Goodbyes and Second Chances (The Bleu Series Book 1)

by T. I. Lowe

  Chapter Four

  Fall has been creeping up on us for a while now, but the weather has fought it all the way to the bitter end. I was beginning to doubt fall was going to pull it off, to be honest. October has arrived, and I am now becoming comfortable at being a freshman in college. The community college is just across the road from the university. Both campuses are located over on the other side of the lake. It takes me a good thirty-minute drive, which I’m not thrilled about. But what choice do I have? No dorm or apartment close by is in this here girl’s budget. Classes are typical basics, but I am taking a creative writing course, which is the highlight of my life at the moment. If I’m not working, I’m in class. It is a rarity to do anything else.

  I get a reprieve tonight, although I’m nearly too tired to take it. I have gotten an unexpected invite to the other side of the lake. I spent a good portion of my summer over there, cleaning condos so I could pay Aunt Evie back. She didn’t want the money, but the poor woman has already done enough for me and Kyle by taking us in and making us her own. I can never repay her for that. Times have been tight, so she reluctantly accepted the money plus a bit more just last week.

  Anyway, I made a few friends, and I sometimes bump into some of them near campus. I wouldn’t say I’m close to any of them, but I guess friendly enough to be invited occasionally to a social gathering. The boys took the invite as to include them. Whatever. They deserve some fun too. They have already headed over, but I’m dragging my feet.

  “Come on, slow poke.” Leona checks her watch. “It’s getting late.”

  We are both in my closet-sized bedroom as I hesitantly get dressed. I stand in front of my small mirror checking the back view of myself in a pair of almost too-tight jeans that I have finally decided on. I slide on a black lacy camisole and push into a chunky pair of scuffed black boots. Nothing special, but that’s me. My leather jacket is waiting in my Mustang. Leona is rocking maroon-colored bellbottom pants that went out at least forty years ago, paired with a colorful halter top. She found this outfit down the road at the thrift shop we frequent pretty often. She is rocking it as only Leona Hill can. Her legs are a mile long, so the pants look like they were made for her. There’s no way my short self could ever pull that look off.

  “I’ll go for a little while, but you will have to find a ride home.” I flip my head forward and finger comb out my wavy blonde locks. I like sporting the natural, sort of unkempt, wavy-locks look. It works for me and is very low maintenance.

  “Deal,” she says in agreement. I grab the keys and we head out the door.

  The other side of the lake only takes minutes to get to by car. We pull up, around nine, to music thumping in the night and a shore speckled with dancing drunken teenagers. Totally not my scene at all. I immediately scan the crowd for Kyle. He has a can of Coke in his hand, thank God. If he were drinking, I would kill him. He knows better, though. A lesson we’ve learned from living in the trailer park is alcohol can be the ruin of you. Several washed-up men and women hermit themselves away in their little trailers after losing everything, and everybody, due to their heavy dependence on the vile stuff. It’s sad, and is an absolutely wasted lifestyle I want to steer clear of.

  Leona is pulled away almost immediately by some hot guy. This always happens. It’s like the girl has a hidden beacon that navigates all the cute ones right to her. She seems happy about this, so I give her a quick wave before she disappears for the rest of the night.

  A long period of time passes with me speaking with a few guys while the preppy girls in miniskirts and high heels glare at me. I glare back at them and smirk as they stumble around with their stupid designer shoes bogging down in the sand. What sense do those outfits make for a night beach party when it’s relatively chilly?

  I know I’m not welcomed, so I cut my visit short at around ten thirty. I still have no idea what even enticed me to spend an evening out here anyway. I have no desire to stay here in some social competition with the high and mighty. They have already won, obviously. Don’t they realize this?

  I spot Kyle sitting on some truck’s tailgate and head over to let him know I’m out of here. He is all about some Goth girl dressed head-to-toe in dreadful, bulky black that seems to be swallowing her whole. It’s like she is hiding in the darkness of black. Oh yes, I am already writing a story in my head with her as the lead character. Her eyes are masked in thick, dark eye shadow and liner, but it’s still clear that she is glaring at me. With her chunky jewelry and interesting piercings, she seems like some piece of abstract art that needs to be studied. I get why my brother can’t seem to look away from her. I just don’t care for the intensity at which he is studying her, though. It’s too funny, because he is her total opposite. He’s wearing a light teal, long-sleeve T-shirt with light washed jeans. His dark blond hair is perfectly styled. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was from this side of the lake. I did get the outfit from the rich thrift store over here. Kyle is all light and breezy and his female companion is all dark and brittle.

  “I’m gone,” I say as a way to get his attention.

  “See ya.” He doesn’t even look up, so I to turn to leave.

  I’m not worrying about how his butt plans on getting home. Not my problem, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe Goth girl has a broom she can escort him home on later. She is shooting daggers at me with her glare. It’s the same judgmental look I’ve been given all night, and it’s rubbing me wrong that she actually thinks she has the right to be casting them at me as well.

  “Oh, hold up a minute.” Kyle stops me as I try to make a quick getaway.

  I turn to see what he wants. He has his arm slung around Goth girl and they are heading over to me, since I refuse to move. Ugh. I’ve already seen all I want to see of this one for the night. I don’t like her, plain and simple. The way she eyes me with that I’m better than you look ticks me off. I hate being made to feel this way. Doesn’t she realize the guy hanging on her is from the same lineage as this piece of trash she is scowling at?

  Kyle’s company continues to eye me some more. “You clean my family’s townhouse.”

  Great. I guess witchy woman does have the right to look down on me. I don’t recognize her. The owners are always gone when I clean. I guess their security cameras keep an eye on me while they are away. I try to resolve which fancy house belongs to her family. I don’t recall cleaning one with a witches’ cauldron or spell books. I shrug my shoulder as to say I really don’t care. Really, I don’t. I have a few townhouses I maintain cleaning year-round. It’s good money. I just don’t like when someone feels the need to make me feel lower than I already feel because of it. Trust me. I’m pretty good at downing my own self with no need for help.

  Kyle looks at me apologetically for being called out by his date. “Would you give Dillon a lift home? You know how uptight Cora is about curfew.” He shrugs his shoulder and makes a face.

  I do know it. If the boy missed curfew with her finding out, he would be out of sight for days. The woman is super uptight. She is a feisty redhead, and you never want to see her feathers ruffled. Unlike Dillon’s situation, Aunt Evie has never given Kyle and me a designated curfew. We don’t abuse it, but we don’t ever have to be in one place right at a certain time. Aunt Evie is the opposite of Cora, meek and easygoing. She has a quietness that beckons respect. Cora’s personality just screams and demands respect from the top of her lungs. She’s not my favorite person, by the way. It’s no secret that she feels the very same way about me.

  So now my agenda includes delivering Dillon home before Cora goes all psycho-mom on the poor boy. “Fine. Just have your date fly you home later,” I say over my shoulder as I walk away. I hear witchy woman suck her teeth, but don’t look back to see if she is casting a hex on me. I’m just not in the mood.

  I find Dillon amongst a group of teenage girls who are drooling all over his man-child self. A leggy brunette looks to be just about to climb on top of him. His tattered hat is pulled low over his de
ep-blue eyes, but I can still see that I have caught their attention. He meets my eyes as he is trying to pull out of Miss Grabby’s grasp. I give him a quick wave and am rewarded by a flash of those darn dimples. I see him cut his eyes in her direction before looking back at me and rolling his eyes. We are having one of our silent conversations. I smirk at him as to say, Yeah right, buddy; you know you love all that attention. He subtly shakes his head that he is not enjoying it. Whatever. I shake my head at him and laugh. He’s eating it up, and we both know it.

  I’m about to go over and try my best to embarrass him, when a guy I know stops me. I chat with him a few minutes. His name is Hudson Williamson, and he has always been reasonably nice to me throughout our youth. We graduated high school together and have stayed in touch since, albeit at a distance. He goes to the university, and sometimes we run into each other at the coffee house between our campuses. Hudson’s dad is the bigwig real estate tycoon who owns everything this side of the lake. If he could talk Aunt Evie into it, he would own my side of the lake as well. He would have the trailer park flattened and replaced by a bright and shiny new resort. Thank the good Lord, Aunt Evie is adamant about not letting him have his way.

  Dillon is just off to the left of the bonfire from me, so I’m half listening to him and Hudson at the same time. Hudson is going on and on about joining his dad’s real estate team, when I see Dillon glance at his thick leather watch. It’s nearing his curfew and he knows it. I laugh to myself about this. He is the only one that worries about such. The twins are told to worry about it just as Dillon is, but that doesn’t deter them from breaking their curfew on a regular basis.

  Dillon gives his little fan club one of his signature grins and says, “Ladies, I really hate to leave you.” They all grumble their disapproval at him leaving. “But I have a private gig I gotta get to,” Dillon says in his best rock god impersonation. I roll my eyes at his blatant lie that they seem to believe so easily. They are hanging on his every word, for Pete’s sake. Maybe it’s the bonfire reflecting over his face, but I swear I see an evil glint in his eyes as he strolls over to me and Hudson.

  Dillon is several inches taller than Hudson and seems to be looming over him intentionally. He acknowledges Hudson with one of those male chin jerks, full of attitude, before turning his attention towards me. “Jewels, we need to be getting you home so you can reapply the ointment to…” He pauses to cough as though he’s too embarrassed to finish the sentence. “It’s time to reapply it to your rash.” As he drawls out the word rash, the jerk nods his head in a southerly direction and eyes my nether regions dramatically.

  I could kill him on the spot.

  I roll my eyes and say to Hudson, “These baby boys…You can’t take them anywhere.” We both laugh, but Hudson slightly shuffles farther away from me. Great. Now this dude thinks I have pubic issues, thanks to Dillon Bleu. I turn and storm off in the direction of Dillon’s little fan club. “Come on, Dimples,” I yell as we pass them. “Let’s get you home so you can make curfew. Wouldn’t want you to get a spanking.” I laugh and watch a few girls refrain from their own until he opens his smoldering mouth, making them all swoon.

  “Jewels, I done told you I ain’t into that kinky stuff,” he says and proceeds to pop me in one vigorous slap on my backside. Before I can knock him out, he runs off towards my car and jumps in—knowing I would leave him if I had the opportunity. Before I crank the car, I punch him in the arm with all my might. This only makes him laugh.

  “You punch like a girl, Jewels. Use your whole arm and don’t tuck in your thumb.” And then he proceeds in instructing me on how to properly punch for the next several minutes. I get to practice a few more punches before I drive off. My hand is sore by the time I give up. It still doesn’t seem I made a dent in him.

  We are silently driving the short trip home, when Dillon grabs my arm securely to get my attention. “Stop at the church, Jewels.”

  I glance in his direction. He looks as though he has too much pent-up energy. I recognize immediately what it’s about. Sometimes it’s like all of his creativity worries him silly until he can express it. I get it, because sometimes my fingers will ache relentlessly until I can get somewhere alone and pour my thoughts out on paper. I know what he wants to do, but tonight I’m just too tired. I spent my day cleaning up after the filthy rich spoiled society, and all I can think about is stretching out in my tiny bed. I ease my eyes back to the road and shake my head.

  “You have to. I have a private gig to perform tonight.” He nudges my shoulder, but I still shake my head. “I’m not kidding, pretty girl.”

  “I’m still not over the last time we broke into the church. Your momma nearly beat the mess out of us, and Aunt Evie actually let her,” I say as I glare at the road.

  When I was not even eight and the boys barely old enough to ride their bikes without training wheels, we decided to pedal our adventurous selves out to the small clapboard church to hang out. We crawled through a back window and spent the day pretending it was our castle. I was queen for the day, up until they finally found us, and Cora took to spanking each one of us with the first thing her hand got ahold of, which was none other than a Bible devotional book. Talk about being beat by the word!

  “Please,” he whispers as he peeks from under his tattered hat. His face is glowing in the dim dashboard lights. Those eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes giving off the illusion he is wearing eyeliner, summon me to give in. They actually have power over me. Humph. Dillon just won, and he knows it because he flashes his dimples when he detects me relenting.

  I finally agree as we get closer. “Why not? It’s your butt if you miss curfew and not mine.” I wheel in and park in the back.

  The church has a spare key hidden under a flowerpot at the back door. Dillon is privy to this so he can practice the piano anytime he wants since he plays for the church every third Sunday. I’m not sure the church knows Dillon normally brings the twins to practice, too. Dillon has helped both the boys hone their music skills. He gave it his best shot with Kyle, but my poor brother is in the same boat as me. We are tone deaf.

  Dillon fishes the key out and unlocks the door before we push through and head to the small sanctuary. The familiar scent of lemony furniture polish lingers in the air and invites us on in. It’s always such a reverent feeling to be here when this place of worship is silent and dark. I’ve never been freaked out as some may be, though. I have always felt welcomed—busy day or silent night. This cozy little church, with short rows of pews sitting on a worn wood floor, can only hold about one hundred people. The tiny altar can only hold a podium instead of a full size pulpit. Instruments scatter along the wall behind it.

  I take a seat on one of the front pews and settle in as Dillon sets himself behind the piano. The guy instantly looks at home. His fingers stroke the keys slowly and quietly at first as though they are thinking. He then takes off in his own rendition of Billy Joel’s “Mr. Piano Man,” dramatically singing about singing a song and feeling alright.

  The quiet space instantly becomes alive and tangible with Dillon’s vivacious energy pouring out of the instrument and mingling with his deep, silky voice. I feel the goose bumps rise along my arms as my body reacts to the chemistry he emits through his music. He plays the piano by ear, which blows my mind. Really! How can someone do such a thing? I am at awe over the talent this one single person has been gifted with. Dillon ends this part of the concert and stands abruptly. He does a quick silly curtsey as he seeks his next instrument selection. I laugh in spite of myself as I watch on.

  Next on this private gig is a well-worn banjo. Dillon fastens the strap over his broad shoulder before plucking twangy notes on the instrument. He glances up at me with a grin before launching into “The Ballad of Jed Clampett,” the theme song to the Beverly Hillbillies, making me laugh. He is aware that this show is on a time clock, so he quickly grabs up a violin. He slashes the strings with the bow before deciding against it with a slight shake of his head and a wrinkl
ed nose, and sets his attention towards the drums. He slides his hat on backwards before picking up the sticks and getting down to business.

  The place comes alive again with the rapid drum solo from the song “Wipe Out.” Let me tell you, that’s one long and fast drum solo. I’m almost certain the boy didn’t miss one beat in it either. I see a fine sheen to his skin as though the music is seeping out of his pores. That wild drum performance made me tired just watching it, but seems to energize him even more.

  “Woo-hoo!” I shout, and he stands and bows dramatically before placing the sticks back on the floor beside the humble drum set that he just made sound like a million bucks.

  Dillon pauses long enough to fumble with the pearl snap buttons on his cuffs and roll up the sleeves of his black-and-white plaid shirt, but not long enough to catch his breath. I still see the energy bouncing around his deep-blue eyes and know this performance isn’t over quite yet.

  My friend has saved the best for last, hands down. He straps on the old black electric guitar and turns the amp on low. Testing the chords, he adjusts the strings before turning towards me. He strums the first few chords, and I know immediately he is playing one of my favorites, “Alive” by Pearl Jam. Dillon croons the lyrics in a velvety rasp, and I am in awe.