Chapter 7
HAND IN THE DARK
JOEY
Outside by breakkaway
“Caught them teal-handed.”
Gabriel Guzman’s familiar voice makes me pause.
His family used to own the thrift store on the same block as my dad’s record store.
Now he runs a youth entrepreneurship program downtown.
He stands with my dad near the patio bar, gesturing with his beer bottle for emphasis, with his arm around his beautiful wife Beck.
Dylan hovers nearby, color rising in his cheeks like a teenager caught sneaking out.
Dad leans against the bar, arms crossed over his broad chest. Even dressed up for the party, he wears his ancient Converse, the ones Mom never complains about because they’re part of him.
“This ought to be good.” Dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Paint fight?”
“Not just any paint fight.” Gabriel’s jaw tightens, though amusement flickers beneath his irritation. “Dylan and Morgan turned my volunteer event into a personal war zone. They were supposed to be painting a room at the youth center. Simple walls, one color, not a fucking Jackson Pollock.”
Dad barks out a laugh that carries across the yard.
The opening notes of “Wild Horses” drift from the speakers, and Dad’s eyes light up as Mom passes by.
He catches her wrist, pulling her against him with the kind of certainty that comes from a thousand such moments.
Her surprised laugh dissolves into something softer as he guides her onto the makeshift dance floor on our back patio.
“This is how you woo a woman, Dylan,” Dad calls over his shoulder, already swaying with Mom. “Not by throwing paint at her.”
Dylan’s face flushes deeper, and even as he tries to argue, he can’t deny my dad has moves.
I lean against the patio railing, watching my parents on the dance floor. Twenty-five years, and they still gaze at each other with this intensity I don’t know if I’ll ever understand. The way he watches her, like she hung every star in his sky. The way she melts against him, like coming home.
This is what I want. Someone whose hand will find mine in the dark without thinking. They’ve created magic here, not the fleeting kind, but the deep-rooted enchantment of dreams shared and promises kept.
That’s when I spot him.
Jesse stands near the pasture gate, Jasper balanced on his shoulders.
The five-year-old’s sneakers thump lightly against his chest each time Jesse turns, slow and deliberate, arms stretched wide like airplane wings.
Jasper squeals, breathless with laughter.
The dark blue button-down pulls tight across Jesse’s shoulders with the movement, familiar and unfair in the way it always is.
For a moment, he looks untouched by anything, carefree, open, like the boy I knew during our endless summers when the world felt smaller and safer.
Maggie hit the truth head-on the day she left.
I’d always loved him. Quietly. Stubbornly.
Rooted deep in years of shared history I couldn’t untangle myself from, no matter how hard I tried.
Even when Jesse pulled away. Even when distance became his weapon of choice.
He had always been the constant, the one who could make my stomach tilt and steal the air from my lungs with nothing more than a look.
No one ever came close.
No one ever had.
Until the night I kissed a masked singer.
“Careful there, cowboy!” Hayley reaches for her son. “Uncle Jesse isn’t a jungle gym.”
Jesse swings Jasper down, the motion drawing my attention to the lean strength of his forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
His gaze catches mine across the yard. For a beat, everything stills, no sound, no movement, no thought, and I forget to breathe.
Someone passes between us with a tray of drinks, breaking the moment.
When the space clears, Jesse has already turned away, Hayley tugging him toward his parents.
I slip away from the party, letting the noise thin out behind me as I head for the barn.
It’s easier than enduring small talk and well-meaning questions about my plans.
As if rescuing and rehabilitating horses is something temporary, something I’ll grow out of once I’m ready to do something meaningful with my life.
They don’t see the work for what it is. They don’t see the difference it makes when a horse heals enough to trust again, enough to find a new home.
Inside, dust motes drift through the slanted light pouring in from the high windows.
The familiar mix of hay, leather, and horse fills my lungs, grounding me in a way the party never could.
My boots echo softly against the concrete aisle as I move deeper into the barn, into the quiet and the shadows where everything makes sense again.
From his isolation stall at the far end, Townshend’s hooves thud against the wooden floor, sending straw bedding scattering. His ears track my movement even from afar, nostrils flaring to catch my scent.
I duck into an empty stall to grab a forgotten curry comb from the hook inside. As I swing the door shut behind me, my dress snags on an exposed nail. The rip is sharp and unmistakable in the quiet barn.
“Shit.”
I lift the hem to inspect the damage, a jagged tear running two inches up the delicate yellow fabric. So much for looking presentable. I couldn’t keep a dress intact for one evening.
With a quiet sigh, I lean back against the middle stall door and pull out my phone, typing the words Silent Revenant into my search bar like the stalker I’ve become. I’ve been looking for any new information about who the masked singer might be or when the next show is.
A new thread from last night: Anyone else at The Hollow? Holy shit that was unreal.
I click it immediately.
@VelvetUndergr0vnd99: Plot twist: I think I went to Crossroads Academy with the singer. He’s definitely classically trained.
@Echo1nTheVo1d: There’s a closeup of his wrist where you can see the end of the same knife tattoo Easton Turner from The Zephounds has. It’s his secret experimental band.
I shake my head and scroll faster, hunting for something concrete. Some detail that might unlock the mystery and come across an interesting thread.
@sugartits69: The drummer has serious premature problems, like he rushes every beat and finishes way too early. Bet this guy’s the type who thinks thirty seconds counts as foreplay.
That’s harsh. But I can’t help laughing.
@sugartits69: Zero rhythm, no stamina, and clearly doesn’t know how to make anything climax properly. Feel sorry for any girl who has to fake it through his performances.
@bigdickdrummer90: @sugartits69 That’s called building tension before the big finish.
I snort laughter.
@sugartits69: @bigdickdrummer90 Oh please. The only thing you’re building is disappointment. You should practice your fills instead of your comebacks.
@bigdickdrummer90: @sugartits69 I’d like to practice my fills with that bassist though. I bet she fucks as hard as she hits that bassline.
@sugartits69: @bigdickdrummer90 Glad you recognize the talent. At least someone appreciates skill when they see it.
@bigdickdrummer90: @sugartits69 Plus I can tell she’s got epic tits.
@sugartits69: @bigdickdrummer90 Aaaand there it is. Can’t compliment a woman’s musical ability without making it about her body. You’re exactly the type who peaked in high school, aren’t you?
This is getting out of hand and not giving me any information about the singer, so I move onto another thread.
@MusicTheoryNerd: Can we talk about his voice though? The way it drops an octave during the bridge… I had to excuse myself to the bathroom.
@KittyKat123: His voice does things to me I’m not ready to unpack with my therapist. And don’t get me started on his mouth, those lips are basically sinful.
My stomach tips sideways, that familiar rush I’ve been chasing since the night of the show. My free hand rises on instinct, fingers brushing my lips that still remember exactly how his felt.
“Find anything interesting?”
The phone slips from my grasp, clattering against the wooden floorboards. Jesse bends to retrieve it before I can react, his scent, like midnight rain on warm pavement, fills the space. His eyes linger on the screen before handing it over without comment, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
“Thanks.” Heat crawls up my neck. “I was…”
“Taking a break from the party?” He leans against the wall, hands sliding into his pockets. His gaze drops to my torn hem, following the line of exposed skin above my boot. “Your dress is casualty number one.”
I fuss at the tear, brushing at the stubborn dust, only succeeding in spreading it further. “This is why I don’t dress up. Five minutes in here and I’m already a disaster.”
“You could never be a disaster, Joey Morgan.” He pushes off the wall and moves closer.
My stomach flips but our exchange is interrupted by a violent kick that echoes from the far end of the barn. Townshend paces. Jesse’s head turns toward the sound, his eyebrows drawing together in concern.
I gesture toward him. “He can smell you.”
“Am I a threat?” Jesse asks, still watching the agitated horse.
To who? Me or Townshend.
“You’re new, that’s all,” I say. “Don’t take it personally. Townshend barely tolerates me.”
“Did you name the horse after Pete Townshend?” Jesse laughs.
“He earned it. Nearly kicked through his stall door the first night and tipped over his water bucket out of spite.” I trace a pattern with my finger on the wood beam between us, following the grain worn smooth by countless hands.
He shakes his head and then eyes Townshend, keeping his distance. “What happened to him?”
“Don’t know. But there’s an old break in his front leg that never healed right. Every sign points to serious mistreatment, but we’ll never really understand what happened to him.”
Jesse’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.