Page 34 of The Forbidden Trio

You are

The one I yearn for

The one I burn for

The one I live for

The one I’d die for

You are

The moon and the stars To me…

She always had been. He had to get her back. If he only had a fucking half a chance at it… He had to try. Because this life he’d been living without her—seven long years—was unacceptable. Empty. Even the nearly six years he’d been clean and sober, doing service work with other addicts. He’d dated a bit—or maybe a lot—but he’d never been able to love another woman. He’d never been able to forget her.

He got off the freeway at La Brea, following it north until he hooked a left on Hollywood Boulevard, then a right up into Nichols Canyon as it wove into the Hills.

He found he couldn’t get the words out of his head.

You are… the moon and the stars to me…

Yeah—had to get into the studio, try to pull it together on the piano, which was where he wrote best. It was his brother Chase, who could write on guitar—Cole always had to go oldschool.

He finally pulled up in front of his modern white stucco and glass house and pressed the button on his keychain that opened one of the three wide doors. The huge garage housed his only car—a black Cadillac Escalade—and his prize collection of motorcycles: his current ride, his Harley Fatboy painted in bronze with silver flames, the 1949 Panhead in Caribbean Blue he’d wanted since he’d first seen one like it in the filmEasy Rider; the vintage Indian in maroon and cream—a classic; and his one speed bike—a new black and silver BMW F800 GT. The bikes took up a lot of space, but he loved every one of them. The only thing he’d ever loved more than motorcycles was music.

And Janie.

He pulled in and shut the bike down, swung his leg over and unstrapped the helmet in one practiced move. Hanging the helmet on a rack by the door that led into the house, he took the stairs that led down to his studio, breathing in the scent of the eucalyptus trees that grew all over the hillside. He loved that smell. It calmed him. And he needed to calm the fuck down. He needed to write this song. And then he needed to scratch the itch that had been plaguing his body since the moment he’d set eyes on her.

But the music first. He’d let the raging lust and the equally raging emotions drive the music. Too bad there was no time to get this one on the album the band was nearly finished with. But it was forher, and right now the album didn’t matter. None of it did. Only Janie’s song. If he could get it right, let her know how strong the love was, still. Always. The only thing that could bring him to his knees these days was his girl.

Janie.

If he could get this song right, maybe it could bring them back together. Not only together, but together the way they had been before he’d screwed it all up.

Why did music always feel like it could condemn him, or be some sort of benediction? A musician’s superstitious mind. But itfeltlike the truth.

When it was just right, he’d play it for her, and ask her to come back to him again. To live with him. To be his.

It was too warm in the small room that held his baby grand piano—the same one he’d been pounding on for ten years—a small brown leather loveseat, the mixing board, the built-in desk that held his computer and two monitors. Two of Chase’s guitars were there: one of his Fenders and a beautiful acoustic from Spain he’d had custom made. His bookshelf held notepads, sheet music, copies ofRolling Stone MagazineandVariety, small percussion instruments he’d picked up in the band’s travels all over the world. His band Ink & Iron had really hit success three years ago on their small indie label, and he knew damn well it was only his sobriety that had allowed it to happen. Music had given him a second chance.

Would she?

He stripped his shirt over his head, the cotton fabric tangling for a moment in the long silver chain he wore around his neck. The chain held three mementos—a dog tag for his friend Rich, whose death years earlier had been his wake-up call to get sober, another tag he’d just had made for Sonny, and his own, a five-year sobriety chip. He tugged and managed to get untangled and flung the shirt on the loveseat.

For the next three hours, he worked on the song, but something wouldn’t jibe. He kept writing down the notes, the lyrics, singing without the piano, trying to pull the magic from his brain. But he was stuck. It was close—so damn close with the whole song on the tip of his tongue. But he knew what was wrong, what was holding him back.

Janie.

He couldn’t finish the song until he knew she would give him the chance to win her back, until she at least opened that door. And when he did finish it, this would be his gift to her.

His would be her coming back to his sorry, fucked-up ass against her better judgment.

She would never be sorry again. He’d make sure of it.

He pushed away from the piano and stood looking out the window at the view he’d paid an insane amount for. If he’d only known back in the day that he’d see this measure of success, that he’d be living like this, he would have… But no. He still would have partied like the wanna-be musician he was in those early years. As he’d told Janie, he’d been young and stupid, and the music industry did that shit to people. He hadn’t been strong enough to handle it. He’d lost his friends, his pride. He’d nearly lost his soul. And he’d lost his wife over it.

But he had another chance now. Maybe.

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