Shattered Chords (The Encore Book 3) Read online

  Shattered Chords

  The Encore Book Three

  N.N. Britt

  Copyright © 2021 by N. N. Britt

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design by Cat at TRC Designs

  Cover Photography by Thomas Lui

  Cover Model: Luca Maurino

  Edited by R.C. Craig

  Due to strong language and other adult content, this book is intended for mature audience only.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Dante

  2 Camille

  3 Dante

  4 Camille

  5 Dante

  6 Camille

  7 Dante

  8 Camille

  9 Dante

  10 Camille

  11 Dante

  12 Camille

  13 Dante

  About the Author

  Also by N.N. Britt

  Prologue

  She was the longest love affair of my life.

  My curse.

  My muse.

  My punishment.

  And my salvation.

  We met on a cool night in April of 1996 in Kit Miller’s basement in Sun Valley. She came to the party with Ronnie and shamelessly flirted with everyone, but I knew she had her heart set on me. I felt it. The connection was instant.

  I was a lock and she was the matching key.

  Together, we were a door to another dimension.

  An unlikely partnership.

  A secret relationship.

  A twisted marriage that lasted for over two decades.

  Until the night she decided she didn’t need me anymore.

  Until the night she tried to kill me.

  My one true love.

  My Snow Angel.

  1 Dante

  I wasn’t certain what threw me off more when I walked into the shop—the hip-hop beat blasting from the speakers or the teenage Avril Lavigne wannabe eyeing the guitar I’d been interested in buying.

  Why haven't you? the voice in my head asked. It's not like you don't have the money.

  Exactly.

  Money wasn’t an issue. I had enough. I was one rich motherfucker. As a matter of fact, there was about half a million worth of guitars in my house. I knew a thing or two about riffs and solos. I wrote them for a living. Or should I say “used to” since I hadn't written a single chord in over six months?

  Lance, the kid behind the counter, who also happened to be the owner’s nephew, tore his gaze from his iPhone and gave me a nod.

  He knew who I was.

  He also knew to keep his distance.

  Under different circumstances, I would’ve made a stink about not being waited on.

  But not today.

  The chime of the bell above my head died down as the door shut behind me. I expected the girl to at least glance my way, but she remained frozen. Hands in pockets, head tilted up. Gaze on the instrument behind the glass. I knew that pose and I knew that look. Once, that’d been me—a kid from the neighborhood with the highest crime rate in L.A. County, who’d truly wanted only one thing in life—to play guitar for a living. A kid who’d known no other way to cope with his ignorant, abusive parents, who’d spend hours in little shops like this, gawking at merchandise, dreaming of crowds, stages, and a never-ending supply of booze.

  And here I was over two decades later. Forever etched into the archives of music history for all the iconic riffs and solos I’d written while riding the high of cocaine, acid, and other recreational drugs.

  Famous.

  Shattered.

  Reborn.

  A cliché full of cautionary tales I felt the need to share with anyone who wished to go down the dangerous sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll path.

  I knew that hungry look the girl had. I didn’t even need to see her eyes. The tell was in her posture and the clothes she wore. Ripped skinny jeans. Boots. Tattered leather jacket. Pounds and pounds of heavy jewelry. Black hair with purple streaks. I’d met thousands of teenage girls like her. Thousands of teenage girls either wanting to be the next big thing or fantasizing about sleeping with the current big thing. They were my core fan base, and they were everywhere I went. The U.S., Canada, Europe, Asia.

  One thing about this tender age was that the line between admiration and obsession blurred. Sometimes, when I was on tour, they’d knock on my hotel door in the middle of the night, demanding a selfie or proclaiming their eternal love. They were strange creatures I didn’t know how to talk to—not anymore—because they weren’t old enough for the kind of language I spoke.

  Teenagers were trouble.

  I knew that. I’d been one once.

  The girl standing in front of the display finally exhibited a sign of life. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the guitar. I heard the keypad's bleep-bleep-bleep. She texted someone, then dropped her hand to her side and returned her gaze to the instrument.

  I wasn’t a Les Paul guy. Fender had owned my soul ever since I’d gotten my tiny hands on an old Strat my cousin and I dug up in my uncle’s attic when I was nine, but this particular guitar had been on my mind for a few weeks now. It was the strangest thing—suddenly wanting to try something else after years of commitment.

  I blamed this odd craving on my bipolar brain cells that were screwed up during my cocaine-induced stroke.

  If you looked death in the face long enough, she eventually staked her claim, just like she did the night I overdosed. Why she didn’t finish the job was the million-dollar question. A question that morphed into a number of theories, each crazier than the last, but in the end, the only answer that made sense was the obvious one—to allow me to undo all the shit I’d done to people during my twenty-five-year stint with coke. Or simply put, to make amends to everyone I’d hurt.

  Problem was, the damn list was too fucking long. I’d also had a hard time compiling it. Some of those years—particularly during my twenties, when my health was at its peak and I could mix shit like a blender—were very hazy. Some people had come and some had gone, and many of them, I hadn’t known in the slightest.

  I’d been too high to remember.

  Still thrown off by the presence of the girl, I contemplated which course of action to take—stick to my original plan and try out the Les Paul again before making my final decision or leave and come back later. It wasn’t for fear of being recognized. I was an attention whore. I’d spent the last twenty years of my life in the spotlight and had enjoyed every second of it. The need to be heard and seen was like a goddamn fungus, only growing with time. People’s reactions—be they positive or negative—were my driving force.

  At the counter, the phone rang and Lance deserted the game on his cell to answer it. “Bruno’s Rare Guitars. How can I help you?”

  The girl still hadn’t moved.

  I neared the display and said matter-of-factly, “She’s something, huh?”

  In the background, Lance talked to the customer.
His voice mixed with the grind of the hip-hop beat. Something told me the kid was taking advantage of being alone on his shift and instead of playing the rock’n’roll classics like any respectable vintage guitar shop would, he’d decided to spice up the atmosphere with Billboard’s Top 40.

  I had nothing against hip-hop, but it didn’t necessarily sell rare guitars.

  The girl, who was standing to my right, dragged her gaze over to me and stared.

  I stared back.

  Generous lines of black surrounded her eyes and a small stud pierced her left nostril. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. It was the dangerous age of confused hormones and I already regretted my decision to stay.

  “You’re Dante Martinez,” the girl finally said and stuffed her fists in her pockets.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Shit. Though the only other person in the shop was Lance, I brought my index finger to my lips and said, “Shhh.”

  The corner of her mouth tilted up, but she remained quiet and stationary. We had an understanding. Good.

  I thrust my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket to match her stance and gazed up at the guitar.

  “Cheating on Fender?” the girl murmured as her eyes remained glued to the display.

  “Just exploring other options,” I replied in a low voice.

  We were silent for a long moment, both admiring the instrument. My fingers tortured the candy inside my pocket. I needed a smoke. Badly. The urge had never gone away, no matter how many times I’d tried to quit. My attempt to socialize with the kid was making me nervous. It’d never been a problem before, but the current version of me—the sober one—knew staying away from my starstruck teenage fans was the best thing to do. The right thing to do.

  In a nutshell, I was an asshole.

  “I didn’t peg you for a guy who’d play a reissue,” the girl said.

  “Is that so?” I chuckled. “You’ve been watching me?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “True.”

  “Do you really have more than two hundred guitars?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned her head to look at me. “Do you still have the Olympic White Jeff Beck model you used to play during live shows in 2005?” She had a heart-shaped face and her hair fell messily across her wide forehead, covering almost her entire right cheek.

  “You remember what I played in 2005? What were you? Two?” I laughed.

  “YouTube, duh.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Right,” I drawled. The girl made me feel ancient. There was no YouTube when I was growing up. No Instagram. No Twitter. No whatever-the-fuck new social networking app was trending today. “You know your stuff.”

  “I know some,” she agreed.

  “I take it you play.”

  The girl nodded. “Yep. I’m in a band.”

  Pulling the lollipop from my pocket, I battled with the wrapper for a few seconds. “What’s the name of the band?”

  “Systematic.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” Grinning, I stuffed the candy into the corner of my mouth. “You’re playing live?”

  “First show is on Friday.” She lifted her chin. In her gaze, there was a flicker of pride and something else. Hopes and dreams. Oh, I knew those two very well. We’d been buds for years. Our fragile friendship had been glued together by oceans of booze and mountains of coke.

  “Nice,” I said. “Where at?”

  “Valley Club.”

  “That’s a cool spot.” I nodded. “They have great sound.”

  Valley Club was one of just a few venues with live music in this area. Tucked between Hidden Hills, a gated community that catered to some of the richest people in the world, and a large stretch of the immense Santa Monica Mountains, Calabasas was hardly a city famous for its entertainment spots. Those who lived here indulged in early mornings of golf, coffee meetings at artisan shops, dog walking, and hiking. If anyone wanted a glimpse of real nightlife, they drove to L.A. Partying and easy access to women and drugs of any kind was the main reason I’d never moved into the house near Mulholland Highway that I’d bought some years back.

  It’s a good investment, Dante, my financial advisor had said during the market crash in 2008.

  Growing up in an apartment the size of a shoebox, I’d been more than happy with my penthouse in Westside. Besides, I’d never stayed in L.A. long enough to actually want to settle somewhere more solid and permanent. With a yard.

  However, nothing changed one’s perspective like fucked-up kidneys, a torn pancreas, and a stroke.

  Good thing I’d been too high to argue during that conversation with my financial advisor. Hall Affinity had just signed with KBC and all four of us had received fat advances. I had money to burn, so I bought the property and conveniently forgot about the purchase the following day. I never told anyone either.

  “Are you gonna come?” the girl asked, her voice snapping me back to reality. I was in the guitar shop, and the candy tingled inside my mouth. Not quite the same effect as nicotine.

  “If I’m not busy, I might,” I said.

  “That’d be rad.” She gave me a small smile, trying to keep it cool.

  “What time is your set?”

  “Eight.”

  I contemplated. My days were simple, with activities that included hiking, working out, seeing my therapist, going to AA meetings, and practicing on my guitar. I’d also adopted a new hobby—cooking. It was the only way I could stay sane at this point in my life. My last and only post-overdose public appearance had been months ago.

  A high school band on a Friday night? That didn’t sound like me at all. At least, not the old me. The new, stitched up and reimagined Dante Martinez had no idea who he was anymore.

  “Hey, buddy!” I waved at Lance. “Can we look at that Les Paul again?”

  He grabbed the stepstool and sidled around the counter with a chain full of keys.

  I gestured at the speaker. “You should put on some Bonamassa.” The candy rattled against my teeth as I spoke.

  In my peripheral, the girl bit her lips to hide her giggle. I was intrigued. There weren’t many teenagers who knew the genius of Joe Bonamassa. There weren’t many teenagers who were interested in playing an electric guitar like back in the 90s either. Today, everyone wanted to be a DJ. Except for this kid with purple streaks in her hair.

  Lance took out the instrument and handed it to me. Then the three of us went to the back area where a mountain of amplifiers lined the wall.

  “Wanna go first?” I asked, handing her the Les Paul.

  It wasn’t the gentleman in me speaking.

  It was the coward.

  We hardly talked. There was some nodding and eye contact, but no words. She plugged in the guitar and settled down on a bench across from the amplifiers. Lance handed her a pick and hovered over her, perked up and ready to close the sale.

  I stood off to the side with my arms crossed on my chest and watched the girl run through a couple of chords. She was good. Fretting fingers arched, thumb relaxed, face screwed up in concentration.

  An instrument either loved you or it didn’t. And this Les Paul adored the girl from the moment her hands touched its smooth sunburst body. She was serious about her playing. In a way, she reminded me of myself at that age. My hunger to learn everything there was about guitars and how to make them produce the sounds I wanted had been absolute.

  My skill was the greatest gift I’d ever received in life, the gift I’d taken for granted all these years. It’d pulled me through hell so many times that I’d lost count, and now this gift was slipping away, just like my sanity and my health. Some nights when I lay in my huge bed, I felt it leaving my body. A soft flutter of my spirit and a gentle beat of my heart. Deserting me quietly.

  I was terrified that one day I’d wake up and wouldn’t be able to hold a guitar anymore.

  My exit from the world of music had been pathetic. I’d wanted a death worthy of my own legacy. I’d imagined going out with fi
reworks. I’d imagined dropping dead on stage in the middle of a solo, but apparently, someone upstairs had made other plans for me.

  Instead, it was a slow, horrific decay. Days filled with pointless tasks that lead me back to where I’d started—a life of dull loneliness.

  The girl fiddled with the strings and ripped through a Led Zeppelin riff, her gaze remaining on the Les Paul. She scrunched her nose during the harder parts of the solo.

  Lance figured out that we were going to be a while and returned to the front, leaving us to our own devices.

  Curious, I listened.

  Music had always rendered me both speechless and powerless and this girl could play.

  She messed around on the guitar for a few more minutes, breezing through some rock classics and harmonies I’d never heard before, then stopped playing and gazed up at me. “Your turn, dude.”

  I stepped closer and took the Les Paul from her. “What’s your name?”

  “Ally.”

  “Just Ally?” Snapping my fingers, I called Lance over, and he rushed to hand me a strap. I hadn’t played sitting down in ages. Except for the acoustic set during the Dreamcatchers premiere, which didn’t count. I’d fucked that one up real bad. My fingers had refused to listen to me. I’d gotten better since then thanks to daily practice, but nowhere near the level I was before the stroke.

  One step at a time, Dante, the voice in my head that sounded a lot like Sonia, my therapist, said.

  “Ally Rockwell.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ally Rockwell.” Attaching the strap, I asked, “You know why you need to run the cable from behind it, right?” My mind kicked into that long-forgotten geek mode, where all the little pieces of knowledge I’d collected over the years were now pushing through.