Stay Here

Prologue

Rayne

It begins with a song. My song. Okay, to be precise, it’s not my song. My father is the one who wrote it, but he wrote it for me: “Mockingbird.”

The melody is familiar. So are the lyrics and the sound of the guitar. It’s a bit rough, because the instrument is probably old. But that’s not a bad thing.

Everything about the song is familiar.

Except the voice. It’s also a bit rough around the edges and, at the same time, incredibly gentle.

Like silk on sandpaper. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a voice like that before.

Not even Dad has a voice like that, even though it was his voice that made him famous.

His is just as rough as this one, but much deeper.

It resonates in his chest, and every time I hear him sing, I get goose bumps.

But this voice gets under my skin and makes itself at home in every cell of my body. It goes all the way to my heart, which is dancing excitedly in my chest.

Sometimes it’s okay to get help

Fighting back the dust

Spread your wings, untie your chains

Let your voice be heard

We’ll be dancing in the rain

My lovely mockingbird

The last notes fade away, and then the song is over.

I start the video from the beginning again.

For the thirteenth time: It’s been on repeat for an hour.

I’ve got to show it to Dad when he comes home.

He’d like this version, I know it. It’s different from all the others I’ve found so far.

It’s more like a mix of pop and rock, closer to pop.

It’s faster and less melancholy than Dad’s acoustic version.

Dad’s song is dominated by his voice and guitar, nothing else.

Most people try to copy the original ballad, but very few succeed.

Even if they do, it sounds like an imitation.

But these guys have made the song their own.

I’ve found countless versions of “Mockingbird” because I look for them every day. Maybe I’m a bit obsessed with listening to people sing about me. But none of them have been like this.

I’ve shown Dad three cover versions so far, one of which he liked. That was two years ago. Casey, the girl who sang it, got a record deal with Dad’s label afterward. Now she’s singing her own songs, touring the world, and living the life she always dreamed of.

I’m still sitting in the living room of my parents’ place in LA, trying to find the perfect cover. Back then, I thought I’d found it.

Now I know it wasn’t true. Now I know that this one is better. He’s better. This guy with a guitar in his hands, standing in a record store singing my song. And he’s not just singing it; he’s feeling it. Every line, every word. Me.

He’s not alone. There are four guys in We Are No Saints, and they’re all good.

Very good. There’s one with a buzz cut sitting at the drums with a wide grin on his face.

He’s playing like his life depends on it and he would willingly give everything up just to play.

The others seem to feel the same way. The guy with the bass has piercings in his eyebrow and a look of intense concentration on his face.

His hands are moving quickly and surely, as though he’s played the song a thousand times.

There are the two singers, both holding guitars.

One blond, the other dark-haired. Rhythm and lead guitar.

The blond is singing backing vocals in close harmony.

He has a nice voice, soft and clear, that fits perfectly with his bandmate’s.

The lead singer is the reason I keep repeating the video, though. His voice makes my heart flutter.

He looks to be a few years older than me, probably in his early twenties.

Dark, tousled hair that’s a little shorter on the sides than at the top, and a face that anyone in Hollywood would kill for.

Clearly defined features, full lips, thick brows and lashes.

His eyes are half closed so I can’t see what color they are, only that they’re dark.

He’s stunning. But his face isn’t the reason that I keep replaying the video.

It’s because of his voice and hands. I have a weakness for beautiful hands, and his are extremely beautiful, with long, slender, dexterous fingers.

A shiver goes through me as I start the video from the beginning again. I could listen to him forever.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and whirl around in surprise.

Dad’s standing behind me. He’s saying something, but I can’t understand him over the voice that’s still singing “Mockingbird” in my headphones.

I take them off and hand them to Dad. “You’ve got to hear this,” I say without greeting him or asking what he just said.

His eyebrows go up as he smiles. “That good, huh?”

“Better.” I can’t hide the sound of excitement in my voice, and my gaze wanders automatically to Dad’s Grammy on the mantelpiece, glowing golden in the soft light of the floor lamp, as if the miniature gramophone is trying to tell me something.

Dad won the award five years ago for “Mockingbird.” For my song.

Since then, I’ve been searching the internet for cover versions.

Dad walks around the sofa and sits down next to me. He’s come straight from some gala with Mom and is still wearing his suit, but at least he loosens his tie before putting on the headphones. I press play again and hand him my phone.

My heart is beating way too fast, and I watch every movement of his face, every twitch of his mouth and eyebrows and the flicker of his dark eyes as he listens.

“Liam? Did you—” Mom’s voice breaks off at the same time as the click of her high heels on the wooden floor.

I turn to look and see her standing in the doorway, a bemused smile on her face.

Her blond hair falls in a cascade of soft waves over her shoulders.

She’s wearing a gorgeous midnight-blue evening gown, and the grace she exudes, even standing still, fills me with wonder.

She’s beautiful. A dancer through and through, even though her career was over before I was even born.

I can try as hard as I want; I’ll never be like her. The thought flashes through my mind before I can help it. I’ve never been able to just ignore it, but I push it aside resolutely. This isn’t about ballet right now. It’s not about Mom. It’s not about me, either. It’s just about the song.

“I should have known you’d be in here,” Mom says, walking over to us. She points to my phone as she sits down next to me and kicks off her killer heels. “What are you listening to?”

“Mockingbird,” I reply, glancing at Dad. His eyes are closed, and there’s a deep crease between his eyebrows. He’s totally focused, and I shift nervously on the sofa cushions because it’s been ages since I’ve seen him like this when he’s listening to a cover. Two years, to be precise.

Mom laughs softly, her light-gray eyes gleaming. “Why am I even asking?”

“No clue.” I grin at her, and she reaches out to brush a strand of dark hair behind my ear.

“Weren’t you going to have Hailey over tonight? I thought you wanted to do a girls’ night while you had the place to yourself.”

I shrug. Sure, we wanted to take advantage of the fact that my parents weren’t home. But sometimes there are more important things. At least for my best friend. “She canceled. The guy she likes finally asked her out, and I didn’t want to get in her way.”

“That was sweet of you.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s me.”

But that’s not the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. Hailey was the one who decided that nothing would get in her way tonight, not even me. But Mom doesn’t have to know that.

She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Have you been listening to music all evening, then?”

“More or less.” I shrug. “I also started watching a new show.”

She stretches. “Sounds like a relaxing evening.”

“Yes, I—” I break off as Dad takes off the headphones. “Well?” I demand. “What do you think?”

“You’re right. That’s good. Really good!” He breaks into a wide smile, and I squeal with excitement.

“Does that mean you’re going to show it to Alan?”

“That means I’ll see what the guys have to offer, and then I’ll talk to Alan.” He passes back my phone and stands up. “But first, I need to get out of this suit.”

Grinning, I press the phone to my chest, my heart beating like crazy. “Thanks, Dad!”

I blow him a kiss and nestle deeper into the sofa cushions as he leaves the living room. He really liked it. And he’s going to check out the band. It’s silly how happy that makes me.

“Sweetheart, we need to talk about the audition again,” Mom says. Her words bring the tingle of happiness in my stomach to an abrupt halt. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

I turn to face her. “Why should I? I’m not going to get in anyway. I’m not good enough, Mom, and you know that as well as I do.”

“That’s not true. You’ve got talent, Rayne.” There’s an undertone of hope in her voice, and I hate to disappoint her.

“I don’t. I may not be a complete disaster, but I’m not good enough for the New England School of Ballet.”

She sighs. “What can I do to convince you otherwise? You’re good enough. Good enough for anything you want to do.”

“Mom, please,” I say, feeling awful. We’ve talked about this so many times, and the result is always the same.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “You should do what makes you happy.”

I want to say something, anything, but I’m at a loss for words.

I don’t know what makes me happy. I have no idea what I want to do with my life.

But I know perfectly well that I have to make a decision soon.

I’ll be graduating from high school in a few months, and I haven’t applied to any colleges yet.

Now it’s basically too late, or it would be if I weren’t who I am.

Or if Mom and Dad weren’t who they are. My grades are good, and thanks to their connections, I can probably get into any college I choose. If I only wanted to.