Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
Kit
“So, my brother signed with a new agent,” Cleo snaps the second I step into the shop.
That gives me pause because didn’t we—Roderick and I—talk about him not doing anything stupid for at least the next one hundred years?
We agreed. He won’t do anything until he can breathe without craving the next fix or fighting to stay inside his head. Not sure if he’s reached out to Barret or Julian . . . I did give him the number for Chris Decker, who might be able to help him.
“He did?” I sigh, almost turning around and heading toward . . . well, where do I find him? Bernice has his number, but I’m not sure if she has his address. Probably because even though she thinks my idea is borderline terrible, she still hopes I’ll change my mind and sign him as a client.
There’s a fat chance that I would do anything like that. First of all, he’s not ready, and second—I don’t want to see him ever again. Like never.
But . . . I could just leave him a very strongly worded message on his answering machine with a very clear: ‘Fuck you, we had a deal. If you end up dead in an alley, don’t blame me.’
No, I don’t think that’s something I should tell a recovering addict.
Honestly, I don’t know what would be appropriate.
Should I be reading a book to help me navigate this whole situation?
It’s probably a good idea, since my father also has an addiction problem.
I should look into that too. What is the one thing all these people have in common?
Alcohol and drug abuse. Isn’t that strange?
I’m not saying my father hooked them on these substances, but maybe my father is failing them in some way. I wouldn’t know, and this is me circling back to the whole: Should I be educating myself? The answer is . . . I guess probably.
When I’m about to ask Cleo if she’s reading something to help her brother, she asks first, “How could you sign him when you know—”
“Wait, me?” I cut in, eyes narrowing. “Why would you think I did that?”
She folds her arms defiantly. “He said he was working with D&D.”
I sigh with relief because maybe she misunderstood him—or he didn’t explain well. Either way, this isn’t as bad as I thought.
“Oh, we are working to get his sound back,” I confirm, but then regret it because I’m not sure if he’s done anything. Still, since it seems like I’m involved in this issue, I have to reassure her that he’s totally fine. You know, girl code and all that shit. “Do you know he lost it?”
“His sound?” Cleo’s eyebrows pinch together. “Kit, that’s not something you just lose.”
Except it is.
She may be the daughter of a rockstar, but she doesn’t play. Not like her brothers. Not like me. Clara Vanderpool wanted her only daughter to become an actress—or a model. It didn’t work, but that’s a problem for another therapist.
The point is that Cleo doesn’t understand the itch that crawls beneath your skin when the music stops, when every note feels like static, memory, and hurt.
“You can’t just lose that, Kit. And even if he could, do you really think you should be the one to fix him? After everything you two have been through?”
I stiffen. That one lands like a slap.
My jaw tightens as I glare at her. “It’s not like that. I’m not trying to fix him.”
“Then explain it.”
She paces behind the register in those tight, angry circles that seem like they could ignite fire against the wood floors.
Her fists are clenched, and her mouth is pulled tight in a shape that doesn’t belong to her.
Cleo Wilder is fury wrapped in heartbreak, and she’s not going to let this go because, according to her, I'm making a mistake that I can't take back.
I didn’t. This is the part where I could tell her that her brother and I had a very intense encounter that broke me a little. But see, that’s the problem with her being related to the man who hurt me. All we can say about my relationship is it was crappy and didn’t end well.
I drag a breath through my teeth—slow, bitter, and full of everything I can’t say.
“He came to Dad’s office,” I say, my voice rough. “I didn’t sign him. We talked. That’s it.”
She doesn’t move. She’s waiting for the whole story.
“I told him we might be able to help him—but only if he slows the fuck down.”
I continue telling her how we’ll be gradually rebuilding his love for music from the ground up.
Find a way to channel his music into something that won’t destroy him.
Of course, I don’t mention the part where he had a panic attack in my office, because how do you say, ‘Your brother was shaking, gasping, and so close to the edge that I was afraid he would pass out?
I don’t.
If I close my eyes, I can still see the way he looked at me when I helped him breathe—that wasn’t just desperation. It was need.
He needs something. Maybe it’s the music. Or maybe it’s a new way to fucking feel again without breaking apart. I can make him realize that it’s over, and he might be able to move on to something . . . well, what do you do when you were born with music in your veins and suddenly can’t find it?
Something else I can’t tell her is the tension in the room, the attraction. The desire for him to kiss me, to make me forget all the years we were apart. That’s also on the list of things we’ll never discuss. I won’t even add the part where he said he still loves me and belongs to me.
Or that I told him never to come back, which means I won’t even see him succeed. Will my father ever sign him? I don’t even know if Dad will ever recover enough to go back to work.
“The point is, I know he’s not ready,” I continue, hoping this calms her down. I totally get it. She almost lost him. I was there when she got the call from his former manager telling her he was on his way to the hospital, that he had OD’ed—again.
“Cleo, Roderick flinches when he walks past the piano. He stares at instruments as if they’re loaded guns.” That’s good, Kit. It’s not exactly the truth, but probably a believable lie. “You think I would toss him back on stage like that?”
She doesn’t answer, but her silence says more than she probably wants to tell me.
I move around the counter, closer. My voice drops, not soft—just tighter, closer, like it’s meant only for her.
“The only reason I’m willing to help is because he’s your brother,” I remind her.
Cleo’s shoulders draw in, her arms crossed too tightly to seem casual. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow back everything she’s feeling.
“And when—if—he figures out that creating, performing, and being back on stage is what he wants,” I add, quieter still, “then we’ll help him get there. All the way. But not until he’s fucking sure.”
When I finish, I expect relief after my performance, but all I get is Cleo exhaling like she’s trying to understand everything I just told her.
“Just . . .” Her gaze trails just like her voice until she finds a distant point. “Don’t get his hopes up, okay?”
Her fingers press against her eyes, jaw clenched tight like she’s daring herself not to fall apart right in front of me.
She probably won’t. She’s a Wilder. That’s what they do—hold it in until it hurts more. I wish she wouldn’t.
She sighs again. Just when I’m about to say something, the bell above the door chimes. Cleo straightens. Smiles. She fucking smiles, like she’s untouched by all of this.
“Barret,” she says, light and lifted, as if nothing just cracked open in this room. “What a surprise.”
When I turn around, there he is. Barret Hetfield—leaning against the doorframe like he walked off the set of a cologne ad and into her life. Faded denim shirt hugging his shoulders, a smirk that probably ruins women on a daily basis. I wish I knew why he’s here.
He’s an unpredictable man. Some days he visits the store looking for a rare vinyl, others he’s just checking what new books we got on our bookshelves.
Honestly, I think they’re an excuse to visit Cleo.
Other times I feel like he’s just a little lost and in need of something, but he hasn’t found it yet.
Some days, he calls because he thinks he has a song and needs help with the lyrics.
We’ve done a couple of collaborations, but nothing has come of them.
He’s probably just as lost as Roderick, his former bandmate.
That’s exactly why I told Roderick to reach out to Barret.
Did he? I want to ask, but I’ll have to keep it to myself.
He nods at me. “Kit.”
Then his gaze snaps back to Cleo as if I never existed.
“You never called back about those albums you were looking for.” His shrug is casual, but his eyes—his eyes are very interested in Cleo.
“Thought I’d come visit you, Little C. Plus, you said you had a copy of A Night at the Opera. I’m interested.”
“I . . . mentioned we might.” She giggles.
She fucking giggles, which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that just five seconds ago she almost lost her shit.
I'm sure she's happy to see Barret, but I wish she wouldn't put up a front like she isn't hurting when she is. She adds, “Most importantly, where’s my brother’s collection? I need those albums.”
“Where’s your brother?” he counters.
Her entire body shifts—chin lifting, arms folding, spine snapping straight. “That’s none of your business, Barret.”
Another shrug. Too casual. “I just want to make sure he’s okay. Saw his picture in a few magazines. EchoZone ran something last week.” His jaw works for a beat. “There’s a rumor that he’s dead. You told me the other day he’s fine, but . . .”
Okay, this guy has to go. She’s about to lose her shit. I don’t wait for her to respond. I walk to the back, find the Queen album he’s after, and shove it into his chest with more force than necessary. “Leave. This is on the house.”
“Kit,” he says—like my name tastes like regret.
“Just leave, Barret. We don’t need this shit right now.” I fold my arms, ready to tear him apart. “We don’t need you gloating in the store—”
He glances over at Cleo, nearly horrified, as if it suddenly dawns on him what he said so casually. Then says, “Fuck, Kit. You really think I would gloat if my friend died?”
He’s obviously appalled by my suggestion.
“Sure, we had a nasty fight. Yeah, he fucked up the band. We kicked him out of the house.” He runs a hand down his face, fingers dragging like they’re trying to erase the guilt.
“It had to be done. That doesn’t mean I wish him dead.
We grew up together. I want him safe. And since I couldn’t fucking manage it then, maybe now that I’ve cleaned myself up, I could—”
“You could help him? I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.” I point at Cleo. “She’s dealing with a lot. Alone. She doesn’t need to add more shit to the equation.”
“Where are the other Wilders?” Barret’s eyes narrow. “They aren’t helping you?”
Cleo laughs—short, bitter. “It’s Roderick. What do you think?”
“They hope he burns in hell,” Barret answers. “Maybe then one of them will become Daddy’s new favorite.” He frowns, then glances at me. “Think you can look after the store, Kit? I want to take her out. Clear her head.”
“No.” Cleo crosses her arms.
“You know I’ll make it fun.” He softens, glancing at her with something that doesn’t belong in public. “We can call Eddie.”
A slow, dangerous smile appears when he mentions the former manager of the band. Eddie quit them long ago to become a wealthy entrepreneur. It paid better than babysitting his friends.
“Eddie?” Cleo’s lip lifts a little as if she’s trying to fight the smile.
“He loves when you’re around—we both do.”
Cleo blushes slightly, and the gazes they exchange make me wonder if there’s something else going on between them.
Of course, I could be wrong, since Eddie is hanging out with them too—and Eddie seems to make her smile.
What matters is that she needs a distraction, and Barret’s nothing if not willing to offer himself up for the cause.
“Go, Cleo.” I smile, barely. “He’ll take care of you.”
But I don’t let her go without warning. “Just don’t make her cry, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
He smirks and salutes. “No worries. I’ll be gentle with the lady . . . unless she asks me not to.”
“I don’t need distractions. I have work to do,” Cleo claims. “Lola won’t be here until three to cover the store.”
“It’s okay. I don’t have classes until five,” I say, then remind her, “You’re a volunteer. Maybe you should take a break—or a vacation. I can handle an empty store. I’ll alphabetize something or I’ll tune Mom’s cello and pretend I’m useful.”
“Speaking of music—and the cello.” Barret glances at me with that crooked, shit-eating grin he saves for favors. “You have time to help me with some lyrics?”
I should say no, but isn’t this part of what I love to do? I stitch myself into songs. Leave fingerprints in melodies. I breathe better when I’m part of something being made. Still. I don’t have time. Not really.
“Call me next week,” I offer.
“You finally got a cell phone?”
I shake my head.
He groans. “You need one, Kit. They’re the future.”
Cleo laughs. “Don’t bother. She thinks they’ll go out of style by the end of the century.”
“They will.” I lift my chin, confident I’ve been right before and will be again. “Just like CDs. You’ll see.”
“You’re such an old soul,” she says, stepping out with him. “But I still love you.”
Once they’re gone, I grab the phone and call Roderick. I tell him I’ve got a compilation to finish and won’t be around until seven. The answering machine picks up, and I leave a message, which is a lot better than having to explain myself.
Then, I slip into the back office, power up the computer, and open the inbox.
Maybe I’ll write to DeadStrings. Maybe he’ll understand what’s crawling under my skin.
Or maybe I just need someone who understands what it’s like to want everything to stop spinning—even if it's just for one song.