Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (58 page)

Andrew couldn’t sleep. Anxiety bubbled up inside him. He could not leave her; it was wrong. But he knew if he knocked on her door, she would not answer. There was only one way.

The passageway was cold, and the fizzling wall sconces made walking incredibly difficult. The trunk lay off to the side. He paused and held his breath, like a boy whistling past the graveyard. But something drew him to it, as if it were calling him. He had taken to keeping Nick’s ring and the key they found in the keepsake box in his pocket, feeling responsible for their safety. The trunk had the same pull.

He reached his hand out and grazed his fingertips along the lid, steeling himself for the shock of pain he knew would follow, but he felt nothing. Tentatively, he sat down on it and put his head in his hands, trying to get his thoughts in order before he spoke to Emily.

How had everything gotten so bollocked up? He knew Emily’s insecurities regarding him, but she tried hard not to show them. He felt her eyes on him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She didn’t see the man who would love her past his last breath; she saw the lead singer of The Lost Boys, and it scared her. Hell, it scared him as well.

He couldn’t fault her for wanting to prove herself by standing on her own two feet; he felt the exact same way about himself. But he needed to make her understand that she could have both, her dreams and them together—he didn’t want to take anything away from her; he just wanted her.

No. He couldn’t let her go, he couldn’t. He needed to protect her from what was out there, from what was plaguing her nightmares. Terror clogged his throat at the thought of them being separated. His fingers rubbed over the worn travel stickers plastered on the top of the trunk, triggering images that flashed like strobe lights before his eyes, but he could only catch the ocean and the cliffs and…the screaming. He beat the side in frustration, his hand cutting against something sharp. Hissing, he pulled his hand to his mouth to stop the bleeding. It stung like hell.

He squinted in the faint light to see what he had cut himself on, certain he’d need a bloody tetanus shot with his luck. He saw a small, uneven brass square with rough edges on the side of the trunk. He squinted down at it, barely able to make out the faint script etched there.

Belden Firm, 1888.

Belden Firm. The words sound so familiar, but he could not remember where he’d seen them. A chill passed down the nape of his neck. A familiar chill.

“Nick?” he said into the darkness. “Is that you? Nick?”

Only silence answered him, and the sound of wind sighing through the eaves.

In that instant he heard Emily cry out. He abandoned the trunk and ran. He reached her wardrobe and pushed his way through her clothes. Her room was dark, she was muttering, and her voice shouted out in strangled cries.

“Andrew, no! Don’t! Don’t! Let me go!”

He froze in his tracks. He was about to shout her name when he realized she was still asleep. She was having a nightmare, and from the sounds of it, an awful one.

“I don’t want you! Stop! Andrew! You’re hurting me.”

The words made no sense. Why was she screaming for him to go away? No. This was wrong. She couldn’t be having a nightmare about him hurting her. No.

He backed up into the passageway. Suddenly, like a violent slap across the face, images lacerated his mind and knocked him to his knees. Emily was screaming. He saw the cliffs and the waves. He stood bleeding before her, and she was screaming at him to stop, her feet inches from the edge. Rage ran through him—deathly rage. He wanted to kill.

“Christ,” he said, barely holding himself up. What was happening to him? He stumbled back down the passageway, grasping onto the beams for support. Yet it was not beams he felt. Instead, his hands felt the softness of her neck as his fingers clamped down, choking off the ghastly vibrations of her screams. Her throat constricted under his command…the bones shattered, splintered, her eyes rolled back in her skull, white in terror. He wrested harder until the screams died, and a dull, lifeless weight hung in his grip.

He staggered forward, fighting the bile rushing to his mouth.

He did not sleep that night.

Against all better judgment, he left the house the next morning while it was still dark, with Christian and Simon grumbling in half-awake silence next to him in the truck.

They had found an open coffee shop, but he could only stare at the plastic lid of his cup. His mind kept torturing himself with the horror of his last vision—that the ghost who had haunted his memories and her nightmares was—him. No, he loved her, he had always loved her. He would rather die than hurt her. But the rage he had felt…that unspeakable, consuming rage.

No. He forced it from his mind. No.

The first hint of dawn was breaking across the sky when they entered the building that was already alive and jostling with activity. A program assistant escorted them back to the studios where they could set up and meet with the hosts.

Everyone was bursting with excitement, but it did nothing to ease his sense of dread, knowing that at any minute, miles and miles would begin separating him from Emily. That he would not be able to protect her. That he would no longer be able to keep her safe. That she probably still hated him, as well. But as he tuned his guitar, he bit down on his lip and thought bitterly:
keep her safe from whom?

Before Andrew knew it, they were on the air.

They chatted and joked with the DJs about touring and life on the road as well as the charity shows they had both supported. The room was full of staff and grew more crowded as the minutes passed. He glanced at the clock. He knew the girls would be on the road themselves by now, and he prayed they had the radio on at least, keeping them joined in some way.

“So what would you like to play for us today? We’ll give you the first shot, and then we’ll beg for our favorites,” said the host.

Andrew smiled, causing the female producer to bobble her coffee cup and drench her white shirt in brown liquid.

“Well,” he began, speaking calmly into the microphone, “you see, there are three women out there in some godforsaken minivan heading up the coast that are royally ticked at us right now.”

“What did you do?”

“Long story. I’m hoping they haven’t snapped off the radio by now. But if not…Emily, luv, if you’re out there…”

He thought of everything he could say at that moment:
I’m sorry, I love you, I should have asked you to tour with us long before now, marry me…Run.

Christian strummed the opening notes, and the song began. A love song, an apology. Andrew sang, the words becoming more and more plaintive, his guitar matching the heartbreak in his voice. When the song at last drifted to a whispered close, the room exploded in cheers.

Christian looked at Andrew with one eyebrow cocked and nodded appreciatively. Simon smiled, equally pleased. They went to a commercial break, and Andrew’s cell phone rang. His heart swelled when he saw the caller ID.

“Hey,” he whispered, his cheeks hot and his pulse racing.

“I love you!”

“I do too. God, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have run away.”

“Listen, luv, we’ve only got a minute until we’re back on the air. I was a fucking prat, a complete fucking prat not to ask you right away. I was so afraid you’d say no. Christ, Emily, I love you, I’m not alive without you. Please come on tour with us.”

He could hear nothing but her quick breathing on the other end, and his throat tightened up.

“Please say yes. Emily? Emily, are you there?” He panicked, sure that she would say no.

“Yes! Of course, yes.”

The weight of relief smashed into him, and before he knew what he was saying he blurted out, “Marry me.”

The room went stone silent. Evidently they were back on the air.

Christian smiled like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Hey, you just made it official. You got witnesses now, dude.”

Andrew looked around at the wide-eyed anticipation in the room; the hosts were nearly falling out of their chairs at this once in a lifetime occurrence. Sommers and Bolen had suddenly turned up out of nowhere.

“Emily? Are you still there?”

“Uh huh.”

He clutched the phone tightly in his hand and whispered so that only she could hear.

“Marry me now, not later. Now. Tour with me. You can write your book. We’ll be together. We’ll share the same bed every night. I’ll know you’re out there. I’ll know you’re safe. Marry me. Dear God, please say yes.”

Anyone tuning in would swear they’d hit dead air. The room balanced on pins and needles awaiting her answer. Andrew could feel the heat of her blush on the other end, the fast rustle of her breath, and the tears glistening on her cheeks.

“Yes.”

The space about him erupted in cheers. He could see the DJs high five each other, the staff applaud wildly. He could see Simon’s shocked face and the incessant flash of Bolen’s camera. But he didn’t care. She had said yes.

Andrew and Christian were still laughing as they left the studio; Simon remained silent. Evidently the thought of both his band mates married was too much for him to contemplate. Sommers and Bolen were thrilled as well, having gotten a bit of guts and bones for their efforts, so Andrew fought to keep his elation to a dull roar.

In the car he checked his phone; he’d received a text from her:

Love you so! Meeting bodyguards @winery 2 celebrate!

He texted back, rolling his eyes as he did so:

Love you, girl. Bodyguards a +. Don’t inhale.

He was still upset that they had gone on ahead, but somehow the terror of what he had felt last night and this morning had subsided slightly. Four men, albeit four stoned men of marginal intelligence, could hold the fort until they got there. Still, he itched to be done with this and get on the road.

Once they arrived back at Neil’s house, it took a lot longer than expected to set the lights, since Sid had decided to do some last minute rewiring that caused a plethora of electrical problems. S.J. was micromanaging every detail, which further fueled his irritation. It was already well past noon.

He checked his phone. Nothing.

Why did time seem like it was going backward? A knock came from the door, and Christian trotted over to answer it. Surprisingly, Neil stood there. The last time Andrew had seen him he was in the audience with his mum, looking grave. Now, when he saw Andrew, a wide smile came over his face.

“Congratulations on the happy news,” he said. “And you sounded excellent.” As they shook hands, he gripped Andrew’s shoulder with his other and clamped down hard. “Just so you know, you truly don’t need any marketing—you do a fine job without it. Between your music and your charm, the phones were ringing off the hook at the studio.”

The click of Bolen’s camera fired off.

“Neil St. John, well I’ll be.” Sommers had materialized out of nowhere, studying their close stance with great interest.

“Mr. Sommers, a pleasure to see you again,” Neil said with a consummate balance of sincerity and enthusiasm. “I loved your article about The Who in
The New Yorker
. Kudos on that. It was a fine bit of writing. Is it going to be part of your book?”

Given such an opening, the journalist could not help but expound on the details of the latest chapters to which Neil listened with great interest. Finally, S.J., impatient for things to get going, joined them.

“Fine work with KFOG,” Neil commended her. “I had a meeting there this morning, as a matter of fact. Everyone was talking about the show. I’ve never seen the place like that before. It was utter madness. I don’t think they wanted the band to leave.”

“No they didn’t,” S.J. replied. “They were quite a hit. Between the apologies and career-crippling marriage proposals, I honestly lost track of how many songs they played.”

“Four.”

She looked straight down her nose at him. “I’d love to chat, but if you’d pardon me, we’re already behind schedule.” She nodded bluntly in farewell and returned to the opposite side of the room with Bolen where she began to move more paint cans around for a particular shot.

“Never knew all this mess would come in handy,” Neil remarked to Andrew, who laughed darkly in return.