Beneath the Burn (71 page)

The stadium roared, filling Jay with the energy of thousands. He rolled his neck and bounced in place off-stage, secure in his purpose and driven by an overpowering commitment. No more dark corners. No more triggers. His curl-up-and-cry button was broken.

Charlee’s medicinal nudging had been light-years ahead of modern day PTSD therapies. She would continue to be his cure, his solace. The memory of her huge blue eyes and brilliant smile soared through him, taking the edge off his persistent ache.

“Hey, man.” A roadie stepped beside him and dropped his voice. “Need a hookup? I can get you anything you want.”

Jay closed his eyes and sucked in a long breath. Not even a whisper of a craving for what the man offered. Instead, his blood boiled at the thought of using drugs. It would’ve been like spitting on her grave. He looked over his shoulder and caught Tony’s eyes.

She pushed away from her post and closed the distance. “Problem, Mr. Mayard?”

“Have this man searched for drugs and escorted out of the arena.” He glared at the roadie. “I emailed our drug policy to every member of the crew yesterday. Apparently, you didn’t read the memo.”

The man gritted his teeth. “I thought it was just a procedural thing.”

Jay turned his back, leaving him in Tony’s capable hands.

“Good evening, St. Louuuuey.” Laz’s shout rocked the speakers and rumbled through the stadium. “Boy, do we have a surprise for you tonight.”

The crowd erupted in shrills, and the lights dimmed. Jay reached up, grabbed the collar at his nape, and yanked off his shirt, tossing it somewhere behind him. Readjusting his headset, he accepted his guitar from a wide-eyed crew member and strode across the stage, past his grinning friends, not stopping until he reached upstage center.

Hands whipped and slapped at the edge of the stage, bodies doubling over the metal gates with straining eyes, gaping mouths, and blaring tonsils. The throb in his chest reminded him why he was there, shirtless and exposed. She was dead, but she could never die. His heart beat for both of them.

An overhead spotlight blinked on, illuminating a circle around his feet. He plucked out the beginning chords. The melody penetrated him, and he felt her in the tune, her musical laughter sifting through him. He felt her.

The heat of thousands of eyes rested on his bare skin, the vibration of his soul chanted her name, and the ghost of her touch tingled over his tattoo. He felt her everywhere.

He squared his shoulders and switched on his mic. “This is called
You
Weren’t Just a Girl
.”

Laz approached his side, a small smile pulling his lips as he strummed, blending with Jay’s notes through the eerie riffs. Jay phased out his guitar chords, and the instruments dropped off. A hush fell over the stadium.

“When I walk into your eyes, I see forever.” Jay straightened his back as the burden of her absence tried to curl him forward. “I see you sleeping next to me. I see you holding me.” He bit down on his trembling lip. “I see you loving me.”

His voice was breathy as he huffed through the speakers. “You weren’t just a girl.” His heart swelled, strengthened with the refrain. “You were a vision. And with that vision, I will endure.”

Wil joined his other side, his shoulder touching Jay’s as he slapped and plucked the bass strings in a creeping rhythm. As the guitars reentered, Rio accelerated the tempo.

Jay climbed the fret, the energy of the crowd powering him through the finger slides. “I know something about pain. I have enough to liberate. I’m letting it go.” His vocals rose. “But I will never let you go.”

His skin pulsed beneath the tattoo. With the reinforcement of his friends’ sidelong glances and their approving smiles, he sang the chorus with the steadiness of steel. “You weren’t just a girl. You were a vision. And with that vision, I choose to live.”

I envisioned you on stage in a crowded arena proudly baring your tattoo. The tattoo I hoped you’d grow to appreciate. The one I hope to finish.

His heart thumped to fulfill her wish. A heavy inhale drew intent deep into his chest. He turned toward Rio and bared his back to the stands.

The crowd exploded, their fanatical screams saturating the instrumental progression. The widescreens above him displayed his scars, panning in on the exquisite detail in her work.

The instruments fell quiet as he hummed into the revised lyrics of the next verse, feeling the words deep inside him. “In my vision you see steel. You see me.”

The lights went out. Applause and whistles ensued.

One of these days, Jay Mayard, you will wear those scars with pride.

He stood in place, numb to the squeals of the fans, shrouded by the ever-lasting darkness. His body shook from the shock of his reveal, from the disbelief of her absence. As the next song bounced in with Laz’s pithy chords, Jay swelled with pride in the life she gave him, even as he silently wept for the life she’d lost.

Jamming alongside his bandmates, he held her around his heart, her strength moving his fingers over the strings. Beneath the heat of the lights, he slapped hands with the fans in the front row, the first time he’d willingly touched them. The interactions shifted something inside him, warming him. She would’ve been proud.

He remained upstage until the final song, then drifted into the shadowed corner and sat on an Anvil case. From the perch she would’ve been sharing with him, he plucked the notes, leading into the song named after her, and sang the lyrics he’d written in those lonely months after he met her.

Many people told me what love is

No I’d never experienced it

I know a world who thinks love is lust

The first time I recognized your pain

I realized it was much like mine

I’m scared of this thing inside of me

I can’t bear to see you fade from me

My world is collapsing inside of yours

And I want more….of you

Your world is filled with such regret

I hate that you were part of it

I see your eyes staring back at me

I can’t look away

94

Two days later, Jay sat in the backseat of the SUV, anxiety tying his stomach in knots as Vanderschoot parked outside of the San Francisco penthouse. The mirrored windows of the tower reflected the orange glow of the sun setting over the bay, a contradiction to the darkness lurking within its walls.

Beside him, Tony fiddled with his phone and angled the screen toward him. “The app is running in the background, undetected. It’s recording now, sending live audio to the entire team.” She grabbed her phone from her lap and checked the display. “I’m receiving it. We’ll be listening to every word, ready to move in if necessary.”

He sucked in a breath and zipped up his leather jacket, slipping the phone in his pocket. Faye had made progress in their prosecution against Roy, but they were missing the irrefutable evidence that would trample his powerful legal team.

“You shouldn’t go in there alone.” Her eyes softened. “You look…”

Broken? Lost? He rubbed at the creases around his swollen eyes. “Yeah, and the way I
look
isn’t changing anytime soon. I’m doing this.” He had to.

“The risk outweighs the reward. The man is a murderer. You pay me for my advice. Allow me to go with you. Or Nathan could—”

“Nathan’s not here.” He’d vanished the night Charlee died. Jay didn’t hold it against him. Everyone grieved in his own way, and Tony would look after her lover. “I’m going in alone. I need Roy to feel comfortable enough to talk.”

Her jaw tightened. “Even if you got a confession out of him, it could get thrown out of court.”

“Then we’ll distribute it over the Internet and let the court of public opinion destroy him.” He reached for the door handle.

“You know Roy would squash that before it reached public attention. He’s outmaneuvered every attempt we’ve made to go to the press.”

He let his breath out. Fuck Roy Oxford and his pristine public image. The reminder only made Jay’s attempt to secure a confession more imperative.

“Nathan’s connections, all the local detectives he trusts, are waiting nearby.” Tony’s eyes bore into his. “If anything feels off, if you need to abort, say the words
Tick Tock
. We’ll be there in seconds.”

He nodded, heart thumping against his chest. What would Roy do? Beat him with a baseball bat?

“You have to leave the gun. His guards will pat you down at the turnstiles.”

He pointed at the seat pocket in front of him. “It’s there. If I took it in, I’d blow his fucking head off.” There would’ve been an extraordinary amount of satisfaction in that, but spending the rest of his life in jail wasn’t what Charlee wanted for him.

He swung open the door and jumped onto the sidewalk. As he strode toward the front doors, he wondered if Charlee’s boots had ever touched down where his did, if she’d walked into her prison either time or if she was carried in through a lower level. The thought incensed him, heating his muscles, and fortifying his backbone.

Inside, a glass wall blocked the corridor to the elevator and a security guard rose from the desk at the center. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Roy Oxford.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Tell him Jay Mayard is here.” He let his resolution ripple through him, bracing his feet, raising his chin.

The guard picked up the phone, pressed a button. “Mr. Oxford…Yes, sir. I’ll send him up.” He swiped a badge on the nearest turnstile. After a pat down and a few passes with a hand held metal detector, he waved Jay through.

Another guard met him on a waiting elevator, swiped a key card, and punched the button for the sixtieth floor. It lurched up, as did Jay’s stomach. He rolled back his shoulders, determined and clear of mind.

The elevator doors opened, and a familiar face waited on the other side. The dark-haired, dark-eyed gunman from New York. Jay smirked. “I see the earlobe still hasn’t grown back.”

The man bared his yellow teeth. “Follow me.”

Through a formal living room and down a long corridor, Jay’s escort halted at the second door to the last on the right and opened it.

“Leave us, Salvador.” The voice from inside was cool, soft, and way too fucking calm.

Jay’s escalating heart rate heated his blood. His muscles went taut. He stretched his fingers at his sides, breathed deeply through his nose, and walked through the door.

Brown leather wallpaper veneered the walls. Mahogany bookshelves wrapped the huge slab of a desk. Behind it, Roy Oxford sat straight and still. “Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.” An unnecessary rebellion, but he preferred to look down at Charlee’s abuser.

His black hair was neatly coiffed, smoothed away from his pale face. His shirt buttoned to the collar and pinched with a red tie. Despite his put-together appearance, there was something identifiable in his expression, creasing his eyes and drooping his lips. Seeing his own pain mirrored on Roy’s face would be something to reflect on and savor later.

Roy brushed a nonexistent hair from his face and returned his hand to his lap. “I saw your concert in St. Louis.”

A cringe twitched his shoulders. “You were there?”

“You’re a loyal employee, Mr. Mayard, out there making me money rather than petitioning Human Resources for a bereavement leave.”

Jay forced back the emotion simmering through his chest.

“Your tattoo was a nice touch. Windsor Records has seen a thirty-five percent increase in revenues since the show. I made a shrewd call reinitiating production on your albums.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “She limned that design in her little sketchbook. You must’ve been the musician she was penciling it for.”

She’d drawn it while with Roy? His heart hurtled into his throat, and his hands shook from the ache of it. He shoved them in his jeans pockets.
Keep him talking. Get the fucking confession.
“I met her the night you killed Noah Winslow. The night you kidnapped her in St. Louis.”

A dim haze passed over Roy’s eyes, and his fingers circled over a thick bundle of papers on his desk. “You don’t fool me, Mr. Mayard.”