44. Kate #2
He stopped pacing, eyes locked on me, angry and aching all at once.
“I need something.”
Instantly his shoulders squared, his demeanor flipping from pissed protector to lethal guardian.
“Anything,” he said. “You know that.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.
“The music,” I whispered. “It’s in me again.”
His anger faltered.
“When my family died… when my world shattered… the music in me died too. But now?—”
I rested a hand over my stomach.
“This baby. My love for Michael. It’s waking something up. I want to compose again. I want to sing again. I want to perform at the grand opening of my music school.”
My voice cracked.
“But I don’t have anything. No recording equipment. I don’t even have a fucking piano. Or a violin.”
Drew’s expression softened in a way I wasn’t prepared for — like my grief rewired something inside him.
“Kate…” he started.
“I’m staying in Brett’s cabin,” I said. “I know. I know you can’t deliver that kind of stuff there. Too risky. Too traceable.”
He ran a hand over his shaved jaw, thinking.
Sheer frustration rolling off him.
“Where?” he asked. “Tell me where you want it.”
“There’s an old community center,” I said. “In the poor side of town. No tourists. No councilmen. Just townies. My people.”
He nodded slowly.
Listening.
Absorbing.
“There’s a gym door on the back. No one uses it anymore. Change the lock. Wipe the cameras. Give me the key.”
“And you’ll go at night?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
I nodded.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Absolutely fucking killing me.”
“It’s the only place I’ll be safe, and it’s the only place I can breathe enough to write.”
He exhaled roughly.
“Fine. I’ll send my men. One of my guards will leave my territory and watch that gym from dusk till dawn.”
A warmth filled my chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He stepped closer, eyes fierce and tender all at once.
“Go sing, Kate,” he said softly. “Go write your music. Go bring that school to life.”
A small smile pulled at his mouth.
“But don’t forget to write one for me too, babe.” He kissed me then. Quick, Brief. Final.
“What about the redhead? You’re not the only one who has eyes and ears…” I smirked, slipping my helmet back on.
He rolled his eyes, but the edge of a grin tugged at his lips.
I revved the bike, the engine rumbling under me, and for the first time in weeks…I felt alive.
I took off down the trail, wind stinging my eyes, Drew watching from behind with the kind of look a man gives something he cares about more than he ever should.
And as the trees blurred around me, I pressed a hand to my stomach.
We’re going to make music again, I whispered to my baby.
We’re going to survive this.
The old community center groaned like it resented being awake at midnight.
The gym smelled like dust, varnish, and a forgotten childhood.
Faded lines marked the floor—basketball courts, dodgeball boundaries, ghosts of laughter.
It was perfect.
No chandeliers.
No grand stage.
Just shadows, silence, and space.
Drew kept his word.
The back lock was changed.
The cameras were down.
A guard sat across the street in an unmarked car, watching over me without being seen.
And inside?
Inside, he’d put everything I asked for.
A weathered upright piano.
A violin in a black case.
Stacks of sheet music.
Blank journals.
A tiny USB mic and an old recording console that looked like it had been stolen off a tour bus in ’89.
I stood in the middle of it all, breath shallow, hands trembling.
The music in me buzzed like static under my skin.
Since the Fourth of July everything had been chaos — men with guns, blood spilled, betrayal, marriage, hiding, almost dying.
And underneath all the noise, something else had been building quietly.
A melody.
It thrummed in my bones.
It curled behind my ribs.
It whispered in my dreams — always with Michael’s hands on my hips, Michael’s mouth on my throat, Michael’s voice telling me I’ve got you, baby.
Every night without him felt like heartbreak in slow motion.
Every night with him in my dreams felt like falling in love for the first time—over and over.
I didn’t know how to hold all of it anymore.
So I sat at the piano.
Placed my fingers on the keys.
Exhaled.
And let the music take me.
The first notes…
It didn’t come out pretty.
It came out like lightning.
Sharp. Wild. Too loud. Too soft. Too fast. Too raw.
The sound ricocheted off the walls like memories —
Michael pinning me in the orchard, breathing against my mouth…
Michael dragging me into the VIP room in Vegas, his voice a growl…
Michael saying Marry me right now. Tonight. Sunrise.
Michael lifting me over the threshold of a cheap Vegas chapel as if I were royalty…
And the night our child was conceived —every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise —was its own chord progression.
My fingers stumbled, then steadied.
A melody shaped itself—dark bass notes like danger, bright treble notes like hope, and unpredictable beats like the rhythm our life had become.
My voice rose without me choosing it.
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t careful.
It was alive.
I sang every word I had never said aloud:
That I loved Michael from the moment I crashed into him on the pier…
That I tried to outrun him… and fate… and myself…
That he was danger wrapped in devotion…
That we were chaos and beauty and wrong and right all at once.
I sang until my throat went raw.
Until tears blurred the pages of the journal.
Until the piano keys blurred too.
I was a woman on fire.
I was a woman reborn.
I hit the record button on the console.
The little red light blinked.
I played again — this time slower, gentler, weaving a lullaby through the chaos.
A lullaby for the child inside me.
A lullaby for the man waiting across the country, fighting his own private war.
I whispered between verses:
“Daddy’s coming for you…
Daddy’s coming for us…
I promise…”
My hand brushed over my stomach.
The music swelled.
It felt like the entire gym was breathing with me.
Like the world finally made sense.
Hours later, when my voice began to give out, I heard movement outside.
I wiped my face, cracked the door, and found Drew sitting on the cement step under a streetlight. Amber rested her head on his thigh, watching me with soft golden eyes.
Drew wasn’t watching me.
He was listening.
Head tilted back against the brick wall.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slow, almost reverent.
He looked heartbreakingly human for once.
He opened his eyes when he sensed me.
“You done making the angels jealous?” he muttered.
Heat filled my cheeks.
“You heard all that?”
“Hard not to.”
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
“Kate… you sound like the kind of woman men rewrite their wills over.”
I swallowed.
He wasn’t flirting.
He was aching.
“I’m glad you like it,” I said softly.
He shook his head.
“It’s not for me.”
I froze.
He stood, brushed Amber’s fur from his jeans, and stepped closer — not too close, but enough for me to see the truth in his eyes.
“It’s all for him,” Drew said. “Every note. Every breath. Every damn heartbeat of those songs.”
I didn’t deny it.
Couldn’t.
He let out a bitter laugh.