Live Your Dream

by BB Miller

  She gives me a wary once-over as I fill a mug of coffee.

  “You must be Jada. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Matt.”

  “Funny, I’ve heard nothing about you.”

  “Ouch.” I grimace and try to push back the sting of her biting statement, sliding the mug over to her. “Coffee?”

  She narrows her eyes, but hauls the stool out from under the counter, sinking down. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do here.” Her critical tone rings through the kitchen. I ignore it.

  “Cream?” She shakes her head, taking the mug between her hands, and blows gently over the top, her eyes fixed to mine.

  “It’s really you, right? I mean, I’ve dreamed of rock stars before. Not you specifically, of course.”

  “Of course. Pancakes?”

  “Got to be a dream,” she mumbles into the mug while I busy myself with plating the pancakes.

  “I’m not sure what this bullshit is.” I set a bottle of mystery syrup down beside the plate. Navigating Tess’s kitchen after I reluctantly left her bed was eye-opening. Despite the cabinets being almost overflowing with baking ingredients, judging by the price tags still on the pots and pans I found, I don’t think either one of them actually cooks often.

  “Maple syrup?” She pours about half the bottle over the stack of pancakes.

  “No. Real maple syrup, the good stuff, is from Canada, and it’s awesome.”

  “Yeah? Well, this was on sale for a dollar ninety-nine and it works just fine.”

  Her fork cuts easily through the stack. This is the one meal I know how to make. Tom made sure of it. He said pancakes would work for any meal, and he’s not wrong.

  Jada closes her eyes and moans. “Of course they would have to be this good. I didn’t hear you guys last night,” she starts after inhaling another bite. “Typically, I hear when Tess has company.”

  I try to get a handle on the pang of jealousy that rips through me. “Does she have company often?”

  Jada shrugs before tackling the pancakes once more. “My lips are sealed.” I let the quiet drift between us while she cleans the plate. I think she would’ve licked the excess syrup off if I hadn’t been in the room. “Just so you know, regardless of the fact that you make the best pancakes I’ve ever had, I know people who can make it so your body is never found.”

  Leaning against the counter across from her, I lift my mug in a silent salute. “Good to know.”

  “You made this?” Tess lets out a groan of appreciation as she takes a bite, causing my dick to press against my jeans with impatient need. Tess emerged from her room, sleepy and sexy as hell, shortly after Jada left for work, the sight of her destroying a few more of my brain cells in the process.

  There were a few moments of awkwardness, her cheeks heating as she sought me out in the kitchen, looking at me like she couldn’t quite believe I was actually there. I could almost feel her meticulously laying down the bricks on the wall to put some distance between us.

  I know it’s up to me to knock that wall down, brick by painstaking brick. If life has taught me anything, it’s not to give up. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if the challenge is part of the reason I’m so wildly attracted to Tess. I’m used to women throwing themselves at me, at the entire band, to the point where I’m embarrassed for them sometimes.

  As I watch her devour the pancakes like they’re the best thing she’s ever eaten, I know it’s more than a challenge. She doesn’t care that she’s still in the shirt—my shirt—that she slept in last night, or that her long hair has been hastily pulled back into a messy ponytail. She couldn’t look less put together or more beautiful than she does right now.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Cardinal. I’m a man of many talents.”

  She stops mid-chew, her gaze drifting over my torso, turning slightly dazed in the process. “Mmmm.” I let her look her fill, the blood heating in my veins at her blatant gawking. I want her to remember this while she’s in San Diego. How it felt to have me in her kitchen, to share breakfast, to breathe in the same space. It’s all I want her to think about.

  “I met Jada. She’s quite protective of you.”

  Her eyes widen and she peers over my shoulder in the direction of the stove, clearly looking for more pancakes. “You were up that early?”

  Nodding, I lift her now empty plate and turn back to slide the last of the pancakes on for her. “Sleep and I don’t really see eye to eye most of the time.” She nods but says nothing.

  “Women must love this breakfast.” She stabs into the fluffy goodness on her plate.

  “I’ve only made it for the guys.”

  She lifts her gaze to me, and it’s like she can see right to my soul. “You’re joking? This is gold. Make this and they’d never want to leave.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  She takes a deliberate lick of the fork before setting it down. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  It’s a tempting invitation.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  Her brow knits together and she parts her plump lips. Stunned speechless looks good on Tess.

  “Do you love your job, Cardinal?” I ask, not so gently tugging her hair free from the elastic, pulling my fingers through the thick strands.

  “I just … wha …”

  “Do you love your job?” I repeat the question, unable to resist tracing my thumb over her bottom lip.

  She just blinks at me with a quick nod before nipping at the pad of my thumb. “Then I’m going to leave you to your shower, because if I stay, you’ll never get to work on time, and probably not at all. I don’t want to be the reason you lose something you love.”

  Opening up that door to leave was harder than it should have been. Everything in me screamed to stay, that I was where I was supposed to be. And now I’m kicking myself for leaving her even though it’s the right thing to do.

  With Kennedy on his way to some tropical paradise, and Sean and Cameron MIA, my options to fill the gap of time yawn in front of me. I’m restless and agitated. I’ve tried to distract myself with the guitar for a couple of hours, and then with the bike. The things that would normally hold my interest aren’t doing the job this time.

  Which is how I find myself knocking on Tom’s office door at the group home. My presence is met with surprise. It’s not like I’ve never been here. The visits are just few and far between.

  “Matty. Didn’t expect to see you.” Tom looks up from a stack of papers on his desk. I know he hates this part of the job. “Everything all right?”

  He rounds the desk, leaning against the front, eyeing me with that parental concern I’ve only ever seen from him.

  “Yeah. I’ve got some time before we head out to Australia. Thought I’d see if you need any help.” I spot a black-and-white picture on his wall that makes me smile. It’s the two of us leaning against his Mustang fastback off to the side of the road on the PCH, the Pacific rolling in the background. It was taken about five years ago when we had finally gotten the car back in pristine condition only to have it break down about twenty miles into the journey.

  “We can always use help,” Tom says. “Was just going to take one of the boys through a lesson on the Harley.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “A little more elbow grease there, Beck.”

  The seventeen-year-old scowls and grumbles, “Does it really matter?” Typical response from Beckett, one of the obvious leaders in the house. It didn’t take long for me to figure out the pecking order. The scene is too familiar, which stirs up all sorts of haunting memories.

  Having been in more than my fair share of group homes, I know the boys here have it good. The house is always pristine, they’re never lacking for food, and Tom ensures there’re a wide variety of activities for them to pass the time. For a lot of these kids, free time isn’t a good thing. It tends to lead to risky or worse, illegal activities that only serve to get you in deeper.

 
; I know Tom’s put the money I’ve donated over the years to good use. There’s an entire room dedicated to music, tricked out with the latest instruments and recording equipment, and this garage is something else, a real mechanic’s dream. The rest of the money is used to fund educational programs that will help these kids long after they’re gone from here. There’s no way Tom would be able to afford it all with the inadequate funding provided by the state.

  “Course it matters. That polishing compound will make the covers look awesome.”

  “We’re supposed to be working on the engine, not spending all of our time fucking cleaning,” Beck complains.

  “Hey. Watch your mouth.” Beck glances up at me with a sheepish smile. “And this is all part of it. When this bike is done, you’ll want it to look its best.”

  “Whatever,” he complains, but he flops down to one of the stools across from the bike and gets to work on the task. The tables turned entirely, I can start to understand now why Tom worked so hard to gain my trust, and why he tried when no one else did. I see a lot of myself in Beckett. We have the same cocky attitude, but buried underneath all the bravado there’s a desire to get out of the shithole situation he’s found himself in. And while I don’t know the details of what brought Beckett to the group home, I do know he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t bad.

  We work for the next half hour or so, the comfortable silence broken by the sound of Beckett methodically polishing the engine cover blending with the occasional clink of tools as I tend to the exhaust. How many hours did Tom and I spend just like this? There’s something about it that grounds me and shakes away the anxious itch that’s been rioting through me since leaving Tess this morning.

  “So,” he says, passing over the cover for inspection. “Must be cool to be in a band.” He tries to sound like he couldn’t care less.

  Turning the cover in my hands, I give him a nod. “It is.”

  “When did you learn to play?” He stays focused on his scruffy boot pawing at the garage floor.

  “When I was about your age.”

  His head whips up, his eyes wide. “Really?”

  “True story.”

  “I could learn then. I mean, it’s not too late?”

  With a grin, I hand him back the cover. “You did a really good job on this.” Beck’s eyes widen at the compliment. Something tells me he hasn’t heard too many lately. “And it’s never too late, Beck.”

  “You better watch him,” I mumble to Tom as we work in the kitchen, finishing off a pot of his famous stew to feed to the boys. I cast a quick look at Beck, and Tom chuckles, giving me a nudge in the shoulder.

  “You think I don’t know who I need to keep an eye on?”

  With a shake of my head, I start filling up the bowls with mouthwatering stew. The hearty scent brings another round of memories, good ones this time. We had a lot of conversations around his stew and countless hours spent in the garage that bonded us together for life. “I’m sorry. Of course you know.”

  “Kind of reminds you of someone, hmm?” He grins at me and cuts through a thick slice of crusty bread.

  “Just a little.”

  “Beck’s a good kid. If I can keep him away from that one,” he adds, lifting his chin to one of the tall, lanky teens currently slouched back in one of the chairs, his boots up on the dining room table, barking orders at some of the other kids. He’s wearing a baseball hat backwards over his scruffy brown hair, an old gray T-shirt hanging loosely off his thin frame, and a few tattoos clearly done by someone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing dotted along his forearm. I’ve seen dozens like him over the years.

  “Name’s Zach. Been here for a couple of months now. Trying his hand at dealing crystal meth these days.” Tom shakes his head, wiping his hands on a dish towel hung over his shoulder. “It’s not getting any easier. Some of the shit these kids are into would make even your head spin.” I see that familiar stern look taking over Tom’s face before he raises his voice so they can hear us in the dining room. “Zach. Feet down. Time to set the table.”

  Zach meets Tom’s hard gaze with one of his own before slowly dropping one foot then the other to the floor, and rising to give him a mock salute. “Dish duty for you later, it is,” Tom announces before focusing back on the bread.

  “Do you need more staff around here? I’d be happy to get you some more help—”

  “Stop right there,” he interrupts as only Tom can. “You donate more than you keep for yourself already, I’m sure, Matt. Throwing more people at it isn’t going to work; you know that. They have to want to change or they won’t. Simple as that.”

  “I seem to remember some tough love helping out.”

  “That, I’ve got loads of. Getting them to listen is the problem.”

  “So, you come to see the animals in the zoo.” This from Zach who has wandered in to collect the plates for the table. Seems even he can follow instructions.

  “Not at all. Just here to help,” I fire back at him.

  “Right. Camera crew on the way or something? Is this your charity case for the month? Good photo op and all that.” I meet Zach’s bloodshot eyes, and I can see the crushing pain. You’d have to be blind not to.

  “That’s enough,” Tom says. That tone still has the ability to grab my attention, and judging from Zach’s shoulders that have dropped a few inches as a result, he feels it, too.

  “No camera crew. Just me.”

  Zach lets out a rough laugh. “Right. Well, it’s not every day we get a real bona fide celebrity in here. We should be honored by your presence, really.”

  “I said that’s enough. You’ll treat him with the respect you give me and everyone else who works in this house. Are we clear?”

  At Tom’s words, Zach wisely shuts his mouth, his lips mashing into a grim line, before lowering his eyes to the floor, muttering, “Crystal.”

  “Thank you,” Tom adds, earning him a nod from Zach. He strides quickly back to the dining room, setting the table as instructed.

  “Maybe coming here wasn’t such a great idea.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Tom grabs the basket of bread before turning for the dining room. “It’s the best idea you’ve had in a long time.”

  Later, after the boys are stuffed from dinner and working away on the Harley, a booming crash echoes from the garage. Panicked shouting follows quickly and has Tom and me moving in the direction of the sound. “Call the cops!” I think it’s Aaron Crawford’s voice I hear, bellowing above the clang of tools hitting the garage floor. Aaron is another member of Tom’s staff, and even though he’s the size of a redwood, he’s starting to lose the battle of separating Beck and Zach.

  The Harley lies on its side on the floor of the garage as Zach screams his idiotic teenage head off, barely held back by a couple of scrawny members of his gang, brandishing a tire iron over his head. “I’ll fucking kill you, asshole!”

  “I’d like to see you try,” Beck spits back, blood gushing from his nose as Aaron shoves his arm between them, coaxing Beck away from Zach.

  “Enough!” My voice rises as I push away the two teens holding Zach, while Tom helps Aaron with Beck. It doesn’t take much to yank Zach’s arm behind his back, forcing him quickly to the floor of the garage. The tire iron falls from his grasp, landing with an almighty clank.

  Zach growls, trying to look over his shoulder, his muscles coiled in tension. I push my knee against the middle of his back, ensuring he won’t be going anywhere. “Did you hear me? Enough.”

  Hope can be dangerous. It was Zach’s suggestion that they keep working on the Harley after dinner, and I thought it was a positive sign. But, just when I think Zach might be making progress, chaos explodes.

  “Get the fuck off me,” Zach hisses, trying unsuccessfully to squirm away. I know getting taken down in front of the other kids has got to be killing Zach. Talk about a blow to his inflated ego.

  “What’s one of the main rules here?” I ask as Zach lets out a staggered brea
th beneath my steady hold.

  Nothing from any of the teens. The kids in Zach’s gang just stare, eyes wide, mouths open like they can’t quite believe their fearless leader has been rendered useless.

  “No fighting,” I grind out.

  “You calling the cops?” Zach hollers, a slight panic in his voice as he flails on the garage floor. “You son of a bitch. You better watch your fucking back.”

  I lift my gaze to Aaron as he loosens his grip on Beck. Kid looks like he’s gone a few rounds with a prizefighter. Swollen lips, left eye blackening as we speak. “You know the rules. Cops get called after your third fight,” Tom says.

  “Fuck,” Zach mutters.

  “You want to press charges?” Aaron asks Beck as he sits him in a chair. “Your nose is probably broken.”

  Beck lifts his shirt up to his face, trying to stop the bleeding. He glances warily in Zach’s direction as I haul him up from the floor. “No. Let’s just say you owe me now.” Beck and Zach glare at each other, a silent exchange we can all hear clearly. This isn’t done between them. Not even remotely.

  “Do you know what set it off?” Tom asks as Aaron and I sit in his office. An afternoon dealing with the cops and the fallout from the fight has us all keyed up. With Beck deciding not to press charges, they both got off with a warning, but not after getting an earful from the officers on duty.

  An uneasy quiet has now settled over the home. I can’t help but feel like it’s the calm before the next shit storm. Judging by the death glares I’ve been getting from Zach, I think he’ll be glad to see me leave.

  Aaron shakes his head. “Not a clue. One minute they were fine, changing the tire. I turn my back for five seconds, and Zach is practically jumping the bike to try to get Beck.”

  “You think he was on anything?”

  “You know I’d never let anyone in the garage who was high,” Aaron answers defensively. “And you saw him at dinner. He wasn’t on anything.”

  Tom holds his hands up. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I had to ask. You know what Zach’s been doing.”