2. Brett
TWO
brETT
Effie Bird . The Effie Bird was upstairs in one of Nightowl’s bedrooms.
He guessed she would pick the one with all the pink. The woman loved the color, splashing it all over her crystal-studded guitar case, tour set designs, and killer costumes. The night before, he’d rearranged the pillows and blankets, making that room as pink as possible, hoping she’d take it. And it was the coziest room with the best view.
Effie Bird.
Her scent, Tom Ford Santal Blush, lingered in the kitchen making his heart race. One whiff had beamed him directly through a time portal back to when he used to know her.
Brett rubbed his palms down the thighs of his dark jeans, trying not to think about one of—if not the —biggest pop singers writing music in his studio. Not that Brett was star-struck, but because of their past.
The time for second thoughts had passed. Moving around the kitchen, he distracted himself from imagining her in the bedroom upstairs. He wasn’t some creep, and thoughts of her getting comfortable in his home would get him in trouble. Already, Brett sensed how easily he could get used to Effie being here. Which would only make her departure that much harder.
He spooned up a bit of the red sauce bubbling on the stove and tasted it before adding another pinch of salt.
When Shay called asking him for a favor, Brett agreed without a second thought. He couldn’t say no to his younger half-brother.
But he should have waited to see what he wanted. Brett didn’t expect what came next.
“Can Effie come stay at Nightowl? She just finished her sweetbitter tour and needs to write but she’s got some block. It would be the perfect place for her to get rejuvenated.”
The way he said rejuvenated was slightly too suggestive and Brett cleared his throat.
“Whaddya think?” Shay asked, casual as ever.
Have Effie Bird here? Brett thought. He never imagined she’d see Nightowl Studios, once just a dream he shared with a select few. Effie included.
Who would want a washed-up grunge bassist to produce their music? But after he left the scene to pursue his vision, it turned out at least some musicians wanted to collaborate. He was starting to make a name for himself. Nothing like Shay Blue, but it was something.
Brett's only rational response in that moment was a simple, “Sure.” Before tacking on, “Anything for you and the reigning pop princess.”
Shay snickered. “Don’t call her that to her face. You know how she hates it.”
Yes, Brett did in fact know how much she hated being called pop princess to her face, in the media, in every speech describing her achievements. How it infantilized her, patronized her…the woman who broke more records in the last seven years than she, or anyone else, had in the rest of her twenty year career.
Shay was right: she hated it.
But Brett knew how much she loved to be princess in the bedroom.
And, of course, she’d brought a bottle of that damn vintage they drank in their suite in Cannes.
Of course, he’d brought up the beluga caviar from that night after the Grammys.
He stared out the kitchen window as his latest album-on-repeat, Tessa Reid’s solo debut, floated through the kitchen’s surround sound. Jewel, Michigan was his full-time home for over two years now. His parents, a pair of retired singer-songwriters themselves, had brought their whole blended family out here as often as they could over the years, and it always held a special place in his personal mythology. The quiet community on Lake Michigan was now the full-time home for the grizzly ex-rocker. Emphasis on grizzly.
The stairs creaked behind him, and he could already sense Effie’s presence before he turned around.
Yeah, this was probably a terrible idea.
“This studio is gorgeous,” she said.
Having changed into black biker shorts, a grey crewneck sweatshirt, and white socks with cute little ruffles on them, she stepped into the kitchen, barefaced and glowing.
Tucked in one palm, Brett spied her tiny little Field Notes notebook. With grids instead of lines, he knew, and a mini version of her favorite G2 ballpoint pen clipped over the cover. She tracked his wandering gaze and pulled her hand up into her sleeve, hiding her little journal away.
Brett blinked. “Thanks. My parents used to bring our whole damn family, exes, kids, and all, to this place before everything went to shit.” He swallowed, not wanting to think about his late brother. Not right now. Brett cleared his throat. “Before a couple years ago, I hadn’t been here since my twenties. The property was a wreck, especially this old barn. But then the home values skyrocketed around here. The owners made a killing, and I got a very expensive fixer upper.”
“Ahh, so that’s what you’ve been doing.”
Brett’s brain filled in the rest of what Effie left unsaid: after you stopped accepting invitations and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous .
He cleared his throat. “That, and learning to cook.”
Effie whistled, as if domestic feats of labor were enough to amaze one of the world’s leading singers. “You did a fantastic job on the place.”
Brett had to admit he was impressed as well. He converted most of the main house himself: the back sun room became a fully functional three-season room (four, if he opened the doors for the wood-burning stove to heat the space), replaced the massive back deck and installed the outdoor sauna, restored the original hardwood flooring, demoed and completely redid the kitchen, and painted the entire house a calming grey.
For the barn’s redesign, he hired a local architect to preserve the essence of the place while creating a creative communal oasis. Nightowl Studios .
His work on the house kept him from a full-on mental breakdown after the Grammys two years ago. As the only surviving original member of Hoax, he’d outlasted his own older brother and the band’s lead singer, Phoenix Blue. Standing alone on that stage, the irony seeped into Brett’s bones as he bumbled through his speech for Hoax’s Lifetime Achievement Award. The weight in his hand reminded him he was only a fraction of the band. He only did part of the work. Hoax had been Phoenix’s baby from its inception.
That night was the last nail in the coffin.
Brett’s chest constricted. Instead of saying any of that, he grumbled his thanks and transferred the pasta into the boiling water on the stove.
“Is this homemade pasta?” Effie tiptoed across the cement floor, closer to the counter.
Brett inhaled a whiff of her perfume and tried to control his heart rate.
“It is.” He focused on salting the water. Anything to keep his eyes from lingering on her.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you learned how to cook. Who knew the wild as hell bassist from Hoax would end up cooking me homemade pasta?” She turned and rested against the counter.
She meant it as a joke, he knew, and if they couldn’t joke about his past, their careers, how would they ever last the month on the same property?
“That’s not me anymore,” he said, trying to keep the still raw emotion from his voice. Raw, after two years in near solitude. After nearly twenty years since Hoax’s infamous break-up.
Except that, despite posthumous awards and a documentary film, no one knew the entire story. Brett Blue was the only living human who knew everything that had happened. Not even their parents knew how Brett had fucked up in the end, leaving Phoenix to self-implode the night of his fatal overdose.
Effie furrowed her brow, likely sensing her misstep. “Sorry.”
“No,” he said, spooning out a piece of pasta for Effie to test. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s the past. It’s my fucked up past, but I’m working on it. Therapy, ya know. And it’s not on anyone else to have to tiptoe around me. I’m a big boy.”
Brett didn’t miss how Effie’s eyes dragged up and down his body after he said big boy . When she opened her mouth to taste his pasta, she made eye contact with him and didn’t break it.
He stared back, transfixed. Their sexual tension crackled like a live wire connecting them.
Good to know .
Effie hummed as she chewed and swallowed. Brett gaze dropped to watch her throat work.
His attraction to her, one he sought for years to forget, to snuff out, vibrated in his chest. The same feeling as when he had played bass on stage and the notes flew out of the arena speakers, shaking him to his core.
Also good to know.
He coughed, suddenly parched. “I saw your concert film.”
“Oh, so we’re keeping tabs on each other?” Effie arched an eyebrow, seamlessly following the change of subject.
Apparently, his flirting skills were more obtuse than a couple of years ago. Living in Jewel had beaten most of the suave rocker out of him. Not that he was ever on par with Phoenix Blue, who invited different people back to the tour bus every night.
“I brought my niece,” he said, which was true, but not his only motivation for catching The sweetbitter World Tour Concert Film . Brett sampled the sauce one last time before declaring it finished.
“I’m sorry,” Effie said. “Again. I’m just joking and it’s coming off all wrong.”
When he turned around from the stove, she was at the table, setting out silverware. It was ironic to see the gorgeous superstar doing mundane chores in his studio. His studio being the lynchpin in the irony, considering their past.
“Should we address the elephant in the room?” Brett asked as he carried full plates to the table.
Effie sank into her chair, not making a sign that she heard him. She grabbed the bottle of red breathing on the table. Not the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti that she brought, but something from a local vineyard. Brett held his breath, waiting for her response.
She took a sip of her drink. “Better to rip the bandaid off now.”
Brett sprinkled freshly grated parmesan on his plate before passing the dish to Effie. He might as well cut to the chase. “This doesn’t have to be weird, right?”
Effie twisted her glass back and forth, avoiding his gaze. Or it felt that way.
“It doesn’t,” she said, still focused anywhere else but on him. “I mean, I was young.”
He paused, waiting to see if she would continue that thought. It didn’t feel entirely complete.
After a moment, he scoffed. “Don’t say it like that, Ef. You were twenty-nine.”
“God, no,” she groaned, shaking her head. Her eyes finally snapped to his. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, turning thirty changed me. Everything’s planned out for me, my career, years in advance and turning thirty made me reassess. I didn’t care about my career roadmap for once. I care about the music, the writing, the just vibing with creative energy, but everything else? It felt like I’d milked it all for what I could. I expected to slow down then, and it’s only gotten more intense. Now I need to slow down. Sorry, not that you care about that. I haven’t even told anyone this. I suspect Shay knows though, anyway.”
“The little fucker has a sixth sense.” There was something in his half-brother’s voice when he had called Brett up, asking for the favor to host Effie while she worked on her next album. Something eluding Brett until now. Maybe Shay knew how badly Effie needed the break, too. “And I do care, Ef. Despite what happened, I care about you.”
Despite what happened . Even though he had played sold-out stadiums worldwide, his heart galloped as they skirted closer to speaking actual truths. Brett filled his mouth with pasta before he said anything else that might get him into trouble.
They ate in silence. The music still played in the background, while the birds outside the open window chirped along, keeping them company.
“Do you know how many times I almost called you? Almost texted?” Effie whispered.
He melted then. If she could be raw, he could too.
“Probably as many times as I almost texted you. You were the first person I told about being done, you know? It took years to get out, but when we—whatever we were—ended, it woke me up.”
“ Situationship ; that’s what the kids say now.” She smiled from across the table.
“The kids,” he laughed as he ran a hand through his hair, wondering if she meant to deflect. She stared at the movement and Brett wished her fingers were stroking in his hair.
“I know how you hate social media, Brett, but it keeps me fresh.”
“It keeps me old.”
They were quiet again, just the sound of forks tinkling in their dishes. Over the years, he grew to love cooking, but the best part was how his food brought people together. If he hadn’t made his homemade pasta, would they be sharing these truths right now?
“Can we do it, you think?” It could mean so many things. Whatever it was, god, Brett hoped they could. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this woman until she was right in front of him again, when he saw her dazzling smile up close and smelled her intoxicating perfume.
“What? Me being here? And not bother each other?” Effie’s lips twisted into a wry grin.
“You couldn’t bother me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ll stay out of your way.” Brett forced himself to believe it, too. “Don’t worry about that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.