I glanced around the bonfire at these guys I’d fucking die for. They filled empty spaces in me, but lately, it was getting harder to ignore the nameless hunger that had taken shape and wasn’t so nameless anymore.
Shiloh…
I tried to push her out of my thoughts, that night and every damn waking minute of my life, since the morning we called it quits. But the promises I’d made to her that day were starting to feel old and stale, while the hunger for her grew ravenous.
“I propose a toast,” Holden said, getting to his feet. He held up his vodka flask, swaying slightly. “To Ronan, the quintessential handyman.”
“Uh, thanks?”
“Shush, I’m not done yet. You take broken-down shit and put it back together, no matter if that broken-down shit is a shed or shelf or shell of a man. Such as myself. You, Ronan Wentz, greatly improve the lives of everyone you know.”
“Hear, hear,” Miller said, lifting his beer. I scowled at him, but he shook his head as if to say, You’re not getting out of this one.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I said and took a pull of cold beer to douse the warm feeling spreading across my chest. It was nice, what Holden had said, but not true.
Shiloh’s life is improved by not having me in it.
We ate and drank, and then Holden went inside the Shack and returned with a bag of gourmet, sugar-free chocolates for Miller and a German chocolate cake, both from a bakery downtown with a French name.
“Who’s got candles?” Holden asked. “We need to sing again.”
“Hell no,” I said. “You’re done.”
“I think that’s your cue, Stratton.”
Miller pulled off his beanie, ran a hand through his hair and then settled his guitar on his lap. His preshow warm up. “I know you like heavier shit,” he said to me. “I tried to work out something from Tool—”
“Something romantic,” Holden put in, dumping a huge piece of chocolate cake on a paper plate and handing it to me. “Like ‘Stinkfist.’”
Miller chuckled. “Right. But it doesn’t translate to acoustic very well, so I arranged something else. Hope you like it.”
I concentrated on my food. Miller playing was a big deal by itself but having him play for you was fucking priceless.
He strummed the first few notes, and it took me as second to recognize the song. Then Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” came pouring across the fire in the dark night.
Chris Cornell had a once-in-a-lifetime voice. Miller’s take on his song turned it into something completely different and yet somehow paid respect to Cornell at the same time.
Holden listened the same way he had that night at the Blaylock party—riveted and silent. I set my food aside, wanting to do nothing but listen too. Miller sang about walking sleep, and I thought about my nightly treks to keep the nightmares away. To make sure those I cared about were safe.
“In my youth, I pray to keep, Heaven send Hell away,” Miller sang, and my hand went to the words tattooed on the right side of my chest. When I was a kid, I prayed every day for the hell that was my father to go away. When he finally did, it was too late.
A quiet settled when Miller’s last note faded out. I didn’t know what to do or say. Thankfully, Holden broke the silence before things got awkward, rising unsteadily to his feet.
“Fucking hell, man,” he said, clapping hard. He looked at me, bewildered. “How is he not famous?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” I said.
Miller shook his head and I shot him the same look he’d given me: You’re not getting out of this one. H
e smiled gratefully. He wanted nothing more than to make it big and rescue his mother from poverty and her asshole boyfriend. His music was all he had, and he worried it wasn’t enough, while everyone around him had no doubt.
We drank a few more beers, all of us laughing our asses off when it became Holden’s karaoke hour. Miller accompanied him—or tried to—with numbers like “Karma Chameleon” and “I’m Too Sexy.” A little before midnight, we called it a night.
“Who needs a ride?” Holden asked. Lord Parish had a car with a personal driver—James—who took him wherever he wanted at all hours.
“I’ll take one,” Miller said.
“Wentz?”