“Yes. Colette is the one for me,” he said simply.
Gavin sat down heavily on the sofa, distracted by his own thoughts. Finally, he asked, “Does she know?”
Conor nodded shortly.
“Brilliant. Lovely. Can’t wait for that chat.”
“She won’t be bringing anything up about it. We hashed it out and put it behind us.”
Gavin laughed softly. “Just like that, then? Maybe you’ll tell me how it’s done some day.”
“Gavin—”
“It’s fine. Whatever, Con,” he said as he stood up again. “If you’re happy, is all.”
“I think I am,” Conor said.
“Do us a favor and don’t actually get married until you know for sure,” Gavin said with a wry smile as he leaned against the wall.
“Ah, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, sure. So . . . you come up with anything we can work on? If you’re a man in love and all, you should be inspired, right?”
Conor saw a quick flash of pain register on his friend’s face and it hit him in the gut in response. Through all the years of being in love with his best friend’s wife, he had never allowed himself to imagine what it might feel like to be in this position. He had convinced himself, even as he and Sophie became closer, that nothing would ever happen between them. She had been the one to draw the line for so long that he was able to compartmentalize the emotions—and betrayal—involved. In the end, she was broken by Gavin after months of him pushing her away. She turned to Conor at the lowest point in her marriage and he did not say no. It was a one-time episode that he wasn’t proud of, but yet, he couldn’t help but savor the memory of that brief mutual desire.
“Doesn’t seem like the right idea.”
“Sure it is. Let’s do our thing. You know, let’s write about the same girl,” Gavin said, the bitterness clear in his voice. He had only recently understood that they had become a formidable songwriting team over the years because they were inspired by the same woman, Sophie. “Only this time it’s your girl.”
It was clear then what the nature of their new working relationship would be. Conor sighed and looked away. His penance would be long and drawn out. And there was fuck all he could do about if he wanted to find a way forward.
CHAPTER THREE
Gavin had just dressed after a post-workout shower when he heard a voice calling his name. It took him a moment to register that it was Shay. It seemed he had not only invited himself over but also let himself into the invariably unlocked house.
Shay, like the others of their inner circle, had made a habit of calling Gavin during the past two months. And Gavin had made a habit of ignoring the messages. But two days ago, he had finally taken Shay’s call. He’d been reluctantly convinced to meet with the band. To meet with Conor. The day’s abbreviated session had left him anxious and once home he’d punished himself with an intense session of weightlifting and sprints on the treadmill.
Moving through the large one-story home, he came upon Shay. He had a compact frame and receding strawberry blonde buzzed hair that worked well for him, showcasing his full, prominent Irish cheek bones and gray eyes. He was watching a soft rain fall outside the wall of windows along the open-concept living and dining area. It was a gorgeous house, befitting both its wealthy rock star owner and the posh neighborhood of Dalkey, known as the Irish “Bay of Naples” for its sea views and cliff-side villas. The high ceilings of the living room were supported with hand carved beams that matched the dark walnut plank flooring. The house had been designed to take advantage of the south-facing sun, so that even when it was cloudy the space was flooded with natural light. A two-sided gas fireplace provided welcome warmth and served to break up the otherwise open floor plan.
“Hey, Seamus,” Gavin said with a grin.
Gavin was the type to naturally employ nicknames for people. It was a quality that served to create a false sense of intimacy with those who barely knew him, resulting in an enormous amount of people who counted themselves friends with the rock star. Though this personality quirk came without contrivance, he had learned to subtly trade on the resulting “friendships” to manipulate good media for the band.
But his use of the name “Seamus” for Shay went beyond the superficial. Shay’s emotionally vacant parents had only been bothered enough to list the nickname of ‘Shay’ on his birth certificate, so Gavin had early on re-Christened his friend with the full, proper name.
“There you are,” Shay said and slapped him on the back. “You took off so fast from Conor’s I didn’t get a chance to talk with you.”
“You could’ve called.”
“To be honest, I didn’t know if you’d answer.”
Gavin laughed. “Ah, you’re right. I probably wouldn’t have.”
As the lead singer of Rogue for the last dozen-plus years, Gavin’s most attractive quality—besides disheveled good looks—was the way he counterbalanced raging self-confidence with the tendency to overshare his wounded, romantic core. The fact that he was also a natural showman, someone people gravitated toward with the expectation that he had something to say, had always worked in the band’s favor. And he fed off of the attention, in large part due to what he euphemistically called the “loss” of his mother at age seven.
Above all else, he was the type of person others rooted for, no matter how he might screw up with an ill-mannered remark about a rival band—he famously once called Oasis the best Beatles tribute band he had ever seen—or the publicly documented turbulent relationship with his universally adored, and now estranged, wife, Sophie.
“I wanted to see how you think it went, being back together today,” Shay said.
Gavin watched him for a moment. Shay had broken free of the shyness that plagued him as a kid, but was still someone who operated from positions of caution and caretaking. He had been conditioned to these instincts after spending the last decade minding his heroin-addicted brother, Danny. The burden had worn on Shay, but he had dutifully done all that he could to help Danny, though such efforts had as of yet failed to last.
With a beckoning wave of his hand, Gavin turned and went to the living room, seating himself on the sofa. Shay followed him and they sat together in companionable silence for some time. The cream colored ‘L’ shape sofa rested on a New Zealand wool rug made up of oatmeal and mocha tones and was positioned to focus on both the fireplace and the sea view. Shay played his fingers over the soft fringe of the pale green chenille blanket draped over one of the armrests.
“Have you changed your mind about sticking with it?” Shay asked at length.
“Not exactly. I just don’t know how this is going to work. Today was brutal.”
“He’s trying so hard, Gav. You can practically smell the regret coming off him.”
Gavin wasn’t feeling as charitable in his assessment of Conor. Yes, his old friend was clearly aching to restore their bond, but it wasn’t something that would happen on day one, if ever. Instead of admitting, this, he said, “This whole bright idea of mine to continue being in a band with him wasn’t very well thought out.”
“Probably not,” Shay conceded and Gavin laughed in surprise. “No, I mean, how could it have been? You’re fucking fighting for survival now, aren’t you? You’ve left the cocaine behind, your marriage is in disarray, you can’t turn to your best friend.”
“Pretty succinct.” Not for the first time, Gavin realized what a wise person Shay was. His ability to cut through the bullshit was unparalleled, likely due to the fact that as someone who preferred to sit back and observe others he could better see things as they were. Shay had been the one Gavin turned to immediately after learning about Sophie and Conor. He needed help getting that clarity. Shay had reluctantly admitted then that he had long recognized the way that Conor’s entire being changed when Sophie came into the room. It had been obvious to him that an infatuation on Conor’s part had developed into something more in the recent past, but he hadn’t wanted to insert himself into t
hings.
“But your instinct was to keep trying with Rogue,” Shay said. “With Conor. Right? That’s the thing you felt in your gut you had to do.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”
“Yeah, but . . . Marty and I will be there, too,” Shay said.
The sweetness of this made Gavin smile. Shay was the most uncomplicated person he knew. That didn’t mean he was naïve as some assumed, but rather that his intentions and actions were almost always pure.
Sophie had called the band dynamics early on, saying that Gavin sought validation—too much, she thought—from Conor; Conor tried to appear as if he needed no one but it was always Gavin he looked to; and Martin, their bassist, was just happy to be included in the mix. And she always said that Shay revered Gavin more than anyone else in the band.
Gavin knew she was likely right, as from an early age he had become someone important to Shay. At Gavin’s insistence, and usually on nights when Shay was at his lowest due to his home situation, they would scour the neighborhood for unlocked cars. They preyed on simple models like the Ford Focus or Fiesta for ease of hot-wiring. Once the engine turned over, Shay drove as Gavin manipulated the stereo system. It didn’t matter where they went, only that they drove fast with the windows down and the music loud. Within an hour or two, they returned the vehicle back exactly where they found it. The sessions served as a kind of wordless therapy.
Once Rogue made some decent money, Shay began a lifelong obsession with sports cars. His current choice was a white Audi R8. Shifting the manual gears of the V-10 engine triggered the same satisfaction he had found while joyriding with Gavin as a teen. The flashy car was at odds with his quiet persona, which was precisely why he enjoyed it so much. It was like armor that gave him permission to be bolder than he otherwise felt in his daily life.
Shay had once confessed to Gavin that the only comparable feeling of freedom and contentment he got from driving was when he was playing the drums. Behind his kit, he could not only lose himself in the rhythm but become a part of it. And that felt powerful, almost like a high. Or so he assumed that’s what a high felt like. He rarely drank and had never done drugs—he’d seen too early how much damage they could do—but he thought the feeling he got from playing music must be like the pinnacle of a high.
Gavin certainly didn’t want to be the one to take this outlet, this form of release, away from his friend. “I didn’t say I was giving up,” he told him.
The relief on Shay’s face revealed the worry he had been harboring. Rogue was everything to Shay, and Gavin felt bad for all he had done in the past several months to give his friend doubts about the future of the band. Gavin’s descent into cocaine had been quick and shocking, so even though he was more than three months clean now, he knew Shay would rightly distrust anything he said. Shay knew from firsthand experience how well addicts could lie, how they could spin a tale to get what they wanted.
Gavin would have to earn back Shay’s trust. He’d start by continuing to force himself to be in the same room as Conor if for no other reason than to give Shay peace of mind.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said firmly.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gavin was the first to arrive at Conor’s for the day’s session with the band but he was busying himself by scribbling in a leather bound notebook. Conor suspected his friend wasn’t necessarily inspired but rather was using the writing as an excuse to avoid engaging with him.
This was their sixth consecutive day working at his house, and though they had been able to talk about music, other conversation was stilted. So when Conor’s cell phone rang, he answered it despite not recognizing the number.
“Is it too early to bother you?”
The voice was female and unknown to him.
“Em . . . .”
“It’s Felicity, for God’s sake, not some groupie!” There was amusement in her laugh.
“Jesus, sorry. I didn’t recognize you for a minute,” Conor said, breaking into a smile. “Your number’s changed, has it?”
“It would, wouldn’t it? I moved home.”
“Moved home? As in Dublin?”
Gavin looked up from his notebook. “Who is it?”
Conor mouthed “Felicity.” That’s all he needed to say to let Gavin know the person calling was their old schoolmate, Felicity McAllister. She had been a part of their core group before moving to Canada for university. After school, she had stayed on and gotten married.
“Yeah, I’m here. My Ma’s not so well and I wasn’t doing so well in Toronto after everything with the divorce . . . so, I’m back. Just wanted to ring you to say hello. Maybe I’ll bump into you sometime.”
“Sorry to hear about your Ma, Fee,” he said, using the pet name he had called her in their school days. “And we can do better than a chance meeting, can’t we? Let’s plan something.”
“What would your supermodel fiancée have to say about that?” she asked.
The tabloids had produced splashy stories on their re-engagement and Colette had been delighting in the attention to a degree that had begun to unsettle Conor.
“You can ask her yourself if she’s around.”
“Just what me self-esteem needs right now, an encounter with a goddess.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, honey. You’re as gorgeous as they come and always have been,” Conor told her, the flirt coming naturally.
There was a pause on the line and then Felicity told him, “You know, I still think of you now and again.”
Now Conor was caught not knowing what to say. He didn’t want to encourage his old friend down this road but neither did he want to hurt her feelings.
“Oh god, forget I said that. Please do me the favor,” she said. “Maybe forget I called, yeah?”
Conor laughed softly. “I couldn’t if I tried, honey.” He looked up to see Shay and Martin letting themselves into the studio. They were animated as they relived something to do with a bad call from the last Republic of Ireland football game. “Listen, the guys just got here to work on some music. Let me give you a call later on?”
“Yes, yes. That’s fine. Tell Gav and everyone I said hello.”
“I will. Bye now.”
When he ended the call, he looked at Gavin with raised eyebrows.
“Our Felicity has come home, then?” Gavin asked.
“Yeah. Which is grand. It just got weird there at the end.”
“What?”
“I dunno. She said she still ‘thinks’ of me.”
“She still married?”
Conor eyed him for a moment. Their brief, easy rapport had just been killed by Gavin’s insinuation that Conor might be again intruding into someone else’s marriage. Gavin found a way to throw some sort of dig at him whenever possible during the last few days. Yes, Conor knew he had fucked up. Yes, he knew he had to suffer for it. But would this be indefinite?
“You know she went through a rough divorce last year,” Conor said.
“Ah, that’s right. So, still carrying a flame after all this time? Guess it makes sense. You were her first, weren’t you?”
“That was a long time ago.”
Conor thought back to his time with Felicity when they were in school together, the heated, fumbling first episodes in his bedroom that ended too quickly. And then they got better with experimentation. They had never dated properly. She wouldn’t allow that kind of relationship closeness, instead preferring to say they were friends with benefits. Naturally guarded with her feelings, she hadn’t trusted him to give her what she needed. She had been right to protect herself. As a kid with a burning ambition to be a rock musician, he wasn’t going to be the stable partner she already knew at age sixteen she wanted. But that didn’t stop her from craving his company and him craving her body.
The news that she was back in Dublin lifted his spirits. He had an urge to reconnect with her, especially with his relationship with Gavin being so tenuous. He was aware that most o
f his friends came by way of Gavin’s boisterous inclusiveness. But Felicity, she had always been his friend first and foremost. And that was a very compelling trait at the moment.
“Let’s get started,” Conor said, shaking off his memories.
CHAPTER FIVE
Conor looked out the window and scowled at the fierce rain pelting the courtyard. When he had suggested to Felicity they meet at this out of the way café known for their sweet as well as savory offerings, he had rather optimistically hoped they could sit outside and enjoy a bit of late winter sunshine with their chat. But the Dublin weather had other plans for them.
The café was cozy, with black and white checkered flooring, clean white walls, and mismatched kitschy floral patterned vinyl tablecloths. As the day was getting late, there weren’t very many other patrons.
It was well past four o’clock now and Conor looked at his phone to see if Felicity had left him a message about being late. Or calling the reunion off. When he had phoned her, she was reluctant to get together, refusing his suggestion of a drink. Then he scaled it back to an offer of a late afternoon tea or coffee and she agreed with the caveat that it had to be quick.
He found no message but as he looked up again and through the window, he saw a rain-soaked Felicity leaping over puddles on her way to the front door of the café. Standing up, he watched as she shook herself of excess water under the awning before opening the royal blue door. Her blue eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed from the brief jaunt. The frilly pink umbrella she held closed in her hand had apparently not served its purpose as her dark brown hair was mostly wet.
“You poor thing. Here you are,” one of the waitresses said as she greeted Felicity with a tea towel.
“Ah, thanks so much,” Felicity said with a warm smile. “Could you rubbish this for me? It’s quite useless as you can see.”
The waitress accepted the umbrella from her with a sympathetic smile. Felicity then took a moment to run the towel over her hair and pat her face as Conor watched from his table, still standing in anticipation.
Playing At Love: A Rogue Series Novel Page 2
