Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
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Sam’s brows pinch tight. “I’ll see you at dinner. Sunday. We’ll talk then.” His words are flat and measured.
“Is that an invitation?” She perks, flippantly. “I thought you gave that up?”
The curl of his lip is barely visible beneath his thick mustache. “I like my Sundays off, Savannah. It’s a good day for reflection, don’t you think? For some of us, it helps to plan our week. You know; to do a better job and be a better person than we were the week before—as the good Lord intended.”
The verbal sparring is intense and her forehead wrinkles. She levels him with the smile of an evil queen.
“Far be it from me to ever strive to disappoint the Lord.”
My brow quirks. The effect she has on him with her sugar-sweet, sing-song tone and her wise-ass attitude is pissing me off.
I look from her to him and see a tick of Sam’s jaw. I could swear he’s grinding his teeth. The look in his eyes could flatten her right now. It’s like one a father gives a disobedient child. I note he’s dropped her nickname and, instead, is using her formal name like a whip.
I want to say something, but I bite my tongue. I don’t like her attitude and can feel the small hairs on the back of my neck bristle. Since I’m ignorant of their relationship dynamic, I back off.
“My, my. That’s good to hear, Savannah, seeing how the Lord knows your heart and all.” A twitch curdles the corner of his eye, tainting the remainder of the conversation. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“You absolutely will.” Her tone is as mockingly bright as his is sour. Dismissing him, she turns to me and extends her arm to shake my hand. “Mr. Stanton, it’s been a pleasure. Safe travels.”
Her smug expression makes me angry, but I take her hand with a firm grip. Her fingers are as cold as her attitude and I’m not fond of bourgeois bitches.
“Oh, Ian’s not going anywhere. He lives here.” Sam interjects.
Wide-eyed, she snaps her icy blue eyes back to him. “Excuse me?”
She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I maintain my grip. It has a rebound effect and her gaze pops back to me. “Let go.”
I don’t budge. “Before I do, I’ve got a question: have we met?”
“What?” She answers, clearly annoyed.
“You look slightly familiar but then, there are too many blondes in my past to remember them all.” I reluctantly let go but can’t hide the satisfied grin sneaking up the corners of my mouth. I’m pissing her off. Good.
Her spine stiffens with an artic intensity, and, with narrowed eyes, her blue orbs throw icicle daggers.
“We have.” She punches the words like a death blow.
“I don’t remember you. Want to throw me a bone?”
She instantly attempts to school her expression and I’m amused at her effort. It’s for sure I’ve hit a nerve—which only makes this that much more fun.
She doesn’t answer me. Sam watches the exchange, and the curl of his lip reveals he’s entertained. I’m not sure I have to, but I rein myself in.
“Ms. Grace, I get the feeling you don’t like me very much.”
“Really?” She hikes up a perfectly shaped brow. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I detect those knives you’re throwing at me have a story behind them.”
She pauses, studies me, and, with a slight turn of her head, gives me a sanctimonious look. “We met after a concert. The last one you performed.”
“The last one, huh?” I purse my lips and bob my head. “Not one I like to remember but I’ll bet I was a real charmer.”
“You absolutely were.” She deadpans.
“I’m guessing you had a VIP ticket?”
“I did.” A painfully slow tip of her chin affirms her words.
I throw up my hands. “Well, there you go. Mystery solved. Guess I do have a bit of Sherlock in me.” I turn my back to her.
“That’s it? Nothing more to say?”
Her self-righteousness is showing. Little does she know I’m done being judged for the man I used to be. The seat of the barstool swivels as I turn back in her direction and lock down her eyes with my own.
“In case you missed it, I was shit-faced that night. But let me take a stab at what happened: you were excited, and I was rude. You got offended, so I ruined your night. End of story. That about right?”
“Slightly.” She shrugs off my snarky response like she’s swatting off a bug.
“ Slightly , huh? I can’t imagine why so little. From what I heard, I totally ruined everybody’s night. Was it a special occasion?”
“My birthday.”
“Did you go to the concert to celebrate?”
“I did.”
“Give me a minute to think.” I study her face, this time in earnest. I should remember a woman so beautiful, but nothing comes to me. “Sorry. I don’t remember you.”
The flinch she tries to hide is proof my words sting, and she strikes back. “Here’s a clue; that song I played tonight, Heal Me ?”
“Yep. Nice cover. It didn’t resemble our version, but I liked it.”
“You liked it, huh?” Venom drips through her tone and feeds her scowl. “It’s my song.”
“Excuse me?” I blink, sincerely confused.
“It’s. My. Song.” She practically snarls the clipped words.
I’m baffled.
“Look, you aren’t the first woman who’s ever said, ‘Oh, my god! This is my song’. I’m happy you made a personal connection; it’s a great song. But my fucking up your birthday is no reason to be rude to my friend. Sorry you had a shitty night—but I’m glad you like the song.”
Her chin drops and her head tips to the side. Just like before, she peers up at me with malice in her eyes. She mutters an evil chuckle as her eyes take on a devilish glow, and a knowing grin slinks through her lips.
“ Noooo. I’m glad you like it. The song is mine. I wrote it.”
This chick is crazy.
Perplexed, I look between her and Sam. He leans back against the bar with his arms folded across his chest. I have no idea what’s going on and he isn’t giving me any clues.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m the songwriter—though technically, it belongs to you and Boundless Hearts.” She musters a hint of resignation to accompany her eye roll.
“Interesting.” I shrug, pressing my lips together. “Good for you.”
She props a hand on her hip. “You guys recorded it but, the way I sang it tonight, is the way it was originally conceived.”
I surrender another shrug. “I get it. Your song. Our music. Money in both our pockets.”
I swallow a painful lump as memories rush at me. We made a lot of money with that song. Dash took care of the business side of the band. All of it. He was wicked smart and took care of me and the guys in every way. He not only wrote songs but acquired others. The contests were to engage fans. I trusted Dash with everything, including my life. Unfortunately, his didn’t have a happy ending.
Remembering Dash’s death hits me with a sucker punch and my mouth has gone dry. I gulp down the remaining contents of my drink. The effort to fight my hands from shaking suddenly seems Herculean. Jeri, like Sam, has been watching and listening. Noting my uneasiness, Jeri taps my hand and points to my glass. I nod, desperate for a refill.
“So, I guess that’s it.” The twitch in Savannah’s full, pink lips slams hard and I revert to the defensive prick I used to be.
“That song— your song—was the last song I recorded with my best friend before he died. You’re pissed I didn’t bow at your feet on your birthday. I get that, but big fucking deal. I didn’t know it was your birthday or many other things that night. I went to my room and took so much shit I nearly died.”
Her face goes pale. “I?—”
I cut her off. “See, for you, that’s where that night ends. That isn’t where it ends for me. Every day I remember that it was that song we were singing when he went blank and forgot the words. Words you now inform me you wrote. I wish I could forget some of the bad shit that happened to Dash but I can’t. He forgot how to play guitar. Forgot he’d earned Grammys. Forgot the guys, his wife … me. There’s only three people who ever gave a shit about me and two of them are dead. I fucked things up for a lot of people. After tonight, I’ll remember I fucked it up for you, too.”
Savannah’s expression goes blank and, when I look at Sam and Jeri, I see sorrow in theirs.
“I—"
“Spare me.” I cut her off. “I danced with my demons that night. Thanks for the little walk down memory lane.”
Savannah blinks back in shock and her tone softens. “It was a bad night for us both.”
“Are you serious? After what I just told you?” I look from her to Sam. I want to say more but I see pain in his eyes.
I take a couple of deep breaths and stuff down the hurtful words I want to hurl at her. She’s someone to him and, because of that, I tread lighter.
“Look—Savannah—in my mind we’ve just met. Tonight, I had no intentions of being a dick but you’re making it really hard.”
A tremble snags her bottom lip as a shadow falls over her expression. I feel like there’s something more here but speaking of Dash’s last days has left a deathly tang on my tongue. Sam or no Sam, I’m done.
Savannah grabs her stuff. “I gotta go.”