STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (9 page)

Willow

WITH LYRIC IN A SLING
across my body I stand at the front of the small classroom. Going back to school for a degree in Music Therapy and landing the job at the school where I had interned, has been so incredible. They let me bring Lyric, encourage it even, and my little songbird loves her music. It’s the reason I chose this environment over a hospital or nursing home.

Today’s class is for kids. Some with autism, some are paralyzed or don’t speak for various reasons, and some are just a little socially challenged. Music therapy helps them all in different ways. My Wednesday night is adults who have been through something traumatic in their lives, same with Saturdays, but for kids of all ages. People don’t realize the healing qualities of music. Some days I just play for them as they lounge in the bean bag chairs and recliners, splayed out on the floor, or seated at the tables, and just listen. Allowing the music to wash over them, be a balm to their spirit. Other days I teach them how to express themselves through music. Whether it be singing, writing, or playing an instrument, even if simply banging the hell out of a drum. It all sounds very New Age and ridiculous to some, but until you’ve seen the power of music at work you just can’t understand it. I know what music has done for me. What it continues to do for me, and I only want others to experience the same.

Setting up for my next session, softly singing to Lyric as I do, I’m startled by a knock on the door and even more so by who it is.

“Joaquin. What are you doing here?” I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a month. To say I’m surprised to see him here is putting it mildly. “I have class in,” I glance up at the wall clock, “ten minutes.”

“I know, I know. I apologize for just dropping in like this uninvited. I called and spoke to Bear this morning and he said you were here. So me being a rude Frenchman, I bribed the principal with a large donation for the music therapy program to allow me to sit in on your class today.” He smiles that boyish smile that made my stomach do flips the last time I saw him. It’s equal parts charming boy and confident rogue. It’s disarming as all hell.

“Why?” Without the time needed to analyze this bold move, I cut straight to the chase, no bullshitting.

“Well, you said that you wouldn’t have me to your home for dinner because you didn’t know me well enough, so I thought you should get to know me.” Again with that damn smile. “Is that the
bébé
?” His voice is pitched low so he doesn’t wake her as he moves closer to get a better look. Instinctively I place a hand to her back protectively, even though I’m sure without really knowing him that he wouldn’t hurt either of us.

“It is.” I smile down at her, nearly invisible in her little cocoon, cradled against me. Joaquin pulls the edge of the sling down ever so gently so that he can see her better.

“Ahhh, she’s beautiful,
chèrie.
Just like her mother,” he says sincerely, stepping back and out of my space.

I’m a little dazed at his nearness. The spicy scent of his cologne, the rolled up sleeves of his button down, his gentle way with Lyric, all making me forget why going out to dinner with him is a bad idea. But it is. Who the hell has time for that? And the last thing I want is to be linked to someone so wildly famous. I don’t want all the questions that would surely follow. The speculation and accusation. The whispers and assumptions. I want nothing to do with it, and that alone is enough to remind me why I can’t, won’t, date a man like Joaquin.

“Thank you,” I murmur as I turn back to what I was doing to prepare for my class. “And thank you for the donation. It was very kind of you. The music therapy program can always use the help. Honestly, staying won’t help you get me to agree to go on a date with you though, so please don’t feel obligated to stay.” Trying to be as kind as possible without flat out telling him to get the hell out of here is nearly more than I can handle. I’m not used to biting my tongue, but he did donate so it’s the least I can do.

He laughs. “There you go thinking I want to date you again, Miss Avery. You sure are full of yourself. Are you certain that
you’re
not a little French?” Joaquin teases causing me to laugh despite trying my hardest not to. “I only want a home-cooked meal and perhaps to talk you out of your . . .” He pauses and I raise my eyebrows in amusement, daring him to finish that sentence. “Song. I really, really want your song. I thought that helping out where I can might put me in your good graces.” When he finishes and winks at me, I roll my eyes. I go to the music stand and fuss with the sheet music there although I won’t need it. It’s just to keep my hands busy and give me a minute to figure out what the hell to do with this guy.

“You’re impossible. And how in the world did you talk Principal Cermak into letting you sit in? Jen is very protective of her students. Must have been one hell of a donation.”

“Believe me, it was,” he scoffs good-naturedly. “I feel like I’ve been hustled. You’re turning into a very expensive acquaintance, Willow Avery.”

Before I can respond to that, parents start filing in with their children and all of my attention is on them.

Twenty minutes into our session and I can still feel Joaquin’s eyes on me. He’s been watching me since I closed the door to begin the class and pointed for him to sit in a chair out of the way.

I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the rainbow-colored carpet, seven little people surrounding me, oohing and ahhing over Lyric who is now awake and in my lap cooing and smiling for her audience. Doing my best to ignore his heavy gaze, I reach behind me for the tiny little headphones I have for Lyric to protect her ears from the noise that I and these kids can make. They get a huge kick out of the way they dwarf her tiny head. Especially the children who also wear them because of their sensitivity to noise.

“Okay, who wants to sing another song?” They all agree enthusiastically, making me smile. I always begin the class with the national anthem and let them give it hell. The way they belt out “O Canada” is epic and it helps to break the ice with them. “What should we sing first?” I wait for them to think about it for a moment and am just about to make a suggestion when the accented voice of Joaquin breaks in.

“Do you know anything in French?” The bastard.

Two of the kids turn and gawk at him, apparently not realizing he’s been there the whole time. And then my star pupil and self-appointed assistant, Grady, informs him, as if he himself is speaking to a child, “She doesn’t speak French. She told us so. But Miss Willow knows that ‘Michelle my Belle’ song and that has French talkin’ in it.” He turns his huge eyes on me and nods in encouragement. “Dontcha know it, Miss Willow? You know, the one by the Bugs.”

Smiling at his little hope-filled face, I nod. “The Beatles, and I sure do,” I correct gently. I just want to squeeze him. His belief in me is adorable. I’ll even forgive him calling Lennon and the boys the “Bugs.” “Will you guys help me with it?” I’m met with a chorus of yeses and a round of head nods from the children who aren’t so vocal. Together we sing an awful rendition of the Beatles song, Joaquin joining in for the parts in French. Most likely because we were butchering the hell out of them.

After working our way through a few more of our favorites it’s time to wrap it up. “Okay, one more before we go. How about an easy one?” I ask, reaching for my guitar and setting it on the floor at my feet so that I can strum it without upsetting Lyric’s position too much.

Grady counts us down in true rock star fashion, “One, two, one, two, three, four . . .” He nods for me to start and it takes all I have not to burst out laughing at his seriousness. With much fanfare I start singing “A Bushel and a Peck” using the guitar to both strum and drum on. The children all join in either singing along or playing their own mini guitars, triangles, and even a couple maracas in the mix. When we finish, there is much applause and bowing, some blushing and hidden faces, but all in all everyone is pleased with themselves and that’s what matters most.

Somehow in the melee, Lyric managed to fall asleep, making it awkward to get to my feet. Joaquin obviously seeing my dilemma appears at my side.

“Let me take her for you,” he says, reaching for my sleeping little songbird. I hesitate for a moment. The only man who has ever held her is Bear, and I’m not sure how I feel about my current situation. Seems silly, but it’s the first thing that runs through my mind. He must see it but misinterprets its meaning. “
Chèrie
, I promise not to drop her.” I need to see the students out, so I nod, handing my daughter over to him. Watching a little dazed as his big hand cradles her tiny head and he tucks her against his chest before offering me his other hand to help me up. Do women still swoon? Because I think I may have at the sight the two of them make.

“Thank you,” I mumble, awkwardly, unfolding myself.

“No problem. Go wrap things up. I have her.” Jerking his head, he indicates the milling students. With a wary and slightly lusty look at the bearded, drop dead sexy man and my little pink bundle, I nod and say my goodbyes to the children and their parents, giving words of praise and encouragement to those who look like they need it. Once the last person has left, I turn back and see that Joaquin has removed Lyric’s bulky Pepto Bismol-colored head phones and is swaying back and forth watching me.

“What?” I ask, fidgeting slightly under his gaze.

“You’re wonderful with them. Very patient. I can see that this means a lot to you. That they do.” He says it softly. Probably so he doesn’t wake Lyric.

My shoulders relax and I smile. “Thank you. It is. They do. I love to see how music can transform their sullen little faces into smiles and wonderment.”

“I didn’t even know music therapy was a thing,” Joaquin concedes. “Makes sense though. Music makes everything better.”

Looking first at Lyric, and then back at him, “It absolutely does,” I murmur softly.

Stone

DAY SEVENTY-SIX IN PARADISE AND
I’ve finally found a little bit of peace and a whole lot of clarity. I think it’s having my guitar that has helped so much. It’s always been an extension of me. I can’t remember a time that I’ve gone without it, let alone for months. Sitting on my lanai, cigarette stuck in between my lips, I lean over to jot down the last line
“Don’t you know I need you, to be me.” T
he song I’ve been working on—Willow’s Song. There’ll be a knock at the door any minute reminding me to get my ass to group therapy. I’m hoping they forget because today is when everyone’s friends and family are going to be here to listen to them read the letters. I could have invited Law or Judge. Any of the guys really. God knows I owe them all an apology, but the only person I would have sit in that chair is Willow. And she’s not here.

Taking another pull on my cigarette, I snub it out just as the knock comes. I’ve been dreading this meeting all week. For me it should be just like every other meeting, but hearing them pour their hearts out and beg forgiveness makes me feel . . . ashamed. For them. For me. Sad as fucking hell for all of us.

I’ve sat through eight of the ten people here today and although not one of them is Willow, every one of them is Willow. I see her pain and disappointment in every one of their faces. The desperation and tears they are fighting. All Willow. Doesn’t matter that they aren’t looking at me or that it isn’t me apologizing, I feel their anger and despair as if it’s directed at me. Trying to block out the sounds of the crying and the words that can never be enough, I pull out my notebook.

Birdie,

Every single day that I’m in here, I gain more clarity. I see exactly what I did to you, to us, to me. I sit in these groups and we talk about our addiction and what it did to those around us. It hurts the fuck out of me. Today families and friends came in. They’re sitting face to face with their addict and they have to listen to them and their weak ass apologies and then talk about how loving an addict affects them. How as much as we love to be high they hate it. And they’re all you. I see your face, hear your pain. And I hate myself. And then I get mad at you. I get so fucking mad at you for letting me do that to you. Not to myself because nobody is to blame for me being a fuck-up. But for loving me so much you let me hurt you over and over. I get mad at you for loving me. How fucking crazy is that? I’m pissed because you loved me more than anyone in my life ever could or did. I’m all fucked up, Birdie. But I’m clean, and clean is good. Clean means I can work on me being a better man, your man. That’s all I want to be, Wills. Your man, because you’ll always be my Birdie.