Pivot Line

by Rebel Farris

  “Don’t. If you do, I’ll be taking you inside, and we won’t be back out for at least a few hours, and I want to show you your surprise.”

  Reality crashes back into me. There are people inside waiting for us.

  “Maybe it won’t take long.” I shrug and fall back on my heels.

  His dimples appear as he looks down, trying to fight the smile. The morning sun is rising directly behind him, giving him an ethereal look. He peeks up at me through his thick lashes, and I groan. That look isn’t helping anything. It’s so sexy my chest aches in response.

  He straightens and looks away, holding his hand out to me. “Come on.”

  I expect him to lead me inside the house, but instead, we start in the opposite direction. We walk toward a much smaller building on the opposite side of the parking lot that I hadn’t noticed until now. It matches the exterior of his garage home, so it must belong to him.

  “What is this?” I gesture toward the building.

  His face scrunches up. “I think it used to be an office of some sort. I’m not really sure, though, because there was an office in the main building as well.”

  There are no windows on the building, so the fact that it was an office and not a storage shed is curious. He pulls open the door and gestures me to go in ahead of him.

  The inside is much larger than it appears to be from the outside. It has two rooms; the one I’m in has a row of off-white cabinets along one wall. A walled-off portion with a door to what looks to be a bathroom sits in the back corner, but that’s not what has me shocked silent.

  The other room’s walls are covered in soundproof tiles, and the row of cabinets in this room is littered with recording equipment. Musical instruments are scattered everywhere. Asher, Nate, and a man with a dyed-black mop of wild hair look up from their tasks as we enter. I take in the newcomer’s worn-out denim jacket covered in patches and paint, to the ripped and faded black work pants, the chain dangling from his hip, and black work boots. I freeze on the spot. That isn’t just any man with black hair. Familiar, warm brown eyes, shadowed by dark circles, are laughing as he looks me over from head to toe.

  “Wild night?” Spencer asks with a questioning look directed at my evening attire at this early hour.

  My brows climb. “You haven’t talked to me in almost six years, and that’s the first thing you can think to say?”

  “I haven’t talked to you?” He snorts, shaking his head. “You fucking left me in your dust, Miss America’s Military Sweetheart.”

  I cringe at the name. That’s not how I remember it at all. He took off to California right after Law left for the fight circuit, leaving me behind. “Then why did you agree to come here?”

  “Color me curious as to how the other half lives.” He shrugs. “And you played it smart, sending this one to feel me out.” He nods toward Asher.

  I look at Asher curiously, trying to figure out what he could’ve possibly said to get him here. “You got here awfully fast,” I comment.

  “It doesn’t take that long to drive five blocks.” He smirks at my confusion. “Did your self-righteousness get in the way of finding out that I moved back three years ago?”

  Anger stirs in my gut. This was a bad idea. “Communication goes both ways, asshole,” I grumble.

  “Bitch,” he replies without hesitation.

  We stand there, staring each other down. The room is silent since everyone has stopped to gawk at our conversation. Then Spencer shifts suddenly and leaps over the equipment and wires that separate us. I find myself crushed in a hug.

  “I missed you, nerd girl.”

  “You look like shit,” I reply.

  We both laugh and break apart. I feel warmth at my back and know it’s Dex without even looking. Spencer’s focus moves over my shoulder, and his eyes squint as he tilts his head. His brow crease and his lips pinch in concentration.

  “Oh, Spence. This is Dex, my boyfriend. Dex, this is Spencer.”

  “We met?” Spence asks, offering his hand.

  I turn to catch Dex’s thoughtful frown. “I don’t think so.”

  One of those awkward silences settles, and I allow my eyes to scan the room.

  “Huh. My bad. Guess you just have one of those faces,” Spence says with a grin.

  Dex smirks and shrugs. “Guess so.”

  And just like that, the awkwardness dissipates.

  “What is all this stuff doing here?” I ask.

  “That was my idea,” Dex answers. “I thought you might feel more comfortable recording in a change of location.”

  I turn back to look at him. I’m sure the shock is written across my face. I blink several times and have to remind myself to breathe. It’s been a long time since anyone has been close enough to anticipate my needs or know how to take care of me. I’m shocked speechless, which seems to be a habit I’ve developed around him.

  I feel a pressure in my chest, and I know that my heart is full, mended in a way I thought was impossible. I’m so far gone for this man. I startle when I realize I’ve moved toward him. I remember that we have an audience and they probably don’t want to see that.

  I go up on my tiptoes and position my mouth next to his ear. “Later, killer.” I pull back and bite my lip, hoping that he catches my meaning.

  Someone does because I hear a throat clear behind me.

  “You gonna stand around and flirt with your man all day, or do you want to show me these tunes you wrote.” He looks back at Dex. “It makes you so proud when they grow up and write songs of their own,” he says in a silly voice, like a proud papa about to show off his kid walking for the first time.

  I shake my head at him.

  “I’m gonna go back in the house and get some stuff done,” Dex says, motioning over his shoulder.

  I nod and watch him turn and leave. That’s a great view.

  Then

  As I parked my car outside the police station, I saw Bridget walking toward me. I’d never really seen her dressed for business, as we were pretty casual around the office and on the road. I sat there in shock with my jaw slack for a few moments before I remembered I needed to get out of the car. She stood at the front of my car, wearing a skirt suit and heels, her blonde hair smoothed back into a low chignon. I pulled on my baseball cap and zipped up my hoodie; it was my incognito costume du jour.

  “You act like you didn’t think it was possible for me to look professional.”

  “You’re hitting all the key points of my hot lawyer fantasy.” I wagged my eyebrows at her.

  “Well, thank you.” She gave me a smirk, and a dimple appeared. I was instantly jealous. “You pull off the Unabomber look quite well, yourself.” She snickered.

  “You’re very welcome,” I said, looking her over from head to toe. I thought she was a bombshell before; now I was thrown. “How do you get any work done around here?”

  “It actually works in my favor. Dumb guys are too busy drooling to argue.” She winked and then turned to walk inside.

  I followed her, since I’d no clue where anything was inside a police station. She walked straight past the front desk like she owned the place, and no one bothered to stop her. We rode the elevator up with two uniformed police officers and a dirty guy in overalls they had in handcuffs. He looked up from Bridget’s ass long enough to give me a toothless grin, and I pressed myself against the wall.

  We stepped off into a hallway lined with doors and turned right until the hallway opened up to an open area with lots of desks. In the corner of the room was a glass-walled office. Bridget didn’t stop until we arrived at the door of that office. The placard next to the door read Police Chief Montenegro. I looked to Bridget with a crease in my brow.

  “I went above your friend’s captain’s head and straight to the decision-maker.”

  She rapped on the door, and the man at the desk looked up and waved us in.

  “Miss Colfax, how nice to see you,” he said, looking like
he was anything but pleased. “Have a seat.”

  “Art, we don’t need to be formal. I thought you heard that I was out of criminal law?” she joked as we both sat in chairs across the desk from him.

  “Really?” he asked, perking up but still sounding skeptical. “Then what brings you here?”

  “My client”—Bridget nodded toward me—“would like a specific police officer assigned to her case.”

  “Didn’t you just say you were out of criminal law?” he grumped.

  “She’s not a defendant, she’s a victim. I’m in entertainment law now. This is Laine Dobransky. Perhaps you’ve heard of her—America’s Military Sweetheart?”

  His bushy eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

  “This is her case number and Officer Martinez’s badge number. Laine is asking that Officer Martinez be assigned lead detective in her case.” Bridget held out a piece of paper.

  I didn’t think it was possible for his eyebrows to climb any higher, but they did. He took the paper from Bridget.

  I cleared my throat. “This stalker has been following me for years now. Little things here and there. Your department wouldn’t open a case because I couldn’t prove a pattern or supply identifying evidence, but Officer Martinez has been keeping track of everything. If you pull the file, I think you’ll find enough to open a case. But I want him to work it because he’s the only one who believed me from the start.”

  “I see,” he said, and then turned to his computer and started tapping away at his keys. He picked up the phone.

  “Captain Norris. Is Officer Martinez around? Yeah. Bring him to my office.” He hung up the phone and looked up at us. “Just sit tight for a minute.”

  I looked down at my hands, studying my fingernails while we waited in silence. It was only a couple of minutes, and Officer Martinez entered the office with a woman, both of them uniformed police officers.

  “Grab a chair from outside, will ya?” Chief Montenegro asked as they came in.

  Martinez turned around and rolled in a chair from an empty desk outside while the woman I assumed was Captain Norris sat in the remaining chair in the office that lined the wall. When everyone was seated, the chief spoke.

  “This young woman here says you’ve been investigating her case for years?” Martinez nodded. “Did you know about this?” he asked, looking at the captain.

  “Yes, sir. When the first call was made, there wasn’t enough evidence to open a case. The incident involved a man at Zilker Park giving her daughters flowers. She said she had received similar items previously but didn’t think it strange until that incident.”

  “You took it upon yourself to investigate on your personal time and built this case file?” The chief looked to Martinez.

  “Yes, sir,” Martinez said.

  “Hmmm.” He leaned back in his seat, making it squeak. “What does the rest of his record look like, Captain? Would you recommend him for promotion?”

  I squirmed in my chair, uncomfortable being included in what should be a private conversation. No one else seemed to feel this way as I looked over everyone.

  “He’s a good officer; no complaints filed, and no disciplinary actions have been taken. He’s been on the force for six years. He shows up on time, does his job well. I see no reason to withhold promotion, sir.”

  The chief nodded. “Very well.” He looked to Martinez. “I want you to turn in your badge to Captain Norris and report to Lieutenant Collins this afternoon. I’ll forward this case to Collins and your assignment to the case. We’ll talk more on this later. You can go.”

  “Oh, before you go,” I said, looking to Martinez. I dug my phone out of my purse and handed it to him with a smile. “You asked for this.”

  “Thank you, Miss Dobransky,” he said with a serious look to convey the multiple meanings of his gratitude as he took the phone.

  “Thank you.” I nodded with a gracious smile.

  Martinez nodded back and left with my phone in hand.

  “I assume you’re done telling me how to do my job, Miss Colfax?” the chief grumped.

  “For now.” Bridget grinned. “I assume you’ve heard I’m volunteering for the prosecution.” Her tone was still light and teasing, but her smile had vanished. Thinking about what Roz did to Holly did that to all of us.

  “I have,” he mumbled, his mouth flattening to a thin line as he breathed in through his nose. “I take it you’ll be around.”

  “More than you’d like, I’m sure,” Bridget answered and stood. “But thank you, Art, for your time. We’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated and followed Bridget out the door.

  “Doesn’t seem like your biggest fan,” I said to Bridget as we walked back to the elevator.

  “They never are. Every cop hates a good defense lawyer.” She smirked.

  Now

  I play the bar of music again, and Spencer frowns. He’s possibly the only person who can make me feel like I suck at music without ever saying a word. Then again, he’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t tell me that everything I do is golden. That’s why I’ve always loved him. He pushes me to do better, try harder. We’ve always made a hell of a team.

  I can’t help the slow grin that has my cheeks stretching as it grows. It feels great to have that dour face staring me down, not quite happy with my music.

  “No, it’s still not working,” he says, his brows pulled down as intense concentration takes over his face.

  He plays the same notes but changes the timing of each slightly, altering the flow of the music. It’s better. He nods, and I repeat his pattern on my guitar. His eyes betray his smile, even though he’s chewing on his bottom lip, so I know we’ve found it.

  I lean over and mark the changes down in my notebook and turn to Asher.

  “You wanna take it from the top?” I ask.

  He bobs his head once in confirmation and picks up his drumsticks. The short, quick taps on the cymbal set the pace. One… two… three… four…

  We play the song from start to finish. It’s good but still off. I study their faces; neither are entirely happy, nor are they unhappy. Apathetic is a good word for it. But apathy is death to music because music thrives on the emotions it evokes.

  “It’s still missing something.” I tap my finger on my lower lip, frowning at my notebook.

  “Yeah, depth,” Spencer says.

  “Guys, I’m gonna take five.” Nate’s voice breaking in through a speaker causes me to jump.

  He’s been in the other room with the recording equipment all day. With no glass wall to see him, I keep forgetting he’s there until his voice sounds out loudly, joining our conversations. Out of sight; out of mind.

  I nod before I remember he can’t see me, and then speak into the microphone.

  “Sounds good.” I purse my lips, mulling over the music. “We need bass and rhythm guitar. These songs can’t be pulled off with three instruments.”

  “You know we can call him?” Spencer asks.

  My head whips in his direction so fast my muscles clench. “He still plays?”

  “Did you think we were the only serious musicians in the band?” He gestures between us.

  I shrug. “Monk doesn’t play drums anymore, aside from the lessons with the kids he works with. I just assumed…”

  “You know what they say about assuming?” Spence poses, spreading his hand out in front of him.

  I pick up my pencil and lob it at his head. “Shut up, dick.”

  He angles his body slightly, and it sails past him, bouncing off the wall. Spencer chuckles.

  Asher laughs, too, and I turn narrowed eyes in his direction. He fights to keep the smirk off his face. He obviously enjoys how much shit Spence has been giving me since I walked in the door. I think my face is going to be stuck in a permanent glare after today.

  I rest my arms on top of my guitar. “Call him.”

  Spence pulls his phone
from his pocket and holds up a finger. “On it.”

  Spencer is listening to the phone ring when the door squeaks open. Asher and I turn to face the noise, only to find a grim-faced Dex.

  I’m immediately on alert. Dex doesn’t wear his emotions unless he means for you to see it. I set my guitar down as he looks over his shoulder into the other room. I hop over the equipment as best I can in the ridiculously oversized borrowed T-shirt and flannel sleep pants to get to him.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  His body relaxes slightly when I touch him, but he’s still tense. I look past him into the other room and notice that Nate’s not there. But in his chair is another flower and another note. I look around and don’t see any sign of Nate. I push past Dex, immediately going to see if Nate has left. When I open the door, the daylight blinds me for a moment, but when my eyes adjust, I can see Nate’s Beemer sitting in front of me. I go back in, thoroughly confused, until I remember the bathroom. The bathroom door is closed, so I knock.

  No answer.

  I knock again.

  Nothing.

  I try the handle. It turns, but something is blocking the door. My stomach plummets. I back away, shaking my head. I suddenly don’t want to be here anymore. I want to get away. I turn with the intention of bolting out of the building but halt when I notice Dex is standing there, reading the note.

  Dex’s fingers curl into the paper, warping it like he’s barely able to keep from destroying it. It’s his only tell. His face is back to the cool, calm mask that he usually wears.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask, my voice belying my fear.

  Dex looks up from the note. Whatever he sees on my face causes his brows to drop. “It’s not like you’re gonna hand it over to the police.” He shrugs. “Not likely that they would find anything anyway, and I wanted to know what it said.”

  He holds the paper out to me, and I shake my head.

  “I don’t want to touch it.”

  Why I think a plastic barrier makes holding one of the notes, any easier, is beyond me. Or maybe it’s just the increased fear of what’s in the bathroom. I catch sight of Asher moving toward the bathroom door, and the curiosity over what the note says battles with my need to be far away from that door when it opens. Call me a fucking coward, but I’m sure I can’t live with any more death, especially in a place where I’m recording music.