Losing Saint wasn’t in the same league as losing Allie. Still, it hurt more than it should have, and it affected me in ways I couldn’t explain. I was constantly reminded of our one night and the way she made me feel, but it wasn’t in the same way I remembered my wife.
With Saint, the memories crashed over me every time I heard one of her songs playing on the radio or when I opened a magazine, and there she was with her blue eyes gazing out of the pages into mine.
Allie was dead, and Saint was very much alive, but still, it didn’t stop me from being haunted by two very real women.
Allie died suddenly and unexpectedly, and I never got to say goodbye. Maybe in order to vanquish the ghost of Saint, I needed to have a conversation and let her know what a bitch move she’d pulled, especially when just days before, I’d saved her ass from some crazed fan.
For two years, I’d stayed quiet and convinced myself I was done with her, and I was, but being here with Allie made me realize that perhaps there was something I needed from Saint ‘bitch’ McClure.
Just, for once in my life, maybe I could get some goddamned closure.
CHAPTER TWO
SAINT
Looking down at my notebook, I watched almost trancelike as the flow of words appeared on the paper I’d been hunched over for the last thirty minutes.
It was always like this for me: when I wrote a song, my insides turned to mush, and they wouldn’t straighten out until everything came together. It was like I needed to get the music out of me and onto the paper before I could function right again.
The riff Boomer had composed a few hours before echoed through my brain on a loop of notes and arrangements. There was something about it that hooked me, and suddenly, the words floating through my pen seemed to slot into places that made the track pop.
“Guys,” I called out, craning my neck toward where the band was huddled over the mixing desk. “I think I’ve got the chorus down.” Grabbing my guitar, I looped the strap around my neck and began to strum, humming the intro as I went. Then I opened my mouth and sang the lyrics I’d been working on.
I was so engrossed in the song that I hardly noticed Jonny start drumming out a soft backbeat or Sam’s bassguitar play some funky chords that added dimension. Boomer’s riff accompanied my words until the only thing I could hear was the collective sound echoing through the rehearsal room, enhanced by the built-in acoustics.
My eyes automatically went to Boomer, and a look of understanding passed between us.
I’d met him in a coffee shop the day I got off the bus in LA with a guitar on my back and a thousand bucks in the bank. He gave up his couch for me—much to the annoyance of his girlfriend at the time—and we’d been best friends ever since. We were so in tune with each other that it was scary, though our closeness had always stopped at friendship and had never progressed further.
Boom was like the brother I never had. We were tight. I told him everything, and he did the same with me. There was nobody in this world I trusted as much as I did him. We made beautiful music together, though music was as far as it had ever gone. Would life have been easier if I could have developed romantic feelings for him? Of course. But it wasn’t something we could or would ever force.
The door to the recording studio opened, and Talia, our manager, walked inside, nodding to Skip, our producer, who was no doubt doing a take of our rehearsal. Her eyes met mine, and she gave me a small nod, indicating it was time to talk.
I glanced at Boomer, who was looking between me and Talia with interest, before I pulled back from the microphone. “Time to take a break, boys,” I called out. “Talia needs to talk with us.”
The music died down, and loud chatter resumed as Sam began to bust our drummer, Jonny J’s chops about missing a beat, even though Jonny never missed shit.
While the guys were bantering loudly, Boomer sidled up to me and, in a quiet but demanding voice, asked, “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”
My gaze darted to Boom, and I grinned.
I never could get anything past him.
“Tally needs to talk to you all about something going on with me,” I admitted. “I don’t want a fuss, but she seems to think it’s important enough to get you all involved.”
My friend’s lips thinned. “I can guess,” he muttered before turning to the other guys. “Get your asses out there and stop fucking around. It’s important. Tally’s here to talk about Saint.”
“What have you done now?” Jonny drawled, eyeing me curiously.
“Nothing,” I replied defensively, punching my hands to my jean-clad hips. “And you’ve got a nerve even opening your mouth after that reality starlet swore blind that you’d impregnated her. The one time Talia comes for a meeting to discuss something about me, you automatically think the worse, even though I’m the best-behaved one out of all of us.”
“I’ll give you that,” Jonny muttered. “But you gotta admit, being the best-behaved doesn’t really mean jack shit in the great scheme of things, seeing as we’re usually the worst-behaved ones in the fuckin’ room.”
My lips twitched. “There is that.”
Sam stalked toward me and placed his hands on my shoulders, staring into my eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “It’s probably nothing. We just need to keep you guys briefed about a few things.”
