by Snow, Nicole
I can’t believe I’ve been telling her all this shit.
Just like that.
Shit I won’t say to people I’ve known my whole life.
This strange little spitfire pulls it out of me.
I don’t dare tell her that.
Not today when I’ve done enough spilling.
Not when I can’t think about my ma and what those soft hands are doing to me on the same frigging wavelength.
I got a lotta fucked up shit going on in my head, but not that fucked up.
So I just give her an uneasy laugh, trying to take my mind off both things nagging at me. My mother, and the fact that Peace Rabe’s hands are doing terrible things.
“Maybe some other time, Doc. I didn’t exactly come with a prepared speech for a shrink.”
She half-smiles. “I thought Doc was your friend. Don’t get me mixed up with him.”
“Pretty sure there’s no way in hell I could. Doc doesn’t look anything like you.”
It’s out before I can stop it.
Shit. Believe it or not, it could be worse.
I barely stopped myself from saying Doc ain’t got a body like that. I mean, it doesn’t mean a damn thing because Doc doesn’t look like her, but hell.
We both know what I meant.
She stops, her hand resting lightly against my thigh, her eyes locked on mine, wide and questioning.
I never quite noticed the shade of green in her eyes before. I’ve always been looking at her in the dark or in firelight, never with clear sunlight reflecting in those glassy pools.
They’re pale. Like the soft jade tokens I saw in the window of a shop when I visited Chinatown in Seattle once. It’s a misty color, but mist was never this clear, this vibrant. Like I can see all the way to the bottom of her soul if I just look hard enough.
Glacial runoff, I think.
Glacial lakes, their green so pure, so vivid, and so pale.
But her eyes could never be as cold as ice, watching me with a warmth I have no fucking clue what to do with.
So I tear my eyes away before hers do a Medusa trick on me. Eyes that pretty could turn a man to stone, and it’d almost be worth it for the poor sucker who stares at her too long.
Clearing my throat, I turn my face to one side.
“Feels like you’re done,” I mutter. “Haven’t we been at this an hour?”
I hear her breath catch, and then her hands drop away. “For now, yep. You’ll need more than one session to see lasting results instead of just temporary relief. How do you feel?”
I shift my leg gingerly—and I’m surprised how easy it moves.
I’d been locking up, bracing for agony, but instead my leg flexes nice and smooth, bending and unbending, with only a little soreness that could be just as much from the kneading those nimble fingers gave me as from the injury.
“Huh. Not bad,” I say.
Dumb, I know, but that’s all I got.
I push myself up on one arm, staring down at the scar. It’s still there, still the same angry red, but it doesn’t feel like this vampire parasite, sucking my life out through its burning teeth right now.
“Well?” She taps a foot, giving me a smile.
“It ain’t perfect, but I think I can stand without wanting to holler myself blue. Warren and Haley’s little niece would never shut up about the damn swear jar if she ever heard me go off.”
Peace giggles.
“We wouldn’t want you going blue or bankrupting yourself,” she says.
I let myself look at her again. But she’s not looking at me.
She’s turned away, her hands busy wiping the oil off on a towel.
I think it might be deliberate.
Feels like she’s hiding from me, almost.
Did I just fuck up?
Maybe a little.
“Hey.” I swing my legs over the side carefully, then drop down to my feet. My left leg’s still a little shaky, but it holds me pretty well as I stand and reach over for my clothing. “You did good, darlin’. I’m sorry I ever doubted you. How much do I owe?”
She glances over her shoulder. Her smile comes faint, wistful, sad; those jade-green eyes are suddenly clouded, and I can’t see to their bottoms.
“Freebie this time,” she says, quiet and strange. “Call it thanks for saving me from turning into Frosty the other night.”
“You, uh...” I scrub my hand against the back of my neck, then busy myself stepping into my boxer-briefs and jeans. Maybe if I’m more clothed, I’ll feel less naked, but something about this has nothing to do with my damn body. “You want to schedule another appointment?”
She studies me. Her head tilts to one side.
Christ, she’s so young, but sometimes when she looks at me it’s with this wordless wisdom that makes me feel like she sees so much beyond her years.
Sees me.
And that shouldn’t make me want to freak as much as it does.
“How about,” she murmurs, “you find me when you need me?”
There’s so much unsaid there.
So much I can’t read, even if I want to.
So I pull my shirt on, throw my coat over my arm, and nod.
“Sure,” I say numbly. “Thanks.”
Then I turn and get the hell out of Dodge, leaving that cabin and heading into the morning so the cold winter air can slap some sense into my fool head.
If I’m lucky, it’ll knock this girl clean out of my thoughts.
* * *
Call me paranoid, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want Holt in my house.
Call it a holdover.
When you walk in on your brother with his arms around your wife, leaning in with his mouth half an inch from hers, and she’s a blushing, flustered mess, shit gets real.
You get territorial.
Your fists go on autopilot.
Your throat can’t roar loud enough, even when it’s shaking the whole house.
And years later, you meet your brother for dinner at the local diner, instead of making him welcome at your kitchen table. Last minute change, I know, but he doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t matter what was going on between me and Abby.
He could’ve at least waited till we were done sorting our shit and officially separated before he made his move.
Too bad Holt’s always liked having things he shouldn’t.
That’s where the rush is for him: the wrong woman, the wrong decision, the wrong three-day bender in Venice with a half-plastic Italian chick on his arm.
The fact that he’s here looking for reconciliation with me and a relationship with my daughter is just sending up so many red flags it’d make the old Soviet commies blush.
Since Holt always wants things he shouldn’t, it makes me wonder why he wants this.
At least he’s keeping my mind off Peace, though.
Off the way the sunlight buried itself in her hair like loving fingers as she bent over me, caressing that vivid red to gold fire dipped in blazing purple.
Off our last weird little interaction. Where I knew I’d said too much, and she felt me holding back, and both of us maybe regretted being too open, too intense, too real.
We’re perfect strangers. And even if I saved her from a pretty routine fire under the hood and she massaged away my pain, we don’t know each other. We’ve got no good reason to.
Fuck. Right. Not thinking about Peace.
Not that the subtle glare Holt gives off is much better.
He’s Mr. Congeniality, all smiles as he regales Andrea with tales of New York City. Hell, I hadn’t even known he’d lived in NYC so long. Last I heard, he was still in Coeur d’Alene with Ma and then spending time in the Air Force, but I guess he’s been living it up rich with the money she left behind.
But as he gears up into a story about a one-night stand with not one, but six supermodels, I grunt, leaning forward to pick up the soda I really wish was a beer right now.
“Hey,” I bite off. “That’s not ap
propriate in front of my kid.”
Andrea’s smile vanishes.
So much for putting out fires.
My fucking talent is killing my daughter’s buzz.
“God, Dad,” she groans. “I’m not a kid. I’m sixteen. There’re worse things on Netflix.”
Holt grins—that wide, charming devil’s grin I despise. “She’s right. I mean, when you were sixteen you were—”
“Hey!” I snarl, my ears going red-hot. “Listen, that’s definitely not appropriate in front of my kid!”
But Andrea’s eyes light up, and she’s all for it, leaning in with a wicked grin that makes the Silverton blood resemblance shine. “Oh, no. I think this is definitely appropriate. You’ve got embarrassing stories about Dad?”
She’s not even paying attention to her food going cold on her plate, the ice cream in her root beer float melted away into a foamy white slurry on top of the soda.
There are no words for how much I hate this, even if it’s making my daughter smile.
And even if I know it’s technically Holt’s job as her uncle.
I might not trust him, but at least he’s doing his best to get along with her.
“Look, babe,” Holt says, spreading his hands with the devil’s own grin. “Your dad was an even bigger player than me in his day.”
“I was not a damn player!” I protest.
Holt turns a sly look on me. “How many high school girlfriends did you have?”
My eyes widen. I recoil. “I, uh...can’t remember. Long-ass time ago. Why’s it matter?”
“You mean you lost count.” He smirks. “I didn’t. I was jealous. The answer is sixteen, by the way. The freshmen used to say you’d get a new girl every season.”
Holy crap.
I’m dying.
And Andrea just laughs herself red in the face, a little hyena slumping back in her seat and covering her mouth with one hand, watching me over her fingers. “You’re such a hypocrite, Dad.”
But she’s not saying it with any malice, just giving me a dig, and I accept it with a reluctant grunt.
“Eat your food, Andrea,” I growl.
“’Kay. But you puff up like a porcupine if I even think about a guy, and you were like, sleeping with everyone in high school.”
“Yo!” Oh fuck, people are gonna stare at us if I get any more flustered. Or loud. “No one ever said I slept with all of them, and I don’t need that kind of talk coming out of your mouth. I’m your old man.”
Andrea just sticks her tongue out merrily.
Damn.
She’s got me by the tail and she knows it. She’s enjoying being the one to embarrass her stupid dad for once.
Bah.
I still want to power-kick Holt under the table when he catches my eye and winks.
Whatever. So besides dying of mortification, it ain’t going half bad for a family dinner.
Still doesn’t mean I’m just gonna sweep the past under the rug.
Especially after another half hour or so of giving me shit and tag-teaming me while I bury myself in my burger. Time to say goodnight.
Andrea’s got school tomorrow, and I should probably drop by the radio station tonight. Mario, my right-hand man, can only fill in for so long. He just doesn’t have the same knack for it as me. And Rex Natchez, station owner, said listener numbers have been way down since I got so busy.
I really ain’t sure why people tune in the way they do.
Still, it’s nice to feel like I’m doing something useful, even if it’s just giving folks a good old laugh at the end of a long day.
I’m not laughing, though, when we signal for the check and Holt takes the billfold from the waitress without even letting me look at it. Bastard’s already pulling a pretty nice-looking leather wallet from his pocket, fishing out his metallic credit card.
“Hey,” I growl. “Lemme see what our share is.”
Holt waves before slipping his card into the billfold and passing it back to the waitress. “It’s on me. It’s the least I can do to thank you for humoring me.”
I swear to God, the entire room flashes red.
From the table, to the dim overhead lights, to the sly gleam of my brother’s eyes.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
Thrusting back from the table, and if it hadn’t been a booth I’d probably have knocked both the seat and the table over, I stand.
“No,” I snarl, even if I’m so pissed I can’t even articulate what I’m saying no to just yet.
He stares at me. So does Andrea. Holt looks confused and stricken, while Andrea just looks horrified.
Dad’s embarrassing her again, I guess.
But I can’t hold it in.
I can’t let him pull this.
“I told you,” I bite off, “I don’t want your money. Not one dime. No matter how you want to sneak it in. Fuck you, and fuck Ma’s cash.”
Holt’s face actually crumples. “Blake, it wasn’t about that—”
“I don’t care!” I roar—then make myself drop my voice.
People are staring now.
I am being an asshole, shaming Andrea and myself like this.
I need to get out of here before I fully lose my spaghetti.
“Andrea, come on,” I snap, pulling a couple crisp bills and throwing them on the table. “We’re gone. Your uncle wants to pay, he can finish off his portion.”
Andrea just gives me the most horrified look ever, then thrusts to her feet and sweeps toward the door, practically running, leaving me behind.
Leaving just me and Holt staring at each other, the air practically vibrating between us.
“So,” he asks softly. “How long you gonna hate me?”
It’s slipping. That slick-dick city accent he puts on. The country boy’s coming out the longer he stays in Heart’s Edge.
That just makes me want to punch him in his smug face even more.
“As long as I need to,” I retort.
Then I turn and stomp out before he gets the last word.
Whatever his stories are, I don’t want to hear them.
He says I was a player in high school, and maybe there’s a shred of truth, but Holt’s always been a different kind of player. I got past my teenage sins and grew up.
Holt, he’ll say anything to get what he wants.
I just don’t have to listen.
Andrea’s already in the Jeep by the time I push the swinging door open and leave it slamming closed behind me in a jingle of the overhead bell.
She’s tucked in the passenger seat, scrunching herself in the door like she’s trying to seat herself as far away from the driver’s seat as possible.
And when I crunch through the fresh-fallen snow, she goes stiff—only to turn her face away and glare out the window as I let myself inside and settle behind the wheel.
I sit there for several long, helpless moments, sighing and just staring through the windshield.
Doesn’t help that I can still see Holt inside the diner, just sitting back against the seat with this hangdog look on his face.
I don’t want to see it.
“Listen,” I try. “I’m sorry. Me and Holt...we got bad blood. Bad history.”
“Must be nice,” she snaps, though it’s a sort of sullen mumble, talking more to the window than to me. “Having someone to have history with. Thanks to you, I don’t have anyone. No brothers. No sisters. No uncle. No grandma. No mom.”
Shit.
That one stings like a screaming slap to the face.
Not nearly as much as when she finishes, “All I have is you.”
I close my eyes, curling my hands tight against the wheel, wishing I could squeeze the pain out of me through my hands and soak it into the leather.
Part of me gets it.
She’s sixteen.
She’s mad.
She’s smart as fuck and just as emotional, but she doesn’t have the maturity to know the way she can cut people deep with words. She just knows she’s hur
ting, and that makes her lash out to hurt someone else, like she can punish me for making everything so messy.
Maybe she should.
I sigh again, opening my eyes and starting the engine.
“Maybe I’m being a little hard on him,” I admit.
She doesn’t answer, won’t even look at me.
“We’ll try again some other time, Violet,” I tell her.
“Don’t call me that,” she mumbles, but it’s softer, less furious.
Fine. That’s something.
“Sure, Andrea,” I say as I pull out of the diner’s parking lot and hit the road for home. “Sure.”
We don’t say anything else for the rest of the ride.
I just wonder how the hell it is I can give everyone else in this town advice, but I can’t get my own shit together to save my life.
7
Gambler’s Song (Peace)
Is it sad I’ve been listening to the radio every night?
I mean, the music’s not bad. It’s a mix of old eighties and nineties and aughts top hits, the kind of thing you find way out in the boonies where the local stations either have to rebroadcast bigger stations or go for the stuff with cheap licensing fees.
It gives Heart’s Edge this kind of homey, lost-in-time feel.
I like it.
But what I’m really listening for is Blake freaking Silverton.
I’ve only heard him one time since the night he picked me up.
The night after I gave him his first massage. The inside of my chest was still hurting and feeling oddly hollow after listening to him talk about all those little cuts that built up under his skin the same way his scars did.
He’d been so quiet on the air that night. Subdued. Whispered.
No wisecracks about people calling in about kinky stuff or humoring the tinfoil dude who swore the evil Galentron people were beaming signals into his head.
In the time since I’d seen him, something happened to cut Blake open again and leave him bleeding from fresh wounds.
And I’d sat curled up in bed, hugging my arms to my chest, listening to the ache of compassion and pain in his voice as he comforted a girl named Felicity. Apparently, she owns a place in town called The Nest.
