No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

I muster a laugh from somewhere, even though my stomach’s sinking with utter humiliation.

  “Don’t even,” I say. “No one’s trying to hook up. I just wanted to talk about recording a song for you. I don’t think your listeners want to hear all the tedious details of that.”

  “Right,” Blake says—but he sounds funny. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you, and we’ll get the details ironed out.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Then I hang up, before this stabbing at my chest can get worse.

  Could I really have been more obvious?

  I feel like that girl who called in about her crush, knowing the boy might be listening, might recognize her voice, might think she was desperate and sad and not worth his time. High school boys can be cruel.

  Grown men aren’t any better. Sometimes they’re even worse.

  Blake’s not like that, I tell myself.

  But I don’t dare let myself believe he wants me, either.

  Not even when part of me turns giddy.

  I’m too freaking happy at the thought that I have a reason to see him again, without just waiting for that prideful beast to come to me.

  * * *

  I won’t lie: I’m restless for the rest of the week.

  Part of it’s waiting for Blake to follow up about recording a little bumper tune for the show.

  The rest? I can’t stop thinking about his advice. Making a career out of my music.

  It’s not like I’m gunning to be some huge star.

  I don’t even want to have my own albums.

  For me, the money’s an afterthought. It’s not about the stardom, the spotlight, the legions of adoring fans.

  I’d just be pleased as punch piecing together songs for others.

  Like, remember that girl in Coyote Ugly?

  I’m not quite her. I don’t crave the attention on stage.

  I just want to hear my songs on the radio, even if I’m not the one performing them.

  And I’ve been scribbling away for days, trying out different lyrics, strumming chords on the old guitar I inherited from my father, playing riffs on my portable Casio keyboard. Hardly anything studio-worthy, but at least it helps me get ideas down.

  It’s coming together.

  A song about a damaged desperado type. He keeps himself moving by fighting for the people he loves but never lets himself get too close. For him it’s always look, don’t touch.

  Too real?

  Guess so because I don’t know how to wrap the song up.

  No matter which direction I go, it feels like an unfinished story, and I’m not sure it’s even mine to tell.

  God.

  I need to get out of my head.

  And that’s how I find myself at the main house with Haley and Andrea, sitting in on Andrea’s art lessons.

  I may be a musician at heart, but there are some fine arts totally out of my reach.

  Haley promised to keep it simple, but her idea of simple is whipping out a lifelike chalk pastel portrait in no time. It’s the big orange tabby lurking around the inn, and she’s got Mr. Mozart sketched in wild meowy detail in under an hour.

  Andrea’s drawn a cat too, but hers is more like something off a goth metal album cover. All saber teeth and fur dripping like black ink with crazy yellow eyes. Total Marilyn Manson meets H.R. Giger vibes, and while it’s creepy as hell, it’s also really good.

  She’s got serious talent, and she moves her brush pen with these fluid strokes that make looping, flowing lines everywhere.

  Then there’s me.

  Um...if I was five, my mom might stick this rickety mess of pencil scratches on the fridge.

  It doesn’t even quite look like a cat.

  It’s more like a...snake with legs and whiskers?

  Hey, it was fun. Honestly, I didn’t come here to learn to draw anyway.

  I just needed company, friendly humans, and both of these ladies have been happy to let me butt in.

  Especially Andrea. She’s putting the finishing touches on razory cat claws when she asks, “So did you ever surf back in Oahu?”

  I laugh—and try not to be obvious about erasing the second tail I accidentally drew on my cat. Kind of a lost cause. The paper is the kind that crumbs up and thins when you erase it.

  “Oh, all the time,” I say. “Though I always stayed on the small waves. My mom worried too much and wouldn’t let me tackle the big ones. I guess she was scared I’d drown.”

  Andrea wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. My mom was like that, too. She just always...” She shrugs stiffly, staring down at her sketchbook. “It’s like if I stepped out of line even a little, something awful was going to happen.”

  I take her in quietly: her punky clothes, her dyed hair, and I get it a little more now.

  This is her way of mourning her mom and celebrating her freedom.

  Trying to figure out who she is in grief and escaping from her mother’s shadow.

  Sad. If I know anything about grief, and about little girls...

  Andrea would rather have her mom back than all the rainbow hair dye in the world.

  “Moms worry a lot,” I say gently. “I think once you have a kid, that gene just kind of kicks on and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about all the things that could happen to them, to take them away from you.”

  “But I’m not the one who went away, am I?” Andrea says. Soft, forlorn, almost more to her sketchbook than to us.

  There’s a dense silence.

  Haley and I glance at each other before she offers a touch of humor. “Too right. I think I’m turning into that kind of Momzilla. I’m just lucky if Cody and baby Jenna are out of my sight, I know they’re with their great-grandmother so I don’t have to worry as much.”

  Andrea smiles faintly. “I doubt you could ever be a Momzilla, Hales.”

  Haley grins. “Well, if you say so. My niece, Tara, might beg to differ. She has a grand old time every time she visits, laughing at how much running around I do like a chicken who’s just had a date with Robespierre.”

  “The French Revolution is so cool.” The reference gets a bigger smile out of Andrea. “All those ideas and heads rolling all over the place. I mean, not that it was right to just—”

  “It’s Hamilton for me, all the freaking way, thank you very much. Best part of the eighteenth century,” I say, which gets a knowing laugh from Haley. “God, do I love that musical. Got myself kicked off an organic farm in Cali once because I wouldn’t stop singing it.”

  When I shift over, bumping my arm playfully on Andrea right next to me, she laughs and shoves me back with her shoulder. Some of that melancholy tension leaves her.

  I wish I could make things better. At least I can be her friend.

  “Y’all sound like you’re having fun,” a familiar voice drawls.

  And I hate how I blush down to my toes before I even look up. Blake leans in the doorway, arms folded over his chest in a way that makes his jacket strain against his body.

  Holy hell!

  The thick fleece does nothing to hide his rigid shape and just how hard-packed the muscle on his body is.

  Of course he’s looking right at me.

  Do “eeps” come in extra large?

  If this keeps up, the next fire he’ll have to put out is right in front of him.

  I hold those night-dark eyes for a few moments, then drop my gaze to my sketch.

  I can’t look at him.

  I can’t look, or else I’ll remember sitting in my bedroom, breathing shallowly while his voice washed over me like a steaming tide.

  Thankfully, Andrea’s got plenty to say to break the awkward silence.

  “You’re early,” she gasps.

  “I’m right on time,” Blake says lazily. “You just don’t want to go home.”

  “With you? You’re right I don’t.”

  Oof.

  That’s harsh.

  But when I look up, Blake just takes it in stride, a sort of weary patience that says he’s used to this routine
. Words are no match for superdad.

  And I’m barely kidding because sometimes a dad needs to be the punching bag for a daughter who’s angry at everything and nothing at once. Who else can she trust to love her when she’s done raging at the world but her father?

  Maybe I’m projecting.

  Maybe I’m seeing what I want to see in him, what I admire.

  But I’m not imagining the gentleness in Blake’s voice when he says, “Having your favorite tonight, Violet. Pierogies. Plus, you’re supposed to be helping with carnival prep.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone perk reluctantly, but Andrea pulls it off.

  She closes her sketchbook, wrinkling her nose.

  “Well, I guess.” Then she glances at me, biting her lip. “Can Peace come, Dad? She was telling me about Hawaii. I want to hear more.”

  I blink several times, clearing my throat. “I don’t want to impose...”

  “You wouldn’t be!” Andrea says enthusiastically, and I’m starting to wonder if she wants me as a buffer between her and her father. “Just hearing your stories gives me ideas. So many crazy things happen on the islands—did you guys hear about the Navy SEAL who married this rich chick with amnesia? They even fought this crazy pirate mobster-dude and she had an illegal cat. I guess some freaking turtles saved their skins.”

  Blake just stares. So do I.

  Andrea shrugs. “It was all over the news! God, you guys...”

  “Nice knowing the insanity isn’t restricted to Heart’s Edge, I guess.” I smile faintly. “Maybe your dad can take you to Oahu someday. It’s hard to make it sound exciting when you grew up a local like I did and everything’s so commonplace.”

  She rolls her eyes, making an exasperated sound. “Please. He’d probably get drunk and end up with a tenth-degree sunburn.”

  “No such thing as a tenth-degree burn,” Blake growls back. “Think I can manage to avoid a little sun. It’s almost like I know a thing or two about burnin’ up.”

  “Whatever,” Andrea snaps.

  Haley clears her throat, jumping in quickly. “Er...Blake? Peace? I didn’t think you two had met?”

  Oh. Now I don’t think I’m going to stop blushing until I die.

  “We’ve met,” he says quietly, his gaze flicking to my eyes.

  Just that.

  No clue how to read it when he doesn’t say anything else.

  I just know he probably doesn’t want Haley knowing how we met.

  Except I guess we’re more obvious than we both realize because Haley jumps in with a soft gasp. “Oh, that’s right! I heard you on the radio the other night. You were talking about recording something for the radio station, weren’t you, Peace?”

  Dear God.

  Blake’s eyes widen.

  So do mine.

  We just stare at each other.

  Is he blushing under those wily whiskers?

  I know I sure as hell am.

  Neither of us seem like we’re going to look away first, even though I’m practically squirming.

  Thank God for Andrea to the rescue again.

  “You sing?” she gasps. “Could you get any cooler?”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “I’m...not really, I just...” I tear my gaze from Blake to Andrea. “It’s just a hobby. Maybe one I want to do professionally, though. A songwriter for recording studios or freelance or something.”

  Andrea tilts her head. “You don’t want to sing your own songs?”

  “Demo tracks, maybe.” I gesture at myself. “Do I really look like star material?”

  “Yeah,” Blake says. “You do.”

  Three shockingly serious words. They stop my heart before jump-starting it again.

  Holy crap.

  He’s looking at me again.

  And I still can’t read one bit of him and his steely-blue eyes.

  But I feel like he’s tearing me apart with a single steady gaze, his eyes shadowed and hot, raking over me with vivid intensity.

  I swallow so loud it echoes.

  I can’t find any words, my voice drying up in my throat. And I realize Haley’s staring at us, her eyes slightly narrowed, something knowing and amused in the quirk of her lips.

  Save me, I almost plead. I don’t even know if I actually want to be saved.

  There’s something delicious about melting under Blake’s gaze.

  It’s a new kind of nice seeing him so relaxed.

  From the patient, tired father to the gentle mentor to the stoic hero, but with a bit of goofy humor I’ve only seen come out every now and again.

  And now this side.

  This quiet, intense man I can’t figure out, but who seems to have taken some kind of interest in me, even if I’m almost scared to know what’s got him looking at me so sharply.

  Nothing, maybe.

  Or maybe everything I’m starting to want.

  Every freaking time I’m in his presence and a lot of times when I’m not.

  Haley stands abruptly, clapping her hands together. “Well. If you don’t get moving, Andrea’s going to be late—and I have a feeling she doesn’t want to miss a certain meeting.”

  “Haley!” Andrea hisses, nearly squirming herself. “I don’t want to talk about that!”

  She bares her teeth, then abruptly changes the subject. “Peace, you want to come check out the carnival? We’re just getting stuff set up for the fireworks show, and like, they’re building an ice castle and everything.”

  Blake grunts, finally looking away, leaving me almost cold without his eyes. “I’m still not okay with this fireworks thing. Especially with that kid running it.”

  “Clark isn’t a kid, Dad.” Andrea snarls. “He’s a junior.”

  Oh, now I get it.

  That’s why she’s so eager to get going.

  It’s the same boy she was so mad at the other night.

  I grin, relaxing a little. “What’s so wrong with fireworks?”

  “It’s a major fire hazard,” Blake says, scowling. “They won’t just be shooting off rockets. They’re planning a full pyrotechnics show, and they’re expecting me to sign off on the safety check.”

  “And Clark’s uncle trained him well,” Andrea fires back. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll decide if it’s fine, young la—”

  “So!” I interrupt before this can thunder into a bigger argument. “If you wouldn’t mind showing me around...”

  Andrea and Blake pull back sharply from glaring at each other to blink at me.

  Then Andrea grins.

  Blake groans.

  And I’m definitely getting mixed signals when they both say “Sure” at the same time.

  It’s adorable how father and daughter mirror each other.

  Only, one’s way more reluctant than the other.

  * * *

  Yep.

  I officially feel like a third wheel right now.

  We’re making the ride over to the carnival grounds in Blake’s Jeep after dinner. Andrea’s in the back seat, and I’m awkwardly tucked in the front while no one says a word.

  Blake’s gone all broody beast-man again, turned inward, shutting down quietly, while Andrea stays in her Don’t talk to me, Dad mode, busy texting in the back seat.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Part of me wanted to talk about that night on the phone over pierogies, but between Hawaii stories and the little dance of family tension, the subject never came up.

  A small relief, maybe. It feels so intimate.

  Too private to discuss in front of Blake’s teenage daughter.

  And maybe he’d rather forget it, too.

  So I just lean against the door and watch the town pass by, idyllic little buildings in their perfect little settings. Glittery snow clings to the corners of the roofs, reflecting the clear night sky back in soft shades of blue.

  The “carnival grounds” are actually a ways past the high school football field, which looks mostly like pasture that someone framed in rickety wo
oden bleachers. I can’t help but grin.

  Small-town life.

  Considering how late it is, I’m surprised to see so much activity bustling around, but there are adults and teenagers buzzing around everywhere.

  They’re putting up scaffolding, setting up booths, laying out electrical wiring and strings of lights. On the far end, there’s a really impressive effort going on to fill a ton of square tubs with water, I’m guessing to create ice blocks for the huge ice-castle Andrea mentioned.

  All in all, it looks like a pretty big deal.

  Even as we park, I catch sight of the tall, gangly boy who’d been with Andrea that night in the woods. He’s with a few other kids and has a weird metal contraption cuffed to his wrist.

  When he flexes his hand, dipping two fingers inward like Spider-Man using his web shooters, flame arcs out in thin, lashing bursts.

  Wow.

  Andrea apparently thinks it’s the greatest thing ever. The engine’s not even quiet before she’s scrambling out of the back seat and shooting off, waving and shouting, “Clark!”

  I raise both brows. “That boy must be dense.”

  “Most boys are,” Blake grunts, killing the Jeep but not opening the door yet. He folds his arms on the steering wheel, his remote, quiet gaze following his daughter. “You want to stay in here? It’s warmer. I just need to do the rounds for safety checks. Pretty boring shit.”

  “I don’t mind the cold,” I say carefully, smiling and shrugging.

  I don’t want to say I definitely don’t mind it with you.

  I don’t want to sound that desperate.

  He glances at me, raising both brows. “Yeah? Hawaiian girl out here in Montana, and you don’t mind the dead of winter? Figured you’d be missing the warmer weather like your own skin.”

  “Well...” I look out the window. The frost has fogged it up, and my breaths don’t help, misting it until the whole world runs in watercolors through the glass. “I don’t miss much about Hawaii anymore.”

  “Since your old man?” he asks.

  Even if he’s gentle, it aches.

  My eyes flutter shut a few seconds longer than they should.

  “Yeah,” I answer thickly. “Since my dad.”

  His silence isn’t awkward or censuring.

  It’s soft.

  It’s kind.