Always a Hero

by Justine Davis

  But the one who didn’t show up today was Jordy. He always turned up on Mondays, anxious to catch up after the weekend away. She hoped he wasn’t sick.

  Or that his father hadn’t changed his mind.

  She started to walk toward the bank, dodging some of the puddles that remained after yesterday’s rain. The day’s business had netted more than she was comfortable leaving around, so she was going to make an extra deposit tonight, and probably would need to for the next couple of days as the instruments went out the door.

  She was musing about how nice it was to be able to walk down the street with a sizeable amount of cash and checks without worrying. And smiling at the additional credit and debit card receipts already in the system. Play On would make it through the winter again. Funny how that gave her nearly as much satisfaction as a sellout crowd had once given her on the road.

  She was about to pull open the bank door when it was opened in front of her, by a man with a troubled expression. He saw her, his expression changed to a smile, and he held the door for her. John Hunt, she realized, owner of the packaging plant. She didn’t know him that well, knew his wife and daughter better, but he was unfailingly courteous and friendly when they did run into each other. She liked him. And he reminded her somewhat of her father, so she spoke to him with respect.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” she said as she stepped inside.

  The man nodded. “Hello, Kai. Did Catherine make it in to pick up the detested violin?”

  She was startled, then laughed. “Yes, yes she did.”

  He let the door close for the moment. “It was my wife’s idea. Catherine thinks it’s the most boring instrument ever made.”

  “I used to feel the same way.” Kai looked thoughtful. “Send her in sometime. I’ll play her some Celtic fiddle music, might change her mind. It pretty much rocks.”

  The man’s brows lifted. “That might help. She’s got visions of nothing but classical music in her future.”

  “Always a good place to start, but it doesn’t mean you have to stay there.”

  The smile widened. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll tell her. When I get a free second,” he added in a rueful tone.

  “Problems?” Kai remembered his troubled expression.

  “Just some strange goings-on out at the plant. A prowler. Or prowlers.”

  That was odd enough in quiet Deer Creek to merit surprise. “Wow. Any idea who?”

  He shook his head.

  “You have security out there, don’t you?”

  “We do. But not as much as we may need, if this keeps up. I’m working on that.”

  Another bank customer came in, putting a pause on the conversation. Which gave her a moment to make what was probably a foolish decision. Because she had just remembered John Hunt was Wyatt Blake’s boss. And he had a reputation of being very aware of his employees’ situations and needs. So if the boy was sick—or not—he might know.

  “Do you know if Jordan Price is all right?”

  The man frowned. “Wyatt Blake’s boy?”

  “I’m just wondering, because he usually comes into the store afternoons, to practice. But he didn’t today. And…there was some tension between he and his father recently.”

  Mr. Hunt grimaced. “That’s true on any given day,” he said. “Wyatt’s taken on a tough job. But I suppose it’s nothing compared to what he’s used to.”

  “What he’s used to?”

  Mr. Hunt gave her a startled, then guarded look. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about him when you asked about his boy. I think he’s all right.”

  She wondered if there was more to the man’s quick change than just a desire to answer the question she’d actually asked.

  “Wyatt’s in today, as usual,” he said. “Or was. He gets off at three, when Jordan gets out of school.”

  Kai lifted a brow, surprised. “He does?”

  The man nodded. “It’s part of our agreement. Any additional work that needs doing, he does from home.” He nodded his head in approval. “He’s doing everything right, for that boy.”

  …he wouldn’t even have that job if old man Hunt didn’t owe him a favor.

  Jordy’s words came back to her, and she wondered what kind of favor Wyatt Blake had done for this man.

  “It was good of you to give him that job, so that he could bring Jordy here like he wanted to.”

  Mr. Hunt grimaced again. “I owe him that and much more. I would have given him any job he wanted. Still can’t believe he insisted on that one.”

  The man shook his head sharply, and before Kai could formulate another question he politely took his leave and was gone. Making her wonder if he’d again said something he thought he shouldn’t have.

  I owe him that much and more….

  So Jordy had been right. And just how had that come about? What favor had Wyatt Blake done for John Hunt?

  And why, why, why was she spending so much time worrying about it? No man had sapped as much of her thoughts and attention in years. That it was Jordan’s too severe father was beyond irritating. Yet there he was, constantly niggling at the edge of her mind.

  When Tuesday came and went, still with no Jordy, her concern spiked into worry. She hoped they hadn’t fought again. Jordan had been so excited about playing that he’d quickly gotten over his dilemma about actually obeying his father. Perhaps he’d gone somewhere? Had his father sent him off to some relative she didn’t know about?

  Although Jordy hadn’t mentioned any plans, and from his frequent grumblings she knew travel anywhere beyond the nearest sizable town, forty miles distant, for necessities that couldn’t be found in Deer Creek, just didn’t happen. They never went anywhere, just stuck here in boredom town, he often complained. And he, like her mother, couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that she herself loved it here.

  “How could you? I mean, you used to tour, go all these cool places, how can you stand to just stay here in boring Deer Creek?”

  “Maybe because I did do all that traveling,” she said. And because a lot of the memories attached to those times aren’t pleasant ones, she’d added to herself.

  By the end of Wednesday, she knew she had to do something. So when she closed up at five, instead of heading upstairs, she locked up and went for a walk. She had an excuse, she thought, it had been raining hard for two days straight, and it was nice to be able to walk without getting soaked.

  At least, that’s what she told herself as she headed for the big, Craftsman-style house. She was going for a walk anyway, it might as well be that way, so she could find out if Jordy was all right. It was just a neighborly thing to do, she told herself, checking on him.

  She even believed it.

  Almost.

  Chapter 11

  Wyatt heard the thump from upstairs, and guessed Jordan had thrown something yet again. Between that and the frequent slamming of the bathroom door— If he really needed the bathroom that often, I’d have him off to the doctor, Wyatt had thought wryly after the fourth time the slam had echoed through the house—he was making his feelings known.

  Wyatt turned back to the laptop. The final data sheet he’d uploaded to his workstation at HP finished, and he was done for the day. It had taken a little longer than usual, because he’d had Jordan to deal with, but it was done. It had to be; he didn’t want John to regret allowing him to work this way.

  He stretched, thinking he might have to get a more substantial chair for this setup, because after a solid hour and a half hunched over the laptop keyboard he was feeling it.

  Or you’re just flat-out getting old, he told himself.

  He felt old. He’d felt that way for a long time now. And dealing with Jordan only emphasized it. Some parts of this made the old days look simple. Not that he wanted to go back, but at least things had been more clear-cut, the path more obvious. He—

  The alert popped up.

  He toyed with the idea of avoiding it for a while. But ignoring it wasn’t going to make it go away. B
esides, there might be crucial info in it.

  Maybe he found an innocent explanation for it all, Wyatt thought, then laughed aloud at the absurdity of that. In that world, there were no innocent explanations. Not many, anyway. And that knowledge was so deeply ingrained he doubted he’d ever get past it.

  He worked his way through the same intricate steps, until finally he had the message open in front of him.

  Checked around. I wasn’t the only one. Others about the same time contacted by different people looking for you. All should be friendlies, but double heads up.

  The message ended with an offer of help if he needed it. Did he? He didn’t know. He’d gotten rusty, he knew that, but so bad that he couldn’t handle this?

  If it had been just him, he wouldn’t have even blinked. But it wasn’t just him anymore.

  …friendlies.

  Not friends, friendlies. A fine but definite line. Because he wasn’t crowded with old friends. The one who had sent these messages was one of a very few. And also one of the even fewer who knew where he was. The question was, had one of the others who knew also been contacted? Had his location already been compromised? Did he need to—

  A knock on the door startled him. He told himself an enemy wasn’t likely to come politely knocking on his door, stifling a scornful laugh at himself. He deleted the message and quickly keyed in the shutdown command, waited for the familiar desktop screen to reappear, a process that took about ninety seconds. He was half wishing whoever it was would just go away, but by the time he was at the desktop the knock came again.

  He knew who it was long before he got the door open. The mission-style front door had a bank of windows across the top, and he caught the gleam of afternoon sunlight on rich, red hair.

  Kai.

  He stopped in his tracks, a foot away from the door. He stared at the doorknob as if it held the answer, but he wasn’t sure there was an answer to this, this crazy surge of heat and tangled feelings that threatened to swamp him every time he thought of her.

  Which was too damned often, he told himself.

  It was crazy. Completely insane. He’d checked her out, because of Jordan. He needed to know who his son was spending time around. But it should have ended there. Once he’d determined she wasn’t—or at least didn’t seem to be—a threat, it should have ended there. She shouldn’t have been popping into his head at any odd moment, shouldn’t have had him thinking about what excuse he could come up with to stop into Play On, shouldn’t have had him going back to watch those videos time and again.

  And she sure as hell shouldn’t have been populating his dreams. Vivid, sharp and uncomfortably hot dreams. He’d thought anything would be an improvement on the nightmares he’d battled for so long, but this new development only made things worse. Because somehow the two would get tangled up together, and he was dreaming of loss before he even had it to lose.

  And you’re not going to get it, he told himself. You’re not even going to try. That’s the last thing you need to throw into this mix.

  Self-lecture complete, he reached to open the door.

  She was at the bottom of the steps, as if she’d given up and was leaving. If he’d hung on a few more seconds, he might have escaped this after all. He wondered why the idea didn’t please him more.

  At the sound of the door she turned back. Looked at him. Smiled. Took his breath away, literally. And for a moment he forgot how to get it back.

  “Kai,” he said, an instant later wishing he’d stuck with a more formal “Ms. Reynolds.”

  “Wyatt,” she said as she came back up the steps onto the covered porch, and he changed his mind; not for anything would he have traded the sound of his name in her voice, even in a casual greeting that meant little.

  “What are you—”

  He stopped, surprised at the odd sound of his own voice, at the tightness, the strain in it.

  “—doing here?” she finished for him, as if she hadn’t noticed. “I was out for a walk, and I thought I’d come by and make sure Jordy’s okay. He hasn’t been in, and I was afraid maybe you changed your mind about letting him play.”

  He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him; this was not a conversation he wanted his son to overhear. He supposed he should be thankful she was concerned enough about his son to come checking. But he wasn’t at all sure that was what he was feeling.

  “Only temporarily,” he said.

  To her credit, she merely waited, one arched brow raised in inquiry.

  “He’s…grounded at the moment.”

  She drew back slightly. “Using the music as a weapon?” she asked.

  “It’s the only one that seems to get through to him,” he admitted.

  “Not worried that using it against him will guarantee he’ll never trust you with anything else you can use against him?”

  He stared at her. She couldn’t know, there was no way, but he couldn’t seem to stop Jordan’s furious words from echoing in his head.

  I wish you’d never found out. Next time I’ll make sure you never do.

  “Oh, he trusts me,” he said, not even caring if he sounded bitter. “To ruin his life.”

  To his surprise, she smiled. “That’s in a parent’s job description, I think. So, what did he do?”

  “Sneaked out his window to meet up with some people he knows from online. One of them was the booze supplier.”

  He didn’t know how he expected her to react. He didn’t even know why he was telling her at all, except that she did have sort of a sideways interest in the matter.

  “Ouch. Not good.”

  That surprised him. It must have shown in his face, because she went on.

  “To this day I get emails from strangers who have…certain ideas about me because of an image they’ve culled mostly from online information. I know about the power, and potential for fakery that’s inherent there.”

  He stared at her, more than a little startled at the concise, articulate summation.

  “So, how long does it cost him to have disobeyed an order?”

  His mouth quirked. “I never gave him an order. He never even asked to go.”

  “Just sneaked out?”

  “I presume he knew I’d say no, so didn’t bother with the formalities.”

  She studied him for a moment. “What was the last thing you said ‘yes’ to? Besides letting him play, I mean, since that was an order?”

  There wasn’t a hint of criticism in her tone, but he winced inwardly anyway.

  “I…don’t remember. He doesn’t ask much. He seems to just do it, then waits to get in trouble.”

  Again there was a long pause as she looked at him. He wondered what she was thinking, was suddenly anxious to know what was going on behind those smoky gray eyes.

  “Anything about that seem familiar?” she asked, her tone just a bit too casual now.

  “Your point?” he asked.

  “Just that all kids do it to some extent. Easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission and all that. I did it. And I’m willing to bet you did, too.”

  He let out a compressed breath. “I was the expert on it,” he said. “But the situation was different.”

  “Because of your father.”

  Why on earth had he ever told her so much? He didn’t talk about his father to anybody.

  A little desperate to change the subject, he grasped at something uppermost in his mind.

  “I watched some video Jordan told me about. Of Relative Fusion.”

  The complete non sequitur made her blink. He waited for her to ask what he thought; all performers wanted to know that, didn’t they?

  Instead, after a moment she just said, “Well, if he’s talking to you that much, maybe there’s hope after all.”

  Focus, he thought. She was focused on Jordan, that’s why she was here, and she wasn’t going to be distracted. A good attribute, in most cases. He wouldn’t be alive today if he wasn’t good at staying focused. But right now, he wished she had a little l
ess of the ability.

  “It’s about the only thing he’s spoken to me about. So I watched.”

  Again he paused, but the expected question didn’t come.

  “There are a bunch out there,” she said neutrally. “We were never manic about stopping cameras, or recorders for that matter.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “We figured it was our job to be good enough that they’d want the quality of a professional recording. Or songs we didn’t do live.”

  He hesitated, then said quietly, “You were good.”

  She nodded. “We were.”

  He liked that she didn’t dissemble, didn’t even thank him. He wondered if the barely perceptible tension that was showing around her mouth and eyes was for the loss of the music, or the man she’d loved.

  “You miss it?”

  “I miss the music, sometimes. The rest? Not really. Oh, it was exhilarating, good for the ego, but the spotlight had some pretty hefty downsides.”

  “You didn’t claim the spotlight often,” he said. Not nearly as often as you should have, he added to himself.

  She shrugged. “Didn’t want it. There’s still a bias in the world, about girls with guitars. It took me a while to realize it.”

  “Even good-looking girls with guitars?”

  “Especially,” she said. “At first I played it up, until I realized people were assuming that was why I was there, for looks, not because I was a damned good guitarist.”

  A realization struck him, based on something he’d noticed in the progression of videos he’d watched.

  “You changed the lighting,” he said. “On your solos.”

  He had the great pleasure of seeing surprise fill her expressive face. She was looking at him as if he’d done something totally unexpected. Which told him a lot about what she expected. From him, anyway.

  But he knew he was right. He’d noticed the change right away, probably because he was so focused on her as he watched, not the band as a whole, or even the admittedly charismatic and talented front man.

  “I wanted them listening, not looking,” she said simply.

  And she’d accomplished it with one simple change, he thought. The lighting had gone from a standard spotlight on her during her extensive and blazing solo riffs, to a narrow, focused spot on just her hands and the guitar. On what was, to her, most important. Not her appearance, or the response those flashy, wild looks got her.