“We need a drink for this conversation,” Wilder says, high-fiving some dude in an MTV shirt as we pass by.
“Fuck yeah,” Linc agrees, lighting up a smoke as we duck our heads and exit via the side entrance.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we are hidden away in an old man’s bar in some small town on the outskirts of Florence. No one has so much as looked in our direction, and I like the anonymity. It’s rare these days. As much as I craved fame and success—and I was gaga for it in my youth—it gets old real quick. I would pay good money to be able to go about my business in private, but those days are long gone.
“This town reminds me of the shithole I’m from in Boston,” Linc says, dragging on a joint as we share a bucket of beers.
“This isn’t a shithole. You want the real authentic Italian experience, try visiting Toria’s hometown. That puts the shit in shitty.”
I knew she grew up poor, and I thought I was prepared, but the crumbling, run-down two-story house she was raised in was worse than anything my vivid imagination could conjure. As difficult as Toria is, I’ve got to admire her fighting spirit. To claw her way from a poor Italian town to become one of the brightest lights in NYC is no small feat. It can’t have been easy, and it took balls.
Her parents were lovely and very welcoming when we dropped by yesterday, en route to our hotel from the airport, but I was shocked as shit at how little they have. I thought their only daughter was sending money home, but it doesn’t look like it. Unless Mr. Russo has a secret gambling or prostitution addiction, or Mrs. Russo is hiding some money-sucking hobby.
Tapping out a text to my assistant, I ask her to obtain their bank details for me so I can wire them some money directly. I’m not sure I trust my girlfriend to transfer the money if I gave it to her. Toria has embraced the lifestyle of the rich and famous with gusto, and she has expensive tastes. While she is earning decent money, and she has more than enough to live well, she is constantly tapping me for cash. It’s really grating on my nerves along with most everything else she does.
“That explains a lot,” Linc drawls before swigging from his beer. His long dark hair is tied back in a ponytail. A necessity in this heat.
“Cut the girl some slack. She’s Jared’s baba mama.” Wilder is often the peacemaker these days, which is funny as fuck because the dude was crazy as shit when we first got together as a band. We were only kids then. Nineteen years old thinking we were gods. Man, we were so fucking naïve. Those early years were insane. Post heartbreak, I threw myself into the rock star lifestyle with enthusiasm. Drink, drugs, sex. Rinse and repeat.
Keith OD’ing and almost dying was a wake-up call for Wilder and me. Linc joined us temporarily while Keith attended rehab, but he chose not to return, and Linc became a permanent part of Ruminate. We’re lucky we all gelled. In a lot of ways, the three of us are a better team than we were with Keith. A lot of bands I know hate one another, and it’s just a job. The three of us are close. Close as brothers, and there isn’t much these guys don’t know about me and vice versa.
It's why it works.
Why our star is ascending higher and higher.
’Cause we’re tight.
We look out for one another.
And we make awesome fucking music together.
“I stand by what I said.” Linc scrubs a hand across the thick growth on his chin and cheeks. “I don’t trust her, and I think you should have stuck to your guns. You’re miserable as fuck, man. It’s no way to live.”
“You’re hardly a ray of sunshine,” Wilder comments, arching a brow as he sweeps his long dark-blond hair back off his face. The ladies all love our leading man. Helps that he’s pretty to look at, has a deep husky voice, and shares DNA with rock legend Ryder Stone.
“I own my misery,” Linc says. “I left the best thing that ever happened to me behind for this gig. I should have nailed Presley down before skipping town. Married the fuck out of her when I had the chance. Nothing I can do about it now, short of murdering that Kennedy prick.”
I snort out a laugh. “I doubt killing her husband would win you any favors or help get Presley back in your bed.”
“I’m being facetious on purpose, jerk face.” Linc flips me the bird before he drains his beer and reaches for another one. “We all know my situation is irreversible, but yours isn’t. Especially if you bumped into Sydney again. This is your opening, man.”
The guys know all about her. She’s been my muse and the inspiration behind most of the songs I’ve written. In the same way, Linc channeled all of his heartbreak into the lyrics he wrote during his dark time. All of us have loved and lost and used those feelings to create magic with our music.
“Where did you meet her?” Wilder props his ankle over one knee.
“She works at the art gallery I visited today.”
Wilder’s brows climb to his hairline. “With Toria?”
I nod.
“Shit.” Linc whistles under his breath. “What I wouldn’t have given to be a fly on the wall for that meeting.”
“She told her about the baby, and I swear Sydney turned as white as a ghost.”
“It must have been a shock seeing her after all these years.”
