“Now, with this hand,” I hold up my left hand, palm facing her. “You want the pad of your thumb on the back of the neck. Make sure it’s the pad of your thumb, not the tip.” I hold mine up, rubbing my thumb and index fingers together. “Then, you want to wrap your hand around the neck, placing the tips of your fingers onto the fret when needed.” Watching her watch my movements lifts a weight I hadn’t realized I had. This feels good. It feels right—me teaching her. “Am I going too fast?”
“Nope,” she says without looking at me.
I grab the pick that’s lying on the end table. “Going back to this hand,” I wave my right hand that has the pick clasped between my thumb and index finger. “You can either hold the pick between your thumb and index finger like I’m doing now or you can add your middle finger too. I only use these two,” I show her, taking my middle finger off the pick. “Come here. I want you to try everything I just showed you, and then we’ll do chords.”
She stands as I scoot as far into the corner of the couch as I can, motioning for her to come sit between me and the guitar.
Once she’s seated comfortably between my legs, I pull the guitar toward us, placing it on her lap.
“Like this?” she asks after she performs everything I’ve showed her.
I lean over her, inspecting. She’s done well.
“You need a gap between your palm and the neck so that your fingers arch correctly,” is the only thing I correct. “Perfect,” I tell her once she’s adjusted. “Okay, so before I have you pick the strings, I’m going to tell you the names of each one. Let’s start with how they are numbered. From the bottom to the top you have,” I place my arm over her, putting my finger on the top string. “This is six, then going down, you have five, four, three, two, and one. There are letters associated with each string. Going back to the top, you have E, A, D, G, B, E.”
She looks at me from over her shoulder asking, “How am I supposed to remember that?”
“You’ll learn, trust me. And we can always come up with a phrase later if it’ll help.” She nods. “Take the pick, placing it at the top. Pick down for me.”
That first sound is like a balm coating my heart in warmth. It soothes and settles something inside me.
“Great job, Everly. That was a down stroke. Now pick up.” She does. “That’s an up stroke. You can alternate picking up and down.”
“This is so cool!” I laugh, enjoying her enthusiasm.
We continue, and she picks a few chords I show her.
“What’s going on in here?”
We both look up to see Whitney, beer in hand walking in with Taralynn and my brother following. Matt and Mason are home too, but they must still be out back drinking.
Weekends around here have always been party central. People usually just show up without an invite. But I guess tonight isn’t one of those nights, or maybe my brother called off any plans they’d had when I asked him if we could come down.
Whitney takes a seat at the other end of the couch. Shawn falls into the recliner, pulling Taralynn with him.
“You were playing that song that night. I forgot.” Whitney stares off into space, probably thinking back to the night she re-entered my life, the night she awoke my soul again. “I sang that song. In all the chaos that’s . . .” She trails off, not wanting to say too much in front of our daughter, I imagine. “I’d never heard it before.”
“Yeah, you had,” I admit, making her eyes lock on mine. “You wrote that song.”
“I did?”
“My mom wrote a song? No way.” Everly beams, looking at her mom.
I move the guitar from her hands, sitting it on the floor. “Your mom is a very talented songwriter.”
“I am?” Whitney’s lips are snarled as if what I’m saying isn’t believable. If my daughter wasn’t sitting here, there’s no way I’d be able to keep myself in check.
How does she not believe she’s capable of so many things?
“Yes, you are.” Mason’s voice fills the room as he comes through. “I remember you used to sing things you’d written when you were at my house visiting my sister. You’re a good singer too.” He turns, addressing Shawn and Taralynn. “Matt and I are heading out. We’re gonna go to Mac’s for a little while. May hit up Level a little later.”
“Have fun,” Taralynn tells him.
Mac’s is a local, small, pub-like bar in town. He mainly has a blue-collar, older crowd, but when Taralynn used to waitress, my brother and his friends started hanging out there. She’s no longer waitressing that I know of, but I guess they still frequent there. Level, however, is a club on the outskirts of town, but it won’t open until around ten.
I look at the clock hanging on the wall seeing it’s just past eight thirty so they have a little time to kill because they head to the night club.
“It is getting late. Ev, why don’t you go upstairs and take a quick shower. Do you remember the room we slept in a few weeks ago?”
She sags against me but nods at her mom. Standing, she turns to face me. “Thank you for teaching me a few things.”
“We can practice more tomorrow if you’d like.”
Her eyes light up. “Yes! Please.”
“Sure, kiddo. Night,” I tell her as she starts to walk off.
I’ll teach her how to play. Maybe it could become our thing like Whitney and I used to have. But this’ll be how I bond with my daughter.
Until tonight, I’d forgotten how far down I’d buried the need to play. It started out as a way to get Whitney’s attention, but I quickly discovered I loved it. Since Trent’s death, I’ve only strummed a song here and there. I was forcing something by doing it. I’m not meant to play alone. I need my Love. I need our family.
Family.
I look at Whitney. She’s watching my brother and his girlfriend. Taralynn is cuddled in Shawn’s lap, and he’s whispering God only knows what. But whatever it is, even I can see it’s turning her on.
The look in Whitney’s eyes says a lot. There’s need behind those dark, violet eyes of hers. But I can’t do anything about it—not yet anyway. I won’t chance messing up a future with her.
I don’t plan on being some fling to scorch her needs at this moment. I want it all. And I want it for as long as I have air in my lung and a pulse in my body.
It’s not long before Taralynn hops off Shawn’s lap, spouting how tired she is. Shawn mumbles a goodnight, and they head upstairs to their room.
Whitney and I stare at each other until I can’t handle it anymore and get up to find a beer.
After showering, I come down the stairs to find Whitney in the kitchen, bent over the island, staring at the cell phone in her hand. Her eyebrows are set in a frown, and her lips are pursed as if she’s thinking hard.
“What’re you looking at?”
She blows out a thick stream of air. “A text.”
My body goes still. I hate that she gave him her new cell number. Logically, she had to, and I know that. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, just as I don’t like Emersyn being with him this weekend. Or that the judge awarded him joint custody. Makes no fucking sense. But like Jacob said, we’ll fight it. At least I hope she will.
I make my way over to where Whitney is propped over the counter. I can’t stand it. I need to know what he has said to her, so I peer over her shoulder, reading the text message I know is from him.
Blake: Our daughter misses you. Misses her sister too.
Blake: It doesn’t have to be this way, babe. You can come home. We can be a family again.
Blake: I still want that. Just come back home.
My insides turn. I can’t stop my hand from wrapping around her front and pulling her against me. She’s mine. She will always be mine.
But I’ll also never stand in her way if she doesn’t want me.
She hasn’t replied to the text messages, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him. It’d probably be easier for her if she thought about it long enough. She knows him. Knows tha
t life. She doesn’t know me that well. Not yet anyway.
“What do you want, Love?”
“What do you mean?” She leans up, pressing her back into my chest. Her head rises, so she’s looking up at me. I glance down at her.
“Do you want to go back to him? Do you still want your family . . . with him?”
“Do you want me to go?”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I want to know what you want.”
This passive shit is grating on my nerves. It’s not her. The road to her memories may be in getting her to find the woman locked up inside herself. That’s the girl I want.
I tighten my grip on her, raising her onto her tiptoes and bending so that my mouth lines up with her ear.
“Do you want him? Do you want to stay married to him and raise your kids with him?” She shakes her head, but that’s not good enough. I want words. I push her front into the hard surface of the countertop. My dick starts to swell, and right now, I don’t want to do anything to stop it. I push my jean-covered crotch into her ass, eliciting a moan from her lips. “Answer me, Love.”
“I want you.” My cock grows, hardening to the point it’s painful against her body.
“I asked if you wanted him.” My words are harsh, coming out as a bark and entering her ear making her spine straighten.
“I don’t love, Blake. I don’t want to go back to what I had. I want my girls, but . . . I don’t want him.”
I push myself away from her so fast I end up backing into the refrigerator. I was seconds away from kissing her. And as much as I want to do that and so much more, I can’t. She’s married. She doesn’t remember who she is. I can’t.
I open the fridge, pulling out a Bud Light and downing the whole thing in one swallow, trying to cool my body down. When I finish, I toss the empty bottle into the trash, then I grab another out, handing it to Whitney. I know her body is as on fire the same as mine is. I don’t need to touch her again. It’s written all over her face and in the flames staring back at me through her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She calls me on the lie. “Why don’t you tell me why you keep stopping it?” She twists the cap off the beer then she takes a sip. “I was clear a week ago. My marriage is done. And I know you want me. Hell, I felt it pretty clear moments ago.” She looks down at the hard-on I’m still sporting.
“I am sorry,” I admit. “I’m confusing you, and that isn’t what I want.”
“Stop saying that. I’m not confused. I may not remember everything, but I’ve remembered more in the two weeks I’ve been with you than I have in the last ten years. Stop, stopping this.” She gestures between us.
“I can’t, Whitney.” I turn away from her, bending and resting my forearms on the counter.
What am I really fighting against?
She comes to stand behind me. I feel her even before she touches me, placing her hands on my hips. “It’s late. We don’t have to figure this out tonight. I want my memory back too, Shane. I do.” She sighs, her breath fanning my T-shirt. “Let’s call it a night, yeah?”
“I do want you.”
“I know you do. And I’ve said what I want, and what I don’t want. Bed, Shane.” She makes me smile, but when she lets go of me, my smile fades. I want her so bad I can almost taste her on my tongue. She is the biggest craving I’ve ever had.
“You sleeping in the same room you did last time?”
“Nah. Matt’s home. That’s his room. And Mason has the other one down here. I’ll crash on the couch. If you need me, just shoot me a text if you don’t feel like coming down the stairs.” I turn around.
“The couch?”
“Yeah.”
“Um . . .” She pauses, thinking about what she’s about to say. “Come sleep with us. The bed is big enough without Em here.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Love.” After what just happened, it’s definitely not a good idea.
“Sure it is.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, but not buying any of it. “Everly will be between us. It’ll be fine.”
“And what happens when she wakes up and doesn’t understand why I’m in bed with you both?”
She’s the last person I want to confuse. She knows her mother is married to Blake. Fuck, she still thinks he’s her father.
“You underestimate our daughter.” Hearing her say, ‘our daughter,’ does something to me. I swear it warms my soul. “She’ll be fine. She won’t think anything of it. You aren’t sleeping on the couch, Shane.”
“I’m not, huh?”
“No. Not when there is a comfortable bed with room in it that we can all share. Come on. Let’s go to sleep. I’m tired.”
Without argument, I follow her.
I’d follow her anywhere.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Whitney Lane
I never did respond to Blake’s text message Saturday night, and he didn’t bring it up when I picked Emersyn up yesterday. I’m surprised really but also grateful he didn’t. Maybe it was because Shane sat perched against his truck while I retrieved my daughter from the doorstep of my former home, I don’t know. Don’t really care if I think about it.
Just like I didn’t care that I only got six grand for my rings that appraised for over ten. The way I see it, it’s a small fraction of what I’ve paid for being married to him. The time lost . . .
I walk out of the bank, Emersyn on my hip and my purse dangling from my other side, feeling lighter today. Maybe it’s that I have a little money of my own now and I don’t have to rely so heavily on Shane anymore. Not that he seems to think I’m a burden, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling that way.
My cell phone chimes, indicating a text message, but I leave it in the back pocket of my jeans until I’ve crossed the parking lot to my car and get Emersyn strapped into her booster seat.
“Momma.” The way she says my name sounds like a statement coming from her. It makes me chuckle. “I want ice cream.”
“Not right now, sweetie.”
“Yes, Momma. Shaney said I get ice cream today.”
Ughhh, I want to kill Kylie. Before she left, she kept calling Shane, “Shaney” in that whiney voice she uses, trying to get what she wants out of him. And it ended up rubbing off on my daughter. Now she’s calling him that. It’s annoying, but she is a three-year-old. What am I gonna do? She says she likes it better than just plain ole Shane.
“Then maybe you’ll get some after dinner. We’re going to be late picking up your sister if we don’t hurry.”
We won’t, but I’m not telling her that.
I walk around, getting into the driver’s seat. Once the car is cranked and my seatbelt is on, Emersyn starts chanting, “moosic, moosic, moosic, Momma.”
“One sec, sweet girl. Momma’s gotta check her phone.” I pull it out of my purse only to regret doing so. Blake.
“I wanna phone.”
I ignore the comment from the back seat as I glance down at the message.
Blake: I miss you, baby.
Blake: Stop this and come home.
I roll my eyes. My fingers itch to type even though I shouldn’t respond . . . but fuck it.
“Evlee. I want my Evlee.” I look at Emersyn through the rearview mirror. The girl is dancing in her seat. Not actual dancing, more like moving her shoulders side to side and bobbing her head.
“We’re going in just a sec, Em. I’ve just got to talk to Daddy for a minute.”
“Daddy,” she singsongs.
Me: Courtney Harris isn’t doing it for you anymore?
Blake: ?
Me: Don’t play me. I saw you go into a hotel with her.
I send the photo I snapped of the two of them before he tries to give me some bullshit excuse.
I watch the dots come on the screen, telling me he’s responding, but then they go away and come back on a few more times b
efore his text comes through.
“Daddy says we comin’ home.”
I turn my head quickly, looking at her. “What was that, Em?”
“Daddy said we come home soon.”
Did he now? The fucker. Figures he’d lie to his daughter. Surely, he doesn’t actually believe that. Hell, maybe he does.
Blake: Honey, what you saw isn’t what you’re thinking. I promise.
I don’t bother with a response even if I could throw that kiss I saw in his face. It was exactly what I saw. I’m not stupid.
I place my cell in the cup holder without looking at the next message that comes through. I won’t be late, but I also won’t be the first car in line to pick up Everly when school lets out at three like I usually am.
I flick the radio on as I pull out. Emersyn loves music. Loves to sing, too.
I don’t remember singing when I was pregnant with Everly, but with Emersyn, I sang every day. I sang just for her. That was when I realized I was actually good at it.
I think I also know why Blake hated it every time he caught me singing. He’d tell me I was tone deaf and couldn’t recognize my singing as bad. I knew he was wrong. I recorded myself several times when I started to let doubt creep in.
He just didn’t want to take a chance on me remembering.
No matter what the future holds, one thing’s for sure, Blake Lane and I are done.
Shane wants me to pursue criminal action, but I just want that part of my life left in the past. Because the more I think about what they did—what he did—the sicker I get.
Fuckedy, fuck, fuck.
I pop the pill into my mouth and down it with a gulp of water.
With the exception of the two days I was without my birth control when I left Blake, I’ve never once forgotten to take my pill in the morning. I have my routine for a reason. I always take it while I’m preparing Emersyn’s breakfast. I don’t know how I forgot this morning. I did everything the same. Except . . .
The images from this morning reappear, vividly in my mind.
More Than Memories: A Second Chance Standalone Romance Page 16