Sound Effects Read online

  Other Titles by L.J. Greene

  Ripple Effects

  Check out a preview of Ripple Effects at the conclusion of this novel.

  Copyright © 2016 by L.J. Greene

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-72270-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-72271-8 (print)

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

  This book is lovingly dedicated to struggling artists of every medium. Let’s keep at it together, shall we?

  It is also dedicated to The Fray, who contributed heavily to the soundtrack in my head while writing the book, and who also unknowingly gave me the best advice for finishing it: Head down, chin up.

  Table of Contents

  Other Titles by L.J. Greene

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgements and Epilogues

  Chapter 1: Ripple Effects

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, August 14, 2004

  Melody (Mel)

  I DISCOVERED THAT I WAS not above enlisting the help of a leek to improve my love life. This realization offered a rather humbling perspective on my present state. Still, I rang the buzzer on the battered front door and, not for the first time, asked myself what in the hell I was doing here. My host, Dan Moore, was one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen in person–that was the obvious answer. But it was an admittedly dubious explanation for meeting him for the first time today in the grocery store, and blindly accepting his invitation to a barbecue. A barbecue in the Tenderloin District, no less.

  Striking good looks aside, the only thing I knew for sure about him was that he was astonishingly well informed on the difference between scallions and leeks, which had actually been quite helpful in the circumstance. And apparently to my sex-deprived, overworked brain, that was sufficient. Again, some perspective.

  Dan answered the door with a look of pleasure and surprise that lit his stunning face like a flame. And in that initial moment, I said a silent prayer of thanks to leeks.

  In the next, as he leaned in to offer a kiss on the cheek, I debated whether his overpowering cologne could actually melt his stunning face. Or mine, for that matter.

  “Any trouble finding the place?”

  “Nope, your directions were meticulous,” I answered, and discreetly placed a finger under my nose.

  He smiled widely with those perfect white teeth and intense green eyes, gesturing me inside the small bachelor pad with an elegant flourish of his hand.

  The entryway of the apartment was tight, and made tighter by the presence of a bicycle leaning just inside the doorway. I pitied the person whose mode of transportation in San Francisco was that bicycle. Cars in the city were no picnic, but you’d take your life in your hands on that thing.

  At first glance, the place was tidy, not well appointed, but respectfully cared for. On second glance, a musician lived here–or several of them, judging by the array of equipment I could see.

  Dominating the space was a keyboard and three guitars on their stands. A small couch was pressed against the wall alongside a beat-up brown leather recliner. The coffee table, which serviced the two, was stacked high with music composition paper, and off in the corner was a little TV that looked as if it got sparing use.

  “Are you in a band?” I didn’t think he was. He had mentioned in the market that he played Division I basketball, which would leave little time for the kind of serious composing that seemed to be going on in this living room.

  “No,” he said, looking back over his shoulder as we headed down the hallway. “I’m finishing up at the University of Virginia–just home from school for a week or so. This place belongs to some friends.”

  Musician friends. The irony of that just had to be appreciated. I’d spent much of my adult life intentionally avoiding entanglements with musicians, and for a very good reason–three very good reasons, actually: drugs, women, and irresponsibility. The musicians I’d dated could fit neatly into those categories, and one overachiever spanned all three. And so finding myself in a musician’s apartment felt a little like cosmic payback for the rash decision making that had landed me here.

  As I followed Dan through the kitchen to a small back patio crowded with guests, I cursed myself again for coming.

  But I’d spent my high school years focusing on college, my college years focusing on law school, and law school focusing on starting a career. And I’m not complaining; I liked the law just fine–it was a good, practical career, and my parents were generous to a fault in footing the bill for my education. But my chosen path had left little time for much of a life, and now that school was finally behind me, I was eager to have something more to my existence than briefs and research. I was only 24, but I felt as though I was on the fast track to cat ownership.

  “What can I get you to drink? Beer, soft drink, water?”

  I took in that flawless face with a mixture of awe and wistful regret.

  On top of it all–coming to the Tenderloin alone, not knowing anyone here, favoring spontaneity over good sense–this guy was just too good looking to be anything but trouble. He was uncomfortably handsome. The kind of handsome that is, quite frankly, excessive. He had me with the strawberry-blond hair and the athletic body, but throwing in the eyes and that smile; it was just too much.

  “Water is fine. I can’t stay long.”

  “What? Why? You just got here.” And then reading my thoughts correctly, his face changed. “These are all good people. Please stay. I really want you to.”

  What could I say? I nodded faintly in uncertain concession, which he seemed to take as a resounding yes. Out came that smile again. Full-on, megawatt.

  “Don’t leave while I’m gone,” he said emphatically. “I’ll be right back with your water, and I’m going to throw some leeks on the grill like I promised.”

  I watched him move about the small crowded yard with confidence and ease. He was especially attentive to the women present, respectful and polite in the manner of someone who genuinely liked women–and was probably not going to limit himself to just one.

  He disappeared into the kitchen and then came out holding two leeks to his head like horns. I couldn’t help but laugh. He was sweet. But he wasn’t for me.

  And it was a relief, really–gaining my bearings and realizing that, while I did need to get a life, I didn’t need a one-night stand, even as tempting as thi
s particular one-night stand might be. I finally relaxed into a pleasant sense of detachment–a release from any expectation–and I suppose that’s what allowed my attention to casually drift towards the most remarkable voice I’d ever heard.

  It was coming from the kitchen, or from somewhere just inside the apartment, but it cut through the space effortlessly. It was a rich, colorful voice–the kind that had a warmth and a hominess to it. Genial, with an elusive quality that I couldn’t quite identify. It took me a minute to realize that the voice was Irish.

  The lilt was so subtle that I may have missed it completely if it weren’t for the fact that, against the backdrop of distinctly American English speakers, it had a charming prominence. And it was laughing, a deep buttery sound that oozed vitality and vigor. I loved that voice, before I ever saw the man to which it was attached.

  I was watching the door to the yard when he first appeared, emerging as though stepping onto a stage. He was looking down, the dimples on his cheeks still lingering from whatever conversation he had recently finished. Just then, he looked up and met my gaze, as though finding me had been his firm intent all along.

  I shifted in my stance and glanced away, feeling an unmistakable blush rise over my cheeks. I’d never been much of a blusher, but I could no more control my reaction than stop my heart from beating. When I looked up again, he was standing in front of me.

  “How’s the craic?”

  Pronounced like ‘crack,’ I had no idea what he was asking. Dumbly, I just blinked at him for a moment.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  He was a physically imposing figure–tall, broad chested, and powerful under his white logo t-shirt. The intensity in his light hazel eyes sent a hum of electricity right through my body as he stared at me like I could have been his very last meal on earth. I swear to God, every single hair on my arms stood erect.

  “Oh,” I stammered. “Yes, but I can’t stay long.”

  One silent beat passed between us and then he was laughing. Not with me, bear in mind–at me, dimples deeply cratering both cheeks. His laugh was sexy. Jesus, he was sexy.

  “Completely fallen to shit already, have we?” he asked, with a hint of flirtation that I thought he probably couldn’t help, so ingrained was it in his nature.

  “No,” I said smiling, and no match for his charm. “I just–” shrugging –“have a thing.”

  That sounded incredibly lame and we both knew it. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just stood there, eyes glistening with humor, drinking me in in a bold, curious way.

  It wasn’t just one thing about him–his beautiful eyes fringed with thick lashes, the richness of his dark, auburn hair, the curved mouth, or the solid frame–it was how it all came together so devastatingly. This man had a magnetism that was absolutely undeniable, like a secret so big it just oozed out of him, despite any effort he may take to keep it in check. And I knew right then and there, if he ever turned it loose on me for real, I’d be finished.

  “Abort! Abort!” my head shouted, but to no avail; my body was not listening.

  Because to top it all off, like catnip to a kitten, he was carrying a guitar.

  It was beautiful Gibson dreadnought, slung behind his back and positioned in such an organic way that it looked a part of him. The way he cradled it gently with his elbow told me it was a part of him. And everything I loved and hated about musicians came rushing back to me in a surfeit of hormones and horror stories. He was my siren song.

  “I’m Jamie Callahan.” The siren had a name. Jamie, I said in my head. I think I may have sniffed him a little, too. Subtly, of course.

  Beer, soap, maybe. And something earthy. It was decidedly masculine and tempting.

  “Mel Grayson.”

  He allowed the silence to linger between us, but never dropped that cheeky grin. His smile looked as though it hadn’t had the advantage of orthodontics, but it had the good fortune of not requiring it. Any imperfections just added to his charm. God, he was something.

  “How can I convince you to stay a bit, lovely Mel?”

  I had just opened my mouth to say something, not actually knowing what sort of something might pop out, when Dan returned with a bottle of water and two leeks for the grill. Despite the onslaught of his cologne, it was an enormous relief. How was it that he was now the safer of the two options?

  “What’s with the guitar?” he asked Jamie incredulously, before loosening the cap on the water and handing me the bottle.

  “What’s with the leeks?” Jamie fired back, undaunted.

  “She likes leeks.”

  “Goats like leeks,” Jamie answered, the smile moving to his eyes, lighting them with humor. “Women want meat. Don’t they, Mel?”

  My heart did a painful kerchunk in my chest. How does one even respond to something like that? Yes, I want meat. In fact, I’d like your meat.

  I struggled for a response that was far more dignified than the one screaming in my head, but had to abandon the effort. It was just no use.

  His loaded gaze was fixed on mine. But it still managed to stroke me in other very personal places, and I swallowed hard as something heavy and potent stirred between us. It was a very physical thing.

  And I wasn’t the only one to notice it. When I finally broke away from that look, I found Dan staring at me slightly aghast, before turning the same look on Jamie.

  I was deeply embarrassed by whatever it was he had seen on my face. He didn’t look mad, but he was clearly reevaluating his prospects for the afternoon.

  “Can I offer you a burger, instead?” Dan finally asked me with unconcealed mirth.

  I cringed.

  “You’re grand for asking,” Jamie responded with a smirk. “I’ll take two with sides, as well.”

  Dan gave no direct response, but the silent conversation that followed was loud enough. It reminded me of every National Geographic documentary I’d ever watched–two alpha males facing off over a female. Lions, walruses, and men are really not so different.

  Finally, Dan tilted his head in gracious concession and left Jamie and I standing together under an entirely new set of circumstances.

  “So then,” Jamie said, and I realized I had stopped breathing.

  “So then,” I echoed.

  The full-dimpled grin that burst across his face lit his hazel eyes with the promise of mischief. I suddenly felt a little off-balance. I blamed the leek.

  §

  “Is he going to be upset with you?” I asked Jamie after Dan returned with the burgers, but stayed only long enough to deliver them.

  “Danny? Nah,” he answered, eyes narrowing some as he watched his friend navigate back through the crowd. “He’s a gem, that one.”

  There was an access of pure love in his voice, and I strongly suspected from his tone that the friendship between them ran deep. It left me with a warm feeling in my belly, and maybe a twinge of guilt, too.

  Jamie ushered me to sit in an elderly lawn chair, and then set his plate down on an adjacent one as he removed his guitar to lean it against a neighboring wall.

  “Were you going to play?”

  “Oh. No, I just had something in my head I was working out. I just…well, sometimes it’s inconvenient.” He waved his hand like it could wait.

  But it was a curious thing for me. Not being a particularly creative person myself, I often wondered how it worked for artists. Did creative ideas come like sunlight bursting through the clouds? Or was it more like wrestling a cat into a bathtub?

  “Does that happen a lot? Like when you’re in the middle of doing something else?”

  He laughed dryly. “All the time. It’s a bit of a problem, actually.”

  I nodded in agreement, taking a small bite of my burger, but in truth, that seemed like a problem of riches to me. The musicians I had known welcomed any and all inspiration– whenever it came. Good ideas seemed hard to come by.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you. I’d ha
te for the next ‘Stairway to Heaven’ to be thwarted on my account.”

  He laughed again, but warmly this time–his dimples underscoring the heartiness of the sound.

  “I’d more think you’d be the one to inspire it.”

  What would come off sounding like a cheesy pick-up line from anyone else seemed completely authentic coming from Jamie. I marveled at this as I watched him proceed to dispose of his burgers in a very businesslike manner. This guy could eat. Though no wonder, he was a wall of a man. A few inches shorter than Danny–I’d put him at about six feet–but with slightly more mass. Where Danny was elegantly built, Jamie was dense. Not bulky, per se, but he had an air of impenetrability. Like Superman. And it likely took a lot of fuel to keep him going. He hunched over his plate to catch any escaping juice and made quick work of anything there that was edible.

  I did a decent job with mine, too. Danny had talent on the grill.

  “So, the instruments that I noticed coming in are yours?”

  He leaned down and picked up his beer from the ground, taking a deep pull and swallowing.

  “Two of the guitars are. The keyboard belongs to my roommate, Greg.” He gestured with his bottle to a nice-looking guy of slight build and blue eyes. “That bloke over there.”

  Greg had a chain hanging from the belt loop of his black jeans and, with his dark goatee, I could almost imagine him a pirate. He seemed to feel the weight of our attention and turned, nodding his chin by way of acknowledgement.

  “D’you play an instrument?”

  “No,” I responded, shaking my head in firm negation. “I took lessons once but…let’s just leave it that I’m a great appreciator of music and musicians.”

  That didn’t exactly come out the way I had intended. Jamie’s eyes sparkled, but he had the grace to let it pass.

  The fact was, I had taken up guitar a few years back, full of determination to get myself to the point where I could just pick up the instrument and play something. How hard could it be, right? I took lessons and practiced religiously every single day. As was my nature, I felt that hard work could triumph over any deficiency in natural ability. I was wrong. Hard work is essential for sure, but music is a gift–sadly, it just wasn’t one of mine.