There she is.
Grinning, I drop a kiss to her forehead. “I fucking love you.”
Giving her space, I stride out the door, closing it behind me.
I hold my breath until I have no choice but to take one.
Then it happens.
The corner of my mouth lifts as a dark, melodic sound fills my ears.
Because I know she’ll be okay.
EPILOGUE
Three months later…
Irritation rises within me when I check my watch. I’m forty-five motherfucking minutes late.
Fucking Memphis. Or rather, Gwyneth.
The reason I’m late right now is because he was late coming to the studio today.
I thought I was done with music for good, but a couple months ago, Vic called me up out of the blue. Did he apologize for trying to go behind my back and replace me? Of course not.
However, the prick did tell me that “Existentialism” could be the first single on the album and going forward, the band could have more input on the music we wanted to make.
I was shocked as shit because not only am I public enemy number one these days, Vic was dead set on getting rid of my ass…with good reason.
I’m not sure what prompted his change of heart, but according to Chandler, that’s the closest thing to an apology the man has ever uttered.
Not wanting to give in so easily, I made Vic sweat it out and let him know I’d think about coming back. He moaned and groaned for a bit before letting me know he booked studio time for the day after new year’s and he expected me to be there.
I never confirmed whether or not I would.
Until a certain person convinced me to go this morning.
I haven’t sung in months and I was sure I’d be rusty as fuck, but Storm and Memphis were there—albeit one of them was late—and we decided to lay down “Existentialism” old-school style.
Meaning we recorded our parts at the same time instead of individually. It was fucking sick.
I’m wondering if I can convince Vic to let us do the rest of the songs on the album that way because there’s an authenticity that bleeds into the music.
My phone vibrates and Chandler’s name flashes across the screen. Pressing the ignore button, I open the door.
The dimly lit bar is small and there aren’t many people here.
It’s fucking bullshit. This place should be packed.
Not because of the cheap liquor and stale pretzels, but because of the entertainment.
A hoarse, sultry tone fills my ears as I make my way over to the bar.
Some redhead on the other side of it gives me a smile. “What can I get you, handsome?”
“Coke. Hold the Jack.”
“Okay.” Her nose crinkles as she fills up a glass with soda and slides it across the bar. “Here.”
After placing some cash down, I turn my stool around.
Lennon and I made a deal a couple of weeks ago.
If she pursued her dreams…then I had to pursue mine.
My heart races as she reaches the climax of the song, her smoky voice a slow tug on my cock. Along with the little black dress she’s wearing. I can’t wait to slip my hand underneath it later and find out if she’s wearing any panties.
However, the most beautiful thing about my wife right now is the happiness radiating off her. She’s finally in her element and doing what she loves. What she was meant to.
The song ends and I rise from my seat, cheering her on. I know she hears me because there’s a big smile on her face as she starts the intro to a new song.
One I’ve never heard before.
It’s good. Really fucking good.
I sit back down, focusing on the dark and rough melody…and then Lennon starts to sing and I’m a goner. There’s so much emotion in her voice, so much passion and depth. She blows me away every fucking time.
“She’s amazing,” some guy on the other side of me says.
I stare at the tattooed black band on my left ring finger with a music note. One that matches Lennon’s.
“Yeah, she is.”
And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to spend the rest of his life with her.
“Holy shit,” the guy suddenly exclaims, his mouth dropping open. “You’re Phoenix Walker.”
Picking up my glass, I raise it in greeting. “In the flesh.”
He takes a long sip of his. “I’m a big fan. Or should I say, used to be.”
That’s when I hear it.
‘I stole your words, but you stole my heart.’
My chest recoils, and every muscle in me tightens because I know those words.
I fucking wrote them.
Our gazes clash from across the bar. Beaming, Lennon gives me a coy little smirk as her fingers flutter across the ivory keys.