Say It Strong (Say You Love Me Book 2) (26 page)

“Thanks for the tip.” I hugged her hard and was on my way.

It’d been years since I’d walked through Brooklyn. Vanessa’s uncle lived in Brooklyn, and we’d gone out one winter break to visit him. Our favorite place to eat that trip had been Yemen Cafe. We must have eaten there every day, so it was no wonder that the fond memories attacking me just now were all about food. I was starving by the time I reached Abby’s brownstone.

Hopping up the steps, I paused at apartment 3B and breathed in deep. I rang the doorbell and waited with sunflowers in hand.

“Hello?” a female voice said through the door.

“Hi, I’m a friend of Abby’s,” I said, bouncing on my feet.

The woman who answered the door could have been Abby’s older sister, but I didn’t remember her mentioning a sister. As far as I knew, she was an only child and lived with her mother. “She’s not here,” the woman said, reading my face, then eyeing the sunflowers. “She’s busy at the studio. Some people actually work hard for their money. You’re Liam?” She said this much the same way she might have said, “You are the spawn of Satan?”

“I am, ma’am.” I gave her my best smile, trying not to look like the no-good smartass she probably pegged me for. For years, people had wanted to interview me, pick my brain, hear me speak on any ridiculous subject, and for once, here I faced a woman who couldn’t care less what I had to say. From the look of it, she already knew what I’d done to Abby and was about to crucify me for it. “Would you be able to give me the address to the studio? I won’t bother her long.”

She rested an elbow on the doorframe. She was small, thin, but every bit as beautiful as Abby. I could see how a difficult life might have hardened her a bit. “What do you want with my daughter?” Narrowed eyes shot invisible laser beams at me.

“I don’t want anything from her, Ms. Chan,” I said, twirling the flowers nervously. “It’s what I want to give her—everything.”

She assessed me up and down, and I’d liked to think that maybe she noticed something in my face that settled with her just fine. Giving me a sad expression, she said, “She’s working a wedding, but she’ll be by the studio afterwards. 316 5
th
Avenue. Third floor.”

Abby

The thing about Pachelbel’s Canon in D was that, though it was a simple, elegant, harmonious piece of music, it was just about the only classical song, other than Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, that people could call by name. So it was one of the only song I was ever hired to play at weddings, and while I was sick and tired of playing it, it was an easy hundred and twenty-five bucks, and I could do it with my eyes closed.

Not anywhere near what I’d been making with Point Break, but money was money.

At a beach wedding on Long Island, the bride began her slow stroll with her father down the aisle, and though I normally never got emotional at clients’ weddings, suddenly all I wanted to do was cry. She gleamed, beautiful and happy, her father looking so proud and sad to be giving his daughter away, and all I could do was bite my lip to keep from losing it. Gigi, one of the three violinists, kept glancing over at me to make sure I was okay.

I’d probably never find love again, and if I did, I’d never have a father to walk me down the aisle. Some things just weren’t in the cards.

Playing chamber music had its pros and cons, and right now, a very big con was the lack of response from the attendees. We were invisible background music. No one looked at us. Well, except for one face among the rows of guests. For the week I’d been on tour, I’d gotten used to high listener response, roaring crowds, and seas of singing fans. It had been an awesome experience I never got to thank the L-named guy for. I’d probably never experience anything like that ever again. That was one thing about rock concerts—your audience sure made you feel like gods.

The last thing I expected at this froufrou wedding on the beach was for a young woman—a teen wearing a forties-inspired dress and a nose ring—to come up to me during cocktail hour and ask me if I was the same cellist from Point Break’s website and the online pics that had surfaced for a few days. I tried telling her no, same as I’d done with the girl on the plane, but she didn’t believe me.

“It has to be you. You look exactly like her. Besides, I watched you during the procession. You have a way of swaying with your cello that I recognized from the band’s online videos.”

“I do?” I was taken by surprise that I have a swaying thing. I did not know that.

“Yes. Oh, and did you hear that acoustic song that Liam Collier and Wesley Shaw played last night in Chicago? They had the whole place in tears. It was so very emotional.”

Who?
I almost asked.
I don’t know anyone by the name of Lie-am.
“No, which song?” I’d heard them play every song in their set multiple times, and they didn’t have any acoustic pieces. “You mean
Save Me Tonight
?”

She shook her head. “Something new,” she said. “I’d never heard it before, but that’s typical of Liam Collier to just come up with fresh new songs while on tour and throw them into the mix. Anyway, the whole stadium stilled to listen then cheered at the end for like ten straight minutes. You can see it in the video.” She produced her phone from her small, thin purse. “Want me to play it for you?”

“No, that’s okay.” I wanted to shake this girl off. I didn’t want to hear about Point Break anymore, as nice as she was.

“Here. Listen.” She played it for me anyway, and I just wanted to crawl into a hole. She pushed her reddish, curly hair behind her ears while she held the phone horizontally for me so I could watch. I paused in filling my plate with fresh fruit to listen. The song sounded a lot like
Serenade
, and then I realized it right then—he’d done it on purpose.

The words stabbed my heart.
And she’ll never see me again.

The song was
about me.

I felt the hot buildup of tears.
Damn it.
Why did he have to go and write a song about me?

“What’s it called?” I whispered, my eyes glued to the shining, kneeling, singing punk cowboy pouring out his heart at center stage.

“I think it’s called
Abby Shines.
Cool title, but I don’t know what it means. Not sure who Abby is, but…” Suddenly, she stopped for a moment and gaped at me, mouth open, fingers touching her lips. “Ohhhhh.”

*

By the time I returned to the studio, I had cried all the tears I was going to cry. Enough of that. I had a job to do, an audition to prepare for. The last thing I needed was a cocky rock star drawing attention to himself at the expense of others all over again. I slammed into the studio, threw my purse on the ground, and ripped open my cello case. Flipping a seat around to face the window overlooking the city, I sank into the chair and threw my sheet music on my stand, even though I knew the piece by heart and could see the composition with my eyes closed.

How dare he use
my
melody,
my
notes from
my
piece to write his own music? Wasn’t there a law against that sort of thing?

But it was an homage to you, dumbass.

He wrote a song about me by using music that sounded like me and adding lyrics about me.

I admit it was romantic, and no, nobody had ever gone to such an extreme before to show me they loved me, but this was He Who Shall Not Be Named, a drama queen, and he could be acting. I was
not
falling for that again.

I was on fire tonight. Eyes closed, and feeling myself sway now that that girl had pointed it out, I felt
Serenade
come out of my soul, felt it the way you’re supposed to feel a piece such as this—with nothing less than passion, wild abandon, and borderline insanity. I thought my bow would burst into flames, as horse hair sprang and rosin flew into a cloud of dust.

Suddenly, a low voice joined my cello, startling me.

“
She’ll do you in, she’s fiery as sin…
”

His voice was like smooth, raw honey.

My stomach dived. He had come for me. I felt my body awaken in places that hadn’t felt alive since I was last with him.
Damn it
, how my body knew.

I didn’t stop to face him.

In a rage, I continued dragging my bow across the strings, finishing the piece to the very end, because damned if I was going to let him interrupt my life again. As the last note played out, echoing in the studio room, I felt his presence creeping closer. I turned half committedly. Out of the shadows of the foyer stepped a pair of dark brown boots. One thumb was hooked in a belt loop, his shirt half open, a light scarf around his neck. In his other hand were big, beautiful sunflowers.

I hated him.

“Hi, Abby. Sorry to surprise you.” What he gave me wasn’t really a smile so much as a regretful look, but it was going to take more than looking cute, a few flowers, and smelling amazing to convince me of anything.

“What are you doing here?” I turned, facing the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the street below.

“I only want to talk to you, love.”

Love? That was a new one. I wanted to snort. What I did was melt inside. But only for the brief seconds it took me to pull myself together. “Leave me alone. You’ve done enough.”

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Is that right?” I stood suddenly, slinging my bow across the room. It landed in my open case. “Well, you better start learning how. You don’t get everything you want, Liam Collier. You don’t get
me
.” My palm struck my own chest.

“I didn’t come to
claim
you. I only came to talk to you. Won’t you listen? That’s all I’m asking.”

My head dropped, my chest heaved. I sank into the chair and sighed. “I’m listening.”

His presence, his aura, his cloud of Liam-ness drifted closer until the familiar scent of his skin again filled my senses, torturing me. “Just hear me out.”

He crouched by my feet. I did not meet his eyes, kept my focus on his boots instead. His soft hand gently slid over mine. I fought the urge to fling him away.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. Giselle means nothing to me. I was trying to figure out how I felt, testing myself to see how much I loved you.”

“Well, I failed that test then, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.” He clutched my hand tighter. Pulled me just a tiny bit closer. “That’s why I’m here.” His fingers lifted my chin, and for the first time in almost two weeks, I gazed into his light brown eyes. “I’m here because you mean everything to me. I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I’ll stop all shenanigans for you, I swear. They don’t mean anything now that you’re in my life.”

“I
was
in your life, Liam. Not anymore.” I yanked my hands out of his.

His eyebrows drooped at the corners. “Don’t say that, please.”

“Liam, you don’t understand,” I said. “I can’t
cope
with what I saw. I’m not built for it. How do I know it won’t happen again? I can’t always be looking over my shoulder, worried that someone prettier, sexier, with bigger boobs is going to come along to tempt you. I can’t do it.” My eyes squeezed shut, pressing out tears I hadn’t even known were brimming.

“I suspected I loved you before I ruined everything. I know it now. Without a doubt. I know we just met, but in just a few days, I felt a connection I’ve never felt in my life. I
know
we can make it together. You’re everything I’ve always wanted.”

No, it wasn’t possible. We were overtaken by emotions, infatuation. That was all. It felt like love, but it wasn’t. I would always be contending with other women and his lifestyle, the very subculture that had built him. A way of life that paid his bills. Who was I to come along and turn him into a good boy, betraying every fan who adored him for the wild man he was?

“No.” I pushed his hand away and moved to the window. “It can’t work. I live in New York. My dreams are here. Yours are worldwide. You’re always on the road. You’ll never settle. Just leave me in peace, please.”

Just then, I felt him close the space between us, and he laced his warm arms around me, holding me close, his hands pulling back my shoulders. Instinctively, my head fell back against him. “Abby, don’t say these things,” he said. “You’re just angry. You have every right to be, but—”

“No, Liam!” I ripped myself away. I couldn’t give in to my body’s wishes again. Look where that had gotten me—hurt and humiliated in front of everyone.

“Abby…” He held his arms out at his sides, pleading. “Hit me.”

“What? No.”

He rushed up and scooped up my hands. “Yes, hit me. Hurt me like I hurt you.”

“I don’t want to,” I hissed. “I’m not like you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re
just
like me, goddamn it!” He was practically screaming when he had no right to. “You love with all your heart, you hurt with all your soul, you do it all the way or not at all. You”—he grabbed my hands and struck his chest with them—“are just like me. Now hit me.”