Yet, the moment he sees that familiar pale-gold face and that dark beauty spot at the left corner of a lush, pink mouth Sterling remembers why none of those vices can eradicate one creature from his soul. The Tweet is the most damning part. More damning than an image of him—young and in love—with a beautiful brunette whose laugh could light the sun.
@LyricGraceIsSinging: I always wondered y she cries when u sing, @SterlingSavageReal r u my dad?
“I have to go.” Sterling hears himself saying, through the roar of sound that is the commotion of this sudden landslide.
He’s standing before Jake by the time he starts going into a full-blown panic.
“Get the car,” Jake yells at someone.
Seconds later, Jake begins threatening Ron’s people with a breach of contract, or something. Sterling can’t concentrate on what’s happening. The room around him is spinning and he feels faint.
Sins never stay silent. Or so his mean daddy always said.
2
Tallulah
“Dad.” Judson yells from the front room—after the screen door bangs closed behind him—waking Tallulah up far sooner than she’d intended. When she finally got home from the bar, at three this morning, she hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Something in the world felt wrong and anxiety kept her awake with festering doubts.
Jorie worked her ass hard, and she’s due for another ass-kicking in the evening if she doesn’t get decent rest. A rest that won’t happen if her stupid brother doesn’t get the hell out of here.
Judson shouts for Dad again, unmindful of her plight. Tallulah rolls out of bed, stomping out of her childhood bedroom with purpose.
He’s in the living room—looking too large for the small space with his six foot some-odd height and wide frame—when Tallulah marches up to him.
“Shut up, Jud,” she hisses. “Dad got called in to the station again.”
“Why?” Jud frowns. “Everythin’ all right with Lyric?”
“Lyric isn’t you and Tanner, Judson,” Tallulah replies with a dangerous edge. Irritable already from her lack of sleep, and becoming more aggravated when her brother starts implying that her son is some kind of troublemaker.
“No, but he’s a Grace and we’re all a lil bit rowdy. Didn’t know if he’d gotten into another scrap with those boys on the football team.” Tallulah tries not to think about that ordeal and Jud is always bringing it up when he catches even a small whiff of trouble.
“Why’re you here, Jud?” She asks, exhausted and ready for him to leave so she can fall back into her old, lumpy bed.
“There’s a lot of people cloggin’ up the streets, tons of people with cameras.” Frowning, Tallulah glances towards the closed blinds. Jud goes to open them without a word. Nothing unusual is happening at the crossroads of 8th and Saint Charles Street, so she casts a glare Judson’s way.
“Well, if you were on Main you’d have seen what I mean.” He shrugs, unapologetic for having woken her up early.
“Jud, Merle hasn’t always got the answers. And if he’s got ‘em you could call him on his cellphone instead of wakin’ me up.”
Jud’s deep blue gaze turns critical as it washes over her, and with a frown he says. “You still workin’ at that shit-hole Jorie runs?” He knows she is—he comes in to bother her at least once a week. Lamenting about how she’s going to get herself hurt working with drunkards.
“Don’t start on that now,” she warns. “It’s good money.”
Jud looks like he wants to say a million more things—ever the bossy oldest brother—but the words stop when their father comes in through the door.
Merle Grace is a large man—tall like all of his children and muscle thick like his sons. He’s still a fit man at sixty-five with a head full of thick salt and pepper hair, and a farmers tan that is permanently ingrained into his skin. On Merle’s usually happy face is a grim frown, which causes both Tallulah and her brother to ask him what is wrong.
“Make us a glass of tea, Lula.” Merle says to her—flopping down into his well-worn recliner. “I’m thirsty and I’ve been talkin’ for too long.”
“Daddy?” She tries, hoping to get an answer before she leaves the room. Knowing damn well he’ll try to tell her brother in whispers while she’s gone.
“Get me some tea, Lula and we’ll talk after.”
Thirty-years-old and still at the mercy of her father’s whims, just the thought makes Tallulah stomp out of the room. The kitchen fan hums with a loud, buzzing noise—one Tallulah recalls as a comfort in most moments that are not this one. She cannot hear her father over the sound, but she can tell he’s speaking. Merle’s deep voice resonates through the house, a low rumble that she finds soothing yet irritating because she cannot discern the words his sounds create.
“Damnit.” She mutters to herself, while pulling open the door of the icebox. The glass tea pitcher sweats, still not as cold as the rest of the space around it and she doesn’t like the feel of wet as she cradles the curve of the pitcher while lifting it from the glass shelf.
She carries the three glasses of iced sweet tea on the small tray they keep in the kitchen. They rattle as she navigates her way across the old, slightly warped wooden floors. “Tea,” she says as she comes into the room. Tallulah notices the tense expressions on both her father’s and brother’s faces. Setting her tray onto the coffee table she frowns—glancing between them. “What’s that look for?”
They remain silent, and her eyes narrow. "What’re you hidin’?” Still they don’t say anything causing Tallulah to stomp. “Does this have something to do with why they called you down to the station?” Never a good thing when the sheriff gets it into his head that there’s something going on with the Grace family.
Her dad rubs a hand over his five-o’clock shadow—the one that’s always growing in by noon—and she can hear the sound of the short whiskers catching over his dry, calloused palms. “Lula Girl, there’s a mess that’s come to town.” Her first instinct is to run, but something in the way her father rumbles keeps her from doing that. “Nothing like that—” she nearly collapses in relief, until he adds the word but.
What follows that word is never anything good, and this time is no exception.
“Sterling’s coming back to town.”
On instinct her eyes go to the window, catching sight of the white house that’s identical to their own. The one that rests across St. Charles Street and like a mirror to their own home it is one trapped in time.
“Why?” She asks—knowing full well Sterling wouldn’t come back to this side of the country without a good reason.
Tallulah well remembers the night Sterling’s father cast him out. One of those eternal nightmares she’s not sure she will ever escape.
Her dad’s whispered confirmation causes her knees to buckle beneath her. Down to the rug she stumbles, gripping her chest as her son’s name echoes in her ears.
“Lyric grabbed his attention. Sheriff had me down at the station to warn me about the nosy people passin’ through. He promises to have them run off in a few days, but until then keep Lyric low.”
Tallulah hears him, but doesn’t take what he’s saying in. She’s stuck in a horror show, drowning in her own fears.
No, no, please no. She begs silently. Please don’t let him come back home.
3
Lyric
“Hey boy.”
Glancing up from where he was looking down at his beat-up Converse, Lyric turns his head. Peering through his too long, dark fringe at a stranger in a black van. He’s got a big, greedy smile on his thin face—this strange man—and his accent is odd. Different from these parts.
Different is something to be wary of, or so his family has always warned.
“Sorry, Mister, I don’t do that sort of shit.” Lyric tells him with a stern frown. A shiver of disgust moves through Lyric as he remembers his mother’s terror-fueled sermons over strange men trying to lure him into vans.
“No, no,” the man laughs.
“I’m not looking for anything shady, just wanted to talk to you.”
Furrowing his brow, Lyric asks, “Why? You don’t know me and you probably don’t need to, sir.”
“You’re the most famous name of today, Lyric Grace. Why you’re all over the internet, my boy.” He’s overly familiar and that makes Lyric’s danger senses kick into gear. Hairs on the nape of his neck rise as the creature in his soul howls prepare to fight.
From behind him a warm, familiar presence appears—making Lyric sag in relief when he catches the familiar cologne of his Uncle Tanner.
“He’s not your boy, son—so why don’t you get on outta here?” Tanner growls in his usual way. Rougher than Uncle Jud and Pawpaw.
“I just wanted to ask-” the stranger tries, but Tanner cuts him off with another angry snarl.
“Your business with this boy is done, now get on outta here before I get tired of tellin’ ya with my mouth.” A local wouldn’t have gotten a second warning, and Lyric is surprised his uncle didn’t give in to his constant desire for a fight.
Tanner’s face is hard with rage. Lyric looks up at him, spotting a vein pulsing in the side of Tanner’s thick, deeply tanned neck. It takes a certain kind of fool to not find Tanner or Judson Grace scary. The stranger—being less of a fool than Lyric originally thought—hurries away.
“Miss Tallulah would say you ain’t that scary.” Lyric teases—to try and un-wrinkle his uncle’s furrowed brow.
Piercing blue eyes narrow down at him and Lyric shrinks away on instinct. “We’re goin’ home,” Tanner says with the sort of voice that makes Lyric too afraid to argue.
“Yessir,” he replies as he falls in-step with his uncle. Following him to his old Ford pick-up.
They make the drive home in a tense quiet. Only the wind rushing in from the rolled down windows and the noises of other people living their lives as they speed past filter through the silence.
The overgrown trees when they turn on St. Charles Street fill Lyric with both relief and dread. Warring emotions that double when they pull into the large driveway of their home. Lyric sees Uncle Jud’s Bronco parked there next to his grandpa’s truck and his mom’s old Jeep. Panic swells in him when Lyric thinks about the Tweet he sent—late the night before last—but he shoves the guilt deep. There’s no way any of his family could know about that, right?
Tanner hops out of the driver seat, wasting no time in going inside. Lyric thinks about lingering in the truck—until someone tells him to go in—but that plan is shot when Tanner turns. Jerking his head in an obvious command for Lyric to follow him inside.
Damnit. Lyric thinks, but exits the truck obediently.
Inside the house is cooler than the muggy spring afternoon, but not by much since his grandpa hates paying higher electric bills. The fans his mom keeps running help the heat ebb, but the warm Louisiana spring isn’t what scorches Lyric in this home. It’s his family’s ire—so obvious in the way it radiates around them.
Yet, not a single one of them says anything as to why they are so upset. His mom brings him a glass of tea and asks him about his day. She has deep, sleepless bruises beneath her her big gray-green eyes, yet acts peppy as ever.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Fryin’ up fish and fries and hushpuppies. Cole-slaw’s in the icebox and I got a potato salad in there, too.” She smiles, but her expression is brittle.
“You working tonight, Mama?” he asks, just to keep up the illusion that he’s unaffected by their strange behaviors.
“I am,” she replies with another wan expression. Uncle Jud snorts as if that answer displeases him. Tallulah ignores Judson, going about her usual routine as if nothing is amiss when clearly everything is wrong. Lyric might be fourteen, but he’s not an idiot and he’s not a kid. He can tell something is off here. Grandpa has the TV off—which is a sure sign that it’s the end of times.
Lyric’s uncles aren’t arguing. Another omen that predicts the end of days. Usually, Tanner and Judson are at each other’s throats like a couple of starved dogs in a fighting ring. Their explosive arguments being the reason Merle made Judson leave about a year ago. You’re the responsible one, I gotta keep Tanner on a tight leash. Lyric can still remember that conversation, and he holds on to the reminder as he casts a suspicious glance around the room.
He wants to demand answers of all these adults.
However, the situation feels like thinly spun glass and Lyric is afraid to touch it with a clumsy hand. So he remains silent, waiting for them to tell him what’s wrong.
His phone goes off with a notification, giving a much needed distraction. Layla—the only girl who’s ever bothered to speak to him past kindergarten—texts him. On his brightly lit lock screen all the message says is OMG!!!!!! Lyric ignores her, too tired to bother with Layla and her ridiculousness. Then he gets another notification from Brent—one of the idiot jocks he was forced to do a paper with at the beginning of the year. That one—when he looks at the message—says Dude did u see what’s happening? He also doesn’t respond to that, because Lyric assumes Brent sent him that text by mistake.
Suddenly, his phone dings and keeps dinging—an unending barrage of text messages. Numbers Lyric doesn’t recognize, people he hasn’t talked to in months or years also, start to blow up his phone.
“You’re popular tonight.” Uncle Jud says, causing the tension of the room to rise. Everyone looks as if they are chewing glass and Lyric is about to demand answers when his mom loudly declares that dinner is ready. Clapping for their attention while she wears another of those false smiles. His uncles and grandpa follow her into their dining room. Lyric tells them he’s going to wash up first, rushing to the bathroom in the front hallway before anyone can stop him.
Once the door closes, he finally reads some of the recent messages. Most of them say similar things—OMG! Reigning supreme among them. Ur a liar coming in second. Lyric frowns, wondering what this is all about until he gets another text from Brent. This one reads: Bro, ur trending on Twitter. He’s too spooked about the words to feel irritable about some asshole calling him bro.
Lyric opens his app. Where he finds that he has more notifications from today than he’s had in the history of his account being active. Again the hairs on his nape rise as his soul grows restless with the need to run or fight.
A lot of the messages are asking about the Tweet he sent to Sterling Savage. His possible dad. Or maybe Sterling’s just a guy he yelled at at three in the morning because Lyric was pissed off about the box he found in the attic. The one full of memories his mom never talks about. Ones she’s buried like a regretful sin—a time capsule that was meant to be forgotten.
Most of the messages say things like: Get real, he’s not your dad or Show us your mom now, bet she’s hot af. He starts deleting the DMs while freaking out a little on the inside.
He’s through a hundred or more when he sees one from @SterlingSavageReal. His heart begins pounding in his chest.
When he opens it, Lyric sees a simple message: Tell her I’m coming home.
His heart rate is still high as Lyric walks out of the bathroom, walking with jelly legs in the direction of the dining room. He’s on a high from the excitement of knowing Sterling Savage is on his way to this nowhere town—to see Lyric. He’s about to shout for his mom, but Lyric hears her desperate voice angrily whisper.
“He’s my son, I don’t have to tell him anything about that man.” Tallulah sounds as if it guts her to say those words. From where he’s stopped, Lyric can taste the salt of her tears and he closes his eyes. The excitement washing out of him. A joy that was never meant to have wings.
“Tallulah,” Lyric’s grandpa says with the most patient tone he can manage. “We can’t stop him now, you know that. You know how he is. Lyric’s apple didn’t fall far from that mess of a tree.”
“Hush, don’t you dare say that,” his mom hisses. Desperation dripping off her every word. “Now, be quiet. He’ll be comin’ back soon.”
Bitterly, Lyric
remembers that this is a family full of secrets. Doesn’t matter how much they love you, love will never make them honest.
“Everything okay?” His mom asks with a worried grin and Lyric decides that if she can lie to him then he can lie to her.
“Yeah, just Brent wanting help with his English essay.”
Something hurts in his soul from the way she easily accepts the first lie he tells her.
4
Merle
“Dad,” Tanner begins with a cautious tone. “You want a beer?”
He wants a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, but Merle doesn’t say that. Merle doesn’t say much of anything as he sits out on the porch—in the fading light of day—watching the house across the street with a frown.
Tanner, seemingly reading his inner turmoil, says. “I can go over there if you don’t want to, Dad.”
His reply follows a derisive snort. “Son, I’ll be a dead man before I let you face my battles for me.”
“Doesn’t have to be a battle,” Tanner says with a tone that reeks of a lecture. As if he knows something more about dealing with Children of Michael than his old man.
Merle’s having none of that. “Get inside, son, I might be old but I’ll still whoop that ass if you cross me.”
“Yessir,” Tanner replies with an obvious grin in his tone.
“And tell Jud to leave your sister alone while she’s at work, Tanner. She doesn’t need him down there causing a fuss.” Judson has been all over that damned bar since that idiot, Ford, decided he could cop a feel on Tallulah Rose. Though Miss Jorie took care of that situation damn quick.
The Grace of a Savage Page 2
