Page 37 of Ghost Note

Halo had his ankle resting over the opposing knee, and he raised a casual hand and looked directly at the audience. “I’m Halo. Lead singer.”

The guy next to him looked like he hadn’t washed his long mousy hair in a decade. He tucked it behind his ears before he raised a hand, too. “Archer. Drums.”

“Fletch,” the next guy said, who had jet black hair with bright red stripes running through it. “Rhythm guitar.”

The man next to him was a handsome, blonde, short-haired guy who looked like he could work alongside Danny as a poster boy for Hollister. His smile was charming as he nodded to the audience. “Theo. Bass guitar.”

Before the camera panned to Danny, the women in the audience began to stir, giggles and small squeals erupting, only for the hostess to glance their way with a smirk. “I think we may know who’s next,” she said, eyeing the ladies before she looked back at the band. “Last but most definitely not least…?”

Danny laughed, as though embarrassed, and he ran a thumb over a raised brow before he smiled at the giddy women. “Yeah. Erm. Danny. Lead guitarist.”

The hostess began to fan her face with her cue cards, and the women in the small crowd joined her in their worshipping. They showed no shame as they leered over him—all of them—and I had to wonder what kind of uproar there would have been if the gender roles had been reversed.

Maybe that was the jealousy within me talking…

Even though I knew this was some kind of slow torture, I kept watching the interview. I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of my own self-destruction, and I couldn’t find a way out. My eyes were glued to the screen.

“Obviously, you boys have to have lived and breathed music since you were fresh out of the womb,” the hostess said, dropping an elbow to her crossed knees, and resting her chin on her fist. “So, tell me… who have been your biggest musical influences along the way?”

The band answered in the same order. The likes of Metallica, Van Halen, Oasis, Queen, all falling out of their mouths. Halo talked about Black Sabbath, his hands gesticulating everywhere about his love for Ozzy Osbourne, until he’d talked himself dry… and they then turned to Danny.

“The Carpenters,” he answered without hesitation.

The hostess’s brow rose in surprise. “Really? That’s quite an old-fashioned band for a young man like yourself.”

“Music doesn’t have a use-by date. Good lyrics and the right beat are timeless.”

“Still… I wasn’t expecting that answer.”

Danny brought his arse to the edge of the sofa and leaned forward over parted legs. “I guess everyone is guided by what they’re brought up with.”

“And you were brought up with them?”

“All day, every day. My gran is a huge fan.” The audience oohed and aahed at his reference to Florence. “Plus, Karen Carpenter’s voice was one of a kind. No one can hold a note like she could.” He looked down at his feet, a thought taking over before he huffed out a small laugh to himself and looked up again. “Well, no one famous, anyway.”

My heart began to gallop.

You sing like an angel, Zee. SingSuperstarfor me. Sing it like Karen did.

Had he just referenced me—me!—in an interview?

My finger swiped the video away, and I tossed my phone to the side, letting my head drop into my hands. “Enough now,” I mumbled against my palms. “Just… enough. Get a fucking grip.”

I heard the tinkling of the seashell curtain in front of me, and I looked up sharply, no doubt with puffy, bright red eyes, blinking at the silhouette in front of me. The sunlight shone behind them, blinding me until the person stepped through, crouched down in front of me, and tilted their head in concern.

“Are you... crying?” Danny scowled.

Fucking Danny!

I felt my blood run cold. “What the hell are you doing here?” I whispered, unable to stop those stupid tears falling. “How did you get in without the bell ringing?”

“Daisy, stop rambling. Take a breath and tell me why you’re crying.”

I shuffled back, needing to create some distance from him. Him and his handsome, too good for Hope Cove face. Him and his ridiculously intoxicating aftershave. Him and his jeans and T-shirt outfit that were trying to trick me into believing he was Danny, circa six, seven, eight years ago.

Him and every one of those stupid, rotten memories.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I pulled them up and rested my chin on them, looking up at Danny with more vulnerability pouring out of me than I wanted to show.

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