Breath to Bear: A Second Chance, Rockstar Romance

Erin-1

ERIN

Heat from the fire pit warms my legs as I look out at the waves. The glow from the moon on the cloudless night casts light on the ocean’s surface, mimicking tiny glittering diamonds. Nights like these remind me of growing up near Lake Michigan, back when I was young enough to think it was an ocean because it was so big you couldn’t see the other side. That was when life was much simpler, and the only thing I had to worry about was getting a flat tire on my bike too far from home.

The expensive headphones I splurged on play some alternative music I added to my playlist recently, a band I’ve been following lately. Music is one of life’s greatest pleasures. It has the power to move you in ways you could never imagine, cause you to tear at your clothes in desperation, see what you need to in the soulful eyes of a lover, make your heart shatter into a million pieces and then put you back together again.

My plane landed yesterday. I’ve been busy meeting with a festival promoter and ended up covering a showcase as a favor to get the band more media coverage before their tour starts. It ended up being a late night and so I headed over to Jack’s place this evening, knowing he’d be finishing up in the studio soon. It should have given him plenty of time, but now it’s late in the evening, and I’m still here… alone.

Snuffing out the fire with sand, I grab my shoes and carry them inside with me. Jack’s house is dark and uninviting. It’s a bachelor pad with minimal furniture and barely any decoration. I used to think it was because Jack wasn’t home enough to really enjoy it, but knowing him now for over a year, I know that’s not the reason.

It feels odd being here without Jack, like I’m an intruder, not really belonging. It could be the ghosts that linger, or the moon that casts shadows across the wood floor that make it feel unwelcoming. My fingers run over the back of the leather couch as I walk barefoot through the living room. I can see the small dent in the plaster that has never been repaired. I want to touch it, to feel the violence that caused it, but it’s impenetrable… like the walls around Jack’s heart.

I know the story behind this dent.

The problem is, I know the story behind a lot of things.

They say ignorance is bliss, and sometimes I wish I didn’t know so much.

When I look around, I can’t help but notice this house is bigger than my apartment in New York, but it’s considered small by L.A. standards, with only two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen and cozy living room. I understand why he keeps it, why he loves it, when he could afford a bigger place. Not to mention the view is to die for, and to wake up to the ocean every day would be a dream. Instead, I wake up to the garbage truck rattling down the street, an occasional domestic violence situation, and a neighbor who likes to crank Journey at weird hours. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good Journey song, but there are only so many times you can listen to Open Arms without wanting to kick someone in the balls.

Pulling my laptop across the counter, I sit on one of the kitchen stools and contemplate working on an article. I need to get a draft of the showcase I covered this weekend to the editor by tomorrow night. I look at my phone again, but I know Jack hasn’t called or texted me back. Accustomed to his idiosyncrasies by now, I know he’s turned his phone off while in the studio, but I still worry about him. We finished the book months ago, and he’s slowly become more reclusive, inside his head more than usual, and spending a lot of time in the studio. While I try to be understanding, my patience is running thin.

Since I quit my job at Edge, I’ve hopped from one magazine to another. I used to like the stability of a nine to five, not that journalism was always that way, but it was steady pay even though I lived paycheck to paycheck. With the book deal Jack got, my financial stress has been eased a little bit. I finally became an adult when I put my bills on autopay. Not to mention a convenience because I never seem to be home anymore to collect my bills. I travel between L.A. and New York quite often, but I’ve gotten to travel many places, covering shows and other music related events. Whichever magazine I work for, I’m the one who can leave at a moment’s notice.

As I sit here at Jack’s kitchen counter, I can’t help but think about where I would be if I had never knocked on his door that day. It’s funny the places life takes you. If I had left right away when he shut the door in my face, he’d never have had the chance to h****k my car. So where would I be right now? I think often of when he dropped me off at the airport, parting ways and not knowing if we would see each other again.

“When you get back to New York and you’ve had some time to think, if you still want to do the book, you know how to reach me,” Jack said to me, but I had already made up my mind. I’d spent the entire plane ride writing because I couldn’t get him out of my head. When my plane landed, the first thing I did was call him. “Are you ready to do this?” I asked. His reply was, “The question is, are you?” Imagine my surprise when I got to my apartment and Jack was waiting for me on the steps to my building. His answer to my questioning eyes, “Private planes are much faster than commercial.” That now familiar cocky grin made my stomach flutter. I smile bringing my fingers to my lips as I think back on that memory.

Jack being on my steps was so jarring and out of place that it threw me off my game, but I was so glad that he wanted to do the book, I naively asked, “So, now what?” not knowing how any of this worked. I remember the wicked grin on his face so clearly, the one I am so accustomed to now, “You invite me into your apartment,” he said.

Over the past year, Jack and I worked on his book together, arguments not easily won, and compromises hard to acquire. When you work on a biography about someone’s life, you sometimes find out things you don’t want to know, especially if you are in a relationship with that person. That is my downfall, my Achilles heel. I can’t separate the lines between professional relationship and romantic entanglement, especially when it comes to someone like Jack O’Donnell.

When I finished writing the book, I submitted it to a couple of different publishing houses through some contacts I’d made. Admittedly, we knew the publishing industry would love to get their hands on Jack’s story, not only because he was a Grammy winning artist with a long history in the industry, but because he had always been so private about his personal life with the press. Here he was with a tell-all book, and the industry lost their minds. Everyone wanted to know the story behind the music. What we didn’t expect was a bidding war.

The decision was ultimately Jack’s, and for him it was never about the money. He chose a smaller publishing house with a team of people that understood what this book meant to him. Although they couldn’t give a huge advance, we struck a deal to get money on the back end through sales. For me, the advance was more money than I’d ever had in my bank account at one time. There were more preorders than we ever imagined. The book was on the New York Times Best Sellers list, even before Jack had started a press tour.

For two people who had met through unlikely circumstances, we created something extraordinary together, forged through long hours, patience, understanding, and without judgement. It is not a story for everyone.

Most wouldn’t be able to handle it.

It is brutally honest, unapologetic, raw, and exquisitely beautiful.

Just like Jack.

My name is not on the book. This is not my story.

That’s just one of the problems being with a guy like Jack. The press usually leaves him alone, but with the exposure of the book, it’s put a new spotlight on him. These days though, Hayley is in the news more often than him, and I know how Jack feels about that.

I’m having a hard time concentrating on my article as I keep looking at the time on the computer screen. It’s nearly midnight, and I can’t image he’d still be at the studio. There’s only one other place he could be.

I change out of my shorts and hoodie into a pair of jeans, T-shirt and sweater. I slip my feet into the flip flops I carried in from the beach, because it’s L.A. and I can wear flip flops whenever I want. I grab my wallet from my bag and lock up. The Lamplight is only a few blocks from the beach house, but I call for an Uber anyway. If New York has taught me anything, you can never be too careful walking down the street alone, especially if you’re a woman.

The neighborhood is peaceful this time of night. Most of the houses are dark, only the streetlamps illuminate the sidewalk. My Uber driver pulls up and I descend the steps. Ten minutes later I’m dropped off in front of the club, and as soon as I get to the door, I can hear the familiar sound of a guitar penetrating its thick wooden frame. I’ve heard a lot of musicians in my time, all genres and styles, but there’s something so distinctive about the way Jack plays. I would know it anywhere.

While growing up, I had an uncle that was a real motor-head. He loved cars, especially muscle cars. The type with big-blocks and imposing bodies. He used to tell me what kind of car was driving past our house just from the sound of the engine. I could never understand how he did it. I kept thinking it must have been a magic trick, but now I get it.

From behind the large wooden doors of the Lamplight is the sound of a ’56 Strat. I quietly slip inside, standing just at the threshold. The bar is practically empty, but the people in here are riveted to the stage. As my gaze travels the room to the man with the guitar on the small stage, playing those famous beginning chords to Layla, joining in with that raspy, deep voice, I don’t blame them. Jack lays into the song like he’s playing Madison Square Garden instead of some beach dive bar. All I can do is stand and watch because I can’t take my eyes off him. Dark brown locks of his hair fall over his eyes and his lips are so close to the mic they are practically kissing it.

Deft fingers move over the strings of that exquisite guitar like he’s not afraid to a***e it. His voice is raw and deep, so full of emotion that I feel it deep in my belly. A small drop of sweat clings to his forehead before dropping onto the scuff marked planks of the stage. When people try to explain stage presence, this is what they mean. He’s alone, no backup band, just a hot spotlight and a shitty amp, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Neither can anyone else in the room.

The song ends, breaking the spell, and I realize I’m still rooted to the same spot as when I entered. Applause startles me as it spreads among the crowd, and a few people stand, showing their appreciation for his talent. Jack dips his neck as he pulls the guitar strap over his head. The sweat flies from the messy strands of his hair hanging in his face, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Almost as if he finally realizes there are other people in the room, his troubled eyes look out into the crowd with hesitation. When they land on me, there’s a flicker of something visceral and dangerous in his gaze. I didn’t know dangerous could look so beautiful. I forget why I came here as the butterflies flutter against the inside of my stomach.

I’m in over my head.

I’m out of my league.

But I am in so deep that I couldn’t crawl my way out even if I wanted to.

He hops off the stage, the Strat by his side and moves through the crowd towards me with such purpose that I almost feel like I should be scared. He pushes the hair off his face revealing those outrageously beautiful blue eyes of his. When he reaches me, my knees weaken, as he holds out his hand to me. I gladly take it, mesmerized by him, shedding any anger I may have felt.