by Mandi Beck
“Did he say what song?” For the life of me I can’t think of what he may have heard me working on.
“He did not, unfortunately.”
Nodding in understanding I stand. “Would you mind if I spoke to Bear privately for a moment?” I ask. When he goes to stand I raise a hand, “No, please stay. We’ll just step out.”
He gestures to the door in agreement. “Of course. Please.”
Bear follows me out into the hall and into one of the sound booths. They’re soundproof and I feel more comfortable speaking to him there.
“Well, what do you think, Bear? Is he full of shit?”
Scratching at his beard he shakes his head. “No. Not at all. He’s the real deal. I Googled him while you guys talked.” He smiles wryly. “As your manager and all, I thought it was important since I’d heard of the label of course, but not him.”
Slapping his arm, “You're the closest thing to a manager I’ll ever have,” I tell him truthfully. Back when I wrote songs and sent demos out, Judge handled the business side of it all. He was the band’s manager as well as our friend, so it was the obvious choice. Now though, I was on my own. Just like with everything else in my life.
“Well then, as your manager, I say to set up a meeting with Joaquin and see what he has to say. He’s big time, Willow. No harm can come from him picking up one of your songs.”
Lips pursed in thought, I agree. “Do I want that kind of attention though? I mean, I’ve gone to great lengths to stay off the radar and this would put me back into that world. Songwriters aren’t usually in the spotlight, but to have my name attached to him might make people curious.” My nerves at what that could mean have me pacing.
“That’s true. You’ve done a good job at staying off the grid, but I think you should have this meeting before you borrow trouble. Hear him out and make a decision. When the time comes, we can figure out the rest,” he soothes.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Bear mocks, pulling me into a reassuring hug before leading the way back to his office.
I don’t bother with pleasantries or anything. “Have your secretary set up the meeting with Mr. Danjou. I’ll meet with him before I make a decision.” I’m sure to let him know that I will be the one making the decisions, not them. If I learned anything from Stone, it was never to let anyone see you as weak. Because if you do, you’re screwed. With a curt wave I walk out of the office, leaving the men alone so I can stress about what this could mean without the watchful eyes of Bear on me.
Willow
I CHECK THE TIME ON my phone as I bypass the front door of The Dirty Bird and go to the side entrance that will bring me right into the studio. I’m running late and if I go through the bar, I’m bound to get stopped by someone wanting to chat. Pulling my key out, I unlock the heavy metal door and slip inside. Bear called me this morning and said that Joaquin would be in booth B. He apparently is making good use of his time here and rented some studio space. Just outside of the glass door I stop, not wanting to interrupt the man inside. He sits on a high stool, headphones on with a guitar balanced on his lap. His eyes are closed and though I can’t hear what he’s singing without going in, I can feel the passion, the meaning that the song holds, just by watching him. Not wanting to seem like a creeper, I open the door and slip into the control booth with the two men, one of whom is Mr. Theroux. At my entrance, he turns and smiles, rising to give me his seat. I nod in thanks and sit.
None of us speaks, we just listen. When he’s finished he slowly opens his eyes and they immediately land on me. A small crooked smile graces his face. It’s warm and genuine and it immediately puts me at ease. Joaquin motions for me to come in and says something in French to the two men. They nod, and Mr. Theroux turns to me.
“He’s asked us to wait outside so that you two may speak privately.” I’m just about to argue that they don’t have to when Bear pokes his head in.
“Hey, Willow girl, I’ll be right out here if you need me. I have some business to discuss with these guys. I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on things,” he reassures me. Tossing a wink my way at my relieved smile.
With his guitar in hand, Joaquin stands at the connecting door, waiting for me to enter. “Willow, right?” he asks in a smooth, accented voice. It’s not as prominent as Theroux’s, but it’s there and it makes me slightly breathless. Huh. Only one other voice has ever had that effect on me. Tucking that away for later, I walk through.“Yep. That’s me. And you are obviously Joaquin.”
There’s a small seating area in the live booth which I walk over to, choosing the armchair over the love seat.
Chuckling softly, he agrees, “Oui. I am.” He sits across from me, leaning his guitar against the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry, Phillipe told me you didn’t speak French. After spending so much time with those two,” he jerks his chin in the general direction the men had left, “I don’t even realize that I’m doing it.” He grins a bit sheepishly. It’s refreshing. Here is a man, confident, calm and just . . . smooth. Everything about him. The way he talks, the way he sings, even the way he moves. And not that icky smooth but that suave smooth.
“No worries. I understand some and definitely know what ‘oui’ means, so you’re fine.” I cross my legs, the material of my skirt pulling tight and catching his attention, but only briefly.
His smile brightens. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to offend you before I got you to open up.” Snagging a water bottle from the mini fridge right next to him, he offers me one before leaning back and twisting the cap on his own.
“I’m not easily offended, Mr. Danjou. What is it that you wanted to talk about?” I say, unnerved by his watchful, yet not ogling, eyes. It’s like he’s trying to read me, see into my soul instead of down my shirt. It makes me both comfortable and nervous. I can’t explain it.
“Of course, sorry. I’m sure you’re an incredibly busy woman.” He takes a sip of his water, again watching me. “I watched you sing.” I shift uncomfortably at that. It seems so intrusive, yet didn’t I do the same thing to him just now? “I was here a couple months ago, walking by, minding my business when I saw you. I couldn’t see your face very well—you had on a hoodie and the lights in the booth were off.” Joaquin chuckles softly. “I thought it was so strange, I’d never seen someone sing in the dark like that in a studio. So I slipped into the control booth and asked the kid there if I could listen for a moment. He must’ve recognized me because he stared at me with an open mouth and just nodded.” Placing his ankle across his knee, he drapes his wrist over, his long fingers dangling, catching my attention. His hands are . . . sexy. I have a thing for hands and the magic they can bring to an instrument, to a body, and his hands look damn magical. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m ogling his hands now.
Snapping my eyes back to his face I concentrate on what he’s saying, trying to place the day he’s talking about, and then I remember. I had just returned from the doctor, an ultrasound. And while it made me so happy to see my little girl on the screen, it also made me sad. This was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of my life, but it wasn’t at all what I had planned. I was feeling incredibly melancholy. Came into the studio and asked Aidan, the intern, to just work the board. Nothing crazy, just record for me. In my solitude, I needed to feel alone. More so than I already did. I needed to let my music soothe me. Be the cure that it always had been. I remember singing until I was hoarse, tears running down my face, sorrow blanketing me, exhausting me. Physically, emotionally. Exhausted. I wonder now how much of that he had been witness to. Suddenly I’m all too aware of what he saw. The me he got to see. Nobody but Stone had ever seen that version of me, and that Joaquin may have, makes me feel guilty, which is ridiculous. I’m brought back to the present by his voice.
“I asked the kid who you were, and he would only say that your name was Willow and that you worked at the bar sometimes. I’ll admit that I was a little pissed that he wasn’t more forthcoming with the information, but glad that even th
ough he knew who I was, he wasn’t just going to tell me your business. So I made some calls and here you are.” He tilts his head a bit, assessing. “I had to meet the woman who sang so beautifully. The person responsible for writing such an incredibly sad song. And hopefully convince her to let me sing it too.” His smile is hopeful, but again genuine. He’s not playing an angle. He’s just being truthful.
“How do you know I wrote it? I could’ve been singing someone else’s song,” I counter. Buying a little time to get myself together. This man has thrown me. I haven’t been thrown in a long time.
“The thought never occurred to me. The way you sang it, I knew it was yours. It came from here.” He lays a hand over his chest, his heart. “You can’t fake that, chèrie.” I smile at his wicked French endearment. Like I said, smooth.
“Well, you’re right, I did write it. It’s not available though.” I don’t know when I decided that, only that I had. I wrote that song while in a deep depression. I was lost, alone, heartbroken and missed Stone so much it was painful. Not the Stone he had become but the Stone that he had been. But then, I had been missing him for a long time. Long before I ever left. The words are carved into my heart and I don’t know how to part with them. That and I’ve never written a song that meaningful and given it to someone else.
“I won’t change it, Willow. It’s perfect the way it is,” Joaquin promises. “It speaks to me on a level I can’t even explain. Hell, I’m not sure I understand. But I’ve not been able to get it out of my mind.” He reaches for his guitar and to my amazement, starts playing my song.
I’ve watched talented, talented people play an instrument. No, “play” isn't the right word. Watched someone make love, make the sweetest music, with an instrument. Like it’s an extension of them. Coaxing a melody, bending it until it’s more than what it’s meant to be. That's what I'm witnessing here with Joaquin. It's so blatant and beautiful and life changing. I feel the wetness on my face that watching and listening to him has caused. Music has always had that effect on me. Cry because I’m happy, because I’m sad. Because the song touches parts of me that are hidden to everyone. I cry now as every emotion is wrenched from me with every strum of his fingers over the strings. He sits, his eyes closed, a look that is such a mix of feelings I can't pin just one down. It's contentment and longing, pain and joy, awe and despair . . . it's beautiful, riveting. And everything I felt while writing it. When he opens his mouth to sing the words I wrote, it's almost more than I can take. I've never written a song that I didn't love, that didn't speak to me or hold a special meaning. They all come from a place deep within my heart. But hearing the words fall from Joaquin's lips as he croons, the song takes on a life of its own. It's a healing balm to my soul even though the lyrics are filled with heartache.
I want to beg him to never stop singing as well as cover his mouth with my hand to silence him. He makes the decision for me as he sings the final chord, and opens his eyes. I dash away the tears on my cheeks and he nods in understanding. “Powerful stuff, right? I need it on my new album.” I’m incapable of answering just yet. He gets it. He sits quietly as I watch him, take in his neatly trimmed beard, the dark, tousled hair like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His V-neck shirt which allows the tiniest bit of chest hair to be seen, the gray slacks, and his suede John Lobb’s. Very posh. He’s too masculine to be called metrosexual, but he has a sophisticated vibe I can’t deny I’m digging. After a moment of silence, he speaks.
“Have dinner with me,” Joaquin demands quietly in that accented voice. The timbre of it reverberates against my skin, causing goosebumps to tickle over the flesh.
“I don't date rock stars,” I tell him, trying to hide the reaction his voice has on me.
“Good thing I'm not a rock star then.” He smirks. He's right, he’s the farthest thing from being a rock star. He's much too controlled for that.
“I don't date musicians either.” Though that too is the wrong word for him.
“Prejudice against your own kind?” he mocks, rubbing a hand over his beard, a grin threatening.
I shake my head, “I'm no musician—”
“Oh, chèrie, that's a lie. I've seen you, heard the magic that’s trapped inside that pretty little soul. You can't lie to me. I see who you are,” Joaquin says, his molten chocolate gaze holding me captive.
“Yeah, well, I have a daughter,” I blurt. Knowing that one will end this once and for all. To say that I'm shocked by his response is putting it mildly.
“Awesome. I love kids. Bring her with.” His voice is calm, nonchalant even. Never batting one of his ridiculously luscious eyelashes. Who is this man?
“She’s just little, only a couple months old. Not a very interesting age yet. Well, not to people who aren’t me. I think everything about her is interesting.” I’m rambling.
“Ahhhh, so you have a man. I don’t know why I thought that was over. You’ve been linked to Stone Lockhart for years, but I assumed when Bear made it clear that no one in or out of the industry was to know where you were that it was over.”
“I don’t have a man,” I say a little too curtly. Silently thanking Bear for thinking about my needs.
“Sorry, again, I just assumed with such a petit bébé you would have—what kind of asshole leaves his woman—I’m sorry.” He abruptly stops his rant before it gains serious steam.
I stand, done with this whole conversation.
“Anyway. It was wonderful meeting you. You are stupid, crazy talented and I’m honored that you are interested in the song, but I’m just not interested in releasing it.” Turning to leave, he stops me with a hand to my elbow.
“I really am sorry. I don’t think before I speak sometimes.” When I glance down at the hand still holding me he drops it. “I’m French Canadian; the Frenchman in me can’t help but be rude while the Canadian in me wills him to shut the hell up,” Joaquin confesses cheekily.
Much to my dismay I find myself laughing. “Your Frenchman is rude as hell.”
“Agreed. Now that we’ve established that, will you please have dinner with me?”
I’m shaking my head no, though there’s a pesky little voice inside me screaming “yes.” “Really, I can’t. Lyric is still very young and I don’t date.”
“Now who’s assuming, chèrie? Nobody said anything about a date.” The cheeky bastard winks at me. “I’ll even come to your place so that you don’t have to bring the bébé out.”
Still I shake my head no. “I don’t know you well enough to let you in my home, Mr. Danjou,” I admonish. “Take care and good luck with the new album.”
This time when I turn to leave he doesn’t stop me, I’m a little disappointed. He may have said it wasn’t a date, but I get the feeling that he was just trying to put me at ease. I’m not an expert on men, far from it but I saw the interest there. Felt it. In both of us. And if I’m honest, it scared the hell out of me.
Stone
DAY SIXTY-NINE, REHAB FUCKING BLOWS. It’s absolute shit and I hate it. I am so sick of the highs and the lows. The manic mood swings and the deafening depression. I’m so tired of the pep talks and the meetings and the ache for more of any kind of high. The back and forth between wanting to beat the shit out of the assholes who put me here—Law, Judge, the label. Condemning me to this hellhole for their own gain. Can’t get rich off me when I’m not out making records though. To the shame of letting myself get to this point. Being grateful that they cared enough to help me help myself. I’m mostly sick of cursing Willow for leaving me and then understanding why she did. Either way, missing her so fucking much I’m not sure which need is worse. The one clawing at my insides for one more hit or the one that has my heart shredded because I miss her to the point of pain. Most days I waver. Wanting to throw in the fucking towel. Take my music career and just give me the drugs because I can’t possibly do this shit for another day. Then minutes later wanting to be clean because I don’t like the me I’ve become.
Today is a bett
er day than yesterday. After two months I’m finally allowed a visitor. They started letting me use the phone after the first thirty days, and every single one of those days I’ve called Willow’s phone hoping to not get the recording, and then immediately calling Law the moment I do to ask if he’s found her yet. I’m sitting on the lanai, the fancy word they use here in Hawaii to say patio, smoking one cigarette after another as I wait for Law. He and Judge have been staying on the island while I’ve been here. They may not be blood, but we’re brothers. Arrow is back in Austin taking a break and lying low since everyone is doing their best to keep the fact that I’m in rehab out of the rag mags. Not that it’s really working. I see what they’re reporting. The pictures of me on stage looking like a hot fucking mess when all along I thought I was hiding it so damn well. Those aren’t the pictures that hurt the most though. Nah, the ones that rip my fucking guts out are the ones of me and Willow. They throw in pictures of us back when we first started touring and she was beaming at me in every damn photo. And then they show more recent shots and you can see that smile has dimmed. Didn’t notice that either. I reach into my pocket and pull out one I tore from a magazine. It was an early picture. Wills and I posing for photographers at some charity thing. Just like in the picture, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She has her head against my chest, looking at the camera, a look of absolute contentment and happiness on her gorgeous face. And me, I’m looking down at her, my arm snaked around her waist, holding her to me. We were so fucking happy.
“Stone, your visitor is here.” The voice has me quickly folding up the well-worn page and stuffing it back in my pocket as I stand.
Lawson steps forward and pulls me into a hug, slapping my back hard enough to make me wince. “I’ve missed your ornery ass, fucker,” he says, plopping into the chair across from mine. Snubbing out the lit cigarette in the ashtray on the table.