An Everyday Hero

by Laura Trentham

  Was it Wayne? Was he checking her story? She squinted in the rearview mirror. A black truck. A good percentage of Madison residents drove a black truck. It could be anyone. She took a left, down the road less traveled. The truck turned to follow.

  She mumbled a string of curse words and held on to the steering wheel even tighter. If Emmett’s gate was locked, she was screwed. The truck trailed far enough behind to keep her guessing. She turned down the narrow blacktop that led to Emmett’s gated grassy lane.

  The truck seemed to hesitate. Or had her perception of time slowed? The truck continued down the main road and Greer collapsed back in her seat. Her headlights cut through the wide open gate, and a swarm of bugs greeted her as she drove beneath the pine trees.

  She continued on, craving the safety and danger lurking at the end of the rutted path. No lights were visible. What in God’s green tarnation was her endgame—she hit the brakes—wake him up, apologize, and drive off? It was a plan, if not necessarily a good one.

  She coasted closer. A rational person would call or text him tomorrow to apologize. She stopped again. Her fear of Wayne was a bad aftertaste that needed a chaser. If anyone could understand, it would be Emmett, right?

  She crept forward again. Unless he was sound asleep. She was an idiot to be here this late. As she swung her car into a U-turn, her headlights caught on Emmett, standing at the top of the porch steps, his shoulder propped against the wood pillar, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Had he watched her dithering the entire time?

  She turned her car off, blind in the sudden darkness. Nothing moved and for a moment, she wondered if she’d imagined Emmett standing there because he’d set up camp in her head.

  She slipped out of the car and stumbled toward him. The moon was a mere sliver in the sky and offered no physical or psychological illumination. Even the bugs seemed to wait for her move. Finally, the call of a whip-poor-will broke the silence.

  “I’m sorry for bothering you so late.” When he didn’t acknowledge her, she squinted. “Are you there, Emmett?”

  “I’m here.” His voice rumbled like thunder in the clear night. “Why’d you come?”

  “A couple of reasons.” She shivered even though the night air was warm, and plowed ahead. “Just so you know, I don’t want an army of feral cats to eat your face.”

  “How comforting.” This time the rumble in his voice edged closer to laughter than anger.

  “Do you find this amusing?”

  “No.” A chuckle burst out of him. “Actually, a little. It looked like you were doing your best to talk yourself into turning around.”

  “I was worried I might wake you or, based on your track record, you might shoot me.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you came for a couple of reasons? The feral cats being one. What else?”

  “It’s dumb.”

  “Try me.”

  “Wayne walked me to my car tonight.”

  The porch creaked as his shadow shifted. “I take it he wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

  She gave a little laugh, but it petered into nothing. “He wanted me to go out with him as an ego salve for that other night, I think.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, but…” Feeling more and more like she’d overreacted, she took a step backward toward her car. “I should go.”

  “Wait.” His voice brooked no argument, and she froze. “Come on in before the mosquitos get ahold of you. There’s something I need to say too.”

  Her eyes had adjusted enough to see the porch steps. He opened his front door and she followed him inside. The darkness shaded deeper and left her blind. He didn’t turn a light on.

  Even though it was darker and more isolated than the back parking lot of the bar with Wayne, she dropped her purse at her feet, pepper spray included. No fear rose up to clutch her around the neck in a stranglehold.

  “I’m sorry if I came off as a condescending ass in the bar. I have no right to tell you what to do when my life is as unsettled as yours,” he said.

  He sounded sincere enough even though his face was unreadable in the dark. The long, low shadow of the couch was behind him. She closed the distance between them, but everything remained unclear—his face, her intent, his feelings.

  “You don’t really know why I left Nashville.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said softly. “Maybe someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me the story.”

  “Maybe I will.” She owed him more. “You’ll figure things out, Emmett.”

  “Maybe I will.” The smile in his voice sounded like the one that crinkled up his blue eyes and made them spark with mischief.

  She rubbed her shaky hands down her jeans. He was a mess, and so was she. Their lives were caught in stasis between past and future. Eventually momentum would carry them away from each other.

  But this pocket of time seemed to exist just for the two of them. Time to heal wounds both physical and emotional. The tether binding them grew shorter and shorter, and she shuffled toward him, her breath coming as if she were running.

  “Greer?” The longing he imbued in her name reeled her the rest of the way in.

  In the dark she misjudged the distance and hit his chest with enough force to send him back a step, his butt landing on the back of the couch. She didn’t let the embarrassment washing through her take hold. The darkness lent her bravery.

  His position put them face-to-face. She wrapped her arms around his neck and notched herself between his knees. His shoulders moved and she tensed. Would he push her away? Ask her what in the heck she was doing?

  His hands came around her waist and slipped to her hips, but he didn’t pull her forward. His hesitation made her hesitate in turn. Was he not attracted to her?

  Or … was his confidence as shattered as hers? Had he let any woman close enough to touch him since his injury? Did he think losing part of his leg somehow made him less attractive? Less of a man?

  She tightened her hold and leaned into him, brushing her nose along his until her lips met his in a soft, brief kiss. “Is this okay?” she whispered with their lips still in contact.

  “It’s certainly a surprise.” He nipped her bottom lip playfully.

  “Good or bad?”

  “Very good. Dare I even say, great?” He clutched her hips tighter and pulled her flush against him.

  Her exhale was equal parts relief and pleasure. He wanted her. She speared her hand through his hair and twisted the strands in her fingers, her sigh reminiscent of the high school girl she’d been. “Your hair looks good.”

  “Spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  “I didn’t come here to kiss you. I mostly came to apologize.”

  He pulled away and she followed, craving more of his … everything. “Is this an extension of your apology?”

  She sensed his mood shift and refused to allow him to retreat, fisting his hair and holding him in place. “You’re worried this is a pity kiss.”

  “Isn’t it a little?”

  She’d hung out with enough musicians to recognize an ego hound from fifty feet, but Emmett wasn’t the type to need his ego stroked. He needed to be picked up from the despair he’d wallowed in the last few months.

  “You’re hot as sin, Captain Lawson. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, only I wasn’t sure you were into me.”

  He walked his hand up her spine, slow and sensuous, to tangle his fingers in her hair and cup her nape. He pulled her mouth to his, then deepened the kiss, his tongue making contact with hers for a split second before retreating. “Not into you? How could I not be into a woman whose favorite pastime is to put me in my place?”

  “Your dad’s right; I’m kind of a mess.”

  “Ditto.” The word was muffled against her mouth. “Also, can we not talk about my dad?”

  Untold minutes passed in an exploration of lips and bodies that kindled the ember of her attraction
into a four-alarm fire. His hands were magic. Vibrations of pleasure sang through her like a perfectly composed song.

  “Oh my God, I lied to my mama.” She nuzzled his neck and breathed in his scent. Honeysuckle and warm grass. God, she probably stank like whiskey and smoke. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “About what?” he asked as he laid a path of kisses from her temple to her mouth.

  “I told her you were like an annoying brother.” She slipped her hand under his shirt to his warm, solid back. “But you’re so not. Well, at least not the brother part.”

  “I would hope not. We might be in Tennessee, but that shit is still illegal.”

  She laughed and for the first time in a long time, she felt light. Light-headed and lighthearted. Could they eradicate the darkness they battled together?

  With a tentativeness at odds with his usual brashness, he skated a hand up to tease the side of her breast, his thumb caressing the underside.

  She popped to her toes and let her weight fall fully into him. He wobbled on the edge of the couch, then they were falling. A metallic thud rang out followed by a crash. Something had shattered.

  Only their rapid breathing filled the pause. She was on top of him but cattywampus on the couch, one leg over the back, the other dug into the cushion at his hip.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yep. How about you?”

  He scooted them into a prone position, side by side and facing each other with her back against the cushions. Dangerous and tempting. She notched her leg between his and initiated another kiss. They made out like teenagers, feeling each other up from the outside of their clothes, for what felt like hours.

  Turned on beyond anything she’d experienced, she was more than ready to hit a grand slam, yet he didn’t seem inclined to move beyond first base even when she ground her hips against him. His control waxed as hers waned.

  She slid her hand over his hip and down his leg until her fingertips hit the carbon fiber of his prosthetic. He froze and pulled her hand away, holding it too tightly. Unsure, she froze as well, and waited for his reaction.

  He pushed her away and sat up, his elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands. She scrambled up and pressed her hands together on her lap. Now that her body was free from his spell, she was silent as her head whirred to life. What now? Was their friendship irrevocably changed?

  “You’d better go.” The words shot arrows into her heart.

  “Okay.” She took a deep shuddery breath but refused to beg or pressure him. It was like they’d shone mirrors on each other, neither of them willing to share their true selves. She rose and shuffled toward the door, shards of whatever they’d broken crunching under her shoes.

  With hope taking a last gasp, she hesitated with her hand on the knob, but he didn’t stop her. He remained still and silent in the same hunched, defensive posture on the couch. Unable to locate the words to traverse the distance between them, she walked out the door.

  The soft meow of Bonnie drew tears. She crouched on the porch stairs and gave the kitten the affection her master was unable to accept. She left, her car creeping through the grass, sure Emmett would appear in her rearview mirror like in one of her favorite rom-coms to stop her. He didn’t, and she pulled onto the blacktop, lonelier than she’d felt in forever.

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday afternoon, Greer stifled a yawn as she stepped into the Music Tree Foundation toting a guitar case and beginner guitar lesson books. Saturday had been another late night spent working behind the bar at Becky’s.

  Guilt sent her to church on Sunday morning after a few hours of sleep, and she’d desperately needed toothpicks to hold her eyes open during the sermon. Sandwiched between her parents on the pew, she’d felt about nine years old. Except her mind had kept drifting to Emmett and the very adult encounter they’d shared Friday night.

  He hadn’t called her, but then again, she hadn’t reached out to him either. As the rejected party, she had her pride to shore up like a house of cards. Still, she wondered. And worried about him despite telling herself he wanted neither from her.

  Emmett’s mother and father hadn’t coerced him into rejoining their flock of sinners, and she could only imagine his caustic commentary if they had.

  The rest of Sunday was spent cooking with her mom. By Monday, the late nights of her weekend and early Sunday had caught up with her, and she’d slunk out of bed at ten in the morning.

  Could she even hold down an eight-to-five job?

  With her future as foggy as ever, she focused on her session with Ally. Ally needed her; Emmett did not. He had to figure out how to pry his head out of his own butt. She couldn’t do it for him.

  Ally had all kinds of potential. Potential Greer didn’t want to see frittered away. If she nagged Ally, she would come off sounding like a teacher or parent and drive Ally’s frittering level to eleven. Greer had to play it cool.

  Ally showed up fifteen minutes late and out of breath. “Sorry. Had some stuff to take care of.”

  When a slingshot What kind of stuff? nearly shot out of her mouth, Greer put on a smile she didn’t feel and kept her voice casual. “No worries. I brought you something.”

  Ally narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  Why did she fall back into a position of suspicion with any offer of help? Greer pushed the guitar with her foot, under the table and still in its case, until it met resistance in the form of Ally’s combat boots.

  Ally ducked her head and gasped. A look like a kid coming down the stairs Christmas morning passed over her face before she shut it down with a mask of teenage nonchalance. “That’s for me to use today?”

  “Yes, but also for you to take home with you and practice on. It was my very first guitar. I’m pretty sure the spirit of my teenage angst is lurking somewhere in the body. I have the feeling you two would really hit it off.” Greer pulled the canvas bag of instruction books onto the table between them. The worn book she pulled out had pages falling out. It was filled with classic rock songs. “You’ll have to experiment with what learning style suits you best, but this worked for me.”

  Ally flipped one open to “Imagine” by The Beatles. Greer had played it so often, her fingers changed chords on an invisible fret in her hand. When Ally only smoothed her hand over the page, Greer added, “If this music is too old-fashioned, some of these other books have more modern music.”

  “No,” Ally said sharply before her tone softened and her gaze lifted to meet Greer’s. “This works. I’ll take good care of your guitar, I promise.”

  Greer believed her. Ally’s surface sass had peeled away and revealed a core of honor. Whatever trouble Ally had landed herself in wasn’t because she was a bad kid but because she’d been desperate. Was still desperate if Greer’s instincts weren’t off-kilter.

  “Before I show you some chords, let’s take a look at the lyrics you’ve been working on.” Greer reached out and made a grabby hand.

  Ally gave a groan but rustled around in her backpack. “They still suck.”

  “They are allowed to suck. That’s what we’ll fix during many rounds of edits.”

  The notebook paper Ally passed over was rife with eraser marks and crumpled as if she’d gotten frustrated and given up at least once.

  “‘Dark Side of the Mountain,’” Greer read aloud, accompanied by another groan from Ally. “Great title.”

  Greer put the girl out of her misery and read the rest silently. The lyrics were timeless and heartfelt and could have been set to an alternative rock cadence or bluegrass. It was like she’d bled on the page. That’s what good songwriting was all about, tapping straight into the emotional vein, harrowing yet cathartic.

  “This is good. Real good.” Greer peered over the paper at Ally, who squirmed and picked at her fingernails. Greer put her hand over Ally’s to stop the carnage. “Sharing your work is hard as hell, and I can’t honestly say it gets easier, but I promise it won’t go beyond the two of us in this room—unless you want
it to—so be wild and unafraid.”

  “What do you mean, unless I want it to?”

  “I started writing songs when I was about your age and eventually performed them.”

  “I’m not good enough.”

  “Yes, you are, Ally. Your first try is better than some musicians who have been around for decades. Songwriting is a talent separate from playing or singing. It can be developed, but a person has to have the kernel of genius to nurture.”

  “And you think I have a kernel or whatever?”

  “You’ve got something special.” Greer put the paper down, tilted her head, and studied Ally. “What do you think? Did you enjoy the process?”

  Ally crossed her arms over her chest and didn’t meet her eyes. “It was harder than I thought it’d be. If I had talent, wouldn’t it come easy?”

  “Talent is like getting a leg up, but it won’t get you over the wall. Success only comes if you work and practice day after day, year after year.”

  Ally’s gaze dropped to hers with the force of a hammer. “Then why did you give up?”

  The little brat had tangled Greer in her own motivational web. Now it was Greer’s turn to study the white-painted cement walls. “The pressure and disappointment got to me. One night I had a panic attack onstage and can’t bear the thought of getting back up there.”

  “You’re scared.” Incredulity sailed Ally’s voice high.

  “I’m not scared.” The knee-jerk denial came out with blistering intensity.

  “Prove it.” Ally reached into the case and held the guitar out, her eyebrows raised.

  Greer scooted back in her chair as if the guitar were weaponized. Ally bocked like a chicken. Was she going to wuss out in front of a teenager? As if her arm were shot through with cement, she took the guitar, the strings biting into her palm.

  “Hand me a pick, you little punk.”

  Ally offered one between her index and middle fingers along with a smirk.

  Greer settled the guitar across her lap. The curves of its body fell into place like a puzzle piece finding its mate. She ran her hand up the neck, the strings taut and smooth and familiar. It had been her first love, her first guitar. A slight, discordant twang reverberated.