That day, her blood had been all over his hands and clothes. It had oozed between his fingers. He would never forget the feeling of desperation he’d felt as he knelt beside her on the pavement. He had tried to stop the bleeding by putting pressure on the wound he’d covered with some napkins from the coffee he had been carrying. They were all he’d had to use. He had never felt the same about Starbucks again. Blood and cappuccino—not a good combination.
Now once in a while, he caught a glimpse of her in the gallery. She never came near the window when he was standing there. One of these days, he was just going to open the door, walk in and ask her how she was doing. After the incident, he’d called the hospital for her condition. He had not been able to get much information, so he’d just gone in and made his way to the intensive care unit. He’d bribed an orderly and had found out that she was in a medically induced coma. After that, he had not wanted to intrude on her family. Months later, when he began seeing her at the gallery occasionally, he noticed that she stayed away from the windows. He had seen her on the street a couple of times, but she kept her head down and turned away from passersby as much as she could. It was clear she was not ready to interact with people—particularly strangers. He figured she had to be scarred. The knife wound had been horrific.
A few months ago, he noticed the big abstract painting in the window and just knew she had painted it. The swirling red strokes running through the tranquil pastels spoke of her unresolved anger and pain. It had struck a chord in his emotions as well. He had his own demons to slay—unresolved issues from his half breed childhood, his slightly ambivalent feelings about his BDSM lifestyle, and mostly the fact that the music he now made was not what he wanted to be making. In his heart, he wanted to be a jazz pianist like Keith Jarret or Chick Corea, not a hard rocker. That painting somehow seemed to put his feelings in sharp focus for him. The other guys in the band—Billie Crockett, Keith Ransom, Guy Penrod, and Tyler Easton—depended on him. He knew he was the musical glue that held the group together. His rock songs gave the band their edge, but his jazz compositions were what fed his soul. He’d like to see the band gradually evolve toward an “Earth Wind & Fire” type of jazz rock emulsion.
Well, he’d better get moving. The guys were waiting in the loft to start a rehearsal session on the songs for the new album. He was pretty satisfied with the new pieces. They weren’t the music of his soul, but rock n’ roll paid the bills and a lot more for all of them. Dark Place was growing in popularity, especially with the people in the alternative lifestyles. The allusions to the lifestyle, D/s, and BDSM in the songs rang a bell with a lot of people—real lifestylers and wannabes as well. The tour that was scheduled for after the holidays would tell the story. They were hoping to broaden their audience out into the vanilla musical world who didn’t really understand the lyrics but liked the pounding beat of the music. If it were half as successful as their agent predicted, they would push it full-throttle.
He, personally, would prefer to follow other avenues, but he wasn’t going to jeopardize the gravy train for all of them. As he was always telling the guys when he had unpopular news to relate, music was a business like any other. That’s why it was called the music business. A band had to strike while the iron was hot and make hay while the sun shined. Next year they might be old news, but the investment accounts he insisted on for all of them would be fat and healthy. Then they could all do whatever they wanted after their popularity waned, as he knew it inevitably would. There weren’t that many performers or bands that stood the test of time like the Stones or Beatles. He didn’t want to be a washed-up rock musician. He wanted to contribute something more to the musical landscape. He wanted to put his Juilliard education to good use. Crap. Enough of this philosophical shit. He had work to do.
Chapter Two
Melodie turned to Jasper when the man had walked away. “I wish I had the nerve to ask him what he finds so compelling about that painting.”
“Mel, it’s a great painting—full of angst and emotion, but at the same time, tranquil. I know it never fails to grab me. You have no idea how many people have come in to ask the price and been disappointed when I told them that particular piece was not for sale but that I had others. I wish you’d do more like it.”
“Sorry, Jasper. I’m afraid it’s a one of a kind.”
He shook his head. “I know, Mel. The pain you poured out onto that canvas…well, I wouldn’t want to see that again. It’s just that the results are so fantastic. Even Max loves it, and you know what a Philistine he is. What do we have to do today?”
“We have to crate and ship the three Colonni pieces Sheik Al Haroun’s third wife bought to her apartment in Dubai. That will probably take all day. I was meeting Pansy for lunch, but she’s working on next spring’s collection and cancelled. We haven’t had much time to get together lately.”
“That always blows my mind. It’s still summer, and she’s working on next spring.”
“That’s fashion design. She has to get out ahead of the trends. Let’s start on crating those pieces.”
* * * *
Logan walked into the huge, open loft that was comprised of the entire fourth floor in a turn-of-the-century shoe factory building. It was accessed by an old, open freight elevator. The walls were exposed red brick, the floors were rough wood, and the ceilings were festooned with electrical wires and plumbing pipes. It contained not only his personal apartment but their rehearsal space, his music studio and work space, a makeshift office area, his personal BDSM dungeon, and a small area sectioned off as a bolt-hole apartment for occasional overnight stays for the guys. He had two baby grand pianos in his studio corner near the street-side windows, as well as other instruments, including acoustic guitars, two violins, a bass cello, and a collection of woodwinds. There was a desk that held his laptop computer with an audio editing program as well as staff paper for hand notation of scores. This was where he did his composing, both for himself and for the band. And still, the huge space echoed. The banks of windows along the outer walls let in lots of light, and the high ceilings provided excellent acoustics. In addition, they had access to the roof, where he had set up an entertaining area for relaxing in good weather with a patio and some trees and shrubbery that deadened some of the city noise.
The loft had been one of his first purchases when the band had started to branch out from opening for other top-name performers, had gotten a recording contract, and became successful in their own right. He had seen no reason to pay for rehearsal or recording space, and it was totally tax deductible. He loved that word—deductible. Sometimes he thought he had the soul of a grizzled, crusty old gray-haired accountant, but someone had to have the business head in this group of very talented misfits.
Billie, Keith, Guy, and Tyler were sprawled on the slightly tatty couches and chairs near the rehearsal area, waiting for him to get them moving. The back corner of the loft contained their sound system and recording equipment as well as their electric guitars, keyboard, drums and various other instruments.
“Get off your asses and let’s get moving. I swear, if I didn’t show up, you lazy bastards would be found dead and moldering when spring came.” He grinned as he took a mouthful of his barely lukewarm coffee. He usually had to kick some ass to get them started, but once they got going, they were incredible.
“Quit your bitchin’, Mom. I see you had time to go out for coffee. Did you stop to moon over the painter, too?” Billie, their keyboard man and backup vocalist, was grinning like a loon.
“As a matter of fact, I did. Shit. One of these days I’m just going to walk right in there…”
“And ask her out?” Guy, their bass guitar, was always pushing him to make contact. The guys had seen how upset he was that day when he had all but staggered into the loft, covered in her blood. They had thought he’d been mugged himself, and for a crew of tough guys, they had all nearly lost it. He knew he’d been a sight worthy of a horror movie. He had since learned that head wounds bled
profusely.
Logan passed copies of the sheet music for the new pieces around to everyone and waited while they began to read it. Now that their attention was engaged, they became professional musicians.
Tyler, their drummer, nodded his head. “This is good shit, man. I see some space for good percussion. Let’s do a run-through.”
They all ambled over and took their positions on the makeshift stage. Logan flipped the switches for the amps and sound system, and set a recorder to catch the first run-through for critical analysis later. The first few attempts contained numerous stops for re-working and marking-up of the scores, but soon they had all found their places in the music. There were some playful improvisations that turned out to be excellent additions.
“Good work, guys. Do you want to break for lunch? We can call out for delivery.”
Keith, the second guitar, looked up from straightening his sheets of music. “Why don’t you walk your ass over to that gallery and ask the pretty lady artist out to lunch instead of hanging with us? Believe it or not, we can feed ourselves.”
“Seconded.” Tyler was the quiet one, but he usually managed to get his two cents in when he thought it necessary.
“She’s been on your mind for two years, man. Maybe more. It’s time to do something about it or let it go.” Billie now looked earnest. “You haven’t been serious about anyone since that day. Yeah, you’ve played with some subs, but you haven’t committed. Not really.”
“Does anyone have anything else to say about my private life?”
“Sure.” Now Billie was grinning again. “Let me continue.”
“Oh, forget it. I think you might be right. I can’t just keep standing outside with my nose pressed against the window.” He racked his guitar, picked up his jacket, and headed out the door.
Chapter Three
Jasper looked out the front plate-glass window of Paint Splatters and jumped. OMG. Here he comes. The man in black who usually wore a hoodie was striding up to the front door. Jasper had been hoping against hope that he would eventually get up the nerve to come in. He didn’t know why—he just had a feeling about this guy. Maybe it was gaytuition or some dumb thing like that. Who knew? Now that he had a view that was up close and head on, he could see that the man was tall and built like a brick outhouse. Shit. He is…interesting. He wouldn’t say he was gorgeous. Max was gorgeous—tall, dark, muscular, yummy. This guy was…he had to say it again—interesting. His hair was dark and pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes were a dark chocolate brown. And his face was all plains and angles. If pressed he would have to say rugged. His nose was slightly hawkish, and his mouth was firm with a chiseled jaw and deep nasal labial lines. If it were him, he’d get a little something-something. But he could see that wouldn’t be an option for this guy. He was who he was, take it or leave it.
Jasper thought maybe he had some Native American blood. He was stunning in his own way—just not classically handsome. Jasper thought it was time—actually, way past time—for Melodie to begin getting back into life. He understood that she had been severely traumatized by the knife attack and the scar on her beautiful face, but she was still beautiful, and the scar was not nearly as bad as it had been, or as she thought it was. It wasn’t gone, but it was miles better than the jagged, red horror it had been. He crossed his fingers behind his back and started toward the door to greet the stranger.
* * * *
Logan hesitated for a moment with his hand on the door handle. Okay. Time to kick his own ass. Move it, asshole. You’ve wanted to do this for almost two years. He opened the door and stepped inside. The faint odor of fresh wood, paint and turpentine assailed his nose. It was a clean smell. He liked it.
An obviously gay, tall, elegant man with straight blond hair and striking blue eyes, wearing grey pin-stripe trousers and a pale gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, stepped up to greet him. “Welcome to Paint Splatters. Excuse my appearance. We’re crating some paintings for shipment in the back. What can I do for you?”
“About the Buxton painting in the window…”
“Sorry. That one is not for sale, but we have several other Buxtons in the gallery. Would you like to see them?”
“Uh. Okay, but I was really drawn to the one in the window.”
Jasper knew this was his opportunity, and he might not get another one. “Let me see what I can do. The artist happens to be here at the moment.” He took a breath. She was going to kick his ass, but he hoped it would be worth it. He loved Melodie like a sister, and sometimes, little brothers knew what was best. “Melodie, can you come up front, please? There’s someone here to see you.” That was not technically true, but…what the fuck. In for a penny, in for a pound. He could only get dead once.
* * * *
Melodie stepped out from the back room. She dusted her hands off with a rag that she dropped on the contemporary Danish front desk before she turned toward the door. She gasped quietly. It was him. He’d finally come inside. She was going to kill Jasper. He could have given her a minute to freshen her lip-gloss and comb her hair down over her scar. Her hair was currently pushed out of the way behind her right ear, and the scar on her face was right out there. She had given up trying to hide it from friends and family. She casually flipped the hank of hair from behind her ear. “Thanks, Jasper.” She gave him a killing look from behind the sweep of hair before she stepped toward the stranger with her hand out. “Good morning. Melodie Buxton. I own Paint Splatters. What can I do for you?”
The man stepped up and took her hand in a firm handshake. His fingers were callused and his hand was warm. It felt good against her skin. “Logan Hawk. Actually, I had a couple of reasons for stopping in. First, I am interested in the painting in the window.”
“Mr. Hawk, I’m sure Jasper told you that that piece is not for sale, but we have other canvases of mine in the shop that are available.”
“Yes. He told me, but that one speaks to me.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but I really can’t sell that one. It’s too personal to me. I have it in the window to share, but I couldn’t part with it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He smiled, and when he did, his rather forbidding expression became pleasant. “My second reason for stopping in was that I…wanted to ask you to have lunch with me.” She started to protest when he continued. “I know you think I’m a stranger, but actually, we’ve met before. Well, not actually met. You were unconscious at the time. I stopped to help you the day you were attacked, and I’ve wanted to come in and see how you were doing for some time.”
“You’re the good Samaritan who called 9-1-1? Then let me say thank you for your help, Mr. Hawk. I was never able to find out your name. You probably saved my life.”
“Just call me Logan. I don’t know about that.”
“Logan, the doctor told me that, depending on how long it took for the paramedics to arrive, your putting pressure on the wound might have saved my life. I could have bled out right there on the sidewalk. So, thank you.”
“In that case, I feel that I can put on a little more pressure now for that lunch. What do you say?”
False modesty was inappropriate here. Logan Hawk had seen the cut with fresh blood gushing out. It couldn’t get worse than that. She hesitated another minute. He pushed a little more. “I just want to see how you’re doing. It’s only lunch. We can run into the Beach Street Eatery for a sandwich. No big deal. Come on and humor me.”
She smiled. “Okay, Logan. Let me grab my bag. I’ll be right back.” She turned toward the back of the gallery.
She heard Logan say to Jasper, “Thanks, man. I know that might cost you.”
“No problem. She’ll tear me a new one and then forget all about it in half an hour.”
Melodie had to smile. Jasper definitely had her number. But she was going to tear him a new one.
* * * *
Logan couldn’t believe his luck. That had gone far better than he had anticipated. She had seemed hesitant at first
, but she had definitely warmed up. Now, he had to make this opportunity count. The guys had been right. He hadn’t been really interested in another woman since the attack on Melodie—maybe since before that.
When she stepped out of the back room, he smiled. She was beautiful despite that slightly disturbing scar. It wasn’t as bad as he had anticipated. She had combed the glossy, dark hair that brushed her shoulders and was longer on one side than the other, and it screened that side of her face. She’d put on fresh peach lip-gloss. He could smell it. It made him want to kiss those soft lips—kiss them hard and not stop. Cool your jets, Hawk. You don’t want to scare her back into her bolthole. She was wearing a knit shirt and rust-colored jeans with matching sandals and a big, slouchy shoulder bag. A big, orangey-red carnelian stone framed by an ornate, heavy silver bezel was draped over the shirt. She looked good. Very good. She was tall for a woman, and her body was supple—like a dancer, but not thin like a dancer. She had ample breasts and a delicious ass. Now he remembered why she had caught his eye in the first place. Melodie Buxton was a looker, and he knew he wouldn’t get tired of looking.
* * * *
Melodie glanced at Logan across the small table at the café. There was something about him. She thought she might remember seeing him around before the attack. It would be hard to miss him. He was tall and solidly built. He appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. His chest and shoulders were wide, and his legs were long and strong-looking. His arms under the black T-shirt were muscular. She usually didn’t care for long hair on a man, but it seemed to suit his hawk-like features. That was funny. His last name was Hawk. She wondered…
Melodie's Song [The Black Dahlia Hotel 3] (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic) Page 2