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CHAPTER ONE
“To Flynn, may your whiskey be Irish, and the company be worthy of your craic.” I hold my glass up to nobody in particular then down the amber liquid in one, ignoring the busy bar around me.
I’m not usually a lone drinker. Okay, scrub that, maybe I am, but today’s different. Today I’ve been summoned from beyond the grave by the first person in a long time that almost managed to wriggle his way under my skin. Flynn the janitor of the school I’ve been running a temporary music workshop in. Flynn, my landlord. Flynn, the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in God knows how long. It’s not that I need friends. I don’t. Didn’t. Fuck, I don’t need anybody. I just—I miss the old dude.
He called me on my shit. Knew exactly who I am—was—am not anymore—he knew but didn’t ask questions and didn’t treat me any differently because of it.
Stanza Duke. The princess of rock. I shake my head and pour another shot of Flynn’s favorite whiskey. That’s what they used to call me. The papers. The fans. Rock royalty. I snort and shake my head, pushing my bangs from my eyes with the neck of the bottle. That’s what happens when the daughter of the one and only Duke, biggest rock star of the eighties, starts a band of her own.
People stopped recognizing me a long time ago. Growing my buzz cut out and dying it red definitely helped with that. Covering myself in tattoos probably helped too.
“To Flynn.” I swallow another shot, enjoying its smoky, peaty flavor and the comforting burn as it goes down. Call it delusional, call it wishful thinking, but I swear I can feel him here. His presence. His dark humor. His complete lack of fucks to give, even right up until the end.
Don’t be a baby. Drink the whiskey then read the letter. His orders.
With a shake of my head, I clink my glass onto the table and pick up the envelope his daughter handed me after the funeral, orders to go to his favorite Irish bar and buy a bottle of his favorite whiskey on him written on the thick parchment.
I flip the white envelope between my fingers and stroke my thumb over the curling letters of my name. Stanza. I roll my eyes. I don’t go by Stanza anymore. Just Stan. He knew that. Fucks given? Not one.
I slip the letter out for the gazillionth time, scanning to the important stuff.
Stan, your energy is inspiring, but you’ve got to slow down. Be still. Fucking meditate if it helps.
A weird snort-laugh rushes through my nose. Flynn was always so lovely and polite with the outside world. But you can only keep that shit up for so long. I saw the home-version of the old guy, and he cussed. A lot. Figures really. He may have changed careers, but he was military through and through. My eyes sting, but I blink back the tears. I knew the guy for a year. That’s it. He was just my landlord for fuck sake—the janitor-security-handyman at my latest school gig. My teeth find the raw skin in the inside of my cheek and rake over it. But he was my friend.
I only hope you find Clua half as lucky as I did, kid.
Clua. He bought me a ticket to an island called Clua. My gaze drops to my cell and the place my Google Maps app came up with. It’s tiny. Miniscule. A barely-there dot floating off the coast of Mexico. New York would have been more my speed. Or London. Or even Ibiza.
Music. Nightlife. Movement.
I swipe the screen to images of the island and feel like the biggest, most ungrateful jerk. White-sand beaches and turquoise water. A month in paradise. Who cares about nightlife? If I’m gonna fucking meditate anywhere, it’s gonna be this place. With an unsteady hand, I tip the last of the whiskey into my glass then knock it back and enjoy the burn, his parting words blurring on the page.
The rent’s paid in Baltimore until the end of the year. It’s yours if you decide to stay around.
Stay around. I trace my fingers over the stylized feather where my tattoo sleeve stops half-way down my forearm. Not happening. You need to plant roots to stay around, and that’s something I have no intention of doing. According to my asshole ex, Dan, it’s not something I’m even capable of doing. Having a feather tattoo is—according to him—a subconscious sign of my inability to settle. My biggest fault. His biggest, most pitiful, ridiculous justification for shitting on me from a great height.
It’s impossible not to flip him a mental bird even all these years later.
I personally prefer Flynn’s take on feathers—a white one signals that someone’s watching over you. A quick hello from the other side. I shake the envelope until the tiny white feather I found this morning floats onto the polished bar
“I get off in half an hour, Red.”
I blink my mind back from my meandering thoughts and glance across the bar to the bartender. “Name’s not Red.”
“Should be.” His lopsided smirk creases a dimple into his clean-shaven cheek, and his gaze slides to my fire-engine-red braid where it hangs over my shoulder almost to my waist.
I smile despite myself and fold the letter back into its envelope along with the feather. He’s cute. We had this exact conversation the last time I was here. That time it ended in a whole lot of very enjoyable nakedness. There’s a difference this time, though. A warmth sparkling in his deep brown gaze. I know that sparkle. And I know that warmth.
Before he gets to the bit about liking my leather pants I stand, my stool dragging loudly across the stone floor, and slide a twenty over the bar. “That ship has sailed, friend.” I shrug and swipe my bangs from my eyes. “I’m out.”
Shame. The guy had some moves.
