“Because, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, you’re the co-owner of a multi-million-dollar business?”
I squeezed my grandfather’s age-spotted hand. “Because I wasn’t his—or Robbie’s, or some other successful athlete’s—arm candy. Me, being part of something successful on my own, never occurred to him. His brain can’t comprehend such miracles as independence.”
Pop-pop leaned forward and braced his elbows on his thighs. “You don’t need a man, Jenna-dove. You got your two hands.” He rubbed his thumbs across the back of my hands, his rough skin catching on my own. “A great mind.” He smiled. “And more creativity in your pinky finger than most people have in their whole bodies.”
I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you for believing in me,” I whispered, head against his shoulder, unable to get my vocal cords to do more.
“That’s the easiest part of all. I’m proud of you.”
For him, maybe. But to my father, I’d always be a disappointment. In part because of my gender, in part because of my fall-apart my senior year in high school when the pressure for perfection all became too much.
After a quick squeeze to my sides, Pop-pop pulled back. “Now. We have a guitar to make.” He grinned. “Rather, you have a guitar to make for that country music legend.”
“You think he will be?” I asked, something in my throat catching at the thought of Cam surrounded by adoring fans. “I mean, his voice is distinctive. His speaking voice. I didn’t hear him sing.” I sealed my lips shut. Time to stop talking before the cat and her litter of kittens was out of the bag.
The twinkle in my grandfather’s eye proved not only was the whole passel out, but Pop-pop approved of my crush. While part of me thrilled at the idea, to finally have his approval with someone I wanted to get to know better, the other part—still traumatized by my last foray into the world of romance—trembled and wanted to hide.
I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since Robbie. That relationship burned in a pileup of hurt and flames more intense than any country song. And the last man I chose to hook up with was an accessory in my would-be death.
I made the face my mom called “sour lemon”. My history with men looked worse than Al Capone’s rap sheet. Thankfully, not as long.
“Well, Cam’s got the looks, the talent, and he writes songs that aren’t stupid or cheesy or forced on him by an idiot executive I see so often nowadays. He’s already scored multiple platinum singles and has a couple Grammy nods. That boy’s someone to reckon with, and he wants you to work with him.”
My heart fluttered but in a good way. “So fast! I took four months on Clay’s.”
“While you worked on six other projects. But you’re almost finished with those now.” He tapped my nose. “Deadlines are good for you. Makes you plan out your time and focus your energy.” Pop-pop stood, slapping his knees. “You got that and then some, Jenna-dove. Come on. Let’s go pick out the wood you’ll need.”
I trailed behind him, my body beginning to ache with fatigue from the weight I carried around in my head. I was just me, a girl who was too scared, maybe too scarred, to return to university and finish my degree. That’s part of how I ended up here. And that’s why building my reputation meant building a lot of guitars. The best guitars. Instruments worthy of Pop-pop’s workshop.
Not an ideal solution, but then, three years ago I almost died. Shocked by the experience, thrilled to still hug my mother, my siblings, Pop-pop, and my friends, the euphoria of taking a deep breath didn’t leave me for months. Neither did the obsessive fear that ingesting food or drink from anyone’s kitchen but my mother’s—and sometimes even then—would lead to my demise. Leaving the house took more courage than I’d anticipated. Eating out again caused me to break out in a cold sweat and hives.
My grandfather saw a young woman fighting for a future.
Me? When I looked in the mirror, I saw the same blue eyes and golden hair he did. But with a shit-ton of determination to be better than any of them expected because of all the failures I’d accrued before I hit twenty-one.
I cradled the phone between my ear and my shoulder, mainly because my hands shook too hard for me to hold the device in place.
“Hello?” Cam’s deep voice caused a pleasant ripple through my belly. Not caring about my dates the last few years made the situation both easier and harder—I didn’t know how to deal with my flutters or the heat sweeping through my torso.
“Hi. Cam?” Breathy Marilyn Monroe and I had never met before this moment.
“Speaking. Is this Jenna?”
Much as I wanted to clear my throat, that seemed worse than going with the breathy version of my voice. “It is.” Wrong. I cleared my throat. “I’ve picked out some samples for you to approve. After you have the wood chosen, we can go over the schedule for the build out.”
“I’m tied up until five-thirty, maybe a little longer. Want to meet up then?”
Pop-pop liked to take off at four for his weekly bingo game. The thought of spending another hour or more in Cam’s company, sans supervision both thrilled and terrified me.
I drew in a deep breath through my nose.
This was a sale. Another instrument I’d create, get credit for. That thrill proved stronger than the fear.
“It may take a couple of hours,” I said. “Maybe it’d be best—”
“I don’t have anywhere else I need to be this evening, and I got the sense you wanted to jump on this project fast.”
“True. I’ll need every minute of the next few weeks to get this right. In fact, that’s one of the details I’d like to go over with you.” I pressed my lips together to stop more words from pouring out of my mouth. Cam waited, as if knowing I wasn’t finished. “So, Pop-pop’s packed up by four. Why don’t you call me to let me know you’re out front? I can unlock the door and disarm the system.”
“Glad to hear you’re taking precautions. See you then.”
My grandfather looked over and smiled, dipping his head in approval. What had I just agreed to?
I wandered back to the studio, inhaling the sharp tang of fresh cut wood, sawdust and the wood protectant Pop-pop developed and patented back in the sixties. While the guitars were a source of joy and creativity, the three patents my grandfather held were the main source of the business’s income.
For the first time in years, my heart rate picked up at the mere thought of a man. My body ignited at the memory of our one touch. I settled back onto my stool, forcing Camden Grace’s gravelly voice, those thick biceps and luscious brown eyes from my mind. Which meant I must stop dwelling on the fact I wanted to spend more time with Cam. I pulled my hands from the table and balled them into fists.
I had work to do. Work that required focus.
Desiring Cam was one thing. Acting on it another.
I would not act on my newfound crush. Because Cam might well turn out to be another Robbie. Or, worse, another Ben or Charles.
Then, he’d be one of the long line of men who screwed me over.
Been there, done that. Not looking for a repeat.
Ever.
4
Cam
I checked the door first. Locked, as promised. I sighed in relief.
Maybe I was overreacting to the ex-frat boy this morning, but I didn’t think so. He was trouble with a capital T.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I got to Jenna’s tiny, smiling picture. Her arm slung over Kai Luchia’s shoulder and another attractive woman. Jenna used to be close with Kai, the lead singer of Lummi Nation—at least according to the details I’d read about her today. Yeah, I spent way too long on Google searching for more information about a young woman I had no business stepping out with.
Once again, as it had when I saw the original pictures earlier, jealousy gnawed at the back of my throat. Not something I wanted to inspect too closely. The idea of anyone brushing their lips over Jenna’s lush, red mouth had me ready to punch a wall—or better yet, the asshole doing
the kissing—square in the throat.
“Hello? Cam?”
“Hey,” I said, pulling myself out of my daydream. “I’m out front.”
“Be there in a sec.”
I clicked off when Jenna appeared through the glass-fronted window. This morning I’d scoped the shop as I left, noting its cameras as well as the double-paned glass door and windows. With the cost of the instruments in the space, Jenna and her grandfather should have more security measures in place.
Not my problem. Except I’d made Jenna my problem. As soon as I stepped in the door this morning and my mind slowed to a reasonable rate, uncluttered and focused for the first time in ages, I’d known I was going to come back for another hit of her mind-clearing medicine.
And another.
Until I sucked Jenna dry and had to move on, heartbroken I’d destroyed her just as I had the trail of women in my past. My very own Trail of Tears.
But, no…I wouldn’t do that again. I wouldn’t. I’d made a point the last couple of years to stay uninvolved, unencumbered, as I tried to sort through all the bad in my life. Then, my father up and died and didn’t give me the satisfaction of clearing out the guilt.
After letting me in, Jenna pulled the door shut and locked the bolts again. I didn’t miss her gaze drifting up and down the street. Worried about the man here earlier, then. The faint stirrings of guilt I felt at telling her grandfather dissipated.
“Let’s head back into the workshop. There’s something I want to show you before we talk about the detailing.”
I gestured for her to lead the way and I enjoyed the view. My brain didn’t know where to settle: her hips swinging; those long, luscious legs; or even the bright bounce of her thick ponytail that played peek-a-boo with her sleek neck. She had a freckle on the back of her left ear.
Just one. At least the only one I’d noticed, which made me wonder if there were more under her clothes. I wanted to nibble that spot, wrap my tongue around the tiny, dark blot and suck until she moaned.
“After hearing about your quick turnaround, I thought maybe we could find a good fit with one of the instruments I’d started making to build up inventory. It’s no one’s commission—just a personal project I wanted to take on.”
“You mean you’ve done more than the commissions? I thought those kept you really busy?”
“They do. But when I work, I don’t have to think… I like to stay busy.”
Well, now. She might want to fall back on the workaholic aspect—that sounded awful familiar—but her unintentional slip of work keeping her mind off the war in her head. Yeah, that I got all too well. Not unlike how I came about with my practice guitar.
She glanced back at me, and I shoved my hands in my pockets so I didn’t try to soothe the worry from those thick-lashed eyes. Brown, not black like most women’s. After watching Kim’s makeup routine enough times, I’d learned the black came from a tube. Same as Kim’s golden curls. I’d bet money none of Jenna came from bottles.
I frowned, thinking of the pills she’d taken this morning. Maybe more of her did than I wanted to acknowledge.
Jenna pulled the skeleton of a guitar’s body toward her. The bell was wide like the one she’d shown me earlier but sleeker. She passed it to me and I turned it to the left before flipping it over.
“Why did you do this?” I asked, pointing at the wider sound chamber.
“I wanted to see if I could get the same resonance in a sleeker body.”
“Did it work?”
She nibbled at her lower lip. “Mostly. The sound’s a little different. But I thought, with the music you sing, your distinctive voice…maybe it’ll be an asset.”
“You’ve listened to my music?” I mean, sure, I had millions of fans and lots of hits, thanks to years where I buried myself in work after Kim’s death, but Jenna listening was different somehow.
Jenna dropped her eyes, busying herself with another piece of flannel. Her cheeks flushed red. “I downloaded a few songs today.” She met my gaze and her face flushed again. “Erm, actually, I downloaded three of your albums.”
This woman grew up in a world of talent—the highest echelons of it—so for her to like my music buoyed my ego. Better than I’d received from my father, who’d hated every one of my career choices.
“Ranching’s been in this family for more than two hundred years. That’s a sight longer’n most people hold onto much of anything. Only one who didn’t follow that path was my brother, and he died at twenty-seven, doing just what you want to do.”
“What?” I asked.
“I tried to hand you that legacy, but you want to throw it away to drop out of aeroplanes? Just like Jensen did.”
“Jensen?” I paused, recalling the name. “I thought that was your first name.”
Dad glared harder. “Where’d you see that?”
“On my birth certificate. The Army asked for it.”
Dad crossed his thick arms across his chest and squinted into the fading summer sun. “Just when your mama’s finally done worrying about you splatting in some place we can’t pronounce, you’ve gone and decided to take up something foolish like music?” My father, his thick brown mustache bristling with frustration, shook his head and turned away. “First career choice and you coulda died. This go-round is about vanity. I don’t have anything else to say.”
And he hadn’t, not about Jensen—the man’s name on my birth certificate or my brother’s disappearance—since Kim’s death. When I enlisted at nineteen, I thought he, like my mother, worried about my safety. But after that “conversation” four years ago, I’d realized I was simply a disappointment. One my father couldn’t abide, not even for my mother. Which was why I’d recorded everything I could after Kim’s death and before my separation from the Army. In those many long months of desk-work—no more active combat for this grieving Ranger—I honed my songwriting and recorded songs for my thousands of fans, thanks to my Army buddy’s YouTube skills.
Which meant my next career, in part, fell into my lap. One that paid way better than Army wages and gave me a way to hire and protect many of my brothers-in-arms.
“Do you want to play it?” Jenna asked, bringing me out of my reflection.
“How? There aren’t any frets.”
Jenna picked up a finished neck and clamped it to the body of the guitar. “This isn’t the fretboard for this guitar, and the clips will distort the sound a little,” she said. Her hands moved with speed and grace to attach a set of strings. “Okay. See what you think.”
I took the partial instrument from her, turning it over to look at the wood she’d used. It still needed a finished overlay and all the pretty dressing, but the instrument was well-crafted with tight joints. In fact, unless I looked closely, I couldn’t see any seams.
My frown deepened as I settled the instrument against my thigh. I’d never considered the pressure of telling a beautiful woman I hated her design before. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my hand shook almost as much as Jenna’s had this morning when she handed me some of the guitars she’d made.
I strummed a D-chord, my favorite, with tentative fingers. The sound, as Jenna said, was shallower than the instruments I’d played this morning, but still imbued with a richness that mass-produced instruments couldn’t replicate.
I tried a C chord, then B. Glancing up, I began the melody to my favorite song, watching Jenna’s face as I picked out the tune. Her eyes flitted from my fingers on the frets down to the body and sound chamber before her brows tugged low. She picked up a small notebook and wrote a few words before setting it down and re-focusing on my finger work.
“Sing.”
I startled. “What?”
“While you play. Sing. That way you get an idea of how your instrument—” she patted the front of her throat “—works with this instrument.”
“You just want a free concert, sugar.”
She laid her pen and notebook down and reached for the guitar, but I jerked it backward.
“Which I’m more than happy to oblige.”
She frowned, adding a scathing look as I continued to pluck out the melody. I waited until she picked up her pen and notepad again.
I bent forward, closer to the instrument. For some reason, singing here in this saw-dust-covered space to Jenna blasted me with nerves I hadn’t felt in years. I’d played packed-out stadiums in some of the biggest cities in the world, so no reason this intimate setting should bother me. This moment wasn’t different from singing to the guys in our bunkhouse. Except Jenna was a beautiful woman and not a scared nineteen-year-old about to embark on his first—or last—mission into hell.
The words tore from my throat. Words of loss and sorrow and frustrated exhaustion brought on by too many missions and too many lives lost.
I stopped strumming as my voice faded.
“Golly gee wonky whump,” Jenna whispered. Her eyes were wide and her mouth popped open. “Your voice.”
She hopped off her stool and walked out of the workroom, fanning her face as she mumbled to herself.
I liked the idea of Jenna getting lathered up with my voice. Yep, I liked that idea.
Until I remembered I used to sing to Kim, too. That’s how I wooed her.
And that action—bringing that woman into my family—was the reason my father and I never mended our relationship. And now he was dead and I couldn’t.
5
Jenna
I’d jumped off my chair, spouting nonsense to gain space. Now I glanced back to find Cam’s eyes shuttered, as if he too felt the need to end our time alone. Not that I blamed him. For a man I didn’t know, we connected somehow—through physical awareness but also some deeper emotion that seemed impossible for someone I’d met less than twelve hours before.
I didn’t do this connection thing anymore. I kept people at arm’s length—or further. Bat length more like it. My fingers curled into a fist because I missed the reassuring weight of the metal bat I’d taken to carrying around after some guys threatened my friend Abbi Dorsey.
Deep in the Heart: An Austin After Dark Book Page 4