As Dust Dances

by Samantha Young

  O’Dea lowered his thick eyelashes, masking his expression from me as he read the lyrics. “Is this about people you met on the streets?”

  “Yeah. Mandy and Ham. When I met them, Mandy told me their entire life story. How her mom’s boyfriend sexually abused her, her mom knew, blamed her, hit her, until Mandy ran away from home at sixteen. She had to prostitute herself to survive and got so low about it that she was ready to commit suicide. But Ham, a heroin addict, befriended her, offered her his protection.” I felt so much sadness in my chest for her, it was almost too much to bear upon my own grief. “She doesn’t love him but she cares about him so it’s better than what she was doing. But it’s still a form of prostitution. Even sadder . . . Ham doesn’t see it that way. He just loves her.”

  “Fuck,” O’Dea muttered, handing the notebook back to me. “How could anyone let that happen to their family?”

  “Her mother’s a bitch, that’s why.”

  “I can think of a stronger word.”

  Grim, I nodded.

  “Mandy took the only option she felt left open to her. Maybe she doesn’t see it the way you see it.”

  “Oh, she does,” I said, bitter about it. “She’s well aware. And you know what’s worse? I was kind of angry at her that she couldn’t survive on her own. Because I thought that’s what I was doing. I thought I was so smart.” I shook my head in disgust. “I was a naive child.”

  “You survived longer than some. You did okay.”

  I contemplated him and I didn’t know why I pushed it, why I asked. Maybe I wanted to argue, maybe I wanted a reminder that we couldn’t be friends. “Be honest. You think I was a spoiled brat making a mockery of something real and horrible that other people have no way out of.”

  Irritation flickered in his dark eyes. “I think you did what you needed to survive.”

  “But the point is that it wasn’t my only option.”

  “Wasn’t it? I’m not talking about surviving homelessness, Skylar. I’m saying, I think you did what you needed to do to survive.”

  Understanding he meant surviving my mother’s death, tears burned in my throat and I had to look away. If he kept looking at me like that, I would burst into tears. So I continued to prod, to push. “Autumn said you lost your parents.”

  When no reply was forthcoming, I knew I’d gotten what I wanted. I looked up, expecting to meet his cold, blank mask but I found something different. I found him scrutinizing me, assessing me, and I didn’t know what it meant.

  And then he shocked the hell out of me. “Autumn is my half-sister. Not that I think of her as anything but my sister, full stop. Her dad, Peter O’Dea, adopted me when he married my mum. My real dad has been in and out of prison since I was a baby. As far as I’m concerned, Peter was my dad.

  “Our lives changed when I was eleven and Autumn was only six. We were on a family holiday. My parents booked a helicopter ride but Autumn wouldn’t get on it. She screamed and cried anytime we tried to get her in the thing. Dad didn’t want to lose the booking and told me and Mum to go for the ride while he watched Autumn. But Autumn wanted me to stay with her. She howled anytime I tried to let her go.

  “Finally,” he paused, his throat moving like he was struggling to swallow. I held my breath, hanging on every word. “I told Mum and Dad to go on the ride. That I’d stay with Autumn at the booking office. The operator promised to watch us, that we’d be fine, and so off they went.” His lips thinned, as if the memory was nothing more than merely distasteful. But his chest, moving with shallow breaths, betrayed him. “The helicopter crashed. It was the last time we saw them. My uncle sued the operator for negligence and Autumn and I won a lot of money in compensation. He managed it for us, invested it well, and we received it when we turned eighteen. That’s why Autumn has what she has without needing a job. Of course, my uncle gloats about it, as if he wants our thanks for providing us with something we’d give away in a heartbeat if it meant having our parents back.”

  Grief for him, for Autumn, swelled in my throat and I blinked away the tears, instinctively knowing he wouldn’t want that from me. But my own emotions, ones that had been bubbling closer and closer to the surface for weeks, attempted to overwhelm me.

  Why had O’Dea shared this with me?

  Now I felt like I owed him. Yet there was something freeing in that. Like I had no choice but to talk, to tell him, because it was a debt to be repaid.

  “I wasn’t close to my stepfather.”

  O’Dea shook himself out of his thoughts. “Oh?” he said carefully.

  The thought of Bryan still filled me with resentment, which was horrible. It only compounded my guilt. “It had been me and Mom all of our lives. My dad died when I was a baby. He was in the army and was killed in action. Mom really loved him so she wasn’t interested in getting into another relationship for a long time. She dedicated her life to raising me, and I think she thought she had to make up for my dad’s absence. Anything I wanted, any dream I had, was hers to give me. Even if she couldn’t afford it, she found a way. My ballet phase. My tae kwon do phase. My photography phase. The art phase. The typewriter phase. My guitar and piano phase. The ones that stuck. I was thirteen when Micah and I decided we were good enough to put a band together. My mom was behind us from the beginning, just as she had been with all my phases. But I think she knew this wasn’t a phase. She saved money to buy me my first guitar, drove us to crappy gigs, paid to get us a slot at a recording booth. My dream was her dream.

  “And then Bryan came into the picture a year later. He thought we were a bunch of stupid kids. He made me feel guilty about spending the little money that Mom had. They were in a relationship for two years before they moved in together. He made her happy, but it annoyed her that he couldn’t support me like she did. It put her in the middle. They almost split up because of it. But then we got our record deal, they got married, and suddenly the bastard always knew we’d come through.’”

  “It sounds like you didn’t like him very much.”

  Suddenly, the memory I tried so hard to keep at bay pushed up and out.

  “You’re here but you’re not really here.” Mom suddenly burst into my bedroom suite.

  After a disastrous gig in Glasgow, I asked Gayle to find me somewhere secluded to get away from Micah. She’d sent me to a summerhouse on the inner Oslo fjords in Norway. Finally, when I couldn’t escape my mom’s persistent questioning, I came home. To the house I’d bought my mom. A huge six-bedroom home on the outskirts of Billings with spectacular views. It was so big, I had my own suite. I’d naively assumed I could hide in it for the last two weeks before we went back to the recording studio to put together the new album.

  Apparently, Mom had had enough.

  “You ever heard of knocking?”

  “Don’t.” She shook her head, anger flushing her pretty face. “Don’t do that. I am worried sick about you and you keep acting like nothing is going on.”

  Distressed that I was causing her worry when that was the opposite of what I wanted, I got off the bed and walked over to her. I pasted a weary smile on my face. “Mom, I swear I’m just tired. I’m just . . . recharging the batteries before I head back to work.”

  Mom studied me intently. And then decided, “You’re lying.”

  “Mom,” I huffed.

  “I know you’re lying. You’re avoiding me. You don’t return my calls. You’re never here . . . I’m shocked that you turned up. And I thought that meant you wanted to stop shutting me out and talk. But you’ve holed up in here the entire time.”

  “Mom, I’m not shutting you out.”

  “Is it drugs?”

  My eyes widened. “No. Do you not know me at all?”

  She shrugged. “The paper mentioned something about drugs.”

  Anger roared through me. “My mom. My own mother? Are you shitting me? You’re listening to that made-up crap?”

  “Well, my own daughter won’t talk to me so what else am I supposed to think?” she yelled.
>
  “Not believe the tabloids like a moron.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that, young lady. You’re not a rock star in this house! Show some fucking respect!”

  I blinked in horror. My mom had never screamed at me like that. Ever.

  She shuddered, tears gleaming in her eyes as she realized it too. “I feel like I’m losing you,” she whispered.

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and sob and scream and tell her I was lonely. That I was lonely and miserable. That all her sacrifices were for nothing. That I’d pushed the boy I loved away for absolutely nothing. That I’d failed. That I couldn’t handle the fame.

  That I wanted her to forgive me for railroading her life only to fail her and everyone close to me who mattered.

  But I didn’t.

  I choked down my loneliness.

  I reminded myself that Micah, Brandon, and Austin were relying on me. That my mom was comfortable financially for the first time ever and that she was relying on me to keep her that way.

  I was just having a bad few months. I’d get over it.

  “You’re not losing me, Mom. I’m just tired.”

  My bedroom door almost cracked off its hinges, she slammed it so hard on her way out.

  I locked myself in my bathroom, turned on the shower to muffle the sound, and I cried.

  When I eventually pulled myself together, I looked out the window to see her car pulling out of the drive. Hating that I was relieved, I wandered downstairs for something to eat.

  In that moment, I hadn’t thought I could feel much worse about myself. But as I sat at the island on a stool eating a sandwich, my mother’s husband appeared. I automatically tensed, assuming I was about to receive a lecture.

  He slid onto the stool right next to mine. He wore too much cologne. I dropped the sandwich, suddenly not so hungry.

  “Your mom is upset.”

  “I’m just tired.” I was getting bored of my own lie.

  “I know.” He said and pointed to my sandwich. “You going to finish that?”

  I shoved the plate toward him. He took a bite, eyeing me. I frowned at his perusal.

  He swallowed and said, “I’ve been trying to tell your mom that you’re tired. She doesn’t get what the touring must be like for you.”

  I was no longer shocked by Bryan’s turnaround. He liked the nice house and the nice cars. Bryan liked telling people his stepdaughter was Skylar Finch.

  I didn’t get it. I didn’t get why this was the guy my mom finally chose. My mom was amazing. She was beautiful and smart and funny. Now that I was a little older, I had eyes enough to see that Bryan was a good-looking guy but that wasn’t enough. He knew he was good-looking and not in the charming, cocky way Micah knew he was gorgeous.

  I couldn’t put my finger on it. There was something so false about him and I didn’t know why my mom couldn’t see it.

  “Thanks, I guess,” I muttered.

  “I won’t tell her that it’s because you hate the life,” he slipped in, giving me a knowing smirk.

  My heart pounded. “What?”

  “She has wondered about it out loud. If the reason you’re avoiding her is because you got what you wanted only to discover that you don’t want it after all. But don’t worry. I said that was ridiculous. You wouldn’t obsess about making the band a success, take all your mom’s money and time, nearly destroy her relationship with me in the process, and finally give her all the nice things she deserves only to turn around and say you don’t want it anymore. You wouldn’t fail her like that.” He brushed the crumbs off his fingers and smiled at me.

  Hateful. Fucking. Bastard.

  “There’s one thing I know about you, Skylar. You love your mom more than anything. You’ll stay in the band, make it work, as long as she’s happy.”

  I eyed the butter knife. How much money would it take to get me off felony charges? No, Skylar, stabbing your stepfather would be bad.

  “Sacrifice is never easy. I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’re lonely.”

  His concerned tone brought my gaze back to his.

  “I care about you, Sky. I don’t want you to be lonely in this. You can talk to me.” He leaned forward and his eyes dipped to my mouth.

  What the fuck?

  No?

  No . . .

  His hand rested on my thigh.

  Blood pounded in my ears as I looked down at the sight of my stepfather’s hand on my leg. His fingers splayed on the inside of my thigh and he began to caress me.

  Nausea made me sway, like I had motion sickness.

  “You have no idea how beautiful you’ve gotten. You’re so special, Sky.” He slid his hand further up my thigh. “Hold on to that. And hold on to knowing I’m here if you need me. Let me be here for you.”

  The son of . . . that mother-fucking . . .

  I ripped his hand off me, pushing off the stool so fast, I almost fell. I backed up away from him and saw the flash of contained anger in his eyes.

  “What . . . You . . .”

  “No, Sky, whatever you’re making up in your head, stop.” His face hardened. “I was just comforting you. Like a dad. Don’t upset your mother more than you already have.”

  I glared at O’Dea, having regurgitated the memory as if I didn’t have a choice but to get it out of me. “I never told her.”

  Anger and sympathy mixed in his gaze. “Did he try anything again?”

  I shook my head. “I never went back. I was so messed up, I kept second-guessing what had happened . . . But in the end, I knew. We both knew what he’d been trying to start that day. He was a sleazebag and I let her stay with him. I didn’t tell her what he was really like.”

  O’Dea slipped off the couch onto the floor, sitting with his back to the sofa, one knee bent, the other stretched out so that our legs brushed. “Do you think you were afraid she wouldn’t believe you?”

  “No.” My lips trembled; tears burned in my eyes. “That’s the horrible thing. I know she would have. I . . . I was so messed up, Killian. I was drowning and I shut out everyone who could save me. And it just all sounds so fucking stupid now, you know. What did any of that matter compared to masked gunmen breaking into her home and murdering her and her husband? And for what? A painting I’d invested three quarters of a million dollars in because Adam, my finance guy, said I should invest my money where I could. That’s what they were there for. A painting. Along with some jewelry, some cash. But the police said that the painting was the target.” I shook my head at the insanity of it. “I pushed her away because I didn’t want to admit that I was failing. And then my fame, my money, got her killed.”

  Killian let go a shuddering breath, his voice hoarse as he said my name in sympathy.

  “What would you have done? Could you stay and face that? I couldn’t.”

  “Skylar, I still wake up some days and I can’t breathe for how angry I am at myself for not getting into that helicopter. Mum would still be alive. Autumn would have had a loving mother instead of the cold, exacting bastard of an uncle who raised us. But as hard as it is to believe it sometimes, I’m not to blame for what happened to my parents. And neither are you.”

  “I’m a coward,” I admitted. “I ran away from the truth, I ran away from her death, and now I’m running away from facing the people I’ve hurt.”

  “You thought you were protecting your mum. And now you need some time. You’re too hard on yourself.”

  We shared a long look as my breathing grew steadily calmer. Finally, I asked, “Did you tell me about your parents so I would tell you about my mom?”

  “Your songs.” He reached out for my notebook. “There’s a lot of pain in them. These things can turn to poison if you leave them inside to fester.”

  I felt myself drowning again, this time in Killian O’Dea’s eyes. “That would be a yes, then.”

  His response was a noncommittal shrug.

  “So, do you always play part-ti
me therapist with your artists?”

  His smile was wry. I wanted to trace my fingers along his lips to feel it. “You’re the first.”

  “Well, you should know I’m feeling vulnerable and defensive right now. I might need you to be a prick so I have an excuse for being mean and sarcastic to you.”

  He grinned. A full-out grin that made my breath catch. “I don’t feel like being a prick today.”

  “Of course, you don’t. Contrary bastard.”

  He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that tugged an answering smile from me.

  Warmth passed between us, a sweet warmth that was so unexpected, I could do nothing but stare at him. How had this man become my confidant?

  Killian cleared his throat. “We should . . . we should get back to writing. If you’re good to?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

  We buried the moment in songwriting. We worked through the evening, only stopping for food breaks, and we didn’t discuss the past anymore. As it neared midnight, I felt a desperation. I knew when he left, I’d be alone with the past I’d unburied today.

  I’d grieved for six months when I lost my mom, losing my mind at the idea of her dying the way she did.

  But I had never allowed myself to grieve for the way our relationship was before she died. I didn’t allow myself to think about letting her die in a house with a man who had sought to betray her and possibly already had with other women.

  Now it was out there.

  Waiting for me to deal with as soon as Killian left.

  “You know,” he placed his Taylor back in the guitar case, not looking at me, “I’m shattered. It’s probably not that safe for me to drive home exhausted. Would you mind if I slept on the couch?”

  Relief loosened the tension in my shoulders. “Sure. Of course.”

  He found some extra blankets and a pillow in the linen cupboard and set up the couch as a bed while I stood awkwardly watching. Even though having him here was a comfort, I still would have to close the bedroom door behind me and be alone with my thoughts.