Especially since Killian’s voice is closer to Chris Cornell’s. “Remember that phase when we tried to sing like Kurt?” He glances at Killian. Jax’s smile is barely a curl of his lips. “No pretension about only doing their own songs. “If they loved a song, they’d play it,” Killian says. “Didn’t even realize Nirvana was doing a cover until years later.”

“‘Love Buzz’ was the first song I learned to play on bass,” Rye says suddenly. His cold fingers lay still for a moment, then slowly, he squeezes back. Not looking up, I give his hand a squeeze, try to tell him I’m here, that I’m his friend if he’ll have me. He hasn’t been rude or shunned me, but he’s definitely retreated further into his shell. We haven’t spoken much since he found out about my relationship with Killian. He stiffens at the contact, sucking in a swift breath. I have no idea what Jax is thinking, but I can’t stop myself from taking his hand in mine. Unfortunately Cobain, unlike Jax, succeeded in ending his life. There are similarities between them-both left handed guitar players, both shot to fame with dizzying speed, and both unable to handle it. He appears haunted and faintly green around the mouth. But it’s Jax’s expression that catches my attention. I’m fairly certain Killian finds the place equally sad. Killian’s arm wraps around my shoulders, tucking me close, with Jax on my other side, huddled up as we all are. A homeless man shuffles by, headed for the bridge by the river as we stand in silence around a stone guitar memorial marker.

Cobain’s ashes were scattered, so this is the closest thing the guys can get to a grave site, and they want to pay their respects.Ī soft mist falls when we finally find the park.

The guys chuckle, but are equally engrossed with their own drinks.Ī couple of scones and a second round-this time in to-go cups because, damn, that’s good coffee-and we head out to Aberdeen and Kurt Cobain Memorial Park. I don’t feel even a little embarrassed when I moan. It’s rich, creamy, dark, and damn delicious.

But I do, because the roasted-coffee scent is making my mouth water. It’s kind of nice.įirst stop is Caffe Ladro, where I’m served a latte so pretty with its little stacked hearts on the foam that I almost don’t want to sip it. No crew, no managers, assistants, or journalists. He’s driving, and for once, it’s just the five of us. Once we check into our hotel, the guys and I pile into a van Whip rented.

Idol by Kristen Callihan