Rory

by James, Nicole

  “It was a pleasure. You want more ink, you know where to come,” Max said with a smile.

  As the girls walked out to their bikes, Rayne stopped. “Let’s take a picture together in front of the place. Please.”

  “Might as well; we spent an hour here,” Jenna said, rolling her eyes.

  “Don’t be snarky,” Sasha said to her. “You meet a guy, you may want to make a detour, too.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be a girls trip, not a lets-find-boys trip,” Jenna said.

  “Oh, quit complaining,” Carmen snapped, then turned on a bright smile as she approached a young hipster guy walking past. “Would you mind taking a picture of my friends and I?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Use my phone,” Rayne said, extending it to him.

  They moved in close, their arms around each other.

  “Smile, ladies.” He took a few shots and handed Rayne her phone.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She looked at the photo and smiled. It was a great shot with Brothers Ink behind them.

  “Come on, let’s get back on the road,” Jenna said

  Chapter Seven

  Rory turned into the parking garage under the high-rise condominium called Westwood Tower. He parked in Jameson’s reserved spot for unit #4100. Climbing off his bike, he grabbed his duffle bag and headed toward the garage elevator that took him up to the lobby, then crossed to the swank unit elevators and pressed the call button. The doors slid open, and he walked inside. He inserted the key card Jameson had given him to operate the elevator and gain access to his unit.

  As the doors slid closed, he leaned back, exhausted, and stared at himself in the mirrored walls. He could kick himself for losing his phone and Rayne’s damn number. He blew out a slow frustrated breath.

  The elevator climbed quickly, and a soft ding indicated he’d arrived at the 41st floor. The doors glided open, and he walked down the exquisite hall of marbled tile and modern art toward Jameson’s unit on the left. At this level, there were only two apartments per floor. Jameson’s unit faced the west and the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.

  Rory unlocked the door and entered.

  The place was exquisitely appointed with luxury at every turn. Jameson leased it out for swank events from time to time, and that covered part of its cost to maintain. Since he’d bought the place, it had increased in value tremendously.

  Travertine floors were polished to a glossy shine. Rich wood walls held amazing artwork. Floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted the best feature in the place as far as Rory was concerned, the view. This high up they gave an unobstructed panorama of the mountains. He’d made a couple of stops on the way into town and now the sun was beginning its long, slow decent behind them.

  Rory dropped his duffle bag and made his way to the sliding doors that opened to the huge balcony. Stepping outside, he moved to the rail, resting his hands on it and gazing at the sight. God, he could never get tired of this view.

  He leaned on his elbows and again thought of Rayne, her smile, her beautiful eyes, and that crazy gorgeous hair. He grinned. With just the thought of her, he was flooded with happiness. Last night had been nothing short of amazing. They’d connected on a level he hadn’t with a woman… well, ever.

  He thought about the rough year she’d had and all that she had been through. It was enough to break a person, but she was tough; there was strength in her, strength she probably hadn’t even known she possessed until life had thrown her into a situation that required it from her.

  Rory didn’t know if he could have done what Rayne had done: nurse someone terminally ill, care for their every need, try to maintain their spirits all the while knowing the situation was hopeless. She’d been sucked down into the depths of despair and somehow made it through to the other side before it took her spirit too. All the while knowing she was about to lose someone as monumentally important as a sibling was, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. It must make a person want to curse God and give up. But she hadn’t.

  Rory gazed at the Front Range. It began to change colors in the darkening sky, and as he watched, a melody began to play in his head. Words floated through his brain, and he knew if he didn’t get them down quickly, they would be fleeting, drifting away like a wisp of smoke, and he’d never be able to call them back.

  He turned and moved through the sliders, dashing to the kitchen and digging through drawer after drawer, looking for something to write with; every drawer he pulled open was perfectly organized as if someone had measured the space between the items, getting them exactingly correct. For God’s sake, didn’t this place have a junk drawer? Of course not, who puts a junk drawer in a million dollar condo?

  Rory moved down the hall to the room Jameson used for a study and found paper and pen on a contemporary desk. The pen was made of polished wood, and if he had to guess, he’d bet it cost more than his guitar.

  Sinking into the butter soft leather of the Scandinavian design desk chair, he began to scribble the words that were flying through his head as quickly as he could.

  He tapped the pen, bit his lip, and scratched out a line to rewrite it.

  Twenty minutes later he stared down at the paper. Goddamn. It was good.

  Pushing out of the chair, he moved to the gorgeous, modern kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone on the wall, the only one in the unit. Jameson had it only because it was required for the concierge to be able to call up to the residence.

  He punched in a number and leaned on the granite island until the call was picked up.

  “Tommy? It’s Rory. I need you to do something for me.”

  An hour later, the phone rang. Rory answered. “Yes?”

  “Mr. O’Rourke, you have a visitor,” the concierge on duty advised.

  “Thank you. Send him up.”

  “Of course. My pleasure, sir.”

  Rory got up and moved to the bar. He took down two glasses and pulled the stopper from Jameson’s bottle of bourbon. Pouring two fingers full in each glass, he returned the bottle just as a knock sounded on the door. He went and answered it.

  Tommy stood there, a guitar case in one hand and holding up a white takeout bag in the other. “I brought tamales.”

  “Awesome, dude.”

  “The doorman asked where I got them. Told me there’s a place on Tejon Street and 36th with better ones.”

  “I like Moreno’s.”

  “Good, cause that’s what I got.”

  Rory passed him a glass.

  Tommy looked down at it. “Bourbon? What’s the occasion?”

  “I just wrote a song.”

  His bassist clinked glasses with him. “Congratulations, man. Is it any good?”

  “I’ve got most of the lyrics down, I just need help with the music. That’s why I needed my guitar.”

  Tommy held it up. “Guitar delivery, at your service, Mr. Big-shot-got-a-doorman.” He handed it to Rory, downed his drink, then wandered to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “You got any beer in this joint? We’ve got tamales. Gotta drink beer with tamales.”

  “I don’t know. Jameson usually keeps the place stocked.”

  “Bingo.” Tommy reached in and grabbed two bottles with the fingers of each hand. “The good stuff. Dos Equis.”

  “Bring ‘em and follow me.” Rory led him outside. Off the living room of the corner unit was an expansive balcony with a fantastic set of furniture grouped around a gas fireplace set in one wall. Rory flipped it on.

  “Nice,” Tommy said, taking in the blue and gold flames coming from the crushed glass.

  Rory took his acoustic guitar out of its case, while Tommy dug into his food.

  “Umm. These are awesome.” He pushed the bag around toward Rory. “Have some before they get cold.”

  Rory dug in. “Thanks, bro. I was starved.”

  Tommy laughed. “Right. Because there’s no food in this place and not anything you could want by calling do
orman-dude downstairs.”

  “Call him that to his face, I dare you.”

  “What, doorman-dude? That’s what he is, right?”

  “He’s a concierge.”

  “Oooo. How highfalutin’. Excuse me.”

  Rory chuckled, strumming and tuning his guitar.

  “Let me see these awesome lyrics you wrote.”

  Rory dug in his back pocket and unfolded the sheet of paper, passing it to his band mate.

  Tommy scanned the sheet. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” He lifted his gaze from the paper to Rory. “You fall in love or something?”

  Rory just bit his lip and kept playing, trying to remember the tune he’d come up with.

  “You dog! You totally did.”

  “What do you think of the lyrics?”

  “They’re good. You need a chorus.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Uh huh. You want any help with this song?”

  “What do you think of this?” Rory played him the melody he’d come up with.

  Tommy nodded. “It’s good, but…” He scanned the paper again.

  “But what?”

  “These lyrics, that music, it’s not really Convicted Chrome material, man.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  Rory nodded.

  “You remember what happened with that pretty little tune you wrote last year, don’t you? You give this to Hamish and the boys, they’ll change it. You know that right?”

  Rory nodded.

  “They’re gonna heavy-metal the shit out of it and make it dark as hell,” Tommy elaborated, studying him. “You good with that?”

  Rory shook his head, continuing to work the tune out in his head, his eyes closed. “Not giving ‘em this song.”

  “Huh?”

  Rory opened his eyes. “They’re not getting this one.”

  “That so? You goin’ solo or something I don’t know about?”

  “No. But this song is mine, for me. Not for the band. Understand?”

  Tommy nodded. “Sure. Sure. So…tell me about the girl.”

  Rory looked at him and grinned. “She’s amazing, bro.”

  “I need to meet her. Where is she?” He glanced around, like he might find her in the condo.

  “She’s not here. She’s on her way to California.”

  “California, huh? Where’d you meet her?”

  “Brewery near Vail. Karaoke night.”

  “Karaoke?” Tommy made a face.

  “Don’t laugh. It was fun.”

  “So, you’re what, singing amateur nights now?”

  “Quit. We sang one song. It was nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “I like her. A lot.”

  Tommy glanced down at the paper again. “Yeah, I got that. So she live around here or is this some kind of long-distance relationship?”

  “She’s from Denver.”

  “Well, that’s convenient.”

  “Except…I lost my phone and her number.”

  “You dumb fuck. How’d you lose your phone?”

  “I don’t know. I had it, then I didn’t.”

  Tommy rolled his eyes. “Well, good luck with that. I gotta get back.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah.” He stood. “Hey, look, I’m real happy for you and all, and the song’s good, I just wish you’d write something the band could use.”

  Rory put his guitar aside and stood. “I know. I will.” He slugged Tommy in the arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sound check is at six.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Rory watched Tommy walk out, then he sat down in the quiet night air, pulled his guitar to him, and studied the mountains. They were a beautiful purple now, and it made him think of Rayne’s hair.

  He strummed softly and began to murmur the lyrics he’d written.

  A Song for Rayne

  The girl with the lavender hair

  The one with the beautiful smile

  She looks like she has not a care in the world

  But you don’t know a thing about her

  She carries her pain on the inside

  She hides all her fear and her worry

  She can’t let it show, can’t let him see

  How afraid she is that soon he’ll be gone

  She does what she can, she does what she must

  But it’s never enough, how can it be?

  Their time is too short, the end ever near

  And she can’t do a thing to slow time

  Desperation is cold, this illness is heartless

  Nothing is fair in this world

  When all that she wants, is all that she had

  With a brother she loved and called Daniel.

  The girl with the lavender hair

  The one with the beautiful smile

  No you don’t know a thing about her, boy

  You don’t know a thing about her

  Chapter Eight

  Rory pulled his guitar off and carried it with him as he walked off stage after the sound check. The doors to the auditorium would be opening in less than an hour. He headed down a backstage hallway and passed Charlotte Justice’s dressing room.

  “Hey, Rory. Come here,” she called out.

  He stopped and walked in. She was sitting on a couch, strumming on her electric blue Fender Stratocaster. She had long blonde curls and a sweet smile. She wore low-slung jeans and a bohemian-style flowing shirt with lots of bracelets and long dangling earrings. Rory always thought her look was cool as hell.

  “What do you think of this?” She played him a melodic bluesy rift.

  “I love it. Is that a new song?”

  “One I’m working on. How about you? You still writing?”

  “Some. I’ve been sort of blocked for the longest time. Until last night.”

  “What happened to unblock you?” She strummed her guitar with a razzmatazz sound and smiled at him.

  “I met someone.”

  “Ah, love. It does it every time. Well, let’s hear it.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s not like what the band usually plays. It’s a slower song.”

  “Sounds interesting. Play it for me.”

  He looked at the open door. “Mind if I shut this?”

  She smiled. “Ah, a secret song, huh?”

  He shut the door. “No, it’s just not Convicted Chrome material.”

  “Nothing says all your stuff has to fit in a box. Music is all about experimentation. Right?”

  “Right.”

  She held her guitar up. “Mind if I jump in if the mood strikes?”

  “No, not at all.” He played it for her, and she did indeed jump in, providing another layer of melody blending in with his. It added richness to the sound of the song.

  When he finished, he said, “I like what you did. That needs to be in the music.”

  “I love the lyrics you wrote. With your deep growly voice, it’s the perfect song for you.”

  “Thanks.” He was glad for her praise and any input she could give him, but he knew it was a long shot the song would ever be recorded. “Do you think I should put it out there, see if anyone wants to record it? Maybe Harrison Mayfield or Chance Rollins would be interested in doing it.”

  She gave him a funny look. “Why would you do that? It’s your song. Do you really want some other artist to have it?”

  He shook his head. “No, but it’s not Convicted Chrome’s style, and I don’t want Hamish getting his hands on it; he’ll completely change it until it’s unrecognizable.”

  She nodded. “I understand, Rory. I do. Maybe I can help you.”

  “How?” He huffed out a laugh. “You want to record it?”

  “No, something better than that. It really needs a male voice.” She eyed him. “Do you trust me?”

  He frowned. That was an odd thing for her to say.

  “Professionally… do you trust me?” she prodde
d.

  “Sure, I guess. Why?”

  “Just leave it to me. Okay? And be ready.”

  He gave her a suspicious look. “Be ready for what?”

  She smiled and nodded toward her dressing room door. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

  He moved to leave.

  “Oh, and Rory?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stick around for my show, okay?”

  “Of course.” He wasn’t sure he had been planning on that, but when the headliner of the tour asks you to stick around for her performance, you do it.

  Chapter Nine

  Lou “Crawdaddy” Crawford watched Charlotte Justice from just off stage—a place he often watched his most lucrative performer. Of all the acts he managed, she was his biggest star and his biggest paycheck. Because of that, he kept close tabs on her act and a short leash on her. No one messed with his meal ticket; he personally saw to that. She was his bread and butter, and he made special effort to keep her healthy and happy.

  Tonight’s show was going well. The opening act, Convicted Chrome, had finished, and the crowd had loved them. They weren’t his taste; he hated heavy metal. It was all crap in his opinion. But Charlotte liked them and wanted them on her tour. With his contract coming up for renewal, he wanted to keep her happy, so he went along with it. Any other time, he’d have dumped them after the first leg of this American tour.

  If he had any say in it, they sure as hell wouldn’t be on the European tour next Spring. He sucked on his cigar, rolling it in his lips, pissed off all over again that he could no longer light it up. Fucking smoking ordinances. He longed for the old days when Rock & Roll was king and a man could smoke whatever he wanted backstage.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, looking at the screen. Mickey. The man knew better than to call him during a show unless it was urgent. He put it to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “Bad news.”

  “What now?”

  “Axel Rod just OD’d. They’ve taken him to the Royal London Hospital.”

  “Fucking Christ, what happened?”

  “I don’t know. They found him in his hotel suite about an hour ago.”