For now, though, it’s Seattle. Once we check into our hotel, the guys and I pile into a van Whip rented. He’s driving, and for once, it’s just the five of us. No crew, no managers, assistants, or journalists. It’s kind of nice.
First stop is Caffe Ladro, where I’m served a latte so pretty with its little stacked hearts on the foam that I almost don’t want to sip it. But I do, because the roasted-coffee scent is making my mouth water. It’s rich, creamy, dark, and damn delicious. I don’t feel even a little embarrassed when I moan.
The guys chuckle, but are equally engrossed with their own drinks.
A couple of scones and a second round—this time in to-go cups because, damn, that’s good coffee—and we head out to Aberdeen and Kurt Cobain Memorial Park. Cobain’s ashes were scattered, so this is the closest thing the guys can get to a grave site, and they want to pay their respects.
A soft mist falls when we finally find the park. It’s tiny and forlorn, not much to it. Frankly, the place depresses me. A homeless man shuffles by, headed for the bridge by the river as we stand in silence around a stone guitar memorial marker.
Killian’s arm wraps around my shoulders, tucking me close, with Jax on my other side, huddled up as we all are. I’m fairly certain Killian finds the place equally sad. But it’s Jax’s expression that catches my attention. He appears haunted and faintly green around the mouth.
I know Cobain was his idol. There are similarities between them—both left handed guitar players, both shot to fame with dizzying speed, and both unable to handle it. Unfortunately Cobain, unlike Jax, succeeded in ending his life.
I have no idea what Jax is thinking, but I can’t stop myself from taking his hand in mine. He stiffens at the contact, sucking in a swift breath. I’m not surprised. We haven’t spoken much since he found out about my relationship with Killian. He hasn’t been rude or shunned me, but he’s definitely retreated further into his shell.
Not looking up, I give his hand a squeeze, try to tell him I’m here, that I’m his friend if he’ll have me.
His cold fingers lay still for a moment, then slowly, he squeezes back.
“‘Love Buzz’ was the first song I learned to play on bass,” Rye says suddenly. He laughs. “Didn’t even realize Nirvana was doing a cover until years later.”
“If they loved a song, they’d play it,” Killian says. “No pretension about only doing their own songs. It was all about the music.”
Jax’s smile is barely a curl of his lips. “Remember that phase when we tried to sing like Kurt?” He glances at Killian. “And you lost your voice?”
They all laugh as Killian winces. “Ah, man. I sounded like a bull being castrated.”
I snicker at that. Especially since Killian’s voice is closer to Chris Cornell’s. “In college, someone fed me ‘special brownies’” I tell them. “I had no idea what they were. I ended up dancing around the dorm, singing ‘Heart-Shaped Box.’”
“I’d pay money to have seen that,” Killian says. “Big money.”
“Apparently, I had food on the brain, since I kept singing, ‘Hey, Blaine, I’ve got a blue corn plate! Falling deeper in depth on piles of black rice.’”
The guys crack up. I join them until our laughter drifts off.
We stand silent for a minute more, lost in our thoughts. Then Jax lets me go, and we head back to the van. On the way I notice Killian’s bloodshot eyes. I’d been so worried about Jax, I hadn’t thought about how it would be for the rest of them. They very well could have done what I did for their friend.
But Killian gives me a small, quiet smile. “Thank you,” he says, glancing at Jax, then kissing me softly. “He needed that.”
Hours later, my subdued mood hasn’t lifted as we attend Kill John’s record label party at the hotel’s rooftop pool area. The views of Puget Sound are breathtaking, the food excellent. The people? Loud and plastic comes to mind.
“You’re with me tonight, kid.” Whip appears at my side and pulls me into a hard half hug. I almost choke on my salmon puff.
“To what do I owe this honor?” I ask as I wipe a crumb from my lip.
His pretty profile is stern as he surveys the crowd. “The piranhas are out in full force tonight. A guy could get eaten alive.”
There are a lot of gorgeous women here, and a lot of suits, as Killian calls the record label execs. I don’t know which makes Whip more wary. I’m definitely not liking the way the suits keep looking at me as if I’m a stray that wandered into the party uninvited. Though it’s probably all in my head.
“You need to be my beard,” Whip tells me for clarification.