Breaking Giants, page 4
I screw my eyes shut to block the memory.
“Rose?”
I open my eyes at Gerard’s voice, coming from behind a register.
“Someone’s here to see you.”
My heart catapults into my ribs, my gaze swinging fast. It’s the man who just walked in, and as he turns to look at me, I recognize him.
Not Julian, but almost as scary.
Matt Sullivan, lead guitarist for Breaking Giants, grins and lifts a blonde brow at my befuddled expression. I don’t think he’s as heart-stoppingly gorgeous as his frontman, but plenty of women disagree with me.
Julian is brooding, dark, and a little wild—Matt is light to his darkness, the charming, public face of Breaking Giants. And it’s easy to see why the public gobbles him up. He looks like a Swedish underwear model, tall and muscled and vaguely icy. Add to the mix a panty melting grin, incredibly talented hands, and a catch and release reputation with the ladies, and Matt Sullivan exudes the unmistakable charge of a Grade-A heartbreaker.
When Matt realizes I’m not going to walk over, his grin gets even bigger. He strolls toward me with purpose. I’m suddenly glad to be behind a counter.
Stopping opposite me, his gaze dips lazily to my cleavage and back up. Smokey blue eyes smolder with appreciation, but the look strikes me as rehearsed.
“Hi Rose, I’m Matt.”
I clear my throat, half-annoyed and half-amused. “I know who you are, Matt,” I say flatly. I’m not sure, but I think I see surprise flicker in his eyes. It teases a smile from me. “I’m sorry, were you expecting me to flash my tits or something?”
Both brows go up and he barks out a rusty laugh. “Julian did warn me you wouldn’t be impressed.” He shrugs, smile softening, becoming genuine. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
I ignore the flutter caused by mention of Julian.
“Why are you here?”
His eyes narrow, unnervingly intense, likes he’s trying to read between my lines. “We have a business proposition for you.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, after filtering the words for a few seconds.
“Your voice is perfect for our needs.”
I shift against the counter. “What are you talking about?”
“The new album….”
My vision goes dark around the edges, then slowly brightens. I realize Matt’s still talking.
“…three, possibly four tracks. We’ve been looking for a voice for months. Julian had basically given up after—” He clears his throat. “Well, let’s just say the previous singer isn’t around anymore. Then we heard you. We all agreed the job is yours if you want it. No audition. You’re classically trained, right?”
I lift a shaking hand to stall him. “I’m sorry, hold up.”
He grins wickedly. “I just blew your mind, didn’t I? I’ve been known to have that effect on women.”
I scowl to hide the truth: yes, my mind is officially blown.
“Slow your roll, Romeo.”
He shakes his head affably. “Sorry, this is my only speed. So, can you come over to Julian’s tomorrow night?”
Panic bursts through me and I sag against the counter, lightheaded and unable to catch my breath. Words ping in my fuzzy head, monosyllabic and sharp.
Yes! No! What! Wait!
“No,” I whisper, then shake my head and repeat more loudly, “No, I can’t. You’ll have to keep looking. I’m sorry. I already told Julian I don’t do industry work.”
Instead of the disbelief I expect from him, Matt frowns concernedly. “Hey, are you okay? You look really freaked out. Super pale.” He glances toward Gerard, who’s ringing another customer. “Can I get you something?”
I suck in air past my thundering heart. No big deal, just having a Titanic-sized panic attack.
“I’m fine,” I croak. “Sorry your time was wasted, but I can’t do it.”
His handsome features scrunch with disappointment. “Really? There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
For some reason, the words take the edge off my anxiety. “No offense, Matt, but I’m surprised you’re being so nice about this. About me declining. For some reason, I don’t think Julian would have taken it so well.”
Matt laughs, loud and unfettered, drawing even more attention than he already has—at least ten people are panting in his direction.
“Seems you’ve got a pretty good handle on our top dog. Yeah, Julian’s gonna blow a gasket. He’s kind of a control freak. Once he makes up his mind about something…” He shrugs.
My palms tingle. “He’s not going to, uh, push this, is he?”
“Nah. Not his style.” He must see the regret I can’t quite smother, because his gaze clears, searching my face. “Are you sure you want to pass this up? I think we both know it’s the opportunity of a lifetime for an unknown.”
I smile sadly. “That’s the thing. I prefer to stay unknown.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a weird cat, aren’t you?”
You have no idea.
“Certifiable, probably. Um, tell Julian I’m sorry, okay?”
Matt nods, still looking at me oddly. I don’t blame him. I just turned down what would probably be a shit-ton of money, not to mention a potential platform for success that any normal struggling artist would kill for.
For a moment, I entertain the fantasy. Minus, of course, everything it means and the chaos it would create in my life and heart. Singing with Julian Ashburn. Then the moment passes, the vision too delicate to withstand reality.
I step away from the counter, turning toward the espresso bar. “Do you want a latte?” I ask Matt as I prep shots of espresso. “On the house.”
“Yeah, that’d be—hey Julian, I was just coming out.”
“She said no, didn’t she?”
A muscle in my neck spasms as I jerk up my head.
Jesus, he’s a fucking ninja.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I blurt shrilly.
His eyes narrow—in the sunlight they shine darkly gold. “Are you really that terrified of the public hearing your voice?”
Angry heat unfurls in my cheeks. “You don’t know me,” I snarl back.
He stalks past a wide-eyed Matt and faces me, the espresso bar between us. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
Multiple personality disorder, much?
I don’t have any idea what expression I’m wearing, but suddenly his tension evaporates. He sighs, dragging a hand through his tousled dark hair. For a few seconds, he stares at the ceiling, his throat working as he swallows.
“For what it’s worth, I appreciate the offer,” I say weakly. “It’s a huge opportunity you’re offering me. But it’s just not a good idea. I haven’t sung harmonies with anyone in years, or had any voice coaching for at least a decade.”
Julian studies my face. “You have perfect pitch, Rose. Give me a better reason.”
Flustered, I say, “I don’t need to give you a reason.”
His eyes gleam with challenge. “Use a pseudonym. I’ll have the lawyers write up a contract ensuring your privacy. No press. No pictures. Complete anonymity.”
Irrepressible excitement erupts in my chest. If I can be anonymous…
Julian sees my resolve faltering and pounces. “I’ll even let you do it for free.”
Matt gapes. “What the fuck, man? How does that sweeten the deal?”
Julian keeps staring at me. “Rose?”
I’m sinking, weakening. He knows it—I know it. I gaze around wildly, looking for relief. An escape. But the music inside me gurgles up, the need for it. Like oxygen.
Singing with Julian Ashburn.
“Are you for real?” I whisper.
He smiles broadly. His beauty hits me hard in the gut, feeling like heartbreak and falling in love.
This is a mistake.
I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until Julian shakes his head. “It’s not a mistake to try. To step outside your comfort zone. Besides, there’s always a chance we’ll sound horrible together.”
Matt snorts in disbelief. I, too, know it’s unlikely. I’m actually very skilled at harmonizing—my mother made sure of it. My throaty alto will perfectly complement his tenor. It already does every day in the car, in the shower…
Straightening my shoulders, I take a slow breath and walk straight off the ledge.
“Okay.”
“Whoa,” murmurs Matt. “I never would have thought to tell her she could work for free.”
Julian shoots Matt a grin, then turns back to me. “Can you come to my place tomorrow?”
My lips go tingly. “W-what? Why? Don’t I just go into a studio after you guys record? Wait—have you already laid tracks for a new album?” I say the last in a whisper, leaning forward while spying for eavesdroppers.
Eyes twinkling, Julian bends to put our faces level. “Yes,” he whispers back, then stands with a small chuckle.
Matt laughs. “Look at those red cheeks! I almost forgot real women blush.”
“As opposed to fake women?” I ask, then blush deeper as the lightbulb in my head belatedly turns on. “Oh. Groupies. Ha Ha. Yeah, I’m not that. Back to business—I’m busy tomorrow, actually. I’m busy a lot. So, maybe you can just pass along a studio time and I can go in? By myself?”
Julian rubs the bridge of his nose. “No, Rose. You’re not going to do some sterile singalong with my recorded voice.”
Oh.
I clear my throat nervously, trying not to think about sharing a microphone with him.
“Come over tomorrow,” Matt urges. “It’s just a small get together. Bring a friend. Meet Jackson and Nick.” With an abrupt laugh, he mutters to Julian, “It’s kind of fun having to work for it.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing personal, but I really can’t. I have a family commitment.”
I glance across the café and spy Owen coming out of the kitchen. I immediately think of Greta, who nearly screamed at me for not telling her Breaking Giants was here last night. Not that she would have left her restaurant—she’s the executive chef at a downtown hotspot—but according to her it was the principle of the matter.
She’ll never forgive me if she finds out I turned down bringing her to meet Breaking Giants.
I look at Julian, then blink when find him already staring at me. “Text me the address. I won’t be there until close to ten, though.”
He smiles slightly and nods. “That’s fine. Good. Great.”
“You’re kind of a bully, you know that?”
He shrugs. “Going after what I want doesn’t make me a bully. It makes me determined.”
Matt clears his throat. “Uhh, Julian…”
We both turn to see the source of Matt’s low warning. Outside Tullamore, a crowd has gathered, faces pressed close to the windows. As soon as they see Julian’s attention shift, they begin pounding on the glass.
Julian freezes in place, muscles locking and gaze fixed on the scene. Keeping the men from being mobbed is an enormous man in a black suit standing just outside the front door.
Our paying customers, maybe fifteen or so scattered across the café, watch the unfolding drama with camera phones out.
“What the hell is going on!” yells Owen, jogging across the café to us. He looks between Julian and Matt and his expression clears. “Back so soon?”
“Not the time for small talk,” I grumble, and swing myself up and over the countertop, landing beside Julian.
Grabbing his forearm, I tug him toward the kitchen. He comes, but stiffly, his movements lacking their customary grace. The muscles under my fingers are rock hard. I can hear his breathing, short and uneven.
Panic attacks and I go way back—I know the signs.
“Matt,” I say over my shoulder, “I assume you know how to handle this?”
He nods quickly, gaze flickering to Julian. “I’ll send a car around back.”
“Thanks,” grunts Julian.
I glance up at him, feeling a pang of sympathy when I see his clenched jaw and bloodless face. Giving his arm a squeeze, I murmur, “Reason number two I want nothing to do with fame.”
He snorts in humor and gently extricates his arm from my grip. I miss the heat of him instantly, then blanch at the thought.
“This way,” I say quickly, taking the lead past the kitchen and down a short, private hallway.
I veer into my office and crouch beside my desk to rummage through our Lost and Found bin. When I rise and turn, hat and sunglasses in hand, I nearly collide with Julian.
“You’re like a ninja,” I blurt, flushing at the almost-contact of our chests.
His brows lift, lips quirking. “Sorry. I thought I was following you.”
Where? Out the window in my office? Biting my tongue on the quip, I hand him the camouflage.
“Put these on.”
He tugs on the baseball hat, his hair sticking out in silky tufts. My gaze snags on the curve of his cheekbone, the contrast of hair and skin. A low buzz makes me jerk but thankfully Julian doesn’t notice, already reaching for his cellphone.
“Two minutes,” he tells me, sighing as he leans against the wall beside the door. Between me and the exit. Suddenly claustrophobic, I push open the nearby window. The noise of the crowd is a distant, shrill din punctuated by screams.
“Thanks again, Rose.”
“No problem,” I say, wincing at the hoarseness in my voice.
“I’ve never been very good at handling crowds. It’s why I tend to avoid situations like this. And why I’ll probably never leave Seattle. Rain is the best camouflage.”
“I get that,” I say dryly, fixing my gaze on the dark computer screen. “Plus, I feel kind of responsible. You wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been such a text-bitch.”
He chuckles softly. “I told you, I’m determined.” He shifts against the wall. “You thought I was going to ask you out, didn’t you?”
“What? No! That’s ridiculous.” I force a laugh, which only lifts his brows. “Besides, I don’t date musicians.”
“Why not?” he asks, then shakes his head. “None of my business. That’s good, actually. Better for this, uh, venture. Not that you’re not… well, I did say last night I was considering hitting on you. But that was before I heard you sing. So, yeah.”
As he talks, a stupid grin spreads on my face. He flushes under my scrutiny, ducking his head to stare at the floor.
“Exactly why I don’t do interviews,” he mutters.
I can’t help it—I laugh. He looks up, eyes narrowing, and I lift a hand to ward off his glare.
“Sorry. I just find it incredibly endearing that you babble. It’s so unexpected. I mean, you handle stadium crowds just fine, and last night you were… different.”
He rubs his jaw. “It’s easier when the band is around. To play the part.”
I nod in understanding even though I don’t really understand. My mother was the same volatile, larger-than-life personality offstage as she was onstage.
The silence stretches, tenuous and uncomfortable. Julian clears his throat and stares at his phone, probably waiting for it to buzz so he can get the hell out of here.
A question presses against my lips, driven there by a growing curiosity and another, more subtle feeling I don’t care to examine.
What the hell, why not?
“Julian? That song you played last night… is it going on the new album?”
His expression shifts to careful neutrality as he looks up. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, well, it was really great. Very… emotionally fresh.”
Subtle, Rose.
He shrugs. “Not really. It’s been almost nine months.” I blink in surprise at his candor, and he adds quickly, “I only wrote it because the label was pressuring me, heartbreak being good for business and all that.”
“Oh.”
His phone buzzes. With evident relief, he says, “Car’s out back. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I point at the disaster that is my hairdo. “Good idea. Save yourself while you can.”
Mischief sparkles in his eyes as they track up to my messy knot. “That rubber band looks happy enough.”
Matt appears in the doorway. “Ready, bro?”
Julian nods and pushes away from the wall. “See you tomorrow, Rose.”
I swallow thickly. “So long.”
“Bye, Rose!” yells Matt, already out of sight.
The back door slams and a moment later, Owen appears. “Why is your face red?” he asks, grinning.
Because while socially awkward Julian is adorable, and his frontman persona is magnetic, the playful, flirty Julian who just made an appearance?
Fucking lethal.
Shaking my head mutely, I go back to work.
5
gypsies and pixies
Aunt Katherine is perched on the porch swing, no doubt waiting for me, when I pull into her driveway at seven on Sunday. Biting back a sigh, I gather the two bottles of wine I hope to use as bribery for her silence.
With one look at her face, however, I know two bottles aren’t enough. There isn’t enough wine in the world to keep her quiet when she’s in a mood. And she’s definitely in a mood. Owen and Greta probably kicked her out of the kitchen.
A cigarette dangles from her ringed fingers, momentarily forgotten as I exit the car and approach. She’s wearing a typically odd outfit. A sapphire muumuu belted around her narrow waist and rain boots even though it’s not raining. Over her shoulders is an afghan faded with age and tailored into a shawl.
Necklaces dangle between her breasts, all supporting various arcane symbols. A pentagram. An ankh. Even a cross. She’s an equal opportunity spiritualist. Her long, wild curls are even more schizophrenic than usual, and her lustrous eyes are on me with laser-like focus.
I’ll never understand it—no matter how atrocious her fashion decisions, somehow she makes them work. She looks exotic and full of secrets. An ageless gypsy queen.
I eye her warily as I climb the steps. “Wine?” I offer halfheartedly, lifting the bottles.
“Sit with me, Rose,” she says softly.
Damnit.
I deposit the bottles near the front door before settling beside her. As she takes slow, measured drags of her cigarette, I stare at the front yard of her Queen Anne house. Most of the trees are bare, but whereas her neighbors’ yards look sodden and unkempt, hers appears lush and artful.
