STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (6 page)

Wills,

I’m angry as fuck today. Probably shouldn’t even be writing, but I can’t not. I get mad, I want to write you. Sad, I want to write you. Happy, tired, discouraged, hungry, I just want to write you. Who the fuck else would I tell all this shit to? You’re it. The one who loved me no matter how I was feeling, and I shit all over that. I’m as angry about that as I am that I’m here. Nah, I’m more angry about fucking us up. This would all be so much easier if you were here. But you’re not, so fuck us both.

Stone

Day fifty-nine and I’ll finally be allowed my guitar, my cell phone, and a visitor in a few days. That knowledge has improved my mood somewhat. I feel like it’s finally progress. I sat with my counselor today, the one who makes me talk whether I want to or not, and finally feel like a little less of a prisoner. Give me a few minutes though. I’m so fucking manic I’ll be hating everyone and everything by then. Leaning back against the headboard in the too quiet room, I pull my notebook out from the nightstand drawer. I need to try to write Willow more often when I’m in a good mood. I feel like every note I write is full of anger. Makes sense since that’s what I feel a lot of the time.

Wills,

I have time in here to be by myself so I write songs and I write you. I have enough new material for a whole album. I’m calling it Willow. Every damn song is about you. They always were though, huh? I miss you. I miss the way you smell. Your laugh. The way you get so lost in your music that you forget anyone else is in the room. I miss the way your eyes fire when you’re pissed or when you’re turned on. God, I miss the way you taste. Your lips, your soft skin, your pussy. All of you so sweet. Reading those words, your eyes would have lit with that burn for me. I miss that. I miss us. I’m lost without you, Birdie. I’m not right. My heart doesn’t beat in rhythm when you’re not around. Come be my rhythm.

I love you always.

Love,

Stone

As carefully as I can, I tear the page out and put it in an envelope, address it, and put it in the tray that they’ll come and collect from later. Every day without fail I write her, and every day they pick it up and do whatever the fuck they do and send them out. If they don’t pick them up before five, I’m buzzing them on the intercom. They probably think I’m insane, but ask me if I care. And not for the first time I wonder what the fuck Addy is doing with them all when she picks up my mail at the house every week. Does she know where Willow is? She swears that she doesn’t, and even though Wills is her best friend, she couldn’t keep that big of a secret from me when she knows how much I need her. At least that’s what she’s telling Lawson and Judge, and I don’t think she’d bullshit them. But what the fuck do I know?

There’s a knock at the door and a head pops in. “Mr. Lockhart, it’s time for your group session. There’s a guest speaker you won’t want to miss,” the young guy says enthusiastically.

I just grunt and lift my chin in acknowledgement. A guest speaker. Fanfuckingtastic. Welcome to hell, it’s fucking
Paradise.

Willow

THE DIRTY BIRD IS A
little live lounge type bar in downtown Toronto that I instantly fell in love with. I was drawn to the name first, if I’m honest. When I first came back to T.O., I had been lost. No direction. My compass was spinning wildly, searching. Searching for home, searching for Stone, for something I couldn’t name. Just . . . searching. It finally led me here. At first glance it looks like every other bar on the strip, but once you push through those doors, the music seeps into your soul. I missed this side of music. I never wanted to be famous like Stone. I was perfectly content to be part of the music behind the man. I preferred smaller crowds like this to test out my songs on, to sit on a stool, me and my Martin or with fingers dancing over ivory keys and just be. The people here are now my family. Mine and Lyric’s. They held me up when I wasn’t strong enough. Loved me at my lowest, and praised me when I was at my best. Stood by my side when the universe delivered a wicked blow and then again when my sweet baby was born prematurely and fought for her life. I owe them so much and yet they ask for nothing.

Blowing a kiss to Bear behind the bar, I weave my way through the tables filled with people drinking and laughing, waving to a few as I head to the stage at the back of the room. Once I get there, I set my case down on the table reserved for The Dirty Bird’s musicians. As I take a seat, I smile at the trio on stage, giving them a thumbs-up. They’re regulars and have an eclectic sound that makes them a favorite here. Tapping along with the song, I put everything else,
everyone
else, out of my mind and concentrate on my set. With the emotions running through me, it’s going to get feely up in here. I just called the hospital for what seems like the millionth time this week to learn that Stone has been discharged and the charge nurse also told me that he was entering an extensive, months-long rehab program. But she couldn’t disclose the specifics. So now I’m hellbent on putting Stone out of my mind and just hoping he can get better and find some happiness. Not able to help myself, I chuckle under my breath at that partial truth. I want him to be well; it’s the happiness that twists me up inside. We were supposed to be each other’s happiness.

“What are you over here laughing about, eh?” I glance up at the sound of Cora’s pixie-like voice. So different from the way she appears. Cora Lake is the owner of The Dirty Bird, all six gorgeous feet of her. She is also my friend and guardian angel, and Lyric’s “Auntie Cora.” No telling where I’d be if it weren’t for her. Bear, her
much
younger husband, as well. The two of them took me under their wing and helped me get on my feet when I came back home, lost as all hell. They found me and helped put back together a little of the
me
I’d lost along the way.

“Irony.” I shrug.

She watches me with knowing eyes, leaning in close to be heard. “How’s he doing today?” Cora asks me every day. Genuinely concerned because she knows that even after everything he still means a lot to me.

“Discharged and headed to rehab.” My head tilts in thought. “I wonder if that was his idea or the label’s? If it wasn’t his, they’ll have their work cut out for them. Stubborn, moody bastard.”

“Honey, that’s all men,” she smiles gently. “I’m glad that he’s there regardless of how it came about. You be happy too. You deserve it.” With a pat to my hand she leans back. The band just finished with their encore, causing the bar to quiet some and we can speak normally. “That’s enough about that. Thank you for covering tonight. You wanted to be home with Lyric for a couple more weeks and I’m sorry. I promise not to drag you in here again before then,” she vows. “What are you singing for us this fine evening?” she asks, not letting me answer before she’s speaking again. “I’m going to stay for a bit before heading to your place to tuck Lyric into bed.” I can’t help the smile at the mention of Lyric. It’s true I wanted to be home with her, but this was a favor for Bear and Cora since musicians are flakey and forget about gigs often.

“Not sure yet,” I laugh. “I’ve not sung anything other than lullabies lately. I’m not sure if I remember anything else.”

Cora shrugs, “Sounds good to me.” Her head swivels when Bear calls for her from the bar. Holding up a finger to tell him she’s coming, she turns back to me. “I’ll see you at home when you’re done. No rush, stay as long as you like. We’ll be fine.” I nod and she gives me a bright smile. “Sing pretty.”

Swallowing thickly, I do my best to keep my smile in place at her parting words just like I do every other time she says them.
Sing pretty.
How many times has Stone said that to me or I to him? He said it and then followed it up with something wicked, because that was Stone. But every time he did, I obeyed because . . . Stone.

“
Sing pretty for me, Birdie. So pretty it makes me hard. Then I’ll fuck you pretty.”

With a sigh I push myself up from the table, away from the memory, and head for the stage. I’ll sing pretty. But it’ll be for me. I don’t sing pretty for anyone else anymore.

Finished with my set I thank the applauding crowd and pack up my Martin. A man approaches the side of the stage, dressed in a flashy suit. Definitely not Dirty Bird attire. He waits until I descend before holding out his hand and speaking to me in French before shaking his head and apologizing. “I’m sorry. I forget that not everyone speaks the language. I’m Phillipe Theroux.” His voice is heavily accented, but it’s nothing I’m not used to having grown up here and spending a lot of time in Montreal among the French Canadians.

“It’s all right. Willow Avery. What can I do for you?” I question warily, looking to the bar and Bear. I relax when I see him there watching, nodding his head at me in reassurance.

“I’m from Fall Out. My secretary called last week requesting a meeting with you, but we haven’t heard back so I decided to come see you in person. Is there somewhere we can talk? I’ll only take a moment of your time,” he assures kindly.

I tense at the mention of the label. In all of the excitement of having Lyric home and the constant worry over Stone, I had forgotten all about the message that Carleen had taken. Glancing back to the bar, I motion for Bear, hoping he’s not too busy to come with me. I’m interested to hear what Mr. Theroux has to say, but I won’t be speaking to him alone. Bear doesn’t hesitate and starts our way. I fiddle with my case, stalling a bit so that it’s not obvious that I’m waiting for Bear. When he suddenly appears at my side, I smile appreciatively up at him.

“Bear, this is Phillipe Theroux with Fall Out. He’d like to speak to me. Can we use your office?” I question, giving him a look that I’m hoping he picks up on. He knows that Fall Out is also Stone’s label. Bear will make sure that this conversation doesn’t get back to any of Stone’s camp.

The two men shake hands and exchange introductions.

“Of course,” is all he says as he turns to lead the way to the studio attached to The Dirty Bird. He lets us into his spacious office and gestures for us to sit as he takes a spot in the corner of the room, just out of the way enough to give us space but to assure that I’m comfortable.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Theroux?” I question, taking my seat. He glances over at Bear and then back to me. “It’s fine to speak freely in front of Bear. He’s my manager, of sorts,” I say, though it’s not exactly true. I don’t have any need or any reason to be managed.

“Ahh, very well then. As I said, when you didn’t call back I decided to come down here personally. We are very interested in a song of yours,” he says, straightforward and to the point.

“I’m confused as to what song you could be talking about. I haven’t sent out demos in a very long time and I’ve never sent any to your offices.” My brows drawn in question, I glance at Bear, who just shrugs. We record here all the time, but I’ve not submitted anything and clearly Bear hasn’t either. Not that he would without first speaking to me.

“I apologize. Apparently a couple months back my client was here, renting out the studio and heard something you were working on. He wants it. My client would also like to meet you. If you can work it into your schedule, he will be in the area next month.” Mr. Theroux pauses, letting that sink in.

“And just who is your client?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me. These music types are always the same. Drawing shit out, waiting to drop names in order to seal the deal. I’m not a fangirl. I lived with and loved one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. Toured with him and met some of the greats as well as some amazing up and coming talent. His name dropping won’t sway me.

“Usually I would not divulge that information, but we’re aware that you are very familiar with the workings of the music industry. Joaquin Danjou is my client, and he is extremely interested in your song but won’t negotiate until he can sit down with you himself.”

“So he’s a diva,” I state. I know who he is. Not personally though. He’s had some dealings with Stone and the band on a couple occasions for various reasons. I’ve never met him. He’s a big deal. A huge deal, really.

Phillipe chuckles. “Your attitude is refreshing.” Clasping his hands, he leans forward. “No. Not a ‘diva’ as you say. Joaquin is very passionate about his music and even more so about songs he doesn’t write himself. He always likes to sit with the songwriter to discuss their vision and what they would feel if he were to alter that in any way.”

I admire that. Songwriting is very personal to most artists. It is to me.

“Did he say what song?” For the life of me I can’t think of what he may have heard me working on.

“He did not, unfortunately.”

Nodding in understanding I stand. “Would you mind if I spoke to Bear privately for a moment?” I ask. When he goes to stand I raise a hand, “No, please stay. We’ll just step out.”

He gestures to the door in agreement. “Of course. Please.”

Bear follows me out into the hall and into one of the sound booths. They’re soundproof and I feel more comfortable speaking to him there.