But tonight, I want to do something different. As soon as I sit down and put the guitar on my lap, I know that I want to play the song I’ve been working on for a while now. I haven’t played in some time, but the music doesn’t stop from flowing onto the sheet anytime I can get it to. At night, especially, is when my mind decides to flood, like I’m drowning in ideas that need to be written.
There are no lyrics. Not fully. Not yet. And even if there were, I haven’t sung in almost two years. It isn’t my specialty; not that playing guitar is something I’ve mastered. I write to remain sane, like keeping the songs in my head would be too much to handle. Introducing them to the world isn’t something I plan to do.
Not since I wrote a song for Relentless.
Closing my eyes, I watch as the notes wave by in my memory, my fingers matching the cords that creates a piercing sound. I wanted to do something different when I wrote this, when the notes were written on the sheet. It isn’t playful, or soft, or anything like I’ve done before.
It’s soul-shattering. A melody that vibrates my entire core like it’s about to break at any second. But it’s where the emotion pools, where my inspiration lays. The jarring feeling of every cord, how they play with one another as the song drifts on, reveals the inspiration of the broken girl I see more than I like. Maybe that’s why I refuse to put lyrics to the music, like immortalizing her pain means she’ll never heal.
I don’t just see her as the girl who was taken advantage of. I see her as the girl who was strong enough to fight it, to continue going to college despite her desire to drop out, the girl who is still so much like herself that she doesn’t even see it. She’s my weird, Batman obsessed, cat-loving best friend, and that’s never really changed.
She only thinks she has.
Tonight, I search the crowd as I do my thing, the vibrations from the guitar humming on my lap. Cody has a grin on his face while he talks to somebody next to him, but I can’t see who it is from where I sit. The wood beam stationed in the corner of the bar counter obstructs my view, but for some reason I can’t pull my attention away.
At the end of the song, the person sitting next to Cody shifts, revealing familiar brown waves framing a pale face. Cody is saying something to her, causing her to tip her head back and laugh, her hair cascading behind her. Her pink lips aren’t painted, but a natural rose pink, and they’re tipped up in amusement.
She shoves Cody’s shoulder playfully, her eyes meeting mine. Her smile widens, mine already as wide as it can get just from watching how easily she fits in with everybody. I finish the song, letting the last notes echo for a few extra seconds, before lowering my guitar down.
The crowd claps, but not Tessa. She’s jumping and whistling at the bar, Cody laughing at how loud she is. I shake my head, making my way over to her. She’s always been my number one fan, even if I blew it. And there were times, too many to count, when I’d mess up the cords, or play out of tune. Never once did she criticize me for it.
Pulling her into a hug, I kiss the top of her head like I usually do. She hugs me back, squeezing me, and then pulls away, wiggling her eyebrows.
“You played an original song,” she chirps happily. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her eyes shine the way they are now. I miss the color, like the Caribbean waters with the sun reflecting off it.
“Did you catch the whole thing?” I ask, setting my guitar down on the counter. I sit between her and Cody, Marty putting a glass of water in front of me.
He knows that I don’t drink more than a beer here and there. He gives me a nod, one that says he’s happy I went up there, before heading back to tend to other customers. He’s a man of few words, but somehow, he says plenty every time with just one look.
“I came in halfway through, but I loved every second of it,” she replies, taking a sip of my water. She pushes it back at me, leaning forward to look at Cody.
“So, what are you guys up to tonight?”
Cody lifts his beer, which I’m pretty sure is number four for him. Not to mention the shots he and a few other guys did when we first got here.
“Drinking to another work week done,” he says, taking a swig. He and Ian used to be tight at one point, but not as close as Ian and I were. Maybe that’s why we get along so well now, because we both know what it’s like to be friends with a tool bag. Cody used to practice with the guys and me, having his interest on the drums, but it didn’t work out. Now, he works for his dad’s construction company, doing custom hardwood work or some crap like that.
Tess’s eyes meet mine. “And what about you?”
I shrug. “I’m actually thinking about heading out. I did my duty for the night.”
“You sounded great,” she says, squeezing my bicep. “I didn’t know you were still writing.”
I just smile, not giving away my motives.
She doesn’t want to hear that she’s my muse when it comes to music. The less she knows, the better.
Just as I’m about to get up, the atmosphere in the bar changes. The door opens and slams closed, something that happens if you let it go without trying to catch it. Anybody from around here knows that, and based on the raised volume level around us from sudden interest, it’s obvious who walked in.
Sure enough, Ian saunters in with the kind of confidence that a lot of people could only hope for. Girls wanted him. Guys wanted to be him. Well, guys who aren’t me. I’m content with not being an arrogant asshole. And, based on the way Tess is rolling her eyes at the wink Ian casts toward a group of girls openly eye screwing him from their booth, she isn’t the type of girl that’s falling for it.
I want to hug her for that. Maybe high five her. Buy her a cake that said, “Congrats! You’re not ho-bagging it like the rest of Clinton’s female population.”
Do bakeries even allow that many words on a cake? There has to be a limit, but I don’t know.
Tess nudges my arm with her elbow. “What are you so deep in thought about?”
“Cake.” The answer comes smoothly, the truth evident in the admission. She looks at me with a calculated stare to figure out why I’m thinking about cake. If she does know, she doesn’t tell me. She also doesn’t act surprised that my mind is on something so random.
Maybe because she knows about my massive sweet tooth, especially when cake is involved. She also knows that I’m picky about what kind of cake I like, learning the hard way when she attempted to surprise me with cake for my birthday. She bought a yellow cake, which wasn’t awful. I preferred chocolate. What really did me in was the knock-off Bettercream frosting spread across the spongey material. Everybody knows that buttercream is where it’s at.
Or, everybody but Tessa.
I was pretty sure she was ready to smash the cake in my face when I told her that. My chances of her ever buying me a cake were slim, and she’d remind me of that whenever she didn’t like something I was saying. Yet, she always bought me cake on my birthday. Triple chocolate Hershey cake, to be exact. Buttercream frosting and all.
Or, as Tessa called it, diabetes on a plate.
She never complained whenever she stole frosting off my plate though. Or when she’d sneak an extra piece when she thought nobody was looking. Yeah, I knew. She should know better than to believe that I wouldn’t count the pieces of cake I had left after every party she threw me.
There’s talking around me, followed by an amused snort. It snaps me from my internal rampage on sugary goodness and throws me back into reality.
And there is Ian, arm leaning on Tess’s shoulder like she’s his damn armrest. I wonder if he knows he’s a tool, or just naturally acts like one without a clue. The cocky grin seems to give away the answer, but one could never be too sure.
“Will here was just thinking about cake,” Tess teases, humor etched into her smile.
For somebody who thinks she’s broken, she loves to smile.
Sure, not all of them are real. But enough are. And that means something.
Hope.
&n
bsp; Ian looks at me with a brow arched up, judgment pooling in his eyes. They’re blue, too, but nowhere near as admirable as Tess’s. Hers are like blue crystal with flecks of gold that make her eyes change shades depending on her mood. If she’s sad, they’re darker, not quite navy like Ian’s, but close. When she’s happy, they’re a crystal, almost icy like a snowstorm in December.
Ian’s are just solid blue, in between navy and royal. They’re plain. Boring. Giving nothing away.
“Is cake a euphemism?” he pries, interest flickering in his expression as he waits for an answer.
“Only you could think that,” I grump, shifting so I’m facing the bar instead of him. My knee brushes Tess’s as I move, and I can’t help but feel something by the contact. I tell myself it’s the beer I had earlier. Maybe static. Nothing worth remembering.
Yet, my body has its own ideas. I stay facing forward, as if the Yankees game is interesting to watch, but my leg stays pressed against hers, my heart jumping in my chest.
It’s not like we’re not used to being in each other’s personal space. I’m pretty sure Tess doesn’t even know what personal space is, because she seems to always be in mine. But those innocent touches we shared in the past didn’t feel as charged as they do now.
Our thighs are pressed together, but she does nothing to stop it. I tell myself that means something. Or maybe she doesn’t even realize it. We’ve slept together, in the literal sense, before. We’ve ended up back to back in her bed or mine, or side by side with our arms tangled in each other’s. Up until this morning, I never took it further, like my subconscious warned my body that she wasn’t ready for that kind of contact.
And the punch she delivered proved it.
I force myself out of the thought when dipshit decides to talk again. “And only you can be out on a Friday night surrounded by gorgeous women and be thinking about actual cake.”
His retort makes me roll my eyes, something I do often in his presence. It’s like my body’s natural response to the shit he says at this point.
I don’t let him crawl under my skin like he’s done so many times before. He lives for pissing me off, I know it. The worst part is that I let him.
Not this time.
“Did you two have fun at the fair?” I try keeping my tone light, like I don’t care. But I do care, and it drives me nuts.
It’s Tess that answers. “I won a stuffed animal all by myself! I didn’t even cheat this time.”
Ian snorts. “You don’t count grabbing an extra dart from the bin to get an extra shot not cheating? You made the carnie think that little kid was trying to steal the stuffed giraffe to distract him. You jipped him out of a dollar.”
Tess sighs. “That little boy was trying to steal the giraffe. I was doing him a favor. A favor that he paid me back for, without knowing so, by getting an extra turn.” Her remark is so confident, so completely her. Sad thing is, I can picture her doing exactly that. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s conned the carnies into giving her extra chances at winning prizes.
Like the time she convinced the carnie that she hurt her finger playing the water gun game. She produced tears, right on the spot. I even believed it until the carnie sent her away with a weird spiked rubber ball and the tears instantly dried up. She can be devious when she wants to be.
“Plus,” she adds, jabbing him in the side with her elbow, “you gave him a dollar after he gave me my prize. So, technically, we paid for it.”
“I paid for it,” he corrects in exasperation.
She shrugs. “After dragging me out and making me spend all day with you, a dollar is very little compensation for what I’ve suffered through.”
I want to believe she didn’t have a good time with Ian, but the truth is written all over her face. She loves the fair, and today was no exception.
Ian gives her a side-long glare, but it’s more teasing than serious. I don’t think anybody is capable of being angry with Tess. Annoyed with her and her antics? Sure. Irritated with her obsession with all things Batman and feline? Definitely. But angry? Never.
“I paid for everything we did today, Freckles,” he reminds her, draping an arm across her shoulders.
The nickname fits her, since her porcelain cheeks are speckled with freckles. They’re cute. Innocent. Although, anyone who hears her talk knows she’s anything but.
He flicks a strand of her hair away from her face, and affirms, “And don’t act like you didn’t love every second of my company. It got your mom off your back.”
She gives him a pointed look, as if seeing the truth behind his words. Claire must have been on her case about getting out more with people. People who aren’t me.
It’s not that Claire doesn’t like me. I know I charmed my way into her heart a long time ago. But Tess doesn’t have many friends like I do. As surprising as it is to remember, she was always reserved in high school, keeping her group of friends to a minimal.
The only person she talked to just as much as me ended up moving across the country to San Francisco because of some guy she met online. Not the smartest move, but the last I heard, she wasn’t chopped up in the dude’s basement. I think she’s actually doing well for herself.
Not the point.
The point is that Tess has always be cautious about the people she spends time with. She constantly tried to make friends in middle school, even the first couple of years in high school. Her judge on character never really helped her choose the right company to keep though, and the so-called friendships would always end in drama.
Marty comes over and clasps Ian’s shoulder. “I heard you were in town. A little offended you didn’t come sooner to say hi,” he badgers, his voice unchanging from any other way he talks.
Seriously, the dude is a robot.
Giving him his best smile, Ian says, “I would have been here sooner, but you know how my mother is. The first day I got back was dedicated to spending time with the fam, then there was the concert. Can’t ignore my adoring fans, can I?”
Marty shakes his head, removing his hand from Ian’s shoulder. “Just remember who gave you a chance before any of those prissy-pants labels did. I let you play in here before you were even good. Could have cost me customers.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. Even Tessa chuckles.
“Thanks,” Ian mutters, shoulders slumping.
Marty grins at him, cleaning off the bar. “I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve made a name for yourself, and that’s more than half this town can say.”
He sounds like Tess did at the concert.
But, to my dismay, they have a point. Clinton isn’t an impressive town when it comes to the people in it. There are less than six hundred people living here, and nobody seems to want to break from the small-town stereotype. People usually never leave, not unless it’s for college. But, like Tess and me, we always gravitate back to our roots.
Ian gets on my last nerves, and makes me want to deck him nine times out of ten, but he succeeded in achieving everything he ever talked about in school. The dude is an egotistical, self-centered ass, but to some degree, he’s got my respect. And that … well, that says something, even after everything.
I know I have an addiction, but I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. Everyone tells me I need help, but they only feed the addiction. They’re enablers. Dirty, rotten enablers.
I stare at the stuffed cat I won, one that looks like the black childhood cat I grew up with, and notice my own cat glaring daggers at it. Ollie tends to get jealous easily, even over inanimate objects. There’s no denying he’s a total asshole, but he’s mine. A pain in the ass I can’t live without.
I’m certain that, if I had more space, I’d have more than one cat. Actually, I know I would. Hence why everyone says I’m destined to be the crazy cat lady. Will thinks I’m in training for it, like I have some sort of cat-lady guide in the mail waiting to be opened and read. I just learned that people are disappointments, unpredictable, untrustworthy. Cats may be annoying, bu
t they still love unconditionally. I can’t say that about humans.
I sneak a peak at my less than enthused cat as he slowly reaches his paw out to touch the plush toy between us. His movements are slow and calculated, like he’s planning for an attack. His butt goes into the air and wiggles, ready to pounce on the vicious stuffed animal taking over his turf.
“What is he doing?” Will asks, causing both Ollie and I to jump. While I mostly just feel a jolt from being startled, Ollie jumps a good foot in the air, somehow landing on his feet at the end of the bed.
Will snickers at Ollie, and Ollie shoots him his typical death glare. It only makes will laugh more, which doesn’t sit well with my cat, so he struts out of the room with his tail raised up in the air.
I swing my feet over the side of the bed. “I think he just told you to kiss his ass in kitty language.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he replies casually, walking over and picking up the stuffed animal. He looks at me with his brows raised in question.
“Don’t judge,” I warn.
Shaking his head, he sits down, the stuffed cat in his lap. “I think it’s time we have an intervention,” he teases. “Your problem is getting out of hand.”
To emphasize his point, he gestures to the blue waffle chair I have in the corner of my room that has other stuffed animals on it. Mostly cats, different colors and styles.
I told you I have a problem.
I stand up and walk over to the chair, picking up the fluffy white one. It’s my favorite, with piercing blue plastic eyes. A pink stitched smile and fake wired whiskers greet me when I turn its face to me.
Holding it up so he can see it, I smoosh my cheek against it. Will expects me to be a nut case, so I’m never ashamed of being weird around him.
“How can you hate on this face?” I coo.
He rolls his eyes, settling farther up on my bed. He props himself up on my pillows, crossing his arms behind his head and making himself comfortable.
The Summer We Changed (Relentless Book 1) Page 8