“I’ve seen her with you,” Charlie said. “She’s different with you. She’s let you in farther than anyone, including us. So, speaking for my family, I think, I would just say…please don’t give up on her. I think if anyone has a chance of getting her to open up and find some kind of healing from whatever it is that hurt her, it’s you.”
I felt my heart flip. Felt a heavy burden on my shoulders. “I’m tryin’. This is all new territory for me, and hell if I know what I’m doing. But I care about her and I’ll keep holdin’ the line with her until she won’t let me no more.”
It wassomething like two in the morning. I was buzzed, but only pleasantly so. I hadn’t seen Lex since earlier on the pier. The party had picked up as the evening went on—by some kind of unspoken agreement, the men all spent the early part of get-together doing the bulk of the kid-wrangling while the women congregated and drank and talked and laughed; the men still had fun, but it was obvious they were holding back. And then, when the kids became cranky and difficult, the women took over. And then, eventually, those with little ones all carted the kids across the street to the yacht—which belonged to Harlow and Xavier, it turned out—and it was just the men in the bar. And that’s when shit got a little nuts.
The casual sipping of beers became glasses of whiskey, and the oldies and classic rock became hip-hop and modern heavy rock, and the whiskey on ice became shots, which became passing bottles around. And eventually the party moved up, onto the roof, which had been turned into a whole other hangout area with a separate bar and a small stage area and lots of couches with lots of corners, interspersed with those tall outdoor heaters for warmth.
I found the guys all to be the epitome of cool, but no two were the same. Bast was gruff but easygoing, Bax was loud and vulgar and hilarious, Rome was a lot like Bax, Brock was chill and prone to deeper conversation, Lucian rarely spoke at all but when he did everyone shut up and listened, Remington was sort of in between Bax and Bast—able to cut loose and be goofy and loud but not quite as dedicated to being the center of attention; Xavier spoke for no more than five minutes but was insanely cool nonetheless, and Ramsey was distant and aloof but he loosened up as the night wore on and the booze flowed. Ink was fascinating and intimidating, and of course, Crow was Crow, and by god it was great to be with him again. I really missed him and now that he was up here in Alaska with Charlie I wanted to find a way to get up here more often.
Canaan and Corin were absent for a bit of the night, and when they came back it was with armloads of instruments. Several guitars, a wooden box of some kind, a mandolin, and a didgeridoo. Canaan handed me a guitar, Crow another, and Corin sat down on the box. At first Crow and I just stared at the guitars in our hands.
“Um.” Crow eyed Canaan. “I make ’em, I don’t play ’em.”
“Bullshit!” Canaan sing-songed. “I know you play. Heard you play when you were finishing that guitar you made for Myles.”
Crow shifted, still wasn’t buying it. “I didn’t make it, just finished it. And that was just fuckin’ around, not really playing.”
Sitting beside him, I sighed. “Crow, you ain’t still stuck on that bullshit, are you?” I gestured around. “This ain’t a stage, brother. This is a bunch of guys, and zero pressure. No one’s askin’ you to record or perform. Just…jam, man.”
Canaan, to his credit, sensed the breadth and depth of the unspoken but clearly ongoing debate between Crow and me. Just waited.
Crow stared at me. Then the guitar. Slowly, he relaxed, and settled the guitar on his thigh. “You ain’t gettin’ me on stage, motherfucker, so don’t try.”
I felt as giddy as a little kid—I’d been trying for years to get Crow to do more than just write music on his own. He rarely even let me see him play when it was just the two of us—he’d record the music on his iPhone in the middle of the night, alone, and I’d show it to Zan, and we’d arrange it and put my lyrics over it, and that was how the songs got written. So, this promised to be fuckin’ amazing.
Crow slid his hand up and down the neck of the guitar, making the stringszzzzhhhhmusically, finding the balance, the weight, the feel. His right hand rested flat on the strings, and then he plucked a few strings, no pick, finger style, open chord. Then he tried a few transitions, a few slow chords, learning the guitar’s sound and personality. It was a beautiful piece, a sexy blond Taylor custom with a rich honey sound.
He glanced at me. “What are we playin’?”
The twins were watching me, waiting, and I guess because I was the famous musician, I was lead. Even though Canary was a hell of a well-known act. Whatever. It was just a jam session.
“How about…” I let my own fingers start plucking a tune, which turned into the percussive low notes of a Johnny Cash song— “Get Rhythm.”
It was a fun, rollicking tune, and Corin quickly found the beat on his box drum—hell if I knew the name of it—and then Corin had a mandolin in his hands and he was picking a quick circle around the melody, weaving harmony above and below me, and then Crow was playing, effortlessly mirroring and matching me. I knew the song cold, ever since my days as a cover artist.
Johnny Cash turned into a Bruce Springsteen song, and after I’d started it, Crow surprised me by taking over the lead and I let him, amazed at his facility and skill. I knew he was good, but…he wasgood.
Canaan was a wizard—he also had brought a banjo as well, and seemed equally as talented with the banjo as he was with the guitar and the mandolin.
How long we’d been playing, I wasn’t sure. I just knew the hours flew by, and I felt more at ease than I had in years, even with my band.
Then I felt her.
I twisted in my seat on the couch and saw Lex, standing in the doorway of the stairs to the roof, her ukulele case in hand, and a look of raw, ragged longing in her eyes. She wanted to play.
I grinned at her and waved her over. “Come on, Lex!”
We weren’t playing a song at the moment, just sort of noodling, each one of us playing whatever we felt in the moment and making it work. At some point, most of the women had joined us as well—all except Mara and Dru. Aerie had a ukulele as well, and had been sitting and listening. And now, seeing Lex, she brightened. “Come on, Lex! I’m too chicken to join in on my own.”
Lex hopped onto the couch and sat between Aerie and me. “Oh you are not chicken. You’re Canary, and you’ve got a fucking Grammy.”
She pointed at Canaan. “We’reCanary, andwehavethreefucking Grammys, but Cane is the real talent. I just plink my little uke and sing a few little songs. This much talent in one place? It’s intimidating.”
“You know I don’t like it when you’re overly modest, babe,” Canaan said. “And we’re just jamming. Nothing to be intimidated by.”
Aerie pointed at me and then Crow. “The boys I’m used to. Myles North is like, almost as famous as Harlow, and Crow is an entity unto himself with that guitar.”
Tate, who had her cello out and was rosining her bow, grinned. “Shut up and play, Aerie. This is a once-in-a-lifetime jam session.”
