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“It’s a long story.”
He looked at his watch-less wrist. “Look at that, I’m not on the clock. Talk.”
I told him everything. Probably more than I should have. Once I pulled off the lid, it was as if I couldn’t keep the whole sordid story from pouring out of me. Robbing that bank back in England, getting in trouble with the police. Making the agreement with Jerry that would seal my fate to escape prison. Everything that had come after.
The only part I left out was Zoe. It was too private for me to share. And I wasn’t at all sure I could say the words in any case.
All the while, I watched his face. Waiting for it to change. Maybe even for him to point to the door and tell me to get the hell out of his place.
Once I finished, I looked longingly at Flynn’s beer, though he’d been drinking it steadily as I spoke so there probably wasn’t much left. But I knew I couldn’t—wouldn’t—go there.
I’d said it all straight to a near stranger. No softening it, no cutting corners. And I’d survived.
The next time would be easier. I didn’t have to be ashamed of who I was anymore.
Not that I was proud either. God, no. But living in secrecy didn’t change the past. It just ensured I’d never do any better.
I cleared my throat at Flynn’s silence. “So, now you understand.”
“Understand what, exactly?”
“Why it’s not really appropriate for me to return to singing as if nothing happened.”
“Let me tell you how the world works, London boy.” Flynn braced his hands behind him on the wraparound counters that wound around half the kitchen. “Most of has have to go to work no matter what trauma we go through. It’s called making a living. If you want people to treat you with kid gloves as someone who can’t man up and do his job, then by all means.” Flynn lifted his hands palms out. “Get a reputation right from the get as someone who flakes out. Go for it.”
“That isn’t—that’s not—Christ, you’ve got the way of it, don’t you?” I dug my fingers into my dry, gritty eyes. “I worked so hard to get here. It was all I ever wanted.”
Before Zoe, I’d had no other dreams. Nothing else had mattered other than making it to LA and singing.
I’d hoped to get a recording contract someday, but it had all happened so much faster than I’d assumed it would. And to be on a label like Ripper—my brother’s label—and to be able to sing with him? That had been the pinnacle.
“Simon’s not going to
want to sing with me again,” I said quietly. “How can he? Because of me, he almost lost his family.”
“There were other factors in play than you. You were also the one who alerted Van and the others. You were the one who stopped it and helped change the results.”
I swallowed hard. “His wife doesn’t hate me. I don’t know why she doesn’t, but she’s been nothing but decent to me. I don’t—”
“If you’re going to say ‘I don’t deserve it’ one more time, I’m going to kick your ass.”
His deadpan response made me laugh. “Jesus. I know what I must sound like.”
“If you know, then fucking stop it already. And you know what? If Simon won’t sing with you, do what you’ve been doing since day one. Sing your-fucking-self. For yourself. For your fans. For that pretty woman who’s sent you into the woods to hide out, because I know you sure as shit wouldn’t be here under any other circumstances.”
He was a wise man.
“Why Tennessee anyway?”
“Why not?”
I nodded. It was a fair point.
“Go check out the studio. Spend some time in there.” Flynn took a last drink from his beer then pitched it into the bin. “Then we’ll go fishing.”
I rose. “Sounds good.” I frowned. “What did you say now?”
“Fishing. You have heard of it, London boy?” He mimed throwing a line into the water and reeling it back and I managed to lower my brows. “There’s a lake out back.” He jerked a thumb at the window above the sink.
