by C. M. Lally
I have got to cut him loose. He’s only causing stress in my life, getting drunk every weekend and throwing his jealous rages at me. He doesn’t hit me or anything; I just hate listening to his accusations. The way he tells it, I’ve got ’em lined up down the street.
The opening riff for “Run to You” by Bryan Adams plays, and the dance floor starts to fill in. This ends up pushing my admirer back a little bit, but I can still see his face clearly. I glance in his direction every time the chorus starts, to make sure he’s still there.
There’s a younger crowd here tonight, and I can tell that I’m going to have to adjust the second setlist. I finish out this one with a few more from the 80s and 90s, and then we break for our typical forty-five minutes.
Luke comes at me before I turn off the mic and just starts screaming at me that I’m flirting with the crowd again. The whole place goes silent, and one of the boys in the band pulls the mic cord from the amp to ease my humiliation. Several of the men in the crowd step forward to see if there’s going to be trouble, but I shake my head at them and pray they understand that I have him under control.
Luke looks around, sees that he’s outnumbered, and drops my arm. At least he’s got some brains left up there that alcohol hasn’t touched yet. I grab his hand and walk him to the back storage room.
I close the door quietly to show everyone that neither one of us is upset, then swing my body around toward him with a fury like I’ve never felt. I really want to take a swing at him for that stunt, but I clench my fists into tight balls instead and take a deep breath.
I grit my teeth before unleashing unholy hell on him: “How dare you embarrass me like that in front of the entire bar! You know I don’t flirt. I’m too focused on singing, and not screwing it up, and trying not to trip on a thousand cords taped to the floor.”
His eyes meet mine, and I can tell he’s lost to the haze and fog of the alcohol, but his face is stern. His dark eyes are squinting, and hard as shells. He’s holding back one of his rages, but he knows there are probably a thousand ears listening outside this door. I can hear footsteps shuffling back and forth across the floor outside. He may be drunk, but he isn’t stupid.
“Luke, you just need to leave for the night. This one’s over. I’ll call you a cab and you need to sleep it off. We’ll talk about this tomorrow when we aren’t on public display.”
He slumps his shoulders and strolls past me without saying a word. As he pulls opens the door, the warm whoosh of air forces the smell of cigarettes and whiskey into my face, and my stomach roils. It’s like he bathed in it.
I follow him outside through the crowded hallway, and call for a cab. We sit outside the front doors on the empty bench, waiting. His head is cradled in the palms of his hands and he just waits, looking defeated.
“The cab company said it would be about twenty minutes, okay?”
He nods at me, but doesn’t say a word.
Normally I wouldn’t leave him like this, but my patience is gone and I have a setlist to revise with the band. Plus he needs to know I’m pissed. I stand up without another word and walk back inside, leaving him in silence.
My boys and I have been playing music together since high school. We work together like the gears in a machine: perfectly in sync. Once the setlist is revised, I head back outside to make sure Luke got picked up. He isn’t on the bench anymore, and I don’t see him anywhere around, so I head back inside, ready for a drink and to start the next set.
I grab a bottle of water from the ice bucket that mysteriously appeared on stage again, and look over to my admirer’s usual place at the bar. He’s sitting next to my Uncle Frank. I tip my bottle to him in salute, and he nods back at me. I blast him with my biggest, widest smile. I knew it. Mystery solved.
The drum beat starts for “Into You” by Ariana Grande, and a mad rush of girls hits the dance floor. It looks like the setlist changes were a good decision. By the time the song ends, the boys are grinding on their girls, because that’s just what happens when Ariana is playing. We immediately go into snapping our fingers, while the bassist rips his singular chords to start “Me Too” by Meghan Trainor. I expect the boys to leave the floor, but it appears they’re having fun. From there, we flow into “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake to get the crowd really fired up. We slow it down for a while, and then end it with Ciara’s “Love Sex Magic” so they can continue their sexy mood at home.
“Thank you. You’ve been a great crowd this weekend. We’ll be back on Friday, same time. We hope you survive the work week!”
I help the guys put everything away in the storage room, and head on out to my car. I’m parked at the far edge of the lot, under the furthest lamppost. It’s Uncle Frank’s rule that we park here to save room for the clientele. Granted it’s a far walk back to my car in these heels, and I’m tired now, but everyone else does it.
I look toward my car to click the key fob at it and immediately stop. My car is smashed everywhere. It’s literally been beaten to hell. Glass shards from the back and side windows cover the ground. The trunk and quarter panels are dented in.
I circle the car fully, in shock, and see that all four tires are flat. My windshield has spiderweb cracks all over it. Glass is everywhere and my seats are torn, by what I assume was a knife. The hood has massive craters punched into it, and is tented open. I peek inside and see that my battery cables and radiator hoses are cut. God only knows what else is ruined in there.
Someone took their rage out on my car, and all I know is that I will kill him. I race towards the bar.
Chapter 5
Nick
I watched her leave a few minutes ago, thankful that she was alone when she left. Her boyfriend is a drunken idiot who doesn’t deserve her. The whole bar knows it. I thought tonight’s drama was going to cause a world class riot, the way he went after her. When we all heard the commotion through the microphone, the whole bar slammed to a stop. But that little sprite of a girl handled him like a bulldog gnawing on a bone.
I decide to call it a night, pay my tab, and head on out the doors. I head toward my truck and slam into an explosion of fury and dark hair. She bounces off me and falls back onto her butt, then shakes her head and lets out a roar of aggravation so loud I flinch. Did that noise really came out of that tiny body?
Apologizing profusely for knocking her down, I offer her both hands to help her get up. When she focuses on my face to see who’s helping her, she bursts into tears.
I bend down and gather her hair away from her face. Holding it in a ponytail on her shoulder, I tuck one finger under her chin and gently lift her face to mine. “Hey,” I whisper. “What’s wrong?” I search her eyes for distress and find a river of tears being held in by sheer determination of will. I don’t think she’s going to let them fall down her lovely face, but there must be a break in the dam somewhere, because her cheeks are wet. “C’mon, you can tell me. Something’s making you run like the hounds of hell are on your ass. Is someone bothering you?”
“They already bothered me. They beat the shit out of my car tonight while I was singing. Now I can’t get home. ”
I help her stand up, watching her shake the pebbles off her legs and rear end, then reach out to shake her hand. “Nick Bailey.”
“Jenna Moore,” she says, reaching out too.
As our hands connect, an arc of blue static electricity shoots out into the night sky between our fingers and palms. We both pull back and apologize.
“Can you show me your car?” I ask her. I follow behind her as she makes her way through the maze of cars. I stumble into a few side mirrors, not watching where I am going, mesmerized by the back and forth swishing of her skirt. Her jean jacket is pulled tight against her back and all I can think about is peeling it off and laying a trail of kisses down her bare skin.
Damn it. Focus on her problem and not her, Nick.
She has me feeling like I am sloshing through mud as I follow her. She’s in a hurry, and I want to slow down time.
Our eyes meet in the dim parking lot light, and she simply nods her head at me. “Yes” she says quietly.
“Come on. Let me take you home.” I grab her hand, reminding myself to be gentle—because right now, I could beat someone senseless.
Don’t scare her, Nick. Calm down.
She pulls away from me and turns towards the bar. “My Uncle Frank can take me home.”
“Let me take you home. I promise I don’t bite. Frank still has to close down the bar and that’s at least two more hours. You’re probably tired. I can take you.” I must sound like I’m begging or desperate, but when fate drops your dreams in your hands, you hold onto it tightly.
She relents with a worried look on her face, gesturing with a wide flourish for me to lead the way. I turn toward my truck, glancing back at her face again, but it’s clear of emotion. She must be nervous, but isn’t willing to show it. My anger is off the charts at this asshole for hurting her, but I’ll protect her from now on. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine. Has been for a long time.
I guide her to my truck and open the passenger door for her, showing her how a real man should treat her. I point out the sideboards for her to step on, and give her a gentle nudge up into the cab. My hand touches her back and another arc of electricity shocks us both. “It seems that I’m shocking tonight. Sorry.”
She drops her head down to her chest, but before her curtain of hair falls blocking my view I see her smile light up her face. God, to be the one who basks in that glory every day.
I climb up into the truck and twist on the ignition. The radio blares out at us, and I quickly reach over to lower the volume. “Sorry. There must have been a great song on when I arrived.”
“You’re apologizing a lot tonight. Is that a habit?” She turns her face to me, waiting. Her blue eyes shine bright in the fading dome light.
“No, I don’t. I usually play the role of boss and receive the apologies. This is new for me tonight.” I switch on the headlights and start to back up.
“Nick, you have something stuck under your wiper blade.”
I just stop. My whole world stops, and I’m trudging through that mud again. It’s the first time my name has passed through her lips, and I just need to take a moment. I want to ask her to say it again, but she’ll think I’m crazy. It wasn’t breathy and weak, but strong. She’s a brave and fierce one—feisty is more like it. Damn, I want to slide her over into my arms and kiss her until she breathes my name in lust. I want to hear it on her lips then, too.
“Yeah, I saw it. Someone likes to leave notes for me every time I visit the Beer & Brood.” I idle the truck in neutral and open my door to grab the index card. I stuff it face down into the console and start to leave the parking lot. “Where do you live?” I ask, breaking the silence between us.
I hear her sigh and then take in a deep breath before she says, “I live on Adams Circle. Do you know where that is?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. I’ve been working up there for the past few days on a job.”
“Working? What do you do, boss man?”
“I own Bailey’s Landscaping.”
“Hmmm, that’s funny.”
I look towards her to see why it’s funny, but her face is completely blank. “Why is that funny? It doesn’t look like you’re laughing. What’s the joke?”
“Oh, it’s not ha-ha funny, like a joke. It’s funny, as in interesting, that we both work with nature. I just didn’t picture you doing that, that’s all.”
“What do you do, then? No, let me guess. You’re an artist.” She shakes her head. “No? You work with Parks and Rec?” She shakes her head no again, but harder this time, laughing at my bad guesses. “No? Okay, I give up. What does Jenna do—for her day job, that is, because we know she sings at night?”
“I work in my parent’s floral shop. Have you heard of Moore Flowers? That would be us.”
My smile fades. “I know it well. You supplied the flowers for my Mother’s funeral.”
She doesn’t respond at all, thank God. I hate when people apologize for something like death. Like they had something to do with it.
I glance in her direction and decide that I have to ease the tension and break the silence. “Do you live in a house on Adams Circle, or in the apartment complex?”
“Neither, actually,” she says. “I live in the townhouse at the very end of the street. I’m renting it from my Uncle.”
As I pull into her drive, I hear her gasp.
“What the hell?” she says, opening her door and jumping out.
“What’s wrong?” I jump out of my side and watch her run toward her front door. It looks shut, but as I look at it more closely I see it’s been kicked in and is leaning on its hinges. The wood is splintered and I can tell it won’t latch properly. Someone has thrown her decorative door wreath onto the front porch and stomped on it.
She bounds up the stairs and reaches for the knob.
I’m up the stairs right behind her, pulling her back. “You can’t go in there! It’s not safe. Someone could still be in there, or you might destroy evidence. We have to call the police.”
She pulls out her phone and dials 911.
We wait for the police to show up, and after an hour of explaining the events of her night with her car and now her apartment, we’ve both lost our patience and are dead tired. Considering it’s almost 3 a.m., and no one was murdered, the police call it a night for everyone on scene. One of the officers helps secure her front door and puts police tape over it. The lead officer tells Jenna that their investigators and evidence crew will come tomorrow to dust for prints and take pictures. They advise that she’ll need to be there to answer any questions, but she’s not to enter the property or touch anything, including her car, until they arrive. She provides her cell number, and they leave.
“Do you have somewhere that you want me to take you tonight?” I ask.
“Not really. I don’t want to wake my parents and cause them more worry than necessary. Could you just drop me off at a hotel over in Brentwood?”
“Why don’t you just come home with me?”
She looks at me with her eyebrows lifted.
Quickly, my words tumbling over each other, I try to explain why it makes perfect sense. “I live a short drive away. I have a spare bedroom, with a locked door. I have a brute of a dog that will protect you. I know you don’t know me well, but I feel really bad this is happening, like I’m responsible in some way. He warned me last night to stay away from you.”
“He doesn’t own me, or have the right to warn you away like I’m property,” she says angrily. “You didn’t do this. This is all on him.” I hear the pissed-off wrath in her voice, but I can also practically hear the wheels turning in that beautiful head of hers. “Your spare bedroom has a locked door, huh? The dog will protect me? You promise?”
I nod in the affirmative, and lift the first two fingers on my right hand into the air. “Scouts’ honor.”
“Well, I can’t get a better promise than that,” she says, smiling. “Sure. Why not?”
I help her get back up into my truck, and pull out of her drive. Within five minutes, I pull into my drive, put the engine in park, and turn off the ignition.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” she says, giving me the mischievous grin I’ve come to know from her stage performance. “We ‘re practically neighbors.”
I flash her a big smile, because she makes me feel like I’m winning tonight. A recent familiar phrase comes to mind: To the victor goes the spoils.
Now that card makes sense.
That reminds me, and I grab the n
ew note card from the console, but before I can put it in my pocket, she raises her eyebrows and asks me what it says. Using the dome light to read, I flip it over and read aloud: I like your mystery.
She looks up at me with bright eyes and a curious smile.
I shrug my shoulders and give her my best photogenic smile—left dimple and all. “I’m not good at puzzles. I have to let them stew for a while in my brain. It will all make sense one day.”
Her smile falls, and she seems sad.
“I honestly don’t know who puts them on my windshield. I know they watch me, because the messages are relevant, but I don’t always get their meaning right away.”
This seems to pacify her curiosity, because she hops down from the cab and moves toward my front door.
Chapter 6
Nick
I push the door open slowly, trying to figure out where Zeus is, hoping to prevent him from jumping on Jenna. We enter the main foyer, but she finds Zeus first and belts out a squeal like a child at the county fair. Dropping to her knees, she gives him the first round of wild, maniacal petting to his head, pushing his mane back.
At least it keeps him from jumping on her, so I guess crisis avoided.
Zeus walks to the couch and sits, waiting for her to sit down. “That’s his way of saying ‘Now it’s time for the serious petting to commence,’” I tell her. She sits on the lounging edge of the sectional in front of him and starts petting his head and back, while also rubbing his nose. I watch her drag her hands up and down his front legs and across his back several times. I don’t think she’s missed one inch of him.
God, what I wouldn’t do to be him at this moment. I’ve never been jealous of my own dog before, but damn. Zeus gets so comfortable within a few minutes that he practically falls over on her lap.
“He’s adorable and cuddly like a big ’ol bear,” she says to me, as I flop down on the other side of the couch and reach to turn the television on. “He looks like a lion though.”
