STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (7 page)

“Well, what do you think, Bear? Is he full of shit?”

Scratching at his beard he shakes his head. “No. Not at all. He’s the real deal. I Googled him while you guys talked.” He smiles wryly. “As your manager and all, I thought it was important since I’d heard of the label of course, but not him.”

Slapping his arm, “You're the closest thing to a manager I’ll ever have,” I tell him truthfully. Back when I wrote songs and sent demos out, Judge handled the business side of it all. He was the band’s manager as well as our friend, so it was the obvious choice. Now though, I was on my own. Just like with everything else in my life.

“Well then, as your manager, I say to set up a meeting with Joaquin and see what he has to say. He’s big time, Willow. No harm can come from him picking up one of your songs.”

Lips pursed in thought, I agree. “Do I want that kind of attention though? I mean, I’ve gone to great lengths to stay off the radar and this would put me back into that world. Songwriters aren’t usually in the spotlight, but to have my name attached to him might make people curious.” My nerves at what that could mean have me pacing.

“That’s true. You’ve done a good job at staying off the grid, but I think you should have this meeting before you borrow trouble. Hear him out and make a decision. When the time comes, we can figure out the rest,” he soothes.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Bear mocks, pulling me into a reassuring hug before leading the way back to his office.

I don’t bother with pleasantries or anything. “Have your secretary set up the meeting with Mr. Danjou. I’ll meet with him before I make a decision.” I’m sure to let him know that
I
will be the one making the decisions, not them. If I learned anything from Stone, it was never to let anyone see you as weak. Because if you do, you’re screwed. With a curt wave I walk out of the office, leaving the men alone so I can stress about what this could mean without the watchful eyes of Bear on me.

Willow

I CHECK THE TIME ON
my phone as I bypass the front door of The Dirty Bird and go to the side entrance that will bring me right into the studio. I’m running late and if I go through the bar, I’m bound to get stopped by someone wanting to chat. Pulling my key out, I unlock the heavy metal door and slip inside. Bear called me this morning and said that Joaquin would be in booth B. He apparently is making good use of his time here and rented some studio space. Just outside of the glass door I stop, not wanting to interrupt the man inside. He sits on a high stool, headphones on with a guitar balanced on his lap. His eyes are closed and though I can’t hear what he’s singing without going in, I can feel the passion, the meaning that the song holds, just by watching him. Not wanting to seem like a creeper, I open the door and slip into the control booth with the two men, one of whom is Mr. Theroux. At my entrance, he turns and smiles, rising to give me his seat. I nod in thanks and sit.

None of us speaks, we just listen. When he’s finished he slowly opens his eyes and they immediately land on me. A small crooked smile graces his face. It’s warm and genuine and it immediately puts me at ease. Joaquin motions for me to come in and says something in French to the two men. They nod, and Mr. Theroux turns to me.

“He’s asked us to wait outside so that you two may speak privately.” I’m just about to argue that they don’t have to when Bear pokes his head in.

“Hey, Willow girl, I’ll be right out here if you need me. I have some business to discuss with these guys. I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on things,” he reassures me. Tossing a wink my way at my relieved smile.

With his guitar in hand, Joaquin stands at the connecting door, waiting for me to enter. “Willow, right?” he asks in a smooth, accented voice. It’s not as prominent as Theroux’s, but it’s there and it makes me slightly breathless. Huh. Only one other voice has ever had that effect on me. Tucking that away for later, I walk through.“Yep. That’s me. And you are obviously Joaquin.”

There’s a small seating area in the live booth which I walk over to, choosing the armchair over the love seat.

Chuckling softly, he agrees, “
Oui
. I am.” He sits across from me, leaning his guitar against the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry, Phillipe told me you didn’t speak French. After spending so much time with those two,” he jerks his chin in the general direction the men had left, “I don’t even realize that I’m doing it.” He grins a bit sheepishly. It’s refreshing. Here is a man, confident, calm and just . . . smooth. Everything about him. The way he talks, the way he sings, even the way he moves. And not that icky smooth but that suave smooth.

“No worries. I understand some and definitely know what ‘
oui
’ means, so you’re fine.” I cross my legs, the material of my skirt pulling tight and catching his attention, but only briefly.

His smile brightens. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to offend you before I got you to open up.” Snagging a water bottle from the mini fridge right next to him, he offers me one before leaning back and twisting the cap on his own.

“I’m not easily offended, Mr. Danjou. What is it that you wanted to talk about?” I say, unnerved by his watchful, yet not ogling, eyes. It’s like he’s trying to read me, see into my soul instead of down my shirt. It makes me both comfortable and nervous. I can’t explain it.

“Of course, sorry. I’m sure you’re an incredibly busy woman.” He takes a sip of his water, again watching me. “I watched you sing.” I shift uncomfortably at that. It seems so intrusive, yet didn’t I do the same thing to him just now? “I was here a couple months ago, walking by, minding my business when I saw you. I couldn’t see your face very well—you had on a hoodie and the lights in the booth were off.” Joaquin chuckles softly. “I thought it was so strange, I’d never seen someone sing in the dark like that in a studio. So I slipped into the control booth and asked the kid there if I could listen for a moment. He must’ve recognized me because he stared at me with an open mouth and just nodded.” Placing his ankle across his knee, he drapes his wrist over, his long fingers dangling, catching my attention. His hands are . . . sexy. I have a thing for hands and the magic they can bring to an instrument, to a body, and his hands look damn magical. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m ogling his hands now.

Snapping my eyes back to his face I concentrate on what he’s saying, trying to place the day he’s talking about, and then I remember. I had just returned from the doctor, an ultrasound. And while it made me so happy to see my little girl on the screen, it also made me sad. This was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of my life, but it wasn’t at all what I had planned. I was feeling incredibly melancholy. Came into the studio and asked Aidan, the intern, to just work the board. Nothing crazy, just record for me. In my solitude, I needed to feel alone. More so than I already did. I needed to let my music soothe me. Be the cure that it always had been. I remember singing until I was hoarse, tears running down my face, sorrow blanketing me, exhausting me. Physically, emotionally. Exhausted. I wonder now how much of that he had been witness to. Suddenly I’m all too aware of what he saw. The me he got to see. Nobody but Stone had ever seen that version of me, and that Joaquin may have, makes me feel guilty, which is ridiculous. I’m brought back to the present by his voice.

“I asked the kid who you were, and he would only say that your name was Willow and that you worked at the bar sometimes. I’ll admit that I was a little pissed that he wasn’t more forthcoming with the information, but glad that even though he knew who I was, he wasn’t just going to tell me your business. So I made some calls and here you are.” He tilts his head a bit, assessing. “I had to meet the woman who sang so beautifully. The person responsible for writing such an incredibly sad song. And hopefully convince her to let me sing it too.” His smile is hopeful, but again genuine. He’s not playing an angle. He’s just being truthful.

“How do you know I wrote it? I could’ve been singing someone else’s song,” I counter. Buying a little time to get myself together. This man has thrown me. I haven’t been thrown in a long time.

“The thought never occurred to me. The way you sang it, I knew it was yours. It came from here.” He lays a hand over his chest, his heart. “You can’t fake that,
chèrie
.” I smile at his wicked French endearment. Like I said, smooth.

“Well, you’re right, I did write it. It’s not available though.” I don’t know when I decided that, only that I had. I wrote that song while in a deep depression. I was lost, alone, heartbroken and missed Stone so much it was painful. Not the Stone he had become but the Stone that he had been. But then, I had been missing him for a long time. Long before I ever left. The words are carved into my heart and I don’t know how to part with them. That and I’ve never written a song that meaningful and given it to someone else.

“I won’t change it, Willow. It’s perfect the way it is,” Joaquin promises. “It speaks to me on a level I can’t even explain. Hell, I’m not sure I understand. But I’ve not been able to get it out of my mind.” He reaches for his guitar and to my amazement, starts playing my song.

I’ve watched talented, talented people play an instrument. No, “play” isn't the right word. Watched someone make love, make the sweetest music, with an instrument. Like it’s an extension of them. Coaxing a melody, bending it until it’s more than what it’s meant to be. That's what I'm witnessing here with Joaquin. It's so blatant and beautiful and life changing. I feel the wetness on my face that watching and listening to him has caused. Music has always had that effect on me. Cry because I’m happy, because I’m sad. Because the song touches parts of me that are hidden to everyone. I cry now as every emotion is wrenched from me with every strum of his fingers over the strings. He sits, his eyes closed, a look that is such a mix of feelings I can't pin just one down. It's contentment and longing, pain and joy, awe and despair . . . it's beautiful, riveting. And everything I felt while writing it. When he opens his mouth to sing the words I wrote, it's almost more than I can take. I've never written a song that I didn't love, that didn't speak to me or hold a special meaning. They all come from a place deep within my heart. But hearing the words fall from Joaquin's lips as he croons, the song takes on a life of its own. It's a healing balm to my soul even though the lyrics are filled with heartache.

I want to beg him to never stop singing as well as cover his mouth with my hand to silence him. He makes the decision for me as he sings the final chord, and opens his eyes. I dash away the tears on my cheeks and he nods in understanding. “Powerful stuff, right? I need it on my new album.” I’m incapable of answering just yet. He gets it. He sits quietly as I watch him, take in his neatly trimmed beard, the dark, tousled hair like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His V-neck shirt which allows the tiniest bit of chest hair to be seen, the gray slacks, and his suede John Lobb’s. Very posh. He’s too masculine to be called metrosexual, but he has a sophisticated vibe I can’t deny I’m digging. After a moment of silence, he speaks.

“Have dinner with me,” Joaquin demands quietly in that accented voice. The timbre of it reverberates against my skin, causing goosebumps to tickle over the flesh.

“I don't date rock stars,” I tell him, trying to hide the reaction his voice has on me.

“Good thing I'm not a rock star then.” He smirks. He's right, he’s the farthest thing from being a rock star. He's much too controlled for that.

“I don't date musicians either.” Though that too is the wrong word for him.

“Prejudice against your own kind?” he mocks, rubbing a hand over his beard, a grin threatening.

I shake my head, “I'm no musician—”

“Oh,
chèrie
, that's a lie. I've seen you, heard the magic that’s trapped inside that pretty little soul. You can't lie to me. I see who you are,” Joaquin says, his molten chocolate gaze holding me captive.

“Yeah, well, I have a daughter,” I blurt. Knowing that one will end this once and for all. To say that I'm shocked by his response is putting it mildly.

“Awesome. I love kids. Bring her with.” His voice is calm, nonchalant even. Never batting one of his ridiculously luscious eyelashes. Who is this man?

“She’s just little, only a couple months old. Not a very interesting age yet. Well, not to people who aren’t me. I think everything about her is interesting.” I’m rambling.

“Ahhhh, so you have a man. I don’t know why I thought that was over. You’ve been linked to Stone Lockhart for years, but I assumed when Bear made it clear that no one in or out of the industry was to know where you were that it was over.”

“I don’t have a man,” I say a little too curtly. Silently thanking Bear for thinking about my needs.

“Sorry, again, I just assumed with such a
petit bébé
you would have—what kind of asshole leaves his woman—I’m sorry.” He abruptly stops his rant before it gains serious steam.

I stand, done with this whole conversation.

“Anyway. It was wonderful meeting you. You are stupid, crazy talented and I’m honored that you are interested in the song, but I’m just not interested in releasing it.” Turning to leave, he stops me with a hand to my elbow.