Chapter 15 Chase
Chase
“It won’t last, you know.”
The voice drags me away from the song. I fumble a chord, the sound dying out as Tag’s lumbering footsteps clomp across the deck. He hands me a beer.
My eyes dip to the sweating can like it might be laced with a pinch of cyanide.
A smirk flickers on his lips, the strap of his Martin fastened around his torso. “It’s just a beer. Hardly the riskiest thing I know you’re considering.”
Leaning back in the wicker chair, I take the Blue Moon and pop the tab, my gaze wary. “Did you want something? Can’t imagine I’m the most interesting part of your night.”
“Really?” He swivels the chair beside me, then takes a seat. “There’s a criminal sitting on my deck at two in the morning, playing songs on my guitar. Most people would find that awfully interesting.”
“Mm.”
“But the breakup won’t last,” he repeats. “If that’s why you’re here.”
I glance left, through the narrow window above the sink, watching as Annalise washes a dinner plate with a yellow sponge, her fingers drenched in suds, her face pinched in concentration.
A dark twist of hair is piled on her head, the pale-blond strands bobbing in front of her eyes as she scrubs at crusty streaks of marinara sauce.
She looks tired. Fucking exhausted.
My face must do something that gives me away because Tag lets out a knowing sigh.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters.
I jerk away from the window and bring the beer to my lips. “I’m here for the music.”
“A poetic way of saying you’re trying to get into my sister’s pants.”
A headache pulses between my eyes. I can’t tell if he sounds bitter, indifferent, or low-key supportive. Tag Adams is impossible to read.
Either way, this conversation is a slow, torturous death.
But that could be the cyanide.
Discarding my can, I prop the guitar back up and situate it across my lap, leaning forward, plucking at wayward strings. Tag watches for a minute. My form, my silence, my avoidance.
He spins his IPA between his hands while dishes and tumblers clatter from the kitchen. “For the record, I said it won’t last. Not that I didn’t want it to.”
My eyes lift. A few more chords breach the air, new and unfamiliar. Annie’s unfinished song, a work in progress. “I’m sensing you’re not a fan of Alex.”
“Fucking hate the prick.”
I nod slowly, deciding that this guy must be a real piece of work, given the fact that Tag is sharing a beer with me out on his deck—the criminal who nearly killed his only sibling.
My throat sticks as the words sink deeper.
There’s a buzzing under my skin. Hot, festering. A shiver races down my spine.
“Does he hurt her?” I ask, the question tumbling out almost like a prayer.
I’ve wondered. Worried.
I haven’t noticed any bruises, but those can be hidden. Makeup, baggy clothes, strategic placement. The notion seizes my heart, and the few sips of beer turn to cement in my stomach.
Tag sighs, propping his ankle on his opposite knee as he inches the guitar up his body. “Depends on how you define it. Does it get physical? I haven’t sensed that. But does he hurt her? Yeah. Definitely.”
My gut tightens, my gaze panning back to Annie through the window. She swipes a piece of hair out of her bloodshot eyes, scrubbing faster. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? Nothing. Annalise is a grown-ass woman, and I’m her meddling big brother.” He flicks a hand in the air. “Goes in one ear and out the other. Has for years.”
“But she walked.”
“She didn’t walk. She waffled.” He chugs down the rest of his beer, crushes the can, then tosses it on the table between us.
“Listen, as much as I wish someone could step into her life and make her see the light with midnight musings and napkin songs, it’s a losing battle. A dead end. That shit runs too deep.”
A frown creases.
My eyes draw back to the window as I mull over the past forty-eight hours since I answered her text message.
Annie: Hi. Sorry to bother you, but can you pick me up from the café? Please. Thank you.
Annie: So sorry.
Annie asked me to bring Toaster over tonight, and I did.
While he’s been thrilled by the new scenery, his real joy is Annie. He shadows her every step, settles at her feet, curls up against her hip. Soaks up every belly scratch and butt rub like they’re the highlights of his life.
Seems to be her highlight too.
She told me these midnight meetings were the only part of her day she looks forward to, and I’m not sure if that’s a shot of hope to my blood or the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
Tag watches me reflect, and the steady, potent look in his eyes makes me feel itchy and out of place. I clear my throat. “Is that supposed to be encouragement or a warning?”
“Take it how you want.”
I reach for my drink, needing the distraction, the liquid burn. “Told you,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “I’m here for the music.”
A dismissive huff. “Just because I don’t participate in your la-la-land adventures doesn’t mean I don’t see it. I know my sister. She likes you.”
The can pauses before it reaches my lips.
Those words shouldn’t affect me, shouldn’t have my hand curling around the aluminum like a vise around my heart. But they do. Because he’s not wrong.
There’s something unspoken thrumming between us with every look, every pen to page, every guilty glow that washes over her eyes when my voice pitches with falsetto or rumbles with vibrato. She’ll never admit it. I don’t think she even understands it.
But I feel it. This foreign thing taking root.
The knowing look on Tag’s face lingers, though he doesn’t press the matter. He just nods at the guitar in my lap and changes the subject. “New song?”
His question pulls me from my cluttered mind. “Uh, yeah. Something Annalise was working on.”
“Let me hear.”
“It’s not finished. She only wrote a verse, and I added a little to the pre-chorus, but—”
“Play it.”
Sighing, I glance at the window again as Annie presses forward on the sink, the water still running, her eyes trained on the steady stream. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“All right.” I straighten in the chair and press the pick to the strings.
The first chord hums a low, drawn-out note.
My fingers find their place, the melody unraveling, unpolished.
Annie’s words come first, the ones she scribbled onto a dirty napkin like they weren’t ripping her open.
I keep my voice controlled, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight, the muted heartache tangled in every syllable.
Through the window, she hasn’t budged. Just stands there, gaze locked on the running faucet, lost in something I wholly understand.
The pre-chorus fades into nothingness. A premature ending.
Tag doesn’t say anything for a while, just plucks a few strings as he tunes the neck. “It’s good,” he finally murmurs. “I question my sister’s instincts on the daily, but she’s not wrong about you. You can fucking sing.”
“Thanks.” The compliment hits different, coming from him. From this guy who has little to compliment me about.
“You’ve got that…thing.” He waves his hand around, cool and casual, like he recognizes something he doesn’t want to name. “Whatever you want to call it.”
Interesting.
I’m debating a response when the patio door slides open.
Toaster darts out first, while Annie slowly shuffles behind, her bare feet smacking against the wood planks. She pauses beside my chair, a big smile bringing light to her face. “Are you two finally bonding out here?”
Tag grumbles, jumping from the chair. “Suddenly have somewhere to be.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” she says as he sweeps past her like something set his ass on fire. “I don’t judge.”
“No, but you poke.” He jabs a finger into her upper arm, tipping her off-balance. “Like a damn woodpecker.”
“I can’t help it. I live to harass you.”
“Harass me tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” Tag disappears inside the house, waving a disparaging hand over his shoulder.
Annie turns back to me, the smile still there. Still beaming.
But her eyes…
So fucking tired.
“Surprised you’re still awake.” I place the guitar beside me. “It’s late.”
The beam dwindles, losing its fight. “I can’t sleep. Honestly, I haven’t slept alone in years. It’s an adjustment, I guess.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Managing. Coasting.”
I nod. “Better than standing still.”
“Yeah. For sure.”
She doesn’t believe that. I see the ambivalence painted all across her face. It’s then I know that Tag was right…
It won’t last.
Something in my chest tugs. Aches. But not for me.
For her.
Because I can see she’s not happy.
I fidget with my thumb ring, tracing the silver band in slow circles. “We can talk about it.”
“Nah.” She shrugs, scrunches her nose. “I’m only going to rain on your parade.”
“Good. Never liked parades, but I love the rain.”
Her eyes flare, just a fraction. Then she lets out a quiet laugh, drops her chin, curling her bare toes against the weathered pine. “How do you know when you’re making the right decision?” She lifts her gaze, hesitant, searching.
I take my time with this one. “When you know you deserve better than what you’re settling for.”
“You think I’m settling?”
“Only you know the answer to that. If you are, then you’ll know.”
Something in her deflates, but I can’t tell if it’s frustration or defeat.
She collapses into the chair Tag was sitting in and snatches the notebook she abandoned on the table an hour ago.
Hunching over, she drags her fingers through her hair, the swell of her breasts spilling out over the low-cut neckline of her tank top.
My eyes linger.
Perfect porcelain skin. Full, pillowy lips pressed together in thought. The delicate slope of her neck as she tilts her head, lost in whatever storm is brewing there.
A little mole freckles the skin below her ear, matching the one above her lip. I wonder what it would feel like, brushing my thumb over it. Just a graze.
Her fingers drum against the page, then smooth over the worn edges, absently tugging at a loose thread on the binding. I should look away, but I can’t stop staring at her, drinking in her soft curves like she’s the world’s most compelling prose.
Because right now, she looks like something I could ruin myself for.
When she sits back up, she hands me the notebook, her attention aimed at Toaster as he licks his paw from the middle of the deck. “I wrote some more. Part of the chorus.”
I exhale through my nose, head swimming like I’ve been drugged, and slow-blink at the offering. “Does it have a title?”
“Not yet. I’m terrible at titles.” Her face sours. “But I’m terrible at writing songs too.”
“Who told you that?”
“My inner voice. She’s kind of a dick.”
Reaching over, I take the notebook as she picks invisible lint off her tank top, shifting in place, a ball of nerves and insecurity.
My eyes dip to the page, scanning the chorus.
Do you hear the echoes?
Do they haunt you in the night?
All the words we left unspoken
Longing for the light
If I fall, will you still catch me?
If I run, will you let go?
Blah, blah, blah
I glance back up, a smile twitching. “My inner voice says it’s good. We can work with this.”
“It’s crap.” She scowls.
“It’s not crap.”
“Fine. It’s a heaping pile of shit left to rot under the sun.”
Jesus.
I scrub a hand over my face, then press forward on my forearms. “Do you honestly believe that? Because I don’t think you do.”
“If you’re implying I’m fishing for compliments, I’m not.” Annie curls into herself, wrapping her arms around her body as she rocks back and forth. Like she wants to disappear.
“Not compliments,” I say, gazing at her, wishing she’d look at me. “But you’re searching for something. For proof. For someone to believe in you.”
She stops rocking.
Slowly, her head turns, those big blue eyes locking on mine.
My smile fully forms. “I do.”
A swallow hooks in the curve of her throat. Pain, passion—it’s all the same. “You hardly know me.”
“Don’t I?” She’s said that before. Two days ago, in the front seat of my car.
But time is irrelevant. You can go a lifetime knowing someone without truly knowing them.
And then someone walks into your life and you see them clear as day.
Like they were always there. “I do know you,” I tell her, tapping the notebook in my lap.
She shakes her head, eyes glazing with trapped tears. “No. You know that I like ’60s music, write random poetry, think your dog is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and have enough relationship baggage to fill a cargo hold. That’s nothing. You don’t know—”
“Annie,” I cut her off, watching as her eyes grow twice their size. “I know the only thing that matters.”
She swallows again. Holds her breath and waits.
I hold up the notebook. The evidence. The undeniable truth. “I know what moves you.”
The air shifts between us, thickening in my lungs. In my mind, those words didn’t sound so heavy. But they poured out like a storm. Black rain and broken thunder.
There’s lightning in my veins and dew drops in her eyes.
A tear slips down her cheek. She swipes at it, frantically, wanting to erase whatever cracked open inside her.
I reach for my beer. But the moment I move to take a sip, my dog barrels toward me and leaps into my lap.
“Shit—” The beer jostles, tips, spilling nearly a full can of liquid wheat down the front of my T-shirt. Some of it lands on Toaster, and he shakes his fur, spraying the rest of it all over me.
Awesome.
I’m drenched in Blue Moon and regret.
Annie hops off the chair, still wiping at her face. “Oh, jeez. You’re soaked.”
“I’m fine.” Toaster plants himself on my thighs, tail wagging with delight. I pull the wet fabric off my chest, but it bounces back with a squelch. “I should head out anyway.”
“I’ll grab you a clean T-shirt. Tag has plenty.”
“No, it’s—”
But she’s already dashing away.
With a sigh, I flop back against the chair, running my hand through Toaster’s long, damp mane. He releases a contented sigh, pressing his chin to my knee.
If I fall, will you still catch me?
If I run, will you let go?
Annie escapes into the house.
And as I watch her retreat, I finish the chorus in my mind.
I’ve been lost inside this winter
Tracing footsteps in the snow