“Tish. Stop. No, I did not think you were like Debbie. Although you did come on a little strong to someone like me who’s admittedly gun shy.” He was teasing me now, but my heart was racing. I didn’t want to ever be a Debbie. Or an Yvette.
“It was while I was there that I met Debbie’s trainer, Heather.”
“Oh, great. I don’t think I can bear hearing another horror story.”
“Patience, Tish.” He sounded more relaxed. Maybe he was in bed. The thought made me a little short of breath. “Heather Finch. Heather took me under her wings—yes, pun intended—and helped me to sort a few things out. She was the reason I stayed as long as I did, in fact. But Tish, Heather was old enough to be my mother, and treated me like a son. It was Heather who taught me to play the guitar, who sat beside me while I discovered how to channel all the pent-up anger and frustration and resentment I’d cocooned myself in for so long into this outlet called music. And it was Heather who introduced me to her boyfriend, Patrick Hyde, a guy who seemed to agree with Heather in thinking I had some kind of special gift.”
“Oh, wow.” I stopped pacing, caught up in the story that had brought Sebastian into my life.
“Heather convinced Mr. Hyde to let me sit in on some of his classes. She knew enough about my circumstances to know that I couldn’t afford to be there otherwise. I went to a composition class the first semester last year. But then over the holidays, the two of them had some kind of a falling out and went their separate ways. Of course, I took her side, even though I had no clue what had happened. But Mr. Hyde started calling me—on my cell and at work—and I finally answered, just to get him off my back. He told me she’d left me her Breedlove guitar, that she wanted me to have it, but I’d have to take one more of Mr. Hyde’s classes if I wanted it.”
“Oh, wow,” I said again. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”
“At first I refused. I wanted nothing to do with him. I was sure he’d broken her heart, you know? Until he told me she wouldn’t take it back. That if I didn’t want it, he was to give it to someone else.” He laughed dryly. “She knew me well enough to hedge her bet that I wouldn’t want that guitar in anyone else’s hands, so I came to class.”
“An angry little boy.” I suddenly recalled the list of things I’d called him written in my notebook.
“Exactly. And when you introduced yourself as Mr. Hyde’s favorite? Titia the Temptress, as much as I wanted to—to—well, Hell would have to freeze over before my pride would let me. But for the rest of the semester, it just about killed me not to talk to you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
“Wait. What exactly did you want to—to—” I teased him with his own words.
“Do you remember what happened on Tom’s tailgate at about… oh, maybe 10:58 last night?” He was doing that purring thing again, making my skin vibrate just below the surface. It was very nice.
“Yes.” The word came out like a breath.
“That’s what I wanted to do. Right there in the back row of Mr. Hyde’s Music Theory III class.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sebastian was late. And this time, we really needed him here because the point of the next several practices was to prepare him to take over for Tom altogether. No one could afford to add another rehearsal in this week, and although we only had a small private show on Saturday, and the following Friday, we’d be back at Taylors… without Tom. We didn’t wait for Sebastian, but jumped right in, warming up and getting the juices flowing, wanting to be ready when he did show.
At 7:20, frustrated and more than a little worried, I finally pulled out my phone and texted him.
JollyRockerTBird: You coming?
He didn’t respond, so we moved to the next cover song on the list. But as we broke into the chorus of Imagine Dragons’ “Demons,” Sebastian pushed through the back door behind Sly, the one that led in from the side of the house. I glanced at Tom; he kept singing, but was already shifting positions to make room for Sebastian. The frown on his face told me he was having some pretty significant second thoughts about the guy.
Sebastian pulled his phone from his back pocket, presumably read my text, and then powered it down. He didn’t look at me or acknowledge it in any way, but maneuvered around Sly, and wound his way through the equipment to stand next to Tom. He kept his head down while he efficiently strapped on his Strat and plugged in. He was clearly agitated, his hair messy and falling forward into his face, his overshirt sleeves sloppily rolled up just below his elbows.
When “Demons” was over, Tom unplugged, called out the next song on the list, and asked Sebastian if he knew it. At Sebastian’s one-word answer, Tom signaled Jon to count us off, then slipped out the door and dropped into a seat behind the mixing board.
Sebastian stepped up to the microphone facing me, lifted his gaze to mine, and began to sing.
My eyes widened a little, but I didn’t freak out. I’d seen many a black eye in my house before. This one, however, was fresh. Really fresh. And I knew he hadn’t been sporting one on Friday night. It was a right hook kind of shiner that didn’t quite break the skin but probably should have. His hair, usually swept back in a pseudo pompadour, hung down over that side of his face, I now realized, in an attempt to mask the worst of the damage.
I kept it together through three more songs, and then I’d had enough. I held up my arm and tapped my wrist. “Break time, guys.” I could tell, just by watching Sebastian, that even the pounding of the music was hurting him. “Mom made some blondies for us.”
As everyone began filing out, I stepped in front of Sebastian and put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Wait. Please.” When the room was cleared, I reached up to sweep aside his hair so I could get a better look at his eye. I might have been able to convince myself I’d imagined it if I hadn’t been paying such close attention to him, but every muscle in his body went rigid, his shoulders hunching defensively for just a moment. I paused with my hand up where he could see it, and then moved again, more slowly. “I just want to look. Hold still.”
Mom taught me early on that wounded men often reacted to their women’s reactions. “If you remain calm, they remain calm.” I didn’t know if I was technically his woman yet, but I figured I was at least well on my way to it. Sebastian watched me intently, gauging my reaction, so I played it cool. “You need to get some ice on that thing,” I said, trying not to panic. The swollen brow didn’t worry me nearly as much as the fact that most of the white of his left eye was actually bright red. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
“No! It’s not nothing,” I retorted, almost more worried now than I’d been before he showed up. “How bad is the other guy?” I grabbed his wrists and turned his hands over so I could look at his knuckles, expecting to find them tender and swollen, too. I didn’t know how he’d been able to play. But to my surprise, his beautiful hands were uninjured, not a mark on them. I scowled up at him, my worry brewing into something fiercer and more protective. “Who used you as a punching bag tonight?”
He glared at me for a few seconds, his jaws clamped tightly together. It was a little intimidating; the scarlet red sclera intensifying the deep sea hue of his iris. Man, he had to be in awful pain.
“Never mind, Sebastian. Sorry I snapped.” Whatever had happened, he wasn’t going to share. No amount of cajoling on my part, kind or otherwise, was going to force it out of him, either. “You really need to let my mom look at that. Your eye—it’s all—” I stuttered to a halt. “That must hurt like mad.”
“Looks worse than it feels.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. Come on. Let’s at least get you an icepack. We have plenty of those on hand.” I wanted to grab his hand, but I could almost feel the walls he was putting up around himself. “Better hurry if you want any blondies. Mom knows to keep a few back for me, but I’m not about to give away the location of my secret stash.” There. He coul
d keep his secrets, I’d keep mine.
We sat at the dining room table away from the others gathered around the island in the kitchen. Mom did a stellar job of not reacting to the appearance of Sebastian’s eye, but she gave him the full rundown on the concussion questions. His name, age, date of birth, street address, where he worked, what year it was, and more. I pulled out my phone and pretended to text as I quickly typed in some of the information she was getting from him. I got the distinct impression she was doing a much more thorough job than was necessary, taking advantage of the situation to learn a little more about him herself. My mother was one clever girl. I wondered if Sebastian was at all suspicious of her questions, but I didn’t dare look at him, lest he get suspicious of my frantic texting in turn.
She shined a flashlight in his eye, asked him if he was dizzy or had blurred vision, and anything else she could think of before giving him a nod of approval. “Well, unless you develop any of those symptoms I just asked you about, that eyebrow should turn some ugly colors and be back to normal in a week or two. The blood in the white of your eye, though? That could take twice as long or more to fade. You’re going to get a lot of second looks, honey.” She patted his cheek gently and added, “But you’re such a handsome young man, you’re probably used to that.”
“Mom,” I warned. “Ew.”
“She says that to all of us, Jeffries.” Corny guffawed as he sauntered over to check on us. “How you doing, man?”
“I do,” Mom readily admitted. “You’re the best looking band I know. Especially that cute lead singer of yours.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
We joined the others in the kitchen again and Mom dug out one of her homemade gel cold packs in freezer bags, wrapped it in a kitchen towel, and handed it to Sebastian. “Let me know if that leaks, okay?”
He pulled it away and looked at it, then at her. “How will I know?”
I laughed and explained dryly, “It’s made with rubbing alcohol and water. Believe me, you’ll know.”
Sebastian took the pills mom gave him for the pain and swelling, held the icepack dutifully to his brow, and enjoyed the coffee and blondies with the rest of us, but something had shifted tonight, and I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. Sebastian seemed to be avoiding my gaze, and after Friday night at Taylors and how much fun we’d had on stage together backing up Tom, I felt him shutting me out. Subtly, but shut out, nonetheless.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“I can’t stay.” Sebastian said in response to my quiet invitation after practice was over. We stood close together as we unplugged our guitars and wound up cables. “But do you think I could leave my gear here this week? I won’t get much time to practice at home.”
The others had already headed out for the night, except for Tom, who had hunted down Jordan. Even though we had made up, Tom was definitely pulling away from me more and more, the closer we got to his departure date. It made me sad, but I understood. Right now, however, I was more concerned about what was happening between Sebastian and me. Not even twenty-four hours ago, we’d talked so openly and sincerely to each other late into the night, and now I could hardly get him to look at me.
“Of course. Anytime.” The barrier around him was palpable and I was at a loss as to how to cross it. “Did you get a chance to see Foster? How was he?” Sebastian had worked again today, his one weekend a month at Stodders, but I was pretty sure he’d gotten off in plenty of time to swing by and check up on the man and his dog. Then again, the state of his eye gave evidence that he’d been waylaid at one point tonight. Was it before or after checking on Foster and Pete?
“He’s fine. Slept well. Laid low all day.” His clipped answer made my stomach turn because I knew it for what it was. Lies. A gripping fear overwhelmed me, making my knees feel wobbly.
“Sebastian, who did this to you? Is it the same—is this connected to Foster somehow?”
Sebastian kept his head down, but I didn’t miss the flexing of his jaw muscles, the tightening of his mouth.
“Sebastian.” I touched his arm and he flinched, just like he had that day he’d hauled my brother off me. But this time, I didn’t pull away. I grabbed his hand, the one still holding the cord he’d been winding up, and I didn’t let go, even when he tried to pull away. “I don’t know what’s going on, but please, please let me help.” I took the cord from him and draped it over my microphone stand so I could lace my fingers with his. “I’m worried about Foster and Pete, and about you.”
He stopped tugging on his hand, but he didn’t look up at me.
“Please,” I pleaded. “You’re scaring me, Sebastian.”
Something about those words triggered a response in him. He jerked his hand from mine and crouched down to latch the clasps on his Strat case. “Where do you want me to leave my stuff?” he ground out, still avoiding making eye contact with me.
“If you’re not going to use any of it again until we practice on Thursday, you can put it against the back wall.” I pointed to an assorted collection already stashed back there, the odds and ends of our equipment, our back-up gear. “You know you’re more than welcome to come over and go through stuff with me. I’d like that,” I added, wrapping my arms tightly around my middle, infusing as much hope as I could muster into my voice.
“I won’t be back until Thursday.”
The shield I’d made with my arms did nothing to block the jagged tear of his words across my heart. I watched as he hauled his stuff through the maze of gear to the back of the room, stacking it neatly beside the jumbled mess I’d pointed to. I couldn’t decide what to do next, so I just stood there as he approached, my eyes never leaving his averted face. He had to pass right by me if he wanted to leave the way he’d come in. He stopped about two feet from me, shoved his hands in his pockets, and then lifted his shadowed eyes to mine again.
“I’m sorry I got you involved in this, Tish. I should have sent you and Ani home as soon as I got to the park last week. I’m—I’ll stick around for this gig, of course, and hopefully long enough for you to find a new guitar player, but I—I gotta get out.” His voice broke, and then faded out to a whisper.
I couldn’t even register what he was telling me for a moment, but when it hit me, I felt it like a punch to my gut. My crossed arms seemed to be the only thing holding me together. “What? No. You can’t just quit, Sebastian,” I implored as soon as I caught my breath.
“Yes. I can. And I have to. I’m trouble, Tish. You said it yourself. You’re scared.” He watched me, challenging me to contradict him, to prove him wrong… or right.
“I’m not scared of you,” I insisted adamantly, taking a step closer and poking him in the chest, none too gently. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m scared for you.”
“Ah,” he retorted, and there was that awful mocking tone I thought I’d heard the last of. “But those were your exact words, weren’t they? ‘You’re scaring me, Sebastian,’ you said.” He mimicked me in an exaggerated whine.
“Why do you have to be such a jackass?” I snapped, giving in to the childish streak inside me. I stopped poking him and instead, thumped him in the chest a few times with the side of my closed fist.
Suddenly, he had my wrist clutched tightly in one hand, his other cupping my shoulder. I could feel a slight tremor in his grip, his fingers squeezing, not painfully, but with restrained power. He leaned down so he could look me in the eye, and snarled back. “Why do you have to hit me? Why? Don’t. Hit me. Ever. Again.” The words came out choppy, sharp breaths punctuating them. His top lip curled up in a sneer that contorted his beautiful face, his one red eye glaring out from behind the strands of his hair that had fallen over his forehead again. The other eye, almost midnight-black with emotion, fixed menacingly on mine. “Are you scared of me now? Because you should be. I hurt everyone I care about eventually.” He released me suddenly, his voice twisting into a growl. “I am a monster, little girl.”
I would have been fine if not for the heavy-du
ty boom stand right behind me.
When he let go of me, I took a small step backwards. My heel came down on the round base, slipped off the edge of it, and my ankle buckled. I grappled for something to keep me upright, my fingers tangling in the cord I’d hung over the stand, and when I went down, it all followed, crashing around me. I tried to block it, to roll away from the falling metal pole, but with its upended hefty die-cast base, it came down fast, and the boom arm spun around, catching me hard across my cheekbone. The backside of the boom knocked against my stool that was in its path, but it missed me by a hair. I cried out, unable to determine which was worse, the searing agony in my face, or the pain in my heart over what I could only imagine would be the fallout of this terrible, out of control moment.
Sebastian loomed over me, his hands reaching, pulling, shoving the gear off me, his face stricken, voice broken and desperate. “Tish, oh God! Tish, please!” He kept repeating it over and over, almost like a mantra, the needle of a record player stuck on that one line. “Oh God. Tish, please!”
When he’d freed me, he knelt beside me, crouching low over my face to look at me. His fingers shook as they hovered above my throbbing cheekbone and I winced in anticipation of his touch. He mistook my expression and jerked back, his eyes wild, frantic.
“Wait, Sebastian.” I reached out and grabbed his hand. “Stop. I wasn’t afraid of you touching me.” I tried to smile and gulped as the movement pulled on the bruised tissue. “I just don’t like pain,” I explained as light-heartedly as I could muster.
He tried to tug his hand free from mine but once again, I held on. “Please.”
When he stopped pulling, I let go and got my elbow under me to sit up. Sebastian reached an arm around my back for support. I rotated my ankle but quickly discovered that miraculously, or ironically, it appeared to be perfectly fine. I had simply stepped back onto the stand at the right angle and couldn’t catch myself. The throbbing in my face was escalating and I couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped my lips.
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