Shattered Chords (The Encore Book 3)

by N. N. Britt

  “Excuse me? You stole her from me, you fucking piece of shit, and now you don’t know what I’m talking about?” Harper’s fists tightened and, fearing the worst, I reached for his wrist to stop him from making matters worse.

  He shot me a fiery stare, then directed his attention back to Lucas, who didn’t seem even a tiny bit bothered by my friend’s demands.

  “Steal is a very strong word.” He huffed. “You can’t steal something that’s rightfully yours.”

  “She’s not yours!”

  “You’re trespassing.”

  “What?” Angry red colored Harper’s neck and cheeks.

  “You’re trespassing, so…” Lucas flicked his wrist, his fingers pointing toward the road. “Get off my property before I call the police.”

  Fury surged through me, then settled and deepened. No one talked to my best friend that way. No one. “You're a piece of work, aren’t you?” Unable to contain myself any longer, I ignored Lucas’s threatening disposition and shoved my finger at his chest. “And you never deserved Harper.”

  Lucas blinked, his face remaining bored. He was either an excellent actor or a really shitty person. I was leaning toward the latter.

  Next to me, Harper seethed silently, his jaw working.

  “Come on.” I grabbed his hand and urged him off the porch before things got truly unpleasant.

  Luckily, he complied.

  The door slammed behind our backs as we walked to the 4Runner. When we were inside the car, Harper finally blew up.

  “She’s mine! I was the one who adopted her from the shelter. I was the one who took care of her.”

  “I know and I’m sorry,” I tried to console him. “Why don’t we sleep on it?

  “I don’t want to sleep on it.”

  “It’s late. I suggest we go home and think about how to do this right.”

  “We’ll take her when he’s not around.”

  “Are you serious? Do you plan on just breaking and entering?”

  Harper slumped in his seat and whipped his head toward the house where Lucas was probably enjoying Tallulah’s company right now. A harsh frown slashed through his forehead, which contradicted his otherwise sweet personality.

  “Aren’t you the voice of reason?” he mumbled morosely.

  “We’ll get her back. We just need a good plan, not the one we conjured in seconds.”

  “Okay.” Harper nodded. “Let’s go home.”

  As we drove back to his place, I was dead set on simply dropping him off, but he looked so miserable that I couldn’t refuse his offer to have tea.

  We sat on the couch in his living room, which looked emptier than usual, devoid of all things Lucas and devoid of all things relationship. The photos of the two that had covered the shelves and the walls were gone. The huge collage made up of ticket stubs and passes to all the events and shows they’d attended as a couple had been removed from the wall in the hallway.

  “You have to see this,” Harper said to me, shooting to his feet in the middle of the conversation as if he’d remembered something.

  He disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom, and moments later, returned with what appeared to be a sizable rectangular slab of wood with a cord attached to it. He set it in the center of the room, and pagan sacrificial rituals I’d once read about somewhere, or maybe seen in a movie, instantly came to mind.

  “What on earth is that?”

  “Ah.” Harper gave me a conspiratorial look and proceeded to shut off the lights in the living room.

  “Are you going to exorcise someone from your apartment or talk to the dead?” I asked, following his shadow through the darkness as he neared the slab and grabbed the end of the cable that I realized was a plug.

  “Are you ready?” Harper asked, moving toward the nearest outlet.

  “It depends. Am I being given to some ancient god in exchange for Tallulah or is this just another decoration for your place?”

  “You know.” Harper snickered. “It’s a hard pick between you and Tallulah, but I’d definitely trade you up if Ally wasn’t part of the package.”

  “I see how it is.”

  He giggled in the darkness, then said in a dramatic voice, “Voila!” There was some motion by the wall and then thin strips of light streamed from the wood. From inside the slab.

  “Oh my God! This is ridiculously cute!” I set my tea on the coffee table and walked up to what was apparently some kind of a fancy lamp.

  “Handmade,” Harper explained.

  “No shit.” I brushed my fingers over the wood. The piece was tall, up to my chest, and felt smooth against my skin, polished. “Where did you find it?”

  “Eh, just online.” He shrugged. “Was looking to spice up this place after you know…”

  “This is gorgeous, Harper,” I told him honestly.

  “It is.”

  “Where do they make these?”

  “Some guy from North Cali, I think. I had it shipped. The return address on the label was somewhere near Sacramento.”

  “Send me a link to the store?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We admired the magical lamp for another fifteen minutes and then I finally took off.

  11 Dante

  Snowflake cautiously sniffed Frank’s sneakers before deeming the man safe to play with. Then there was a whole lot of cuddling and barking and overly excited licking.

  I was surprised that this nearly instant love my dog was granting someone who’d once been my best friend—and at some point, my worst enemy—caused a strange pang of jealousy in my chest.

  Everyone liked Frank.

  It was an unspoken rule of the universe.

  He was the golden boy of hard rock. The broken charmer. The one who’d successfully come back from the dead.

  And I envied him. I envied the ease with which he strode through my house, Snowflake cradled to his chest. Despite all the plastic surgeries that were rumored to have been performed on him just to get him to look like himself again after his body was dragged across the freeway, his age showed. Small lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, uneven and asymmetrical and barely there, but they were there, nonetheless, the first sign of his fourth decade coming in hot.

  We were both pushing forty and we were both rich yet shattered, but I had a distinctive feeling that he was finally happy. I could read it in the softness of his expression, in the blue gleam of his eyes, in the casual choice of his clothes—a white T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He didn’t look like someone who lived in a Malibu mansion with a view of the Pacific, or someone who used to entertain stadiums for a living.

  He looked simple.

  And then I remembered the thirty-million-dollar lawsuit and my heart did a happy dance.

  Yes, I was a bitter motherfucker.

  “So what’s his name?” Frank finally asked, rubbing the pup between his flappy ears.

  “Snowflake,” I supplied.

  “Never pegged you for a dog person.”

  “Well, we all have our quirks.” I shrugged, trying to sound impassive, but my pulse raced.

  His call had caught me off guard. He wanted to stop by, and I agreed. Now here we were. Both sober. Unsaid words lingering between us in the cool air of my music room.

  Frank sunk into a crouch and let Snowflake down on the floor, then petted him gently as if parting with the pup was physically difficult. I could relate since he slept with me every night now. It was the strangest thing—to care for someone so small, to be responsible for another creature.

  At times, I even felt like my new purpose was finally shaping up.

  “I talked to my lawyer,” I started as I moved a couple of steps to my left, my feet effectively blocking Snowflake’s path toward the bundle of cables he liked the chew on sometimes. The little rascal normally wasn’t allowed in here for that reason alone.

  Frank straightened and watched the pup wobble across the room with open fascination. “What are you thinking?” he asked carefully, his
voice level.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I stuffed my fists into the pockets of my sweatpants. No way in hell was I dressing up for him, especially in my own home. “I’m thinking it’d be fucking nice to own my masters, Frankie-boy. Don’t you agree?”

  He gave me a single nod and slowly spun around and surveyed my guitar collection, his gaze freezing on an older model I used during the filming of one of our Hollow Heart Dream music videos. The Red Eye Records era. Before things got complicated.

  “Have you talked to Quin?” I asked.

  Frank was quiet for a long moment, his eyes finally returning to me. “Through the lawyers.”

  “You too big of a celebrity to pick up a phone and call now?”

  “I called you, didn’t I?”

  “Well, don’t do me any favors.”

  The atmosphere suddenly soured. It wasn’t just Heidi and the fact that I’d pretty much kicked him out of his own band. It was all that and much more. Years and years of secret animosity that, for some reason, I couldn’t bear anymore. It weighed on me, pulling me down, dragging me to the very bottom, to the place from where most people didn’t return.

  “I don’t want it to be like this between us anymore, Dante,” Frank’s tone softened, and his entire form seemed to shrink visibly, as if he could only maintain this farce of being in control for a limited time.

  “It’ll always be like this if you don’t fucking say it, Frankie-boy. If you don’t fucking say what you truly think.”

  “Do you really want me to?”

  “Yes, I fucking want you to.” I drew my hands from my pockets and threw them in the air. “I fucked your wife and I fucked your career. Now bring it on.”

  He was still as a statue for a full minute, something lurking behind his blue gaze.

  Something volatile.

  Something old.

  Something potentially destructive.

  I waited for it to slam into me, but when he spoke, his tone was calm and measured. “I’m tired of hating you for things we did to each other years ago that don’t even matter anymore. I want to live the rest of my life in peace.”

  “Well, that’s commendable, Frankie-boy. I don’t want to fight anymore either. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  He gave me a dazzling smile.

  I didn’t reciprocate. Because I didn’t fully believe that this was real, that we were talking.

  “I can get my lawyer to contact yours, if that’s how you want it done,” he started. “But that’s not why I’m here actually.”

  “Well, I always knew you were full of surprises. Why are you here? To invite me to your wedding?”

  It was a joke, but he remained solemnly still and silent.

  “Are you shitting me?” I asked, a tad puzzled, my gaze trained on Snowflake, who was exiting the room, who was probably tired of our bickering and needed more fun things to chew.

  “I’m going to ask her to marry me. There’s going to be a party at my house. I need a guitarist.”

  “Did you write your better half a love song?” I laughed lightheartedly.

  Frank continued to stare.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I keep making fun of your wholesome relationship.” I schooled my expression into a serious one. “So you need a guitarist?”

  He nodded.

  I considered it, then remembered how I botched my “Ambivalent” solo the other day during my practice. Fear, dark and unbidden, crept through me. “Look, Frankie-boy…” There was a pause because my brain blanked, the words I was going to speak evaporating into thick nothingness.

  A muscle in his jaw feathered, but he didn’t say anything. He just regarded me with an expectant glare.

  “I’m not ready to play in front of an audience, however small it may be.”

  “Will you come to the party at least? I’d like to have you there.”

  “Sure. I’ll come and hang out.”

  “Great.” He seemed happy about my decision.

  “So who’s your second choice? The guitarist?”

  “I haven’t thought about it yet. I was hoping you’d say yes.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Frankie-boy.” I was craving a cigarette badly. I needed to get rid of all this pent-up energy that had gathered within me.

  Malik was my fucking saving grace. A timely distraction from this odd conversation we were having. I’d heard him padding through the house after he emerged from the small basement gym I never used.

  Snowflake was nuzzling his feet when Frank and I entered the kitchen. Malik’s T-shirt was drenched. Sweat rolled down his massive neck and chest in thick rivulets as he emptied a bottle of water, then opened a second one.

  I introduced him to Frank and they shook hands and exchanged perfunctory greetings. There was an aura of tension between them during the first couple of minutes and I had the distinct feeling that they were apprising each other like true alphas would.

  “I heard about the lawsuit,” Malik said to Frank brazenly once they’d become more or less acquainted. “Sorry to hear about that.”

  “It’ll sort itself out,” Frank said evenly.

  To that, Malik quoted some passages from the Bible about faith, and Snowflake barked as if he understood what we were talking about.

  When Frank left shortly after and I returned to the kitchen, where Malik was rummaging through the fridge, looking to make himself a sandwich, he asked, “Did you two make up?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him honestly.

  “We need to seriously rethink your rabbit diet.” He stared at the shelves crammed full of vegetables, his gaze full of pity.

  “I need to seriously rethink my life first,” I said and headed upstairs.

  It was Monday night and I was fucking nervous.

  “What do you think?” Camille looked at me through her thick lashes as she stood across the table from me. There was something written on the front of her T-shirt, but I couldn’t read it all because the apron she was wearing was covering it up.

  “Are you staring at my boobs?” She frowned.

  “No, the logo?” I motioned at her top and sent another piece of cauliflower cookie she’d apparently tried to make today into my mouth. It tasted a little bland, but telling her that would be equal to signing my own death warrant.

  Camille glanced down at her T-shirt, then pulled the strap wrapped around her neck over her head and lowered the apron so I could read the text.

  Here for the bridal party, it said.

  “We used to sell these at the store,” she explained. “They’re cotton. Great for hot weather.”

  “So help me understand this.” I relaxed in my chair and placed my ankle over my knee, the leftovers of the cookie crumbling between my fingers. “How does a woman who’s never been married end up running a wedding boutique?”

  My lesson with Ally had concluded a little while ago, and after hanging out with us on the terrace for all of three minutes, she’d run off to her room to take a phone call from Pauline. Now it was just me and Camille, the heat of twilight pressing on us from each and every angle.

  The air continued to smell like burnt grass days after the fires up north had been put out, and the harsh Santa Ana winds were still at large, slamming against the massive oak tree nestled in the corner of Camille’s back yard.

  “I took over the business from my mother,” she said, putting the strap back around her neck.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I do.” She reached for a paper napkin that nearly flew off the table and stuffed its corner under her plate. “Just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a woman and I have a very good idea of what other women want on their wedding day.”

  Oh, Camille Rockwell was definitely a woman.

  Battling my insane attraction to her was useless. It was a living, breathing being, hiding beneath my skin, clawing at my heart, and demanding to be quenched. We’d fallen into an oddly cordial routine with the guitar lessons that were usua
lly followed by chats and sometimes—like today—dinners. Twice a week. Like clockwork. I had those brief moments with her, those fleeting seconds of feeling normal, unbroken, and...wanted.

  Not in a sexual way but as a person.

  I thought back to my wild days, trying to remember if I’d done something like this before—befriended a woman. No one came to mind, except maybe Cassy, but we were friends by default because she was Frank’s girlfriend and soon-to-be fiancée. And perhaps, eventually, his wife.

  Thoughts of marriage used to scare me. Now I was curious about it. Curious about what exactly made two people stick it out for decades on end and not go their separate ways.

  “So?” Camille stared at the second cookie that was still on my plate, eager to hear my verdict.

  “It could use some chile,” I drawled, not wanting to offend her attempts at being creative with food.

  “Aren’t you supposed to avoid spicy foods?”

  “Are you making meals specifically for me now?”

  “You know I like eating healthy too,” she bristled.

  Licking my fingers clean of the cauliflower crumbs, I laughed at how easily she got riled up.

  There was a beat of tense silence between us and the moment seemed just as good as any, so I asked, “Would you and Ally like to meet Snowflake and see my guitar collection?”

  Camille’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes did. They darkened ever so slightly. “Snowflake?” She arched a neat brow and flopped back into her chair.

  “My puppy.”

  “I didn’t take you for a dog person.” She sounded surprised and...relieved.

  “You know, a friend of mine told me the same thing the other day.”

  “It would be difficult to care for a pet when you’re always on tour.”

  “I’m not on tour right now and I don’t plan on going in the near future.”

  Camille was quiet.

  “So what do you say?”

  “To what?”

  “To a barbeque at my place.” My pulse was now a loud thrum in my ears.

  She tilted her head to the side, and loose strands of her flame-colored hair whispering in the wind caught the yellow glow of the string lights that rattled above the yard. There was something particularly intimate about all this—about me and her sitting across from each other, casually dressed, talking, not touching or openly flirting.