by Cora Carmack
“You ready?” Rook thumps a hand against my back, and I shrug in reply. He sighs. “I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. I don’t know shit about getting my heart broken. But I do get what it’s like to feel like all the things that are supposed to be good have rotted around you.”
Fuck. Rook never talks about his family. If he’s bringing that up, I really need to pull my head out of my ass. “I’ll survive,” I tell him, even though it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way. I don’t know the timeline on a broken heart, and mine is well past broken. It’s been cracked and pummeled and ground down into dust, and all I’ve got left is the empty hollow where it used to be.
“Bridge and Owen ready?” I ask.
“Yeah. Bridge is decked out like some kind of erotic cat woman.” I laugh. Great. “Owen is in a bow tie.”
“So, relatively normal?”
“Exactly. It’s not too busy yet. The weather is keeping people from coming out, I think.”
Thunderstorms have been moving through the city for most of the day, and as a result the streets are wet and the sky has been dark since mid-afternoon. Maybe it will let up, and some more people will decide to go out for the night. Or maybe it won’t. I’m having trouble caring, even though I know this gig is a big deal for us.
“You feel okay with the set?” Rook asks.
Normally, I would have done that. But Rook said I wasn’t to be trusted with picking music that won’t make people want to dive headfirst off a building. So I let him take it this time. “Yeah, I looked through it last night. We should be good.”
“Well, I added a few extras on there to be safe. So, if you get to one, and there’s something you want to skip, just let us know.”
“Got it.”
“That song you sent me last night …”
“What about it?
“We could give it a try.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I thought depressing stuff was off limits.”
“The way you imagined it, I’m sure it was a downer. But there’s some grit to it. We could rough it up a bit. Get a little angry. Do it a little like that song we wrote in high school. What was that poetic title we gave it? Oh yeah, Fuck It All.”
I laugh. “That song was awful.”
“Hey speak for yourself. The words sucked, yeah.” I punch him in the arm. “But the music wasn’t bad. It could work.”
When I continue to stare at him skeptically, he sings a couple lines. His voice is gruffer than mine, deeper too.
“I don’t know how to win this war I’m losing. Swinging at air, babe, but I come back bruising.”
He’s right. It sounds more like a pissed off rock anthem when he sings it.
“I don’t know.”
He holds up his hands. “No pressure. I just thought if the place doesn’t get too busy, we might have some freedom to play a little bit. And it wouldn’t hurt you to get a little angry.”
I could admit to myself that I’m afraid to let it get that far. If I dive into the anger, I’m not sure I’ll be able to break the surface again.
“I don’t know,” I say again.
“Well, if you want to try it, I think I can follow you.”
Ten minutes later, we make our way up to the stage that’s been set up in a corner upstairs. There are maybe a dozen people here, probably a few more downstairs that will hopefully come up when we start to play.
“Just like old days,” Owen says as he picks up his bass guitar.
“What?” Rook asks.
“Playing to an empty room.”
“It’s not empty,” Bridget cuts in. “There’s a cute bartender at the back.”
Rook laughs. “Great. We get to play for the guy who gets paid to be here.”
“We’re getting paid too,” she points out.
“Not if we don’t start playing soon,” I say.
I don’t bother with introductions, not to a practically non-existent crowd, most of whom are standing or sitting in small groups, talking or drinking or eating. I look down at the set list. Rook has us starting right off the bat with a fast song. I decide we probably need to ease people into it. So, I pick a different song to start.
“Let’s start with number twelve,” I say. It’s a less well-known song by a Swedish singer. Still upbeat, but people will be able to keep talking over us if they want.
We jump into the music, and I block out the empty spaces in the room. I just let myself enjoy the feel of a guitar in my hands, the pressure of the strings against my callused fingers, the smooth pick in my hand. For a little while, I put off my issues and worries. I shed them like dirty clothes, and put on a different costume for the night. I let myself pretend that I’m the old Wilder, the one before Dad went to prison and I came back home. The Wilder before Kalli.
It feels like a different life. A simpler one. A little two-dimensional, like I’d been living a flat life and didn’t even realize it. But flat feels good now. It’s easy. I let someone else’s lyrics fill up the empty space, and for a while it’s almost like being whole again.
Eventually, I notice that the crowd has grown. People are filling the floor in front of us, some even dancing. So, I skip to a few songs on the list with a better beat, and I watch the people move in front of me. There are probably people out there who’ve been through this same thing. And they’ve gotten past it. They’re dancing again. It’s not like a broken heart is a new invention.
Feeling reckless, I look back at Rook between songs, and say, “Let’s do the new one.”
He smiles. “Hell yeah.”
He motions Bridget and Owen closer to explain, while I talk to the crowd.
“How’s everyone doing tonight?”
A cheer goes up in response.
“Thanks for coming out. I see a couple familiar faces out there. We appreciate it. We’ve mostly got covers for you tonight with a few of our songs sprinkled in between. But there’s this new one I just wrote, and it’s probably a really dumb idea to do this without any practice, but well … I’ve done stupider things.” I glance back at Rook and the others, and they give me a thumbs up. Rook and Owen have switched places, and they smile when I raise my eyebrows. Hopefully we can pull this off. “So, this song is called, well, damn … I don’t even know what it’s called. Probably Just So Know You. Or something. I’ll let you guys decide.”
I start off with my guitar, playing the old song that Rook mentioned. It takes me a second to get into it, but then muscle memory kicks in and the music comes back to me. Rook joins in on bass, and he grins at me, and I know we’re both thinking of that truly terrible song we wrote back in high school. Owen keeps up a basic rhythm behind me.
“Here goes nothing,” I say to the crowd.
It’s always push and pull with you, push and pull
And it’s hard, baby, not to feel like I’m the fool
I’m fighting battles in a war I don’t understand
I’m losing speed, honey, here’s where I crash land
I just want to know you, honey. Let me know you.
There’s not a thing I wouldn’t go through.
So far so good. I stick with the melody I remember, throwing in a few improvisations here and there. Rook really gets into the bass, and Owen throws in a flourish on the drums.
I shake myself. Scared I’ll break myself
But I can’t shake you. I don’t want to.
I’m caught up, turned around
Inside out, and upside down
Just to know you, honey. All to know you.
I’ll spin a little faster. Dive a little deeper.
Crash a little harder, anything to keep her
Her taste is my drug, and her lips are my dealer.
It’s coming easy now, so I let myself relax a bit and go with the flow. I look out at the audience, and they’re definitely with us. At the back of the room, right in my line of sight is girl who looks like Kalli, so much so that it knocks the words right out of my mouth, and I miss my cue. Even my fing
ers forget how to work for a moment. My eyes shoot to Rook, and he nods, sticking with me. We repeat a few chords, circling back around, and when I glance back at the crowd, the girl who caught my eye is gone.
She was probably never there to begin with.
I force myself to smile. “Sorry about that. Like I said this one is really new. I mentioned this was a stupid idea, right?”
A bunch of the crowd laughs, and a few cheer their encouragements, so after one last sweep of the room with my eyes, I jump back in.
I shake myself. Scared I’ll break myself
But I can’t shake you. I don’t want to.
I’m caught up, turned around
Inside out, and upside down
Just to know you, honey. Let me know you.
I don’t know how to win this war I’m losing
I’m swinging at air, babe, and come back bruising
I’m outnumbered in a fight against none
Planting my feet just to watch you run
I’m caught up, turned around
Inside out, and upside down
You’re the last thing I see as I hit the ground
Oh, I know you, honey. Too late to show you.
We end the song to cheers, and I sneak a glance at my watch. Sure enough, we’re due for our first break, and I gladly put up my guitar and hop down off the stage.
Then I see her again, and this time I know I’m not going crazy. She’s heading for the stairs, and she flicks her head around to look at me, her hair spinning with her. She freezes when our eyes lock, and once again starts to run.
Fuck it. She’s not doing this to me again. Once and for all, I’m going to get my answers or I’m going to put this to an end for good.
We’re not playing by her rules anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kalli
I thought I could do it.
Just a little push. I wouldn’t even have to go as far as last time. If I just opened myself up and poured a little energy out on the crowd, I felt confident that the watcher would find me. He’d been stern in his last warning. Any reckless behavior, anything that put the secret of our existence at risk, and he would come for me.
And considering I didn’t want him to come with a fury on his heels, just a small amount of energy is all it would be.
But I couldn’t get myself to do it. I couldn’t even get myself to go inside that club again. So instead, I go for a place down the street where I hear music streaming out of the door.
And fate has a cruel sense of humor because when I follow the strains of music up the stairs to the crowd, it’s Wilder on the microphone. His hair is damp with sweat, curled and sticking to his forehead. His lips hover over the mic, and he sings with abandon, making it hard to look away.
When I’d seen him playing in that kitchen, I’d been so horrified, so distraught that I hadn’t really heard his voice. I’d taken in the words. I remember that his voice was low. But now … he’s stunning. His tone is warm and deep with just enough of a rasp that he sounds uniquely like himself. And I can’t do anything but watch the way his mouth forms the words, the feeling he infuses into each syllable.
How did I miss this? How could I have loved him so completely and yet not known this integral piece of him? If I didn’t know him, and I’d just walked into this bar by chance, he’s exactly the kind of artist I would have gravitated toward. The passion pours off of him in waves, and he could be really great. More than great even. He’s gorgeous, and he looks so incredibly good up under the lights. His movements are magnetic. He’s the kind of musician that people would fall in love with.
I fall in love all over again just watching him. Then his eyes meet mine, and he stumbles. His fingers strike the wrong chord, and he glances at Rook, who picks up the slack. I shift behind a group of people standing and chatting nearby, and I watch his face fall when he looks back and can’t find me.
He apologizes to the crowd, and reminds them that it’s a new song. I press a hand to my chest, feeling like all the air has been sucked out of lungs. This is his song. He wrote it. He must have mentioned it before I came upstairs, and now I run through my memory, picking out the lyrics that I remember, and I know with a sickening certainty that this song is about me.
I’m outnumbered in a fight against none
Planting my feet just to watch you run
I shuffle backward, and I run into someone waiting at the bar.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
My heart pounds in time with the song, and I know I should leave while he’s distracted. But I can’t bring myself to walk away from his voice. From this song that beckons me even as it heaps grief atop my head.
Somehow, despite how careful I was, I still let my ability affect him. Maybe the energy leaked out in an unguarded moment. During sex or while I was curled up sleeping against him. Maybe my control isn’t as good as I thought it was. Whatever happened, this is the result. His mother said he’d stopped playing after everything happened with his father, and it was only after me that he started again. As sorry as I am, as awful as it is to have envisioned a future with him only to feel it slip from my grasp … I can’t be sorry that it brought out this.
It’s perfect. He’s perfect.
He clearly needs music. So I stay and listen through the end of the song, and I fight my watery eyes as it ends.
Oh, I know you, honey. Too late to show you.
Too late. Too far. Too much.
There was never anything about my relationship with Wilder that fell within normal levels. It was always bigger than it was supposed to be. Scarier. Harder. Better.
The band starts removing their instruments for what I assume is a break, and I panic. What if they come this direction? Back to the bar to get a drink? I abandon all thoughts of catching the Watcher’s attention, and just try to escape Wilder’s notice again. I glance back once. Maybe to make sure he’s not watching. Or to get one more look. He’s looking in my direction, but I don’t know if he sees me. I don’t stop to find out, breaking for the stairs as fast as I can.
I make it downstairs, and through the long room, but there’s a back up of people at the door.
Damn. It’s pouring outside.
“Kalli!”
I don’t look back. I don’t have to. I would recognize his voice anywhere. But there are half a dozen people in my way, and two more have just stepped inside, trying to escape the rain.
“Excuse me,” I say, not bothering to wait before I start squeezing my way through people. “Excuse me, I need out.”
I hear my name again, and I give up being polite, pushing my way through. Someone calls me a bitch, but I couldn’t care less when my hand reaches the door enough to push it open. I throw myself outside, and the wind hits me so hard I stumble back. The rain pelts sideways, and the bouncer reaches out to tug the door closed. My clothes are soaked through to the skin in seconds. I try to wipe my eyes, but it’s raining too hard to make much of a difference. It runs over my eyelids and into my nose and mouth, and it’s like I’m drowning on land. So I put my head down, and start walking, trying to cover my face enough to see my feet. I don’t even know what direction I’m walking, if I’m getting closer to my car or farther away.
“Kalli! Damn it, come back inside.”
I don’t know whether I loathe or love his persistence.
Love. Where he is concerned, the answer will always be love. But that doesn’t mean I want to face him. Not yet. I just need to get the Watcher first. Maybe then. When I hear his feet slap through puddles in the pavement behind me, I start to run. My sandals slip on the rain-slicked concrete, and I can hear him gaining on me.
I can’t survive another run-in with him where all I can do is lie and avoid. I’m tired of hurting him. Tired of pushing him away. Tired of not knowing what to do. All I can do is run. If I can just reach the corner, I can turn north. The street slopes uphill, and maybe I’ll be able to run faster without the puddles of standing water. I look over my shoulder.
He’s so close. Soaked to the bone just like me.
I face forward again, just feet away from the corner, and I see something dark in my peripheral vision moments before it plows into my shoulder. It’s a man, jacket held above his head trying to stave off the rain. Maybe running toward one of the bars for cover or trying to find his vehicle. He reaches a hand out to me, but my feet can’t find purchase on the flooded ground, and I’m falling too fast. Too hard. I try to twist to catch myself with my hands, but before they even reach concrete, my head connects with something hard, and the storm, everything, disappears.
Pain comes back first. Sharp and bright. I can’t feel anything beyond the throbbing too-fullness of my head, like the rest of me doesn’t even exist. I groan, and my whole body jerks of it’s own accord.
“Shit.”
Something presses hard on my head, and I try to push it away, but my arms don’t listen.
“Hang on, Kalli. We’re on our way. You’re going to be okay.”
I force myself to drag open my heavy eyes, but everything is shadowy, indiscernible shapes.
“W-What?”
“You’re awake. Thank God. Oh thank God.”
Something pushes on my head again, and this time I manage to jerk back from the pain. My body lurches forward against something I hazily identify as a seatbelt. Then the pressure is back on my head.
“Don’t, baby. You’re bleeding. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“What? No.”
“I couldn’t wait for an ambulance. It was pouring outside and you were soaked. And there was all this watery blood around the lamppost where you hit your head. I was so goddamn scared. Tell me what you feel. Can you see all right? Can you move everything?”
My vision sharpens, revealing the inside of Wilder’s vehicle, and the dashboard clock that reads 11: 51 P.M.
“You can’t take me to the hospital.”
I can’t walk into the emergency room with a bleeding head wound only for it to heal right before their eyes.
