Dirty Letters

“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.

I read her letter twice more and then grabbed one of the half dozen notepads I kept lying around the house for when lyrics or music came to me.

Dear Luca,

Three things I’m afraid of? How am I supposed to answer that and still sound like a tough guy? I sure as shit can’t tell you I’m afraid of the dark, or spiders, or heights. That would ruin my street cred. So I’m going to have to go with some real scary shit. Like failure.

If you want to know the truth, which I’m pretty sure you do, I’m afraid of failing. Letting others down, letting myself down, letting the . . .

I was just about to say letting the fans down. But Griffin didn’t have any fans. I didn’t want to start lying to Luca, so I’d just have to be careful how I phrased things.

. . . letting the life I’ve built out here in California fall apart.

What else am I afraid of? Death. Fearing something that is inescapable might not be the most productive use of time. Maybe it isn’t even death that I fear but more the fear of the unknown. Do we really go to heaven? I think anyone who has a healthy fear of death must be skeptical of that answer—because if I was certain that I’d go to a place where there’s no pain and no sickness and everyone gets cool wings and meets up with their old chums, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t fear death.

The last fear was a new one, one that I debated back and forth about sharing before eventually deciding to be honest. I mean, she’d shared some damn scary shit with me. It was the least I could do.

The last one is a relatively new fear, but that doesn’t make it any less real. I’m afraid I’ll fuck something up and scare you away again. So let’s make a pact, okay? If I screw up, you’ll let me know and not just stop answering my letters.

I think at this point, we’ve exchanged enough heavy stuff to hold us for a while. So let’s move on to the lighter portion of Luca and Griffin, Part Deux. I’ve got eight years’ worth of unanswered questions:

1. Did you finally have sex? If so, you owe me your first-time story, since I shared mine and you promised to share yours. (Is it fucked up that I sort of wish you haven’t had sex yet?)
2. How do you feel about bacon? I mean, you mentioned you have a pet pig, so I’m wondering if this means you don’t eat bacon. Or maybe you’re a vegetarian like half the people out here in healthy California.
3. If you were going to sing karaoke, what song would you choose and why?

Later, gator,

Griff

P.S. While the thought of you showing me yours is extremely enticing, I’d like to hold off on exchanging photos for a while. Let’s keep the mystery going.

P.P.S. Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia—fear of long words—sixty-five points. Makes your little nineteen-point agoraphobia seem like child’s play now, doesn’t it? Get a real fear, Ryan.

P.P.P.S. Do you have genophobia? I definitely don’t.