Mended

CHAPTER 4 Just Beneath the Surface

The moon hasn’t quite disappeared, but the sun hasn’t yet risen—it’s dawn and the streetlights are still on. I exit the cab with my bag in hand and climb the steps lit by the faint glow from the road to my condo in Beverly Hills. A car drives by, tossing the newspaper in the driveway, and I just leave it—I’ll catch up later. I stayed at the hospital all night with my brother, and now I’m contemplating the phone calls I’ll have to make later today. I’ve been taking risks, learning things, and making new relationships since I started to manage the Wilde Ones. But this—being left without a lead singer in the middle of a tour isn’t an evolution, it’s a regression, a detriment . . . it’s the end.

Once I shower, I sit down and think about how I’m going to tell the guys. It makes me sick to think about it, but it has to be done. They aren’t going to take it well, but I know I can’t put it off. Announcements have to be made so shows can be canceled and money refunded. Time seems to creep by before I finally decide to pick up my phone. I call Garrett and then Nix and tell them both to meet me at my place. I know they’re not going to be happy, but at this point there are no other options. Garrett arrives around four with a six-pack in one hand and a new flick in the other.

“It’s not date night,” I tell him.

“Fuck off,” he snorts. “I just thought you could use the company. You sounded like shit on the phone. What’s going on?”

I slap his back. “We need to talk about existentialism.”

He shakes his head in confusion, but I’m saved from explaining when Nix walks in right behind him.

“What’s with the emergency meeting?” Nix asks.

“How about a drink?” I ask and motion for them to have a seat on the couch.

“Is it that bad that beer isn’t strong enough?” Garrett questions, holding up the six-pack that he brought in.

These guys have been my brother’s friends for longer than I can remember. Actually, although I’ve never admitted it, they’re my friends too, and what I’m about to do is the hardest thing I’ve had to do in a really long time.

“How’s Dahlia?” Nix asks.

Walking over to the bar, I say over my shoulder, “She’ll be okay . . . but she can’t travel.”

Pouring whiskey into three tumblers, I turn around. Nix’s and Garrett’s jaws are on the ground, and it’s clear they know what that means. I hand them each a glass of whiskey and toss mine back. “Remember when Brian Chase accidentally hit himself in the nose and blood squirted out everywhere?”

Nix’s eyes narrow and Garrett just knocks his drink back, moving around me and stepping up to the bar.

I go on. “The more he bled, the harder he drummed, and the harder he drummed, the more he bled.”

They both nod, confused about my reason for telling them this, I’m sure. I continue. “That’s how I feel about our band. We keep going and going, but I really feel there’s a time for the bleeding to stop and I think it’s now. No more Band-Aids to stop the wounds from oozing.”

Nix clears his throat. “I disagree. I think we could take a different approach.”

I peg him with my stare and wonder where he’s going with this. Garrett sits down and I do the same as Nix keeps talking. “Do you remember the first time you heard Neil Young sing and you were like, ‘Really? This guy is popular?’”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything. It means anything can happen when you don’t expect it,” Garrett interprets for me.

“What’s going on?” I ask them.

Garrett looks at me a little warily. “Well, someone stopped by last night after you took Dahlia to the hospital.”

“Who?” I ask.

Garrett speaks up. “Ivy Taylor. She wants in.”

I stand up and slam my drink down on the bar. My lungs constrict and I have to raise my arms and cradle my head to breathe. Twisting my body, I mindlessly circle the room until I can finally speak. “No fucking way,” I yell at them.

“Xander, you and her happened a long time ago. Don’t let your history with her cloud your judgment,” Nix says.

“I’m not saying no because of our history,” I reply with a scowl.

“Then why?” Garrett asks.

“First of all, she doesn’t even sing in the same genre as the band.”

Nix rolls his eyes. “Come on, Xander, you know her. She’ll be able to sing our songs without a problem. For Christ’s sake, you played with her for years.”

“Even if she can, she’s managed by that prick, and I’m not fucking working with him,” I tell him very matter-of-factly. I want to be close to her in the worst way, but not when she’s with somebody else—that’s something I would never be able to stand.

“She says she won’t be for long. She’s trying to terminate their business relationship,” Garrett says.

I stop pacing.

“How much sweeter could this be? We’ve all known each other since high school, and we’re all in it for the music,” Nix says, trying to persuade me.

“Xander, come on. We’re flirting with disaster, and she pops in as our saving grace. People would follow her into a fire, and she came looking for us,” Garrett declares, and I stand there waiting for the punch line, but there isn’t one.

“Ellie agrees. She says she’ll talk to the label and she thinks they’ll be fine with it,” Nix tells me.

“Well, Ellie doesn’t manage the band,” I respond, running my hands through my hair.

“No, but it’s not just your band,” Garrett says, a little shakily.

My head snaps up and I know my eyes are focused and clear. I take a deep breath. “What did you tell her?”

“Ellie or Ivy?” Garrett asks.

“Ivy,” I bark.

“To come over and talk to you with us.” His face is determined. It’s a look that says it all. They’ve already made the decision.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” My voice wavers with uncertainty, but before I can put my issues on the table, the doorbell rings. My eyes flash to his and the pounding in my ears drowns out the sound of the bell. Walking across the dark hardwood floor in my bare feet, I take a deep breath and keep my face blank. Of course I want to see her. Fuck, I want to be with her. But she doesn’t want anything to do with me, even though apparently she wants something to do with my band.

When I open the door, there she stands—and she’s absolutely gorgeous. I tuck my hands in my pockets to control my nerves. Her beauty is only accentuated by the sunlight. Her hair is silky, her skin seems to gleam, and the sapphire earrings that my grandmother gave her follow the angular lines of her jaw . . . I can’t believe she still wears them. But it’s her eyes that capture me. They look darker, fiercer, more expressive, and they are focused on me. I can’t help but take her all in.

“Hello,” I say, ushering in her inside.

“Hi,” she says back softly, with a forced smile.

She’s biting her bottom lip and if I could have her right here, I would. Thoughts of her being mine race through my head. With her proximity, it’s hard not to regret having hurt her.

She stands in the entryway and looks around. “Nice place.”

I grin at her. “Thanks.” I wonder if she knows this condo was my grandparents’—the place they moved to when they left the house where we spent so many days and nights. This place is much smaller than their house—just two bedrooms. But it works for me. I hired a decorator who made a few minor changes when I moved in, but not much. Just enough to toughen it up.

“Are Garrett and Nix here yet?”

My eyes lock on hers. “As a matter of fact—they are.”

I motion toward the living area. “In there.”

“Hey, before we go in, I just want to say thanks for yesterday, and I’m sorry for being so rude.”

“Ivy . . .” Then I stop myself from blurting out the truth about the past. This isn’t the time or the place. “I was just concerned about you. That’s all.”

“I’m fine. Really, I can take care of myself.” She walks ahead of me before I can say anything else.

“Hi, Ivy,” Garrett says, almost like he has a schoolboy crush on her.

“Ivy.” Nix nods.

She fidgets. “Hey. Thanks for inviting me. So, have you guys talked to Xander about my suggestion?”

“We were just discussing it.” I’m trying to ignore how good her legs look in denim shorts.

“Great,” she says. “And my attorney confirmed that although my contract with Damon prohibits me from making any deals on my own, it does allow me to collaborate with other artists—he says it’s a loophole.”

“Yes!” Garrett says, pumping his fist in the air.

“Ivy, not that I don’t appreciate the offer. But what does your fiancé say about all this?” I ask her.

Nix clears his throat. “Hey, Xander, we didn’t get to that part of the news yet, but she broke it off with him.”

Ivy’s eyes collide with mine. For a moment I wonder if she’s doing this for us, but only for a moment, because I have to quickly look away from the hate I see in her face. “Damon aside, why would you want to ‘collaborate’ with us?”

“I want back in the music industry and I can’t do it on my own right now. Garrett and Nix told me River wasn’t exactly keen on hitting the road, so I wondered how you’d feel about having the two of us? I could stay on the road full-time and he could pull off whenever he needed to.”

“A few things have changed,” Garrett says. “River won’t be joining us after all. Dahlia has a complication and can’t go on the road.”

“Well, then, it looks like the situations we both find ourselves in seem to be a win/win. It’s a simple case of I help you, you help me,” she responds.

The room goes silent while I study her. It sounds like a business deal between two strangers, but we are far from that. Or are we? I bow my head, not sure what to say other than yes, because I sure as hell want her. “Okay, so if we do this, what’s next?”

“We start rehearsing. We have time to nail most of the tour songs before we have to hit the road again,” Nix says to all of us, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to persuade himself or me.

“I can meet you in the studio with Leif as early as tomorrow.”

We all turn our heads her way, but Nix is first to question her. “Leif? Who’s Leif?”

“Leif Morgan. He’s been with me from the start. He plays keyboard and bass,” she says softly, then adds, “And he travels with me. If you don’t mind?”

I nod and Nix and Garrett tuck their apprehension aside. There is nothing diva-like in her request. I know she’ll mix with us well. She’s the same girl she always was.

“We have ten days. It’s a piece of cake,” Garrett says confidently.

Her eyes find mine. “Look, Xander, we can give it a shot. If it doesn’t work out, what are either of us out?”

What can I say? She’s right—we have nothing to lose and everything to gain. We spend the next hour mapping out a strategy and discussing playlists. Changing from a male to a female lead means some minor lyrics changes. We decide I’ll go through those songs while the band rehearses the others.

“Anyone hungry?” Garrett asks.

“I wouldn’t mind something to eat,” Nix chimes in.

“I could throw together my famous Enchilada Bake,” Garrett says enthusiastically.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

“You’ve had it before—a can of black beans, a jar of enchilada sauce, and a tube of biscuits.”

“How about we order pizza?” I counter and look over at Ivy. “You in?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I actually have to get going. Logan’s in town for the night and I told him I’d meet him for dinner, but I’ll see you all tomorrow. And thanks again.” She walks over to Nix and Garrett and hugs each of them in turn.

She turns toward me and pauses.

“I’ll walk you out.” Standing near the entryway, I wait for her. She walks nervously my way. When she reaches me I automatically press my hand to the small of her back to guide her to the front door. When I realize where my hand is, I pull away, but I swear I see her shiver.

She reaches for the doorknob and my hand covers hers. I leave it there as I ask, “Logan—he joined the service?”

“Yes, he’s a marine. He joined up right after high school, actually.”

“Hmm . . . I thought he was going to Washington State?”

She looks up at me. “He was, but his parents divorced and money was an issue, so he decided to enlist. He’s a sergeant now and stationed at Fort Bragg. He has a wife and three kids. He’s really happy.”

“That’s great. Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

She smiles that forced smile at me that I hate and I step just a little closer. My body burns with a need to see the real one, and I allow the fire to consume me. In a moment of weakness, I pull her snug to me. Her breath heats my skin and with my lips just barely brushing hers, I ask, “Ivy, are you sure about this?”

Silence hangs between us until she boldly steps back. Her voice is low and raspy, but her eyes are clear, focused, and still on mine. Her intentions are not the least bit questionable as she answers, “Yes. I’m sure. The past is the past, Xander. Let’s leave it there. We can move forward and do this.”

I stare at her, trying to read her for a different sign, but it’s not there, so I decide to do as she asks—leave the past behind. When her eyes break away from mine, she again reaches for the doorknob.

“Let me,” I say, motioning toward the door with my hand as she moves hers away. I pull the door open and she walks out.

“Good night, Xander,” she calls and looks back at me. “Thank you.”

“Good night, Ivy,” I respond and with a strong sigh I close the door—frustrated, confused, and maybe just a little optimistic.

My face is flecked with two-day-old stubble and my thick brown hair is a mess. I slept like shit. I have a lot on my mind and I had a hard time getting started this morning . . . Maybe I was just procrastinating while trying to figure everything out. There’s a battle going on in my head—Why is she really doing this? I understand she has limitations due to her contract but is there more to it? Did she feel what I felt the minute I saw her again—that what we had so long ago was still there? She could have joined up with any band, so why this one? Did she do it for me? Because I’m not sure I buy the win/win explanation.

Blinking the sunshine out of my eyes, I’m still trying to sort my thoughts as I walk through the doors of Tyler Records. We’ve come and gone in and out of the glass-and-steel building for years. Actually, ever since my mother started seeing Jack, he’s let us use the studio whenever we needed. My stepfather has been a huge asset to us, with his keen knowledge of the business and his unwavering willingness to help.

The band is so deep into rehearsing a song from our first album, they don’t even notice me as I quietly slip into the live room. I stand off to the side and check out the scene—Nix has a Fender strapped around him, Ivy is at the microphone singing “I’ll Find You” with unbelievable depth, Garrett’s at the drums, but the cymbals sound a little washy next to the electric keyboard. And at the board stands a tall guy with a spray of freckles across his nose and dirty-blond hair that I can only assume to be Leif Morgan. He’s wearing a pink button-down, and his wavy hair looks somewhat controlled by a slew of hair products, no doubt. I had pictured someone completely different—older, more fatherly, not a guy that looked like he modeled for Abercrombie and Fitch. Why, I’m not sure, but I think it was because of the fondness I saw in Ivy’s eyes when she said his name.

I listen for a moment and I’m immediately impressed—his playing is spot-on. We just need to work on getting everyone in the same scale. All in all, not bad for the first time they’ve all come together. Shadows from behind the glass pique my curiosity. No one was supposed to be here today. I stride toward the front of the studio, and the sound engineer waves me into the control room. The heavily equipped space is state-of-the-art, including the latest digital audio workstations. I glance at Phil. “What’s up?”

He presses the speaker button. “Hang on, guys. Give me a minute,” he tells the band.

Ivy rocks back and forth, smiling at him and unleashing her soft laugh before she stops singing and replies, “No problem. We’re not going anywhere.”

I can’t stop myself from turning at the sound of her low, creamy voice through the intercom. Her profile is nothing short of perfection. She sets her guitar down, and when she lifts her head our eyes collide. For the briefest of moments I think I feel the stirring of her heart in mine. She blinks and gives me an obligatory nod before shifting her gaze. I do the same, but my nod is slow, wistful, wanting, and I don’t look away. I watch as she studies the music sheets in front of her. Her deep blue eyes practically dart with enthusiasm as she points to the papers on the stand and starts explaining something to the guys. She glances quickly at me again and notices my stare. But she immediately averts her gaze and continues with her conversation, tapping her leg to her own beat. She looks beautiful—every curve of her body is visible. She’s wearing fitted jeans that hug her narrow hips and a tank top that clings to her perky tits. She is perfect.

Phil extends his hand as I approach him. “Hey, man, good to see you.” Phil is the kind of guy who punctuates every sentence with man.

“You too.”

He gives me a friendly thump on the back and with a broad grin he leads me over to his desk.

“We’re just in here for rehearsal time,” I let him know because I see him slithering into recording mode.

“I know, man. But I couldn’t help but listen in. I think we should record a track and remix Ivy’s voice in with River’s.”

“Glad for your enthusiasm, Phil, but we’re not ready for that.”

“No, man, you have to hear this. I’ve already played around with it. Just listen.”

He pulls up a sound bite on his computer and hits PLAY. Her voice surrounds me, followed by River’s, and I have to tell him, “It sounds fucking amazing.”

“I know, man, I told you. Imagine what it will sound like if we pop that sweet tart in an isolation booth.”

I suck in a breath and hold it to keep myself from pounding a guy who’s always been a friend. Letting it out, I slide my eyes toward her. “Her name is Ivy, man.”

He laughs. “Yeah, man, I know her name. I just like the sound of the words pop and sweet tart mixed together with isolation booth, if you know what I mean.”

Anger flashes through me as I shoot fire at him with my eyes. “I wouldn’t talk like that. It might get you in trouble.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I was only kidding around,” he says, with concern ringing clear in his voice.

I turn to leave the room, throwing over my shoulder, “I’ll get back to you on the remix.”

Garrett pounces on me when I push on the large steel bar across the heavy door to exit the studio through the rear. “Where are you going?”

I gesture down the hall toward the alley. “I need to get some air. I have a fucking headache and the air in the studio is stifling.”

“How about an aspirin?” he asks.

“I’m good.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, I just needed some fresh air. And what’s with the fifty questions?”

He eyes me. “Your past with her isn’t going to be an issue, is it?”

“No, Garrett. I’m just beat.”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He puts his hands up. “I’ll leave you alone, but how about we grab some dinner tonight?”

“Sounds good.”

He turns around and walks back toward the studio. I keep going and open the last door leading me outside. The sun shines bright and the sound of the music fades as I take the three steps to the sidewalk, where I can finally breathe. Blurry from exhaustion and hungover from too much booze, I give in and stumble backward. Sitting on the bottom step, I cradle my head in my hands and pray I can do this—that I can handle being around her every day and still do my job.