Shattered Chords (The Encore Book 3)

by N. N. Britt

  “But we’ve always talked about everything.”

  “Let me see what I can do. If you want, the three of us can have dinner. Tonight or tomorrow. Your call.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll check in with her during lunch and tell her you’re coming over.

  “Awesome.” Harper clapped his hands. “Now tell me about this rock star guy. I need details. Who is he?”

  I leaned forward and typed his name into the Google search bar, then turned my laptop around for him to see.

  “Wait a second.” Harper’s eyes narrowed. Intrigued, he dropped his face to the screen. “Dante Martinez bought your daughter a guitar?” Surprise pinched his graceful features.

  I nodded.

  “The Dante Martinez from Hall Affinity?” His gaze darted between me and my laptop.

  I shrugged. “Is there more than one?”

  “Silly.” Harper barked out a laugh. “You do know who he is, right?”

  “I googled him last night. I’m pretty sure Ally has his poster on her wall.”

  Eyes on the screen, Harper listened to the brief recap of my encounter. When I finished, he reached for a trackpad and clicked on one of the links that took him to a photo gallery with pretty incriminating images of the man we were discussing. “Ay, he’s a hot mess. He shouldn’t have done so many drugs.”

  “That’s rock’n’roll, right?” I sighed.

  What if this was what Ally would become five years from now?

  The mere thought gave me chills.

  “No heavy-hitter who hasn’t gone through a meat grinder or remained unscathed comes to mind. Fame is brutal in large doses, sweets.” Harper shook his head and returned his attention to me. “How did he look?”

  “Not that bad, actually.” If Dante himself hadn’t told me he was an ex-addict, I wouldn’t have guessed. The man cleaned up nicely.

  “Rumor has it, he’s done with music for good.”

  “I didn’t peg you for a rocker, Harper.” I spun in my chair. “How do you even know these things? I barely have time to check my personal email.”

  “He’s been all over social media since last fall.”

  “Don’t you find it weird? I mean, why would he want to buy something so expensive for my teenage daughter?”

  “Hmmm.” Harper rubbed his chin. “Random act of kindness? Remember a couple of years ago, Bill Murray gave out a bunch of concert tickets at The SteelDrivers show?”

  “Yes, I read about it online.” I took a deep breath and checked my phone. It was almost a quarter to ten. We’d wasted too much time on Dante Martinez instead of preparing Dream Bride for a busy day.

  “Let’s talk about this some more at lunch,” Harper said on the way out. “Gotta open the shop.”

  Motionless, I sat in my chair and debated. Ally was on every possible social media platform that existed and while I’d promised to respect her privacy, I went through her Instagram posts and comments once a month religiously. Of course, she didn’t know about it and, of course, I never questioned her about any suspicious content, not that there was anything out of the ordinary. She mostly uploaded videos of her playing, selfies, and bands she liked. Boys who sometimes appeared in photos were all from her school and I knew their parents.

  After yesterday’s fight, my temptation to spy had only grown stronger. I fought it hard, but the alarmist in me won. I pulled up the app on my phone and logged in to my personal Instagram account, which I barely used, because most of my efforts were directed at Dream Bride’s online presence. The trends and algorithms changed too fast. There was no time for anything else except for trying to keep my—or my mother’s, to be exact—business afloat.

  The last post on Ally’s wall was a photo of the guitar Dante Martinez had bought her. Slick and shiny. Still in the case like a prized possession. I dropped my gaze to the description and looked at the hashtags.

  #newgear

  #LesPaul

  #newtoy

  #sic

  #shred

  There was no mention of the rich and famous man or the fact that he’d gifted the guitar to her. Yesterday, when the three of us walked out of the shop with the instrument, Ally had asked Dante for a photo and he’d agreed. Knowing how big of a deal meeting one of her idols was for my daughter, I was surprised she’d chosen not to share the details of it with the world. Instead, she was keeping it a secret, which only made me wonder what other things she was hiding.

  Below the guitar post was a long line of comments that consisted primarily of emojis and strange abbreviations only known to teenagers.

  What am I doing? I thought to myself, setting my phone aside.

  Making sure my daughter isn’t being harassed, exploited, or bullied online.

  Content with my own response, I rose from the chair and returned to the main floor to help Harper.

  He was adding finishing touches to the large wall mirror in the lounge area. Outside, early shoppers scurried across the lot in the direction of the chain coffee shop that didn’t have the Frappuccinos Harper adored. We usually ordered them from the bakery down the street, whose owner, Tara, was my mother’s friend.

  I heard the click of Renn’s heels against the marble floor and she emerged from the back with a stack of papers. Smile on, chin up, blond hair fashioned into a French twist. “Good morning, all.”

  “Hey, sunshine.” Harper gave her a wave and continued to detail the mirror. His OCD was the best thing that had ever happened to Dream Bride.

  “Frappuccinos are on the way,” I joked.

  Renn marched through the rows of dresses and rounded the counter. “You know where I stand on the matter. Cold coffee is blasphemy, hon.”

  “It’s eighty degrees outside,” Harper noted. “You have to be insane to drink anything that doesn’t have ice in it in this heat.”

  Scrunching her nose, she dropped the papers on the counter and ducked down. “Knock yourselves out, kids.”

  I heard drawers sliding and things rattling. Renn was a spitfire. She’d started at Dream Bride seventeen years ago when my mother was still running the boutique and knew everything there was to know about weddings. Without her, I would have been lost in the beginning. My first three years here were tough, with Ally demanding all my attention.

  “What’s this?” I flipped through the printouts.

  “Flyers.” Renn’s voice came from behind the counter as she continued to dig. “Kirk is hosting a fundraiser on Sunday.”

  Renn’s husband specialized in classic car restoration. He co-owned a shop with his brother in Canoga Park. Just like mine, their family was well-to-do and Renn didn’t really need the money, but she had no kids, and working at Dream Bride was her way of achieving personal fulfillment.

  I skimmed over the text. “Car wash?”

  “We’re donating all the proceeds to BrightSide.” She fished out a plastic tray and slid a few papers in.

  In the spring, Renn and her husband had adopted a puppy from BrightSide Animal Shelter in Simi Valley. Then they’d taken in another one a couple of months later. Now most conversations with her—when they weren’t work-related—revolved around little Zeus and Rocky.

  “You don’t mind if I put these up in the store, do you?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t mind at all.” I’d always liked animals. I’d just never gotten around to getting one, because Ally was such a handful while growing up. Taking care of her, Dream Bride, and a fur baby would have driven me to a mental institution.

  “Ooooh, this sounds like a fun idea.” Curious, Harper leapt over. He grabbed one of the flyers and studied it with a critical eye. “Hot weather, soap, and wet T-shirts. Sign me up, baby.”

  Inaudible laughter shook Renn’s shoulders.

  “You and Ally should go.” Harper wiggled his brows.

  “Ally? Washing cars?” I chuckled. “Have you met her? She can barely sweep.”

  “There will be a thirty-minute training session and dinner for all the volunteers the evening before the event.
” Renn added some more flyers to the tray and placed it on the counter, next to the flower arrangement. The rest disappeared into the bottom drawer. “It’s for a good cause. This shelter is operating mostly on donations.”

  “We’re going,” Harper announced, knocking my shoulder.

  “Okay.” I nodded. “We’re going.”

  I spent the first half of the day in the office, working on spreadsheets and following up on orders. Our numbers were up this summer, which made my parents the happiest they’d been since I’d given birth to Ally. Fifteen years later, my father still gave me occasional shrewd gazes. An only child and knocked up during my first year in college, I’d disappointed him.

  With time, he’d gotten over it, but his bitterness over my failed best laid plans was there. Hidden, buried beneath the joy of Ally’s first giggles, words, and steps.

  On the floor, Harper and Renn took care of the clients, and their frequent laughs that carried over into my tiny work space warmed my heart. Dream Bride wasn’t just a store. Employees didn’t come here to simply punch in, punch out, and collect paychecks. Our team was small, but we treated everyone, including customers, as family. My mother was very vocal about her ideas and concepts when she started this business over thirty years ago. There had been bad times and there had been good ones. The boutique hadn’t made us millionaires, but it’d put me through college and it’d helped me to get back on my feet after Ally’s birth.

  During lunch, I called Ally to tell her Harper was stopping by tonight.

  “Pauline is about to pick me up,” she said. The clamor of music hit my ears. “We’re going to rehearse.”

  “Well, as long as you’re home by seven.”

  “I won’t be home by seven, Mom.”

  My frustration grew. Something unspoken swelled between us. For a moment, I wanted to scream and bang my head against the table, but my voice of reason won. “What time should I expect you back then?”

  “By ten.”

  “Isn’t that a little late?”

  “It’s summer, Mom! The show is in five days!” Her words sounded a lot like accusations. “We need to practice.”

  “What do you want me to tell Harper?”

  “To come to the show, duh.”

  “Are you rehearsing at Pauline's?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are her parents going to be home?”

  “Yes, Mom. Why do you keep asking?”

  It was a simple question that prompted my brain to freeze. “Because I worry,” I finally said. Grim silence followed my words.

  It was the honest truth. Pauline Ryan wasn’t the best role model. Her parents were way more liberal. The girl had started dating in middle school, but musically, she was just as driven as my daughter. They clicked. Separating them would mean war.

  “Don’t,” Ally finally said. “I’m not stupid. I know to stay away from alcohol, drugs, and men.” Her voice was a soft whisper and I could barely hear it over the pounding of the song.

  “Okay. Have fun and be safe.”

  “Bye.” The line went dead.

  There you go. You did it again. You let her have her way, Camille.

  3 Dante

  My alarm went off at six sharp. I snapped my eyes open and stared at the dim stretch of empty space between me and the wood trim ceiling. Waking up completely sober and without a woman’s body in my bed still felt strange, but I didn’t hate it. On the contrary, the calm was refreshing.

  When I finally moved in here after completing my ninety days at Passages, the solitude of the house terrified me at first. I’d never lived in a place so secluded and quiet. My past life had been a string of hotel rooms, bars, and venues. People had always crammed my penthouse.

  It’d taken me a few weeks to get used to the sound of silence that cocooned me every time I went to sleep and woke up in my new home. Years spent on the road had taught me how to tune out the noise. Now I was learning how to hear noise again. Just a different kind.

  Instead of a drunk backstage brawl that always followed a show, it was the rustle of trees outside my windows. Instead of a woman whose name I never cared to remember screaming beneath me, it was the stir of the wind up in the hills.

  It almost seemed as if I was learning how to live another life.

  Malik’s Jeep pulled into my driveway at six thirty. I was packing my water when I heard the grind of tires over the gravel, followed by the Prince classic “U Got The Look.” My house sat on the edge of a half-acre yard overlooking endless shrubs and a cascade of mountains. The far side of the property met the steep slope of the canyon. I had no idea who my neighbors were and I doubted they could hear the music blasting from Malik’s car at this hour.

  He wore his usual—a baseball cap, a red jersey, black shorts, and sneakers. Ray Bans covered his eyes.

  At six foot four, with the impressive frame of a bodybuilder and a vicious stare that matched his intimidating looks, Malik Dixon, a former Jamaican football star, definitely stood out.

  We met at Passages the day after I finished detox. It was the last week of his second stay. Six years ago, a knee injury had prematurely ended his promising sports career and he’d gotten addicted to Demerol. His manager flew him to California from Miami in 2014 after he drunk-drove his Hummer into the patio of a Cuban restaurant and almost killed two people.

  Malik never went back, and L.A. had been his home ever since. He got his shit together. Opened a gym. Launched his own clothing line. Got married… He relapsed shortly after his wife filed for divorce, but relapses happened to a lot of addicts. It was just a temporary setback.

  “What up, brother?” Malik gave me a once-over as I climbed into his Jeep. “You ready for the mother of all trails?” A grin spread to his cheeks.

  I scrambled for the seat belt and buckled up. “I was born ready.”

  Laughing inaudibly, he hit the gas. The engine revved, its roar rumbling and spilling through the quiet street like an earthquake. “Let’s do this.”

  If there was one thing to take away from the shitshow my life once was, it was the fact that Malik and I had met in the right place at the right time. He’d already gone through recovery once and knew how to stay afloat.

  Having a friend who was determined to beat this bitch meant a lot since the tension between Frank and me was still a thing. Malik and I had a lot in common. Past, present, and future. A desire to get clean once and for all.

  None of that sex, drugs, and band bullshit.

  “You been practicing?” he asked as we cruised down the hill.

  “Yeah.” The wind dancing across my face was warm. Maybe too warm for this hour—the first sign of the famous SoCal heat wave.

  “Thought about getting back on stage?”

  “Eh, not yet.” I didn’t trust my head and my fingers enough to return to the music scene just yet. Frankie-boy had tried that trick once. And now the band was in fucking ruins. Not that some of it wasn’t my fault, but still.

  “It’ll happen when the time is right,” Malik said with forced encouragement in his voice. “If God spared your skinny ass, then he has a plan for you, brother.”

  The man had found Jesus during his first stay at Passages. He’d attempted to turn me too by dropping casual invites to Sunday mass at this church, but I’d kept refusing politely.

  I had my reasons not to give into faith blindly.

  My parents had considered themselves Catholics. Funny, but they’d only practiced it once a week. They didn’t shy away from making my life a living hell outside the walls of God’s house.

  Fuck double standards.

  “Just be patient,” Malik said.

  I nodded in agreement. There was no rush. I didn’t really care about sold-out arenas or screaming fans at this point in my life. I was on a path of self-rediscovery. I needed to find my groove first.

  One step at a time, Dante, the voice in my head said. Walking before running.

  Usually, we hiked twice a week. On Tuesdays and Fridays. Malik always pi
cked the routes. He’d been doing this way longer than me and knew all the cool spots in L.A. and Ventura counties. Today, we drove to Malibu to hit a four-mile-long trail near Solstice Canyon.

  “Should have left earlier,” Malik muttered as we maneuvered through the parking area, looking for a spot. “Gonna be toasty before you know it.”

  The sun was ruthless. I felt its wrath on my skin the moment we scrambled out of the Jeep. The air smelled like dry grass and sweat. Insects and birds hummed in the background.

  We started at the bottom of a hill and slowly made our way up.

  This—being out in the wild and listening to the sounds of nature—was no longer uncharted territory, but the views still took my breath away. During my first post-rehab hike, I got dizzy from the overload of oxygen and scents. My initial thought was that I was having another stroke.

  It’s all in your head, man, Malik had said.

  My body ached pleasantly as we continued the climb until the path finally hit flat ground. Malik marched a few feet ahead, the back of his jersey drenched. He always brought a gallon of water with him to stay hydrated. I was a weasel, probably half his size with barely developing stamina, and two bottles were enough for me. I couldn’t fathom carrying anything heavier than that.

  We stopped for a short break at the overlook and stared down at the canyons carved into the crest of the mountains. The dull green and the bleached blue clashed far off on the horizon.

  “Shanice wants the house,” Malik said.

  It came out of nowhere. We tried not to discuss our personal issues while bonding with Mother Nature, because the whole point of it was to get away from everyday problems and clear our minds. But I suspected things in his life weren’t as simple as he’d led me to believe.

  “That’s fucked up, man.” I sighed.

  “I gotta tell ya…” He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. “Women are evil.”

  “I happened to like them.”

  “I happened to like them too, brother, but it’s more of a love-hate thing right now. Just wait till one gets you to marry her and then shows her true colors.” He tried to hide the bitterness in his tone, but it still showed.