Strike a Chord

by Salsbury, JB

  “You’ve always been there, Dad. When no one else was, it was always you.” And you were right, I confess in my head. You were right about everything.

  After the apologies and the tears, my dad takes a seat next to my bed. For a long time, no words are exchanged. The comfort of his presence is enough.

  Eventually, he clears his throat. “Heard what Ethan did.”

  I hold back a fresh wave of tears.

  He runs a hand through his overgrown hair. “Guess I pegged the man wrong.”

  No, Dad. You didn’t.

  “Saw him in the waiting room and—”

  “In the waiting room?” He stayed all night?

  My dad nods solemnly. “He was sleeping sitting up. I didn’t want to disturb him. Think I owe him my gratitude and an apology.”

  Conflict rages inside. The violent beating he gave Taylor Oakley right in front of my eyes, his blood-spattered face marked with tears… for me. The loving way he covered me with his jacket—and yet he’s lying about his past.

  “Never did tell you what happened between me and that fucker Oakley.”

  My dad’s words call me from my thoughts. “You told me enough.” About my mom and how I came to be while he was working for the man.

  He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. If I had, you would’ve known that prick Oakley was dangerous.” His eyes turn sad. “Why do you think I quit working for him and started catching cases instead? Shortly before you were born, he asked me to guard a door for him. When I heard the struggle going on behind it, I burst in and tossed that wormy fuck across the room. I told the cops exactly what happened and told them I suspected it had happened before. I quit, and Taylor made sure I wouldn’t get another security job, twisting shit around by saying I was the fucking rapist.” His teeth grind together. “Lawyers and PR people made what he did disappear. And they’ll do it again after what he did to you unless, by the grace of the Almighty, Ethan’s beating sends that sick fuck straight to hell.”

  I blink, tears spilling down my cheeks. “That’s why you call me Tom. You can’t stand me having the same name as a rapist.”

  “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling on the strands. “Your mother, I tried to tell her, but she’s convinced, like the rest of the world, that he pisses sunshine and shits rainbows. No way I could look at my tiny baby girl and call her by his name. Not after all I’d seen.”

  “I didn’t know.” I try to cover my mouth against a sob, but it escapes through my fingers.

  My dad holds me close. “Shhh, it’s all right. It’ll be all right. I’m here, honey. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I love you, Daddy. I’m so sorry.” My shoulders shake with soul-deep heartbreak. For me. For my dad. For the poor woman my dad saved that night and the God-knows-how-many who no one showed up in time for.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me?”

  “Yes.” I hate my tears, hate the weakness. But for the first time since last night, I feel truly safe in my dad’s arms.

  Ethan

  The sound of my name rouses me from a restless sleep. “Ethan, wake up.”

  I open my eyes to see a bear of a man staring at me. My joints ache as I right my head on my neck and sit up straighter in the chair I fell asleep in. “Prophet, hey.”

  “We need to talk.” His arms are crossed and I wonder what kind of an ass-chewing I’m about to receive. The stay-away-from-my-daughter kind, the you’re-no-good-for-Taylor kind, or the if-I-see-your-face-again-I’ll-put-you-in-a-full-body-cast kind.

  “Yeah, okay.” I eye the door that leads to the room my girl is in, lying in a hospital bed, her body broken, and she still refuses to see me.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he says in a deep, demanding voice.

  “I’d rather stay close, just in case—”

  “Walk with me, son.” He moves away. “I need a cup of coffee and a shot of whiskey.”

  I groan when I stand, my muscles protesting last night’s sleeping arrangement. “How is she?” I follow him into the elevator.

  He hits the button so hard I hear it crack. “Tommy’s strong. She’ll be okay… eventually.”

  “She doesn’t want to see me.” I plead with my eyes, hoping he can help me to get in so I can hold her and be strong for her. Nothing feels right when we’re not together.

  “I know,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “She needs time.”

  “How much time?”

  The elevator pings and he walks out.

  I scurry up beside him. “How much time?”

  “You’re going to have to be patient.”

  My feet freeze on the hospital linoleum. “I’m getting real fucking sick of people telling me that. I love her.”

  Now his feet freeze, but he doesn’t turn around to look at me.

  “I’m so fucking in love—” My voice cracks with emotion. “I’m so in love with her. I need to see her, Prophet. I can’t fucking breathe, man.” Tears fill my eyes and I don’t wipe them away. She deserves them, all of them, and so much more.

  “Call me Elijah.” He starts walking again.

  I don’t say another word but follow him to the café, where we order two black coffees. I pull out my wallet, but he holds up his hand.

  “I got it.” He gives the cashier some cash. “The least I can do.”

  We take a seat at the window overlooking a parking lot. The sun is high in the sky—I’d say it’s nearly noon. Not that it matters. Nothing matters except getting Taylor home.

  “I want to thank you for what you did for my daughter—”

  “Thank me? I was too late! That piece of shit—”

  He holds up his hand, silencing me. “I can’t talk about him, knowing he’s so close to death in this fucking building. One flip of a switch could end him and—”

  “What the hell are we doing here sipping coffee like pansy bitches? Let’s end this.”

  “Ethan.”

  “He deserves to die—”

  “Son…”

  My jaw slams shut. Son.

  “Murder isn’t the answer. It’s not what Tom—” Prophet clears his throat. “Taylor would want.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.”

  “Will she ever want to see me again?” My words are barely audible.

  “I don’t know. She’s seen the ugly side of the business. I’m not sure she’ll want anything to do with it after this.”

  “I’m not the business.” I drop my head into my hands and watch as my tears hit the crappy tabletop. Will I ever be seen as just a man? Or will the music industry forever be the ball and chain I drag with me? My chest feels as if it’s being ripped in half. I fist my hand in my hair, pull at the strands, and cry. I can’t do this. I stand so fast, my chair falls back. “I have to go.”

  “Ethan, wait!” Elijah calls, but it’s too late.

  I jog out of the café, through the hospital, and onto the street. Rather than call for a car, I run. As far as I can in hopes that if I move fast enough, I can keep from falling apart.

  Chapter Thirty

  Taylor

  “I think I should go in with you,” my dad says with his eyes forward and his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel of his pickup truck.

  I look away from him and study Ethan’s house, looking for signs of life.

  Four days have passed since I was attacked in the bathroom, and although I haven’t seen or spoken to Ethan since, it isn’t for his lack of trying. After twenty-four hours of non-stop calls, I turned off my phone. Yesterday, Jesse called my dad, asking if I’d heard from Ethan. Jesse’s worried. Ethan’s locked himself inside his house, not responding to anyone.

  Ethan saved me from my attacker. I have to try to save him from himself. I owe him that much.

  “No, I’ll go alone. If he sees you, he might not answer the door.”

  “I don’t like this, Tom.”

  I grab my dad’s forearm, giving it a squeeze. “I know, but Ethan
would never hurt me.”

  He grunts in agreement. His irrational overprotection has been in full swing since the attack. The nightmares that wake me up screaming don’t help my dad’s paranoia.

  “I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up.” I pop the door open and scoot to the edge of the seat, hoisting myself out with the help of a single crutch. The hairline fracture in my ankle hurts like a bitch when I put too much weight on it.

  “I won’t be more than a few minutes away if you need me,” my dad says once I get situated on the driveway.

  I limp toward Ethan’s front door, but I stop and turn when I don’t hear my dad’s truck leave. He gives me a final wave and pulls away from the house.

  My stomach is in knots as I get to the heavy hand-carved wooden door and lean my weight on my crutch, knocking a few times. Will he answer?

  “Ethan?” Nothing. I knock again. “Ethan, it’s me. Taylor!” I knock a third time and press my ear to the door. “Ethan, please open up.”

  I close my eyes and press my palm to the door. Seconds pass, then minutes, and when I don’t hear anything, I decide to walk around to the patio and try to see inside. I struggle to get through the side gate and around to the pool. When I do, I nearly fall back on my ass at what I see.

  At first glance, it looks like the morning after a raging party. The area is littered with garbage and the outdoor furniture has been flipped over, most of it sunken in the depths of the pool. As I get closer, I realize it’s not garbage but shreds of stuffing from the luxurious cushions. A break-in? A struggle? My pulse races and I break out into a cold sweat.

  I fumble with my phone to call my dad or 9-1-1 when I hear the back door swing open so hard, it slams against the wall. I shriek, drop my phone, and fall to the side when my crutch slips away from me.

  “Taylor!” Ethan comes rushing toward me.

  In an attempt to grab my crutch, I put weight on my bad ankle and pain slices up my leg. “Fuck.”

  He grabs me around the middle and steadies me. “Jesus, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, you just… scared me.” I laugh uncomfortably because he shouldn’t have scared me and I’m embarrassed that he did. “I’m a little jumpy.”

  His arms don’t feel like the suffocating tentacles I expected they would. They’re warm, comforting, and steady.

  He hooks my crutch with his bare foot and manages to lift it to his hand. “Here.”

  My face warms and I’m grateful for my baseball hat to hide beneath as I settle it under my arm again. “What happened out here? It looks like a break-in.”

  He puts a few feet of space between us, runs a hand through his hair that looks as if it hasn’t been washed in days, and studies the surrounding area. “I, uh, I did that.”

  I jerk my gaze to his, now noticing he’s wearing a faded pair of jeans with frayed hems around his bare feet and a shirt with stains on the front. The ocean breeze carries the scent of days-old alcohol from his skin, and he has at least four days’ of beard growth. “Why?”

  He studies his surroundings as if seeing things for the first time but doesn’t answer.

  “Can we sit down?” My ankle is killing me and resting on the crutch hurts my shoulder.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I should’ve…” He helps guide me through the mess of furniture to the back door.

  I step inside and freeze. “Ethan.” I cover my mouth as my emotions bubble up from my chest.

  His beautiful home is trashed. All the furniture is broken, flipped on its back, cushions shredded, holes in the drywall, paintings torn in two.

  “Don’t look at this.” He guides me down the hallway, past his music room that is less trashed but still has a chair flipped over and what looks like music pages scattered on the floor. “Here.”

  He opens his bedroom door. It looks the same as it did when I was here last. The bed’s even made.

  “Sit.” He helps me to the bed, and I prop my crutch up beside me while he stands a good six feet away, his thumbnail in his mouth.

  “Where have you been sleeping?” Other than the made bed, I don’t know how I know he hasn’t spent any time in his bedroom—other than a feeling in my gut.

  He scratches his jaw and shrugs his shoulders. “Wherever I pass out.”

  “How long have you been living like this?”

  He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it, clears his throat, and tries again. “Since…” His voice cracks.

  I nod in understanding as tears swell in my eyes. “I am so sorry, Ethan.”

  His gaze snaps to mine, and he drops to his knees at my feet. “Sorry? No.” He holds my calves in a gentle grip, as if he’s afraid too much pressure might break me. “You have nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me?” His bloodshot eyes implore mine, and this close, I can see the dark circles under his eyes. “You did nothing wrong.”

  “Your beautiful house—”

  “Means nothing. They’re just things, they can be replaced. But you…” His eyes drop to the open vee of my flannel button-up shirt. “Your neck.” His voice cracks. “I should’ve been there.”

  I snag the collar of his T-shirt and pull him closer. He comes willingly, buries his face in my lap, and wraps his arms around my waist. We hold each other, broken heart to broken heart, me folded over him as he grasps me as if his survival depends on it. In the silence are wordless confessions as we share in a mutual sorrow for what was done and how everything has changed. How do we fix what’s been broken? Is it even possible?

  Eventually Ethan peers up at me. “God, I’ve missed holding you like this.”

  I wipe my cheeks with my shirtsleeves, knowing I must look like a splotchy mess.

  He jumps up and comes out of the bathroom with a handful of Kleenex. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” I chuckle, embarrassed by my tears and wanting to redirect his focus from me to him. “I tried to call you.”

  He clears his throat and sniffs. “I threw my phone off the cliff.” He shrugs. “You weren’t taking my calls or texting me back and…” He reclaims the spot next to me on the bed, drops his chin, and shakes his head. “It was stupid. I haven’t been thinking clearly.”

  I place my hand on his thigh, and he sucks in a shaky breath at the contact. “I understand.”

  He puts his hand over mine and tilts his head to get my eyes. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened that night—”

  I’m already shaking my head. “No.”

  He frowns, looking rejected. “Oh. Okay.”

  “There is something I’d like to talk to you about though.”

  Hope ignites in his eyes. “Yeah, of course, anything.”

  “Who is Danielle to you?” It didn’t take much digging online to get bits and pieces of the story. I just need to know if what I read is true.

  Judging by the way his face pales, I’m afraid I have my answer. I expect him to jump into a frantic denial, to lie and fight to cover the truth.

  His Adam’s apple bobs. “She’s a fan. A groupie I hooked up with.”

  “Had sex with.”

  “Yes.”

  I’m surprised by the wave of sadness and jealousy that comes over me, and I stare at my lap, hoping he can’t see.

  “She was before you, Taylor. You know the man I was before you.”

  I clear my throat, hoping not to sound as sad as I feel. “You have a child.”

  “What? No!” He stands to his full height. “Taylor, that kid isn’t mine. Do you believe—you think I’d reject my own child?”

  I peer up at him and see his face etched in pain. “I think celebrities cover their mistakes.”

  “Celebrities?” He tilts his head. “Is that what I am to you?”

  I bury my head in my hands. “I don’t know what I think. Since that night in the bathroom, I feel like I can’t trust anyone, especially not my own judgment.”

  He kneels in front of me but doesn’t touch me. “I have never lied to you. I know there are a lot of shitty human beings in
the music industry, okay? But I promise you, I am not one of them.”

  “I want to believe you.”

  “Danielle is a very sick woman. I had sex with her almost two years ago, and she’s claiming to be pregnant with my baby now. I gave a blood sample to prove I have nothing to hide. Now she’s claiming I raped her.”

  I flinch.

  “You know me, Taylor. Women have claimed to have my baby—that comes with the job. It’s happened to everyone in the band, even Ben, who has never touched anyone but his wife. Don’t listen to what you hear. Search your heart and tell me—do you think I’m capable of rape? Of abandoning my own kid?”

  I do what he asks and the answer comes immediately. “Of course not.”

  “There are corrupt, sick people on both sides of the industry, but I promise you, I am not one of them.”

  “I guess when Hailey told me—”

  “Hailey?” He laughs, but the sound is short, quick, and sad. “Is that your source? This makes so much sense now.” He places a gentle hand on my knee and frowns when my reflex makes me jump. “Hailey was trying to protect you. I can appreciate that. But you do not need protection from me. I am in love with you and I would give up everything to keep you from feeling pain. I would never lie to you.”

  I exhale a sigh of relief. How quickly I doubted Ethan—even after everything he’s done to protect me from Paul, Oakley. He took care of me when I was drunk, never took advantage of me, yet when I had the chance to doubt his love for me, I did.

  “Are we okay?” he whispers.

  “I want us to be.”

  “As long as it takes.” He gives me a small, sad smile. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.” When I don’t say anything, he sits next to me on the bed. “I bet you're looking forward to getting out of here and back on the road, huh?”

  I blow out a breath. “About that. I won’t be finishing out the tour with you guys. Doctor's orders.”

  He frowns.

  “I think…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’ll be good for me to have the time to figure things out.”

  “What things?” Worry tinges his words.

  “I’ve grown up in this business and never even considered that I could do anything else.” I blow out a fortifying breath. “But now… I want out, ya know?”