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I’m almost startled by the interruption. I’d forgotten my audience and where I was for a second. For the last few minutes, I’d been transported to a different time and place. Not the past, but an alternate future. Some fantasy world where music made me something other than a criminal fuckup everyone despised. Then, the sting in my fingertips drops me back into reality. Blisters are already forming on skin that knows this isn’t real.
It turns out I’m not a miracle or a zombie. I’m a hologram.
“I don’t remember any of my songs,” I lie, pushing up from the couch.
I can’t look at Isabel as I cross back to the stand and gently lower the guitar to its rightful place. Her request had been filled with so much hope. So much fucking wonder. I hate that I’ve disappointed her, but this is me now, another failure she’ll have to accept. I’m not that guy anymore. The artist in me was stripped and broken along with everything else.
“Well, maybe another time,” Kyle says, clearing his throat. “Sounded great, though. Maybe you can teach me some chords later?”
I return a stiff smile. “Sure. You’re probably going to want to change the strings too.”
“I guess you would have to show me that as well,” he says with a wry grin.
“I’d be happy to,” I say, knowing it will never happen. He’s being polite. This entire thing is a masterclass in etiquette. “It’s a beautiful instrument. Thanks for letting me play it.”
“It’s probably thanking you more.”
I press my lips together and look away. Doubt that. My fingers still burn from their brief clash with the strings. I used to be able to play for hours without a twinge of pain. Even if Iwantedto play for real again, it would take a while to condition my hands back to where they should be. That hurdle alone feels overwhelming and impossible.
“Okay, we have a lot to discuss,” Iris says, clapping her hands.
“Would you like a drink before we get started? Beer, wine, something stronger?” Kyle asks.
“He’s on parole, Dad,” Iris grunts.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Lemonade?”
Iris rolls her eyes, and he grins back.
“How about some juice boxes?” she mutters.
“We probably have them for when Braydon and Charmaine’s kids are here.”
“Um, did youseemy little brother when we put the movie on for him?” Ashton says. “Bray is at his limit for juice boxes today. How about we just do water?”
Kyle chuckles. “Fair enough. You mind helping?” he asks me.
“Of course, sir,” I say.
“Kyle,” he corrects with a smile.
I’m not sure how to respond, so I say nothing as I follow him to the kitchen.
“So Iris and Ashton tell me you’re having some trouble with Pierce Harrison.”
I try to read him in the dim light. “Yeah. He’s not happy about Isabel and me.”
“That boy isn’t happy about a lot of things,” he says, pulling a few bottles of sparkling water from the fridge.
I fight a smile, but let it break when his does. Who knew stuffy billionaire Kyle Alexander wouldn’t be stuffy?
“So what specifically is the issue with Pierce? I didn’t get much from the kids. They only overheard some general threats, no details.”
“I’m on parole,” I say quietly. “He’s doing everything he can to get me sent back to prison.”
“No, shit. Really?”
I nod, forcing away another smile at his casual response. How is this guy so cool and down-to-earth?
