Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (56 page)

He took her in every way imaginable inside that darkened room that night. In the final act of possession, he clung to her, the wisp of a spirit that enveloped him, floating like vapor as he forced himself into her soul. Emily. His Emily.

Later he wrapped his body around hers and buried his face into her shoulders. They lay there for an immeasurable time, breathing hard, trembling from the unimaginable experience they had shared. Both were shaken not by what they were capable of, but by the desperate and raw emotions it awakened in both of them. They surrendered to it—not wanting to understand, not wanting to fight anymore.

22

A
NDREW
G
LANCED
T
HROUGH
H
IS
bedroom curtains and watched as swathes of gray fog cast across the sky and forced back the early morning sun that threatened to break through.

Emily lay sleeping upstairs. During the night he had carried her back to her bed, preferring she woke in the morning there in his arms instead of shivering to death on the cold attic floor. Despite being fast asleep when he crawled in beside her, she soon became restless, muttering and tossing and turning until he had hushed her into stillness. Soon after, they fell asleep intertwined, silent lovers with no more nightmares haunting either of them.

At dawn he awoke. It took all his willpower to slip out from under the sheets and steal down the stairs, but he had to; he needed to attend to some unfinished business. His plan was to jog to the ocean and make the call from there in the hopes that the crisp sea air would keep his head straight and his emotions at bay. He also had no desire for Emily to overhear this particular conversation. Business was business; Neil had been right, he could not ignore S.J. any longer.

The air was salty and thick, making the run easy; his muscles were sore yet loosening with every stride. But the salty air only brought back the images from last night. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake those vile pictures from his mind. It was as though he had been inside Nick, feeling the steering wheel under his clenched hands.

He’d never been what one would call religious. He believed in God, he went that far, but he put his foot down when it came to any of this past life rot. Yet he had spoken to ghosts, ghosts that had warned him repeatedly about death. And Emily, what about her nightmares? Did the same images haunt her? The same cliffs and sea? Did Nora scream in her dreams?

His running shoes smacked harder against the pavement and startled a flock of ravens into flight; their caws echoed madly and sent a jolt to his heart. No. This was absurd. Reality—he needed to focus on reality. Ghosts, warnings, premonitions, nightmares, they were not reality. This was what was real: Emily and he would be together all weekend. They would not take any undue risks. They would have their friends by their side. They wouldn’t venture near the edge of any cliffs. They would survive. End of story.

By the time he reached the coffee stand near the beach, his mind and heart were focused. He was Andrew Hayes, there would be no surprises and no nightmares, nothing he couldn’t control. He dialed the number.

“Well, if it isn’t the invisible man,” S.J.’s voice scoffed from the other end. “Now, to stand me up for drinks is one thing, but avoiding me completely? Surely you’re not that temperamental, are you?”

From her tone he could tell she was irritated, but not angry. He still retained the upper hand in all this.

“Good morning to you too, S.J. I have to apologize for not returning your call. We had a gig last night that’s monopolized our time these last few days. Neil informed me that you rang him regarding the
Rolling Stone
shoot, and he wanted to make sure that I got back to you as soon as possible.”

The line hung dead for a few moments. He could almost hear her stubbing out her cigarette. “How many days has it been since I called? Or has it been a week?” Evidently he was wrong. She was angry. She had also put him on speakerphone. “When I call you, I expect the decency of a call in return. If you don’t want to do this, I can easily call
Rolling Stone
and let them know. They have a vast pool of talent to choose from. Agreeing to this shoot included making yourself available. Are you available or not?”

“Look S.J., I have apologized. I don’t know what else you want me to say, but that’s the best I can do. If you want to lecture me on another facet of my reprobate behavior, then by all means, be my guest. I have many, many more faults for you to choose from—take your pick. I’m sure the conversation will be riveting. Otherwise, I’d prefer to discuss the shoot. I believe you would as well.”

Silence.

“My, you are a smug British shit, aren’t you?”

“Only when I try.”

Laughter emanated from the phone. He exhaled, relieved by the sound.

“Well
Rolling Stone
wants access to you ASAP, meaning today and tomorrow. They’d like to do some outside location work, and possibly some shots at your home. Neil told me your house is a wreck with walls falling down or some other mess, and Robert thought it would make for a great backdrop for an up and coming band.”

“Did you say today and tomorrow?”

“Yes. That isn’t a problem, is it?”

He hesitated. “We’re going away for the weekend, and we’ve already planned on leaving tomorrow morning—”

“Whatever you have planned can’t be as important as this. Seriously, Andrew. I don’t care what you have to do, cancel it or postpone it, but you jerk around these people anymore and—”

“Emily…” Her name slipped his lips before he could stop it. The air on the other end of the phone crackled.

“Do I need to remind you that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity?”

He paced along the sidewalk as surfers unloaded their boards around him, their gaze searching the sky and out to sea to assess conditions. The rhythmic tapping of her nails was the only sound on the line. S.J. was right—he couldn’t fuck up this chance.

“Where do you want us today?”

He could hear her smile through the phone, and the tapping of her nails ceased.

“Meet me at my offices at noon. You and your band mates will need to clear your schedules completely for the next two days. And just to prove to you that I do have a heart, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll insist that no work takes place over the weekend, how’s that? Acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then I’ll see you here at noon. You still have my card, right? Or did you toss it away in a fit of rebellion?”

“Yes,” he said and hung up, letting her decide which of her questions he had answered.

“Hey, I think we should just tell them that we’ll leave early on Saturday morning. So we lose a night? It isn’t going to kill us,” said Simon, driving their truck downtown.

“By the way,” Andrew said, glancing over at Christian, “I never got a chance to comment about your proposal last night. Incredibly subtle, that.”

“Oh yeah, that.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You’re certifiable. Marriage. Shit. The option of last resort, is what that is,” muttered Simon. “So I suppose we’ll be looking for a new bass player next?”

Andrew felt his stomach clench at the thought.

“Never,” Christian answered without hesitation. “Lots of people make it work, right? This whole marriage and touring thing, I mean. I’ve really been thinking about it.”

Simon proceeded to systematically shoot down every couple Christian fronted, much to his growing consternation.

“We’ll just find a way,” Christian said with blind optimism. “Zoey is all for coming on the road this summer—if you guys aren’t against it, that is. I figure the bus would be cleaner and we’d eat decently for once.”

Andrew’s eyes widened in shock. He looked over at Simon, whose face had taken on a kind of strangled quality.

“This summer?” Simon slammed on the brakes. “You’re shittin’ me? You’re moving rather fast, don’t you think?”

“Nah. She’s was taking the summer off anyway. She said she might want to try it out, and as long as she has a sketch pad, she doesn’t care. Called it our ‘Bodacious Summer of Love.’”

Simon stared at Andrew across Christian’s smiling face. Andrew could feel his heart fall into his gut. How did this happen? How could Christian have gotten so far with his woman while he hadn’t even found the courage to open his mouth to Emily? What was he afraid of? Emily saying no? Her hating life on the road so much she’d never want to go again?
Fuck.

“Now all you gotta do is get Emily to come along and we’re set,” Christian said, echoing his thoughts and giving him a confident slap on his shoulder. “Nice move with the ring. What’s that all about?”

“Nothing,” he replied.

“Thank God,” said Simon. “But I can tell you right now, you better not sit around the bus and fucking mope for her, cause I’d rather have a white hot soldering iron shoved up my ass.”

What supportive mates he had… He knew he couldn’t explain the situation to his band mates without incurring more of Simon’s hostility. Simon would never accept Emily if he understood she was truly his muse. But the more he thought about her coming on tour, the more sense it made. With Zoey joining them, the whole situation would be better. Emily wouldn’t be alone as much, or forced to hang around with three sloppy, juvenile, and periodically inebriated men. His sprits skyrocketed. She could tour with them this summer. It might not be a permanent solution, but it pushed back the time when they would be apart. A reprieve of sorts, but a brilliant one, nonetheless.

By the time they reached S.J.’s office he was totally chuffed, humming and beating his fingers on the dashboard. They could make this work. Everything was going to be stellar. With a valiant sense of purpose, they gazed up through the gathering clouds to the offices on the top floor of a glass and steel high-rise on Sansome, the urban smell of steam and success rising from the streets around them.

“Well gentlemen, prepare for greatness,” pronounced Simon, slipping on his sunglasses.

With huge smiles they headed in.

After they exited the elevator onto the fortieth floor, they passed through the imposing smoked-glass doors and into the lobby. An attractive receptionist welcomed them from her mahogany perch. Her accent was distinctly Liverpool, trying hard for Cheshire.

“It’s The Lost Boys to see Ms. Gordian, please,” Andrew replied with his most proper enunciation and most sincere smile.

She dropped the phone twice trying to dial. Simon rolled his eyes at him and went to scan the magazines.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” S.J. strode into the lobby escorted by two men. One he recognized as the photographer who had accompanied her at Diamonds, the other was a blond-haired writer-type who was finishing up a text. When he spotted them, he immediately pocketed away his Blackberry in his well-worn tweed jacket.

“May I introduce Glenn Sommers from
Rolling Stone
, and you already know Robert Bolen.”

“Gentlemen, Simon Godden, Christian Wood, and Andrew Hayes of The Lost Boys.”

As they shook hands, the inquisitive eyes of the journalist spotted the cut above Andrew’s eye and the bruise on his cheek. S.J. was studying him too as she escorted them to a conference room. She whispered in his ear, “Is it just a coincidence that Neil has a matching set?”

He didn’t respond.

“I have a little surprise for you, gentlemen,” said S.J. as she took her seat at the end of a rich teak table. “KFOG wants you to come into the studio tomorrow and do a live morning show. They specifically requested for you to showcase some of the new material from your latest album. It seems one of their producers was at your little performance the other night, thank you so much for the invite, by the way. She was tremendously impressed.”

“Why didn’t they contact us directly?” Andrew asked bluntly.

“Word just got around that I was working with you to help arrange this shoot and…you know how these things are.”

“No, I don’t.”

A tense quiet fell over the room. S.J. considered him and smiled. “I apologize if I overstepped my bounds, but I believe you can use all the help you can get.”