“Well gentlemen, prepare for greatness,” pronounced Simon, slipping on his sunglasses.
With huge smiles they headed in.
After they exited the elevator onto the fortieth floor, they passed through the imposing smoked-glass doors and into the lobby. An attractive receptionist welcomed them from her mahogany perch. Her accent was distinctly Liverpool, trying hard for Cheshire.
“It’s The Lost Boys to see Ms. Gordian, please,” Andrew replied with his most proper enunciation and most sincere smile.
She dropped the phone twice trying to dial. Simon rolled his eyes at him and went to scan the magazines.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” S.J. strode into the lobby escorted by two men. One he recognized as the photographer who had accompanied her at Diamonds, the other was a blond-haired writer-type who was finishing up a text. When he spotted them, he immediately pocketed away his Blackberry in his well-worn tweed jacket.
“May I introduce Glenn Sommers from Rolling Stone, and you already know Robert Bolen.”
“Gentlemen, Simon Godden, Christian Wood, and Andrew Hayes of The Lost Boys.”
As they shook hands, the inquisitive eyes of the journalist spotted the cut above Andrew’s eye and the bruise on his cheek. S.J. was studying him too as she escorted them to a conference room. She whispered in his ear, “Is it just a coincidence that Neil has a matching set?”
He didn’t respond.
“I have a little surprise for you, gentlemen,” said S.J. as she took her seat at the end of a rich teak table. “KFOG wants you to come into the studio tomorrow and do a live morning show. They specifically requested for you to showcase some of the new material from your latest album. It seems one of their producers was at your little performance the other night, thank you so much for the invite, by the way. She was tremendously impressed.”
“Why didn’t they contact us directly?” Andrew asked bluntly.
“Word just got around that I was working with you to help arrange this shoot and…you know how these things are.”
“No, I don’t.”
A tense quiet fell over the room. S.J. considered him and smiled. “I apologize if I overstepped my bounds, but I believe you can use all the help you can get.”
Andrew could feel the journalist’s eyes dart between them. “High strung artist, difficult to manage, temperamental” were all itching to be written down on his notepad. Not wanting to turn this into a soap opera, Andrew smiled and thanked her. It was a great opportunity; he needed to stop being so defensive.
They spent a good deal of the rest of the day traveling around town. Sommers wanted them relaxed and in their element. A young band set loose in a romantic city was his angle. Bolen snapped so many pictures Andrew began to forget he was even there. It was cool, he had to admit, but he knew what both men wanted, craved even; he’d had enough exposure to the press early on to learn his lesson. They lived for that inside scoop, that one word or one photograph that exposes their victim’s true nature, laying bare all his hopes and fears. That moment of weakness where you crack wide open and they dive in for the guts and bones. And so it went. A game of cat and mouse while the camera clicked away. They kept digging, and he kept smiling. They weren’t going to get anything from him. His guts and bones were his own.
By the time they returned to the office, they were exhausted from being “on” for so long. Andrew wasn’t the only one who was forced to be on his best behavior. Both Simon and Christian had appeared downright charming all day, which may not have been a stretch for Christian, but for Simon it represented a minor miracle.
S.J. seemed pleased as they debriefed her about the day, and even more pleased when she informed them to be at the radio station tomorrow morning at six a.m.
The banter in the car ride home was light hearted; they were happy, exhausted, and hurled insults at each other as they came down off their high.
“So who’s going to fall on their sword first?” Christian asked as he parked the truck under an old oak.
“Hell, I’d totally forgotten,” muttered Andrew.
“Listen, I’ve got an idea,” said Christian. “We tell them all the great stuff, play it up, and then tell them we turned down the radio show to go with them instead. We’ll make them come up with the solution of pushing the trip back a day. We escape unscathed.”
“I don’t know…” Andrew said, looking at the lights in the upper floor.
“It’s worth a shot,” said Christian. “Women love that stand by your man shit.” A second later he started wailing the very song, while holding longingly onto Simon.
Simon looked at Andrew with a pained expression.
“Stand By Your Man. Co-written by Tammy Wynette and Billy Sherrill. Recorded by Tammy Wynette and released as a single in September, sixty-eight.”
And their plan worked. They were given a heroes’ welcome, complete with a dining room table groaning under the weight of a spectacular Italian buffet.
“So, tell the class,” Margot said as she headed to the kitchen and reemerged seconds later with a bottle of wine and six glasses tucked between her fingers.
“It was incredible,” said Simon, pouring Margot’s glass so full it nearly overflowed. “We spent the day with this writer and a photographer who took us all over the city, taking shots of us hanging off a cable car, playing at the Legion of Honor, and this, this was so cool, he had us walk across the Golden Gate bridge like on the cover of Abbey Road, which was completely spectacular. I finally felt like a freakin’ grown up, like everything we’ve been working so hard for might just happen, you know? Sometimes, I swear, when we were on the road I thought we’d never break out, and now—I can’t even tell you what it’s going be like for my mum to see that cover. She’ll probably wallpaper the whole bloody living room with it. Jesus.”
Andrew’s wine glass hung suspended in front of his lips. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he saw a tear well up in Simon’s eyes. There should be an award for this kind of shit.
“Oh,” said Margot softly.
They all sat down and tucked in. Emily kept refilling his glass while eyeing him suspiciously. It wasn’t until she served the sambuca that he made the fatal error.
“Sommers, he’s the Rolling Stone writer, was amazed that we handled our own touring and marketing,” he boasted, watching the coffee beans sink to the bottom of his glass. “I was telling him about how we poll the fans before shows to get a feel for what the crowd wants on the playlist, and that’s how we can mix things around so quickly. So right then and there he rang up KFOG to get an idea of what they want to hear tomorrow, and they shot a list back.”
You could hear a pin drop. Actually, you could hear the girl’s dessert spoons drop. Each one.
“Tomorrow? Tomorrow? Tomorrow?” Zoey’s voice rose with each word, like a pissed off Macbeth. “You made plans for tomorrow?”
“About that…” Christian said bravely.
She turned on him. “But we’re leaving tomorrow!”
“Listen, honey. They want us to come into KFOG for a live show, and um—Rolling Stone still wants some time to interview us. Look, it shouldn’t take all day. We could drive up on Saturday morning.”
“But we’re already packed and ready to go. We have a private room reserved at the winery.”
“We can stop on the way home,” Christian said soothingly.
“No we can’t! I had to call in some serious favors to get a space,” she shot back.
“Honey, we have to. I know this is important to you—”
“It’s important to Emily! She’s the one everyone wants dead.”
The mood officially sobered.
“Which is the reason why we will all go. Together. On Saturday morning,” Andrew said firmly, putting an end to it.
“No.”
He turned. Margot sat there with her arms crossed. “Zoey, we don’t have to miss your wine tasting. You all don’t seriously think some spooky ghost is going to come and sweep her away on th
e drive up there, do you? Please. Look, stop, don’t say anything, let me finish. The three of us will be together all the time, Andrew. We’ll spend the day at Dia and then go to Mendocino. We won’t step foot near this inn until you meet us up there.”
“No, absolutely not.”
“So what are you going to do? Roll her in bubble wrap until you can be by her side? She’s a grown woman—she can take care of herself.”
“It’s too dangerous. She’s not going without me.”
“She has a name—and is in this room,” Emily said. “And she’d appreciate being spoken to like she wasn’t a child.”
“If you insist on driving up there by yourself then you are a child.”
All three women took a collective inhalation of breath as though every molecule of estrogen in the room was combining to make a fist.
“We managed perfectly well before you gentlemen showed up. We don’t need anyone to take care of us,” said Margot defiantly. “I mean, what is she going to do when I’m gone back East and Zoey is out hanging out with you guys this summer? She’s going to have to look after herself then.”
Margot’s face immediately flushed scarlet, and her teeth clenched together trying to trap the words that had already escaped.
Emily looked to her and then to Zoey with a puzzled expression. “Excuse me?”
“It’s nothing,” said Margot hurriedly. “What I meant to say is, if these guys think they can just waltz in here and tell us what to—”
“No,” said Emily. “What did you say about this summer? You said Zoey’s going away with them? Really?”
For the first time ever, Andrew saw Margot flounder, truly flounder for words, but that was nothing compared to the heartbreak on Emily’s face.
He wanted to say something right then and there, but he knew it would come off as placating, backpedaling, and utterly insincere. He felt like a complete ass.
When he found Emily in the kitchen, her back was to him and her hands were deep in the sink washing the dishes.
“Force of habit,” she said quietly. “We didn’t have a dishwasher growing up. I have a hard time digesting food without my hands soaking in scalding hot water.”
He tried to approach her but hesitated near the island.
“Emily.”
“Andrew, I understand. I really do.”
“It’s not what you think. I had no idea Christian was going to ask her to come on the road. I just found out today myself. Emily, do you—do you want to come with us?”
Her back remained to him, a glass held motionless in her hands. “I…I can’t. I’ve got my writing seminar…and I have to find a job. These bills won’t pay themselves.”
“You don’t have to worry—I’ll take care of them.”
The glass slipped from her grip and hit the bottom of the sink.
“No…I mean, no, thank you. But no.”
“Emily?”
“I love you,” she said into the suds, her voice thin. “But I need to take care of myself. I don’t have anything, Andrew. I’m almost broke. My work with Vandin, well, that’s gone now. And Myra—I can’t expect people to bail me out all the time. I’ve got to learn to fend for myself.”
There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he wanted her to understand. But how could he tell her he wanted her to come with him and have her believe him now? It would only come off as a cheap way to soothe her hurt feelings.
“I’m really beat. You must be too. I’m going to turn on in. We’re going to have to get up early,” she said, putting the last of the dishes from the sink on the drain board.
“What?”
“Margot is right. There’s no reason why we can’t drive up tomorrow. Zoey has her heart set on going to the wine tasting. And I…I’d like to spend some time with them by myself. I haven’t had a chance to do that for a while.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Andrew, I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Then listen to what you’re saying. There is something terribly serious going on, and until we figure out what it is I’m not letting you out of my sight. You have both worlds gunning for you. What else do you need?”
“We’re not going to Noyo without you. And Vandin is still out of the country. And when he comes back he might go batshit over me serving as a witness against him, but I doubt he wants me dead.”
“He’s a sick twisted fuck, Emily.”
“Stop! Just stop. I won’t be bullied anymore, not by him and not by you.”
“Maybe that’s the only way you’ll see any sense.”
“What are you going to do, lock me in my room?”
“If I have to.”
“I’m done talking with you. You’re acting like an idiot.”
“You’re doing this for spite, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Because I didn’t ask you to go on tour.”
“No. You didn’t ask me to go on tour because you didn’t want me to go on tour. If you had wanted me to, you would have asked long ago. I get it, it’s fine. It’s your life,” she said, her voice strained and hurt. Disappointment overwhelmed her features, and she fled the kitchen without another word.
He turned to run after her when Margot’s hand grabbed his arm.
“I think you’ve done enough damage for one night, Romeo.” Zoey was by Margot’s side. “We’re of the belief that you need a day away from her to get your priorities in order.”
Fuck, fuck, and more fuck. Fuck me.
The three men were escorted out of the flat, and the door slammed in their faces.
As they each reached their own empty bedrooms, Christian shouted out, “We’re leaving the minute the last fucking photo is taken.”
Andrew couldn’t sleep. Anxiety bubbled up inside him. He could not leave her; it was wrong. But he knew if he knocked on her door, she would not answer. There was only one way.
The passageway was cold, and the fizzling wall sconces made walking incredibly difficult. The trunk lay off to the side. He paused and held his breath, like a boy whistling past the graveyard. But something drew him to it, as if it were calling him. He had taken to keeping Nick’s ring and the key they found in the keepsake box in his pocket, feeling responsible for their safety. The trunk had the same pull.
He reached his hand out and grazed his fingertips along the lid, steeling himself for the shock of pain he knew would follow, but he felt nothing. Tentatively, he sat down on it and put his head in his hands, trying to get his thoughts in order before he spoke to Emily.
How had everything gotten so bollocked up? He knew Emily’s insecurities regarding him, but she tried hard not to show them. He felt her eyes on him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She didn’t see the man who would love her past his last breath; she saw the lead singer of The Lost Boys, and it scared her. Hell, it scared him as well.
He couldn’t fault her for wanting to prove herself by standing on her own two feet; he felt the exact same way about himself. But he needed to make her understand that she could have both, her dreams and them together—he didn’t want to take anything away from her; he just wanted her.
No. He couldn’t let her go, he couldn’t. He needed to protect her from what was out there, from what was plaguing her nightmares. Terror clogged his throat at the thought of them being separated. His fingers rubbed over the worn travel stickers plastered on the top of the trunk, triggering images that flashed like strobe lights before his eyes, but he could only catch the ocean and the cliffs and…the screaming. He beat the side in frustration, his hand cutting against something sharp. Hissing, he pulled his hand to his mouth to stop the bleeding. It stung like hell.
He squinted in the faint light to see what he had cut himself on, certain he’d need a bloody tetanus shot with his luck. He saw a small, uneven brass square with rough edges on the side of the trunk. He squinted down at it, barely able to make out the faint script etched there.
Belden Firm, 1888.
Belden Firm
. The words sound so familiar, but he could not remember where he’d seen them. A chill passed down the nape of his neck. A familiar chill.
“Nick?” he said into the darkness. “Is that you? Nick?”
Only silence answered him, and the sound of wind sighing through the eaves.
In that instant he heard Emily cry out. He abandoned the trunk and ran. He reached her wardrobe and pushed his way through her clothes. Her room was dark, she was muttering, and her voice shouted out in strangled cries.
“Andrew, no! Don’t! Don’t! Let me go!”
He froze in his tracks. He was about to shout her name when he realized she was still asleep. She was having a nightmare, and from the sounds of it, an awful one.
“I don’t want you! Stop! Andrew! You’re hurting me.”
The words made no sense. Why was she screaming for him to go away? No. This was wrong. She couldn’t be having a nightmare about him hurting her. No.
He backed up into the passageway. Suddenly, like a violent slap across the face, images lacerated his mind and knocked him to his knees. Emily was screaming. He saw the cliffs and the waves. He stood bleeding before her, and she was screaming at him to stop, her feet inches from the edge. Rage ran through him—deathly rage. He wanted to kill.
“Christ,” he said, barely holding himself up. What was happening to him? He stumbled back down the passageway, grasping onto the beams for support. Yet it was not beams he felt. Instead, his hands felt the softness of her neck as his fingers clamped down, choking off the ghastly vibrations of her screams. Her throat constricted under his command…the bones shattered, splintered, her eyes rolled back in her skull, white in terror. He wrested harder until the screams died, and a dull, lifeless weight hung in his grip.
He staggered forward, fighting the bile rushing to his mouth.
He did not sleep that night.
Against all better judgment, he left the house the next morning while it was still dark, with Christian and Simon grumbling in half-awake silence next to him in the truck.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 39
