“Who’s ready to hear this nightingale sing!” Calum declared, swaying a little on his feet. Everybody cheered and raised their cups, saluting the birthday girl, calling for her to sing.
“Cal—” But before she could protest anymore, Calum started singing “Whiskey in the Jar” by The Dubliners. Connor grinned, unable to help herself.
“In a neat little town they call Belfast,
Apprentice to a trade I was bound,
And many’s an hour’s sweet happiness.
Have I spent in this neat little town.
A sad misfortune came over me which caused me to stray from the land.
Far away from my friends and relations.
Betrayed by the black velvet band…”
Connor joined in, her voice kick-starting my heart.
“Her eyes they shone like diamonds.
I thought her the queen of the land,
And her hair hung over her shoulders
Tied up with a black velvet band.”
It didn’t matter how conflicted I was feeling, the peace in Connor’s smile, her eyes dancing with mirth as she’d belted the lyrics along with her brother, always made me feel at home.
Her eyes found mine in a crowded room, holding the connection for several painful beats of my heart, as she sang along with Calum.
It took me right back to Lunenburg, to listening to Calum and Connor sing along with their grandpa, Frank Murphy. I could almost hear him singing along with them—his voice raspy from years of use.
Frank was the reason we were the musicians we were today. That old man had seen the potential in the three of us long before the world had, and he helped build us up. He’d taught us everything he knew, and then some.
Those times were simpler. We still lived and breathed music, but now the pressure and fame were suffocating. At least back then, I’d known how I was supposed to feel about the people in my life.
Momentarily free from the pull of her eyes, I turned and weaved through the crowd, heading toward the balcony off the living room, needing the hit of cold air on my skin. Something about my unusually hard expression must have kept the other guests from bothering me.
CHAPTERTWO
Dare
On my way out,I passed a waiter holding a tray of beers. I grabbed two as I passed, leaving my empty in their place, and made for the balcony. Opening the sliding door, I stepped out onto the concrete, closing it behind me, muffling the music and the talking.
Once outside the warm penthouse, the cold February air slammed into me, helping alleviate the tightness in my lungs. I leaned against the railing, staring at the Rogers Centre without really seeing it.
A few years ago, I’d be in the thick of that party, having the time of my fucking life, enjoying all the spoils of fame. But lately, every goddamn time she visited I couldn’t seem to breathe normally in her presence. If I couldn’t breathe, how in the fuck was I supposed to smile and act normal?
Cracking the beer, I lifted it to my lips and drank half of it back, like I was trying to swallow my desire forher.
I’d known Calum my whole life. Our similar interests in music had pulled us together and made us best friends at an early age, but our grandfathers had been friends long before we’d known each other. They’d both served together and after retiring, started a hobby band, playing at local festivals and events in their spare time. My grandpa, my mom’s dad, had long since passed on. But my grandpa had been a man of few words, so I felt like I knew Frank Murphy better than I had known my own grandpa.
Evan joined our ranks shortly after, when we met in an after-school music program funded by Cal’s grandfather. Frank Murphy was a local legend around Nova Scotia and the rest of eastern Canada. Before retiring, he’d taught at the program. He’d discovered a few local talents this way. After meeting Evan and hearing him play, Frank thought he’d be the perfect addition to our makeshift band of misfits.
The three of us meshed, both creatively and socially, and quickly became inseparable—the best of friends. We jammed all the time in my garage, using cheap, bottom-grade, second-hand recording equipment we scored from hock shops and instruments that had seen better days.
We spent a lot of time practicing at my house, so much so that Evan and Calum started calling my mom Mama Deen, just to butter her up when they raided our pantries or were over far too often.
