by Shari Copell
“Typical. Fix everything with sex.”
“You mean sex doesn’t fix everything? I thought it was right up there with duct tape and wood glue.” He reached out and took her by the hand. “I don’t want to argue about this. I am prepared to consider some of the things you said tonight. Will you at least do the same for me?”
He’d made some good points. So had she. “Of course I will. I know you love Nicks as much as I do. I just think we approach her in different ways.”
He gave a short laugh as they turned the corner onto their street. “I totally agree with that statement.”
Riding in Stone’s Camaro was amazing. Nicks ran her hands over the black leather seats. She pushed and pulled on every knob in the dashboard. Stone kept giving her the most amused looks.
She finally sat back, satisfied. “Nice!”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Where do you work anyway? This car must have set you back some serious coin.”
“I own a D.J. business. I also work at the Consol Energy Center on Fifth Avenue. If I’m not running lights, sound, or playing guitar on the stage, I work as a roadie.”
“Really? That’s interesting.”
“I roadied for Bruce Springsteen when he played there. When he heard me tuning one of the guitars, he asked me to play with them. I was blown away.”
Envy hit Nicks in the gut. She was sure she’d never play onstage at a place like that. “I don’t like Bruce Springsteen’s music, but that must have been an awesome experience to look out at all those people.”
“It was. I almost shit my pants. The roar that went up when the Boss came onstage nearly popped my eardrums. I’d like to hear that level of enthusiasm for me and my music someday.”
So would I, she thought.
“Not much of a backseat in a Camaro. How do you haul your gear?”
“I have an old van that’s held together with body putty and zip ties. And I’m not even kidding about that.” Stone gave her the sweetest smile. A little part of her heart went boing.
She stole a glance at him. She’d always thought him attractive, even when she wanted to cut his head off with a rusty chainsaw. He smelled incredible, like secrets and spice and silken sheets. He was one of those men you see staring out from the pages of a magazine, and they couldn’t possibly be real because nobody looks like that.
She didn’t want to appear too eager toward him, but it was going to be a real effort to stay detached. It was nothing she could put her finger on, but it sort of felt like he had his own gravitational pull. She wondered what he’d do if she reached out and ran her hands through his thick hair. The thought was so tempting she shoved both fists between her knees and locked them down tight.
He’d driven all the way from Fox Chapel just to see Wild Angel. She was stunned and secretly pleased. What did that mean? Did he just want to sleep with her? Or did he want something more? The thought terrified her. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since she was fifteen.
He laughed to himself. “I can’t believe I have Nicks Sorenson in my car.”
“Was that a goal of yours?”
“Oh, hell yes!”
Embarrassed, she looked away.
Stone was definitely taking the long way around back to Oakland. He’d driven out East Carson Street and crossed the Liberty Bridge heading toward downtown Pittsburgh.
He finally parked the car outside Bigelow Square. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Going to the 7-Eleven, if you don’t mind. I’m going to get a sandwich and something to drink. You hungry?”
She wondered if he really was hungry, or if this was just a ploy to...
Stop with the doubt already. He’s trying to be nice.
“No, but I am thirsty.” She exited the car and waited on the sidewalk for him.
When he got to her, he stuck his hand out, his dark eyes ablaze with...what?
She suddenly felt awkward, socially inept, as though she’d fallen on her face in front of a group of people. Had she learned nothing from the bullying? Letting others get close to you was dangerous. It was always safer to shut them out, at least until you found out what they wanted. Sure, that hand looked innocent. It wasn’t. It was...risky.
The expression on her face must have been a doozy. He lowered his hand with a frown. “I’m sorry. Holding your hand just seemed like a nice thing to do.”
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she let it all out at once. He didn’t need to know he’d poked at a wound that should’ve healed long ago. That was her problem, not his.
“It’s okay. You surprised me, that’s all.” She offered her hand to him with a stiff smile.
Breathe, Nicks. Just breathe. Fake it ‘til you make it. Warm fingers captured hers, tentatively at first, and then he pulled her hand into a much bolder grip. Oh yes, this man was definitely bold. And hot. And daunting. Funny that something as simple as holding hands could cause such a violent internal reaction.
He stepped in front of her with a furrowed brow. “Nicks, do I frighten you? I get the feeling I do.”
“Yes. And no. It’s been a long time since someone held my hand.”
“That’s a crying shame. You should have your hand held every night.” His voice was low and husky, causing a chemical reaction in every cell of her body. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He put two fingers under her chin and lifted it until she was looking into those damned eyes.
“I know.” She cringed inside. Where had that come from? She didn’t know. Sometimes the nicest people turned out to be the biggest assholes.
“You don’t need to be scared of me. I get you. You put on the tough outer shell when you put on that guitar because you think it’s expected of you. I do too. That’s not really us though, is it? It’s a musician thing. I’ll let my guard down if you will.”
He pressed both of her hands to his lips. “I’d really like to get to know the girl who shelved books on detention in the library, not the one who threatened to put a shoe in my balls. I could fall hopelessly in love with the delinquent librarian, though I have to admit I find the hot rock star exciting as hell.”
“Stop it.”
“I’d like to keep seeing you, Nicks. Yes?”
Nicks hesitated. She got lots of attention from men when she played, but the guitar acted as a buffer, a shield. This dark man wanted to strip all that away and look inside her. It was scary, but...
“Yes. I’d like that too.”
Relief swept across Stone’s face. “Good. Let’s go get something to eat.”
They both got sandwiches and drinks and went outside to sit on the curb. Nicks hadn’t realized she was hungry, but everything in the deli looked delicious. She’d gotten a ham and Swiss on rye.
“So,” Stone said as he unwrapped his turkey and cheese sub, “Nicks isn’t your real name, is it?”
“Nicole Ashley Sorenson. The only time I ever hear Nicole is if I’m in trouble. Even my teachers call me Nicks. Except for Marius. He calls me ‘Miss Sorenson’.” She sat up straight, and lowered her voice in an attempt to emulate the high school principal. “Miss Sorenson, I am very disappointed to hear that you actually have a pulse today. And you’re breathing. How is that possible, Miss Sorenson? A thousand detentions, and don’t argue with me!”
Stone gripped his side and rolled back on the sidewalk, laughing. “Priceless! And dead-nuts accurate.”
“How about you? What’s your full name?”
“Richard. Stone. Jensen.” He pronounced each name separately and with feigned dignity.
“Great voice. You should get a job hosting Masterpiece Theatre.”
“My parents were grunge hippies. My middle name was actually supposed to be Stoned, but the nurse who registered my birth dropped the last letter. My mother said the old, prune-faced bitch did it accidently on purpose. It would’ve cost too much to fix it, so they settled on Stone.” He took a drink then returned the cup to the curb. “My parents called me Ricky when I was
young, but that’s hardly a suitable name for a heavy metal guitarist. I’ve gone by Stone for the last ten years.”
“I don’t blame you, Ricky. So where do you live?”
“I’ve got an apartment in Hazelwood. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”
“That must be fun, having your own apartment.”
“It’s kind of lonely sometimes. And the other tenants in my building drive me crazy. I can never play my guitar plugged into an amp because they bitch about the noise. The old lady upstairs must be ninety at least. You’d think she’d be deaf, but I swear she has the ears of a bat.”
“What kind of guitar do you play?”
“I have a Music Man Steve Morse Signature. I also have a Redline Godin. Oh, and an acoustic Martin that I only use when I’m working with the autistic kids.”
“Wow! That’s some expensive gear.”
“Oh, listen to you. Don’t you have a Strat and a Les Paul?”
Nicks chewed and swallowed then took a drink. “I have three Les Pauls, actually.”
“Three? I’ve only ever seen you play the tobacco sunburst.”
“That one is my favorite, though I do like the Strat. I also have a white Les Paul from 1989. Limited edition. I never play that one because it’s so rare. And I have a standard gold sunburst.”
He turned to her with wide eyes. “You have a white Les Paul from 1989? Where the hell did you get that?”
She shrugged. “A family friend left all four guitars to me in his will.”
“Man, I wish I had friends like that! What was his name?”
“I don’t know. Dad was the executor. The guy left me money to go to college too, but I don’t know if I want to.” She bumped him with her elbow. “Hey, maybe I should get a degree in library science. I think by the time I’m done serving detentions, I’ll be an expert.”
“I have to tell you—I have half a chub on thinking about that white. Can I come over some time and see it? I love vintage guitars.”
“Sure. I’m on detention in the library after school on Monday. Will you be there for lessons?”
“No, but I’ll sneak in and help you anyway.”
“Cool. How about if I ride the bus to school? Then you can drive me home after to see them.” Nicks wadded up her sandwich wrapper and deposited it into her empty cup. “If you’re good, I might even let you play the white.”
“Do you think your dad will try to kill me again?”
She giggled. “No. He made his point. He’s done.”
“That’s a relief. I can’t wait ‘til Monday.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chelsea hated Mondays. It was laundry day, and the dirty clothes generated by seven people had morphed into a small mountain by then. They were also slow days at Tapestries, so she stayed home to catch up on housework while Tage went to the bar.
I should’ve done a few loads yesterday while everyone was home. They could’ve given me a hand. Sunday had been a lazy day though. She’d been so exhausted by two late nights at Tapestries she could barely get off the couch.
“Just do it,” she muttered to herself. It was 9:00 a.m. already, and she hadn’t done a damn thing but procrastinate.
With the first load tumbling in the dryer, she turned her attention to Nicks’s hand-washed sweaters dangling upside down on a line strung across the basement. She slipped the three of them onto hangers and made her way upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom.
Nicks’s room was always clean and tidy, the black-and-purple comforter so taut you could bounce a quarter off it. Chelsea wondered how many people would be shocked to know the wild, foul-mouthed rocker was a bit of a neat freak. Though she didn’t care for the wacky colors in this room, she couldn’t quibble with Nicks’s housekeeping skills. It was one less room she had to worry about.
She pulled the door of the walk-in closet open, hung the sweaters on the rack, turned, and stopped dead in her tracks as chills shook her from head to toe.
The cream-colored guitar pick she’d plucked from the base of Asher’s gravestone was lying on the small jewelry box that sat on top of her daughter’s oak dresser.
All she could do was stare, blinking and open-mouthed. She’d thought of giving the pick to Nicks, but for some reason, she wanted to keep it for herself. Tage would’ve asked a million questions about its origin, so she’d tucked it away in the back corner of her sock drawer.
At least she thought she had.
Maybe it’s one of Nicks’s. Maybe she left it there to put away later.
The thought was rejected almost as soon as it occurred. Nicks never let stuff like that lay around. She was anal about her guitars and gear, picks included.
She took a tentative step closer as the hair on the back of her neck rose. The partially worn black Fender logo was visible from where she stood. Newer picks were shaped like a rounded triangle. This one, worn from use, was nearly a rounded-off square.
It’s the same pick I buried under my socks.
There had to be a rational explanation for it being in her daughter’s room. Nicks must have found it, thought it was hers, and took it. She’d laid it on top of the jewelry box until she could slip it into one of her guitar cases.
Except that Nicks didn’t know I had it. And she never goes digging in my drawers for anything. She would’ve asked me what I was doing with it.
Chelsea took a step closer, eyeing the pick as though it were a rattlesnake. It was lying near the left corner of the jewelry box. The business end—the worn end that should’ve come to a point—was aimed directly at Nicks’s bed.
She used the mirror to check the room behind her, not knowing what she expected to see. Or even if she expected to see anything. There was no explanation for it, but she had the strangest feeling someone was watching her.
“Asher?” She’d always been able to sense him, feel him if he was near, but her “Asher-tingly sense” hadn’t sounded the alarm in nearly nineteen years. So why was she calling for him now?
Still, its appearance here, the way the pick was positioned...
Staring into the mirror, she spoke again, “If you’re trying to tell me something, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that. We’ve got quite a barrier between us.”
She closed her eyes and listened. Someone was mowing down the street, but other than that, the house was silent.
It’s finally happened. I’ve lost my freaking mind.
Chelsea snatched the pick off the top of the jewelry box and ran from the room.
For some reason, Monday felt like Friday. Maybe because Nicks was looking forward to spending the evening with a certain guitar player. Ten more minutes, and she’d be in the library with Stone.
The dismissal bell rang. Now if she could just navigate her way through the hall and down the stairs without running into Marius...
She had no tests to take this week, so she left her backpack in her locker. Pulling her hoodie off the hook, she headed for the stairs.
She made her way down to the first landing, then the second, and finally the third, thinking of Stone the whole way. He’d called her a couple of times over the weekend, but he had a job to play Saturday and couldn’t see her.
“Nicks!”
Someone called to her as she pivoted on the last landing before the double doors at the end of the library hallway. She stopped short. It was a male voice, faint, with a slight echo to it. It didn’t sound like Stone. In fact, she didn’t recognize the voice at all.
She took a quick look around. There was no one out in the hall. No one was coming down the stairs behind her. The lower floor of the high school was eerie as shit, but coming down here had never weirded her out before.
She was weirded out now.
“Who’s there?”
Nothing.
She turned and peered up the staircase she’d just descended. “Is someone up there?”
Silence.
Great. Now I’m hearing things.
She walked to the door of the library,
prepared to sprint back upstairs if Willow was not there. “You in here, Willow?”
Willow appeared from behind a bookshelf, her glasses in her hand. “Hey, Nicks. I was wondering about you.”
“Was there someone in here with you? Or out in the hallway?”
Willow frowned. “Not that I know of. Unless Marius was skulking around again.”
“It wasn’t Marius.”
“What happened? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I heard someone call my name. I must’ve been hearing things.”
“Sorry. I didn’t hear anything,” said Willow. She ducked partway out into the hall for a quick look then turned back to Nicks. “Shut the door and come to my office. We have to talk.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah.” The librarian didn’t sound pleased.
Willow moved around her desk and sat down in her office chair. Nicks dropped into the chair in front and pushed the door closed. “Now what?”
“Marius jumped me this morning. I’m not supposed to help you at all with shelving books. He said this is punishment for you, and you’re supposed to do it by yourself.” Willow looked a little sick. “Apparently he stood outside the library last Thursday and listened to us. He was particularly furious that Stone was here. He threatened to ban him from working with the autistic students if he found him here helping you again.”
“No! He loves working with those kids!” Nicks slumped back in the chair and crossed her arms in front of her. “What the hell is that man’s problem?”
“I have no idea, sweetie. It nauseates me to think of him sneaking around eavesdropping.” Willow shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe we should tell your parents what’s going on.”
“God, no! Daddy will rip Marius a new asshole if you tell him! I just want to make it through the next week. I intend to keep my nose squeaky clean and not give him any reason to pile on more detentions.”
“I’m concerned. This is strange behavior, even for him, and he is the epitome of strange.” Willow nervously shuffled some papers on her desk. “I won’t say anything, but if he continues to single you out, I’m going to your parents.”