Oddly enough, the penthouse and its million-dollar view meant nothing now. He owned it. He owned a lot of things. Stashing money and hiring people to keep every damned cent he made was the best piece of advice he’d gotten from Donal Morgan. It was a pity that was the only advice he’d listened to.
Despite the months he’d spent in Malibu soaking up sobriety, his place looked almost exactly the same as when he’d left it. Rich, warm buttery walls and comfortable furniture with a few dashes of art the decorator tossed in warmed the empty apartment. A sparkling kitchen armed with gadgets he had no idea how to use and bedrooms with beds soft enough to sink into lay off the main entrance. He’d paid for a room to be soundproofed and set up amps and a soundboard, intending to blow out his own ears while staying up all hours of the night with Jack.
That bit of life never happened, and Rafe wondered if it ever would have to begin with.
To the left of the front door, unread books lined a bank of cases, and the view from the midcentury modern living room was heart stopping, the Golden Gate Bridge poking up through the far-off mist. His favorite part of the place were the guitars hanging from a long wall separating the rest of the house from the long living space, bright spots of color splashed up against white paint and what he’d used to pull himself up out of perdition.
Some of which were now gone, taken by the man he’d built his escape on.
There hadn’t been love. Not the love he felt for Quinn Morgan—the love he’d tucked away deep inside of himself so it wouldn’t hurt—but a casual affection, a kindred musical spirit he’d not found in his other relationships.
Fuck, Jack dumping him out of his life really hurt.
The gaps in the guitars hurt the most, and Rafe stumbled to sit down on something before he fell to his knees and cried. Of all the things Rafe’d fucked up in his life, losing Jack Collins’s friendship left the biggest hole. It was more than hurt, he realized, staring at the white spaces where Jack’d once hung some of his favorite instruments. It was losing parts of his life Rafe knew he’d never get back. The band was gone. Jack was gone. There was no one he hadn’t fucked over, including the person he’d thought he’d always have, his own mother. As empty as he felt inside, Rafe knew he’d run out of excuses. Reality came back and bit him hard because he’d been the one to set it all on fire and laughed when it burned to a crisp.
A note was tucked into one of the wall mounts, and Rafe debated leaving it there for the housekeeper to clean up. His resolve lasted about a minute before he snatched it out of its perch. He wanted a drink, something to steady his nerves, but the stint in rehab left him with a sour taste for numbing his brain when things got rough. While anything chemical was now off-limits, alcohol hadn’t been his problem—wasn’t his problem, Rafe corrected himself.
“Shit’s not going to go away just because you want it to. Always going to be there.” He sat down on a fluffy armchair he didn’t remember owning. The whole place looked odd, unfamiliar in so many ways, leaving him to wonder if the guitars weren’t the only thing Jack took with him.
From the look of the handwriting on the folded paper, Jack at least left him a Dear John letter.
“More like a fuck off and die,” Rafe muttered, opening the note.
It was everything he’d imagined. Clear and strong in black ink, Jack left Rafe with no delusions he’d ever be welcomed back into Jack’s band or life. There’d been too many times, too many disappointments, and one too many deaths for Jack Collins’s liking, and Rafe Andrade could go twist in the wind for all he cared.
They’d not been in love. They’d fought as much as they’d fucked, bound by rhythms, words, and a shared hardscrabble past. Rafe wasn’t a fool to think Jack cared for him more than he liked a good piece of steak or a fine bottle of tequila, but they’d been friends. Hell, they’d gone through so much together. Rafe’d created the band with Jack, and despite it all—or maybe because of it all—he hadn’t fought Jack when he’d been pushed out. It was all over between them except for the legal wrangling as lawyers and record companies untangled Rafe’s half ownership of a band he’d help put on the map.
“I should fuck them all up and refuse to sell.” Even as the spite gushed from the sourness in his belly, Rafe knew he wouldn’t do it. He owed Jack. With as much shit as they’d been through at the start, it’d been Jack who’d held it all together once Rafe began to destroy it all in the end. “Hell, Jack. I wish you’d just let me say I’m sorry. Would you fucking at least give me that much?”
He’d fallen so damned far, crashing down on sharp rocks and tearing out the wings he’d built for himself to get away from who he’d been. And now Rafe was back where he started. Alone, unwanted, and most of all, scared down deep into his soul.
“Damn it, Andrade.” Rafe swallowed around the pain hitching up through his throat. “Should have just done the shitty world a favor and taken one last handful of fucking pills. ’Cause after all of this crap, no one’s going to fucking want you around.”
Chapter 1