Deeper Than Dreams (12 page)

Rick's dark eyes pleaded understanding. He didn't want to voice it, and I didn't make him. In my research, I'd learned that the shells represented hope, strength, and protection.

“So who finally found this one?” I asked quietly.

Rick smirked. “Digger always said I wouldn't know a good thing even if it jumped up and bit me on the arse. I stepped on it. Blasted thing nearly sliced my toe off.”

He gently traced the shell's ruffled edge where it was nestled in my hand. From afar, it must've looked like he was reading my palm. And perhaps, in a way, he was. Fortune-telling through his own eyes and experiences.

“See where it's jagged here? It must've weathered some rough surf. But the wings are its most delicate part, and they are intact. There was ligament at one time, hinging the two sides when we found it. Simone both celebrated and mourned it; joined at the hip like us, she said. But it was empty inside.”
Also like us
, the sad dwindle in his voice implied.

I thought back to Adrian's story of the night he was arrested; of Simone confiding that she'd finally decided to leave Rick, for good. That obviously hadn't happened. Death had parted them first.

“No two sides are the same, you know,” he continued in that quiet murmur. His voice had a velvet quality to it, and a pitch indicative of the many ranges he could reach while singing. “The top half, brighter. And the bottom half, smoother. Perfectly paired, but quite different.”

We both glanced toward the bar. Adrian was in deep discussion with Alexander, good-naturedly wagging a finger to prove a point. The reporter was gazing with rapt attention, yet his anticipation was palpable, ready to interrupt at any moment but respectfully refraining. Until Adrian paused to take a sip of his whiskey, and Alexander launched into his litany. Adrian glanced my way, catching my eye and winking.

“Like I said before. Once in a lifetime.”

“Twice, if you're lucky,” I insisted. The grim twist of Rick's lips dimpled his cheek and mocked my optimism. He moved a hand under mine, his strong thumb pushing my fingers closed over my palm and his gift.

“Enjoy it.” His face was once again impassive. I carefully deposited the shell back into my evening bag. His
makana aloha
may have been intended for Abbey, but the message of peace he offered seemed to be directed straight at me.

***

“Is that our limo waiting?” I nodded toward the long black stretch at the curb as we began our descent down the regal stairs.

“I believe it is. Perfect timing, no?” Adrian asked, and I almost expected a clock somewhere to begin chiming midnight.

“Well, let's use it, before it turns back into a pumpkin,” I joked.

“Wait, wait.” His eyes surveyed the steps. “Yes, it was exactly here.” He pulled me down to sit next to him on a stone-cold step. “This is where I found Patience.”

He turned to the stone lion at our right and tipped an imaginary hat. “'Ello, guv'nor.”

“And this is where I'd so hoped I'd find you,” I whispered, snuggling close to kiss him.

“
Easy, Tiger . . .”
He sang the words, just as he had during the concert the night before, but this time the lyrics were for my ears only, from the first to the last, as he wound his tuxedo jacket around my bare shoulders and held me close.

“Adrian Graves,” I admonished, “did you go and write me a heavy metal love song?”

“Well now, maybe I did.”

“I thought if love was going to appear in your music, it had to be doomed, damned, or deadly,” I teased, quoting words he used in the past. He sat back to look at me, and the raise of his brow indicated he wasn't the only one who remembered a surprising number of details.

“I've learned since that love runs much deeper than that.” His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me even closer. “Deeper than dreams,” he murmured against the shell of my ear. “And if I've made even one of your dreams come true tonight, then I am a better man for it.”

His gaze caught mine and I felt the world stop for a moment. All the attention and fuss during the day had been fun and surreal. But it made no difference whether we were standing side stage at the Garden right before showtime, by the lake watching Abbey chase the seagulls, or dressed to the nines in the freezing cold while a gala raged on behind us. Side by side, in it together. There was no place else my head, my heart, and my body wanted to be.

“Are you ready to go home?”

Now I was certain; bells were ringing somewhere. Maybe back in Adrian's spacious Manhattan apartment, or up at my cozy house in Lauder Lake, where it took three minutes for the motley menagerie of clocks to welcome in the midnight hour. Home was anywhere we were, whether it was somewhere out on tour, or right here on Fifth Avenue. And even if the road separated us for a while, we'd be home . . . because home was love, as well.

Adrian stood, and then slowly backed down a couple of steps, his gaze never leaving me. Despite the chilly November temperature, he began to roll up his shirtsleeves.

“What are you—”

As if he were about to be knighted, my prince knelt on one step in front of me. He extended his bare forearm, and there, wound between the tattooed cat paws, were words written in Abbey's childish scrawl:

Mommy, will you marry Adrian Graves please?

Yet another person he had enlisted to help pull off this magical evening, right under my nose. He had, literally, had something up his sleeve the whole time. And he had managed to keep it from me all day, under wraps . . . and even in the shower.

My mouth dropped open. With a smile, Adrian handed me a Sharpie marker from his back pocket and put a finger to
my lips. As a former librarian, I knew all about silence, and how it could sometimes be, for better and for worse, even louder than love.

Taking his left hand in mine, I inked
Y E S !
across his four knuckles.

Adrian gave a rebel yell and swooped me into his arms. The limo door burst open, and there was Abbey, racing up to join in our embrace.

“Well?” Luke and Kimon climbed out of the limo next, followed by Liz and Kev.

“What'd she say?” My brother hollered up the steps between cupped hands.

Grinning, Adrian gave a strong fist pump into the air triumphantly, as Abbey hugged our legs. There were cheers and claps from not only my family below, but from the bystanders and gala guests who had gathered nearby to watch.

Rick stood with his arms crossed, a slight smile playing across his handsome face and softening his chiseled jaw. Was it a smile of consent, or of defeat? I didn't know him well enough to read him just yet. Isabelle approached him from behind. She tugged at his shoulder with one hand, while impatiently hailing her waiting Town Car with the other, but he didn't react.

“Mommy, I think Dad's winking at us!” Abbey gasped.

I gazed far above our heads, up at the clear view of stars. I imagined Pete up there with the brightest of them.
You had a journalist propose to you in a rock club.
He'd chuckle over the irony.
Only fitting to have a rock star propose to you at a library.

Adrian nestled something solid over my ring finger. “
Chatoyant
,” he said of the brilliant green stone in its antique, diamond-surrounded setting. “A cat's eye emerald, for my Kat.” Kissing my knuckle, he added, “For always.”

I wanted Abbey to grow up with Adrian in her life. And I wanted to grow old with him in mine.

Plenty of stories for when we're old and gray

Arise and drink your bliss!

“I think I really did wake up in a fairy tale today,” I said to Adrian.

“Or perhaps you're still in my arms, dreaming a wonderful dream.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to all the readers, bloggers, reviewers and librarians who inspired me to spin this heavy metal fairy tale. Your letters and emails, your comments, reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations continue to breathe life into Adrian, Kat, and Abbey long after the ending was written on
Louder Than Love
. And your love of these characters brings new dimension to them, beyond my wildest (and deepest) dreams. Through your words, I learn something new about them every day, which fuels me to write more words. Thank you for supporting the book of my heart, and I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of the Love and Steel series. I welcome your feedback and questions, so please feel free to reach out to me at [email protected]—you rock!

Keep reading for a preview of the

next book in the Love and Steel series

SOFTER THAN STEEL

Available September 2015

Rick

Shafted

Rick surveyed the crowd before him, clearing his throat loudly. Discordant chatter fell to an expectant hush, and all eyes were on him. Camera flashes popped.

I don't belong here.

A prod in the back from Isabelle reminded Rick that this wasn't about him.

He looked down at his hands and almost burst out laughing. It was like one of those horrible dreams you had as a kid, showing up at school and suddenly realizing you're naked. Except he was way overdressed in a bespoke suit, with a horrible Brioni tie strangling him in ways his guitar strap never could.

But that sinking feeling of the dream, of looking down to the utter shock of nakedness? Yeah, that was there. He had no guitar to hide behind. But what he did have in his hands was a pair of gigantic ceremonial scissors.

“Don't hurt yourself,” Isabelle wisecracked from behind him.

“Right.” He knew the drill. Welcome everyone, allow the hospital president to say a few words, shake hands for the camera, cut the blasted thing and call it a day. Both his publicist and the hospital's spokesperson had been over it ad nauseam.

He opened his mouth, and words started to flow. But the audience began to murmur again, shaking their heads and raising brows to one another.

“Sorry, sorry.” He tapped the dead microphone, then remedied it with a flick of the switch. “It's been a long time since I've had to sound-check my own mic,” he joked. “Check, check one-two.” That garnered a laugh, mainly from the under-forty crowd.

Rick had done the easy stuff earlier. Posing for pictures with various board of directors muckety-mucks, signing autographs for them and for some of the doctors, their children, and their children's children. Now came the hard part. He glanced down at the wide orange satin ribbon stretched out before him as Isabelle gave him another nudge. It was the only thing keeping him from performing a perfect swan dive into the arms of the city officials and dignitaries seated below.

That and social decorum, he supposed.

“Thank you all for coming, and for giving me this honor. Simone would be—”

Simone would be what?

Rick glanced around at the shiny new cancer wing of the famed Manhattan hospital. His wife had died far away from here, the city of her birth, and from her parents, who had been unable to make the opening due to unforeseen circumstances. They were the ones who tirelessly raised the money and spoke for the cause, year after bloody year. He was just another
checkbook, a token figurehead. Putting money where his mouth—or daresay where his heart—was not. He certainly didn't deserve this honor that had fallen upon him right in the middle of his band's tour, yanking him from the promise of the road and back to the crapshoot of reality.

“Simone would be—”

As he searched for the right words, the devil riding shotgun on the shoulder seam of his designer suit provided some choice ones.

Simone would be here if it weren't for you, you pompous, self-centered prick.

His fists clenched, and he heard the crisp bite of stainless steel cutting through the satin. The orange bits fluttered to either side of him, and he stepped back, feeling faint. A collective gasp emanated from below and the president gaped uselessly, unread speech gripped in his hand. Isabelle was at the podium now, not a hair out of place and smiling as the crowd recovered and politely clapped.

“I have to get out of here,” Rick hissed at the back of her perfumed neck, “or I'm going to lose it.”

“Fine. Go. Take the service elevator,” she replied, mouth still frozen in her happy publicist's smile. Isabelle was on the board of the Simone Banquet Memorial Foundation, and was certainly equipped to provide the lip service for it. “There's a car waiting downstairs to take you back to the airport.”

She relieved him of the Goliath shears and planted what felt like the kiss of Judas on his cheek. Exposing him for what he really was. Why, why, why did he let her talk him into this?

Rick bounded behind the pipe and drape toward the old part of the hospital, away from the Simone Banquet Memorial Cancer Center wing that he had just prematurely dedicated.

Why had he even bothered to come? He was useless at these types of things. Beyond useless, actually, and tipping over into the hazardous category. God, he couldn't get out of here fast enough. He should be safely on the other coast with the band in Los Angeles, not here. Anywhere but here. Fingers worked to loosen the tight knot at his throat as he proceeded down the hallway toward the service elevator, which was miraculously opening at that very moment to allow a worker off.

“Hold the lift!” he barked, as the doors began to close upon his approach. He saw no one inside move a finger in response. “Dammit!” Curse New York and its bloody New York minute, with everyone rushing and no one taking the time—

A slim, tan leg shot through the gap in the doors, causing them to spring open again.

Rick murmured his thanks as he wormed in, past the tiny sandal dangling from the foot holding the door at bay.

“Crap. My flip-flop!”

The owner of the leg shifted a huge paper sack of heavenly smelling baked goods in her arms, just in time to catch a glimpse of her shoe slipping neatly through the crack as the doors slid shut with a smug ding.

“Son of a bitch!”

The expletive hardly matched the wisp of a girl who had uttered it. She had the delicate features of a china doll, and barely came up to Rick's chest. Yet he and the other occupants of the elevator cowered as she swore like a trucker.

“Sorry,” was all Rick could muster.

“Me too.” The girl glared at him with eyes startlingly bright, banded in colors that reminded Rick of the tiger iron stone he used to bring back as gifts for his sons after tour stops in Australia. She mumbled something about good deeds unpunished and left it at that.

As they rode in uncomfortable silence, Rick realized the elevator was going up, not down. He had been so intent on escaping, the thought hadn't even occurred to him that it might not be going the way he wanted.

Nothing was going the way he wanted these days.

He sighed, his eyes drifting down. The girl was balanced like a stork, her bare foot nestled against the inner thigh of her opposite leg. How she was able to stand like that while the elevator took its time to stop at every other floor, Rick had no clue. Not that he could blame her; he wouldn't want his skin coming into contact with any part of Manhattan's terra firma, whether inside or out. Her arms were still clutching the huge bag. Rick caught a whiff of cinnamon swirling with honey and walnuts, and realized he had not eaten since landing on American soil.

An older woman in pink scrubs commandeering a cart full of hospital supplies finally spoke up. “Here, chica.” She rummaged through the items on the bottom shelf of the cart. “You take,” she continued in her broken English, smiling and offering up a scrunched handful of something.

Without a word to Rick, the girl handed off her bag to him so she could slide what looked like a pale blue paper shoe over her bare foot.

“Gracias,” she said politely and pointedly to the woman. Which seemed to imply No thanks to you as far as Rick was concerned. She was a firecracker, this one.

Pink Scrubs got off at the next floor, leaving just the two of them on board. She took back custody of her bagels and kept her eyes on the lighted panel above the door. The only number left lit was sixteen, and they were almost there. Rick leaned past her to press L, feeling like an idiot. L for Loser. The girl smirked but didn't comment.

Her hair was straight and glossy, darker than even his, and caught back in a ribbon the same orange hue as the one he had just snipped in half, back in the multi-million-dollar wing that bore his wife's name. He had felt so useless earlier. Now he had the sudden urge to do something, say something, to remedy the current situation.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” he blurted. Lame. “A new shoe?” That earned him a roll of those tiger iron eyes, flecked with golden jasper and bits as dark as black hematite. “How about a tetanus shot?”

With a dismissive snort, she scuffed down the hall in one paper shoe and didn't look back.