by Kacey Shea
“I’ve never met anyone like our Austin.” Trent clasps him on the shoulder and pulls him to his side.
“I’m a fucking Rembrandt.”
“Funny.” Trent squints as he assesses his friend. “I always pegged you for a Van Gogh.”
Austin begins to smile, but it falls. “Hey, didn’t that guy cut off his own ear?”
“Yep.” Trent beams.
“Fuck you.” Austin shoves away from Trent’s side and leans his elbows on the table. “I get no respect.”
They’re teasing, but there’s a comradery between these guys that sparks a touch of envy. I’ll never have that. Or be fully included. I understand why. I mean, these guys built their brand, earned fans, and created music from years of hard work and perseverance. I wasn’t a part of that journey. I’m hopping on the train after it already left the station. But man, I yearn for that kind of friendship. Ride or die. Something real.
“Is everyone ready to order, or should I come back?” our server asks.
“I’m starving.” Trent pats his belly.
The server steps between him and Austin, scribbling on his pad.
“Me, too,” Austin grumbles as he scans the menu. “This better be good.”
“Won’t come close to Opal’s cooking, but she’s earned a night off.” I lift my gaze, unable to keep my eyes off of her. The soft smile she gives does that thing to my pulse again.
My phone buzzes from my back pocket and just like that my gut fills with dread. Considering I’m surrounded with the band, I don’t have to guess who it is. “I’m gonna hit the restroom. Order for me? The chicken parm.”
“Sure thing.” She gives me one last smile before I’m out the door.
I head to the restroom before pulling out my cell.
The Devil: Nice work.
There’s a link attached. Dread fills my gut as I click on it. The celebrity gossip site loads, but I can already guess the topic.
SEAN WILLIS STEALS FORMER DRUMMER’S GIRLFRIEND FOR HIMSELF . . . AND MARRIES HER!
The article, poorly written and mixed with what I assume is a mixture of fact and fiction, also includes a few photos of the band at a charity event. There I find a candid of Sean and Coy, the former drummer, arms around each other like they’re the best of friends, followed by a few photos of Jess with Coy and then Jess with Sean. She’s attractive, but the intense, almost sad look in her eyes would keep me at a distance. Then there’s the photos of Sean and her in the backyard. Before I can read much further my uncle sends another message.
The Devil: I can see you took our talk to heart. I expect an update soon.
Within seconds another image comes through, but this photo isn’t linked to a website. I don’t know where the hell he got it, but I know exactly when and where it was taken. Opal’s caught mid-step, those fucking boots and short skirt just as sexy as in person. I’m at her left, my hand behind her as if I’m about to touch the small of her back. The radio station. I should be irritated at the intrusion of privacy, but seeing the two of us together, it looks as if we’re a couple. God, how I want us to be a couple.
The Devil: See you in Boston. I expect more.
My uncle’s message is the only reminder I need. As much as I’m interested in Opal, I can’t go there. Each time we’re together I learn something new about who she is. About her past. I can’t exploit her, but my uncle will force my hand.
Unless . . . maybe I could find a way to keep my uncle off my back, and Opal to myself? If I push for a little more about why she’s here and what she’s hiding, I could protect her. My uncle doesn’t need the truth. As long as I give him something, he’ll leave me alone. It’s a win-win. I get to keep the gig and get the girl.
Okay, so my plan isn’t altruistic in the least. But I like her. I want her.
Shit.
I haven’t been this twisted up over a girl, since . . . ever. Never have I ever been this into someone. It’s reason enough to leave her alone. I don’t need to complicate my situation. I’m here to play drums. For the rock star experience. And that doesn’t include a girl.
Only, I can’t turn back what we’ve started. She’s already worked her way inside my heart. I’ve shared things I’ve never trusted anyone else with before. She’s good. Not in a superficial way. But in that deep-rooted virtuousness very few people possess. There’s no way I could cut her out of my life, not after today. Fuck.
When did things become so complicated?
90
Opal
After dinner we all share a ride back to the bus where Jay’s waiting and ready to go. The engine idles with a soft rumble and once again we’re back on the road. I should be tired. It was a long day, but after everyone turns in for the night I can’t turn off my mind. I try. Climbing into bed, I lie and stare at the top of my bunk for a good hour before I give up. Why can’t I sleep?
Grabbing my notebook and the stack of letters I hold dear, I slide quietly out of bed. Everyone else is passed out and I’m not looking to change that. I pad over to the kitchen table and slide into the corner of the bench seat. The light overhead brings enough illumination to write without straining my eyes.
Untying the ribbon that binds the letters together, I lay them out on the table and count them. Ten. Ten letters. Ten moments of my father’s life and love for my mother captured with pen and paper. Ten remembrances to prove I was created from love.
Would he have wanted me? Did my mother tell him? This I’ll never know, but I do know she went home to Denison to have me. Because she wanted me. That has to count for something. A shiver runs up my spine and goosebumps rake up my arms as my heart pangs. I never got to know the warmth of my mother’s embrace. I was only days old when she passed. At least she held me before she died. I try to find peace in that knowledge, but it’s never enough. Because I still long for her touch, wish I could remember her face, and want to be loved.
Biting back a sniffle, I reach for my favorite letter of the bunch and pull it out to re-read the romantic note. I don’t need to—the words are memorized from how often I’ve read them, but there’s something about my father’s handwriting that connects me to the man I never knew.
He really loved her.
When I get to the end of the letter my heart blooms with love; the words mean even more now that they’re inked on my skin.
Wherever I wander, you’re always with me.
Moisture pools in my eyes and leaks down the sides of my face, but I don’t wipe the tears away. Words flood my mind in sync with the feelings that churn inside. I whip open my notebook, turning to a blank lined page, and drop everything into those spaces. Hurt. Longing. Need. Love. Everything rushes from my mind in tangents and short phrases.
“Hey, you.”
I gasp and jump at Leighton’s voice, my heart leaping in my chest. “You scared me!” I whisper and slam my notebook shut.
His gaze drops to the mess I’ve made on the table.
Hastily, I gather the letters and shove them into a pile at my side. I’m not ready to share these, with him or anyone. “Can’t sleep.” I feel the need to explain why I’m up at this hour.
He nods, his stare cautious and careful as if he might spook me more than he already has. “Mind if I join you?”
I glance at the table and shrug. “Sure.”
He could take any seat, but he slides into the bench, close enough that his knee grazes mine. “So, what’s in the notebook?” He raises his eyebrows with his stare.
I lift mine right back. “What do you think’s inside?”
“Espionage.” He levels me with a playful glare. “It’s always the most unassuming characters who work for the government.”
“Yep. You caught me.” I give in to a soft laugh. “I’m jotting down all your dirty secrets for our national security.”
“Really?” He cocks his head as if he’s actually concerned.
I’ve never shared this with anyone, but I realize I want to tell Leighton about my writing. Maybe it’s the sa
fety of a late night confession but I’d like to believe I’m embracing the woman I want to become. I’m ready to be braver, bolder. “I write things. Poems? Songs? I don’t really know. The words just come to me.” I trace the edges of my notebook, unable to meet his gaze.
I’m a work in progress with the brave thing.
“Can I see?”
Swallowing my fear, I slide the notebook into his hands.
My silly romantic ramblings are something I’ve done for years, but I didn’t write them for anyone, or anything. Like everything I’ve shared with Leighton, it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating to hand over my notebook. His fingers don’t open the pages until I murmur my consent. “Okay.”
He reads. And reads. And reads.
With each flip of another page my anxiety grows. Does he like them? Think I’m an utter fool? Lord, I never should have shown him. I clear my throat, unable to stand the silence a moment longer. “They aren’t really—”
“Shh.” He holds up a finger, his gaze trained with laser focus on the paper.
Did he really shh me? He shh’d me! Where in the ever lovin’ world does he think that’s an acceptable response? I cross my arms over my chest.
His gaze finally lifts. I try to discern his expression but come up empty. He sets the notebook in the space between us. “Where did you learn to write?”
I glance to the front of the bus and then back to him. Is this a trick question? “Elementary school.”
He rolls his eyes and lets loose a chuckle. “Smart ass.”
“What do you mean?”
“These lyrics.” He points at the notebook. “At least, I read them as lyrics. They’re emotive. Deep. Full of passion.”
“Yeah? They’re not crap?” This time I hold his gaze and brace myself for the other shoe to drop.
“You’re serious? You have no clue?” He raises his voice and shakes his head. “They’re fucking amazing. Like, I want to wake up the rest of the band right now so we can write a song with you.”
“You’re only saying that because . . .” My voice trails off, not exactly sure how to finish that thought. Because he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings? Because he’s only being kind?
“Because we got tattoos together?” he offers with a grin.
“Leighton.” I mean to chastise but his name leaves my lips full of longing. Ugh. I shake my head. “You have to be nice, so I don’t know whether I believe you.” I drop my gaze to the table.
“Opal.” He reaches forward, lifting my chin so I look him in the eyes. “I’m very serious about music.”
“You really think they’re songworthy?” The hope in my voice begs for affirmation. I hate that I need it, but I do.
“I know they are.” He leans forward and the space between us narrows. His conviction bleeds past my insecurities and seeps confidence into my dreams. Could I really write a song?
More pressing, though . . . Is he about to kiss me?
His gaze doesn’t waver but for a momentary dip to my lips. They’re dry under his stare and I press them together, which draws his attention again. He leans closer, a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough that his scent fills my nostrils. He’s fresh and clean, with a little mixture of something that reminds me of the ocean.
My lashes flutter, heavy with lust and desire. I want Leighton to kiss me. It’s not the first time I’ve imagined it, but after spending the day together, this moment seems fated. Romantic. Perfect.
“Uh, I–I should go to bed.” His brisk words jolt me from the anticipation.
“Oh, okay.” I straighten my spine. Hurt crushes the longing, and in its place I’m flooded with reminders of all the ways I’m lacking. I’m not smart enough. I’m not beautiful. I don’t stand out. I give and give and get nothing in return. Leighton doesn’t want to kiss me. Why would he?
“I—” He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but instead his gaze finds mine. The second he does he scoots out of the bench seat. “Yeah, okay.”
Yeah, okay? What the heck does that mean? I expected his lips on mine. Not a gruff good night. My chest tightens with rejection; one more in a lifetime of them. I swallow down the pain and reach for my precious letters, the only consolation I find.
“Hey, Opal?”
I lift my eyes to his. “Yeah?”
“I meant what I said. Your lyrics, they’re really good. I want to write a song with you.” His fingers tap at his side, a staccato beat that increases by the second. His eyes are wide and full of an emotion I can’t name because I don’t know him well enough. “If that’s okay.”
He’s asking permission and this isn’t about some unrequited crush. He wants to write a song, with me. How many nights this past year have I wondered if I had it in me? I didn’t grow up with the influence that Lexi had, but we share the same blood. Is there a tiny part of my father’s legacy inside? When I push my romantic feelings for Leighton aside, I realize there’s nothing I’d like more than to take him up on his offer. “I’d really like that.”
“Tomorrow, then.” He stops tapping and a grin kicks up the corners of his lips. “Get some sleep if you can.”
“I’ll turn in soon.” I nod, unable to stay mad when he smiles at me that way. After all, what am I upset about? Him not wanting to kiss me. That’s not his fault.
“Good night.” He takes another step backward, that sexy smile still in place. “Sweet dreams.”
My heart pitter patters inside my chest. Heat rushes to my cheeks and my body tingles with awareness. If he holds my stare much longer my dreams will be anything but sweet. “’Night,” I manage to whisper.
He turns, strides the rest of the way across the bus, and pulls himself up into his bed. With everyone else asleep I don’t need to hide my attraction, and stare unabashedly at his backside. He may not want me and that’s probably better. Safer. Less complicated.
Unfortunately, I can’t turn off my feelings so easily. Gathering my notebook and letters, I slide out of the seat and kill the light. Just because Leighton doesn’t return my feelings doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Or write songs together. And if I’m being honest, maybe I hold a tiny fraction of hope he’ll grow to see me as more. It’s not entirely impossible. The time we spend together feels special. I swear he feels it, too.
91
Leighton
The bus rolls into the lot of Blue Hills Bank Pavilion as the sun breaks through the cloudy Boston skyline. I know this because I toss and turn all night, unable to turn off my brain and find rest. My tattoo itches like a son of a bitch, but that’s not what keeps me from passing out. No, it’s my conversations with Opal, playing in my mind on repeat. The look on her face as she gripped those letters and tucked them away from sight. The realness of her eyes when I almost kissed her. The hurt I caused when I didn’t.
Jay parks the bus and everyone stumbles out, still half asleep with dark shades to combat the daylight. There’s a breakfast joint within walking distance of the amphitheater and Trent leads the way to coffee and food. You’d think everyone was hungover with how little we talk during our meal, but it’s just sleep deprivation and too many days sleeping on a bus.
“Damn, that was good.” Trent stretches as we step back outside. “I need a nap already.”
“Hell to the yes,” Austin agrees.
On the walk back to the bus, regret churns in my belly. I should have kissed Opal last night. Or at least smoothed things over better. The last thing I need is to create tension between us when my uncle is dead set on digging around her personal life. I need to make things right, and I have an idea about where to start.
In three long strides I’m by her side. “Hey, when we get back grab your notebook.”
“Yeah?” She shoves her hands into the back pockets of her black ripped jeans, the new ones she purchased yesterday, and scuffs her shoes along the sidewalk. I half expect her to change her mind about song writing today, but once again her limitless grace is astounding.
I aim to keep my
tone casual, but the truth is, I’m already excited about the prospect of writing music with her. “We don’t have to check in until two, and the weather’s awesome. We’ll find some shade and get to work.”
“Sounds good.” She grins.
“Guitar practice?” Austin steps to her other side and slows his gait so he’s even with us.
Opal glances at me before turning to him. “Oh, um. Yeah. Practice.”
“Fine, don’t tell me what you’re up to. My feelings aren’t hurt.” His dramatics are over the top, but he’s only teasing. I think.
“I’ll get the guitar,” I say with the bus in view.
“I’ll just grab my . . . pen and paper.” She avoids meeting my gaze and darts ahead to where Sean and Trent step inside the bus.
“Is it just me or are you two acting weirder than usual?” Austin stares after her and raises his eyebrows.
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Houdini.”
“Touché.” Austin tips his chin. “Just don’t defile her in the park, okay?”
“We’re not—”
Austin holds a hand up and pushes past me to jog up the steps of the bus.
Whatever. I shake my head, not needing to explain myself to him or anyone. There’s nothing to tell. At least not yet. I have a feeling they’re going to flip out and in a good way after hearing Opal’s lyrics. If she even feels comfortable sharing. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. First step is putting music to her words.
I climb into the bus, relieved to find everyone settling back in for more sleep. They don’t pay us any attention as we grab the guitar and sneak back outside.
“Thanks. For not . . . I don’t even know whether I can do this. I’d feel like a complete fool if I told everyone what we’re doing and then choke under the pressure,” she says, holding up her notebook.
“I get it.” I point across the lot to the small park I spotted on our way to breakfast. There’s a picnic bench and plenty of trees to keep us cool for a few hours. I begin walking and she follows suit. “But first thing’s first. You can’t think about them, or anyone else for that matter. We’re gonna make a bunch of mistakes and it’s gonna feel stupid at first. That’s art. You have to put all those voices of doubt out of your head. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. This is between us and the music.”