by J. D. Brick
I pick up my journal. The Mont Blanc pen my dad worked extra hours for weeks to buy is tucked into the next blank page. I only use the pen for my journal writing. It’s the best gift anyone has ever given me. I fiddle with the pen for a moment, wanting to write down what’s happened so far that day as a way to stop it from swirling around in my head. But that would violate my fourth and final journal rule: no writing about a day until it has ended. I want each day’s thoughts and feelings to percolate until just before I’m ready to fall asleep. Only then will what pours out of the Mont Blanc be truly ready for the page. At least that’s what I’d decided when I created my journal rules.
Fourteen-year-olds can be overly dramatic. I was no exception. But I’ve never broken the rules. So I tuck the pen into the page and put the journal back on the floor. My dad doesn’t even know I’ve moved. He’s got enough to worry about without knowing some crazy guy is stalking me.
My phone’s in the crate that holds my bedding and towels. I turned it off last night, and I haven’t touched it since. I pull my sheets out of the crate and stare at the phone: dark, silent and non-threatening. For the moment, anyway.
I quickly tuck the mattress pad into place, then whip the bright pink fitted sheet over the bed, grimacing as it settles into place. Lily Pulitzer sheets, lime green and bright pink. No one but my grandmother would think to buy those for me. Virginia Cooke Hudson, proud descendant of a family that traces its roots all the way to the Mayflower, doesn’t really know me at all. And yet, in her own way, she is attempting to repair the rift that’s grown between us.
Maybe. Or maybe she’s playing another mind game. I wouldn't put it past her. But I’d accepted the sheets anyway and started my sophomore year with a dorm room fit for a prepster. The bedding doesn’t really seem to work with the college grunge vibe of my new surroundings, but it is all I have. I finish making up the bed, then stick the journal and phone under my pillow. I’ll have to deal with both of them later.
I step through the open window after dark that night, clutching my phone in one hand, my journal and pen in the other, and shaking my head to get Just Brenna’s curtains out of my face. I sit cautiously on the flat roof that extends over the front porch.
I should be grateful to Blue for occupying my thoughts most of the afternoon. He’s taken the place of the suffocating sense of panic that’s been my constant companion for the last month. Lust—or whatever it is that won’t let me stop thinking about Blue—is definitely better than panic.
A huge oak tree with spreading branches stands in front of the house, its massive trunk touching the bricks that have turned the front yard into a parking lot. Several of the branches reach over the roof, with one scraping the tiles near my bedroom windows. The light from my room reveals the deep rust hue of the leaves. I love the colors of autumn. For years, our family took an annual fall foliage trip around the state, starting at the sprawling Cooke ranch in the northeast corner and driving slowly south through the Ouachita Mountains into what used to be the Choctaw Nation in southeast Oklahoma. I can still remember being awed by the miles of vibrant red, yellow and rust-colored trees.
My Grandpa—my dad’s dad, who grew up in Southeast Oklahoma—made it a tradition on the trip to tell us the story of his mother Lillian, who at 16 had fallen deeply in love with a tall, handsome Choctaw boy she was forbidden to see. After being caught when they tried to run away together, the Choctaw boy mysteriously left town in a hurry, and my great-grandmother was forced to marry an older man approved by her father. Lillian lived to be 99 years old and, according to Grandpa, never forgot her lost love. She died when I was six. I have a wispy memory of a frail woman always wrapped in blankets, with melancholy eyes and gnarled hands that would grab hold of me and refuse to let go. The shades of autumn are now seared into my imagination, infused with the story of Lillian’s tragic romance. I can never see a tree in its fall glory without thinking about it. I don’t even know for sure the story is true. Grandpa was legendary for his tall tales. But he’d always sworn this one was for real.
My phone slips off my leg and comes to rest with a thud on the roof. I shake my head. Get back to reality. Get yourself together. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push the power button on the phone. I’ve been out of contact for almost 24 hours. The phone seems to take forever to come back to life. I wait to see notifications for missed calls and texts, my stomach knotted. Fifteen calls from Daily staff. If I'd turned the phone off on a weekday, it would have been far more. A buttload of texts from staff members too, mainly from Jason, the managing editor. He’s probably wondering what the hell’s going on, why I haven't responded. I always pick up the phone and answer texts right away.
Five calls from Megan, my former roommate. Not surprising, considering how I bolted out of our dorm room. She’s texted me several times as well.
Hey, are you OK? And an hour later: Hey, where are you?? Then: OK, you are freaking me out. I NEED TO FUCKING HEAR FROM YOU, WOMAN!!!!!
One of the things I love about Megan is that even her texts are grammatically correct. No single letters taking the place of words, no missing punctuation, not even any asterisks replacing letters in her curse words. She loves to read, just like me. She’s a word nerd, like me. We only knew each other slightly in high school, but we were the only kids in the school going to Ikana, so we decided to room together freshman year and again sophomore year. And now I’ve abandoned her.
I’m OK, Megz. I type, feeling guilty. Sorry to worry you. I miss you already. I’ll come by tomorrow and spill all the details.
Within seconds, my phone buzzes with a reply: Dear God, you’d better have a damn good explanation for scaring the shit out of me like this!!!!!!! Then: Just kidding…sort of. I know why you did it. I’m just glad you’re OK. I still don’t think moving out in the middle of the fucking night was your only option, but. . .
Then: OK, I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you KeeKee.
I smile as I type. Love you too Megz...
There’s been no further word from the stalker. That’s a minor miracle. I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, then smile again as I look up at the stars. Maybe it’s all going to work out. I open my journal and start to write.
CHAPTER THREE
Blue to the Rescue
Blue
I went to bed early. I really need a decent night’s sleep. But half an hour later, I’m still staring up at the ceiling, sweating and cursing the house’s cheap bastard owner in Toronto. The son-of-a-bitch won’t spring for decent air conditioning. Time to remind him yet again who kept his dumbass sons out of jail last year. They’d ended up having to scurry back to Canada to Daddy’s protection anyway. But at least, thanks to me, they aren’t rotting in prison. Mr. Money Bags did show his gratitude by letting me stay in the Embassy rent-free. But he’s not grateful enough to do much more than that. So we are left to sweat whenever it gets too hot for the decrepit window units in the bedrooms to keep things cool. And when the mercurial Oklahoma weather changes yet again, we’ll be freezing. The house has a fireplace that was sealed up long ago, but no central heat.
I sit up and switch on the lamp next to the bed, then grab the guitar leaning against the nightstand. The instrument's dinged wood has almost as many battle scars as I do. That guitar has kept me sane, or at least saner than I would have been without it. No doubt in my mind about that. I’ll never get rid of it. Plus, it was the last communication I’ll ever have from my old man, his peace offering. Or all the peace offering Bill Danube had been capable of making.
All I have to do is ignore the names scrawled near the bottom. I pull my thumb across the strings, remembering how my hand twitched when I'd stepped toward Keegan that morning. I had to make a fist to keep from reaching up and pulling my thumb across her cheek. She looked scared to death for some reason, and I was barely able to stop myself from folding her into my arms. I can’t help feeling protective around women. Mama tells me it’s because I am one of the good guys. But that instinct has
sure gotten me into plenty of trouble.
Sweat runs down my back. I jump off the bed and head out to the front porch, still holding my guitar. Maybe I can play for a while out where it’s cooler. I slump into the squeaking porch swing and bring the guitar to rest on my lap. But a chirping army of cicadas shatters my plans. It sounds like the fucking middle of July outside. Too much damn noise to be able to focus on my music.
The house is quiet, though. Hunter went out around seven and won’t be back until very late, if he comes back at all. He usually gets lucky. Hunter can talk most girls into anything, at least until they get to know him better. And even then, a lot of girls are willing to give him a pass. I guess he’s that good. Or maybe it’s the whole bad-boy shit with the piercings and the treat-’em-like-dirt attitude. It’s all so fucking fake. But the girls, at least the ones who are into the bad boys, don’t seem to care.
Kendra has apparently not been home since before last night’s party, and I didn't even notice. I have no idea where she is. She's gotten quieter, more withdrawn lately, and I’m pretty sure that has something to do with me. I play a couple of chords. I should just stay away from women altogether. Then I hear noises from the roof above me. Keegan’s light is shining into the tree in the front yard. I slip the guitar over my shoulder and jump off the porch, looking up to see Keegan sitting on the roof with her back against the window.
“Hey, bar girl. . .you discovered the best spot in the whole house.”
She sniffs a couple of times, then clears her throat. “Hey.” It’s obvious she’s been crying.
“What's wrong?”
A long pause. “Nothing.”
“Doesn't sound like nothing.”
And that seems to open the floodgates. She starts sobbing. It’s too dark to see her face, but I can clearly hear the waterworks and picture her brown eyes, the thick lashes soaked with tears. Just like Aziza's eyes. Just like Aziza's tears. So I do exactly what I just told myself I wasn’t going to do anymore. I come to the rescue. Just like with Aziza. And of course, I can’t take the stairs to Keegan's room like a normal person. Mr. Blue to the Rescue has to make a big entrance.
So I whirl around toward the tree and jump up into the lowest branches, the guitar still on my back.
“What are you doing?”
Keegan sounds shocked, but also, I could swear, a little excited. I turn to grin at her as I begin to climb. “I’m coming to see you.”
Keegan
Most romantic thing any guy’s ever done for me, and we aren’t even dating. Shirtless and with a guitar slung over his shoulder, Blue scrambles up the tree like Romeo climbing the balcony for Juliet. And then he sits on the branch that extends toward my window, puts his feet on the roof, pulls the guitar to his chest and begins to sing. His voice is like his smile, deep and warm, with a gravelly hint of mischief in it. I’ve never heard the song before, but it’s one of those slow, poignant numbers that should set a loiny lass like me on fire. Instead, I burst into tears. Again.
Blue stops singing. “Not exactly the reaction I was going for.” He looks a little hurt. And that makes me cry even harder.
“I’m sorry,” I blubber. “I’m really sorry. It’s a beautiful song and you sing it so well. It’s just that. . .” I wipe my nose on my arm. Too late to think about how disgusting that looks. “The song just got to me. It’s just that I’m feeling a little overwhelmed right now and. . .” I snort a couple of times and fight back the urge to wipe my nose again.
I’d just finished writing in my journal, just been writing about how things were looking up, when I received another text from the stalker.
“You want to talk about it?” Yes. ““No, no, it's not even your problem. I mean, I know we're living together now. Well, not living together but. . .” I’m stammering. And blushing. There’s that unbelievably sexy grin again. I take a deep breath. “Thanks, Blue, I really appreciate your concern. But I'll work through it.” I use my editor's tone: controlled, calm, a little distant. Probably too late to pull that out, but it's all I have.
Blue looks down at his guitar for a minute, idly strumming the strings. When he speaks, his voice is soft and soothing. “Do you know who wrote the song I was singing, Keegan?”
I shake my head.
“The Great One himself wrote that song.”
For a minute, I have no idea who he’s talking about. Then it hits me. “Oh, you mean Frasier whatshisname? The dying cow guy?”
Blue groans. Then he gives me a smile that practically splits his face in two. It’s enough to make me stop crying. And definitely enough to light up my damn loins. I've lost control of my own body.
“I can tell you’re going to be a challenging pupil, roomie,” he says, “but I promise you, I’m up for—”
I scream as he wobbles backwards, grabbing the branch above him just in time. “Oh my God, come up here before you fall off!” I reach one hand toward him while clutching the window frame with the other. “You scared me to death.”
He crawls toward me, the guitar hanging off his chest, and I grab one of his arms to help him up, relieved when he finally settles down next to me. My fingertips burn a little where I touched him.
“Mission accomplished.” He’s still grinning. It takes me a minute to process what he said.
“Wait, did you do that on purpose?” I try to put on a severe expression, but quickly give up the effort. I am too busy wondering how bad my face looks after all my blubbering, now that he’s so close. Blue's grin deepens when I punch the rock-hard arm I’ve just been holding. “I ought to push you off here right now.”
“Hey, you’re not crying anymore, so I’d say you should be thanking me instead.”
Impossible not to smile back at him. “OK, I’ll give you that. But don’t do it again. I don’t think my heart can take it.”
“Deal.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, listening to the night sounds. The wind has picked up, and Just Brenna’s curtains whip in and out of the windows. I finally break the silence. “Why does Hunter call the girl who used to live in my room Just Brenna?”
Blue stares at the tree for a moment. His eyes, bathed in the light from my room, glow in a way that’s almost eerie. He’s got to be wearing contacts.
“It’s the way she always referred to herself,” he answers my question with a sigh. “‘Hey, it’s Just Brenna.’ It’s like she was always trying to make herself seem as insignificant as possible, like she was apologizing for even existing.”
“Oh. That’s kind of sad.”
“Yeah.” He looks down at his arm and traces the tattoo on it with his finger. “Probably some deep psychological issues there. I never got to know her very well. She just moved into the house in August. And then, one day, she packs up and just takes off. No note, nothing. She didn’t answer calls or texts.” He shrugs. “It was the morning after a party that kind of got out of control. Kendra thinks something happened to Brenna at the party. I don’t know. My gut tells me it had something to do with Hunter.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs again, and his eyes grow hard and angry. “Just the way Hunter acted after she left. Something happened. He wouldn’t admit to anything, of course. He can be a mean son-of-a-bitch.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I got that impression the first time I met him. Naked and all.”
Blue laughs bitterly and pulls his thumb down the guitar strings. Then he smiles up at me. “But, hey, Brenna leaving meant that Keegan ‘Bar Girl’ Crenshaw could move in. And that’s a good thing.” He stares intently at me, the way he did on the stairs. Again, I feel a little freaked out. It’s too much, too fast.
“So,” I say lightly, needing to change the subject, “the dying cow guy wrote that song, huh? Well, I’ll bet you sing it a whole lot better than he ever did.”
Blue hangs his head as if he just can’t believe what he is hearing. “I sure have my work cut out for me. But like I told you before, bar girl, I'm up for the challenge. In fact, I'm
looking forward to it.” This time his smile is gradual; it starts at his mouth and climbs his face slowly, finally settling in his eyes. It’s unbelievably sensual. And it is completely intentional. Blue Danube is doing his best to seduce me.
“So...” I slap my hands over my eyes without even thinking about it, then pull them away and fasten them to my knees. Now I really need to change the subject. “So how did you end up here at Ikana? I mean, you’re not in the military anymore, right? You got out?”
He seems startled. “Honorably discharged.” His tone has abruptly changed; it’s sharp and a little defensive. “I was honorably discharged. . .after an injury.” He looks away. He seems to be struggling to speak for a moment. I've said something wrong, but I’m not sure why.
“Yeah so, Ikana is the only place I wanted to come,” he finally continues, “because of the Great One, obviously.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“You really know nothing about Bryson, huh?”
“Like I said before, my mom might have mentioned him, but I'm not even certain that's who she was talking about. He's sure not a household name.”
Then I add, teasingly, “But I didn't even know who Johnny Cash was, so what do I know?”
Blue shakes his head. “Bryson never got the recognition he deserved in the 60s and 70s. He dropped out of the scene for a long time and became kind of a hermit. Then about 20 years ago, he decided he wanted to teach. He’s the one that started the music program at Ikana.”
I nod. I’ve heard the college has a great music program, and that it is hard to get accepted into it.
“So I wanted to get here before Bryson retired. Or died. He’s an old man now.” He’s smiling again. “I had to finagle an audition in front of him because I missed the deadline to apply. Turns out he has a soft spot for soldiers. It was awesome. I’ll have to tell you that whole story sometime.” His face has softened; for a second, he looks like a little kid.