Rock Redemption (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3)

Not even a little.

Once I’d finished, I opened my eyes. I didn’t look at Flynn. I’d bared all. If his reaction was eh, I didn’t know if I’d be able to stomach it.

“It’s a fucking good song. A single for sure.” Flynn ran through the first few chords again, his fingers agile on the strings. “How do you feel about making it a duet?”

“Simon won’t sing with me.” Saying it quickly was the only way to stem the flash of pain.

“Did I mention Simon?”

I frowned. “Who else then?”

“Me.”

If he’d plowed a fist into my jaw, I probably would’ve been less stunned. “You’d consent to sing a song like this? Isn’t your work a bit harder-edged?”

Flynn had that whole hard driving honky tonk vibe going on. Not pure country, but an amalgamation of it and rock music. His lowest tones made mine look like I was a fucking soprano.

Already, I could hear him singing my words in my head. Hell, he’d probably make the song amazing. Ten times better than I could do alone.

“Fifty-fifty split?” I didn’t know why I was talking about money. We hadn’t even recorded it yet, never mind found someone interested in producing it. Just because I had a record contract didn’t mean Ripper would agree to have this song on my EP. There was a vetting process I still didn’t fully understand yet.

If I didn’t go home and deal with my situation, I never would. At least not until I was inside a courtroom and being sued for breach of contract.

“More like seventy-thirty. You did the hard work. I’m just stepping in and warbling.” Flynn flashed a smile and rolled up his chair beside mine at the console.

He pushed a couple buttons and another microphone, this one with a circular filter over the mic, lifted out of a compartment beside the board’s switches and levers.

“How do you want to do this?” I rubbed my palms on the thighs of my denims. “You start, then I come in on—”

“Follow my lead. You’ll see where I give you an opening.”

“I will?”

He grabbed my composition notebook and reread the lyrics for a moment or two, then picked up up his guitar and strummed the opening chords. Then he began to sing.

His voice was bristly and rough and aching in a way I envied. He was the real deal. A guy who’d lived and loved and expressed his perspective in his sound. He opened his mouth and you knew you were in the presence of greatness.

Not because he was the best out there. He didn’t have to be. He had a confidence, a swagger, that belied the pain of the lyrics. Telling the world he might be down now, but he wasn’t out.

Neither was I.

On the chorus, he slid a glance at me and I lowered my mouth to the mic, getting in nice and close as he had. I joined him on guitar as well and went for it.

We sounded good together.

It wasn’t like it had been with me and Simon. Flynn’s voice was the jagged to my smooth, the unbridled to my controlled. I’d never been the guy with polish, but compared to Flynn, I was as slick as the inside of a seashell. Every one of our differences contrasted in a way that melded perfectly for the song.

For the last verse, he stepped back and kept playing. And it was my turn to let loose.

I kept my eyes open as I sang, but it wasn’t Flynn I was singing to. I didn’t see his face. I saw Zoe as she’d been on the beach that day so long ago. It wasn’t that long in terms of weeks, but it was a lifetime considering how far we’d come.

Her hair shimmering in the sun, her eyes reflecting the light as if they were jewels. Her singing with me, almost unconcerned who overheard. Losing herself in the joy of the moment and dragging me with her until it was ours.

I channeled every bit of that day here. Wrung out every ounce of emotion inside me that I’d bottled and banked. And let it fly from my lips and through my fingers into the strings that burned under my fingers from the force of my playing.

My hand stilled and I bowed my head. This time, I wasn’t afraid to see his reaction. I needed a moment to get myself in line.

“Rory’s gonna piss himself over this.”