by Caisey Quinn
“That’s what you think? What you really believe?”
I almost say, “That’s what I know.”
Months. He was here and didn’t tell me. I was on the road alone and then going to bed alone night after night and he was right here. No phone call. No text. Not a single smoke signal to be seen. There has to be a reason for that. The words hang out on the tip of my tongue and new me is bolder and mouthier and says how she feels, but this feels like a lie.
The truth is I don’t know. So I tell him that.
“I don’t know what I think or believe, to be honest.”
“I think you do, Bluebird. But I understand why you would fight it. I haven’t done much to make myself clear, have I?”
“Not exactly,” I whisper, afraid of breaking this magical trance where he opens up. I stare at him, unsure whether he’s testing me or not. His eyes are dark, but his lips are slightly upturned. I could stare at him every second of every minute of every hour for the rest of my life and still not get my fill of him.
My head knows he just wants to keep me in the friend zone where he feels I belong, but my heart is leaping for joy as if he’s made some huge declaration my head hasn’t processed yet. There’s always been something about him, about us. Something magnetic. Something enticing. An unrelenting force pulling us toward one another.
Something more powerful than either of us as individuals.
He remains still, watching me as if waiting for me to catch a clue, but I can’t seem to put it all together. I can tell he’s trying, but his eyes are always so guarded. He’s difficult to read and when you add that to how little he actually verbalizes, it’s like trying to put together a puzzle while someone holds the picture of what it’s supposed to look like behind their back.
With a deep sigh, Gavin stands, leaving me rocking a little harder backward on the swing.
“I should go. Being here, with you, after tonight . . .”
“I’m not going to beg you for one more night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Whoa. That just shot right out of my mouth. Apparently I have some repressed anger still hanging around.
Gavin frowns at me. “I’m not worried about that. Not in the least.”
Ouch. Thanks for that. “Oh. Okay. Well, I just wanted to be clear. I got it, that it was just the one night and then the second time I was all upset over my grandpa and—”
“That was the fourth time, sweetheart. For the record.”
Now I’m flustered. I don’t know what his game is, but he’s better at it than I am. I flush all the way from my head to my toes and it’s a deep burn. Gavin always was the flame and I always was the bluebird flying too close.
“Right. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m not going to be that girl anymore.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and gazes at me as if I’ve said something amusing. “What girl would that be?”
I stand because I don’t like the positioning of him looking down at me. “The one who had some silly notion that one night would change anything. The one that pushed you into something you obviously didn’t really want to get involved in.”
“Ah. That girl.” He nods a little too emphatically. “I see. The one who took what she wanted, consequences be damned?”
“Um.”
“The one who was honest about her feelings and bared her heart and soul to an undeserving asshole? The girl who stood her ground and demanded I stop being a fucking coward and give her what we both wanted and needed?”
“Yeah?” Now I’m confused.
“Oh good. That girl is nothing but trouble. Glad I won’t be seeing her anymore.” There’s an undeniable gleam of mischief in his eye and I can’t help it—seeing him playful and teasing makes me smile.
“You’re twisting the situation,” I bite out at him.
“Am I? Because if memory serves, that girl was pretty honest about what she wanted. It’s this new one that seems to keep her true feelings on lockdown. But that’s why I came by.”
“To unlock my feelings?”
He grins at my dubious tone. Pretty sure this is the most I’ve ever seen him smile. Like, ever.
“To tell you that I understand why you’re being careful. Why you’re guarded. I deserve that.”
And we’re back to square one. My gaze narrows on him. “I’ll consider myself warned.”
“For now,” Gavin says easily while making his way down the porch steps. “I want you to be careful around me. But one day, one day I will get my shit together, I will have something real to offer you, and hand to God, I will be someone you can trust again.”
“Gavin Garrison, if you tell me to wait for you right now, I’ll—”
“I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m just letting you know that once upon a time a devil fell in love with an angel,” his hypnotic voice tells me. “And now that devil is working on becoming the kind of man worthy of an angel’s love. That’s why I didn’t call you when I came home. I have a few issues I need to work through and straighten out.”
“Do these issues involve the blonde from the bar?”
He flinches. Noticeably. Did he think I forgot about her?
“Sort of,” he answers. “At the moment, yes. It’s complicated. But it won’t always be, if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” In his defense, he does appear genuinely apologetic.
“Me too,” I say, because it’s all that comes to mind.
“Good night, Bluebird.”
“Night, Gav.”
I watch him walk down my driveway toward wherever he parked on the street and disappear into the night. I don’t even know how I feel, just that I feel so many things all at once. Too many to divide and decipher.
My panties—what was left of them—were in his pocket. I saw the corner of them. I was going to tell him but the opportunity didn’t exactly present itself.
If I’m being truthful? I’m just catty enough to hope the blonde finds them.
8 | Gavin
THREE DAYS GO by and nothing.
I thought I’d see her, run into her, something. I even took my mom’s barely running Oldsmobile to the McKinleys’ to get an oil change in case she was hanging around.
Dallas is going to be pissed that I haven’t discussed the battle of the bands with her. I want to. I do. I just don’t want to appear like someone trying to talk her into something. The last thing I would want would be for her to think the whole spiel about getting my shit together is to bully her into participating in the battle.
I care about that, too, but nowhere near as much as I care about her. She can say fuck the band for all I care, as long as she allows me to be in her life.
I have a plan, one that does not involve the band at all. Basically I have to finish paying the penance for what I did the year she was in Houston. Then, once that’s all squared away here in a few weeks, I’ll tell her about it and how I’ve successfully completed all required conditions of my probation, and once it’s over, I just want to take her on a date. A real date. Dinner, a movie, a long walk where I grovel and beg for forgiveness for any and all pain I’ve caused. But first, I want to be her friend again.
I wouldn’t trade my memories from Austin for all the money in the world. But if I said I didn’t have regrets, I’d be lying.
Dixie deserves better than a hot fuck in a Days Inn. Granted, it was the hottest night of my life, but still. She deserves dinner, and candlelight, and romance. Most of all, she deserves honesty. I have so much I have to come clean about but with the battle and Ashley and my mom disappearing for days at a time, telling her now would ruin everything. I need time, time for her to see me as her friend again and not just the guy that screwed her and then screwed her over. Then and only then can I tell her everything, and if the pieces all fall apart, I’ll be there, as her friend, to put them back together. My hope is that once she knows everything, processes it, and, okay, maybe hates me with the fire of fi
ve Hells, she’ll eventually understand why I did what I did and forgive me. Then maybe we can be . . . more. I hope. God, I fucking hope. This girl makes me hope like a madman.
So far this all seems feasible. For the most part. With a few exceptions.
Jaggerd is a jagged fucking thorn in my side. He may have nailed Cassidy at Dallas’s wedding, but his entire demeanor changed at the sight of me and there is definitely still some love for Dixie Lark left in his system.
I recognize the gestures. Squared shoulders, tense jaw, refusal to break eye contact even after it’s appropriate to do so.
Territorial. Protective. Possessive.
He’s like a stand-in for Dallas but in Jaggerd’s case his connection to her is physical, not biological. Which in turn makes me a raging meathead tempted to pound the shit out of him just for good measure.
Cavemen had it so much easier. Dude encroached on your territory? You straight-up killed his ass. Or beat him so bad he hoped like hell never to cross paths with you again.
I should’ve been born in the prehistoric era.
As it is, McKinley and I sort of circle each other. He comes in the bar sometimes, sits as far from me as possible. We both politely refuse to acknowledge the other’s existence with anything other than grunts and short nods. Both of us pretend not to hate the other, as if we don’t feel intimidated or threatened in any way. This is the socially acceptable version of caveman behavior, I guess.
When I go in to get my oil changed, I check my phone a few more times than necessary and he stares under the hood like he’s examining a labyrinth.
“Saw the flyer at the bar.”
I glance up from my phone as if I forgot he was even there. “Oh yeah? Which one?”
“The one about the battle of the bands.”
“Yeah. That’s coming up soon.”
McKinley wipes his hands on a cloth and slams the hood closed. “You and Dallas going to enter?”
I tuck my phone into my back pocket. “The band is considering entering.”
“The band as in Dixie?” He says this as if he knows something I don’t.
“The band as in the three of us. Why? You gonna come out and show your support?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Tried that once. Didn’t end so well.”
No shit. More like he showed his ass. Dude got six sheets to the wind and showed up and made a scene. Dallas had to escort him out to keep me from knocking his ass out. He said some very unflattering things about Dixie, and she was his girlfriend at the time. My blood pressure spikes just thinking about it.
“Yeah. I remember.”
He snorts. “I bet you do.”
“You got a problem with me, McKinley? ’Cause if I’m honest, I’m not your biggest fan. But I’m not really losing any sleep over whether or not you plan to start me up a fan club, either. In some way, I think that makes us even.”
He regards me warily for a full minute before responding. “You hurt her. You’re still hurting her. And I have a feeling the little detour you took on your way home after the wedding has more to do with you wanting her to play in the battle than trying to patch things up.”
This guy is something else. “Let’s be real for a second, man. You don’t know me. You don’t know jack shit about me other than local rumors, and let’s face it, if we all believed those, I’d be able to get this chop shop shut down with one phone call.” His eyes widen and he keeps his mouth shut. Enjoy being speechless, asshole. “Yeah, so, I don’t know. Maybe don’t waste your precious time worrying about my intentions with Dixie. And I won’t worry about your dad’s intentions when he does thousands of dollars’ worth of work for cash only.”
Just when I think I’ve won, dude laughs. Straight-up laughs out loud like I am damn comedian.
I arch a brow and cross my arms over my chest. “Something funny?”
He takes longer than necessary to compose himself. “Yeah. You. You’re hilarious.”
“Which part exactly did you find humorous? Just so we’re clear.” I narrow my eyes, hoping he gets the message about just how close to an ass beating he is.
I can hear Ashley telling me to keep my nose clean if I want to get off probation anytime soon, but the rage is already beginning to rise to the surface. I need my damn drum kit. Now.
Once he’s got a hold on his giggling, McKinley stares me straight in the face. “Just so we’re clear, I was particularly amused by the part where the local drug dealer, you know, the one that takes sexual favors as payment from anything with a pussy, threatened to rat out my dad.”
The shock on my face must show. I didn’t know that was common knowledge, but there it is.
Dixie doesn’t know how far I fell the year she was in Houston, but Jaggerd McKinley obviously does. What I can’t work out is why he wouldn’t have told her already and gotten me out of his way.
“No wait, wait,” he says mockingly, as if trying to stave off another fit of laughter. “It might’ve been the part where the strung-out cokehead told me I didn’t know jack shit about him when I’m the one who rebuilt Dallas’s truck last year after you nearly killed him in it. News flash: the Amarillo PD don’t go out of their way to protect lowlife scum like drug users and distributors so I got a nice, long look at the details on the paperwork when it passed through here for insurance purposes. So, who knows, man. I guess it’s a toss-up on which part of your bullshit speech I found the most entertaining.”
There is no trace of humor in his voice. He’s good and pissed now and so am I.
If ever there was someone I didn’t want to know my business, particularly business I have successfully managed to keep from Dixie for this long, it’s her jealous ex-boyfriend.
When I speak, my voice comes out low and lethal. “You and I live on the same side of this town and I bet you’ve got a few secrets you’d rather not be made public. Daddy’s side business is probably just one of them.” When he doesn’t argue, I finish speaking my piece. “You can judge me all you want and I couldn’t give two shits what you think. But I can tell you this: if any of that information makes its way to Dixie through any channels other than me directly telling her—which, believe it or not, I do intend to do—you will wish you’d kept your mouth shut.”
It’s low, the empty threat. Well, mostly empty. But I’m panicking. If McKinley knows that much, then it’s likely there are people who know more and might be less inclined to keep that knowledge to themselves.
I thought I had more time.
I had a plan.
My plan is shot to hell.
9 | Dixie
DID GAVIN TALK to you yet?
I wake up Wednesday morning to my alarm blaring out a song called “Better Than You Left Me,” and an hour-old text from my brother.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and squint while texting him back.
Sort of. Why?
Dallas doesn’t respond right away and he’s on his honeymoon, so I don’t really want to think about what he might be doing or risk calling and interrupting.
I take my time showering and eating breakfast. My first lesson isn’t coming until 1 P.M. so there’s no rush.
After I’ve tamed my hair into a manageable low ponytail and dressed in well-worn jeans and a black tank top with red letters that say KEEP CALM AND HUG A DRUMMER—what can I say, I have a thing for drummers—I pick up around the house and unload and reload the dishwasher. How jealous people would be if they could see my glamorous life.
It’s not until the doorbell chimes that I realize it’s time for Maisey’s piano lesson. I don’t realize how empty the house seems until I have company.
“Hey, ladies,” I say to six-year-old Maisey and her mom, Leandra.
Leandra was a sixteen-year-old rape victim who used pain pills and narcotics to try to ignore her resulting pregnancy until she couldn’t anymore. They’ve have a rough go of it and Maisey is tiny for her age, something I know Leandra still feels an immense amount of guilt over, but she’s actually one of my best stu
dents. Maybe the best.
“Hi, Miss Dixie,” Maisey says. “I practiced on my princess keyboard all week!”
“Yeah!” I give her an enthusiastic high-five. “Go you!”
Leandra grins at us and shoots me a thankful look. “She really did. She’s getting so good. I’m going to grab some groceries and I’ll be back, probably before you’re done.”
“Sounds good.” I close the door behind Leandra and usher Maisey over to the piano bench. “Show me which piece you’ve been working on.”
For the next half hour I work with Maisey. Her mom arrives a few minutes before her lesson is over and we play a mini-concert complete with a curtsy.
In the hour before my next lesson, I sit and I wait.
He’ll be here. He always is.
He won’t ring the bell or knock. He’ll just wander almost aimlessly up to the porch and stand there until I let him inside.
It took him two weeks to come inside and a third week before he told me his name.
Liam.
I don’t know what his story is, or why he shows up here, but I always make sure to have a snack and a beginner piano lesson ready.
Today is the same as before. I listen for him, opening the door once I hear him on the front porch.
The sight of him breaks my heart and yet again, I don’t see a car in sight that could’ve dropped him off. His clothes are stained and threadbare and his hair is oily as if he could use a good bath. I want to offer him more than cookies or a sandwich or a piano lesson but I can’t find the words that would make this appropriate. So I just stick to our routine. For now.
“Good afternoon, Liam.” I’m careful to keep my voice low. He’s got the demeanor of a cornered animal that might flee the room at any time.
“Hi,” he says just as quietly.
“Come sit,” I say, pulling out the piano bench. “I picked out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ today. It’s a good one.”
His eyes narrow like they always do, as if he’s waiting for this to be a lie or a trick. Liam is a dark-haired little boy with matching eyes that darken when he gets frustrated, which happens often. He reminds me of another broody musician I know. I contemplate asking Gavin to give him drum lessons because piano, violin, and even guitar pretty much just piss him off. I want to love and hug Liam the same way I want to smother Gavin with love to help guide him out of the darkness, but that would likely piss him off, too.