“Where the hell did you get the name of our band?” Joker asked, tapping his drumstick on his boot. “Because wouldn’t you know it—I ran into a waitress out there by the name of Izzy. Sweet little titties, but not big enough for my mouth. She had a hot ass; I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that. Do you two know each other or something?”
“Let’s go,” Jericho said, knowing one more word about Isabelle’s hot ass and he was going to pound Joker in the face. “Saddle up, boys. Showtime.” He took his black guitar pick out of his pocket and put it in his mouth as they made their way up the side steps to the stage.
The audience howled and cheered as the lights dimmed, leaving only the stage illuminated by a few spotlights. Jericho scanned the crowd and didn’t see Chaz.
“Where the fuck is he?” he said in an angry breath.
The backup guitarist spat out a curse and plugged in his guitar.
Jericho played it cool and turned his back to the crowd. “I’ll give him one song to get his ass onstage. If Chaz isn’t here by the end of this song, he’s fired and we’re going to have to wing it. Let me have this one, guys.”
His guitar was a curvy Les Paul with a mahogany body that faded to black around the edges. It had a sweet tune when played just right, and Jericho knew exactly how to stroke the lady to make her sing. He adjusted the pickups and tone until the sound was rich and full-bodied.
He approached the mic. “Something a little different to start off the show tonight.”
Sweat formed on his brow and as the room buzzed with anticipation, he began to play “Yesterday” by the Beatles. Jericho dragged out the guitar melody, and the crowd soaked it in.
As soon as the lyrics rolled past his lips, he realized he’d never performed this song in public before. The only time he’d ever played it was in the late hours of the night in the hotel room he shared with Isabelle. He’d quietly sing as he watched her sleep, dreaming of a better life. Every word became an explanation to Isabelle. He glanced toward the back of the room and saw her suddenly freeze as she walked to the bar, pivoting around slowly to face the stage. She set the tray on the bar without taking her eyes off him and stepped forward. The light from the bar illuminated her hair, and damn, she looked angelic. Every word of the song replayed a regretful moment in their lives, and he wondered if he was half the man he used to be, before all the drugs.
When he sang the line about why she had to go away, Isabelle wiped her cheek and tilted her head.
No one else in that room existed—only her.
His yesterday.
The crowd swayed to the sound of his smoky voice that mimicked some of the greats. Soulful and broken.
Isabelle lowered her somber eyes and shook her head. He sang louder and tried to reach out to her with his words, but she turned around and headed toward the restroom.
Then he was alone.
Alone in a room full of people who clung to his every word, except for the one person who mattered. His heart splintered.
Chaz suddenly appeared and leapt onstage, hooking up his gear. “Fuck, man. Sorry ’bout that.” He wiped his nose and widened his eyes at the crowd.
Jericho wrapped up the song and released a heavy breath. Time would never erase his mistakes, and he wished more than anything that he could go back and do it differently. All that regret—why did he have to be such a fuckup?
That girl still owned his heart. All the bullshit aside, he wanted Isabelle back in his life. But it was too late. She had a man, and all Jericho had was his guitar. That’s all he’d ever wanted, and that’s exactly what he ended up with.
He wondered what she had done with his first guitar—the one she’d swiped from their motel room. Isabelle knew how much that instrument had meant to him. He used to fool around with the guitars backstage when he worked as a roadie, setting up equipment for bands. Isabelle had said he had a God-given talent. Wouldn’t you know it? That girl had taken every penny she’d saved waitressing and bought him a butt-ugly Fender Stratocaster with a powder-blue body from the local pawnshop. She’d told him he was destined for greatness. Despite its second-rate quality, he loved that damn thing.
In the end, Jericho had destroyed everything he valued in his life because of his addictions. She must have realized she was too good for him. And she was right. But how could she have just left him there to die? He wanted to follow Denver’s advice and hate her with every fiber of his being.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Chapter 8
“Hon, wake up.”
I moaned and lifted my head from the wooden table where I’d dozed off. Rosie peered down at me with her purse slung over her shoulder.
“I’m about to head out. There’s a bubble bath waiting for me with my name on it. Don’t you need to be going home? Rush hour is over and the birds will be chirping soon.”
I sat up and stretched out my arms. “I was just waiting around until the donut shop opened.”
She gave me that look. The one a person gives when you’re shoveling manure and they can smell it. The bracelets on her wrist slid up her arm when she touched her hair. “Take care of yourself.”