by R. C. Martin
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 R.C. Martin. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other elements portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons or events is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Cover & Interior Design by Cassy Roop at Pink Ink Designs ©2016
www.pinkinkdesigns.com
The ache for home lives in all of us,
the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
Maya Angelou
THE HEAVY DOOR SLAMS shut behind me, and the melodic roar of the crowd fades away, leaving nothing but the muffled sound of Twisted Tuesday as their music blares on in the packed venue. Outside, in the dimly lit parking lot, packed full of tour busses and empty trailers, the buzz of another lively city on a cold night is barely heard. I’m still numb. Nineteen fucking days, and it still feels like I’m out in that goddamned field, staring up into the star-studded sky, freezing my ass off.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, not at all surprised to see I’ve got four unread text messages. Three from Rosemary. One from Pepper. None from the woman I was forced to leave behind—my balls in her fucking vice grip, my heart in the palm of her hand.
Would rather hear you scream
Would rather see you fight
Would rather taste your tears
Would rather/Would rather
Would rather anything but This
The silence of This
Not ignorance, not bliss
Would rather/Would rather
Baby, anything but This
I shake off the words my mind won’t let me forget, ignoring the unread messages as I pull up the phone app and tap on the last number dialed. Holding the device to my ear, I listen as the line rings. And rings. And rings. When it finally stops ringing and the sound of her voicemail recording fills my ear, my head drops to my chest as I shake it from side to side. I’m not surprised. I’m not disappointed. I’m numb.
The silence of This
Not ignorance, not bliss
Would rather/Would rather
Baby, anything but This
I listen until the sound of the beep, needing to hear it, wishing not to forget it—the sound of her voice. I don’t leave a message. I stopped doing that shit a while ago. I was just saying the same thing over and over again, my audience of one completely unresponsive. I no longer care to speak to dead air, but I sure as shit won’t stop calling. It’s the only weapon I’ve got in my arsenal, miles away from home. Hours away from my girl.
Fuck.
My gorgeous girl—my balls in her fucking vice grip, my heart in the palm of her hand.
I hear the loud creaking noise of the heavy side door, but I don’t turn to see who’s come out to join me as I slide my phone back into my pocket.
“Shit, it’s cold,” Derrick mutters.
He’s not wrong. The Seattle night air is frigid, November showing no mercy. I won’t complain, though. The bite of the wind as it brushes against my bare arms is a shock to the system. It’s exactly what I need.
“What gives?” he asks, coming to stand beside me.
I turn my head just slightly, noting that he’s thrown on a hooded sweatshirt, his arms folded tightly across his chest to protect himself from the brutal chill.
“Nothin’,” I mumble. “Needed a minute.”
“Sage—man, we go on in ten. You’ve got to get your shit together.”
“Fuck, D, lay off.”
“Sage—”
“Name one gig I didn’t have my shit together,” I demand, turning to face him. “Just one!”
He stares at me but doesn’t say a word.
“Exactly,” I state, knowing that I’m right.
The look in his eyes tells me that his silence wasn’t an answer. He’s holding himself back, trying to avoid a fight. My gut tells me to follow his lead, but I won’t deny a part of me wants to stir up trouble. It’s been brewing. Came this close just two days ago—Mad Lips and me. D broke it up before it could start. Our resident peacemaker. Nevertheless, I’m pushing his limits too. Just now, I wouldn’t mind throwing a few punches for the hell of it—to ignite a shock to the system.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” he grunts before he turns and walks away from me.
I let him go without argument.
He’s not wrong.
“Ten minutes,” he growls before I hear the side door slam shut behind him.
I STARE AT MY phone as it lights up, ringing on the coffee table. I can see from where I sit, curled up on the couch with a stack of assignments in my lap, that it’s Sage calling. My heart beats wildly, and I feel my hope rising. I don’t know why I let it. Why I let myself even dare to hope. It’s a dangerous emotion to embrace, but I can’t help it.
I won’t answer. I never answer. I can’t answer, knowing good and damn well that if I heard the sound of his voice, I’d go running—running to him, my need for him being too much to bear. I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth as it is. Nineteen days. He’s been gone for nineteen days, and he’ll be gone for twenty-two more.
He insisted that we weren’t over—that I was still his girl and he was still my guy—but I gave him an out. In twenty-two days, if he doesn’t want me, then that’s that. While he’s adamant it won’t happen, I can’t deny that I’m still afraid it will. It doesn’t make sense that he’d want to come back to me. His world is changing, and he will change with it. Sage Lawrence McCoy is meant to be a bright and shining star; he’s meant to be greater than the likes of me.
I don’t fit in his world. I never have. While that didn’t stop me from falling in love with him, it’s all I have to hang onto now. It’s the reality that keeps me grounded—the reality that keeps me sitting, curled up on the couch, watching my phone as it lights up, ringing on the coffee table.
I won’t answer. I never answer. I can’t answer, knowing good and damn well that if I heard the sound of his voice, it would be the very end of me. If I let him back in now, I wouldn’t be able to turn back. I put up all the fight I had just before he left. I have no more fight in me. Even if all he said was my name, I’d be forced to surrender; I’d be at his mercy. That’s how weak I am. That’s how weak he makes me.
That’s how much I love him.
I look up into the mouth of the hallway when I feel Sarah’s presence. She’s dressed in a pair of maroon skinny jeans and a pretty, fitted, cream-colored, cowl neck sweater. Standing with one foot s
till in the bathroom and one foot out, she’s holding a flat iron, her long, blonde hair half straightened and half wavy. She’s got plans to spend her Friday night out with her boyfriend, Brandon. By the looks of her, she’ll be another thirty minutes in front of the mirror.
“Millie…” she says softly, eyeing me intentionally, and yet so very carefully, in that way that only Sarah can seem to manage.
I don’t reply. I sweep my ashy brown hair behind my ears and direct my attention back to the sloppy sheet of math problems I’m meant to decipher.
“Millie, I know you want to talk to him. I know how much you miss him—just pick up the phone.”
By the time she has finished speaking, the device has stopped ringing. I look back over at it, wondering if it’ll alert me to a voicemail message, knowing deep down that it won’t; knowing I wouldn’t listen if it did. I’ve got twelve unheard messages stored up for—for I don’t know when.
“He’s gone now. Too late,” I mutter, looking back over at Sarah.
“Millie—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Right. Of course not. Why on earth would we want to talk about the elephant that has moved into our apartment?” she mumbles, disappearing into the bathroom.
I stare at the empty space she’s just vacated before looking back at my phone. Against my better judgment, I cling tighter to the hope that still has my heart racing. I force in a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing my thoughts to shift away from Sage and back to work. All the while, I let it sink in that he’s been gone nineteen days—and he’s called me every single one.
WHEN WE STARTED this tour, ten cities and two and a half weeks ago, Mountains & Men was the opening act for Lawful Sinners’ headlining gig. That lasted two weeks. We outplayed Twisted Tuesday fair and square, which got us bumped. Travis Pratt, the tour manager that found us and hooked us up with Stefany Jordan, our new band manager, made the call—said we had a sound worthy of the second slot. We accepted graciously and have been rockin’ our fucking asses off ever since.
Tonight will be no different.
With a sigh, I readjust my glasses and turn back toward the building. Once inside, I’m struck by the warmth that sends a small shock through my system. It’s not just the heat in the building. It’s the sound of the crowd. It’s the reverberating thump of Twisted Tuesday’s bass line. It’s the activity of the roadies and the techs, gearing up to swap out equipment for the band change. It’s the energy of a live performance that electrifies the entire space.
It’s not enough to eradicate the numbness that consumes me, but I’ll hit that stage soon enough. That’s when I’ll feel it. The fucking music—pumping my veins full of the adrenaline I’m so desperate for.
A hand claps on my shoulder, giving me a squeeze, and I look over to see JJ at my side. He shakes his head, tossing his curly locks out of his eyes before fixing his gaze on me. He lifts his brow, his silent inquiry heard loud and clear over the sound of Lee—the lead singer of Twisted Tuesday—bidding the crowd farewell. As the crowd’s cheers grow louder, I offer him no more than a chin lift.
I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants more, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he holds out his fist and I pound my knuckles against his before he joins the rest of the band in the wings. I watch from afar, observing the men I call my brothers as they rile each other up—shaking their nerves before we head out on that stage. It’s our first time in front of a Seattle audience. We’re making moves, and we intend to leave an impression. I know I should be right there with them—in the huddle, clownin’ out, basking in the moment.
I should be, but I’m not.
I could be pissed about it, but I’m not that, either.
I’m just numb.
So fucking numb.
“Hey,” greets Alex as she approaches. Adrian, the bass player from Lawful Sinners, trails behind her, offering me a chin lift as they both come to a stop. “You good?” Alex asks, regaining my attention as she playfully tugs at my t-shirt.
“I’m good,” I state simply.
“Then tell me something good,” she insists, now reaching for my hand.
It’s our ritual, one she won’t let me forget. Something good from my lips is meant to help chase away her stage fright. Yet I won’t deny that some nights, I don’t think she asks for her sake, but for mine.
I pause, staring down at her. Her long, dark hair is twisted into two braids, each resting against her chest—the ends died a deep, rich, purple. She’s got a pink bandana wrapped around her head, and the long-sleeved, low-cut, white t-shirt she has on clings to her torso, sculpting her tits and her waist. The thin fabric stops just over the top of her tight, bright green jeans, which she wears tucked into her gray combat boots. She doesn’t dress to draw attention to herself, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a body worth admiring.
“You look hot, Zip.”
She rolls her eyes at me, dropping my hand to smack my arm. “You’re so full of shit. That’s the best you can do?”
“He’s not lying, Lex. Just sayin’,” Adrian chimes in with a smirk.
My eyes drift between the two of them, not missing the way Alex’s cheeks turn rosy just before the lights go out and the crowd starts to get wild.
“That’s our cue,” I announce.
Alex follows after me, shouting something back at Adrian that I don’t hear. Something tells me I should keep an eye on that shit, but I could give a fuck. She’s a big girl who can handle her own. If nothing else, being on the road for the last three weeks with a bunch of dudes has proven that.
JJ, Derrick, Knox, and Alex make their way out onto the dark stage. I take a breath and stretch my neck, preparing to do the same.
“Hey—” Maddox shouts over the noise of the crowd. I peer at him through the darkness as he says, “We all want to kick your ass, but we won’t ‘cause we get it. You’re down and out. But now we’re here—fuckin’ Seattle, Washington, Sage! Live it the fuck up! She’s your mountain, man—face that shit, right out there. That’s who we are, and don’t fuckin’ forget it. Kill it, bro.”
He straps on his guitar as he joins the others, and I let his words sink in as I take my place behind the mic.
She’s your mountain, man—face that shit. That’s who we are…
Derrick drops the beat and the lights go up, the sound of the audience’s cry crashing over me like a tidal wave pulling me under. As I drown in the cacophony of screams the likes of which can only be found in this single spot—under the stage lights, in front of an audience, standing with my mates—I know that Maddox is right. The discordance that exists between my girl and me is the mountain I face.
Right here, right now, it’s time to face the music—my music.
“Hey, Seattle,” I drawl into the mic.
The cry I get in response goes up an octave—and I fucking love it.
Now, speaking through a grin, I reply, “We’re Mountains & Men, and we’re going to jam a little bit. You good with that?”
Maddox starts plucking out a guitar solo, kicking off our first song. The tingling sensation of my adrenaline spreads, chasing away the nothingness that surges through my limbs.
This is what I live for.
Playin’ from the heart; rockin’ from the soul.
HAVING SPENT THE whole of Friday night grading calculus assignments, I wake up with no work to do on Saturday morning—the first day of my fall break. After I clean the apartment from top to bottom and make a grocery run, I look around and see the error of my ways. I’ve been so busy distracting myself with work for the last three weeks that I’m completely caught up in all five of my classes. Now I face a week with no one to teach, no homework to dole out, no syllabi to tweak, and no idea what I’m going to do to distract myself from the ache of loneliness in my chest.
I decide to head to the gym in order to hit the treadmill for a few miles. While I’m there, I get lost in an audio book, enjoying the exertion of my muscles as I push m
yself to put in a couple more miles than usual. After I’ve exhausted myself, I head home and clean up only to leave the apartment again, headed to the bookstore. I take my time, browsing through almost half of the store, picking up more than a few titles to indulge in over the next eight days.
On my drive home, I note how quiet the streets are for a Saturday afternoon. The city is far from dead, but the absence of the student population is always felt. Fort Collins, Colorado is most certainly a college town, CSU bringing in thousands of students to the area—thousands of students who have recently fled from campus. Even the kids at the community college where I teach have been anxiously waiting to head out of town for the Thanksgiving holiday. I try not to think about how insignificant the holiday is to me—or any holiday, for that matter.
I plant myself on the couch as soon as I get home, cracking open one of my new purchases in an attempt to wile away the hours. The apartment is quiet and I’m here alone, Sarah never having come back after she left with Brandon last night. I don’t think about the many nights I used to fall asleep in a bed across town, in a house full of activity. I don’t think about the people who were becoming my friends, or how good it felt to be welcomed into their home—into their world. I don’t think about the way they accepted me, regardless of the fact that I didn’t belong. I don’t think about it.
Or at least, I try not to.
It’s six-thirty when a knock sounds at my door, startling me as I shift my attention away from my book. I’m not expecting anyone, and it’s extremely rare that someone mixes up my address for another’s. When I don’t move right away, a second round of knocking sounds followed by, “Millie, it’s me! Open up. I come bearing goodies!”
Hearing Violet’s voice has me on my feet in an instant, hurrying for the door. When I open it, despite having heard her announce her presence a second ago, I’m surprised to see her standing there. I didn’t even know she knew where I lived.
“What—what are you doing here?” I ask, my manners obviously misplaced.
