When you dare to trust
Sometimes it’s okay to get help
Fighting back the dust
Spread your wings, untie your chains
Let your voice be heard
We’ll be dancing in the rain
My lovely mockingbird
Prologue
Rayne
It begins with a song. My song. Okay, to be precise, it’s notmysong. My father is the one who wrote it, but he wrote it for me: “Mockingbird.”
The melody is familiar. So are the lyrics and the sound of the guitar. It’s a bit rough, because the instrument is probably old. But that’s not a bad thing.
Everything about the song is familiar.
Except the voice. It’s also a bit rough around the edges and, at the same time, incredibly gentle. Like silk on sandpaper. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a voice like that before. Not even Dad has a voice like that, even though it was his voice that made him famous. His is just as rough as this one, but much deeper. It resonates in his chest, and every time I hear him sing, I get goose bumps.
But this voice gets under my skin and makes itself at home in every cell of my body. It goes all the way to my heart, which is dancing excitedly in my chest.
Sometimes it’s okay to get help
Fighting back the dust
Spread your wings, untie your chains
Let your voice be heard
We’ll be dancing in the rain
My lovely mockingbird
The last notes fade away, and then the song is over. I start the video from the beginning again. For the thirteenth time: It’s been on repeat for an hour. I’ve got to show it to Dad when he comes home. He’d like this version, I know it. It’s different from all the others I’ve found so far. It’s more like a mix of pop and rock, closer to pop. It’s faster and less melancholy than Dad’s acoustic version. Dad’s song is dominated by his voice and guitar, nothing else. Most people try to copy the original ballad, but very few succeed. Even if they do, it sounds like an imitation. But these guys have made the song their own.
I’ve found countless versions of “Mockingbird” because I look for them every day. Maybe I’m a bit obsessed with listening to people sing about me. But none of them have been like this.
I’ve shown Dad three cover versions so far, one of which he liked. That was two years ago. Casey, the girl who sang it, got a record deal with Dad’s label afterward. Now she’s singing her own songs, touring the world, and living the life she always dreamed of.
I’m still sitting in the living room of my parents’ place in LA, trying to find the perfect cover. Back then, I thought I’d found it.
Now I know it wasn’t true. Now I know that this one is better.He’sbetter. This guy with a guitar in his hands, standing in a record store singing my song. And he’s not just singing it; he’sfeelingit. Every line, every word.Me.
He’s not alone. There are four guys in We Are No Saints, and they’re all good. Very good. There’s one with a buzz cut sitting at the drums with a wide grin on his face. He’s playing like his lifedepends on it and he would willingly give everything up just to play. The others seem to feel the same way. The guy with the bass has piercings in his eyebrow and a look of intense concentration on his face. His hands are moving quickly and surely, as though he’s played the song a thousand times. There are the two singers, both holding guitars. One blond, the other dark-haired. Rhythm and lead guitar. The blond is singing backing vocals in close harmony. He has a nice voice, soft and clear, that fits perfectly with his bandmate’s. The lead singer is the reason I keep repeating the video, though. His voice makes my heart flutter.
He looks to be a few years older than me, probably in his early twenties. Dark, tousled hair that’s a little shorter on the sides than at the top, and a face that anyone in Hollywood would kill for. Clearly defined features, full lips, thick brows and lashes. His eyes are half closed so I can’t see what color they are, only that they’re dark.
He’s stunning. But his face isn’t the reason that I keep replaying the video. It’s because of his voice and hands. I have a weakness for beautiful hands, and his areextremelybeautiful, with long, slender, dexterous fingers. A shiver goes through me as I start the video from the beginning again. I could listen to him forever.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and whirl around in surprise. Dad’s standing behind me. He’s saying something, but I can’t understand him over the voice that’s still singing “Mockingbird” in my headphones. I take them off and hand them to Dad. “You’ve got to hear this,” I say without greeting him or asking what he just said.
His eyebrows go up as he smiles. “That good, huh?”
