Saving Grace

  Saving Grace

  Elizabeth Doherty

  To my Dad - who introduced me to Billy Joel at the same time he introduced me to Sesame Street

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Love To Me

  About the Author

  1

  "What are we doing here?"

  Grace Mueller's best friend looked up at her with eyebrows that nearly met the line of her curly hair. "I wanted to go out."

  "And you wanted to go here?" Grace asked, taking in the surrounding club. It was dark and small, only a few times bigger than her tiny New York City apartment. Yet somehow, it felt like hundreds of bodies took up space. It had to be a fire hazard.

  Grace forced herself to loosen the fists she'd made, sticking her hands into her pockets to keep them from tensing again.

  "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world?" Her words tumbled over themselves.

  Ridley didn't notice her joke. "I wanted to see the band," she explained.

  "Have you seen this band before?"

  "On their website." She waved at one of the young men on the stage, the one with the guitar and shaggy hair.

  Grace looked back and forth between them. "So... you know them?"

  "No." Ridley smirked. "But I want to."

  "I want to go home," Grace said, rolling her eyes.

  "No, you don't. Anyway, the band's calling a break. I want to meet them."

  Grace didn't have time to reply. Ridley grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the tiny stage at the front of the club. Despite the press of people, their track was unhindered. Ridley's confidence always got her whatever she wanted.

  They reached the stage as the four members of the band hopped down from it. Two of them bypassed Grace and Ridley, bee-lining to the bar. The man with the shaggy hair curved one corner of his mouth upward as he made eyes at Ridley.

  But it was the other one—the tall one who'd been singing—who approached them. "Are you enjoying the show?"

  Grace had seen a lot of rockers in her life. Mostly, they were cocky, all full of swagger and confidence. A remark like the one he'd just made would turn into some kind of pickup line. This seemed different, though. His bright blue eyes were round and eager. He was genuinely curious about if they liked the show.

  "Yeah. You guys are pretty good."

  "Thanks." He beamed and held out a hand. "I'm Declan Kane."

  Despite herself, Grace smiled. She took her hand out of her jean pockets and shook his. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Grace Mueller."

  At the mention of her last name, his grip pulsed, like she had startled him. Grace squirmed. "Nice to meet you, Grace," he said.

  Did his smile get a little bigger?

  "What uh... What brings you to the show?"

  She had to be imagining things. Concerts always put her on edge, and her mind worked a mile a minute to convince her something was wrong. It had happened before. If Ridley weren't so busy flirting with the guitar player, she'd be telling Grace to loosen up.

  Grace nodded over to Ridley, who batted her eyelashes at a fierce rate. "I think she saw his picture online and wanted to meet him."

  Declan rolled his eyes. "She'd better be careful. Tom is Tannin Beat's resident ladykiller."

  "Tannin Beat?"

  "The band." He gestured to himself and then his bandmates. "We were drunk on wine one night in college and thought it'd be a good name. Don't you like it?"

  His gaze was a little intense, like a puppy desperate for his owner's approval. Grace just nodded. She said nothing. He didn't say anything either, making it the kind of awkward silence that would make anyone cringe.

  But not Declan.

  "I'm going to go grab a drink, but then we'll finish our set. Please stay. I think you'll like it."

  "Um, okay."

  He was gone before she finished talking. Grace couldn't help but watch him go. The man looked too big to bounce, but he bounced right over to his two comrades at the bar. He leaned his head into them and whispered something. Two more sets of eyes found her, full of curiosity.

  Grace tore her gaze away. This was not good. "Uh, Ridley?"

  "Hm?" her best friend asked, though her attention remained on Tom, the guitar player.

  "Can we go?"

  "Now?"

  "Yeah. I'm tired."

  The rest of Tannin Beat ran to Tom, knocking Grace to the side in the process. "We're on," said the one who knocked into her. Grace thought he might be the drummer.

  "But—"

  The bassist grabbed Tom's forearm and pulled him toward the stage.

  Declan stood in front of her again, out of breath. "This one's for you." He beamed a melt-worthy smile at her before dashing to the stage.

  Ridley wrapped her arm through Grace's. "This is okay, right? You gave me such a hard time about coming here, but look. We both flirted with members of the band."

  "He wasn't flirting with me," Grace said as a sense of dread washed over her.

  "Of course he was."

  Grace didn't respond. She just watched as Declan picked up his guitar and flashed her that devastating smile.

  "We're back," he said into the mic. "And I hope you'll indulge us if we play something that's not our own, but it was very inspirational to us. So we hope you enjoy it."

  Grace's stomach sank. This was bad. She knew it. "Can we go?"

  "Let's see what they're playing..."

  Ridley's words faded away as the guitars started in with those familiar chords, the ones she'd been hearing her entire life. Goosebumps prickled at her arms.

  This song.

  Grace stopped breathing.

  Declan looked at her with pride in his expression. He knew who she was. Her knees shook. Her vision blurred. She could barely see him anymore as memories flooded her mind.

  "You and me, that's all I need. My saving Grace, with you, I'm freed."

  Voices around her sang out, right in rhythm with Declan.

  Every member of Tannin Beat turned to her.

  Heat flushed through her entire body. This was why she didn't go to concerts. This was why she avoided rock stars. They always brought up this song.

  Grace turned on her heel and pushed through the crowd of people that jumped up and down and sang along.

  She had to get out of there.

  She'd left. She'd walked out during her song.

  He'd scared Grace Mueller away.

  "Thanks for coming. You guys have been awesome!"

  The applause that accompanied his goodbye was tepid. Declan thought it might be a reflection on his mood. His heart hadn't been in it after he watched Grace leave the club. The audience must have picked up on it.

  Crap.

  He gripped the bridge of his guitar so hard the strings made indentations on his fingers. As soon as he stepped backstage, a hand plopped on his shoulder.

  "Are you going to introduce us now?"

  Declan turned to see Thatcher, Tannin Beat's drummer, looking at him with a dorky smile. As dor
ky a thing as he'd ever seen from the aloof Thatcher, anyway.

  "Introduce you to who?"

  Thatcher rolled his eyes. "Grace Mueller."

  Declan's heart beat harder. "You know, she probably doesn't want anyone to gawk at her."

  "Come on. She's got to expect it. She's Jack Mueller's daughter!"

  "I know who she is."

  "He wrote 'Saving Grace' about her."

  "I get it, Thatch." Declan held up a hand. "But I'm not going to introduce you."

  "But she knows Eighteen Times Rock. We could meet them."

  Why had Declan brought that up? It was a pipe dream, being introduced to their favorite, long-broken-up band. But the second Grace Mueller had told him her name, his imagination got carried away.

  "That's not happening."

  "What's wrong?" a familiar voice asked, and Declan finally exhaled.

  Patrick—their bassist and Declan's best friend and roommate—always stayed calm and rational. He'd sort this all out. "Thatcher is pestering me about meeting Grace Mueller."

  "Well, you said you would introduce us."

  Declan cursed under his breath.

  Patrick's face fell. "What happened?"

  With all eyes on him, Declan couldn't lie. "She left. During 'Saving Grace.' I watched her walk out of the club."

  They were silent. Patrick and Thatcher's eyes bore into him. Declan shifted from foot to foot.

  "So we're not going to meet Eighteen Times Rock?"

  Thatcher's question was too much. Declan pushed by him and went into the hallway. He winced at the harsh brightness of the florescent lights. They held none of the warmth spotlights did.

  By the time Patrick and Thatcher caught up with him, they were in the middle of their own conversation. "... might not have met Eighteen Times Rock anyway," Patrick said. "Their breakup was contentious. Remember that story about Jack throwing a picture frame at Simon? Grace Mueller might not talk to any of them but her dad anymore."

  "She does," Thatcher insisted. "I read an interview with Dennis Doyle last year. He said something about having lunch with her. I guess Henry did too."

  "That doesn't mean she would have—"

  "Hey, guys?"

  The ridiculous faux-British accent could only belong to one person. Tom thought the accent sounded cool and used it all the time, even though his British parents had raised him in America and he sounded American the first time Declan met him.

  "What is it?" Declan snapped.

  When he turned, he saw Tom wasn't alone. He had an arm slung around Tray, the only scout from Declan's day job at the record company who showed any interest in Tannin Beat.

  He was here?

  "Tray? Hey. I'm glad you came."

  Declan stepped forward and clapped Tray on the arm. Was that okay? Tray wasn't smiling.

  "Thanks for telling me about this." He nodded his bald head toward the door they'd emerged from seconds earlier. Then he looked over Declan's shoulder, at the door that would lead him out of the club.

  Declan jumped into action. "Did you like the show? I feel like there might have been in dip of energy there in the middle. A guest of ours left. She, uh..." Why had Grace Mueller left? "She had a family emergency. We were worried about her. But we picked it up at the end, right? Don't you think?"

  Tray's eyebrows knit together. "Yeah, yeah. I like your music. A lot of fun." He rubbed a hand over his head. "But I should be going. I have to, uh, feed my cat."

  "Cats can take care of themselves, right?" Declan's hands were sweating. He didn't like it. "Let us buy you a drink, at least. As a thank you. We'll talk about—"

  "I'll see you on Monday," he said, so loud it reverberated off the walls. "Bye, Declan."

  Tray scuttled away, and Declan's limbs went limp.

  His band, thank goodness, had the sense to stay quiet, to wallow with him. Declan had spent years making copies and getting coffee at this record label, hoping someone would sign him and give Tannin Beat their first record deal.

  It was a stupid dream.

  "What was that?" Tom asked, breaking the silence and sending goosebumps up Declan's spine.

  Without looking at any of his friends, Declan slumped toward the room where they kept their stuff during the show. "That was our last shot."

  2

  The phone rattled on her desk, sending Grace flying off her chair. Someone laughed from somewhere behind her, but she ignored them, clamoring to her feet to check the phone's screen.

  Her stomach clenched. She would not be answering this one.

  "I'm sorry," Ridley said for the millionth time that morning. Grace hadn't heard her approach. Otherwise she'd have found a reason to leave. "I didn't know they'd play your dad's song."

  "It's fine," Grace muttered through gritted teeth. She ignored the scorching pain at the back of her throat and stared down at her desk.

  Her eyes landed on the picture of her and Ridley when they were gawky thirteen-year-olds, covered in paint and grinning. Behind the smiles, Grace recognized in her expression the deep shadows she associated with grief. She tore her gaze away.

  "It's not fine." Ridley shoved her way onto the desk, sitting directly in front of Grace so she couldn't see the picture, but she could see Ridley's green eyes. "I really wanted to flirt with the guitar player—"

  "You're kidding," Grace deadpanned.

  "And I wasn't thinking that musicians would be total nerds about your dad."

  As if on cue, Grace's phone buzzed again. This time, Ridley looked at the screen, groaned, and ignored the call.

  "I know you don't like being reminded of it. I should have figured out rock stars would bring him up. I'm sorry."

  The hardness Grace built up in her started melting away. "I don't think they're really rock stars."

  Ridley licked her lips. "They should be." Grace reached forward and swatted her knee, making Ridley laugh. "So are we friends again?"

  Grace rolled her eyes. "We never were not friends. But yeah. We're fine. I can't stay mad at you long."

  "Good." Ridley hopped off the desk. "Because I need someone to help me tease Andy at the meeting."

  "Meeting?"

  "Jean called a staff meeting." Ridley glanced at her watch. "Now."

  "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

  "You were too busy sulking. Come on."

  "I'll be right there." Grace leaned toward her computer to save her open document while Ridley drifted away.

  When her task was complete, she stood, ready to leave the office bullpen to go to the staff room. Her phone went off again, the fourth time in ten minutes. Grace took a step away from the desk. She should leave it there. She shouldn't look at it.

  But she still reached for it. She hated how the name on the screen plucked at her heartstrings.

  Holding her breath, she silenced the call, though the name "Dad" still shone brightly on her phone.

  Declan drummed his fingers against his knee while the other knee bounced along to the rhythm.

  For the past twenty-four hours, he'd been wracking his brain, trying to figure out a way for Tannin Beat to make it big. His connections at work didn't help, so they needed something flashy, to make them stand out from the thousands of other bands trying to make a name for themselves.

  And now his brain felt numb.

  Patrick dropped a bowl of Easy Mac onto the coffee table in front of him. "When was the last time you ate?"

  "I'm trying to come up with a plan." Declan shrugged and reached for the bowl. "We need to get to the next step."

  "We're not in a bad place," Patrick said, plopping onto the couch beside him with his own bowl filled with orange-colored pasta. "We get a decent number of gigs."

  "Yeah. But aren't you ready for something more?"

  "I am." Tom leaned against the doorframe of the room he shared with Patrick. He slouched in nonchalant elegance and grinned. It was times like these that reminded Declan how much younger Tom was than the rest of them. "Might be nice to be rich and famous." He sl
unk out of the room. "Where's my mac and cheese?"

  "Make some yourself," Patrick grumbled.

  "You made some for Declan."

  "I like Declan better than I like you."

  Tom pointed a finger at Patrick. "I'm telling Mum."

  "And I'm telling her you've decided to become British."

  They continued bickering, but Declan tuned them out, a necessary skill when living in a small New York apartment with two brothers. He picked up the TV remote instead and loaded the YouTube app.

  Whenever Declan was tired or stressed, he found his way to concert videos. He watched his favorite bands, listened to their music, and let it wash over him. It was inspirational. After that, he was ready to get up and fight the world. The last time his brother told him his music career was pointless, Declan spent a couple hours watching Queen's part of the Live Aid concert on repeat before calling his brother back and telling him to mind his own business.

  Today he loaded up his playlist of Eighteen Times Rock's concert videos. If anyone would help him figure out what to do, it was his favorite band.

  Declan knew everything about Eighteen Times Rock. As a kid, he'd studied up on each of the members and how they came to play their instruments. He knew the story behind their name: the band name they'd chosen as teenagers was already taken. When Dennis—their youngest member—turned eighteen, he told them they should get the name they wanted. Now that they were all eighteen, he said, they'd been rocking eighteen times longer than most other people. The name developed from there.

  "You need to call Mom once in a while." The volume of Patrick's voice rose. Declan tuned back into the Wyatt brothers' argument again.

  "I'll call her later," he mumbled. "It's not like I'm Thatcher, disappearing every night like Cinderella."