by Shari Copell
Stone furrowed his brow. “Your mother was mad?”
“No, not mad exactly. Rattled would be a more accurate description. She ran from the table and started to hyperventilate. She actually broke a mug in the sink.”
“Whoa. Like she threw it and it broke?”
She thought about it a moment. “No. Like she was shaking, and it slipped out of her hands. The handle flew out of the sink like it was shot out of a rifle. I’ve never seen her act like that. I don’t know what I said that flipped her out so much.”
Stone tilted his head and took a drink of his Coke. “What do you think is going on there?”
“Dad acted as executor for a friend, and he left me his guitars. The end.” She shook her head and sat back in the booth. “Mom was trying not to cry though. I thought that was strange. I don’t think the guy was a relative or anything, and I think he died when I was small. The whole thing was just over the top. I’m drawing a blank.”
“God, it makes me all the more curious.” Stone shoved a wad of French fries into his mouth and stared off into space. “Don’t you want to know?”
“I do want to know, but I’m not sure it’s worth kicking up a shit-storm with my parents over it. My mother was really upset. I don’t want to do that to her again. She has enough going on without me making more problems.”
“Why? What’s so upsetting about a name?”
“You’re not going to let this rest, are you?”
Stone leaned forward on his elbows. “What do we know about this guy, Nicks? He died young and had some really kick-ass guitars. You don’t buy one Les Paul unless you have money and can play. He left you three, and a Strat to boot. Doesn’t that stir something up inside you?”
“Yes, it does. But curiosity killed the cat.” She stared at him, feeling as though she were about to step through a door that needed to remain closed.
“And satisfaction brought him back. They’ve never told you his name, and to be fair, you didn’t really care all that much. I get that. But why would asking for his name trigger that kind of response from your mother? If he died when you were small then it’s been at least seventeen or eighteen years. She should be over it by now, right?”
This line of questioning was fast becoming uncomfortable. “Stone, please don’t make assumptions about my mother. I really love my parents. It’s not essential that I...or you...know what happened all those years ago. I’m not asking her again. I hated upsetting her.”
“We don’t have to ask her, Nicks. We can go to the Allegheny County courthouse and search for the will.”
“How can we do that if we don’t know the man’s name?”
“We know your dad was the executor. They surely have things computerized and can do a search for your dad’s name, right?” Stone sounded excited, and it irritated her. He had no right to go digging in their personal family stuff.
“Let it go,” she said firmly. “You didn’t see my mother’s face this morning. I don’t want to do this.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chelsea was in the family room reading a book when Tage came home from the lawyer’s office. He threw two tri-folded packets of paper down on the couch beside her.
“Are those the restraining orders?”
“Yep.” He sat down beside her. He seemed much calmer than he’d been when he left that morning. “Wymouth said it was rare for a parent to serve one on a school official—especially since Nicks is eighteen—but when he heard what was going on, he agreed it couldn’t hurt.”
“When are you going to give them to him?”
“I have an appointment to see Marius Friday at the school. I want to present them to him in person so he doesn’t get any bright ideas about showing up at Tapestries when the girls are playing. It makes me furious to think of that asshole lurking in the shadows of our bar watching our daughter like some kind of pervert.”
“What do you think Marius is thinking?”
“I’ll let you know after I serve the restraining orders on him.”
Chelsea sighed. “I hope we’re doing the right thing. Something tells me Marius isn’t going to take this very well.”
Tage flexed his shoulders, something he did when he was wound up. “He’ll comply, or I’ll have him arrested. It’s as simple as that.”
He started to get up from the couch, but she grabbed his arm. “I’ve been thinking all day about what happened this morning with Nicks. What you said makes sense. Do you mind if I tell her Asher left her the guitars? I’m afraid all I did was pique her curiosity. I don’t want her to go digging.”
“As long as that’s all you tell her.”
“I don’t think my nerves could stand to tell her any more than that. I don’t like this...this keeping secrets. But I don’t want her to know either.”
That was the part that nagged at Chelsea. All the teasing Nicks had endured in her younger years had caused her to turn inward a bit. Knowing she was another man’s child might make her feel worse, like a misfit in her own family.
“I appreciate that, Chels. Trust me. She isn’t going to make the leap from a name to that name being her biological father.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say it, but she knew he’d disagree. I wouldn’t bet the farm on that, Mr. Sorenson.
Stone dropped Nicks off at her car in the school parking lot after they left McDonald’s. He gently played with her fingers as she leaned against the trunk. “Can I come over for a while tonight?”
“I would love to tell you yes, but it’s a school night. I have some homework. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Is Wild Angel playing at Tapestries?”
“Of course.”
“Can a lonely guitar player get an invite through the back door?”
She stared long and hard at him. “I always looked for you. Your eyes. I could’ve spotted you a mile away. I would really hate to look out into the crowd and not see you, Stone.”
His hand closed around hers. “My God. I love to hear you talk like that.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Thoughts skimmed across her mind like stones on a pond, delicious things about wanting and needing and have-to-having.
I should be confused as hell about this man. It was not that long ago that I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp and leave his corpse for the dogs. Now I’m kissing him like he’s the last man on the planet. You’re such a goober, Sorenson.
Someone once told her that the opposite of love was not hate. It was indifference. She’d never, ever felt indifferent toward Stone Jensen.
His lips were warm and soft on hers. Perfect. She’d sort the other shit out later.
The pain this kiss was causing in Stone’s groin would surely be terminal. He wanted to strip her naked, throw her across the back seat of his Camaro, and fuck her senseless. Fuck her so damned hard, they would both go up in flames. He knew she would be soft, yielding, everything a man hoped for when he made love to a woman like Nicks Sorenson.
The animal in him went to war with the gentleman. He was relieved when the gentleman won. She deserved so much more than a quickie in the backseat of a car. She deserved flowers and candlelight, and all the time and patience he was capable of giving her. If it happened at all—if he were ever lucky enough to make love to her—he was going to make damn sure it happened that way.
Her body was molded to his, so hot he nearly changed his mind about the quickie. He needed to break the spell she’d cast over him, or he would certainly do something he regretted.
“You’re the most amazing woman. I’m so glad I got to know you. What was I thinking when I said such horrible things?”
“Don’t apologize. I know it even if you don’t. We’re fire—both of us. I needed to hate you before I could...before this could happen. It went exactly the way it was supposed to.”
You are such an angel. He buried his mouth on hers again. He was never going to let her go.
Her mother
’s Lexus was in the garage. Her father’s Chevy Avalanche was gone. Nicks blew out a breath of relief. She was hoping to catch her mother alone so she could apologize. She’d deal with her father later.
“Mom?” she called from the kitchen.
“Down here,” was the reply from the basement.
Nicks descended the stairs slowly, mulling over what she wanted to say. She froze for a moment, staring at her mother’s back as she switched laundry from the washer to the dryer and turned it on.
Chelsea turned and opened her arms wide in invitation. Nicks dropped her book bag to the floor and ran into the embrace.
Kissing the side of her head, her mother held her tightly against her. “I’m sorry about this morning. I don’t want you to think we’re mad at you.”
“I’m sorry too. I should have shut up when you started to get upset. Daddy isn’t mad?”
“No. You know how he is where I’m concerned. He reacted without knowing what we were talking about.”
Nicks laid her head against her mother. Though they cramped her style occasionally, she never doubted her parents loved her.
Chelsea sighed. “I’m afraid all I did was stir the pot by not giving you an answer. It’s reasonable to expect that you’d want to know about those guitars. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me before.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I don’t need to know.”
“Yes, you do.” Her mother tightened her hold.
“The man’s name was Asher Pratt. He played guitar in the late eighties, early nineties with a band called the Dirty Turtles. They played sometimes at Tapestries. He was...a good friend.” Chelsea spoke haltingly, with a catch in her voice. This was still painful for her.
“Mom, really...”
She continued as though she hadn’t heard Nicks speak. “I didn’t know...none of us knew he was diabetic. He didn’t take very good care of himself, and it ended up killing him at age twenty-six, four days before you were born. It was a senseless way to die. He was stubborn and stupid, and I’ll never understand why he did what he did. He closed himself off from everyone who might’ve helped him. If only he’d told someone.”
“Mom, you’re getting upset again.”
It seemed to be a real effort for her mother to calm down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much I missed his...friendship...until you mentioned his guitars this morning. Well, I guess I’ve said enough. Now you know his name.”
Nicks thought this Asher Pratt must have been one-of-a-kind for her mother to be so distraught all these years later. “It’s okay. Thanks for telling me. We don’t need to talk about it again.”
Chelsea put a hand to Nicks’s cheek. There was sadness in her eyes. “No. We don’t need to talk about him again.”
Nicks closed her calculus book. It was nearly midnight. She should go to bed, but she felt strangely wired for some reason.
She couldn’t stop thinking about her guitars and Asher Pratt. Finding out the name had been anti-climactic after what’d happened that morning. Why hadn’t her mother told her and been done with it? It didn’t seem like that big of a deal now.
Her father had come to her room when he’d gotten home from Tapestries, pulled her into a bear hug, and apologized as well. His hugs always felt as though she’d been rolled up in a big, warm carpet. Then he asked her what her mother had told her about the former owner of her guitars. He seemed relieved when Nicks gave him the highlights of the brief conversation she’d had with her mother.
Whoever this Asher Pratt was, he’d certainly made an impression on her parents.
She thought about calling Stone and telling him, but she wanted to tell him in person. With all the drama of the day, her mind was no longer on studying. After moving the book bag and all of her books to the small computer desk that sat in the corner, she crawled beneath the covers and turned out the light.
The fog was thick and creepy. What was this place? The only sound Nicks could hear was the wet hiss of the fog as it swirled around her. It sounded strangely like voices murmuring. She couldn’t see anyone, but she knew she wasn’t alone.
She froze, unwilling to go forward, knowing whoever was here would find her. Soon enough, a shadow appeared, its lines obscured by the mist. As it drew closer, she could see it was a man, fairly young, though she couldn’t make out his features.
“Who are you?” she asked. Curiously, she felt no fear. Sadness, regret, missed opportunities, but no fear. And those things were rolling off of him, not her, as thick as the mist that surrounded them.
He said nothing. He stepped forward again, and she could see shoulder-length brown hair that gleamed even in the absence of light. He wore tight, low-cut jeans and a light blue shirt that was partially unbuttoned down the front. And oddly enough, he stood before her in black socks, no shoes.
She pulled her gaze up to his. The mist blurred his face and hid his features, but she could see his eyes. Large and dark, he stared at her in wonder, as if he were memorizing her face.
“Who are you?” she asked again. He smiled slightly as he stepped forward and took her right hand. Long, delicate fingers turned her palm up then he deposited three half-worn guitar picks of various colors into her hand.
“Tell her. Chelsea. I’ll wait for her.” He closed her hand gently over the picks, turned, and walked away.
“Wait! Don’t leave!” she called after him, but it was too late. He was gone.
Nicks sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. After a moment, she flopped back down onto the pillow.
I’m still in my room. Jesus, it was only a dream.
Her right hand was closed in a fist, lying on top of her comforter. Not sure why she felt so panicked, she reached over and snapped on the light.
She opened her hand and found three guitar picks nestled in her palm, exactly like the ones the man had pressed into her hand in the dream.
As she cleared the rest of the breakfast dishes from the table, Chelsea glanced out the dining room window in time to see her husband’s Avalanche pull out of the driveway. Four blond heads bobbed in the backseat. She was glad when Tage took them to school. They didn’t argue as much when their father chauffeured.
Nicks hadn’t made a sound upstairs. She knew she’d been up late studying. She’d no doubt slipped back into bed for a few extra minutes of sleep.
Chelsea ascended the stairs, turned the corner at the top, and looked down the hallway. Nicks’s door was shut. “Did you fall asleep in there?” When there was no answer, she walked down the hall, opened the door a crack, and peered in.
Nicks was sitting on the edge of her bed, fully dressed, facing away from the door. Her head was down; she appeared to be staring at the floor.
“Are you okay, honey?” Chelsea took a step into the room.
“Mom.”
Having children gave women a sixth sense. Her daughter’s one-word answer was not a statement, not a question, yet came with a strange note of agitation. Something was off-kilter here. Chelsea took a few more steps toward the bed. “Nicks, what’s wrong?”
The girl made a choking sound. “I don’t know what to make of this or how it happened...”
“What? Make of what?”
Nicks pivoted on the bed. She extended her right hand, opened it, and every pore of Chelsea’s body went up into goose bumps so sharp she could’ve cut glass with them.
There were three of them lying in her palm. Guitar picks. Though they were different colors, they were almost identical to the pick she’d snatched from Asher’s grave a couple of weeks earlier. These three were worn down the same way as the one that was hidden—at least she assumed it was still hidden—in her sock drawer down the hall.
“Where did you get those?” Stay calm, don’t scare her. There is surely a logical explanation for this.
“I...don’t know. I had a dream last night. About a man. He put them in my hand. They were there when I woke up.”
Sweet fucking Jesus on a ten-speed, this can’t be happeni
ng! She glanced around the room, half expecting Asher Pratt to step out of the closet. “Maybe you fell asleep holding them? Were you practicing before you went to bed?”
Nicks shook her head. “No.”
“Well, they must be yours. Right?”
“They’re not mine. I would never use a pick this worn. And these are thinner than I like. These aren’t my picks, Mom.”
“Nicks, that’s crazy.” Chelsea’s mind spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl, trying to find something to explain away the damned guitar picks she held.
Nicks nodded. “I know.”
“This man. Can you describe him?” Stupid question, Chels. You know who it is.
“I couldn’t see him very well. I think he had brown hair. It was kind of long, maybe past his shoulders. What I really noticed were his eyes. They were dark, pretty for a man, with long lashes. Tight jeans and a blue shirt that buttoned down the front. It wasn’t tucked in. And what’s really messed up is that he didn’t have any shoes on. He was wearing black socks.”
Chelsea clapped a hand over her mouth. The girl had just described what they’d buried Asher in. He hadn’t wanted to spend eternity wearing uncomfortable shoes.
It simply wasn’t possible that Asher had come to Nicks in her dreams.
Why not? He comes to you in yours.
Nicks had no way of knowing what Asher looked like. She was just a newborn when they buried him. She would have no memories of the funeral.
Did all of this mean the dreams weren’t a random event? Was Asher deliberately coming to see them from....wherever he was? Chelsea couldn’t breathe. What were the implications of a dead man making choices?
“Who is he, Mom?”
Nicks’s gaze never left her face. If she lied, her daughter would surely know. But she couldn’t do anything else but lie. Chelsea removed her hand from her mouth. “I don’t know.”