More shuffling and whispers and a multitude of nodding heads as everyone settled back to listen to an impromptu Joz Raynor performance.
I settled into my seat right along with them, transfixed by the man tuning the guitar. The second he opened his mouth and sang, I was lost. I’d expected something upbeat—one of his hit songs from the last album, maybe. Instead, he chose a haunting melody I had never heard before. Was it a B-side and that was why it was new to me?
The lyrics spoke of regret and remorse, of pain and guilt, of bone-deep sorrow and inner hatred. To me, it sounded personal, and the way he closed his eyes as he sang almost confirmed that to be true. Three and a half minutes later, Joz lowered the guitar, and applause broke out. I joined in along with them, my vision slightly blurred, emotion swelling in my throat like a sponge held under water.
He thanked the audience, handed the guitar back to Lars, then dropped into his seat beside me. He downed the entire glass of water before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That was… beautiful.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Thanks. I don’t sing it often. I’m not sure why I chose to sing it tonight.”
“It sounded like it had a deep, personal meaning to you.”
He stared into the middle distance as another singer took to the stage. I pitied them following Joz, although the audience greeted them just as enthusiastically.
Joz cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
I didn’t know what made me do it, but I closed my fingers around his wrist. “I’d love to hear about it if you’d like to talk. The inspiration for it, I mean.”
His expression darkened and he pulled his arm away. “No.”
His clipped denial lashed at me like a whip. “No problem. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t.” He got to his feet. “Guess I should get you back to the hotel.” Without waiting for me, he strode to the exit.
I scrambled to catch up. His driver closed the door once we were both situated, but the effortless conversation we’d enjoyed the entire evening had vanished, replaced with an awkward silence.
When we pulled up outside Kingcaid Kensington, he didn’t even bother unclipping his belt or looking at me. “Night, Aspen. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for a lovely evening.” I climbed out of the car, staring after it as it wound its way onto the road and out of view.
What in the hell was that?
Chapter 8
Joz
I haven’t a clue what I’m doing…
but I’m doing it anyway.
A throbbing headachepounded behind my eyes. I rubbed circles on my temples, the sudden exhaustion taking me by surprise.
What in the fucking hell had I playedthatsong for? The song I wrote after Caroline killed herself. It made no sense. I’d never played it in public before and hadn’t sung it even to myself for years. I’d written it during my first week in therapy, when I couldn’t face going to the group sessions, but it hadn’t made me feel any better then, and it didn’t make me feel any better now.
I took out my phone and sent a text to Kate asking after Arthur. It was late, but Kate was a night owl and she’d be up. I recognized the need to reach out to them. Whenever guilt consumed me, it was always Caroline’s mother and son I contacted. A form of punishment, maybe. Self-flagellation for my part in what happened to Kate’s only child, and the only fucking mother Arthur would have.
She replied with a “He’s fine,” along with a goofy picture of the nine-year-old in his Spiderman pajamas, holding both thumbs up, a beaming grin on his face. The ribs around my heart seemed to flex, crushing me like a vise. He was only one when Caroline took her own life. He’d never know his mother, and I had a whopping great part to play in that. It was odd to think that, before Caroline died, I hadn’t even known she had a kid. Back then, I’d only cared about singing, Scottish single malt, and heroin. Oh, and fucking. Getting to know the woman I’d been on-and-off dating for a few months didn’t even make the top ten list of my priorities.
The first responders found her with a needle sticking out of her arm and my latest album playing in the background.
We pulled up outside my apartment block, and I just sat there, staring out the window at the starless sky. My driver eventually switched off the engine, but as he made a move to get out of the car, I stopped him.
“Take me back to Kingcaid Kensington.”
“Sure thing, Mr. R.” He restarted the car, reversed, and returned to the busy London streets.
I hadn’t a clue what I was doing, but whatever it was, I owed Aspen an apology. She must have had fucking whiplash from how fast my mood changed. It wasn’t as though she’d forced me to sing or made me sing that song in particular. I wasn’t even sure she knew about Caroline. When it happened, the press were rabid, on my back every minute of the fucking day, but Aspen would’ve been, what? Nineteen or twenty? Probably at college in the States, far away from the fucking mess my life had been at the time.
