Page 61 of Rock Strong

Not anywhere near what I’d been making with Point Break, but money was money.

At a beach wedding on Long Island, the bride began her slow stroll with her father down the aisle, and though I normally never got emotional at clients’ weddings, suddenly all I wanted to do was cry. She gleamed, beautiful and happy, her father looking so proud and sad to be giving his daughter away, and all I could do was bite my lip to keep from losing it. Gigi, one of the three violinists, kept glancing over at me to make sure I was okay.

I’d probably never find love again, and if I did, I’d never have a father to walk me down the aisle. Some things just weren’t in the cards.

Playing chamber music had its pros and cons, and right now, a very big con was the lack of response from the attendees. We were invisible background music. No one looked at us. Well, except for one face among the rows of guests. For the week I’d been on tour, I’d gotten used to high listener response, roaring crowds, and seas of singing fans. It had been an awesome experience I never got to thank the L-named guy for. I’d probably never experience anything like that ever again. That was one thing about rock concerts—your audience sure made you feel like gods.

The last thing I expected at this froufrou wedding on the beach was for a young woman—a teen wearing a forties-inspired dress and a nose ring—to come up to me during cocktail hour and ask me if I was the same cellist from Point Break’s website and the online pics that had surfaced for a few days. I tried telling her no, same as I’d done with the girl on the plane, but she didn’t believe me.

“It has to be you. You look exactly like her. Besides, I watched you during the procession. You have a way of swaying with your cello that I recognized from the band’s online videos.”

“I do?” I was taken by surprise that I have a swaying thing. I did not know that.

“Yes. Oh, and did you hear that acoustic song that Liam Collier and Wesley Shaw played last night in Chicago? They had the whole place in tears. It was so very emotional.”

Who? I almost asked. I don’t know anyone by the name of Lie-am. “No, which song?” I’d heard them play every song in their set multiple times, and they didn’t have any acoustic pieces. “You mean Save Me Tonight?”

She shook her head. “Something new,” she said. “I’d never heard it before, but that’s typical of Liam Collier to just come up with fresh new songs while on tour and throw them into the mix. Anyway, the whole stadium stilled to listen then cheered at the end for like ten straight minutes. You can see it in the video.” She produced her phone from her small, thin purse. “Want me to play it for you?”

“No, that’s okay.” I wanted to shake this girl off. I didn’t want to hear about Point Break anymore, as nice as she was.

“Here. Listen.” She played it for me anyway, and I just wanted to crawl into a hole. She pushed her reddish, curly hair behind her ears while she held the phone horizontally for me so I could watch. I paused in filling my plate with fresh fruit to listen. The song sounded a lot like Serenade, and then I realized it right then—he’d done it on purpose.

The words stabbed my heart. And she’ll never see me again.

The song was about me.

I felt the hot buildup of tears. Damn it. Why did he have to go and write a song about me?

“What’s it called?” I whispered, my eyes glued to the shining, kneeling, singing punk cowboy pouring out his heart at center stage.

“I think it’s called Abby Shines. Cool title, but I don’t know what it means. Not sure who Abby is, but…” Suddenly, she stopped for a moment and gaped at me, mouth open, fingers touching her lips. “Ohhhhh.”

By the time I returned to the studio, I had cried all the tears I was going to cry. Enough of that. I had a job to do, an audition to prepare for. The last thing I needed was a cocky rock star drawing attention to himself at the expense of others all over again. I slammed into the studio, threw my purse on the ground, and ripped open my cello case. Flipping a seat around to face the window overlooking the city, I sank into the chair and threw my sheet music on my stand, even though I knew the piece by heart and could see the composition with my eyes closed.

How dare he use my melody, my notes from my piece to write his own music? Wasn’t there a law against that sort of thing?

But it was an homage to you, dumbass.

He wrote a song about me by using music that sounded like me and adding lyrics about me.

I admit it was romantic, and no, nobody had ever gone to such an extreme before to show me they loved me, but this was He Who Shall Not Be Named, a drama queen, and he could be acting. I was not falling for that again.

I was on fire tonight. Eyes closed, and feeling myself sway now that that girl had pointed it out, I felt Serenade come out of my soul, felt it the way you’re supposed to feel a piece such as this—with nothing less than passion, wild abandon, and borderline insanity. I thought my bow would burst into flames, as horse hair sprang and rosin flew into a cloud of dust.

Suddenly, a low voice joined my cello, startling me.

“She’ll do you in, she’s fiery as sin…”

His voice was like smooth, raw honey.

My stomach dived. He had come for me. I felt my body awaken in places that hadn’t felt alive since I was last with him. Damn it, how my body knew.

I didn’t stop to face him.

In a rage, I continued dragging my bow across the strings, finishing the piece to the very end, because damned if I was going to let him interrupt my life again. As the last note played out, echoing in the studio room, I felt his presence creeping closer. I turned half committedly. Out of the shadows of the foyer stepped a pair of dark brown boots. One thumb was hooked in a belt loop, his shirt half open, a light scarf around his neck. In his other hand were big, beautiful sunflowers.

I hated him.

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