by Snow, Nicole
One look that says he’s walked every desert road I sing about.
He feels those heavy footsteps in his bones.
He’s stood beneath desolate skies as blue as his eyes and looked up and counted all the stars shining against a moonless night.
And he’s wished for something more.
Something that would ease his gunmetal heart, let it beat warm and alive and needy again.
Let it be me, I think, and that spills out in the chorus.
One line that I come back to, over and over.
“When you find somewhere to lay your head,” I sing, my voice nearly breaking but still holding steady and true. “Please, baby, let it be me.”
Let it be me, let it be me.
I sing it until my eyes are stinging and wet and there’s not a sound in the entire café but me and Ember and hearts turning into crystal drops of shattering music.
Sweet Jesus.
Does he know what I’m asking?
Does he know I’m begging him to let it be me?
12
Heart Notes (Blake)
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone sing like Peace.
There’s something about her voice.
About the way she pours herself into it, and it feels like those strings she’s plucking are twisted up in all the messy pieces of me. Every time she strums, it’s not the guitar that twitches.
It’s me.
It’s me, shaking up all wild with these messy feelings, completely pulled into her glistening green eyes and the ache of want making her voice hitch and turn husky.
No, maybe she ain’t studio-perfect, but she doesn’t have to be.
She’s perfect just like this.
I’d rather listen to her sing with all that rawness inside her bursting free like the sun coming up on a dead winter morning than hear the most flawless damn studio recording.
Shit. I hadn’t meant to get swept away. I hadn’t meant—
This.
When she’d asked me to come, I was just gonna stay for a song or two. Give her a little support, maybe get out of my own head, before leaving since she’d probably want to stay after and catch a ride home with Ember, anyway.
Now, I can’t move.
Can’t break free from the spell she’s weaving with her voice.
And I’m hardly the only one.
She’s got the entire café wrapped around her little finger. There are more than a few damp eyes in the house, plenty of breathless hitches in people’s throats to go around.
I don’t blame ’em.
That first song was the one that hit me like a sledgehammer.
This song about a lonely, desperate man, some gunslingin’ cowboy who can’t see himself as anything but broken and worn down and living only because he’s got a duty to others.
Till somebody else sees him as something more.
Rusted gunmetal, with a heart of gold.
And the way she looks at me?
My blood runs nuclear. White-hot. I want to ask her.
I want to ask so damn bad.
Is that how you see me, darlin’?
But I’m completely lost for words. Clubbed over the head by her beauty, her sweetness, her sexy, shining eyes.
I can’t go full caveman. I don’t want to break this.
This magic that she makes, with every note she sings and strums. She pulls Ember into it until they’re a haunting harmony that I could listen to for hours.
Fuck, I think a whole hour or more has passed with her singing her heart out, one song after another, and I realize I’m waiting.
I’m ready for that one song about how birds are meant to fly, so won’t you fly with me?
Her voice is almost raw from singing. She’s not even hiding the tears in her eyes.
That’s when it comes.
That sweet, sad song her old man taught her, and it feels like it’s a piece of her heart wrapped up in simple, quiet lyrics that still mean so much.
It’s starting to feel like a piece of me, too.
Hell, I don’t think I breathe the whole time she sings, with those liquid-gleaming green eyes locked on mine and a smile on her lips that’s like heartbreak and sunlight had a baby.
Aw, shit.
I think I might be in love with this gorgeous girl’s breathtaking, musical heart.
I’ve been trying so hard not to be that dude. Not let myself give in to the way she gets under my skin with that curvy body and delicate lips and her pillowy touch.
Except, somehow when I was trying to ignore my body, she got inside my head, inside my heart.
I’m not even gonna pretend my eyes ain’t stinging.
By the time she trails off, gasping for breath, chest heaving, I’m grinning like a fool.
A silence falls that makes the café feel like a cathedral.
All of these people gathered here to worship the beauty those two girls made together.
Then Peace ducks her head, running a hand through her wildfire hair, letting out a shy, raspy laugh.
“Sorry,” she says. “I think my voice has had enough for tonight. But I hope y’all enjoyed the show.”
There’s a soft chuckle from people who are clearly just as overcome with emotion right before the clapping starts.
Well deserved.
And Peace’s eyes widen, blushing as the noise spreads. Everybody applauds, calling out soft praise, laughing. Just like there’d been this thunderhead of emotion that built up and now it’s looking for an outlet just so we can all breathe.
I still can’t stop smiling, and fuck if I don’t hope she can tell how I feel.
She glances at me, then away, then back, smiling the whole time, tucking her hair back as she stands, holding the neck of her guitar.
I start to get up—I just want to be near her, even if I don’t know what to say—but stop when a familiar figure steps in front of her, blocking my line of sight.
Holt.
I’d been so caught up in Peace I hadn’t even realized that bastard snake was here.
The warmth and softness inside me instantly transforms into rage, hard-edged and dark and deadly. I watch him bend over her with that charming smile he turns on everyone, the fucking serpent crashing the party in Eden—but he’s the apple too, and he always offers himself as temptation.
He’s got his rogue look tonight, nice-looking button-down half-open at the throat and cuffed to the elbows, tucked into black slacks.
No suit coat, no tie, like he’s some hot-shot executive slumming it in half-casual clothing.
Always gets the ladies going. Makes them wonder what other rules he breaks.
Like the rule that says you don’t fucking put your hands on someone else’s woman, and especially not someone else’s wife.
Maybe Peace isn’t mine.
Maybe I’ve been pushing her away more than I’ve been pulling her close.
But I see murder-red as I watch Holt offer Peace his hand, smiling down at her with his gaze dipping over her in a hungry way, those whiskey eyes of his gleaming.
And Peace smiles up at him, laughing as she takes his hand, shakes it, blushes at whatever he murmurs to her.
Don’t do it, Blake. Don’t fucking do it.
She ain’t yours to claim, yours to defend.
I try too fucking hard to believe that.
When he bends down to whisper something in her ear and her eyes widen, her lips parting on a breath, I snap.
I’m out of my chair before I can even blink, shouldering through the people milling around with a snarl caught in the back of my throat.
I feel like a charging bull, just as big and clumsy and about to make a disaster, but it’s like I’m disembodied and watching myself do all the dumbest shit in the world as I stalk up.
“Holt,” I bite off.
He stiffens, then turns, blinking at me before he offers an almost shocked smile. “Hey, Blake. What’s up? Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I can tell.”
>
And suddenly I remember that note.
I remember Holt looking at Jenna in the same slimy, entitled way he’s looking at Peace just now. A snake-man through and through, even when he was just a kid.
Raw doubt explodes inside me, wondering just who my brother really is.
How much like our ma he might be.
And if he’s gonna be a big heaping problem.
If he’s gonna be dangerous.
Rather than answer him, I turn my gaze on Peace, glaring down at her.
“I see you’ve met my brother,” I snarl, then correct. “Half-brother.”
Peace gives me an odd look—wounded, and I want to kick myself for being such a raging dick. She has no idea what’s going on.
“He was just telling me he’s your brother, yeah,” she says, hugging her guitar a little closer like a shield. “We hadn’t gotten a chance to meet yet. I never realized you had a brother in town.”
“I’m working on the big rebuilding contracts,” Holt says, smirking. “Might stick around a bit longer, though. Maybe put down roots. You planning to hang around here awhile, Peace?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but I don’t let her.
“We should go.” I flick a narrow-eyed look at my brother. “I’m her ride home.”
Holt’s brows rise slowly. He just gives me a long look, his smile changing, turning sly, dark, as if to say two words that make me want to smash his face in.
Challenge accepted.
“Are you?” he asks softly, nearly purring, mocking and low.
I growl in the back of my throat, my tongue feeling thick.
But now it’s Peace who cuts me off, her eyes flashing as she glares up at me with her mouth firming.
“Actually,” she says, “I’ll be staying a bit to talk chords with Ember. I think I need some more coffee to clear my head anyway.” She flashes us both a tight, hard-edged smile. “So I’ll say goodnight, gents. Blake, you can find your own way home.”
Before she turns away, her shoulders stiffen. Then she tosses her hair and weaves her way through the crowd toward where Ember’s relocated herself at the coffee bar, talking to Felicity.
Leaving me standing there like the jolly green jackass I am.
What the fuck was I thinking, barging in like this? Getting so jealous?
Acting like I have any right to be possessive?
Fuck, even if she was mine, I just made a huge swinging dick of myself.
My fists clench. Closing my eyes, I sigh.
“Way to go, Blake,” Holt mocks. “I see you still have a sweet way with the ladies.”
“Don’t.” I open my eyes, fixing him with a hard look. “Not in the mood for your bullshit.”
I need to get the hell out of here.
“Watch yourself,” I warn him. “Because I’m watching you.”
Then I turn and walk away, shoving the door to the café open hard enough to make the bell jingle wildly.
The cold air is a slap in the face, punishment for everything.
Mostly, how I took a beautiful moment and turned it ugly.
All because I don’t trust my brother, and I can’t keep that old buried resentment under control.
I know it ain’t really him I’m mad at. Not even after everything he did with Abby. Not even my present suspicions about him and the fires, either.
It’s Ma.
But Holt’s here.
Ma ain’t.
And I can’t quite let go of the way we grew up.
* * *
Many Years Ago
I don’t think I’ve slept in a week.
Been too busy studying. Getting my shit together.
I’m gonna graduate at the top of my class.
Well, not quite. I’m not even going to be second in class.
I ain’t dumb, but I ain’t Albert Einstein either, and sometimes I don’t wanna do homework.
But I’m gonna at least pull off straight As for this semester, ’cause that looks real good on transcripts when I’m applying to college.
And if I get those straight As, maybe Ma will...
I don’t know.
Cut the fucking umbilical?
Damn, did I ace my finals. I know I did. I’m just waiting for the scores to come through while I get ready for graduation—checking in homeroom every day, looking for that report card. Being a goody two-shoes.
Hell, I even turned down taking Sally Jenkins to the dance because even though I like that girl so much, this whole idea’s got its hooks in me.
Maybe I’m losing it.
I just know when my homeroom teacher sends me home on the very last day of school for seniors, with my report card in my hand, I’m nearly beaming at the line of straight As.
And I go bursting into the house, calling “Ma? Ma! I got my report card!”
I don’t realize Holt’s already there, perched with a girl he’s so proud of because she could’ve belonged to me.
Not till I see him sitting on the sofa with Sally Jenkins, his arm around her waist, and she’s got her cute little shirt undone one extra button in the front even though Ma’s there, too.
Right there, fawning on Holt, stroking his hair while she looks at his report card. “You did so good, baby. Look at this, when you had all Cs—you even managed to get this one up to a B, son!”
A frigging B.
Holt’s almost flunked an entire semester, but she’s petting him like a smug cat over a single fuckin’ B.
And not even looking at me.
I step forward, offering her my report card.
“Ma,” I say breathlessly. “Look.”
It takes a few seconds for her to even see me.
And I know by now when she does that, it’s on purpose.
So it’ll cut deeper, harder.
So it’ll hurt more, and I’ll know she wants to make me feel invisible.
I feel Sally staring at me. Like I’m some pathetic weirdo, desperate for attention, and she’s just now seeing me and realizing she picked the right brother. Not this loser gawking at his ma, eyes wide and breathing hard.
Ma slowly lifts her head, looking at me with a sigh like I’m bothering her, the smile on her lips turning into a tired grimace.
She takes my report card, flicks it open, scans down.
Stops.
She looks at me over the top of the paper, her mouth pursing, brows raised.
“What’s this A minus in Calculus?” Her jaw tightens. “I expected better from you, Blake.”
I just stare.
Fuck. I came home with my goddamn best, and it’s still not good enough.
Holt’s smirking.
Dead at me, all that ugliness under his pretty boy face, and as I dart my gaze between her and Holt, just trying to figure out what to do, what to feel, he says it.
“Mama’s boy,” he mouths, mocking and exaggerated.
I explode, launching myself at him with almost eighteen years of pent-up bullshit exploding out of me, while Sally thrusts herself away with a little scream.
And just like that, we’re at it again.
Sometimes he’s the one who throws the first punch.
Sometimes it’s me.
But somehow, even as Sally scatters, Ma never stops us.
She just folds her arms over her chest, my report card fluttering from her fingers to the floor, and a glint of evil pleasure shining in her eyes.
She watches her boys tear each other apart.
* * *
Present
I don’t know how I wound up at the cemetery.
Thinking and driving too much, maybe. Remembering.
God, I’d been on such a hair-trigger back then.
That’s what Ma trained us to do. Just hold things in, repress and repress and repress till it explodes like a cannon, and that’s who I turn into again around Holt.
I hate it.
Hate who I am around him.
Hate who I am when I think of him.
And I can’t g
o home as that guy.
So somehow I end up outside the cemetery gates, letting myself out to step beneath the iron arch into this world of snowy tombstones and tired statues draped with dead vines and leaves.
My boots crunch in the old leaves under the snow, making my way through the markers on a familiar path.
Until I find that one gravestone.
ABIGAIL SILVERTON.
And those dates.
Goddamn, she hadn’t even been forty when she died.
Nobody should check out that young.
There are fresh flowers on her grave, though.
Purple, wrapped up with a black ribbon.
I don’t even have to guess to know it was Andrea.
And I wonder how often she’s been sneaking out here, without me ever knowing.
Considering the dead scattered petals and dirty, faded, tattered bits of ribbon buried in the snow around the tombstone...
A lot.
I sink down in a crouch, pushing a hand through my hair.
“Fuck, Abby,” I whisper. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I didn’t know what I was doing with you. I don’t know what to do without you. I don’t know what to do with Andrea, and I hate that I can’t help her with how much she misses you...” I swallow back sandpaper.
“And I hate that I don’t miss you at all. Feels like I’m doing something damn wrong with that, too. I still get sad. So fucking sad when I think about you. I wish you were alive, even if I don’t wish you were with me. But I don’t miss you. Just mourn you. I think...I think I’m finally starting to figure out the goddamn difference, you know? And it took this bright-eyed girl to show me, but I don’t know what I’m doing with her either, and I just—fuck.”
I stop, breathing hard, halting the bleed of words.
I don’t even know what I’m saying, what I’m doing, why I’m really here.
For the second time tonight, my eyes are a mess. I’m struggling for every icy breath that cuts into my lungs and then comes out of me in a puffing cloud.
There’s no answer from the silent headstone.
But there’s a crackle of noise behind me that says I’m not alone.
I stiffen, rising sharply to my feet.
Footsteps. They’re moving through the tombstones.