Pretty Instinct

by S. E. Hall

  “I’m the second other boss of the band.” Con steps forward, puffing out his chest.

  What Cannon does next, reflexively, not only casts away any doubts that may have still been lingering in the back of my head, but also testifies largely toward my preliminary sizing up of his character. “It’s nice to meet you, Conner.” His hand’s already extended. “What kind of music does your band play?”

  I sneak a glance at Jarrett to find he’s already looking at me, wearing a “told ya so” smile on his lips. Cannon’s in with him.

  “Not my sister’s music. She won’t let us. We play Rhett’s songs, and other people’s. It’s called Al, At—”

  I place a hand on Conner’s back, helping out a little. “Think Evanescence has a baby with City & Colour. We call it Alternatwang. Jarrett and I wanna rock, but Rhett writes the songs and should have been born the gritty Everly Brother, so we compromise.”

  He nods, surprisingly not needing further explanation on our genre. “So, Conner, I’m sittin’ here, minding my own business, when your sassy sister comes over and asks me to jump on a bus full of strangers. Sounds crazy to me. I’m hoping maybe you can tell me why I should join your band?”

  “Where are you going?” Conner asks him.

  He bounces his shoulders and looks off in the distance. “No idea,” he barely wisps out.

  “Do you like Pez?”

  Cannon turns back to him slowly, an amused spark of interest lifting both brows, which I note to mean “you’ve pleasantly surprised me.” “Sure, who doesn’t like Pez?”

  “I got a bunch on the bus, let’s go!” Conner yells, grabbing Jarrett’s and my hands, dragging us back the way we came. “Come on, Cannon Blackwell, we’re heading out! Woo woo!” His train noise carries off on the breeze.

  Chapter 4

  “You may have passed the Conner test, but I wasn’t kidding about the rest.” I hold up a hand to stop him from climbing the steps on board. “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  This is the part where I go back to, and stay in, sister mode. For a moment, I got lost in the smoothness of his tone and allure of his seductive, discerning eyes, but now we’re back to business. You’re about to cohabitate with my brother. Everything you’ve ever done and might be inclined to do again, anything in your bloodstream, all your secrets…they just became my business.

  While he’s digging out his wallet, I yell into the bus, “Uncle Bruce, will you bring me a piss cup, please?”

  I take his offered license and pull out my phone, typing all his information into the background check website. Magnificent invention. About the time a processing swirl appears on the screen, Bruce comes clomping down the stairs and thrusts the rapid-screen kit into Cannon’s chest. “Take one nap and you start picking up heathens,” he grumbles.

  “Go piss in that and bring it back. Bathroom’s right over there.” I point.

  “When do I get the full body search?” He smirks.

  “When you get back,” Bruce rumbles at him, shifting closer to me.

  Although I feel kinda sorry for him, I can’t contain my laughter as Cannon’s face pales and drops, along with his jaw. “Relax,” I coo sarcastically. “If you pass the drug test, I’ll let you skip the cavity check.”

  “You’re a siren,” he mutters, shaking his head.

  “A what?”

  “You know, a Siren. Those witchy mermaid girls who sang sailors to their deaths.” He winks at me. “It’s a compliment.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with that fable.” I flush in flattered embarrassment, reveling in the spark of femininity for a moment before I’m back to business. “And I’m certainly not what you describe. I’m cautious and realistic. You don’t like it,” I flit my eyes about, landing on anything but him, shooting for boredom and disconnection, “say no. We’ll be on our way and you’ll never have to see us again. Your call, Superstar.”

  “Mmhmfhp,” he mumbles to himself, stomping off to the bathroom. How nice it’d be if my outside actually matched my inside, that in my soul, I was, in fact, the hard-ass bitch I emote, the kind of girl who’s impervious to the sight of his ass walking away.

  I’m a fraud. And apparently, according to him, a Siren.

  Confirmed wholly by the fact that I could testify with 200% certainty that Cannon Blackwell puts more weight on his right leg than left, also the side on which he carries his wallet, and his left ass cheek hitches up a smidge higher with his manly, slightly bow-legged gait.

  “Dare I ask?” my uncle says, stepping away and lighting a cigarette.

  “We need someone to replace Cami.” I wave my hand in front of my face and sneer, sweeping away the smoke as well as any remnants of wishful longing, which I don’t want my uncle to see. “Almost seemed like a sign, him sitting right in front of us with a Gibson on his back. By the way, I approached him, so maybe you could ease up a little?” I lift a brow, beckoning his empathy.

  My phone dings and I slide it open, checking his results. ‘No Criminal History.’ I turn the screen toward him and grin. “Feel better?”

  “Where’s he from?”

  Consulting the phone again, I do a rapid scan. “Looks like Indiana for the most part. No known aliases.” I see a Sommerlyn Blackwell listed to the side, relation not specified. Mother, sister, daughter or wife? We shall see.

  “Sitting on a park bench, only a bag and guitar? I don’t like it.” My uncle’s forehead wrinkles, four lines of worry to be exact.

  Of course I’d thought the same thing, coupled now with who the hell is Sommerlyn? But I refuse to google anyone. If someone was to return the favor, they’d find a contorted, misinformed butchering of all that is Carmichael. I’d much rather someone have the decency to ask me for the real story, or at least what I know of it, directly from my mouth.

  Or mind their own damn business.

  So other than making sure you’re not “wanted,” and I don’t care if it’s dead or alive, or on drugs, I try to do the same. My investigations are warranted for safety, not nosy philandering. And they stop when I have the few critical answers I warned you upfront I’d go seeking. Is it odd and mysterious that he was chillin’ in the middle of nowhere? Of course. But my gut’s usually spot-on, and it’s telling me Cannon is harmless.

  The crunch of the gravel gives away his return and my head darts up, almost guiltily, from my phone. “Everything come out all right?” I goad, shooting my uncle a “get lost” look over my shoulder. For some reason, I’m gonna save this guy his dignity and actually skip the body search, and Bruce would fiercely contest that.

  What I assume is his weak attempt at a snarl emerges as he hands me back the cup. “I’m handing a cup of my urine to an intimidating as hell little thing I just met in hopes of being accepted onto her bus of mystery. If that’s all right, then sure.” His shoves both hands in his front pockets and sighs aloud. “I’m starting to think the lemonade vendor I hit up earlier thinks it’s funny to slip LSD in people’s drinks and I’m hallucinating this whole very strange day. That or I’m not actually awake right now.”

  “You’re awake,” I rip the label off the cup and scope out the results, “and apparently, not on any hallucinogens. Congrats, you passed.”

  “So just a strange day then. That, or you really are a witchy little thing, casting some weird spell on me.” He smiles then, the curve of his lush lips cocky and spellbinding itself.

  “Listen, I know this all seems super invasive, but Conner’s safety is imperative; he’s the most important job I’ll ever have. And the band needs a replacement. For Rhett and Jarrett, it’s become a way of life. So if I’m gonna solicit random gypsies in order to save it for them, which obviously,” I usher a hand at him, “I am, then I have to be extremely careful. You’ll start to feel more comfortable, I promise. And if you don’t,” I pause, shocked that I want to choose my next words correctly, “you, of course, have the option to leave any time you want. We’ll drop you off anywhere you say, anytime you say it. You have my word. Beside
s, you got anything better to do?” The last part’s a long shot; he exudes class, responsibility and every other key component of “something better to do.”

  He dips his head, staring at the ground while smoothing one hand back and forth over his rich sable hair. “Sadly, no.”

  “Why’s that sad?” I hear it pop out of my mouth spontaneously.

  Chuckling, he pulls his head up. “I’m a twenty-seven-year-old, recently unemployed and unengaged, falsely accused hitchhiker. Though,” I get a wink, his glumness evaporating, “being thought a gypsy is cooler, thanks for that. Either way, this isn’t exactly how I saw today ending when I woke up this morning.”

  “No house?” I pop a foot up, leaning back against the side of the bus, as comfortable as I’ve ever been…in several ways.

  “Technically, the house is hers. She’ll take it.” I assume she is the other half of “recently unengaged.”

  “Family? Kids?”

  “Small family, parents and a sister. No, no kids.”

  I mentally debate if I’ve asked too much, deciding no, and that it’s probably best to keep him talking. Every shred of information I can elicit makes it easier to let him join us, plus I’m intrigued. “What happened with your job?”

  “Was never really my job. Like a moron, I agreed to work for her dad, learning the business to one day take over, since I was set to be family. Without being told, I can assure you I lost that gig the minute she kicked me out of the car. Say,” he shifts his stance with a coy grin, “what’s with all the questions? Do I get to treat you to the same cross-examination?”

  “No way.” My head waggles back and forth furiously. “But I’m not climbing up in your life like you are mine, ergo, I get to ask the questions.”

  His mouth pops opens, most likely to call me out on the fact that I did walk over and climb in his life first, but I cut him off…who’s got time for semantics?

  “Ok, last one and I’ll stop. For a while.” I laugh, knowing that’ll be a challenging promise to keep. “How exactly did you end up squatting in a rest stop a long way from home? What was your plan if I hadn’t bulldozed in?”

  “That was two questions. You owe me.” He smirks. “This is where she kicked me out of the car. Didn’t have time to grab my phone, so I was sitting, not squatting, waiting for her to come back. For the first two hours anyway. I think three hours is probably long enough to figure out she’s not coming back, don’t you?”

  That’s just sad, and I don’t want to answer him honestly, but that’s the only way I know how. “Yeah,” I frown for him, not at him, “she’s probably not coming back. I’m sorry.” I shrug, offering a sympathetic smile.

  He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, first chuckling lightly, the miniscule shake of his shoulders the giveaway, turning soon to all-out laughing. I have no idea at what, maybe he’s finally cracking…sounds like he’s had a definitively shitty day. He eventually settles and stares at me, the resolve moving over his face gradually. “Liz No Last Name, her cool brother, Conner, grumpy uncle who hands out cups and already hates me, two other guys and a band named Cunt, headed wherever. That about cover it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Okay.” He picks up his two belongings in the world, a guitar case and duffle bag, and heads to the steps of our home on wheels. “I’m in.”

  “After you.” I move aside and put an arm out for him to go first. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

  He boards, maneuvering himself and his baggage up and in, and I follow, consciously fighting the urge to admire the view.

  I lost that fight. Honestly, though, it was like matching Holyfield against Thumbelina from the word ass.

  I clap and rub my hands together. “Grand tour time. The boys are in the top bunks, so you’ll be on bottom there,” I point to the bed underneath Jarrett’s, “and I’m across from you. Jarrett snores if he drinks even one beer, so we all hear it any way, but you’re getting the better deal, trust me. Rhett tosses and turns above me all night. I lay in mortal fear he’s gonna fall through and crush me.”

  “You wanna trade?” He laughs, pausing his duffle bag in mid-air, not sure now which bed to toss it on.

  “No, that’s okay. I’m used to it. Ok, next.” I nudge past him in the narrow space. “One bathroom, here. Use any of our stuff you want until we stop to get whatever you need. Just don’t use the toothpaste in the green and blue tube. That’s Conner’s,” I turn and pin him with my eyes, “and yes, he’ll notice.”

  “Got it.” He nods firmly. Still nothing—no jokes, no questions, just accepting Conner at face value. I’m not sure yet of his angle, or if he even has one, or how I feel about either option. I’m always braced for defense and his lack of any type of reaction is throwing me off. “Where’s everybody else?”

  “Conner’s room.” I point to the door at the very back. “Xbox. You can join them if you want.”

  “Thanks, I’m good.” He sits down on his new bed, guitar case between his bent legs. “Where should I put this?”

  “Oh, sorry.” I climb on the edge of my own mattress, too short for the good rides, and lean across the aisle, teetering on the tips of my toes to reach the top bunk storage. I open the space above Jarrett’s bunk; he keeps all his stuff in Conner’s closet. “Okay, hand it up to me,” I twist, hanging on with one hand and holding the other out to grab his gear.

  “Whoa, be careful there.” He rises and grabs my hips, releasing them just as quickly, as though electrocuted by the current I damn sure felt as well. I’ll decide later what the jolt to my heart rate meant, surely it was merely the discomfort of being touched. His hands move hesitantly right, then left, eyes roving over me in the same sporadic sweep. “I don’t want you to fall, but I’m, uh, not sure where to put my hands.” His face reddens, matching my own, I’m sure—since I’m now a blusher—and I swiftly duck my head and jump down.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and put your stuff up there,” I suggest. “You’re more than tall enough to reach.” Why I didn’t let him do it in the first place rather than lean all kitten-like across the way, I have no idea.

  While he’s busy doing that, I scoot away and grab a pop out of the fridge, taking a seat at the table. He takes the hint and soon joins me.

  “So where we headed?”

  Oh shit, that’s right! We aren’t moving. We should be.

  I hold up one finger and lean out in the aisle. “Uncle Bruce!” I sit up straight again and smile at Cannon weakly. In fact, he probably thinks I’m nauseous or something; even I can feel my freakish attempts at facial expressions.

  “What?” My uncle saunters through the bedroom door and over to me.

  “We gotta get our poop in a group! Shouldn’t we be mobile by now?” I raise my brows at him questioningly.

  “Poop in a group? Is that like get our shit together?” He asks and Cannon chuckles.

  “Yes, same. Either one, you pick, let’s do it!”

  “So he’s coming?” He cocks his head in Cannon’s direction. “Didn’t want to take off ‘til you were sure.”

  Well color me the absorbed asshole. They’ve all been packed in that room like sardines, not goofing off at all, but giving me range to make a decision. A decision we should be making together. At the very least, they probably thought I’d have enough courtesy to let them all know when I had decided for sure. “Sorry.” I glance guiltily up at my uncle through my lashes. “Will you get them? Let’s have a quick meeting.”

  I’m staring down at the table, picking nervously at my fingernails, when they all settle around me. Well, except Conner, who never settles, but rather bounces half onto the seat, half onto my lap.

  “Guys,” I start, stopping to clear the ball of shame clogging my throat, “I’m sorry I made you wait so long. We’re all a part of this decision and I’m not sure what came over me.” Yes, I am. “Forgive me?” I look up now, eyes pleading with each of theirs, one at a time. Especially Rhett’s. Hell, I haven’t even seen him in the
last hour, but I’m assuming Jarrett filled him in seeing as how he’s not attacking Cannon as though he’s hijacking us.

  Bruce simply gives me a warm smile, proud I’m making it right. Conner wraps me in a big hug and Jarrett laughs before speaking.

  “If I was mad at you even half the times you seem to think I am, I’d never be happy.” He leans over in what he thinks is whispering to Rhett, “Raggin’. They get emotional and paranoid.”

  Rhett, always the last to bounce back, hasn’t flinched. His face tight and unrevealing, arms crossed in front of him, he fixes me with a pointed glare. If a less trusting person than myself walks this earth, it’s Rhett Foster. Always assessing, forever prepared for and expecting worst case scenario, his guard never relents. It’s why he’s such a brilliant songwriter and drummer, he’s broodingly intense and analytical to a fault.

  “Call me crazy, but shouldn’t we hear him play?” he asks, voice as sinister as his mood.

  Again, oh shit! Now I know they must all think I’m flying by the crotch of my jeans. Picking up a band member you’ve never heard play? Might be a bit much.

  As if reading my thoughts, which he so often does, Rhett mocks me with his condescending sneer. “Forgot that part, huh?”

  My mouth opens and closes at least five times before Cannon’s up, back, and seated again, Songbird ready to play. “What do you want to hear, Conner?”

  Jarrett’s laugh matches my grin; everyone else on this bus would stake their life on what Conner will say, what he always says.

  “‘Beautiful Boy,’” he answers, as predicted, bouncing in place as the corners of his mouth reach for his ears. “My mom always sang me ‘Beautiful Boy.’”

  Long before anything happened, this is something he remembers. I’m glad, it’s a wonderful memory, but not the only one I need to know about.