Page 60 of Rock Strong

Whoa.

“She won’t talk to me, babe.”

“She will, Lee. She keeps hoping you’ll come see her. Trust me on this.”

Women know how each other thought. Maybe she had a point.

“Liam?” Robbie’s voice echoed down the opposite hallway.

“Okay.” I nodded at Helen, watching the sheer relief wash over her face. “I’ll go to her. Thank you, babe. And I do love you. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?” I air-kissed the camera, which made her smile. We were going to be okay. That’s why we were friends to begin with.

She hung up, her sad smile burning an image into my brain, and I scrambled to my feet.

Robbie rushed around the corner, nearly slamming into me. “There you are. Classic Rock is here. I need you in the lounge ready to interview. Apparently, they had their nights messed up and came tonight.”

“Be right there, but then, Rob, I gotta go.”

“What the fuck you mean, Lee?” A knot formed between his eyebrows.

“I mean, I have to go to New York for a day—two days tops. We don’t have a show until Friday in Philly. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

“Liam?” Robbie picked at his temple, his voice taking on an authoritative tone. “Don’t do anything stupid. We need you here. We can’t have a Point Break show without Liam fucking Collier. I can’t have you risking your career, especially over a girl. Don’t leave,” he stressed.

I held him by the shoulders and gazed steadily into his eyes. “It’s personal business. It won’t take me long, I swear. Robbie, have I ever let you down before?” I asked to no response. “Have I?”

His steel-blue eyes and fatherly concern were killing me. “Is this about that last-minute song you wrote?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Then go. Do what you have to do. I’ll see you in Philly by Friday at 10 a.m. Now…” He nudged me in the direction of the VIP lounge where an interviewer and photographer patiently waited outside. “Go. Do your interview then get the fuck out of here.”

I chartered a private plane to JFK so I wouldn’t have to deal with other passengers or take Nathan with me. It was faster, too. Finding out Abby’s Brooklyn address wasn’t easy. Robbie wouldn’t disclose it, thanks to her legal personal info rights. Her friend Rosemary wouldn’t talk to me at first, then she talked but said she wouldn’t disclose Abby’s address even if I was the pope himself from the Vatican. Apparently, that was just her way of making me suffer, because eventually, she told me how beautiful the new song was, gave me Abby’s address, and told me Abby loved sunflowers.

“Thanks for the tip.” I hugged her hard and was on my way.

It’d been years since I’d walked through Brooklyn. Vanessa’s uncle lived in Brooklyn, and we’d gone out one winter break to visit him. Our favorite place to eat that trip had been Yemen Cafe. We must have eaten there every day, so it was no wonder that the fond memories attacking me just now were all about food. I was starving by the time I reached Abby’s brownstone.

Hopping up the steps, I paused at apartment 3B and breathed in deep. I rang the doorbell and waited with sunflowers in hand.

“Hello?” a female voice said through the door.

“Hi, I’m a friend of Abby’s,” I said, bouncing on my feet.

The woman who answered the door could have been Abby’s older sister, but I didn’t remember her mentioning a sister. As far as I knew, she was an only child and lived with her mother. “She’s not here,” the woman said, reading my face, then eyeing the sunflowers. “She’s busy at the studio. Some people actually work hard for their money. You’re Liam?” She said this much the same way she might have said, “You are the spawn of Satan?”

“I am, ma’am.” I gave her my best smile, trying not to look like the no-good smartass she probably pegged me for. For years, people had wanted to interview me, pick my brain, hear me speak on any ridiculous subject, and for once, here I faced a woman who couldn’t care less what I had to say. From the look of it, she already knew what I’d done to Abby and was about to crucify me for it. “Would you be able to give me the address to the studio? I won’t bother her long.”

She rested an elbow on the doorframe. She was small, thin, but every bit as beautiful as Abby. I could see how a difficult life might have hardened her a bit. “What do you want with my daughter?” Narrowed eyes shot invisible laser beams at me.

“I don’t want anything from her, Ms. Chan,” I said, twirling the flowers nervously. “It’s what I want to give her—everything.”

She assessed me up and down, and I’d liked to think that maybe she noticed something in my face that settled with her just fine. Giving me a sad expression, she said, “She’s working a wedding, but she’ll be by the studio afterwards. 316 5th Avenue. Third floor.”

Chapter 21

Abby

The thing about Pachelbel’s Canon in D was that, though it was a simple, elegant, harmonious piece of music, it was just about the only classical song, other than Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, that people could call by name. So it was one of the only song I was ever hired to play at weddings, and while I was sick and tired of playing it, it was an easy hundred and twenty-five bucks, and I could do it with my eyes closed.

---