“But you won’t tell me who?”
She met my eyes. I liked looking at her. “Client privilege.”
“Didn’t seem to matter with the other names you dropped,” I said, raising my eyebrow.
Jenna’s smile softened, her eyes brightening. “Kai, Clay, and Dane are good friends. Asher, Hayden, and the rest are willing to let me build my reputation on theirs.”
I nodded as I picked out a song, trying to curb my runaway thoughts. Glancing up I caught Jenna’s wide-eyed stare. Lifting my head fully, I stared at the transformation in her face. She started when I stopped playing, her hand rising to brush a long strand of blond hair back from her cheeks, her eyes shuttering and her mouth snapping shut.
“That’s a beautiful tune.”
I smiled, pride puffing out my chest. “Wrote it during my second tour in the sandbox.”
She settled on the other side of a paper-strewn desk. “Iraq.”
I nodded, pleased she’d remembered.
Jenna leaned forward, watching my fingers work the frets. “How many tours did you do?”
“Too many.” I forced my hands to loosen on the guitar. No need to break her pretty instrument because I had head issues. Even all these years later. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a Werther’s. I popped the candy into my mouth, letting the cool, hard caramel slick over my tongue and envelop my mouth, soothing the growing dread in my stomach that always came when I spoke of those years.
Candy in, I plucked out another tune, losing myself in the melody. Music helped, just like my psychologist predicted. Some days, music was the only defense, the only reason I was still sane. Well, music and sugar—either Werther’s or of the female variety. Both were sweet and satisfying. At least briefly.
“Thank you for your service,” she said, head still bowed.
Lip service. I hated that shit. Not the sentiment. I appreciated that I was a vet of a war people might hate but that they treated us soldiers with dignity. After all, I’d chosen to enlist at nineteen, hoping that choice would finally make my father proud of me. Within a few years, after the mess with Kim, combat was the only thing in my life that made sense. Until it broke me, mentally and physically, and all I had left was Werther’s and music. I bit into the candy, but it didn’t ease the tension building in my chest.
I handed the instrument to her and shifted in the seat. My calf ached from sitting. Hell, it always ached—not that I’d tell anyone. Never had. Didn’t plan to start now. Probably always would. And I was a lucky devil—most of me was still, well, me. Couldn’t say that about many of my former brothers-in-arms.
I didn’t miss the adrenaline or fear like some of my buddies. The camaraderie, sure. Going from bunking with my men to being alone in a dark room at night left way too much time for reflection. And nightmares.
I stood abruptly, needing to do something with the nervous energy building in my legs.
“I like this one.” I pointed to the second one I’d played. The acoustic alder wood. Clay’s.
“All right.” She tapped a pencil against the paper. “And you know our pricing policy?”
“Yep.”
“You’re not concerned about the fees?”
“You mean the fact I just held ten-grand worth of instrument in my lap?”
She met my gaze. “That one’s closer to fifteen.”
“But I said I’d give a nice discount because he’s such a good repeat customer.” Mr. Olsen strode in the back door and shot me a stern look. “And this guitar’s for his performance for soldiers. Which he’s promised not to bash against a metal floor or anything else metal. Ever.”
Next to Mr. Olsen was a man about twenty, twenty-five years younger. Mr. Olsen was tall but with the start of stooped shoulders and a thick, shocking mane of white hair longer than mine. Age spots lined his thin-skinned hands and the sagging skin on his neck, but his eyes were bright and sharp. The younger man could only be his son—and Jenna’s father, I’d bet.
Mr. Olsen junior stepped into the shop and walked around me to hug his daughter. After he gave her a quick peck on the cheek, he pulled back and looked me over. Yeah, I got I wasn’t good enough for his precious baby girl. Didn’t mean I didn’t want those lovely lips pressed to mine.
“You coming to dinner this weekend?” the younger Mr. Olsen asked as he stepped back from Jenna.
She nodded and smiled. “Sure, Dad. I’d love to spend some time with you and Mom.”
“Good, good. She’ll like that. How about you text us the best day?”
“I will.” Jenna hugged him one more time while the elder Olsen peered at the guitars next to me, nodding his head as pride lit his rheumy eyes.
Jenna’s father walked back out the door with a last wave to his daughter and Mr. Olsen greeted his granddaughter with a kiss on her cheek. Close-knit family.
“Morning, dove. Glad to see you taking care of Cam here. I didn’t get a chance to tell you about his appointment since he didn’t call me until last night.”
I enjoyed Mr. Olsen’s company because he didn’t ask a lot of questions, didn’t judge me harshly—even when I deserved to be derided. As I did in this case. I’d intentionally set out to destroy one of his hand-made guitars. Rage and pain were no excuse, and I didn’t plan to make any. Nor was the fact I’d run out of Werther’s—not just in my pockets but on the bus.
I’d rather the world believe I was an angry son-of-a-gun than an ex-soldier full of self-doubt in need of sugar confections to get me through emotionally-charged moments like these past two weeks since I learned my father died.
Jenna’s eyes brightened at the sight of her grandfather, and her whole face softened, including those moody eyes. Like the sun coming out after days of cold, gray skies, I felt an answering tug to my lips.
Damn, she had a way about her.
“Hey, Pop-pop. Missed you for coffee this morning. Had to ring the sugar bell alone. Nowhere near as fun.”
He hung up his coat before coming over to shake my hand. His grip was firm, his fingers rougher and more callused than mine.
“My granddaughter taking care of you, son?”
“She’s been showing me the instruments she made. I want one like this.” I pointed to the satin-smooth finished dark wood guitar I’d played second.
Mr. Olsen beamed. “A man of good taste. That’s a mighty fine one. Jen here will make you one hell of an instrument. Clarity as close to the angels as we can get.”
Jenna’s cheeks pinked, but she smiled again. “We do good work, Pop-pop. No reason to go over the top.”
“You’re making better quality instruments than me.” Mr. Olsen raised his hands to show his fingers starting to claw and gnarl with arthritis and age. “She’s got an eye for detail you won’t find anywhere else, Camden, son.”
Mr. Olsen was the only man outside my family to call me Camden. My dad used to, years ago, as he slipped his belt through the loops of his Wranglers. I hated the word—and its association—for years. I popped another candy into my mouth. Thinking about my father’s reaction is what got me into this mess. I needed to let all that shit go.
“Did she show you the detail in it?” Mr. Olsen asked, pointing to the guitar I wanted. “It’s going to a rocker friend of hers in Seattle. He wanted something of home in it, so she found and polished up that sea glass. Took her hours to get each one the same size and smoothness. And look at the back.” Jenna flipped it over. Slight color deviations showed a subtle wave pattern.
“He needs it in less than six weeks,” Jenna said, annoyance threading her voice.
I handed her back the guitar before I shoved my hands in my pockets and rolled back on my heels, ignoring the pain shooting down into my calf.
“No, darlin’, that’s when the concert is. I need the guitar before so I have time to get to know the instrument. Feel comfortable with it and all that.” I swallowed my second piece of candy and smiled, infusing it with all the boyish charm I’d long since lost. But, for some reason, the gals
still assumed I had an ounce of decency left in me.
I didn’t.
After what Kim did—after I took her deception out on my father, my family—how could I?
Jenna leaned forward enough for her light scent to drift into my nose. I sighed, my tensed shoulders relaxing. The light above shone through the delicate shell of her ear, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone, the plump, red bottom lip.
She was beautiful. Sexy without effort. No wonder the punk kid wanted her—and he did want her—which worried me.
I shifted, trying to ease the ache building in my groin. I wanted Jenna. Bad, if I were honest with myself.
Wrong though it might be, if I could talk Jenna into a roll in the sheets between meetings for my new instrument, I would. Not because I didn’t respect the hell out of Mr. Olsen. I did. Not because I didn’t know he’d never let me back in his shop or purchase another of his amazing guitars when I broke his granddaughter’s heart. Got that, too.
Jenna stood up and met my gaze with those wide, wary eyes. My eyes dropped to her berry-tinted lips. For the first time in years, I yearned for a woman. Might even be compelled to write a song about her.
This zing of anticipation coiled through me, keeping my mind out of the recurring loop: those bad months in the sandbox, off Kim and my father. If Jenna could distill my focus this well just by being in the same room, then what could she do to quiet my mind when I touched her? I might sleep more than a few hours before the nightmares came.
If I could talk her into spending time with me. Hell, I’d take anything she’d give me—even if that were just sitting in the shop while she built my guitar. This moment of quiet was that unusual. More, it was precious.
Time to cut and run.
“Why don’t y’all talk it over? Worst case scenario, I can always play my old guitar.” No way Mr. Olsen would let me play that when his name could flash in the bright lights at this gig. You’re a manipulator, Camden, my father’s voice boomed in my head. A manipulator who doesn’t care who he hurts so long as his vision is met. That’s not just bad behavior, it’ll turn you into a cheat. And I didn’t raise a cheat, boy.
“Oh, we can get you what you need, son.”
Jenna straightened, clearly not liking her grandfather stepping in for her. “I’ll make sure you get a guitar you’re happy with. But I’m going to hold you to keeping it in pristine condition.”
I smiled a little. Smart one, this gal. Maybe she wasn’t all sugar.
“That’s a practice guitar. Nothing too fancy. In fact, I helped your Pop make it. I like to use my hands.” I winked at her, intentionally leaving off the fact I’d been an absolute mess when I first showed up here nearly five years ago. Mr. Olsen took pity on me, telling me stories of his time in Korea, how much he missed Jenna’s grandmother. The changes in his thought process that took years of distance—and therapy via working with wood—to come to peace with.
The guitar Jenna mentioned had a beautiful sound because Mr. Olsen ensured it did, but he’d made me craft the exterior to help me get past the worst of my demons. I came into the shop every day for five months. The final effort wasn’t fit for public consumption, but that guitar was an extension of me—and my struggle to get back to some semblance of normalcy.
“He’s right, dove. Cam and I built that instrument together. We made a deal he’d never perform with it. It’s not…how do I say this?”
“It’s ugly as sin but sounds more beautiful than any angel’s voice.”
Mr. Olsen chuckled and shook his head. “Summed it up well, there, son.”
I smirked, my eyes shifting back to Jenna. “Appreciate it, sir.”
“So, we’ll make you a pretty one fit for the stage,” Mr. Olsen said with a smile.
Still not quite sure why the older man seemed to like me, I smiled back, glad for the approval. One of the hardest realities with being an NCO Ranger team leader at the ripe old age of twenty-one was I was the buck and most decisions for my guys—especially mistakes—stopped with me. But I was no one’s team leader these days, and I was a hella long way from a fresh-faced kid now. The mileage of these past years roughened me up and tired me out.
“Since you live in Austin, we can touch base pretty easily. And now that Jenna has a sense of your style, she and I need to go through our wood supply and develop a timetable for your project. I’ll have Jenna get with you later today to go over all the details.”
Jenna had recovered from my timetable bombshell enough to shut her mouth, but her lips were white with strain. I didn’t like that look on her face. Not one bit. Was it from the meds? The man grabbing onto her wrist earlier? My demands? Damn, I didn’t want to add to this woman’s problems.
Not if I could get her to help me instead. Symbiosis. Mutually beneficial. With lots of orgasms. Once again, that need to hug her tight in my lap and keep her safe from the rest of the world rose in me.
Definitely time to cut out before I lost my ever-loving mind.
“Sure thing, Mr. Olsen. Can you show me some of your instruments on my way out? I’m gonna be talking to George next week and wanted to tell him what you got cooking.”
The older man smiled, a beaming kind of good humor and pride, and motioned me forward. I listened with half an ear though my mind enjoyed the clean lines and quality construction. Took going overseas and ending up in a VA hospital in Washington, D.C. to find out that this place I needed, the people, too, were in my backyard.
The world was a crazy, ass-backward place.
As we neared the door, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Jenna had stayed in the back.
“I need to tell you Jenna had a visitor when I showed up.”
Mr. Olsen smiled. “Don’t get many drop-ins these days. We’re by appointment, but every once in a while, we have some kids from the university wanting to jam. That’s why I set up the security cameras.”
“He wasn’t here to check out the merchandise. His body language was threatening.” Lame finish but I didn’t know how else to explain my concerns to this man, especially about leaving his beautiful granddaughter alone in the place. I shoved my hand in my pocket and closed it around the smooth plastic wrapper of another candy.
Not yet. Three in twenty minutes showed a lack of control.
The older man’s eyes narrowed as his lips pulled down. “You catch his name?”
“Ben. No last name.”
Mr. Olsen’s mouth tightened in disapproval as he shook his head. “I’d hoped he had the sense God gave a flea and realize he wasn’t wanted around here. Never could stand that boy.”
“You know him, then?” I asked, curiosity rising.
Mr. Olsen raised his bushy, graying eyebrow. “He was best friends with Jenna’s boyfriend back in high school.”
“But she’s gotta be—”
“Twenty-four, almost twenty-five. So, this was more than six years gone. That boy’s always been selfish and needy,” Mr. Olsen mumbled, turning away.
I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, thinking about the raised, red marks on Jenna’s wrist. “You think he’ll hurt her?” I asked.
The older man’s shoulders sagged forward further. “He already has.”
3
Jenna
My hands clenched around nothing and I missed that small piece of red flannel in my hand. Taking pills in front of Cam lacked professionalism, but their needed calm became vital as I slid further into the past.
Ben’s visit upset me more than I wanted to admit. More than it should.
Pop-pop settled his hand on my shoulder, squeezing before his usual three pats. That continuity was one of the best traits in my grandfather. My expectations always met with reality. I breathed out a sigh, letting some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
“I’ve asked you not to set up appointments when I’m here alone. What if Cam was looking to steal from us? Or…” I racked my brain trying to think up something worse.
“You know I had those surveillance cameras insta
lled a couple years back,” Pop-pop said as he settled himself into his chair.
He winced and my anger dissipated in a cloud of concern. Before I could open my mouth to ask about his doctor’s appointment, he continued.
“We’ve got cameras in the parking lot, the front room, back here, and in the workshop. Nearly a hundred of ‘em. Figured if I was going to do it, might as well do it up right.” His sharp gaze held mine. “Which is why I want to talk about the visitor you had before Cam showed up.”
For the second time this morning, my mouth worked before my vocal cords. “H-how did you know?”
He pulled out his cell phone. “They created an app for everything.”
I snorted at that truth. J. Olsen—the company or the man—never stood on history simply for its sake. While the traditional ways of crafting a guitar brought my grandfather to prominence, upgrading his process—and patenting it—made him wealthy.
“Want to tell me why Ben was here before nine this morning?”
“He stopped by to say hello,” I said, proud my voice remained level.
“Jenna.” My grandfather’s voice filled with censure. “It’s not like that young man to do much of anything that doesn’t directly benefit his ego.”
I smiled, but it was bittersweet. Pop-pop had never liked any of my boyfriends. If I’d gone with my grandfather’s gut instinct and never said yes to that first date with Robbie, I’d be carrying a lot less emotional baggage around.
Up in Seattle, with Abbi, I had a bad experience once with drug-laced chocolates—put me in a coma and nearly cost me my life. That experience had humbled me to the point where I needed my family, wanted their advice before I stepped out on my own again, but that didn’t mean I planned to follow every bit of it. That would be like putting socks on a cat. I’d spend all my time trying to shake off the warmth only to realize it was keeping me from frostbite.
“Nothing important.”
“Did he threaten you?” Pop-pop asked.
“No. Mainly, he wanted to laugh at how pathetic my existence was.” I winced, realizing too late that I was talking to my business partner as well as my grandfather.
Deep in the Heart: An Austin After Dark Book Page 3