“No.”
“Are you really going to leave me wondering?”
“This time, yeah, I am.”
“All right,” he says as we take the stairs to the front door. Hand on the knob, he turns to me. “Even when you move out, you know I’ll always—”
“I know, Dad,” I clip out in a biting tone that he doesn’t deserve.
He glances over at me, reading the tension in my posture. “Come on, you aren’t sleeping anytime soon.” He turns abruptly away from the door, down the staircase, walks around the house, and I follow him down the cobblestone path. What he’s offering me comes a shitty second to what I would rather be doing right now.
At this point, I’d settle for watching her watch the world around us or watching her watch me.
Dad unlocks the detached studio with the pushbutton code and turns on the lights before we both step in. Every inch of his dream studio is state-of-the-art, a musician’s multimillion-dollar dream. Within minutes of entering, Dad and I keep a steady beat on our drum kits along with the accompanying guitar and bass. It’s a ritual we started when I was old enough to start playing and remains an impromptu appointment we keep every time I get restless, or my anger starts to get the best of me.
Frustrated silence is a state I inherited from him, and so he’s always known just how to handle me when I get this way. Taking my aggression out on the skins of my drums, I build up a sweat, which glides down my back as unrest continues to surge through me, no matter how hard I play.
Nothing is fucking working tonight.
Fighting the urge to get back into my truck, I glance over at Dad as questions begin to flit through my mind. Did my mother really love another man to the point she almost married him? Does Dad even know how close he was to losing her? Or is he the reason things went the other way?
Did he fight another man for her? The man in question being the father of the woman I’m currently fixating on.
Even if I have no issue posing these questions to Dad, he wouldn’t keep them to himself. Not something this serious in nature, or maybe he would. God knows Dad and I have purposefully told our fair share of white lies to keep Mom’s nerves from fraying to a dangerous point. Dad and I have a firm understanding to keep Mom out of harm’s way due to a condition she’s battled most of her life, but I can’t risk it.
It’s Natalie’s desperation to keep her discovery between us and only us that keeps me silent. Beating the instrument into my submission, I try to pinpoint the attraction and rid myself of the incessant need crawling inside of me to go back.
The fucked-up part?
Everything about her seems to be what draws me closer, even the denial she seems comfortable swimming in, which irritates the shit out of me. She might feel safe there, but she felt safe with me outside of that, too—her raw vulnerability clear evidence. But only with me, and she admitted as much today at the parlor. It’s as if she saved it for me, bared herself completely, and fuck if I don’t want every part she’s offered up.
Fatigue sets in, my body covered in a sheen of sweat as I recall the minutes and hours before. Her pale red locks dancing along with the breeze in the truck just before her indigo eyes meet mine. The curve along her top lip, her fucking perfect mouth, and how it wraps around my name, especially when she’s breathless.
I could live a hundred more years of life and will never forget the way she looked at me while I sang for her in the hotel. That will go untouched in memory, as will our kiss tonight.
I’m still unsure who initiated it, but what I do know is that I’ve never had to question who struck first before.
I’ve never lost myself in my senses like I did then.
As ridiculous as it may be, in a matter of days, I’ve become utterly and completely fucking bewitched by Natalie Butler.
Raw ache continues to build as I mentally tick through a small list of dialable, no-strings distractions that could come close to satiating me. A warm body to lose myself in that may help this gnawing that won’t let up.
Within seconds the answer is clear, and she’s in room 212 at The Edgewater Hotel. “Fuck!”
Dad’s head snaps up at my outburst, his brows drawing tight as he stills his hands. It’s then I realize I’ve stopped playing and failed to lose myself in the music, something I’ve rarely if ever, fucking done.
When Dad moves to click the track off, I jerk my head to stop him. Knowing I’m worrying him but unable to help myself, I lay my sticks to rest on the snare and walk out of his studio without explanation.