Page 39 of Dirty Rock

“I was mourning. Grieving. I was a complete and utter fucking mess. I still am, okay? And in typical Rhett Ryan fashion, you decide to take my distress, my mistakes, and my idiocy, and use them against me for your crappy little amusement.”

“Wait, Jules, that’s not what I want to do. I didn’t mean—”

“Are you really surprised that I chose to leave you all before the final show? I knew this is what you would do. I justknew it!” It sounded like she stamped her foot in frustration, but I couldn’t imagine it. That wasn’t like the cool, composed Julia Speed any of us were familiar with. I closed my eyes and pictured her in front of me. I remembered her face moments before she walked out of my room. I remembered the desperation in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m a foolish, selfish idiot, and I haven’t phoned to make you uncomfortable. I just needed to hear your voice. I needed to know that you were okay.”

More silence. It unnerved me. It made me desperate to know what she was thinking, who she was with, and what I could do to make this right.

“I’m not lying, Jules. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re never sorry.”

“Exactly. That makes you special.”

I heard her heels clicking as she paced back and forth, and her breathing picked up, those sweet little waves of breathlessness washing over the speaker as she decided what to say next.

“Where are you?” I asked her quietly.

“I’m at home.”

“Out of interest, where is home?”

“Three years together, and you still don’t know shit about me.”

“Sometimes we don’t pay attention to what’s in front of us until it’s too late.”

“You need to stop paying attention. You need to go back to how things were when you only ever noticed me when you needed me.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Answer me, Jules.”

I heard her swallow. “Yeah. That’s how I see you. You’re selfish, arrogant, and desperate for attention. For reasons unbeknown to me, I adore you for who you are and what you do, but quite frankly, I don’t have the time or the energy to feed your ego today. I’vereallygot to go, Rhett. See you next week in the rehearsal studio.”

With that, she hung up, leaving me to stare at the poster above my bed and drop the phone to the floor with a thud.

I’d never wanted her more.

Chapter Twelve

Iperched on the end of my bed, an old guitar in hand. With my earphones in, I hit play on my Spotify. Bill Wither’sAin’t No Sunshinedrifted into my soul like the best quality drug, and I closed my eyes to let myself sink into the magic of his voice.

I was no Coops, Hawk, or Big D on the guitar, but I could play, so I strummed along with the music, singing quietly when the lyrics kicked in.

There was power to owning a voice you enjoyed yourself. You knew you’d only ever need your own company to make it through life.I lifted my chin, releasing the words along with Bill in the only way I knew how: giving it every single thing I had. I imagined I was back on stage. I pretended like the crowd were beneath me, cheering for my voice alone, the euphoria rolling over me like an old friend.

The track slipped into a version ofHallelujahby James Cherry. It had been my warmup song every night of our tour. I’d locked myself away in the dressing room before we were due to run on stage, and I’d knocked this beauty out of the park. It pissed me off no end when artists covered this record badly, and James Cherry was the only version I approved of. It was my back to Earth tune. My free therapy.

When the song tailed out, and I opened my eyes, I heard a soft whimper followed by a delicate sniff. I spun around to see Ma leaning against the doorframe, wiping a small tear away.

“Jeez,” I sighed. “Not again.”

“You know I love it when you sing that song.”

Propping my guitar up against the bed, I stood tall and ran a hand through my hair. “Yeah, but do you have to cry every time?”

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