Shattered Chords (The Encore Book 3) Read online

  “So I don’t rip it out when I accidentally step on it. It tugs on the strap.”

  After two decades of touring, I could easily tell the difference between a real fan—someone who followed my story for my playing—and a fan of my looks and charm—a.k.a. a groupie in the making. Ally was the former. She watched my hands like a hawk, devouring my every move.

  “Exactly.” Half smiling, I slipped the strap over my neck and brushed the stock of the guitar with my fingers, saying hello. Nothing could possibly compare to the feeling that rushed through me when I touched the instrument I was about to play. We were ready to make sweet love, and this—caressing the body of the guitar—was foreplay.

  A prelude.

  The fear that had been following me ever since I’d woken up in a hospital with a head full of cotton was still there, lodged deep in my gut, but I fought it relentlessly. I couldn’t let it overtake me.

  “I follow your Instagram,” Ally said casually once Lance was gone again, then handed me the pick she’d used.

  “You got a favorite?” I asked. The lollipop in my mouth had shrunk to nothing. It was just a piece of plastic between my teeth. A sad imitation of a cigarette. Or a sad imitation of the feel of a cigarette.

  “Sure. Can you play ‘Back Street’?”

  I didn’t say anything. Instead, I eased into the chords and whipped out a riff I wrote for my first solo album. Mean sounds poured through the shop. My chest swelled with blissful heat as I picked the strings one by one, giving into the steady rhythm. It felt good—playing in front of someone after so long.

  But panic slowly settled in my stomach as the composition progressed. I was nearing the solo and my brain started to fail me. Then I missed a note. Once. Twice. My fingers couldn’t keep up and didn’t understand what they needed to do. I halted and one hand choked the neck while the other slammed against the body of the guitar. A screeching sound of defeat pierced the air.

  Mustering a smile, I looked back at my only observer.

  “Sick shit.” Ally nodded, ignoring my fuck-up during the solo. “You still kick ass.”

  “Eh, could have been worse.” I pulled the strap over my head and handed her the Les Paul.

  She settled it over her neck.

  “You want it?” I asked, tossing the lollipop stick into the nearest trash can.

  She stared at me with wild eyes. “The guitar?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s six thousand bucks, dude.” Her voice was a frail whisper.

  “Last time I checked, I was still rich.” I grinned. “It’s yours under one condition.”

  Ally was quiet for a second as her eyes evaluated me. I heard the ding of the chime and Lance speaking to someone at the counter. The silence that stretched between us became heavy.

  “You’re hot and famous and all,” she said quietly, “but I’m not sucking your dick.”

  I almost bit my tongue. “Holy fuck, darlin’.” Laughter erupted from my throat. “Don’t ever say that to a guy my age, or any guy for that matter. First, you’re still a kid. Second, there are too many pervs out there. Third, I’m not one of them.”

  Blush colored her cheeks, so I decided not to dwell over this misunderstanding and embarrass her even more. “When’s your birthday?”

  “Next year.”

  “Okay, well—” I paused. “Let’s pretend it’s a Christmas present then.”

  “Are you for real?” Ally blinked rapidly, hugging the guitar.

  “Yeah. I’m for re—”

  “She’s fifteen, asshole,” said a female voice.

  I snapped my head in the direction of the woman who’d just called me a name I hadn’t been called in months. At least, not in person. She was a carbon copy of Ally—heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, but with red hair and dressed conservatively in plain blue jeans and a lavender shirt.

  Sister? Cousin? Aunt?

  Her bright yellow nail polish and sneakers dotted with sunflowers told me she was probably anti-rock’n’roll.

  “Mom.” With a groan, Ally rolled her eyes. “Come on. Stop embarrassing me.”

  Mom?

  I was taken aback by the fact that the redhead was actually Ally’s mother. In my mind, mothers were always worn-out bitches. That’s how I remembered mine, anyway. Besides, this woman looked too young to be someone’s parent. But then again, what did I know about parenting? Or family. I hadn’t had any luck in that department.

  Yes, I was lonely, but I was free. Free to do whatever the fuck I wanted. And today, I wanted to buy Ally the Les Paul because this guitar was just begging to be hers.

  “You’re grooming my child.” The redhead gave me a close-lipped smile, and her eyes drilled into mine. “It’s disgusting.”

  My chest tightened. I’d been accused of many things, but never that. “Lady, I assure you, I’m not.”

  “Mom, stop it.” Ally grabbed the sleeve of her mother’s shirt and jerked it. “This is Dante from Hall Affinity.”

  The woman turned to look at her daughter, and something passed between them as they exchanged glances.

  I raised both hands in the air to indicate that I didn’t mean any harm. “Your daughter plays really well. Not everyone her age can sweep pick. Actually, almost nobody can.”

  The woman’s features relaxed. “She’s in a band.”

  “First show on Friday.” I nodded.

  “I invited him,” Ally plugged in.

  The red-haired she-devil tilted her head slightly and folded her hands on her chest. “Who are you again?” Her eyes peered at me through a long sweep of thick, dark lashes.

  I stared back. I always did when I was confronted. I had no secrets to hide and I sure as hell didn’t want her to think I was trying to hit on her underage daughter.

  “Dante.” I offered my hand for a shake without bothering to explain what exactly I was famous for. I didn’t need to, though. Ally did it for me.

  “Number one on Time’s list of Best Electric Guitar Players in 2008, 2009, and 2011. Inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2012.”

  My shoulders shook from inaudible laughter. “You’ve really done your homework, kiddo.”

  She responded with a lopsided scowl.

  The redhead cleared her throat, uncrossed her arms, and slid her palm against mine.

  “Camille. Nice to meet you.”

  The handshake didn’t last long, but her grip was strong enough for me to sense that she would go ballistic if someone mistreated Ally. I dropped my gaze to her other hand and noted the lack of a wedding band. Maybe there was no one else to protect her fifteen-year-old from old dudes like me. For a moment, I wished my mother would have had at least a quarter of the care for her own child that this woman had.

  Camille had silky skin, and the short charge of warmth I received from her shot through my arm. There was no awe in her voice—no reservations either. She wasn’t impressed with my looks, achievements, or my philanthropic intentions. Did that bother me? I wasn’t sure. Women were God’s best creation after guitars. I loved them all. I loved them madly. Unfortunately, they’d been put on indefinite hold after the stroke.

  Loss of interest is not unusual, the doctor had said.

  No shit. When all my brain could think of was either slitting my wrists or doing another line of coke, my dick had to take a back seat. Pleasures of the flesh didn’t matter when your soul was in agony.

  This—right now—was the first time since the overdose I’d actually noticed a woman. Really noticed. Everything from the sharp curve of Camille’s neat brows to the small size of her funny sunflower footwear hurt my sight. Unlike dark and moody Ally, she was a lot of bright colors that weren’t supposed to go together well, but they did on her. Even her eyes were the greenest green I’d ever seen, almost unreal.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to my daughter, but you can’t buy her a six-thousand-dollar guitar,” Camille said calmly.

  “I don’t mind,” I countered.

  �
��It’s an extremely expensive gift.”

  Ally produced a few aggressive chords that silenced her mother’s argument. Camille shot her a warning glance, then more music poured from the speakers. A true rock’n’roll rebuttal.

  Strangely, their exchange amused me. They were like black and white, total opposites in a sweet, comical kind of way.

  “It’s not appropriate.” Camille shook her head when her daughter stopped messing with the strings.

  “Ally’s very talented. She has a great future ahead of her if she continues to practice. She should have a guitar that matches her skills.” I gave the redhead my signature panty-melting smile that made women lose their marbles. It was my other gift that I’d been abusing since fifth grade, when I discovered girls wanted to be around me when I smiled.

  Camille drew a deep breath, preparing for another attack.

  I dialed up my charm. My treacherous gaze slid down to her chest and took notice of the bright pink bra showing from beneath the shirt. Her two top buttons were undone, and from where I stood, I could see the swell of her breasts as she held the air in her lungs for another moment. My blood rushed south, and I was both petrified and happy. After months of hibernation, my dick was finally awake, and she was someone’s mother.

  The thought shocked me.

  This was a first.

  “It’s very kind of you to compliment Ally’s playing.” Camille tried to sound firm, but the tremor in her voice indicated she was nervous. “But we can’t accept your present.”

  “I insist.” Strange thing, but my heart raced. This was an honest attempt to encourage Ally to follow her dreams. Nothing more. No ulterior motives. I didn’t expect a pushback. Most people would have been happy to get a Les Paul from me.

  “I’m sorry. Six thousand dollars is a lot of money.” Camille shook her head, a stern warning in her green eyes.

  “Do you even know what this guitar can do, Mom?” Ally asked, strumming through a tune that sounded all too familiar. It was a Hall Affinity song. As she played, she trotted along the wall of amplifiers, her black hair covering her face entirely.

  Camille’s shoulders slackened in defeat. She looked at her daughter, then back at me. The tension between us grew as the air crackled with electricity.

  Heart pounding, I took a step forward. “Let her have the guitar, Camille.” The noise in the shop muffled my whisper and I felt like I was speaking underwater. “This is a replica of a very valuable 1959 model. It’s as close as she can get to owning an original that costs over two-hundred-thousand dollars.”

  Camille’s eyes narrowed. She craned her neck to level up with me and murmured, “If a man spends that much money on a gift, he wants something in return.”

  Our faces were dangerously close and the faint smell of her perfume—jasmine and mint—crawled up my nostrils and teased my lungs. I found it strange. Two decades of snorting coke had dulled my senses to the point where I ordinarily couldn’t smell shit, even if my own house were on fire.

  “You’re right.” I gave her a slight nod. Our gazes were locked and loaded. Like guns, ready to fire. The static that filled the space between our bodies sparked. “This man wants redemption.”

  She arched her brow in question.

  “I’m a recovering addict, Camille. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of and now I want to do something nice for a change,” I explained quietly. A lick of fear rolled down my spine. Possible rejection terrified me. “Part of my rehabilitation program.”

  “Does that actually work?”

  It was my turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “The pickup line you’re trying to use on me?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Trust me, you’d know if I were trying to use my pickup lines on you, darlin’.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, I don’t usually flaunt all my faults in front of women I’m trying to seduce.”

  Preoccupied with the guitar, Ally paid little attention to our conversation. I knew why. She wanted to savor each second with the majestic instrument before letting it go. Convincing her mother to accept the gift started to feel like a personal challenge.

  Camille regrouped quickly. “There are other ways to do something nice, Dante.”

  The way she said my name made me shiver. It rolled off her tongue like a cool blockbuster one-liner.

  “I agree and I’ve tried them all.” I smiled again.

  My charm was finally working. Camille squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose as she appeared to be contemplating.

  “Please, just accept the gift,” I pressed. “Trust me, your daughter should have this guitar.”

  Ally stopped playing for a second to check her phone, and Lance finally took my advice and changed the background music to Pink Floyd.

  I waited.

  Groaning, Camille dropped her hands to her sides and stared up at me with fierce intensity. “Okay then, but I’ll need to see some ID.”

  No woman had ever carded me, but for some unknown reason, I was ready to walk through fire for this stubborn redhead. As long as she agreed to my offer.

  “Umm, sure.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her my license.

  She took it and studied my information for what seemed like forever, then scrambled for her phone and snapped a photo.

  “Do you want my social security number to run a background check?” Thoroughly amused, I laughed.

  “You can never be too careful.” She returned my license.

  “True.” I pocketed my wallet.

  “What brings you to this part of town, Dante?”

  “I live here. Up on the hill,” I explained.

  “Your ID says you live in Beverly Hills.”

  “I used to. I still own real estate there.”

  Confusion twisted her face. “I see.”

  “Do you want my current address?” I wasn’t certain why exactly I said it—to make sure she felt safe letting me buy her daughter an expensive gift or because I secretly hoped she’d stalk me to my place. I almost wanted the latter.

  Camille took a second to ponder my question. “Well”—she threw both hands in the air—“I have your name and a copy of your license. I think that’ll be enough to report you to the police if you try to look for ways to contact my daughter behind my back.”

  “I would never,” I reassured her. “I’m considering seeing her band on Friday, though.”

  She glanced up at me with a rapt expression on her flushed face. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.” The corners of her lips lifted. One, then the other. It was a strange yet adorable gradual smile.

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Hey, Hendrix,” I called to Ally. “Your mom is cool.” My eyes darted back to Camille.

  “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this later?” She shook her head.

  “You won’t.”

  “I better not.”

  “If you do, you know where to find me.”

  Ten minutes later, the three of us walked out of Bruno’s Rare Guitars with Les Paul.

  “Well.” Camille motioned at the dark green 4Runner parked in front of the nail salon. “This is us.”

  Her hair shimmered in the blistering sun, blinding me with its light and taking the air out of my lungs. Outside, she shone even brighter than in the confines of the vintage shop, where the guitars had been a distraction.

  Right here, right now, in this parking lot, there was nothing else that could possibly own my attention. I was all hers. My eyes devoured every detail as if they’d never seen a woman before.

  A huge smile covered Ally’s face as the three of us came to a halt.

  “Can I take a photo with you?” she asked tentatively, blowing at a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her nose.

  The question caught me off guard. I couldn’t remember if I’d posed for a photo with a fan since the overdose, except for the n
ight I left Passages to ambush Frank. I’d been disconnected from the world for a hot minute, trying to find my way and trying to figure out where the fuck I fit in now. I was broken and I didn’t want this brokenness to spill into the photos that would then circulate online and outweigh all my past achievements.

  My hesitation must have been obvious. Camille gave Ally a pinning stare and said under her breath, “I don’t think he wants his photo taken, Bug,”

  Ally glowered back at her mother first, then gave me a sideways glance as if asking permission.

  Everything about their exchange made me warm. I couldn’t explain it. They were like tiny fireworks exploding in front of me.

  “It’s all right,” I finally found my voice. “I don’t mind.”

  Camille turned to face me, her lips twisted in an apologetic smile. “Thank you for the...umm...present,” she mouthed, fishing out her car keys. Then I heard the bleep of the alarm.

  “You don’t have to thank me.” I nodded, enthralled by her stupid sunflowers and pink bra straps that showed through the soft lavender fabric of her flowy top. “I really am envious of how good your daughter is.”

  Ally rounded the 4Runner, pulled the passenger door open, and slid the guitar case onto the seat.

  “I’m sorry she can be a bit demanding,” Camille whispered, meeting my gaze as the warm summer breeze whipped her hair across her cheeks and scattered it over the elegant slant of her shoulders.

  “I’m used to handling large groups of people,” I joked, expecting her to ask me about the band. Most women would.

  She didn’t.

  Ally handed her mother her phone and leapt over for the photo. There were some people in the parking lot and a few heads turned in our direction.

  Camille gazed around with concern. “Gotta be quick, Bug,” she shouted, stabbing her index finger into the screen several times in a row.

  It was over fast, and for some reason, I didn’t want them to leave. Not yet, anyway.

  Camille returned the phone to Ally, then mouthed a quick thank you at me and added in a normal voice, “Looks like you may have been spotted, Dante.” A playful glint in her green eyes told me she was fun when she wanted to be.