Say It Strong (Say You Love Me Book 2) (5 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Because I just came out of a four-year relationship, Rose. With a guy who wanted to manage me like one of his accounts. I wouldn’t want to jump into another one so soon. Also, once the tour is over, I’m auditioning—”

“For the New York Philharmonic. Yes, yes, you’ve only said it like fifty-five times.”

“Sorry, but when you have debts to repay your mother like I do…”

The thought lingered in the air while we played the first half of the song. We were in perfect sync, as usual—the reason why Rosemary and I often played wedding gigs together for side money. We were definitely the treble and bass clef duo of choice at most Long Island and Westchester County weddings.

Apparently, Rosemary wasn’t happy with my reason to pursue the NY Philharmonic, because she huffed and said, “But, Abby, your mother not making it to Principal Cello wasn’t your fault. She got pregnant. You were only a baby. I’m sure she was happy to take care of you. Personally, I’d prefer raising a baby over having all that pressure hanging over my head.”

“You don’t know my mom,” I said. “I know her need to quit wasn’t my fault. It was my dad’s, for disappearing when she needed him most. Anyway, doesn’t matter. I want this for myself more than for her. Though, wouldn’t it be really lovely to tell her I made it?”

She nodded, smiling. “Definitely. You’re an awesome daughter. Now let’s do the whole piece straight a few times. Then we can start on the other song.”

“Let’s do it.”

We finished the ballad, a surprisingly pretty piece when arranged onstage with the string section. The more we practiced, the more I understood the song, its flow, and cadence. I wondered if Liam wrote it, or someone else. I’d be quite impressed if it was him. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, but neither of us got up to open it. We kept on playing. The knocking grew louder.

Rosemary scoffed, yanking her chin off the rest, setting the violin on the bed. “Did you order more towels?”

“No, we got ours last night.”

She headed for the door and undid the lock while I repeated the last four measures, throwing in an edgy vibrato for flair. She opened the door, and I heard a man’s polite voice asking if Abby Chan was a guest in this room. “Yes, bring it in, please. Right over there is fine.”

I looked up. An enormous arrangement of gorgeous yellow roses mixed in with some sunflowers and pink gerberas sprouted from the delivery man’s hands. He was followed by another man carrying a silver bucket with a wine bottle propped up inside. They set both down on the dresser and turned to us with a half bow. “Have a lovely day, ladies.”

“Thank you,” Rosemary spoke on my behalf, since I was completely speechless. Slowly, I eased down the cello and walked over to the bouquet, searching for the little card that usually came with these things. The men left the room, and Rosemary closed the door behind them. She turned to me with an all-knowing grin.

“I…”
I can’t speak, that’s what.

She clapped once and did a little bounce thing.

Could they be from Samuel? In the four years I was with him, not once had he ever had flowers delivered to my house. I’d also traveled to many a destination wedding, yet I never received anything in any of my hotel rooms. And not because he didn’t have the money. Then again, this might be a general “Welcome to Our
Feel the Burn
Tour!” gift for both me and Rosemary.

I shuffled through the roses to find the little envelope on a stick. Plucking it out, I slid my finger underneath the seal and slid the card out, reading aloud…

Abby,

The wine is to replace what

you spilled on Tuck.

The flowers are so you

won’t think we’re all jerks.

So sorry again.

-L

Rosemary clucked her tongue, skinny arms folded over her chest. “He’s not interested in you, eh? Why would he ever like a geeky cello player like you, eh?” She huffed, walking past me with a flip of her hand. “Figures.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Only the ferocious wail of Rosemary’s violin singing
Save Me Tonight
echoed throughout our hotel suite.

Liam

It was the day after the kickoff party, just past noon, and I was waking up to huge wood and a seriously ravenous appetite. Which to take care of first? The hard-on or the hollow stomach? As easy as it would be to text Bella, Lana, or any of the girls who usually waited on us hand and cock, I didn’t want to deal with their chatter, questions about my life, what it’s like to be famous, or how to score with Wes, Corbin, or Tucker. Blah, blah, and more blah.

In an ideal world, if I was going to spend that kind of energy talking to a girl, I wanted her interests to match mine, so I wouldn’t have to explain what it’s like. I wanted to be completely taken by her charms. I wanted someone who made
me
want to ask the questions.

Such a woman had made it into my life only once before—senior year in high school. Later, I’d broken her heart, then she’d gone and married a high-powered lawyer ten years older than she was, but not before she’d dealt with some serious shit. Shit I’d been a huge factor in creating.

Of course, thinking of Vanessa made my wood go away. Which was fine, since I had to get up anyway, eat something, and run to the buses. Checking my phone, I saw about eighteen missed texts and calls. Dude, what was everybody’s panic at the start of every tour? We’d done a North American tour three times now, and not once had the world ended. People seriously needed to chill.

One text was from my high school buddy Garrick Maze, asking if I was excited to be heading out. Another was from Helen asking if I was awake yet, and another was from Giselle with a smooth, sunlit selfie and a “
Bonjour, beau
,” which she always sent me.

Ah, Miss Vici,
how stunningly beautiful she still was. A world-class supermodel, she was also the only girl I’d ever been remotely interested in, post-Vanessa. She had as much money as I did, so I knew she didn’t want me for that.

I scrolled through Internet pic after Internet pic of her. Her name should’ve been Gazelle Vici with those legs—
holy shit.
Last year, Giselle took a three-month break to go on tour with us, and it made for fantastic press, what with all the photos of us partying together, holding hands, doing shots, or making out in public.
Fucking A!
She was great for my ego. But Giselle hooked up with Corbin, too, near the end of the tour, and there was some bad vibes for a bit. I wouldn’t be dramatic and say she nearly broke up the band, but I was kind of hurt.

For like twenty minutes.

Giselle had been messaging me a few weeks now, sending racy pics and texts like:
“Hé bébé, I miss you so much. Plz let me come along? I swear I behave.”
But I’d been strategically ignoring her. Last I heard, she was spending time with her mother in Vancouver, one of the stops on our tour this year. She’d probably show up at our concert there. In a way, I kind of wished she would. A bad girl always made the news. A bad girl appearing with a bad boy… Well, that would just make more headlines. Something we could never get enough of.

The truth was, however, I wasn’t really interested in seeing Giselle any more than I’d been interested in Bella last night. No, there was only one girl who was managing to hold my interest. One girl I couldn’t stop thinking about.

One girl I was hoping enjoyed the flowers I’d sent her.

Abby.

Maybe the flowers were too much, but I’d been driven by some inexplicable need to make sure she was happy working for us. It would suck to spend three months of your life thinking your bosses were a bunch of assholes, right?

But even more important, I didn’t want her to think badly of me. I didn’t want her to think that what she’d witnessed at the party last night was all I was about.

Why did I care so much about her opinion?

No clue, to be honest.

Yeah, she was beautiful and elegant, and I could probably get her to give it up. I mean, I
did
see her eyes moving over me last night, checking me out. A tryst with her would be fucking hot, but—no. Despite the way she continued to invade my thoughts, I had to keep things real.

A woman like Abby would want more, and more was something I couldn’t give her. Not now. No fucking way.

I was firmly entrenched in a rock ’n’ roller’s wild life, and that wasn’t about to calm down in the foreseeable future. Hell, why would I want it to? I was young, and I knew these days of fame and women weren’t going to last forever. I didn’t even want them to. But for now, it was fun. It was what my bandmates and I had worked so hard for.

I had to stick with women who knew the score. Women like Bella and Giselle. That way, I could live the life I wanted, free and as raunchy as all get-out, without worrying that I’d repeat past mistakes and hurt another woman the way I’d hurt Vanessa.

Back then, I’d had the excuse of being a snot-nosed, wide-eyed kid adjusting to a new life as a freaking rock star. Today, I had to be the man I was and do the right thing.

For myself.

And for Abby.

And that meant staying away from her.

*

By the time we finally got our asses on the six-hour stretch of road, it was already one p.m. Luckily, our roadies, rigging crew, and lighting technicians left twelve hours earlier than we did, so they were in San Francisco setting up our elaborate new stage before we even got the sleeper bus cranking. We wouldn’t be performing until after our opening act, Orifice, finished anyway. Our backup musicians were probably already on the road, too. Abby would be on that bus.

Despite the little “come to Jesus” talk I’d given myself earlier, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I wondered if she liked her flowers.

I wondered if she’d taken them and the wine with her on the bus or left them at the hotel.

I wondered why I was wondering about Abby.

Again.

The ride to San Fran was full of the usual, “Has anyone seen my drumsticks?” “Dude, can you lower the fucking Xbox, I’m trying to sleep.” “Does anyone want to play Grand Theft Auto?” “Can you tell the driver to lower the AC in the back?” “Can you tell the driver to…”

Finally, Robbie piped up and told Tucker, “Geoffrey. The driver’s name is Geoffrey. New Rule Number One: Learn the bus driver’s name.”

I firmly agreed with that new rule. Not so much because it cut down on the number of times we had to hear Tucker say, “the driver, the driver,” but because our lives
were
in his hands, so my man Geoffrey here was a fucking part of the family. “Respect your crew! Hey, Geoffrey!” I yelled.

From the front of the bus, Geoffrey waved, smiling eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Dad.” Tucker fake-snarled at Robbie, tossing a lanyard at me. “That’s for the venue.”

“Got it.”

Someone smacked me on the back of the head. Grabbing his arm before he could get away, I caught Wes smiling at me, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. It bobbed up and down as he spoke. “’Sup, my ninja? Heard you went home last night.”

“I couldn’t find a bed at Robbie’s.”

“You could have shared mine with Bellaaaa!” Corbin’s voice rang out from the seat across the row. “Bella, Bella, what you do for a fella!” He and Wes laughed and bumped fists. “But Liam went soft on me.”

Wes nodded suspiciously and turned to me for validation. “Is that so?”

“What? A guy can have downtime, you know.”

“I know.” Wes twisted a knuckle into my tense shoulder muscle. “Trust me, I know.”

Robbie stood at the front of the bus, phone in hand, and waved us all together. “Come on, guys. Group pic. Make it sweet for our scrapbook, and don’t be goons.”

We assembled in the center row and faced him—Wes crossing his arms, Corbin sticking his tongue out between V-shaped fingers, Tucker grabbing his crotch, and me in the middle, flipping up a nice, extended middle finger. “Say, ‘Fuck you, Robbie!’”

“Fuck you, Robbie!” everyone echoed me.

We held our pose until Robbie took a series of shots, then he shook his head and sat down again. “Goons. But I love them.”

*

Once we arrived at AT&T Park, the crowd was howling, the energy was pumping, and Orifice finished their set. It was T minus five minutes when I called the guys together backstage, and we stood in a circle, as usual. Some bands had crazy pre-show rituals, like downing tequila shots, punching each other in the balls, or rolling around in oil and glitter, but not us.

As gay as it sounded, we just held hands. We prayed for a good show. Not that we were particularly into God or anything, but we were pretty spiritual. This time, though, I wanted to add something new. After all, we were starting our first fucking world tour. Our stagehand assistant, Daniel, ran over with a box I’d asked him to pack while we were still in LA.

“What is this?” Corbin asked, hands on hips, all lanky cool.