Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (54 page)

“Andrew, you can do this shoot without any agreements. But a word to the wise. No matter how you feel about her personally, she is incredibly powerful in the industry, and you don’t want to make an enemy of her. I work around her to the best of my ability. Jump through the hoops for the shoot and then be done with her if that’s what you want, but do not blow her off.”

Neil got up to leave, and Andrew realized what he had to do. “Neil,” he blurted out.

Neil looked down at him, and Andrew caught the fleeting glimpse of expectation in his eyes. It left him with the feeling of what his face would have looked at the other side of a cricket bat, or the end of a dinner table, or at the edge of a bed behind a book.

“This is a lot for me to take in.”

His face softened. “I know.”

And looking at him, Andrew knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he did. It made it all the easier to do what he wanted to do.

“We’re playing a short set at the Elbo Room tonight, you know—over on Valencia. Emily’s graduating, and we wanted to surprise her—and I was wondering, if you were interested, we start at eight—if maybe you might think about—”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Andrew.”

His throat was too tight to speak. He could only nod his head. They shook hands, and Andrew watched Neil walk away.

With two hours until call, the line out the club was already crazy, making Andrew pace around the risers.

“You need to take a leak or something?” asked Simon, grabbing a swig of water as he kneeled down to adjust the level of his drums.

“Nope, I just want to get started. It’s been a while.”

Christian and Simon grinned at him, looking how he felt. It was great to be back up on a stage no matter how small, not to mention the stash of new music they were aching to try out. Andrew hadn’t told anyone of his plan. He himself didn’t want to think of it, but he was still glad he had issued the invitations. Now, it was up to them.

After the sound check, they headed back to the green room and pushed around something that resembled food, but it could have been soylent green for all they cared, as eager as they were to start.

Finally they heard the club owner shout out their name. They pushed open the doors from the back of the club and were hit with an amazing roar, in which Andrew distinctly heard a sharp whistle that he knew to be Zoey’s. He peered into the lights and saw her excited, smiling face; next to her sat Emily, who, despite being surrounded by the stoners clad in black robes and matching hats, was grinning like mad. Margot did not look amused. He could not help but laugh at the sight.

While Christian and Simon got situated on stage, he slung his guitar over his shoulders and approached the microphone. “Good evening,” he told the crowd.

He had no sooner gotten the words out of his mouth when the screams hit him again, causing him to laugh out loud. God, it was going to be a amazing night; he could feel it. The air was electric.

“Thank you all for coming. Rather thrilled to be here.”

“Take off the rest of your clothes!” someone screamed from the back. Andrew ducked his head to hide his grin. It was over one hundred degrees on stage if it was a degree, and they had already stripped down to just their undershirts and jeans during sound check.

Not saying another word, he counted off stridently, and they surged into their first song. He had written it to showcase Simon’s talent, a drum solo that set the stage on fire, and Simon did not disappoint. Christian and Andrew took a side stand during the number and let the crowd yell out its praises. Toward the end, Andrew grabbed an extra pair of sticks and played opposite him, causing Simon to grin from ear to ear as they each tried to outdo the other. They ended on one hard note, and the room roared its praises.

They played two more hard rocking numbers. During the middle of the second song he saw Neil slide in and take his seat. He caught his eye and nodded, then set himself to attack a patch of complicated fingering. His hand ached in response to the limits he was pushing by trying to attempt this riff, but he wanted to prove something to himself, or maybe to Neil, but it could be that he just wanted to show off a bit in the process. He felt invincible.

After they finished he leaned toward the microphone, sweaty and out of breath, and smiled. “This next song is in honor of a young woman who finished university today. Who has her whole life ahead of her…” And almost as an aside, he added softly, “Hopefully with me.”

The song started sparsely and continued to build as the words tangled over each other in their want to gain freedom. He shut his eyes and pressed his mouth to the microphone as he sang, and his body rocked as the guitar became a part of him. But soon the rush and the power of the song overtook him; the music, his guitar, and the air around him fused. The crush of the song, the very essence of it, coursed through him, and he let it go. For her. Always for her.

As the last chorus tumbled down, his chest heaved from the effort. The applause hit so brutally against him that he flinched. He tried to steady himself and looked to Christian, who leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Fuck! I love you, you asshole. You fucking rule.”

Andrew laughed shakily. The screaming was still going on.

“Do your song,” he whispered back to him, and Christian gave him a double take. He had been nervous about performing it. “I’ll do back up,” Andrew promised as he slugged back some water.

Christian came up to the center microphone, and after stalling a bit he spoke, his voice melting into a low baritone laced with cool and charm. “How about the Brit?” The crowd hooted in approval, and he grinned in response. “I’d like to dedicate this song to Zoey, who’s sitting out there. Where are you, chere? Hey.” His smile widened as he saw her waving a lighter. “I’m going to marry you someday.”

Andrew spit out his water, and Simon did a cymbal crash as though he’d fallen off his stool. “Great technique,” Andrew told him, trying to cover his shock at his band mate’s public confession.

Unfazed, Christian started the familiar melody, playing the tune he had been practicing most days in the flat. Andrew nodded and stood back, content to be in the shadows.
Marriage
. Christ. Had Christian actually said it? Marry Zoey? Whereas he couldn’t utter a single definitive word about his future with Emily if his life depended on it, his band mate had laid out the
M
word with no problem. Yes, he had spoken around it: he wanted forever, he wanted never to leave her, he wanted to be only hers, but he could not say the word. Even when he gave her the ring he floundered, grappling onto the vague word “promise” instead.

The only time he could utter the words were when he was pissed, when she couldn’t know whether or not it was the booze talking. The suave drunk that he was had no problem unleashing his mouth in that situation.
Marry me now, not later…

But that would be asking a hell of a lot from her. His mother was right—did he know Emily’s dreams? Did he think he could just steamroll over them to get what he wanted? Did she even fancy being married? Did he? They were still so bloody young.

If someone had told him a year ago he would be contemplating marriage, he would have laughed in their face. Andrew Hayes, married? The word seemed almost tyrannical, as though it should be accompanied by a thud of a ball and the dragging of a chain. Live with someone, sure, but lose his freedom, enter into that level of commitment? Yet he had never loved a woman like Emily. Love. It seemed inane for what he felt, for how his life had changed. By day, music raged in him, his hands could not capture it fast enough. And at night, he would shut her bedroom door, and for one quiet moment they would gaze upon each other in tenderness. Then they were lost.

Christian started singing and soon began to geek as only he could. He motioned Andrew toward him, and they dueled with their guitars, forcing Andrew to cast aside his thoughts. When they reached the microphone and sang madly into it, grinning like fools, they were completely in their element—higher than they’d ever been on stage before. They laughed, and all the expectant faces out there couldn’t get enough of them. Then all too soon the song came to its resolution and ended in perfect harmony.

Andrew was so over the moon by now that he did something he rarely did: he asked for requests.

A table of students shouted all at once, “
She Kills!”

He ignored them and asked again. He could sense Christian looking toward him in anticipation. He kept strumming and rocking to a rhythmic chord, while Simon provided the backbone of a steady beat; both were waiting for his choice.

He hadn’t played that particular song in a long time, and with good reason. It was the first piece of music he’d written after he returned home from his time with Memphis—a brutal, scathing piece about the hopelessness he had felt. An addict’s screed, one reviewer had called it. It was probably the best thing he’d ever written, but it was hell to perform.

The crowd continued to scream for it, for too long and too voraciously; he had to silence them. He could feel Christian’s eyes on him as he began to play the opening stanzas. Simon ramped up the blistering drumming that served as the song’s heartbeat, and the pulse of Christian’s bass joined them.

He wouldn’t lose himself this time, he’d stay in control, he told himself as his voice poured out aching and loss. The words and the tune were familiar territory to him, but this time when he played he didn’t see the images of his time with Memphis, nor the countless other dives where he had sung this song to nameless crowds. No, the more he played, the more scenes tore through his mind from someone else’s lifetime.

Memories came rushing in, and he couldn’t stop them: the ocean pounded like Simon’s drums; a woman’s voice wailed like Christian’s guitar. He heard the shriek of gulls and saw jagged rocks, rocks everywhere he turned. And blood. “Nick, stop…no Nick, Niiiiick!”

A searing pain lanced through his heart, and he bent over his guitar and tried to grab a foothold in reality as his screaming vocals filled the room. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the audience as the world fell apart around him. “No, you’re going to win this time,” he heard a voice command, a man’s voice, rough and impatient. “You’ve got to win. You’re going to live.”

With a cry, he threw himself backward and closed his eyes, attacking his guitar. The strings bit into his fingers as he found a lifeline in the melody, and he wailed on it until the final chord when he twisted to the side and nailed the final note.

He fought to remain standing. Through the haze he saw Claudia in the tumultuous crowd. She stood there staring at him, Neil at her side, both faces pale in concern. He had not seen her arrive, and he could tell she saw right through him. And whether she was pleased or not, she was staring at him like she had in the past—as if he were on the edge of madness. She looked up into Neil’s face.

Andrew shut his eyes.

After the show, Andrew composed himself enough to sign the obligatory autographs, though he was still shaken from the performance. Thankfully, Claudia and Neil did not stay behind. He didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with them or the questions they were sure to ask.

Due to the stoners’ special diet, they ended up eating at a holistic bistro next door. Andrew had no sooner walked into the restaurant when he saw Emily’s face. She stood up from the table and ran and jumped into his arms. He held her tightly and buried his face into the softness of her hair and breathed in the smell of her, reveling in the warmth of her skin.