Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ross
I don’t remember the exact moment that I fell in love with Clara and that haunted me for years after her death—but now I understand why.
What I’ve discovered is that falling in love is not a moment—it’s a series of moments that culminate in something magical when it finally hits you.
The day in Vancouver was a handful of those moments.
We lost ourselves in the city and each other.
Talking, laughing, holding hands. We shopped and ate and explored, walking down side streets and along the river. There was a museum exhibit she wanted to take in, and we spent two hours staring at art that made no sense to me but made her incredibly happy.
Then we stopped in a music store.
Unless one of the guys in the band needs something or there’s a specific luthier they want to visit, I can’t remember the last time I walked into one. As we stand outside debating whether or not to go in, I realize that no matter what decision I make about my professional future, I need a guitar.
After the bus crash, I had our management company sell almost everything.
I told myself I would never pick up an instrument again.
That turned out to be a lie—I’ve played guitar quite a bit with Onyx Knight in a casual setting or when testing equipment—but I don’t personally own a decent guitar, something I could use to perform.
Back home in my Los Angeles apartment, there’s a cheap acoustic Z gave me.
I use it sometimes when I feel the pull to play but could never bring myself to use it for anything beyond working on some of the lyrics going on in my head.
That’s one thing that hasn’t changed—my instinctive need to write songs.
I’ve sold a few over the years, made a little money when I couldn’t find any other job, but it stopped being a priority once I did.
And now they’re mostly scraps scribbled on napkins and hotel notepads, filling a briefcase I no longer carry.
Between the accident and my change in career, I found my confidence floundering.
On top of that, it wasn’t my usual style either, vacillating between painful, poignant and depressing songs about life. Death. And everything in between.
It felt deeply personal, my own type of self-medication.
But I wasn’t ready to show anyone.
Gradually, that changed, and there are songs I think are pretty good.
Regardless, even if it’s just to play a few tunes for my girl or to entertain myself on a day off, I need a damn guitar.
A good one. An expensive one. I know the guys in the band would give me any number they have lying around, but I don’t want something secondhand.
If I buy a guitar, it has to be something specific.
“Look at this one,” Wynter calls from the other side of the room.
The electric guitar is…almost an exact replica of the one I played with Ross & the Rock-its. A flying V shape, electric blue, and the prettiest thing I’ve seen other than Wynter in a very long time.
With a price tag to match.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, running a hand along the neck. “But that’s a lot of money.”
“You’re worth it,” Wynter says softly.
“And if I decide I don’t want to do the rock star thing? Then what?”
She glances up at me with a curious expression on her face. “Um, you own a beautiful guitar that makes you happy and you can play whenever you feel like it?”
“Can I help you?” An older gentleman, probably the owner of the store, approaches us with a friendly smile.
“She’s a beauty,” I tell him, “but I wasn’t planning to buy a car today.”
He chuckles. “Well, it’s a very small car, and gets great mileage.”
I smile, turning back to the guitar. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Now I do because…I’m not sure why. I want a guitar but this one would be the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned. Okay, it’s not the price of a car in today’s market but maybe a small car. Twenty years ago.
“You want to play it?” he asks after a brief pause. “She really is special.”
Fuck.
Reluctantly, I pick it up.
I’m immediately swept back in time.
“I need this guitar.” Joey studies the replica of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar in the New York City store with eyes big as saucers. He’s such a little kid when it comes to guitars.
“Dude, you have like, twelve cents to your name,” I point out.
He waves an impatient hand. “That’s what credit cards are for.”
“And how are you going to make the payments? We haven’t made a dime yet.”
“But we will.” He gives me his most charming, confident grin before turning and jogging into the store.
“Have a seat.” The store owner brings a stool and I’m so lost in thought, I slide onto it without hesitation.
Damn, it feels good in my hands.
Without giving it a lot of thought, I play the opening notes to “Shoot For the Stars.” It’s so easy, natural, to play it. Like I just played it yesterday instead of nineteen years ago.
“I thought that was you,” the store owner says quietly. “I’ve been reading about you stepping in for Kingston Knight. How’s that feel after so many years out of the business?”
I open my mouth to contradict him—since I’ve been working in the business nonstop, just not as a musician—but let it go.
“It feels better than I thought it would,” I admit. “It’s been fun.”
“The rumors true that you might revamp the old band?”
I shake my head firmly. “No. I might record a new album, as Ross Rockit, but Ross & the Rock-its is gone. It would be disrespectful to my boys.”
He nods like he understands. “I respect that. But I’ll tell ya, if you did a solo project, I’d be the first to buy it.”
I smile up at him, my fingers moving over the frets easily.
This is really the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen.
“He’ll take it,” Wynter says quietly, pulling her credit card out of her purse.
The older man smiles.
“Wait. Wynter, what are you doing?”
“Making a decision for you,” she replies, nodding at the owner.
“Babe, no.” I quickly stand up. “I can afford the guitar.”
“It’s not about what you can afford,” she says softly, her eyes boring into mine. “It’s about buying you something meaningful.”
“I don’t need presents.”
“I know.”
There doesn’t seem to be any response to that, so I lean in and kiss her. “Thank you. I love that you want to do this, but I can’t let you. You’re technically unemployed.”
She laughs. “I have almost no bills. I can buy you a guitar if I want to.” She dances out of reach and follows the store owner up to the front.
Dammit.
I can’t allow her to buy me a guitar like this.
Especially since I feel like she’s pushing me toward doing the solo act thing.
I truly haven’t made a decision and I don’t want a big purchase like this to influence it. The pull—to record new music and to buy this guitar—is hard to resist. But there’s another part of me that doesn’t want to start over. It’s not even really about my old band or the loss or any of it.
I’m forty-two. Not old, but not young. I’ve finally reached a point in life where I make a great living, I’m saving for the future, and now I might be building that future with a very special woman.
If I try to reinvent myself as solo Ross Rockit, I can’t concentrate on any of the things that have become important to me, including Wynter. Becoming a rockstar, in the most general sense of the word, is all-encompassing.
I look over to where Wynter and the store owner are talking.
He’s packing up the guitar, throwing in free strings and a handful of picks.
Even the case is beautiful, a swirling design embroidered into the leather.
“Hey, stop.” I lean over and kiss Wynter’s cheek. “I’ve got this, babe.” I hand the guy my black American Express card. The one the band gave me for literally anything that might come up. It’s the only one I have that would allow such a large purchase without prior authorization.
And I do have the money in savings, so I can pay them back immediately.
“But I wanted to,” she protests.
“I know. But this is the first guitar since…well, you know. I have to be the one to buy it. It has to be my next step. A way for me to push past the grief. Does that make any sense at all?”
And of course, Wynter understands.
“It does.” She moves closer to me and whispers, “but know that I was willing to buy it to help you take the next steps in healing. That’s the important thing. No matter what you decide professionally.”
This right here is why I’m falling in love with her.
It’s also why I’m second-guessing my decision.
The irony doesn’t escape me but I’m too blissed out on my new guitar to worry about that. That’s a tomorrow problem.