Dirty Letters(9)
P.P.S. I’d love to exchange more recent photos. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? ;)
P.P.P.S. Agrizoophobia is thirty points without bonus spaces. But logizomechanophobia—fear of computers—is forty-three points.
I thought about including my photo in the envelope, but in the end I decided against it. We weren’t kids anymore. Mrs. Ryan’s rules didn’t apply. But swapping adult photos felt like a big step for some reason. Especially now that Griffin lived here in the States. Once we took that first step, what was stopping us from taking a second? That thought was pretty scary but also pretty exciting.
I folded the letter into an envelope and addressed it to his PO box in California. When I was done, I slapped on a stamp and looked down at the name. It was pretty damn crazy.
Griffin Quinn.
After all these years.
CHAPTER 4
GRIFFIN
“What’s the total?”
My lawyer shook his head. “Just under a hundred and nineteen thousand.”
I raked my fingers through my hair. “Jesus. How could I be so fucking blind?”
“It was over a period of two and a half years. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Unfortunately, I see this type of thing happening all the time. I’ve had cases where it’s in the millions, Griff. You were on the road a lot. Big money was rolling in and rolling out. You had to trust someone.”
“Yeah. Apparently my childhood best friend was the wrong fucking choice.”
The first thing I did when I signed my first record deal was bring over my buddy Will from England and hire him as my manager. I was traveling all over for gigs to promote my album. My record label was pushing me to get back into the studio and start my next one, and overnight, the day my single dropped, I gained two hundred thousand followers on Instagram. And that was before the shit really hit the fan. I needed someone to keep me organized, someone I could trust to deal with my finances on a day-to-day basis. My lawyer, Aaron, had warned me not to hire a friend. I told him he was nuts—no way was I hiring some firm over my buddy.
I held out my hand to Aaron. “Thanks for not saying I told you so, man.”
He smiled. “Never. That’s not part of my job. Did you decide how we’re handling this? You know where I stand. Let the police deal with it. If he did this to his buddy, what’s he going to do to strangers?”
I knew he was right, but I just couldn’t press charges. Deep down, I felt partly responsible for Will’s issues. I’d brought him to the parties that got him hooked on drugs. And when I realized how out of control his habit had gotten, what did I do? I took off for a three-month tour and left him alone in my big house with access to all the cash he needed to dig his own grave. Maybe if I’d canceled a few shows and pushed him into rehab, none of this shit would’ve happened.
“He borrowed the money from his family to pay it all back. As long as that check clears by the end of the week, I just want to put this shit behind me.”
Aaron nodded. “Your call. What about his G-Wagen in the driveway?”
“I told him that was interest. Donate it somewhere. I don’t want it.”
“You sure? That’s an expensive two-year-old car.”
“I don’t want his money. I’ll take back what he stole. But that’s it.”
“You got it.” Aaron stood. “Any particular charity?”
“No. You pick one.” I walked him to the door and opened it. “On second thought, see if there’s a legit charity for people suffering from agoraphobia.”
My lawyer’s brows drew together. “You serious?”
“Absolutely.”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say, boss.”
I watched as Aaron pulled out in his Audi R8. He had to navigate past Will’s G-Wagen and my Tesla Roadster. The damn excesses in California. Shit was definitely easier back in Yorkshire. Not that I didn’t appreciate the fortune and fame, but some days I questioned if the price of it all was worth it—friends stealing from friends, women who use you for an introduction to record industry people, endless paparazzi, the inability to walk into a record store and spend a little quiet time perusing the aisles. I missed the simple things in life, and right now was a lull in the crazy times. Pretty soon, I’d be on tour again. Then Cole would swallow up Griffin completely.
Which reminded me. Instead of going back into the house, I walked down to the end of my driveway to check the mailbox. It had been a week since I wrote back to Luca, and I’d hoped that my first letter hadn’t scared her off. Hell, I actually didn’t think she’d even get my letter. I certainly never expected the shit she’d told me when she wrote back.
Losing a friend in a fire—at a crowded concert of all places. That was pretty fucked up.
I sifted through a two-inch stack of mail as I walked back to the house and smiled seeing Luca’s familiar handwriting.
Settling into the couch, I tore it open and read every word. Twice.
When was the last time someone was that honest with me? My mum probably. It definitely hadn’t been in the last three years since my star had risen in the music world. My life was filled with two kinds of people now—people who yessed me because they worked for me or my label, and people who wanted something from me.
Luca was neither—and unless she was totally full of shit, she also had no idea who the hell I was. She either didn’t know who Cole Archer was or did and didn’t recognize me from the one picture we’d exchanged more than ten years ago. Either way, being Griffin again felt good. Talking to Luca felt even better.