Chapter Ten
Malik
Iwasn’t certain whether I should’ve brought up his migraines. Whether in relation to the storm clouds, or even at all. He was a grown man—nearly a decade and a half older than me—he could bloody well manage his headaches on his own.
Only, after watching Abrianna suffer for the first year I knew her—and then the year migraine-free after that—I didn’t want Spencer to be in any more pain than absolutely necessary.
I didn’t know all his triggers, of course, but if Creed’s sister’s experiences were similar to Spencer’s, storms were a big part of them. Possibly everything else as well.
Well, except likely not hormones and periods. TMI, frankly, but Abri shared liberally. To prepare me for being a good boyfriend if I ever dated a woman who got migraines. Who knew all that prep would be used toward a guy with the same affliction?
He sat in his chair as I wandered in.
“Bonnie said she’d bring us a couple of glasses of water. I said I could do it, but—”
Even as I said the words, the efficient woman came in with two tall glasses of ice water. She put them on coasters on Spencer’s desk, gave me an extra-special smile, and then sauntered out of the office. Her “thanks for the salad,” was barely audible as she closed the door behind her.
I met Spencer’s gaze and blinked.
“She’s efficient. There’s no two ways about it. The nice woman who worked here before…wasn’t. But she was a holdover from Maude’s days. Oh, thank you.”
He smiled a little shyly as I handed him his wrapped sandwich.
“I convinced her to take early retirement. Bonnie was the first person I interviewed for the job. I saw six others that day but none came close to impressing me the way she did. She came from the not-for-profit sector and was looking to reorient herself after a bad breakup—with the charity she worked for. Things had, in her words, gone off the rails. She made it clear if our focus ever wavered, she’d jump ship. ”
“Oh.” I dropped onto the sofa, pulled out my bowl and fork, and started to stir.
“So, is that why you’re worried about me?
That I might, I don’t know, upset your apple cart?
Which is a weird expression, but my mother used it all the time.
Behave, Malik. Don’t upset the apple cart, Malik.
Wait until your father gets home, Malik.
” I shivered. “That one was pretty effective—my father was…a difficult man. I never wanted to disappoint him.”
“Was he the reason you played violin?”
I scrunched my nose. “Yes and no.” I took a mouthful of food.
Spencer cocked his head.
I rushed to chew, and then swallow, my food.
“We had a grand piano in the house. From a really early age, I’d sit at it and play tunes.
I’d even make things up. Clearly, I had a gift neither parent did.
But my father wanted more than just a piano prodigy.
He considered that too…common. Even for a young Black boy.
So, he hired the symphony conductor who took me through just about every instrument out there.
For some reason, the violin fit. My father then found the most qualified instructor in the city to take over the tutelage.
” I shrugged. “When it comes to musical instruments, I’m a quick study.
Don’t get me wrong—I enjoyed the violin very much.
Just…the opportunities to compose pieces didn’t come often, and they weren’t exciting. Truthfully, I just love rock music.”
“Well, thank you for explaining that.”
“I’m not certain I did. Once I showed an aptitude for violin, my father decided I needed to be a prodigy.
The youngest to do everything. Even the best at everything.
Now, I wasn’t…other kids before me had broken the new ground in those respects.
That said, I was showcased at an early age. ” I took another bite of food.
“Because of your talent?” He bit into his sandwich.
I swallowed. “Partly. Also, because I was a little Black kid. We’re not as common in Vancouver as in other parts of Canada like Toronto. And where I went to school? I was pretty much on my own.”
“Ouch.”
He held my gaze with those mesmerizing green eyes. Eyes that made me want to tell him everything. Like where I lived, how life had been as a kid— all the shit I’d gone through.
“Yet you gave all that up.”
“I suppose.” I stirred my food. “I carried on at first, after my parents died. I wanted to make my dad proud. Eventually, though, I realized everything I was doing was for him—and he wasn’t even here to see it.
Either to praise or to criticize. Which, I freely admit, he did way more of one than the other.
” More criticism and less praise. Obviously.
I didn’t want Spencer to feel sorry for me—but I did want him to understand where I’d come from and why I was the way I was.
“What made you quit entirely?”
“I woke up one morning, looked at myself in the mirror, and acknowledged in no way could I play the violin in an orchestra for the next forty years and feel anything but a dull ache and a sense of loss. Yes, my father pushed me into it. Yes, I did it for him. I also did it for myself. I’m a competitive person, and I wanted to be the best. The best was studying music at the University of British Columbia and then joining the symphony.
” I shrugged. “That was all pretty straightforward. We’d talked about me taking guest first chairs at other orchestras. That would’ve eventually happened.”
“But you quit.”
“That day I decided. I had six more performances to go. They were tortuous because I’d tendered my resignation.
I kept thinking what if I’ve made the wrong decision?
What if I’m fucking up my life?” I shrugged yet again, trying to find the right words.
“The director of the orchestra said I’d always be welcome back, but that felt hollow.
I’d be starting from scratch. Yet, I knew. ” I took another bite.
“Knew?”
I swallowed. “That I’d made the right decision.
I had an old acoustic guitar I pulled out of storage.
I started playing around with it. Once I’d left the orchestra entirely, I bought an electric guitar and amp, and sheet music for hundreds of songs.
I locked myself in my basement studio for a month and played until my fingers bled.
By the end, though, I had a sense of who I was and what I wanted.
I started going to shows around town. Dive bars, night clubs—anywhere I could find live music.
I caught Creed playing drums with a truly horrific group. I mean…” I shuddered.
Spencer grinned. “Apparently that didn’t stop you.”
“Well, the singer was atrocious, the bassist kept fucking up the rhythm, and the keyboardist must’ve been high on something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he was literally playing the wrong song.”
“Oh.” Spencer cocked his head as if trying to work it out in his mind.
I wanted to assure him that whatever he came up with, the reality had been infinitely worse.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t work.”
“Nope. But the drummer held the band together. I approached him that night and asked if he was interested in joining me. I had zero cred, nothing to recommend myself except an amazing rehearsal space in my basement as well as the balls to proposition a guy who was still coated in sweat from the set he’d just done with his current band. ”
“And?”
“He was in my basement the next afternoon. By the time we found Freddie for keyboards and Reese for bass, we had a pile of songs. We had to play some pretty dicey places at first, but we worked our way up. My job working at a recording studio introduced me to some amazing people. I convinced some of them to take a chance on us. Our first album came out in April, and we’ve already got songs ready to go for the next one.
” I shoved another forkful of food in my mouth.
Curry truly was one of my all-time favorite flavors.
Had been even before Creed had brought me to his home to meet Mama Murthi.
“And you have grander ambitions? Sorry, I keep asking questions while you’re eating.”
I swallowed. “All good. I was hungry. Uh, yeah. We’re sending a demo to the Rocktoberfest people down in Black Rock. We’re hoping to get in for next year. That would be, like, huge.”
“Grindstone just performed there, right?” He sounded certain, but I read the question in his eyes.
“Yeah. My friend sent me the footage—epic. I want to be there next year. I mean, we’d probably be on a smaller stage on the first night…but it’s a dream.”
“A far way from the Queen Elizabeth Theatre.”
The performance venue where I’d played for years.
“Yep. Like, and that’s okay. I did what I had to do to make Dad proud when he was alive. I don’t regret studying music at the university. I don’t wish I’d taken another path. But I also couldn’t keep living my father’s dream. I had to…basically become my own man.”
“Which you seem to have done.” He folded the wrapper and dropped it into the recycling bin by his desk. He snagged a water and took a long pull.
“Yeah, I’ve done all that. For better or for worse. But I’ve got to get more exposure. Razor Made is just some Canadian Indie rock band. We need more credentials, and followers, to get a spot at Rocktoberfest.” Please understand how important this is to me.
“And you plan to use your association with my organization to get you that exposure?” He used air quotes.
I frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Our organization has been here for a long time, but suddenly you appear. At the same time, you need to be seen more.” He frowned. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the two things are related.”
I wanted to argue.
He was wrong, but I couldn’t find the words to refute his assertion. “Wow. You really don’t think highly of me.” Not what I really wanted to say—but good enough. “I should be going.”
“Malik—”
“What?” I hadn’t moved from the couch, but I had a plan to leave. I’d wish Bonnie well, grab a few autographed CDs from my SUV, take them—along with the canvas bag—to the café. Then I’d leave this part of town and not return for a while.
Yeah, that was the plan.
Yet, still I sat. Waiting for him to make another pronouncement from on high.
“Life is rarely simple. You want clicks and likes to boost your profile and to get you on the road to a recording contract. Is that about the state of affairs?”
I scratched my chin. “You make it sound like I’m a mercenary—out for all I can get.”
“Are you not? You’re using us.”
“Hey, that’s not fair.”
“Something can be not fair and correct at the same time.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“How about I compose an anthem? You can decide if it’s something you can use.
I can make it a full band rock’n’roll, or I can do an acoustic guitar piece.
Hell, for you, I’d even play the violin.
” My playing would be a little rusty after two years of disuse, but I was capable of anything.
The instrument would sing in my hands again.
I’d find my long-lost love of the violin. For Spencer, I’d do anything.
“That’s very generous.” He cleared his throat. “And a lot to ask of you.”
“Composing and then recording the song is what I do for a living.” I gave him a wicked smile. “You know I’m capable.”
“I know there are many things you can do. Turns out, I’m slowly discovering them.” A frown marred his brow—like he didn’t want to admit I had talents beyond getting in trouble.
“Give me a shot—you’ve got nothing to lose.”
He eyed me. “I have plenty to lose. That said, you have something very special that I value—enthusiasm. Even if you’re here for all the wrong reasons, you know you want to help.
Hell, I don’t understand why you’re here.
The real reason, I mean.” He let out a long breath.
“Yes, go ahead and write an anthem for us. I can’t guarantee we’ll use it and I also can’t pay you. ”
My knee-jerk reaction was to challenge him. Not on the pay part—because I knew I was doing this for free. No, I wanted to challenge him on why I was here. Or rather, why he thought I was here. Still, I grinned. “Give me a couple of days.”
“Take as long as you like.” He rose.
I hesitated. I really didn’t want to leave. We’d had fun. Or at least I had. Still, he’d stood and, generally, that meant the other person was supposed to stand as well. For once, I did as I was expected.
Well, that might’ve been a huge exaggeration.
Just, in this moment, I didn’t want to let go.
Much as I’d felt at my parents’ funeral.
Of wanting just one second more. To be a better person.
To be who they wanted me to be. Why are you seeking his approval?
You know you won’t get it, and you damn well don’t need it.
I sought the truth in the words my inner voice was providing me but, in that moment, I felt only regret.
So I rose and held out my hand. “I’ll be in touch. ”
“Yeah. Great.” He grasped my hand.
An arc of electricity passed between the two of us. I felt it.
Judging by the widening of his pupils, he felt it too.
“Jesus, I want to kiss you so badly.” Because why not lay everything on the table? If I’d learned one thing from my parents’ death, it was that tomorrow was never guaranteed.
Ever.
So, seizing the day held appeal. Carpe diem and all that crap.
“This is a bad idea.” He whispered the words even as he continued to grip my hand.
“As you like to remind me, I’m not always known for doing the right thing.” I tugged. Gently—but insistently.
He stepped into my personal space.
I tipped my head up to maintain eye contact.
He licked his lips.
I grasped his cheeks and pulled him closer.
Our lips touched.