Reckless Hearts (Reckless - The Smoky Mountain Trio Book 3)

by Sierra Hill

  I shoved my dad out of the way, grabbing the guitar neck and swinging it out of his grasp. That’s when he tackled me headfirst in my stomach, like a line-backer on the football field. He charged me, sending me reeling back on my ass, the guitar flying from my hands and dropping to the floor with a harmonic thud.

  I scrambled to get up and gain my footing, but he threw a few quick punches, hitting me in the kidney and jaw. It had been a while since he’d beat me up, mostly because I’d grown taller and stronger than him over the previous year. He was a chickenshit and coward and knew he was outweighed by his opponent.

  But whatever he was on that night – a cocktail of booze and drugs – made him feel invisible and powerful, so he’d gotten the surprise attack on me and all I could do was defend myself by holding my hands up to cover my face.

  That didn’t stop me from kicking, though. I shot my foot out into his groin and he fell backwards, giving me just enough time to jump to my feet. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and leave him to pass out and sober up.

  I turned toward the door and was almost across the threshold with guitar in hand when something hard and solid connected to my side. The sounds of shattering bone stunned us both, as my hand dropped the instrument and clutched at my ribs. I stared at him with shocked, wide eyes. Dangling in his hand at his side was the baseball bat, his own blood-shot eyes blinking in confusion over what he’d done. Neither of us could believe he just pummeled me with the bat. That was a new low for him.

  “I think you broke my ribs, you fucking asshole,” I shouted loudly, gritting through clenched teeth as I doubled over, my bent arm wrapped around the pain, knowing I’d need to go to the hospital. “Get the fuck out of my room, now!”

  For a second, I thought he’d comply. The bat hung limply from his hand, ready to drop to the floor in defeat. But just as fast, the fury and hatred that simmered inside him always boiled over and his eyes grew dark as Brazilian coffee. They became dark with rage, as he fixed his sights on me, lifting the bat to take aim.

  My bent arm instinctively covered my face as he swung, connecting with my arm. I heard the bones splintering underneath the weight of the wood.

  Somehow summoning enough strength, I moved out of the way and dodged the next blow. Gaining my balance, I charged hard and barreled into my dad’s body.

  His head whipped backwards, his eyes bulging out in drunk surprise that I’d fight back. The fucker didn’t know me at all if he didn’t think I’d stand my ground. He staggered back, falling over and hitting the base of his head on the corner of the nightstand.

  Blood leaked out from behind him, dripping down the cheap Ikea particle board and onto the carpeted floor. Confusion grabbed hold as I landed on my knees, sagging against the pain, dizziness clouding my brain.

  He stared at me, his cruel, black eyes still bugged out, unblinking and unmoving. It was a snapshot in time capturing him with parted lips, as if he had one final thing to say before he just…died.

  I bent at the waist, wincing from the pain, to get a closer look. I nudged him with the heel of my trembling, bruised hand.

  “Hey…you okay?” My voice shook weakly.

  His body didn’t move. It remained slumped over to the side, caught on the edge of the nightstand, the dark-red blood staining his grimy T-shirt.

  “Dad?”

  Nothing.

  With reserved strength and resolve that I didn’t know I had in me, I calmly did the only thing I could think to do in that situation. I dialed 911 and waited.

  Knowing nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter 3

  Present

  The bus rambles along the interstate as we head out from our third show of the tour. Tonight, it was Albany, New York and tomorrow night we’ll be in Hartford Connecticut, making our way down the eastern seaboard toward Florida and then eventually Texas.

  My band and I just recorded a new album and this 15-city tour is just a warm-up until the album releases, as we test the waters in front of an audience. Performing in front of an audience is the only time I really lose myself and put my past behind me. I put everything else out of my mind, leaving those emotions to slowly unravel across the stage like a giant ball of string as I work through the set song by song.

  Plucking at some fruit and cheese that’s been left out on a tray by our chef – no more Cheetos and pizza for us – I eat a handful of grapes. London took care of that when she appealed to the band manager, Aimee, requesting healthier food options for me while on tour. I swallow down the fruit and take a swig of my beer.

  It’s been a long night, and my body is exhausted as I toe-off my cowboy boots, swinging my legs up on the bench and close my eyes for a brief second. I’m so tired.

  Someone plunks down at my feet and I lift a drowsy eyelid. It’s Aimee, with what looks like a shit-ton of paperwork she needs me to review. So much for getting some rest tonight.

  “Go away, Aim. I’m tired and need a quick nap and then some peace and quiet to work on a few songs.”

  She drops the folder on her lap and swats at the bottom of my feet with an evil twinkle in her eye. Aimee’s been the band’s manager from the beginning, originally meeting me first after I finished a three-song set at the Blue Bird Café. She walked up to me, all female confidence and sway, handed me her card, winked and said,

  “I don’t want anything from you except your talent. And maybe your soul.”

  That was five years ago, and she hasn’t stopped since. She helped me find a recording studio and my Crenshaw bandmates that I have today. She’s the brains, beauty, and brawn of our operation.

  Aimee opens the folder and thumbs through a few sheets of paper before landing on what she’s looking for.

  “No rest for the wicked,” she snorts, sticking out her tongue at me. “You’ve got to look over these contracts and the licensing agreements for Stuart.”

  Stuart’s my agent and has done an amazing job getting my unrecorded songs out in the hands of the bigger stars like Chris Stapleton and Eric Church. I’ve always maintained that I’m a singer-songwriter first and foremost, and the lead singer of Crenshaw second. While I love the audience energy and high I get when I’m on stage, I’d much rather be behind the scenes writing hits for other singers.

  I guess old habits die hard. It was what I’d become accustomed to while in the slammer day after day for three years. The words and music pouring out of me, even without the instruments needed to perfect a song. It was the only bit of happiness I’d had since before prom night; when I could write down my feelings and experiences on paper.

  “Fine, let me see them,” I grumble, bending at the waist to grab the pile from her. Aimee generally doesn’t ride with us on tour and certainly doesn’t stay on the bus with the boys, but she’d mentioned going as far as our New York gig for a meeting she had lined up with a new producer.

  “Is Emily meeting you in New York when we get there?”

  At the mention of her girlfriend’s name, Aimee’s face lights up and she blushes, smiling sweetly. The smile only those in love can understand. It’s the same smile I wore a week ago surrounded by London and Cam.

  I sign them wistfully and return the document to her awaiting hand.

  “Yeah, we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary this weekend. Can you believe it? So much has happened in the last few years.”

  “You can say that again.” I lean back against the couch cushion just about to close my eyes again for some rest when my phone vibrates on the table.

  “Will you grab that for me?”

  Aimee leans across the table and checks the caller-ID before handing me the phone.

  “It’s London.”

  Aimee obviously knows all about London and understands the heartbreak I’ve been through with her over the years. Aimee and I spent many nights talking through our situations, commiserating with our own similar experiences.

  Before she met Emily, Aimee was married to an NBA basketball player who broke
her heart with his cheating. But after the divorce finalized, she met Em and it changed the course of her life forever.

  I nearly skyrocket off the couch, ripping the phone out of Aimee’s hand, her mouth left agape in surprise, as I rush back to the one bedroom on the bus. I close the door behind me and exhale a whoosh of air that I’ve been holding in for days.

  When I left three days ago, I messaged London and hadn’t heard a thing back yet except a few brief texts. As a public social worker, she keeps herself very busy with more case files than she can handle. But that’s because she gives her heart and soul to those kids she works with, trying to get them out of abusive situations and into foster care. Her level of empathy for those in foster homes is unparalleled. The depths of her unconditional love vast and unending.

  My voice sounds winded as I answer. “Hey, darlin’. I’ve missed you.”

  There’s a pause on the line so big and vast that I can feel it swallowing me whole.

  “London? What’s the matter, baby? Are you okay?”

  She sniffles and hiccups, a sure sign she’s been crying.

  “Sage…it’s Cam.”

  My heart stops. My breath is strangled like it’s been lassoed and squeezed tight, the grip sucking out the remaining air in my lungs.

  “What about him? What’s going on?”

  Every single possible worst scenario runs through my head. A week ago, Cam was summoned to the Smoky Mountain National Forest where a forest fire raged and had to be contained. It’s Cam’s job now and one I know he is exceptionally good at. But even strong and experienced firefighters still face bad situations.

  Cam told us how he became a smokejumper after he was de-commissioned from the Air Force. How in three years he’s been promoted to a crew leader and is responsible for six other men.

  He knows the risks and consequences and would never do anything to jeopardize his life because of his son, Taylor.

  No one can ever prepare you for bad news. Even when you’re someone like me, who’s been the recipient of some pretty rotten shit thrown my way. Like hearing from the judge that you’re remanded to a sentence of three-years for reckless homicide.

  Or being told by a prison guard that you’re being thrown in the hole for a week. It should be easy for me to deal with this because I’m used to it.

  But hearing London’s words across the line has me stunned silent.

  Her voice is so soft I can barely understand what she says. I strain to hear it over the raucous laughter and chatter on the bus. But then wish I never did.

  “Cam’s been medivacked to the Nashville Trauma Center with second-degree, possibly third-degree burns and life-threatening injuries. Doreen just called me and I’m meeting her there as soon as I get dressed. Sage…” She can’t finish the sentence through her anguish and tears.

  Oh my God.

  No. This can’t be happening. Not after things just resolved between all of us. Cam can’t leave us like this.

  Shaking off all the negative thoughts that run through my head – like, is he going to die? What will happen to us? Or to Taylor? – I clear my throat and with more confidence than I actually have, respond to her.

  “London, please don’t worry, babe. Everything will be fine. I will make sure of that,” I promise, knowing I have no way to ensure this or protect any of us from this tragedy. But until I know the extent of the problem, I need to keep London calm and protect her from this pain.

  “Listen to me, darlin’. You just sit tight, and I’ll find the nearest airport and come home tonight. Just give me some time to make the arrangements. I’ll be there soon, baby. I’ll be there for you and for Cam. Because he’s not fucking leaving us. You hear me?”

  The increased volume of my voice and my loud tone must have alerted Aimee of my tension, as I find her in the doorway when I lift my eyes. Concern etches at her features and I just shake my head and stab my index finger in the air to ask for a minute. She nods and steps out of the room, leaving me once again standing here in utter disbelief.

  “Okay,” London quavers, sounding like she did when she was a little girl. “Please hurry. I need you.”

  It’s those words that do me in and I fall to my knees, my head hitting the floor. I’ve lost my way more times than I can count, and I’ve always relied on London to pull me back up. But now that the roles are reversed, and London needs me to soothe her worries, I know it’s what I was made to do. If Cam can’t be there to protect her this time, then it’s up to me.

  And right now, it looks like I need to find a way to help them both.

  Chapter 4

  Past

  As an inmate at the state pen, there were few things you can actually look forward to on the regular. For me, one of those activities was getting out in the yard and breathing fresh air.

  As a man who grew up on the outskirts of the Smoky Mountains, the outdoors was something I craved. I needed the sunlight and the humidity in the summertime. The mist in the spring and even the first bite of winter cold to make me feel alive.

  I also enjoyed my rotational visits to the library and music therapy sessions. I’d check out books on writing music and recording to learn everything I could about the industry. I was also extremely lucky to meet Drew Vanguard, a local music teacher who came in once a week to provide group therapy to inmates through the study of music.

  Over that first year, Drew became my mentor and friend. He taught me how to play the piano with the small electric unit he’d bring with him and fine-tuned my guitar technique. He even taught me how to pick the banjo. Music took me out of those four-walls and kept me sane.

  But the most prized days were visiting days. Every other Thursday and Saturday.

  London continually showed up during those first few months. During the lowest parts of my life. I was not fit for company and was bitter as fuck with her, but she never gave up on me. Until I betrayed her.

  “Hendricks, you’ve got a visitor. Hurry your ass up before someone else grabs her.”

  The guard rapped on my cell with a clipboard, the intent in his voice meant to rile me up with jealousy.

  I’d been sitting at the small desk in the corner writing some lyrics down for a song I’d been working on. Somedays that was the only way I could come to grips with what had happened in my life. The only method of letting my feelings out to prevent me from going crazy or getting in a fight.

  I pushed back the rickety stool and moved to the front of the cell. Unless you were in for aggravated or first-degree murder, we weren’t handcuffed when we went into the visitor rooms. It really didn’t matter much, since we were enclosed in a room with posted guards and there was a plexiglass, shatter-proof window between inmates and visitors.

  As I stepped out of the cell into the cell block, the guard – Cosworth – made a display of sniffing in the air as I walked in front of him.

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm. Smells like fine, fresh pussy out there with that visitor of yours, Hendricks. I think she might need herself some big black cock to fill her juicy sweet cunt.”

  My back stiffened, and I seethed through clenched teeth, as I glanced over my shoulder to see Cosworth lewdly grabbing at his crotch. This was how it always went in here. Whether guards or prisoners, nothing was sacred, and everyone was trying to find a way to catch you off-guard to get under your skin. To expose a weakness and molest and compromise your sanity. Tear you down and then tear you apart.

  I hummed the tune I’d been working on, repeating inside my head my mantra. “It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it.”

  Shuffling toward the locked door to the visitor room, I pushed back all the murderous thoughts I had about Cosworth and some of the nasty comments he’d made about London and steeled my emotions as I stepped in through the door, unlocked by another guard.

  What’s ironic about being locked away in prison is that not only am I locked up, but I learned fast to keep all my feelings and emotions hidden from everyone.

  Especially London.

  But
it had gotten so fucking hard to keep doing that. Every time I saw her, I cracked a little more inside. The brick wall I’d erected chipped away piece by piece by her loving presence. It wasn’t just her appearance – all beauty and light – that did me in. It was the way she had about getting me to open up and share what was going on.

  Writing about it was one thing – but sharing these atrocities of prison life with an innocent like London was unconscionable.

  I had to put a stop to it. To end it once and for all so that London could move on with her life and quit torturing both of us.

  The thought of doing it slayed me, but knew it was the only way.

  I sat down, careful to avoid her eyes and picked up the phone on the cubby wall.

  Just the sound of her voice – sweet and wispy – nearly broke my resolve.

  “Hi, Sage. I’ve missed you so much.”

  When I finally looked up at her, I saw my life in the graceful features of her face and the love shining in her clear blue eyes. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was mine. Always had been and always would be. Even if it meant I had to let her go.

  “Hey.”

  I didn’t have the confidence in my ability to say anything more, for fear I’d fall into the abyss and let all my black thoughts bubble up to the surface.

  I shifted my view, turning a bored eye in the other direction, hoping she’d get the hint.

  “Have you gotten my letters?”

  Fuck. Those letters were my downfall.

  They were like a drug and I waited daily for the fix from London – holding out hope that I’d also receive something from Cam one day. Devouring every letter and sentence she wrote; the loopy, feminine script of her handwriting jumping off the pages and entwining around my heart as if she was gripping it with her own two hands.