by BB Miller
My jaw hurts from clenching it so often. “No.”
Her dark eyes widen as she leans back from me. “No?”
“You heard me.”
“But—”
“No, Cardinal. I don’t want them there.”
She sets her hand on my good arm. “I really think—”
“You don’t get to really think about this. It’s not your shoulder. It’s not your fucking entire life on the line.” The harshness of my words, of my tone, hangs in air. I push up from the couch, stalking to the window. I need distance from Tess. Distance from all of them.
“Matt, please don’t do this. They just want to help.” I can hear the hitch in Tess’s voice, and I long for that feisty side of her that six weeks ago would’ve told me to get my head out of my ass. She’s been walking on eggshells around me. All of them have, and that kills me.
This accident has changed everything. It’s a dark cloud hanging over us all. The guys in the band all share concerned looks, their conversations abruptly stop when I enter a room, and if I have to hear the words “you’re going to be fine” one more time, I may fucking explode.
I glance out the window to the pier in the distance. I’d like to get lost in that crowd. To be nameless for a while. Someone whose face isn’t plastered on magazines talking about impending band breakups and long roads to recovery.
At least we know who did this now. The cops are still looking for Zach since Beck returned to the group home and spilled his guts. Beck had caught Zach in the garage, messing with the Harley before I took it out. At the news of the accident, they both panicked and split.
Beck is wrought with guilt about not saying anything and about listening to Zach when he told him they’d both go down for this. The looming threat of prison time is one that I know too well.
Beck broke down when I went to visit him at the group home. Full-on sobbing. Told me repeatedly how sorry he was. I don’t blame him. He’s not the one who fucked with the bike. Zach’s still missing and facing some serious jail time if they ever find him, which will likely only serve to harden him further. Another lost soul who’s going to spend the rest of his life in and out of prison isn’t what I want. Not for Zach, not for anyone.
Beck at least wants to break the cycle that Zach seems to be stuck in. He’s pouring all of his energy into the guitar and the garage, and that’s something I can appreciate. Fletcher and I are alternating visits, helping him learn the basics. It’s clear the kid has talent, and it’s up to him where he lets it take him.
Tom’s drowning in his own guilt over this clusterfuck. He’s apologized for not giving Zach his walking papers from the group home after the fight he had with Beck. But Tom wouldn’t be who he is if he gave up on these kids. It’s the reason I’m still standing here, because he refused to give up when everyone else had turned their backs on me.
I feel her arms wrap around my waist from behind, always careful of my ribs. That’s what Tess has become now—gentle. No more raw and unfiltered touches, the ones I used to crave. The ones I miss.
She sets her forehead against my back, her sweet curves pressing against me. “You’re going to be fine,” she mumbles against my shirt.
I hate the word fine.
“Take your time. Remember, it’s kind of like a rusty hinge. It’s going to take a while to get the kinks out. Try making a fist again.”
I lift a brow to Dr. Elliott, before staring back at my hand. The indents from the cast cut into the ink on my wrist, to the tattoo that Tess first asked about. The matrix of double-sided arrows that remind me everything is connected.
Closing my fist is awkward and takes more energy than it should, but the good doctor seems pleased. “Good. Now, bend your elbow.”
I follow her instructions, feeling like a child. Raw pain burns through my shoulder, radiating down my arm. “Fucking hell.”
Tess flutters closer, fussing over me like a mother hen. “Careful,” she whispers.
I lift my chin, meeting her worried eyes, the doctor’s voice echoing in my ears. “Try rolling your shoulder. I can give you a prescription for the pain.”
“Shit.” I wince, my right hand tightening against the edge of the examination table as I try the simple task of lifting my shoulder. “No. No prescriptions.”
“It would help considerably.”
“We’ve talked about this, doc. Pills around me and the guys are no go.”
“Are you sure?” Tess folds her arms across her chest.
“Positive. I’ll pop a few ibuprofens if it gets bad, but that’s as far as I’m going.” Squeezing my eyes shut from the pain, I take a few shaky breaths before I feel the doctor’s hand on my arm. Fuck knows we don’t need more stress. We just got Cameron back from rehab, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to bring the temptation of prescription drugs around him, or any of them for that matter.
“That’s good for today,” Dr. Elliott says, and I open my eyes once more. “I’m going to send you home with some more exercises to strengthen your shoulder. You’ve started physio already?” She rolls her chair over to the desk on the other side of the exam room and flicks on a light.
Illuminated on a backlit screen are a series of x-rays. My throat is suddenly dry. I’m almost afraid to look at them. “Yeah. Tucker’s got me on a workout plan.”
“Good. Make sure you take it easy for the first little while. The last thing you want is to injure yourself further because you tried to bench press above your weight.” The doctor levels me with a stern look as she slips her glasses on.
“Got it. What’s all this?” I ask, glancing at the x-rays. I try to keep my shoulder back, but it wants to slouch forward, leaving my arm hanging like a ragdoll. The once defined muscles in my arm seem to have faded into oblivion.
Dr. Elliott points to the first photo, lifting a pen to trace a line over it. “These are the x-rays we took earlier today. Your ribs are healing nicely. You’re starting to breathe easier?”
“Sure. If by easier you mean I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out with my next breath, then yeah.”
“That’s good,” she says seriously, turning to me. “Look, I know this is hard, but it isn’t something that is going to get fixed overnight, Matt. You’ve had a traumatic injury. It’s going to take some time for you heal, but you are going to heal. I have no reason to think otherwise. You’re going to be fine.”
That damn fucking word again. Fine. Tess offers me a tight, fake smile, and then Dr. Elliott starts droning on about the rest of the x-rays. I’ve tuned her out. I only catch bits and pieces of what she’s saying. An uneasy feeling has taken over, an annoyance crawling through me, and I don’t like it. I don’t like this sense of helplessness. I don’t like Tess feeling sorry for me, like I’m some charity case of hers.
By the time the appointment is over, and Tess collects the encyclopedia of information and exercises from Dr. Elliott, the lump in my throat has grown bigger, threatening to choke me.
The only thing I know I need is distance and quiet. I’m drained from this whole ordeal. Tired of answering questions, tired of the constant tension of feeling like I’m letting everyone down.
“You should call your dad back. He’s left a few messages.” I glance over at Tess, curled up in the chair across from me, reading one of the pamphlets the doctor gave us this afternoon. Her dark hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing one of my old concert T-shirts over a pair of leggings.
The ride home was spent in an awkward silence—something else that’s not normal for Tess and me. I can feel the tension simmering under the surface, threatening to boil over.
“I’ll call him tomorrow.”
She lifts a brow before returning to the fascinating read of Exercises for Shoulder Strengthening.
“What? Is that not okay with you?” My words come out harsh and clipped.
Lowering the brochure, her eyes meet mine. “I didn’t say anything.” It kills me to hear her so guarded.
“You didn�
�t have to.”
She folds the brochure up and sets it on the coffee table. She’s eerily calm. Another red flag. Tess wears her emotions and her heart on her sleeve—at least she used to. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
I feel my jaw set, and I lean forward. “I’ll throw that question right back at you, Cardinal.”
I know exactly what I’m doing—baiting her. But I need the real Tess back. The feisty, sometimes infuriating, confident Tess who pushes and tests me.
Uncurling herself from the chair, she pushes up, her eyes brimming with tears, and the sight cuts through me.
“Tess . . .”
“You know, I’m trying here.” She quickly brushes the tears as they start to fall.
“Here’s the thing. You don’t have to try. Just be you.”
Throwing her arms up in the air, she stalks over to me. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Pushing up from the couch, I tower over her, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. “I’m trying, too, you know.”
“Really? You call sulking and staring out the window trying?” She props her hands on her hips. I feel the anger spike along with the gnawing pain that won’t leave me alone.
“I call it recovering, or did you forget about that?”
Her eyes widen, and I see a flicker of that heated passion I crave. “How could I possibly forget? It fills up this whole place!” she hollers. “You haven’t even tried playing. The doctor said—”
“Oh, fuck the doctor!”
“That’s real mature, Matt. Way to handle the situation. God! You are the most frustrating man on the planet.”
“You want me to try playing, sweetheart? Is that what you’re missing?” I brush past her, stomping to the guitars that line the brick wall.
My shoulder complains as I tug my red Fender from the hook. I can feel the adrenaline firing dangerously, masking the pain as I turn back to her. “You want to see me play?”
“Matt, don’t. Not like this.”
“This is me, fucking playing!” Lifting the Fender with my good arm, I swing it against one of the amps in the corner. The cracking of wood echoes over and over as the guitar shatters against the amp, jagged pieces flying to the floor.
It’s cathartic, it’s freeing, and it’s making me feel something other than numbing pain. I don’t stop until the entire Fender is nothing but an expensive pile of firewood on the floor next to the mangled amp. My shoulder is on fire, I’m out of breath, sweat breaks out over my skin, and I welcome it all.
Slowly, an unnatural quiet brings me out of my rage, and when I finally turn back to find Tess, she’s gone.
Tessa
I fly down the long back staircase to the garage, the discordant metallic twanging of overstretched strings and the sound of exploding wood echoing behind me. A sudden silence makes me pause at the bottom. I’m still poised for flight as I clutch my jean jacket that I snatched off the hook next to the door as I left. Did I close the door behind me? I don’t think I did.
“Cardinal?” The anger and accusation in his voice drift down to me from above and goad me into action again. I run across the garage and slide behind the wheel of the Camaro, my fingers automatically finding the door opener. My heart thunders as I nervously tap the steering wheel with my fingertip while the damn gate creeps open, creaking like a goddamn fire alarm. The last barrier to freedom finally removed, I cautiously look out into the alley before pulling out. Checking to ensure the gate is closing behind me, I catch a glimpse of his tall figure stepping out from the stairwell before I hit the gas.
I drive around aimlessly for several minutes, letting the deep purr of the engine and the warm leather scents of the interior soothe my jangled nerves. There was no real thought involved in my departure—I just had to leave. I’ve never seen him so angry before. The arc of the guitar soaring through the air was so unexpected, it didn’t seem real; it was the crashing sound when it made impact that shocked me.
My phone rings in my pocket. I ignore it. If he can act like a child, so can I. “Damn it, Matt!” I growl in frustration, banging my fist against the steering wheel. Such a stubborn, pig-headed, immature, mulish . . . idiot! Why can’t he see that he’s not doing himself any good by just sitting and sulking like a pouty twelve-year-old boy?
My breath leaves me in a whoosh. Twelve-year-old boy. That’s what he was when his mom died, plunging him into an even worse situation than he’d already been in. This is probably the worst thing that’s happened to him since Tom adopted him. I stop at a red light and stare out the rain-streaked window, a grudging understanding slowly extinguishing my ire. Maybe that’s what this is. The stress of the accident and subsequent recovery period is drawing that scared, angry boy he once was back to the surface, like a slow-burning fuse just waiting for a gust of oxygen to make it explode.
And I was the oxygen.
The words he spoke before his doctor appointment come back to me. “It’s not your shoulder. It’s not your fucking entire life on the line.” Is that what he really thinks? At the time, I’d thought he was just being dramatic—sometimes the man could be as over-the-top as Sean. I know that the brachial plexus injury isn’t anything to sneeze at, but everything Dr. Elliott has said has been promising. His PT is going well, despite not being as fast as he’d like. How can he not see the progress he’s made? I’ve done everything I can think of to encourage him and show him how well he’s doing. Why isn’t that enough? How can I get through to him?
I grimace at the rough, cold feel of the brake pedal against my bare foot. I’d had just enough thought to grab my coat with the car keys and my phone in the pocket before I went out the door. I wish I’d grabbed my shoes, too. My scowl deepens at the sight of a man walking down the sidewalk with an enormous bouquet of roses and an insufferably cheerful smile. I’d almost forgotten . . . happy birthday to me.
I hate having a birthday on Valentine’s Day. I’d studiously ignored the date as it marched closer on the calendar, pouring myself instead into doing whatever I could to help Matt. He hasn’t mentioned the date either. He probably doesn’t remember my admission during the gala about my birthdate. Besides, he has enough on his plate right now.
My phone pings with a text. Gritting my teeth, I reach into my jacket sitting on the passenger seat and fish my phone out of the pocket. I don’t really want to see what he has to say for himself, but I can’t stop myself from looking. Scanning the screen quickly, I see his call, but the text listed below is a surprise. I smile as my heart softens.
Happy birthday, little girl. Your mom and I hope your day is going well. Say hi to Matt for us.
The light turns and as traffic starts to move, I hit my blinker. I know exactly where I’m going now.
The house only has a few lights on when I park on the street in front. I get out and walk across the sodden lawn to the kitchen door, shuddering at the feel of squishy grass between my toes. Scraping my feet on the rough welcome mat, I swing the door open and breathe deeply, the scents of home better than any perfume.
“Dad? Mom?” I call to the quiet house. Someone must be home—the door was unlocked.
“Tessa?” My dad looks surprised, but smiles as he comes around the corner into the kitchen, a coffee cup in hand. “What are you doing here?” He frowns down at my crimson-painted toes gleaming against the linoleum. “Where are your shoes? It’s raining.”
A tired giggle bubbles up. “It’s a long story. Is Mom here?”
“No, she had to run to the market. We’re having pot roast.” He stretches his neck to look behind me, his brow furrowing when I close the door. “Where’s Matt?”
“Wallowing in misery, no doubt,” I say dryly, moving to pour myself a cup of tea from the pot sitting on the counter. When I turn around, cup in hand, I see he’s watching me, his head cocked to the side. Then he leans against the counter opposite me and sets his mug down.
“Okay, let’s hear it.” He folds his arms.
“He’s just so f
rustrating!” The tea sloshes in my mug as I wave my free arm. “His doctor says everything is going great, which is fabulous news, but it’s like he can’t stand hearing it!” I begin to pace, gesticulating as I rant. “Tucker is helping with his physical therapy, the guys make sure to include him with all the rescheduling decisions for the tour so he can never doubt his place in the band is secure, and Tom visits him every day to keep him up to date with the police investigation. And the way he acts, you’d think it was all some type of torture.”
I set my mug down so I won’t spill anymore, and lick a stray drop of tea from my thumb. Breathing heavily, I try to calm down. “When he’s not doing PT he just sits around the loft wallowing. I’m doing my best to help, but he keeps pushing me away.”
“Okay, so you had a fight.” At my hesitant nod, he shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but then narrows his eyes at me. “Wait, did he scare you? Is that why you’re here without any shoes?” He glances down at my bare feet and abruptly stands straighter, every muscle tense, as if he’s about to do battle on my behalf.
I quickly move in front of him. “No! Yes, we argued—well, actually, he had a tantrum—and I left because he was being an ass. But it wasn’t that kind of fight,” I explain, trying to sort it out in my own head. He was beyond reason, so wrapped up in his frustration that he wasn’t going to listen, and I was just as upset as he was, to be honest. I was shocked by the sudden violence and the sheer stupidity of destroying one of his favorite instruments, but I was never afraid of him.
Shoving my hands in my hair, I begin pacing again. “Look, I get that he’s not used to all the inactivity he’s been forced into, but he’s healing really well, and now that the cast is off he’ll be able to increase his exercises. But it’s like he doesn’t believe what anyone tells him. If brooding were an Olympic event, he’d have a gold medal.” I slap my hand on the counter, and his mouth twitches at my outburst. “I . . . I just want to scream at him!”
