The Griffin's Secret. Cate Masters
finally, from this mess of a life. As much as he loved what his past contained, it was forever out of his reach. Whatever his future held, he intended to grab hold and not let go.
* * * *
Outside the bus window, the world flew by. Layla wished she could reach through the glass beside her bunk and catch the scenery like a butterfly, hold it for a little while to examine all the detail. The real colors, vivid and alive, not muted by the tinted glass. If only the rest of the world could see in as well as she could see out, she might not feel so isolated.
A futile wish, so she released the thought. After rummaging through her small bookshelves above the mattress, she found the sketch pad and began to draw a butterfly. She hummed a song she’d been composing in her mind. A haunting melody she couldn’t forget, yet couldn’t quite figure out the rest.
“Don’t waste too much, love.” The low voice held menace.
She shut her eyes against the unspoken message. Why did so many beg to hear that harsh voice? Who could fall for such a cold man? Loving him would be a terrible waste. Every concert was the worst sort of torture for her.
She made her tone airy and careless. “There’s always more.” Unfortunately. Otherwise, she could go her separate way.
“I said save your energy.” Mal’s words clipped the air.
She sighed. The bus had every luxury except privacy. Next time, she’d remember to draw the flimsy curtain shut. “Fine.” She kept sketching but stopped humming. Out loud, anyway. The melody continued in her head.
He leaned his elbows along the rail. “You just can’t know the absolute thrill of standing center stage.” Like his voice, his features had softened. “The energy of the people pulsing through me, their love flowing to me.” Long hair to his shoulders, his pale blue eyes sparkled as he smiled dreamily. “Holding them captive with each strum.”
No small thanks to her. And if he had his way, she’d never experience the same thrill. “You mean captivated, don’t you?”
His shrug dismissed her argument, then he winced. “What’s the difference? Why must you dwell on petty semantics?”
His mood swings never surprised her anymore. True to his name, Mal couldn’t sustain a pleasant mood for long.
She kept sketching. “No reason.” Except the difference lent a critical distinction to his motive. Pleasing the audience or owning them. He’d almost had her believing he cared about someone other than himself.
A dangerous mistake.
“I’m bored.” Yawning, Mal scratched his belly, thin as the rest of him, and much less awe-inspiring than his costumed stage persona. “I’m going back to bed.”
She waited until he’d shuffled to the rear of the bus and closed the narrow door behind him, then set aside her pad and pencil and slid her feet from the bunk to the floor. She walked to the front where Fred strummed his guitar on the plush cushions, shaved head bent low.
At her approach, he looked up and grinned. “I loved your song, even if he didn’t.”
Too bad no one else would ever hear it. “Play me something sweet.” She closed her eyes and listened to the soft notes he drew from the strings, exactly the kind of soothing music she needed. When he finished after a few minutes, she exhaled slowly. “Divine. And you needed no one’s help.”
Fred cradled the instrument to his chest, concern in his hazel eyes. “Why don’t you go rest? Tomorrow night will be here all too soon.”
Like she needed the reminder. “Tomorrow night and the next and the next. When will it end?”
The guitarist gave a lopsided smile. “Hopefully never. Or at least, not for a long time.”
“Don’t say that.” The very thought sapped her will. After five years of touring with Malcontent, the concerts had begun to blur together, each one the same as the last.
False pleasantries abandoned, Fred met her gaze. “Sorry. I know this life isn’t always fun for you.”
The only one of them who treated her like a living, breathing person. She treasured their conversations, however infrequent. Fred’s soft-spoken kindness acted like a healing balm to her soul, and she couldn’t ruin what small friendship they had by constantly bringing him down. “I love the music. I love life on the road.” If she didn’t spend all her free time in virtual exile on the bus, she wouldn’t mind traveling one bit.
Except for Mal. No one loved him except Mal himself, and the confined quarters strained everyone’s nerves.
Fred grinned. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”
Her heart squeezed. “He wouldn’t have been able to stay in the same room with me. What I do is a joke, a mockery of music.” Nothing like his artistic genius.
“No way. You’re—”
“Please don’t try and make me feel better.”
Guitar in hand, he rose. “I’d better get some shut-eye. You should, too.”
She hid her loneliness behind a smile. “I will. Soon.”
He shuffled to the back of the bus.
And as soon as she could manage it, sleep wouldn’t be her only means of escaping an existence she could hardly tolerate. Funny, how many people would do anything to get on board this enclosed hell, and all she wanted to do was get the hell off.
Snuggled under the warm cover, she instinctively reached for the iPad. She’d convinced Mal to get her one so she could watch videos. Research and study, she’d told him, but she was fairly certain he knew otherwise. Sometimes, Mal dropped the bastard persona, but not often enough.
A touch brought up YouTube. Another few strokes, and a list of videos appeared. She tapped Jimi Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” and settled low against the pillows. His intensity never failed to captivate her. The movements of his fingers seemed deliberate, yet amazingly free, dancing along the neck and strings of the white Fender Stratocaster. When he raised the strings to his mouth and plucked them with his teeth, and then flipped the guitar behind his head and still played every note perfectly, goose bumps raised on her skin. Musical genius at its finest. Jimi had no need of magic. He’d given this performance before meeting the woman who’d introduced him to other musical powers and then cursed him in a jealous rage.
So tragic, to have lost a great talent so young. At least he’s free now.
Unlike Layla, who suffered like her mother and grandmother had before her. Soon, she would break free of these bonds. Very soon. With no boundaries, who knew how far up she could go? So high, she could kiss the sky.
But heights such as those could be dangerous. Mal was living proof.
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