. They were all for one and one for all, as far as Gavin was concerned. His survival made him angry. It was that way for a long time, and then he settled into this workless slump. He’ll only play Grace’s old songs, but never with lyrics.”

  “Why not? I’ve heard him sing a little on YouTube.”

  “Because most of the songs were about how much she loved him.”

  Chloe’s reply breaks something inside me. I want to slump into a chair. I want to cry, for him, for all of them. And I want to apologize. I’m remembering some of the song now, and I want to take it all back. I didn’t ask for those lyrics; they seemed to come to me as naturally as if Gavin had birthed them himself without ever writing them down. He needs to understand that I didn’t mean any of it. The song’s story seemed to be about moving on, but because I was singing, it’s as if I was the one singing that sorrow isn’t worth the indulgence. It was flip and dismissive. I feel so terribly sorry.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I say, almost pleading. “I didn’t mean what I sang.”

  Chloe reaches out again, but this time she doesn’t touch my earring. She cups my cheek with her palm and smiles.

  “You both meant it, Darling. Because whether or not you realize it, you wrote that song together.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Gavin

  After I blink away my shock, I take the time to pack my guitar in its case. I don’t need to; I normally prop the thing in a corner, and everyone leaves it alone as long as I get it before the doors open. But this time I lay it in the rich plush interior and take the time to set my pick and other accoutrements into the little side pocket, too. I do it in a daze. I suppose I don’t actually care about carefully stowing my gear as the crowd breaks up and returns to work, just like I don’t care about wiping a
smudge off the hinges or carrying the whole case back to one of the dressing rooms. I just need something to do for a few minutes. Anything to shake the strange haze that has descended over my head, making me feel almost dizzy.

  When I get to the room, I open up the case again, still not quite sure why. And I see what had caught my eye before, which my conscious mind had decided to ignore: a few scribbled notes from last night, during one of my fugues. When I woke, that music seemed just as shitty as the thousands of pages I must have thrown away in mornings after, but for some reason I didn’t toss it. Instead, it’s in the bottom of my case. I pick it up to waste another half minute, but all I can decide is not to pitch it again. It’s probably still terrible, but I can figure that out and toss it later.

  Maybe this particular song isn’t awful. On first glance, it doesn’t strike me as repugnant as my midnight writings always seem at 6 a.m.

  But I don’t want to think about that either because the worst thing in the world would be for me to discover that work like this has never been as puerile as I’ve imagined. It would mean I’ve burned endless decent songs these last few years, certain they were crap. And right now, given the strange way I feel after hearing Abigail sing, pondering that destruction makes me think of murder.

  I put the case away. I go into the bathroom then splash water on my face, feeling disoriented or drunk. I haven’t had anything to drink, but it sure feels like I’m losing my grip in the exact same way. What happened in the front room cast a spell, sufficient to draw a crowd. We didn’t mean to put on a show. We didn’t even know there was a show to put on. It was one of those things that just happened, like magic. Like something you do because you’re obeying a deeper force. Like something that, afterward, you can only celebrate or regret.

  Once I’m more levelheaded, I leave the bathroom and steer away from Danny’s voice, which I can hear a mile away. I’d gone the opposite direction from him earlier, escaping when he was waylaid by one of the cocktail waitresses. Because I know what Danny has in mind right now — exactly what he’ll say to me if I run into him. He’s been pushing me to write and perform new stuff almost as hard as Freddy has been pushing to work with me. He won’t believe that none of that was planned and will think I’m being difficult if I refuse to repeat my performance. I came in today with a song that had been slowly growing, like an infant. But that room just heard something mature, almost adult. And nobody will believe how it was born because even I’m having trouble with the truth.

  Did I write lyrics without intending to? Of course not, but the alternative is practically witchcraft. I had no idea what that song was about, but now I do. And its germination within me must mean something. Abigail incubating the rest must mean something else. All I can focus on now is finding the answer.

  I make my way through the Overlook’s twisted backstage labyrinth. Freddy follows like a heat-seeking missile. I don’t want to accuse him of stalking me, but really the only way he could be so coincidentally behind me now is if he’d come out of the main room then waited for me to get my shit back in order.

  “Gavin.”

  I ignore him. Right. Left. Another left.

  “Gavin.”

  “Not now, Freddy.”

  “Gavin, you told me that song was … ”

  He stops when I reach the locker room, which I’d almost passed, and see Abigail standing there with Chloe cupping her cheek.

  “Can I have a minute?” I ask.

  Chloe gives me an enigmatic smile. A smile that seems to say she knows more than I do about whatever’s going on, or whatever’s about to. “See you, Abigail,” she says. And then she slips past Freddy and is gone.

  “You too, Freddy.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Give me a minute with Abigail.”

  “I want to talk to her, too.” He extends a hand, and there’s a comical introduction. Abigail shakes his hand as if she’s never seen one before, though they must at least know who one another are. Is it possible they’ve never spoken? The past week has gone so fast; it feels like she’s been part of my life forever.

  “I want to talk to her first.”

  “No way, man. No way. I know how you are. You’ll shit this away. But you can’t. That song needs more instrumentation. It’s quiet, but it’s not one guitar and you know it. I want to help.”

  “I told you, that song is off the table. You were going to work up something else.”

  “I want that one.”

  “Fuck off, Freddy.” I say it casually. I’m not really mad, but I am impatient and he’s butting in.

  “No, man, goddammit! I know you by now, Gavin, and I know you’ll shut it down. This isn’t about me horning in. I don’t give a fuck; I don’t want a percentage even if I help you work it up. This is about the song.”

  And in that second, I’m reminded of what I thought earlier, about all the music I’ve slaughtered because I thought it deserved a burial. It’s like Freddy’s fighting to save a life; that’s how intense he looks.

  Abigail is nearly between us, looking frail. She’s paler than usual, and her body language is all wrong, like she just wants to get away. Something is different about her face, too. She’s fresher, somehow, and the difference makes me want to kiss her again, and hold her tight because whatever I’m feeling, she’s the only one who’d understand.

  “Seriously, Freddy.”

  Freddy slams a fist against the lockers. The whole thing rattles, and Abigail jumps.

  “No, dammit!” He jabs a finger out into the hallway and says, “You know what that was out there? That was real. I walk, and you’ll make it go away because being real scares you. You’ve come close to real here and there, but this is the brightest I’ve seen you light up, ever. Usually, you’re up to your throat with bullshit.”

  “Thanks,” I say bitterly.

  “It’s true, Gavin! You write safe. Even when you sing a little warming up, you sing safe. You even talk safe. Anyone tries to be real with you, you shut down. But you’re a fucking artist! You can’t run from your pain. You have to face what’s right there begging for your attention then go through it!”

  My lips firm, and I give Freddy a stare, but as with what he said before about working together, this frequent argument of his suddenly seems like it might carry a grain of truth. Instead, I turn to Abigail, and she’s practically crumpled between us.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  The timid way she says it breaks my heart all over. “Sorry for what?” I say, pushing the words through my lips in a whisper.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have sung. It just seemed like you wanted me to.”

  “Wait … ” Freddy says.

  “I was making it up. Like singing along with a song you’ve never heard, just following someone else’s lead. I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear. Chloe just told me about … ” She hesitates then tries again. “I didn’t know, Gavin. It’s your business, not mine. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Hang on,” Freddy says. “Are you saying that you — ”

  “I couldn’t even tell you what I said!” An impulse seizes me, and I take her arm for support because it looks like she might fall, but she goes with the momentum and collapses into me, her face half-against my shoulder. I realize she’s started to cry, and I want more than anything to stop it. “Please believe me, I wasn’t saying what … I wasn’t saying that you should … ” She can’t go on and turns to a sobbing mess against me.

  Freddy’s hand settles on her back. I’m touched seeing his gesture, and there’s a shift inside me that ratchets my liking of Freddy up a notch. The touch is soft and understanding, not patronizing, definitely not inappropriate.

  “Abigail.”

  She looks up. Her eyes are a little red, and for some reason this makes me want to crumble, to right whatever’s wrong. And as she gazes at me before shifting to Freddy, I realize what’s different: a spray of beautiful freckles across her cheeks and nose. Not over
ly obvious at all. They’re adorable. She’s been covering them up, as if ashamed.

  She looks at Freddy.

  “Gavin didn’t give you those lyrics?” he asks.

  Abigail shakes her head. Freddy looks at me with disbelief, seeming to wonder if I’ll contradict her, then again meets her eyes.

  “You wrote them?”

  She nods. And holy shit, seeing her do it hurts me so much. She looks like a kid in the principal’s office, about to confess. Is she afraid of us? Is she afraid of me? Whatever is bothering her, is it something I did — or worse, something she imagines she did that she thinks made me angry?

  I want to hold her and tell her that everything is all right. To whisper in her ear that I’d never be mad, and that everything will be fine.

  Again, Freddy looks at me. Then he’s speaking to Abigail, his stare intense, eyes always flicking back in my direction.

  “When?” he asks.

  “Over the past few days. But only for the main parts. I’d never heard a lot of what … ” She swallows. “Of what Gavin played today.”

  “So what about the rest? The verses? When did you write those?”

  “As he played.”

  Freddy looks at me harder.

  “How did you do that?” he asks Abigail.

  “I don’t know.”

  Finally, Freddy’s glance lights on me and stays there.

  “No,” I say, knowing what’s coming.

  “We need her,” he says.

  “There’s no ‘we,’ Freddy.”

  “There’s a we as of a half hour ago. We had a deal.”

  “Not for that song.”

  “It’s amazing, Gavin. You know it is.”

  “It’s just chords and strumming.”

  “With her lyrics, it’s something else.”

  I look down at Abigail. I find myself remembering the first thing she said. Neither of us addressed it. Freddy took over from the start, and he wasn’t even supposed to be here.

  I wanted answers, and now I have them. It’s beautiful in a way, even as much as it hurts.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Abigail says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous and imply that — ”