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“He borrowed the money from his family to pay it all back. As long as that check clears by the end of the week, I just want to put this shit behind me.”
Aaron nodded. “Your call. What about his G-Wagen in the driveway?”
“I told him that was interest. Donate it somewhere. I don’t want it.”
“You sure? That’s an expensive two-year-old car.”
“I don’t want his money. I’ll take back what he stole. But that’s it.”
“You got it.” Aaron stood. “Any particular charity?”
“No. You pick one.” I walked him to the door and opened it. “On second thought, see if there’s a legit charity for people suffering from agoraphobia.”
My lawyer’s brows drew together. “You serious?”
“Absolutely.”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say, boss.”
I watched as Aaron pulled out in his Audi R8. He had to navigate past Will’s G-Wagen and my Tesla Roadster. The damn excesses in California. Shit was definitely easier back in Yorkshire. Not that I didn’t appreciate the fortune and fame, but some days I questioned if the price of it all was worth it—friends stealing from friends, women who use you for an introduction to record industry people, endless paparazzi, the inability to walk into a record store and spend a little quiet time perusing the aisles. I missed the simple things in life, and right now was a lull in the crazy times. Pretty soon, I’d be on tour again. Then Cole would swallow up Griffin completely.
Which reminded me. Instead of going back into the house, I walked down to the end of my driveway to check the mailbox. It had been a week since I wrote back to Luca, and I’d hoped that my first letter hadn’t scared her off. Hell, I actually didn’t think she’d even get my letter. I certainly never expected the shit she’d told me when she wrote back.
Losing a friend in a fire—at a crowded concert of all places. That was pretty fucked up.
I sifted through a two-inch stack of mail as I walked back to the house and smiled seeing Luca’s familiar handwriting.
Settling into the couch, I tore it open and read every word. Twice.
When was the last time someone was that honest with me? My mum probably. It definitely hadn’t been in the last three years since my star had risen in the music world. My life was filled with two kinds of people now—people who yessed me because they worked for me or my label, and people who wanted something from me.
Luca was neither—and unless she was totally full of shit, she also had no idea who the hell I was. She either didn’t know who Cole Archer was or did and didn’t recognize me from the one picture we’d exchanged more than ten years ago. Either way, being Griffin again felt good. Talking to Luca felt even better.
I read her letter twice more and then grabbed one of the half dozen notepads I kept lying around the house for when lyrics or music came to me.Dear Luca,
Three things I’m afraid of? How am I supposed to answer that and still sound like a tough guy? I sure as shit can’t tell you I’m afraid of the dark, or spiders, or heights. That would ruin my street cred. So I’m going to have to go with some real scary shit. Like failure.
If you want to know the truth, which I’m pretty sure you do, I’m afraid of failing. Letting others down, letting myself down, letting the . . .I was just about to say letting the fans down. But Griffin didn’t have any fans. I didn’t want to start lying to Luca, so I’d just have to be careful how I phrased things.. . . letting the life I’ve built out here in California fall apart.
What else am I afraid of? Death. Fearing something that is inescapable might not be the most productive use of time. Maybe it isn’t even death that I fear but more the fear of the unknown. Do we really go to heaven? I think anyone who has a healthy fear of death must be skeptical of that answer—because if I was certain that I’d go to a place where there’s no pain and no sickness and everyone gets cool wings and meets up with their old chums, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t fear death.The last fear was a new one, one that I debated back and forth about sharing before eventually deciding to be honest. I mean, she’d shared some damn scary shit with me. It was the least I could do.The last one is a relatively new fear, but that doesn’t make it any less real. I’m afraid I’ll fuck something up and scare you away again. So let’s make a pact, okay? If I screw up, you’ll let me know and not just stop answering my letters.
