by Kelly Moore
“I know she loved you.”
“A lot of fucking good that was!” I scream out in anger. “I should’ve never left her alone.”
“Lyla decided this. You had to leave at some point.”
“She wasn’t ready, and I should’ve known better.”
“Look, Lyla’s been broken for a lot of years.” He puts his hand on my chest.
“If it wasn’t for me, she’d still be here.” I hang my head and let the rain drip down my face.
“What do you mean?”
“She was happy doing her three-month stints, traveling to different bars. If I would’ve never met her, she’d still be here.”
“You gave Lyla her life back, even if it was just for a little while. She was the happiest I’d seen her since she lost her family. Lyla couldn’t fight that devil inside her. This didn’t happen because of you.”
I hear his words, but my heart’s crushed, and I can’t deal with them. We climb up the mountain. They’ve loaded Lyla in the back of the ambulance.
The driver of the truck, who is visibly shaken, walks toward me. “I never saw her until the last minute. I tried to swerve out of the way.”
I can’t console him. I know it wasn’t his fault, but I just can’t. Elliot stops and talks to him, and I get behind the wheel of my car, mindlessly driving home. I sit in my control room so long that my clothes have dried. I’ve stared at the live room for hours, playing her last song over and over. I get up and unlock the cabinet, pulling out the first recording I made of her.
I push play and listen to the words that I understand now. The pain that was behind them. When it gets to the end of the song and the music goes dead, I go to turn it off until I remember what happened afterward. I listen to the sounds of the two of us making love for the first time. It all plays out in my head. I close my eyes and see us in that room. The touch of her skin against mine. The heat coming off her body. Her taste, her smell. The need I had for her like no other.
I stop the recording and lay my head down on the slider board.
“How the hell am I supposed to go on without her?”
Chapter 18
“I can’t believe you’ve been gone a year already.” I lay the yellow flowers down on her grave nestled between Red and Jacob. “I miss you every damn day.” I sit on the bench I had placed next to her that overlooks the mountainside. It’s a bright day with not one cloud in the sky, unlike the day she died. The grayness of that day still hangs with me.
At first, I came up here almost every day. The overwhelming feeling of her loss almost crushed me. On one of my worst days of missing her, I lay on her grave and cried, soaking the ground beneath me. When my body could take no more, I fell asleep and was awoken the next morning by the caretaker of the grounds. I think he thought I was homeless. My hair was a mess, and I had grass stuck to my face. My clothes were filthy, and my eyes were swollen. He showed me nothing but kindness when he sat on the grass next to me, asking about me and if had I eaten. I told him my story…your story and lost it all over again.
With counseling, I’ve visited less often. I haven’t been here in six months. I need to tell her one final goodbye.
“I was angry at you for a long time. I blamed myself for not taking better care of you.” I let out a long sigh. “I joined a grief counseling group. It made me not feel so alone. It took you dying for me to understand the pain you lived with every day. I’m sure yours was deeper than mine because you lost your child. That’s a grief no one should have to endure.”
I lean back, draping an arm on the back of the bench, and placing my ankle on my knee. “Through all of this, I’m glad for the time I had you in my life. It’s taken me a while to be able to say that. I knew what love felt like for the first time in my life. You filled every part of my heart. I couldn’t do the same for you. I couldn’t reach that ache. It was too deep, but I know you loved me. I miss your voice, the stories in your songs, the person I saw on the inside. The one you kept hidden away.”
A breeze blows, and I take a deep inhale, wanting to imagine it’s her. “Elliot’s with a band out of New York. He’s won several awards for his guitar playing. Joe got married and retired from traveling. Elliot comes by to see me whenever he travels through Nashville. Funny how he and I ended up being friends. He misses you too.” I blink back a tear.
I stand, bend down next to her headstone, and trace her name with my fingers. “I started a foundation in your name with the money you made off your music. There’s an actual building with your name on it. It’s a place people can go to get help with their depression. There are counselors set up to help them. It’s saved several women and men like you. It’s the help I wish you would’ve gotten. Maybe…” A tear runs out of the corner of my eye, down my nose. I sniff. “Maybe things would’ve turned out differently. I’m not saying the hurt would’ve ever disappeared, but it might’ve taught you some coping mechanisms.” I take off my wedding band and place it onto her headstone. “I’ve asked myself so many times…how do you unbreak the broken, like you said under your breath to me one day. How do you mend that crack in your heart? You can’t, baby. It’s always there. You told me that a million times. All you can do is keep gluing it back together. For some, that seems to work, for others, the crack keeps getting deeper, and longer, until the glue no longer holds.”
I stand and wipe away my tears. “I wanted you to know that I’m okay. It’s taken me some time. There lies an empty place in my heart, but the rest of me is still there.”
I chuckle to myself. “I heard a line once in a movie. You can’t ever really live if you don’t have any scars. I didn’t understand it. I thought my life was pretty damn good. Mundane at times, but good. Now I get it. I wasn’t really alive with passion until I met you, but I hate the scar that was created when you died. And yet, I would meet you a trillion times over if it meant even having one tiny piece of you.” I pick up my ring and look at our names etched on the inside, then I put it down again.
“I’ll find love again because you made me want to be in love. You filled a part of me that no one had ever touched.” I look up and let the heat dry the wetness on my face.
“I also wanted you to know that I’m leaving Nashville, so I won’t be back. I need a fresh start. I’m moving my studio to California. I’m sure I’ll feel out of place for a while, but I’ve learned I can adapt, even if I didn’t want to.”
Turning to walk away, I stop and look back at her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, but I’m happy you’re with your son and Red now. But I wonder…if I still have a place in your heart. I hope I’m not that darkness for you. You deserved to be happy, Lyla, with no darkness in your heart.”
I get in my car and choke back my final tears. Pushing the shiny silver disc into the player, her music fills my car. I let the top down and soak in her words one last time.
I head back to the studio in time to see the movers take out the last of the boxes. Walking around my apartment one more time, I take a long look around, remembering her here. I swear at times I still feel her. I see her smile and push a piece of hair from her face. I can envision all the places we made love. I suck in a hard breath and let go.
I finish packing up my suitcase and pick up the small box I asked the movers not to take. It’s all my recordings of Lyla’s music. I may have had to accept that she’s gone, but I’ll always keep this part of her to myself. Her music will live as long as I do.
I pick up my suitcase and tuck the box under my arm, heading downstairs. Opening the door to exit, I take one long, last look around. “I’ve thought of the words to your song a million times.” I say them out loud.
* * *
I scream, curse, pray
Beg to see your face every day
Is anyone out there?
To tell me I’ll be all right
* * *
“I’m going to be all right. Goodbye, Lyla.” I shut and lock the door, closing in the last memory of her. I climb in my car and head out to sta
rt a new life, a life without Lyla in it.
Hot Line
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number
1-800-273-8255
* * *
We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals.
Chapter 1
I ride the private elevator up to the penthouse suite with a beautiful redhead wearing a short black evening gown adorned with sparkling sequins. It falls to her mid-thigh, exposing her long, sexy legs. She smiles with closed lips when she glances over at me. I nod and tuck my hands into my trouser pockets. The door opens up into a spacious entryway with high ceilings and motion sensors mounted on the wall above the mahogany door. I wait and let the hot redhead walk out first. Her black patent leather heels click on the shiny marble flooring. She stands to the side with her silver clutch firmly against her bosom, waiting for me to be the gentleman and open the door. I step by her, opening it wide for her to go first. She sashays inside and grins at me over her shoulder.
A state-of-the-art sound system is playing soft piano music. Guests dressed in evening attire are scattered throughout the large living room area. I could never live in a place with white leather custom sofas, trendy seagrass throw pillows, and artwork that costs more than my home. Not because I couldn’t afford it, but because I like the simpler things in life, and definitely not in the middle of Los Angeles. But this fits the music mogul and his lifestyle.
Greg shrugs with one shoulder, throwing me a half wave as he converses with a portly man in an expensive navy-blue suit. The man is staring at the painting of a sparsely dressed woman poised above the opulent fireplace, rambling on about how much he thinks it’s worth. I took the shrug to mean that he couldn’t care less, but he’s not someone that he wants to walk away from. The other man standing next to his chatty friend glances at the cleavage of the woman who is handing out hors d’oeuvres on a silver platter. She’s four inches taller than him in her black high-heels, making his eye-sight level with her tits. I sip at my dry red wine, wishing it was a whiskey.
I like expensive cars, but I’ve never been into the plush living of a penthouse. Greg Bakker, owner of Monster Music, loves the upscale life. And why shouldn’t he? The man has made his millions. He can spend it however he sees fit.
I have more money than I’ll ever need. One thing Lyla taught me was to enjoy my time with people, rather than things. Damn it, she always seems to seep into my thoughts no matter where I am. Lyla’s been gone two years now, but I still feel empty without her. I moved my company from Nashville to California, needing a different venue with no constant reminders of her. Funny thing, she followed me. She’s a part of me that I can’t run away from.
I’ve become a hermit socially. If it wasn’t for my recording studio, I’d never meet anyone. My floating house sets out on the water in a small area with no neighbors, and I like it that way.
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that boast the Los Angeles skyline, wishing like hell I’d never agreed to come to the party tonight. I raise my wrist, glancing down at my shiny silver watch, and feel a firm grip on my shoulder followed by a deep baritone voice.
“I’m glad you agreed to come tonight. It would’ve been kind of awkward if you didn’t since the party is to celebrate the one-year opening of Wilde Recording Studios.”
I chuckle. “You’re probably right.”
“You don’t get out enough since Lyla died.” His brow furrows.
“I’ve been a little busy starting over.” I shuffle from one foot to the other, not wanting to discuss her or why I haven’t really moved on.
“You chose a hell of a place to start over. Los Angeles would’ve been an easier move, but I have to hand it to you, Sausalito has sure worked for you.”
“It’s been my belief, if you work hard and produce a good product, clients will come to whoever can provide that for them even if they aren’t in the heart of the city.”
“You’ve never given me anything but clients that are made of gold.”
I tip the glass of wine to my lips, wanting more than ever the brown liquid to burn my throat. “All but one asshole that I can think of.”
“You had no idea that Axel would turn out to be such a prick.”
He gets off too easy being called a prick. He’s the reason Lyla is dead. He sent her on a spiral she couldn’t return from.
“I think you need something stronger to drink.” He leads me over to his antique mahogany liquor cabinet that matches the grain of the entryway door. He opens it and takes down two short stout glasses and sets them on his polished granite countertop. He opens the freezer of the high-end stainless-steel refrigerator, taking out large balls of ice, stored in a tray. I’ve never seen them like that, only in molded soft cups where they form. He takes one out with small silver tongs, and the ice ball clinks against the etched glass that has his logo of Monster Music on it. He repeats the process with the other glass, then fills the whiskey to cover the ice. As he puts the lid back on the bottle, I catch the name of it.
“Damn, you don’t do anything cheap, do you?” It’s a bottle of Balvenie, a fifty-year-old single malt whiskey.
“This one’s cheap compared to a few of my others.” He laughs. “It only cost me fifty grand. There were only twelve bottles ever made.” He looks around the room at his guests. “But I’m not sharing it with them.”
I pick up my glass, and he raises his to mine. “Here’s to your success.”
I press the glass to my lips and take a sip. It has a dignified, irresistible blend of flavors, unlike the youthful blend I normally drink, that tends to be more vibrant and light. I take another sip and relish the dry warmth rolling down my throat.
“They come to you because of your reputation. You’ve kept me so busy I’ve had to hire on a partner, Reese Adams. Plus, the fact that my dear sweet wife wants me to slow down a bit.” He adds the last part when she comes over and hugs my neck.
“It’s so good to see you, Jameson.”
“You too, Grace.” I lift her hand and kiss the back of it. They’ve been married for forty years. Honestly, I don’t know how she’s put up with his traveling all these years and the women that throw themselves at him. I have to give him credit, I don’t believe he’s ever strayed from Grace. “Do you think the old man is really going to slow down?”
She brushes her fingers through the side of his hair. “Yes, he is.” Her smile says how much she adores him. God, I miss having Lyla look at me that way.
“Greg tells me that your studio has done very well. It must be true if he’s sharing his whiskey with you.” Her eyes skate over to the bottle on the counter.
“He’s the man responsible for over half my clients.” He points to the gold-framed records on the wall.
“I think that’s a bit of a stretch.” I finish the rest of my whiskey, and he pours me another glass, then puts the bottle back in the cabinet.
“Sweetheart, you really need to mingle with the Thompsons. He’s been telling me about a new art gallery opening up. I know how much you love a good piece of artwork.” Grace tucks her hand into the crevice of his elbow.
I strum my fingers on the granite. “Reese Adams. I don’t recognize the name.”
“Reese has been with a firm in Paris and has an excellent reputation. A good mind for contracts and negotiations. I’ll set up a meeting with the two of you next week.”
“Would you make it at my studio and not in this shithole of traffic.” I laugh.
“I know how much you like crowds. Speaking of driving, did they give you keys to a room when you checked in downstairs so you don’t have to drive home tonight?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll be sending Reese your direction,” he says before he steps away with his wife.
One of the other recording studio owners I know and two of his partners are sitting on the couc
h. I join them in conversation, but I’m only half listening to what they’re saying. They’ve not been as successful as I have because they spend too much money entertaining their clients. They’ve been known to throw some over-the-top parties with drugs being handed out like it was candy. It’s not the way I operate, and it never will be. Also, it’s not the kind of clientele that I want. The entertainment business can be a cruel world; it doesn’t need help offering clients something that will only handicap them in the long run.
“Hey, Jameson.” Aubrey slides her long, lean body next to mine when she sits beside me. She’s one of Greg's executive assistants. We’ve hooked up a few times. She’s not looking for anything permanent, and neither am I. She knows my story with Lyla and that I can’t handle anything remotely close to a relationship. We both have great respect for one another. She and I serve a purpose together, as cold as that sounds. She’s a beautiful, sexy, elegant woman. I run my hand down the length of her satiny legs, stopping at the red strap of her shoe. I put one finger between her ankle and the strap.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
One of her hands plays with the collar of my white dress shirt, the other playfully tugs at my tie, while she bites at her full bottom lip. “Are you staying in town tonight?”
“Yeah. Your boss set me up with a room in this building.”
“Good,” she says, then leans close to my ear and whispers. “I need some Jameson time.”
It’s been a while; I could use the same thing. I dig in my pocket and pull out the keycard to the room. “Meet me downstairs in two hours.”
She tugs down her short, shimmery dress at the hem as she gets up, but not before giving me an eyeful of her nice ass. Her long blonde curls cover the backless part of her dress down to her hips. Aubrey’s as sexy as they come, but she doesn’t own my heart, nor do I own hers.
