Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (16 page)

Chapter 23

~April~

I haven’t been to California in almost three years.
I Skype with my father once a month, but I’ve used school as an excuse not to
visit. There is no escape from music with him. It’s in my face twenty four
seven whenever I visit. Yet Gabe’s plea that I finish the list for him swayed
me more than any of his other arguments. However, I didn’t want to take his
room or be trapped with him for five days. It would be too much for my emotions
and
hormones.

Of course, my father was thrilled when I asked him if I could
come for Thanksgiving. Of course, he picked me up from the airport. Of course,
we’re at his house. He has always been more of a teacher or a friend, but my
father cares for me deeply. My mother is not happy. She expected me for
Thanksgiving. That I’m staying with my father has her quite upset. Yet Gabe’s
plea hit me harder than even her persistence.

So here I am at my father’s house in Malibu, standing next to
a grand piano overlooking the sunlight ocean, as he makes me a latte on his
imported machine in the kitchen. The waves roll in, the piano beckons, the
sound of cream being steamed sounds. Unable to resist, I lay my fingers on the
cool wood of the piano at the far end, away from the keys. Though silent, I
imagine the instrument humming for me.

My father holds a cup in front of me and nods at the piano.
“Would you like me to play something for you?”

No!
I take the
cup. This is why I’ve stayed away. I don’t want to hurt him. Turning my back on
music is like turning my back on him. I can’t hurt him, so I can do this. I
will do this. At least it’s not a damn guitar.

“Sure, please,” I say and take the cup, my hands faintly
shaking.

He looks at me oddly for a long second, then sits on the
bench. I imagine him flipping out the tails of a suit coat, clearing his
throat, and raising his hands over the keys in a pretentious fashion. Instead
his hands find the keys with a subtle poise, and instead of a tuxedo he wears
worn jeans and a faded T-shirt. And rather than crazy gray hair flopping as he
plays, his brown hair is short with only hints of salt.

My father was trained to be a classic pianist from an early
age. My grandparents had big plans for him. In college, out from under their
thumbs, he spread his wings. Quit college and joined a rock band. Lived in a
rat-infested apartment. Wore spandex on stage. And beat the crap out of
guitars. Eventually he found a path half way back to their ideal as a composer
for pop and rock acts, but it took a long time for my grandparents to forgive
him.

However, he still plays many of the compositions he competed
with from age twelve to seventeen, like the one he is currently playing,
Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” The notes fill the house, as my father’s
expression turns serenely concentrated. The piano vibrates with his beautiful
playing, a perfect backdrop to the scene of treetops and roofs slanting toward
the ocean.

I internally sigh as the music of my childhood tugs at my
soul. My father appears so complacent while playing that I’m jealous. Of my own
father. But I sip coffee and keep my features smooth. Inside I want to scream
at him to stop
or
hug the notes and
dance around the room with them. Unfortunately, the composition is almost
fifteen minutes long. I sip my coffee, tap my foot, and try to appear elated to
hear him play. It gets hard as the pace picks up and he rolls out the notes in
fast succession.

I smile and sip.

Yup, this is why I stayed away.

My father
is
music.
All types, in any form. On countless instruments. He has never been married,
nor will he ever get married. This is his wife, his love, his life.

And he passed his love to me. Through not only genetics, but
also through his teaching and his coaching—
April,
learn piano first, play all kinds of music: Spanish, folk, blues, jazz
…
never stop learning…don’t just play, feel
the music, let it roll into your soul
…

And I did until thorny guilt tore at the essence of me.

Internally, I’m becoming a tangled mess as he plays and
memories float over me. Away from my father, I can pretend, even believe I’m
meant for something else. Here with him and the music of my childhood, it’s
very clear I’m living a lie. But
those tearing thorns leave
me bleeding and prepared to live the
lie
out
.

I finally give in. Set the coffee cup on a nearby table and
lay both of my hands on the piano. Close my eyes. Let the notes flow through
me, mathematical precision turned into sound as emotional art. Fine. I will
always love music to the depths of my soul. Thorns entangle and tear. I bleed.
I take a deep breath. Not embracing. Just relishing. The thorns loosen but stay
clamped in.

My father finishes and I open my eyes. “No one plays like
you.”

He smiles warmly. “From you, I’ll take that as the highest
compliment.”

I go around the piano to the bench and sit opposite from him,
then throw my arms around him in a desperate hug. “I’ve missed you.” The words
are muffled in his shoulder.

“Missed you too,” he says, hugging me back.

Damn. I feel like crying. I hug him tighter, hoping to absorb
all of his peaceful energy.

“Everything okay, April?” he asks, his tone edging into
worry.

“Yeah,” I sit back, drawing in air before I do start crying.
“Getting sentimental in my old age, and
your
playing
brought back memories.” I’ve gotten so good that the twisted truth comes out of
me effortlessly.
April the exceptionally
skilled liar
.

He laughs. “Old age. If I could be twenty one again…”

My phone rings with an annoying chirp. I try to ignore it as
he pushes off the bench. “Go ahead, I need to call Eddie about dinner on
Thursday.”
 

When I asked to come, I told my dad that I had friends in town.
He didn’t mind. My father is the epitome of laid back. I think the endless
music in his life keeps him calm.

I tug my phone from my pocket unsurprised at seeing Gabe’s
name on the front. His text reads:
Told
you. The douche agreed to meet tomorrow for lunch at some place called Leaf.
2
okay? Need directions?

I groan. Leaf is a hotspot for stars to have lunch. Meaning
the paparazzi stalk the place. This guy
is
a douche. I text back that I know where it is and that I’ll be there at
two. He doesn’t reply. Gabe is like me, not much of a phone aficionado.

I hear my father talking on the phone about turkey and sweet
potatoes to his longtime girlfriend, Eddie. If they’re still together. Even
when they are not a couple, they remain friends. My father is not into drama.
The exact opposite of my mother.

Turning around on the bench, I can’t help but notice the
gleam of white ivory keys.

No embracing. Just relishing. I remind myself as I stand and
quickly move from the instrument.

Chapter 24

~April~

Leaf is oddly decorated in bright floral prints
and loud colored furniture. You’d think, being a celebrity hang out, it would
be modern and sleek and cool, but no, it’s loud French country on crack. I’ve
actually been here a few times before. My mother used to fly with me back and
forth for the summers until I was fourteen. She’d stay for two days at the
beginning and the end, so we could do some sightseeing. One of her must stops
became Leaf—my father would never want to come within one hundred feet of the
paparazzi—and I was never sure if it was to glimpse at celebrities or to feel
like one.

When I come in, I ignore the photographers hanging out on the
sidewalk and checking me out to discern if I’m anyone worth a lift of their
camera. There inspection though is kind of creepy. Although I’m early, the
hostess, obviously recognizing me from a description, leads me to a table on
one of the patios.
Michael Thomas
is not
here. But Gabe
and
Romeo are. I’m
suddenly flustered, wondering why Romeo is here. What did Gabe tell him?

Romeo smiles when he sees the hostess gesturing me to a
table. Gabe’s expression remains stoic, making me think that he is aware that
I’m not okay with the situation. I force myself toward the table.

“Hey,” Romeo says as I sit. “How’s your dad?”

Startled, I give him a questioning look before I recall that
he has been a fan of my father for years. I’m a little off kilter because of
his presence. “Good, he’s working on a sound track for an independent film
right now.” I glance, maybe more like glare, at Gabe, who reads his menu. Ah,
he knows I’m upset. “Hello, Gabe,” I say in a flat tone. He appears tired with
scruff heavier than usual on his jaw, which oddly adds to his normal surfer
look, giving it a hot edge.

Holding his menu, he waves at me with two fingers. “Hey,
April, how was your flight?”

His expression is pure innocence, his tenor monotone. I can’t
help a scowl from forming. “Fine.” Luckily, our server brings me
a water
and takes my order for a lemonade. Once the server
is gone, I pick the menu up, trying not to obsess how Gabe got Romeo here or
why. I’m also a bit irritated with myself for caring. “How’s the record
coming?”

Romeo sighs, twisting his glass of water. “It’s getting
there. Still ironing out some rough spots. Transitions, beginnings, and
endings, you know the shit that can make or break a song.”

Gabe crosses his arms. “He’s being the usual perfectionist
asshole.”

I don’t comment. Romeo grins.

Ignoring Gabe, I ask, “You guys working tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Romeo says. “We want to get done with at least half
the album this trip. Finishing is more important than a turkey dinner.”

I nod again like a puppet. I’d been toying with the idea of
inviting the band to my father’s house for Thanksgiving. Home cooked meal and
all that. Now upset, the invitation is sour on my tongue. I clear my throat.
“Well, if—”

“Romeo,” Gabe says in a tight tone. “Could you please give us
a minute?”

Romeo pauses lifting his glass of water, glancing between us.
He sets the glass down, his eyebrows raised and his look at me pointed.

I tap my menu on the table. Romeo must assume I was lying to
him about there being nothing between Gabe and I, which I kind of was. “I don’t
think that’s
nec
—”

“For a few minutes?” Gabe interrupts.

Romeo pushes away from the table. “Yeah, sure.”

Gabe leans forward as soon as he leaves. “I should have
called or texted.” He runs a hand through his hair, then grabs the back of his
neck. “We’ve been busy, but Romeo agreed to help when I explained we’ve been
working on your cousin’s bucket list. He is far better than I am at this
business bullshit. And damn, April, he knows about your cousin right?”

He looks so stressed out at upsetting me, it takes me several
seconds to say a simple, “Well, yeah.”

He lets go of his neck and drops his hand. “It’s not like I
told him you were in group.”

“No, but he thinks there is something going on between us.”

Gabe stares at me, then lets out a gruff laugh. “There’s a
lot of shit between us, April. Does it matter what Romeo thinks? Why is it that
at one moment you don’t care what anyone thinks, then in the next you’re
freaking out about it?”

My mind whirls at his question. Of course, keeping my issues
close keeps people out of them, but here in this restaurant where my mother
pretended that her career as an actress didn’t dead end with lying across car
hoods in rock videos, I’m not so sure. I’m wondering if all her social rules
about outward appearance did seep into me over the years.

“Hey,” Romeo says, interrupting my internal breakdown. “Look
who I ran into.”

I blink at the boy—well, man in a wavy swooped hair doo over
his sunglasses and boy clothes—standing at our table.

Romeo gestures to the open chair next to me.

The man pushes the sunglasses on his head and baby blues twinkle
at me, obviously thinking I’m star struck.

Maybe about ten years ago, I’d swoon over him, and that’s a
big maybe. Today, not so much. I glance across the table at Gabe, his mahogany
eyes hard, his scruffy jaw even harder as he glares at Thomas who appears to be
checking me out. Yeah,
that
face is
swoony. I could be imagining his jealously, but it makes me warm inside, which
is
very
wrong.

The server practically runs over to our table as soon as the
movie star’s butt hits the chair. Thomas orders
a water
with lemon
and
lime slices.

After Romeo introduces everyone—me as a close friend—Thomas
leans back in his chair. “I listened to the track you sent me. Though a bit old
fashioned”—apparently rock is old school to this guy—“I liked it. So about this
video…”

Though Romeo looks to Gabe, he stays silent. Romeo
reluctantly turns back to Thomas. “Well, nothing is, ah,”—he crosses his arms
so that the silver rings on his fingers shine in the bright sun—“totally
figured out yet…we’re”—his side glance at Gabe is murderous—“just trying to
line up everything at this point. We were thinking of something like…well, one
of Aerosmith’s nineties videos with shots
between a band and the story of a wild couple.”

Huh, Romeo’s improvising isn’t too bad. No wonder Gabe wanted
him to come.

The server brings the water and sliced fruit then we all
order different variations of their fancy sandwiches, except for the movie
star. He gets a fancy salad. Romeo only has to BS a bit more because Thomas
shares his proposals while we eat. He suggests several directors and actresses
that star in major motion pictures regularly. I almost snort and spit out a
fry, at one of his suggestions, being that the actress won an academy award
last year. He also suggests ridiculous locations like an expensive hotel in
Beverly Hills and a swanky nightclub known to cater to high rolling rappers. He
even wants a posse of guys to follow him into a club in one of his imaginative
scenes.

This guy
is
a
douche.

The idea of fifteen-year-old Rachel meeting and having her
dreams dashed by this guy sours my stomach.
 

After he finishes half his salad, he pops his glasses back
on, then announces that he might be interested, but they need to go through his
agent when they’re ready. And then, thankfully, he’s gone.

“Holy fuck, my head is pounding with all his bullshit,” Gabe
groans, pointedly looking at me. “Any remorse on using that guy?”

I drop my napkin on my half-finished sandwich. “None,” I say,
then smile extra sweet.

“Four to go then.”

It takes me a few seconds, while Gabe finishes off the last
bite of his prosciutto BLT, to realize he is talking about the bucket list.

My mouth makes a thin line as I imagine getting a tattoo or
going on a stage.

Romeo pushes his empty plate away. “The day I let that
asshole in one of our videos hell will have frozen over.”

I wince. “Thanks for coming and leading him on.”

“No problem,” Romeo says then lets out a laugh. “I kind of
got a kick out of his ego.”

I look to Gabe. “And thanks for setting this lunch up. I
appreciate it.”

He shrugs, then frowns. “I wanted to kick his ego, like in
the face.”

A laugh escapes me. “Well, you two can get back to work. I
can get the check. It’s the least I can do after breaking up your recording
time to listen to all that.”

Gabe’s lovely lips twist. “I invited you. I’m paying the
bill.” His tone is like steel.

I push my plate to the edge of the table instead of arguing
with him
like
I want to. “Then let me get the tip.”

He shakes his head.

This time Romeo wiggles his brows at me as the server sets
the check down.

I restrain an irritated sigh as Gabe puts money in the little
folder. “If the band does have a big enough break tomorrow, my dad’s cooking a
full meal. We should be eating around four. He never minds extra company.”

Romeo’s eyes light up. “Man, I’d love to meet your dad…”

Gabe taps his thumbs on the table. “Like you’re going to take
a break.”

Romeo shakes his head. “Yeah, it’s probably not going to
happen. However, we might be doing a short set at the Whiskey a Go
Go
Saturday night. You want to come if that happens?”

Gabe frowns at Romeo, then takes the sunglasses from the edge
of his T-shirt and slips them on.

Romeo leans toward him to catch my attention. Dang, I was
staring at Gabe, speculating if the invitation upset him. “Sure, I always
wanted to go there,” I absently say, mentally kicking myself in the butt for
being absorbed with Gabe. “How’d you get a gig there?”

Romeo leans back in his chair. “Our manager—”

“
You
have a
manager?”

“Kind of. We’re letting him do some promotion and stuff.
Since the band that night isn’t going on until eleven, we might go on at ten.
Get some more exposure. I can send a car to pick you up if it’s a go.”

I shake my head. “My dad lives in Malibu. I can just meet
you.”

“All right, let’s hope it’s a go,” Romeo shoves off from the
table.

Gabe is already standing.

I stand too. “Good luck with the album.”

“Yeah, we might need some luck,” Romeo says with a laugh.

Gabe shakes his head. “We don’t need luck. We have Romeo.” He
gives me a forced smile, bending to pick up a bag that I hadn’t noticed next to
his chair. He sets the shopping bag on the table in front of me. “Here. You’ll
know what to do with it.”

Then they’re gone.

Confused, I open the bag and find a white paper floating lantern.

First the lunch, and now the lantern. Though Gabe’s actions
continue to tell me he cares about me, when we’re together, the easy
camaraderie that grew between us seems almost non-existent. And I can’t imagine
ever getting it back.

Staring at the lantern, I’m more confused than ever.