Winter (A Four Seasons Novel)

by Rae, Nikita

  This is so confusing. To never have met them, to have never even seen them play, and then to be confronted with the knowledge that Luke could really do this. Could really be in a successful band…I don’t know how it should make me feel, but my anxiety levels just tripled. I start backing away from them, my head reeling. “It was nice meeting you both,” I mumble, turning my back. I only get five paces before Cole calls out after me.

  “Don’t forget, mystery girl. Come to a gig! We’re playing Friday night at Papa Joe’s.”

  “THE SICK things is, Glen, this guy was a part of the community. He had contact with troubled teenagers who were in vulnerable positions. Who knows what he could have done to any of them.” The woman with the overly backcombed hair on the late night news runs her tongue over her teeth as though she’s used to getting lipstick on them. Her co-presenter focuses on her mouth for a second and I find myself absently wondering whether they’re sleeping together. The guy takes a sip of water from his glass and nods.

  “I think that’s what the people of Wyoming are asking themselves right now, Kathy. We’re only discovering the extent of this man’s sickness now, years after the events took place. Maxwell Breslin was not only a charismatic man, but he was incredibly intelligent, too. Good at hiding his dark alter ego. Who knows what else is going to come out of the—”

  I switch off the TV and stare at the blank screen. Seriously? Seriously? A dark alter ego? My dad could be a dick sometimes, especially to Mrs. Harlow when she allowed her Bijon Frise to crap on our driveway, but come on. The extent of his malicious capabilities was a strongly worded post-it note stuck on her letterbox. I tip my head back and let out a loud sigh. There’s no point trying to bury my head in the sand by avoiding stuff like this. It’s everywhere, and besides I don’t feel half as hideous as I thought I would. Maybe that has something to do with how ridiculous the lies are.

  Leslie’s out for the evening, and Morgan’s parents are driving her to Seabrook House for her first therapy session since ‘the incident’. They’re returning to Charlestown straight afterwards, so no doubt Morgan is going to be in better spirits over the coming days.

  There was a Way Out of Wyoming movie poster stuck to my apartment door when I got back from class, with my father’s face tacked over that of the hooded murderer’s. I’d considered causing a scene but I was just too tired. Instead, I did the only thing I could think of: I left it there. The only piece of advice Amanda St. French has ever given me that seems to work: if you don’t react, people get bored. And if they are bored, they soon forget about you and your baggage.

  The knowledge the poster’s probably still there is driving me nuts, like any second I’m going to explode off the small sofa and yank the door open so I can burn it to ash there in the hallway. But I don’t. I leave it there, a practice in will power. I want to be ignored again, so if I have to put up with a couple of weeks of this, then I am damn well going to learn how.

  I glance at my cell phone. It’s been quiet for the past three hours but I keep holding my breath like any minute it’s going to ring. I hate that I’m waiting for him to call. Hate it. I shouldn’t be feeling anything but stupid as a result of the other night, and yet I’m filled with a whole swirling mess of emotion. Anger. Hope that he won’t be mad at me for leaving his apartment. Resentment that I keep seeing his face every time I close my eyes. Fear that I may have been cold enough, rude enough, cruel enough to close the door on any opportunity we might have had to be…I don’t know what. Friends? Friends with Luke is safe. Anything else is dangerous, especially since he’s clearly as damaged as I am over my father’s death. He said he was jealous of me. That he used to wish Maxwell had been his dad, too. So how can he possibly have a healthy attraction to me? I snatch up my phone and decide to take control.

  If Luke wants to talk, then we’ll talk. It just might not be the conversation he’s hoping for. I key in the number to my uncle’s house and start chewing my lip. When Brandon answers, he sounds out of breath.

  “Tell me you were exercising and not involved in some kinky sex game with Monica Simpson. Please.”

  A mildly disgusted sound emanates from the phone. “You’re sick, you know that?” Brandon laughs, rustling around on the other end. “I was just outside. Had to run for the phone. Monica and I have decided not to pursue our torrid affair.”

  “Just too hot to handle, Uncle B?”

  “Exactly. Truth be told, those boobs were just too—”

  “BRANDON!” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the mental image. “I’m already scarred enough. Please don’t damage me further.”

  More laughter. “Okay, kiddo. I hope that unfinished sentence haunts you. What’s up? Did you and Luke get things ironed out? I told him to call you.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

  “Just doing my duty as a responsible uncle.”

  “Shouldn’t you be warning him to stay the hell away from me or something? Where is he anyway? I have some questions for him.”

  “He left this morning. He probably wasn’t safe to drive but I couldn’t stop him. Said he needed to go see an old work colleague about some evidence.”

  “About Dad?” I shift nervously in my seat, wondering if it’s something new. Something that might clear my father’s name. Or condemn him.

  “No idea, sweetheart. You’d better call his cell phone.”

  “Brandon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m assuming you told Luke a whole bunch of stuff about me that I probably wouldn’t want him to know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Iris?”

  I close my eyes. “Yes, Brandon?”

  “Just call Luke.”

  I DON’T call Luke. I wait until Friday, three days later, and then because I’m a glutton for punishment, I decide to do something far worse.

  I’m going to the D.M.F gig.

  I shouldn’t be going to the gig. I should be studying. I should be watching The Price is Right. I should be doing a thousand ab crunches or listening to Morgan extol the benefits of coffee enemas. Basically, I should be doing anything but going to see Luke Reid play in his band. Our history seems insurmountable: he kept information from me about my father, and I slept with him and then ducked out of his apartment like some cheap hooker. But the problem with feeling the way I feel about Luke is a proverbial catch twenty two: The sheer magnitude of this emotion, this secret feeling I own and refuse to share, it threatens to destroy me. But then, the prospect of losing that hidden emotion promises the same violent outcome. This is why, despite everything, I find myself walking down 8th Ave, Chuck Taylors ankle deep in snow, with Morgan whittering away into my ear.

  “Can’t you text him to let him know we’re coming? He could put us on a list or something, I bet. There’s probably free booze backstage.”

  “Dude! You’re not allowed alcohol. Your body is recovering from an overdose, remember? Or have you forgotten all about your recent stint in hospital? I’m not letting you out of my sight. And as for trying to get on a door list, that kinda ruins the whole I-don’t-want-him-to-know-I’m-there vibe. So no, I’m not texting Luke.”

  Morgan grumbles into her scarf, shooting daggers at me. “It’s freezing cold, Ave. I am still recovering from a drug overdose and you’re going to make me queue on the side of the street in Hells Kitchen to preserve your weird sense of pride.”

  I resist rolling my eyes (another point to Amanda St. French) and I thread my arm through hers. “Papa Joe’s is a dive bar. I strongly doubt there’s ever been a queue to get in. And if there is, you can share my body heat. It’s either that or we go home.”

  “Fine,” Morgan pouts. “But I’m not standing at the back of a dingy bar, lurking in the fricken shadows like the phantom of the opera so you can get your stalker-gal rocks off without a damn beer in my hand. I still don’t get why you don’t just fuck this guy and get it over with. Luke is just so…”

  Luke is
just Luke. If only she knew what that really meant. How amazing and beautiful and fucking hot the guy was in bed. She would die a death. I try not to think about that as I drag her reluctantly down the street, where we take the third left and then a neon yellow and blue sign—Papa Joe’s! Papa Joe’s! Papa Joes!—blinks on and off, lighting up the street no more than twenty feet away.

  No queue. I pull a face at Morgan. “Told you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, bitch. Just get me through the door or I’m going to seize up. It’s like, minus ten out here.”

  It really is about minus ten; she doesn’t need to tell me twice. We head for the unmanned door, shivering against each other as we hurry. On the other side of the door, the overwhelming sound of chatter, laughter and grinding bass music hits us immediately. A long, narrow stairway descends into shady darkness, momentarily brightened by stabs of red and green and blue lights. It’s busy down there. A crackle of static and a high pitch squeal cuts through the hubbub below as I swallow and take the first step down, assisted by a pointy elbow in my back.

  “Are you ready, ladies? Are you ready for the special gift your Papa Joe has been saving for you?” A deep, gravelly voice calls out. A chorus of whoo-ing and omigodomigodomigod! answers the mystery voice. It sounds like bedlam down there, and by the time we arrive at the bottom of the stairs, surveying the packed basement bar, we see it really is. The place is madness. A sea of people stand between me and Morgan and a large, raised stage at the far end of the bar. It’s more of a club actually, with a service bar running the length of the right hand wall. A portly guy in a fedora—Papa Joe, I’m guessing—stands on the stage, grinning and sweating as he takes in the hoard of excited women, all of whom have glasses in their hands. Right now, I’m seeing a bobbing mass of women, but I’m pretty sure Papa Joe is seeing dollar signs.

  “Ladies, I hope you brought a spare pair of panties ‘cause tonight we got some boys who wanna get you all wild and wet. Papa Joe thinks it’s time to welcome on stage your favourite rockers…D…M…F!” He hollers out the letters, punching his fist into the air with each one, and the girls go nuts. It’s kind of pathetic that they’re losing their shit over a band in a basement, considering most of them look pretty respectable. Some of them even look sober. Morgan raises her eyebrows at me.

  “DMF? That your boy?”

  “Not my boy,” I snap, wrestling my way out of my jacket, stomping over to the bored-looking coat check attendant. I slap the jacket down onto the counter and unwind the scarf from around my neck, ignoring the fact that Morgan is gawping at me—at the sheer silk green dress I’ve been hiding under my coat.

  “What the hell is that?” she demands.

  “It’s called a dress, Morgan. I know you’ve got one on under that fugly fur thing you’re wrapped up in too, so you might as well ditch it.”

  She pokes her tongue out at me. She loses her fake fur coat to reveal a little black number that clings in all the right places but has edgy rips and tears everywhere else. She looks like a rock goddess with her teased out hair and killer outfit. Especially with the leather biker boots she’s chosen to wear. I mean, yes, my Chucks do kind of clash with my dress, but whatever. It’s a look I’m comfortable with.

  The cheering rips higher over the sound of the thumping music, and I know from the prickling on the back of my neck and the stupefied look on Morgan’s face that Luke and his band mates have just walked on stage. I can’t turn around. I just can’t. I’m still mad at him, and horrified by what happened between us. I’m scared of whatever he found while he was in Breakwater, too. I lace my fingers through Morgan’s and pull her backwards through the ever-growing crowd towards the bar.

  “You can have one drink, right? One. And we have to stay here by the bar, okay?”

  “Whatever, toots. I’m fine with whatever so long as I can stand and witness that.” She points at the stage behind me, but again I don’t turn around. She licks her lips, tracing her fingertips over the base of her neck, and I feel like slapping her. Instead, I order two beers and slam her bottle down on the bar next to her, secretly wishing a little of the foam would explode all over her sex starved face.

  “How can you not be looking at this right now, Ave?” she mumbles, still oblivious to my murderous gaze.

  “I just came to hear what they sound like. I can do that without drooling all over myself like a depraved hussy.”

  “Depraved hussy?” Morgan chokes back laughter. “Okay, I may be drooling. But damn, girl! All four of them are smoking hot! That bass player—his tattoos are just…they’re…they’re everywhere. I need to lick them.”

  She must be talking about Cole. And she would lick his ink, too, given half a chance. I shake my head and drink my beer, tapping my foot nervously against the rail at the foot of the bar.

  “Hi, guys! How’s everyone feelin’ this evening?” My heart leaps into my throat as the microphone echoes around the club. It’s Luke’s voice. He’s nowhere near as cheesy an MC as Papa Joe was; he’s just talking to us, welcoming us, saying hello. The fact that he doesn’t talk about himself in the third person also really helps. Morgan whoops, clapping her hands together, already sucked in by the atmosphere. I feel like I’m standing in a furnace. God, this was such a bad idea.

  It’s okay. You’re only here to listen, he’s never even going to know you were here. And yet, it feels like his eyes are already travelling across my skin.

  “We’re grateful to you for coming out on such a cold night. We’d like to repay your kindness by sharing some of our music with you. How’d you feel about that?”

  A thunderous roar lights up around us, and Morgan is cheering and screaming along with everyone else while I pull on my beer, staring straight at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I can also see a weaving tangle of bodies reflected in it, but thankfully not the stage. Luke starts laughing.

  “In that case, we’ll hit things off with a song that’ll hopefully help warm you guys up. Don’t be fooled by the title, okay? This one’s called Cold Hands, Cold Heart.

  A light, fast intro rips out of the speakers, and the audience literally goes wild. A heavy drumbeat follows and a few bars later and Luke is singing. It’s nothing like his performance at O’Flanagan’s, however. This is fire and arrogance all rolled into one. And it’s pouring straight out of him like liquid sex.

  Luke tears through the song, whipping the audience into a frenzy.

  The coolest girl

  thought I’d ever seen.

  Eighteen

  And still, a kid that haunts my dreams.

  Hard as glass, quick to bite

  ice queen

  heart as black as night

  but you and me,

  we’ll be okay

  ‘cause when you’re with me,

  you melt away.

  Got cold hands, got cold heart

  woulda never kissed you

  If I’d ‘a’ known from the start,

  You’ve frozen me cold,

  You’ve frozen me dead,

  Now I’m leaving you here,

  Unfinished in my bed.

  The lyrics confuse the crap out of me. The song ends and Morgan’s beer is untouched. Her hands look red raw from clapping so hard.

  “Holy shit, Ave, they’re amazing!”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “They are.” I need more beer for this. I signal the bartender who’s watching the show himself, and I down half my drink as soon as he hands it over.

  D.M.F play three more songs and I refuse to turn around the whole time. Luke’s voice sends thrills through my body and turns my blood ice cold in equal turns, making me wonder if I’m an ice queen, too. I know it’s not me he sang about in that first song, though, because he sure as hell didn’t leave me unfinished in his bed. No, that would be Casey, surely? The woman he refused to sleep with for five whole years. And yet he gave himself up to me in one evening. All I had to do was lose my father and have a nervous breakdown.

  The bar area empties as close to e
very single patron of the club joins the crowd in front of the stage to watch D.M.F play. Before long it’s just Morgan and me propping up the bar with Papa Joe talking to the bartender. Papa looks pissed. Probably because he just realized that none of his packed out club goers are ordering drinks now that the music is playing, and he’s not making any money after all.

  Morgan finally picks up her beer and starts to down it, her eyes still locked on the stage. They round out as a commotion kicks up behind us. She nearly spits her drink out altogether when the screaming suddenly gets louder. “Holy shit, Ave! He just jumped off the stage. He’s walking right over here.”

  “Who?” I hiss. Stupid question, though. I know exactly who she’s talking about. My body heats up like the fucking surface of the sun as Luke gets closer, closer, closer. I’m surprised there isn’t steam coming out of my ears by the time I hear him clear his throat behind me.

  “S’cuse me. You mind turning round a second?”

  Hell to the no. This can’t be happening. I grip hold of the wooden bar top and suck in a deep breath, trying to form a mask of nonchalance. Yeah, right. My cheeks are crimson—there’s no way I’m hiding that. I pick up my beer, place the glass against my lips, and drink. I drink until there’s nothing left, and then I turn around.

  Holy. Mother. Of. Mary.

  Luke Reid is standing right in front of me with an electric guitar strapped over his chest, wearing a worn singlet that exposes the black ink spiraling all over his biceps and shoulders. His hair is all over the place, disheveled and dripping with sweat. In fact, his face and his arms are covered with a sheen of sweat that reminds me of one thing and one thing only: him on top of me; him inside me. My legs start trembling the moment a smile develops on his face.