No better time to start than today.
“Sure thing.” I straightened my shoulders. “Can’t wait.”
Sixteen
I’d been snookered.
Rory’s idea of prep work didn’t only include Flynn and I recording—and re-recording—“Best Part of Me” until even I was sick of the song. It also included laying down several other tracks too.
I’d written “London Calling,” and “Heartbeat” as well as a few other ones while I was at the cabin, but I considered them largely unfinished. More scraps than songs. Rory had dug through my notebook and pulled out the pieces he thought had “good bones” and he’d helped me build on to them. Making them better. It helped to have someone to bounce off ideas with. Even if I could tell he was adapting those songs to be duets just as the one I’d done with Flynn had become.
He just didn’t have Flynn in mind as the other vocalist.
I didn’t know how to tell him Simon wouldn’t work with me any longer. I didn’t know how to tell anyone. Flynn knew the whole situation, of course, but he wouldn’t spill a word of it. Exactly why I’d told him. I needed someone I could trust, and my gut told me Flynn was a damn lockbox when it came to information.
Every time I got a call, I expected it to be someone back home informing me my contract had been cancelled. Or amended. Or whatever the hell would happen when Simon told them he was out. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t happened already.
But the days kept passing, and that call hadn’t come.
I also hadn’t heard from Sabrina. Apparently, when she’d told me to take some time to find my inner core or some such, she was serious. I was doing exactly that in my own way—writing songs, learning a bit about producing them with Rory and Flynn, and taking pictures of Matilda’s summer holiday for the benefit of Instagram—but I couldn’t say I’d yet found my Zen.
That lived with Zoe.
But I was changing. Even I could see it. Working with the guys was helping. They made me laugh when I didn’t want to. Dragged me out of my head kicking and screaming.
And also dragged into a shady pub that surprisingly reminded me of home three nights in a row.
The first two nights, I maintained my sobriety. It was rather impressive. On the third night, I cracked in a big way.
“I’ll just have a lime and tonic.”
Rory was already five deep and opened one eye wide. “Why bother? Drink a man’s drink.”
I knew this was a bad idea. I’d stood strong this long. But I was overdue to let loose and Rory and Flynn made drinking look so bloody fun. As if all you had to do was bend your elbow and climb up on a table and no more problems.
The table one was Rory, and only for a brief time last night, but still. Flynn would never. He sat in a booth in the corner, his arms stretched wide, his lips tilted in a shit-eating grin, and held court with the ladies. Rory told ridiculous stories about Ireland and his family and how he’d lost his virginity at fourteen to a female sheep farmer. Basically, the options were either to join in and drink or put in earplugs.
So, I drank.
I didn’t know what Rory considered a man’s drink, and I didn’t care. All I knew was I was staying away from vodka and I wasn’t going for anything too girly.
Until the pretty lady beside me leaned in and offered me a sip of her margarita—which probably was a euphemism, but I was already too toasted to realize it—and my new addiction was born.
“Jesus, these are good. I need more salt.” I looked at the bartender beseechingly and she re-salted my rim—which sounded far dirtier than it actually was—and also provided some salt on her wrist for me to lick off before I took another drink.
At the last minute, I shoved her wrist toward Rory, who was not a fan of margaritas but enjoyed shapely brunettes with sparkling eyes and easy laughter.
A half hour later, she was talking about meeting him after her shift.
I wasn’t jealous.
Not even a little bit.
It wasn’t about her. Oh, she was pretty enough, but she wasn’t my type. My type began with Z and ended with…
I lifted my hand and counted off the alphabet on my fingers. G. Right. Her last name ended with G.
Goddammit, I was bloody drunk.