CHAPTER SIX
RENA
Me: My mother used to say that freedom was blueberry fields and rain.
Ty: Poetic. What does it mean?
Me: I think it’s where she believed she’d find her escape.
Ty: What was she escaping?
Me: Probably the same things we all are.
Ty: Enlighten me.
Me: Shackles.
Ty: I have too many thoughts regarding that to text them all.
Me: If I didn’t know better, I’d peg that as kinky flirting. Maybe we’ll double back to that later.
Ty: You think everyone is shackled to something?
Me: Your avoidance of my comment shouts that you’re bound and gagged. And not in a good way.
Me: But fine. If we’re not talking about headboards, then, yes, I think everyone is chained in one way or another.
Ty: Morbid.
Me: Or awakened. There’s no sense in mourning the inevitable.
Ty: No blueberry fields and rain escape for you?
Me: As much as I love that visual, I don’t think that’s where my key lies.
Ty: So, where’s your key?
Me: I’m not sure, but I want to own the places others fear. Then, I’ll never need to escape.
I’ve craved a sense of freedom for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure what that vision looked like. It was always muddied by my entanglement with my brothers, whether it be the urge to extricate myself from their tight rein or the comfort of remaining entwined.
And now … now, as I skate the outer edge of autonomy, I’m realizing that no one is truly free.
My mother grew up in Oklahoma with a gorgeous field of flourishing berries as her backyard view. And when the sky cried out, sprinkling tears of growth, she’d run through the dusty aisles, watching the colors blur and blend and darken right along with the moody clouds.
It’s a story I’ve held on to through the years. So has Jax. That’s why his hair is blue. Not that he broadcasts that tidbit. But I know. Because I was the one he always confided in. Or so I thought.
Anyway, my mother probably told us countless stories, but she shared that one with reverence. Like it unlocked something. Maybe that’s simply the way it’s colored now.
But that’s the one that has always stuck, crawled inside the deepest crevices of my heart—the places cracked with trauma and grief and loneliness—to replenish it with hope and purpose.
The summer before my parents died, we went back to Oklahoma. My grandmother had passed away, and my mom finally summoned the courage to clean out the house. We’d always spent summers there, but she had determined that this would be our last. Too many old ghosts.
One afternoon, we sat in the sweltering August heat, drinking homemade lemonade on the vast, covered porch and peering out at the fields. We’d all been working to help her box up her memories because she couldn’t bear to let a mover touch the relics of all she was saying goodbye to.
My brothers and I were probably quieter than we’d ever been—utterly exhausted in various lazy, lounging states—so my mother played a few songs on her guitar to fill the silence, and tears flowed down her cheeks.
She must have noted the concern on my face because she reached for me, squeezing my small hand. “Mama’s okay. These are happy tears.”
Happy tears? Even though she was smiling, they didn’t look happy.
“Why are you crying happy tears?” I asked.
“Grandma was never afraid,” she answered, her eyes coasting back to those picked-over berries with a hint of admiration. “I loved that about her. She was brave and free.”
I’m not sure what she was referring to because Grandma wasn’t the same person with me as she was with my mom, which was also probably a variation from how she presented herself to her peers. Different hats. But I instantly wanted to be brave and free.
I lifted my chin to my mom, my eyes roving all over her beautiful face—the image of everything that was home. “What are you afraid of?”
“Heights and the dark,” she sang out with a jovial glint, leaning across me to jostle Jax’s leg because he slept with three night-lights, but then she spun her head back to me. “What about you, sweet pea?”
I wasn’t sure if she was truly afraid of the dark or simply saying that to lighten the phobia for Jax. Either way, I couldn’t think of anything. Fear wasn’t an emotion I entertained very often. Not unless it was purposeful in the way of a scary movie. A high. My brothers often marveled at how they couldn’t frighten me.
All I knew was that I wanted to be the person that Jax and my mom took into the dark, the one who not only climbed to great heights, but could also jump off them, the one who would be considered brave.
And free.
Perhaps that’s why I’m halfway across the country, chasing the first taste of blueberries and rain that my mother savored. I don’t know how exactly, but it seems that the liberty she sought was the very spark that burned her.
When I immersed myself in research to figure out who the hell I was a couple of weeks ago, I started with simple elements based on what I’d overheard. Blood tests, medical records, news reports on the fire.
Without DNA from my parents, determining blood relation was a bit of a mystery. But that piece about Jax or me being sick kept rattling around in my brain. I do remember Jax being stuck in the hospital when we were little. Prior to my search, I couldn’t pinpoint the timeline for the illness, but it got me thinking.
Axel keeps all our medical records locked in a cabinet in his office in case of emergency. I scoured them, searching for any discrepancies. It was blood type that came up different for both Jax and me. We were both AB while Cash was A, and everyone else was O. Unfortunately, without knowing my parents’ blood type, this isn’t conclusive. If one was A and the other B, then A, O, and AB are possibilities. But if one of them was an O, Jax and I are not their offspring. If nothing else, I got a crash course in biology.
While my discovery isn’t irrefutable, it is suspicious. Especially since Axel came out and said we belonged to someone else. That alone would have been enough to sway me, but the time denoted for the testing pushed it all over the edge. Jax’s blood type was marked on the report from his hospital stay—which occurred about two months prior to my parents’ deaths—and the rest of us were tested in the week following his release.
After learning that, I dove into any background I could find on my mother. All our belongings had been ruined in the fire, which was ruled an accident—another detail that doesn’t quite add up. Not only did Axel mention the fire in that cryptic conversation, but the fact that it had occurred so quickly after our blood tests sickens me. I’ve been unwilling to scurry down that particular rabbit hole.
Regardless of what I overheard or what theories my mind is intent on venturing into, at present, Axel is still my paragon of heroism. Once I see something to the contrary, there’s no erasing it. Our relationship will be forever tainted, every memory charred with betrayal. And I’m not ready. That probably classifies me as childish and gullible. But we aren’t handed an abundance of treasures in this life. My brothers are mine. I won’t make a flippant decision to bury them.
Back to the investigation into my mother’s past—without the physical history to rely on, I chose to unearth everything I could about where she had grown up via the internet.
Turns out, Giuseppe Balzano and his son lived next door to my mom when she was young. Giuseppe remarried when his son, Giovanni, was a teen. And they relocated with their new family to Las Vegas. That property has long since been sold, and I can’t find much about the boy who would have been my mom’s age, except I did happen upon a Facebook discussion about their high school class, where she was discussed. The conversation eventually devolved into a remembrance of how my mom only had eyes for Johnny , but probably never saw him after he moved to Vegas.
It so happens that Johnny is a common nickname for Giovanni.
I’d be willing to bet this guy was my mother’s slow dance with blueberries and rain. And I’m guessing she saw him at least two times after he moved. There are two listings for Giuseppe Balzano in Nevada, but at first glance, they don’t appear to be the correct age. There are also a handful of variations of the name Johnathan Balzano in Vegas, so that could be a possibility.
The thing is, now that I’m here, I’m nervous to dig too deeply, both due to the threat Axel spoke of and because my whole identity is hitched to being a Noire. No matter who this guy is, he’s not that.
So, I guess I’ve exposed my greatest fear—not being a Noire.
When I hashed out my plan back home, detailed that UPS route, conned Jax into taking me shopping, and escaped in the light of day, I felt vindicated and laser-focused on unveiling the truth. But as the minutes ticked by, my tenacious commitment waned.
The journey out here took five days. I settled on a zigzagged path, changing wigs and clothes each time I boarded a bus or train in a random direction. My brothers have endless resources. And that’s aside from Wells’s crew and their expertise. Meticulous scheming was crucial if I wanted to remain hidden.
I’m not expecting to evade them forever because one way or another, they’ll track me down. And I know Jax is probably utterly untethered, which has had me barely able to roll out of bed myself. But that text about needing to breathe that I sent to Ty was the truth.
After being cocooned my entire life, fresh air doesn’t taste as enticing as expected though. It’s rather daunting.
That was why I contacted Ty. Well, that, and the bottom of a chardonnay bottle was goading me to do it. I never back down from a dare.
In my drunken state, I decided it was time for two things to happen: to stop being alone and to determine who I could trust.
Fingers crossed that Ty is a double feature.
If not, fuck it. I’m at a loss for where to go next.
Janis Joplin may have been completely insane.
Nothing left to lose, and I’ve never felt more caged.
Even the freedom of relaxing at a nightclub without the vigilant eye of my brothers is an absolute letdown. Maybe if Ivy and Celeste were here.
Of course, it’s also fueled me with an audacious screw-it mentality regarding Ty. So, we’ll see how that pans out. There could be hope for Joplin yet.
Vic, a bartender at this fine establishment, passes me an appletini—a black olive and three green apple slices speared inside. “You gonna sing for us again tonight, darling?”
“That’s a negative.” I pluck out the fruit and sip the tart cocktail, peering at him over the rim. “Fender tried to schedule me for tomorrow, but I haven’t committed yet. Either way, I’m a simple patron this evening.”
Fender is the entertainment manager—a nice guy in his thirties, who I bonded with over hospitality industry shop talk.
“Nothing simple about you, sweet cheeks.” That nauseating term of endearment springs from the other bartender—the slimy one—Kipper, whose face makeup resembles Gene Simmons from Kiss.
“Ooh.” I set my glass down on the bar top and pin him with a disappointed glower. “Tell me Vegas girls don’t like that. Sweet cheeks? Gross.”
Vic bursts into laughter, the side of his face not covered by his Phantom of the Opera mask lighting up as he whips Kipper’s bicep with a rag. “The lady has a point.”
Kipper scowls at him before bending toward me, his eyes romping in what appears to be his best come-hither ogle. “I think the rest of what I’m offering means I get to call them whatever I want.”
Craning my neck so that I can see past the cocky asshole, I direct my attention back at Vic. “Are they all like this? There were a few loose-lipped egos last night too.” I thrust a hitchhiker thumb toward the stage, where my welcome was even rockier—or more specifically, the exit behind the stage. “In fact, their lines were cringier.”
Vic shoves Kipper to the side, silently instructing him to take someone else’s order. “Fender mentioned that the bouncers had to step in because a few guys gave you a hard time. Tell me that’s not where that shadow on your cheek is from.”
Fuck. I thought I’d covered that up better. Oh well. I refuse to give those dicks any credit. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
“You see those guys here again or anyone else gives you any more trouble, you report it to Fender, security, or me right away,” he says before he saunters to another customer.
Nodding, I glide an apple slice off the toothpick and take a bite. Tonight is ’90s rock night in the main room. One of my favorites. While I enjoy the gothic scene, I don’t always jive with the harder music. This one has adopted the atmosphere while incorporating a more varied lineup. Last night featured classic rock—primarily hits from the ’70s—another favorite. I got to sing the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Axel would hate me being here, but he would have enjoyed those—songs that our mom used to sing.
Upstairs is an elite sex club—a feature Axel would not appreciate. I haven’t ventured there. It’s the vibe in the rest of the facility that drew me in. There’s a vampire-esque costume admission requirement that lends interest to every person who enters. Some lean into it—full-fledged bloody fangs, glittery skin, capes. Others limit themselves to a simple mask with ordinary attire or dark, overdone makeup with an eccentric outfit—kind of like Mardi Gras back home. Maybe that’s part of the appeal for me.
I chose a butterfly eye mask to complement my sexy little black number—a maxi dress with lace, crystal stones, and high slits on both sides. The corset bodice is magical with its winged cups and boning. Somehow, it transforms my no-curves-anywhere shape into the illusion of a subtle hourglass figure. I’d like to be buried in it, so it seemed the perfect ensemble to wear to a club revering the undead.
In hindsight, I should have gone with a thicker face mask to cover my bruised cheek, but I doubt it’s that noticeable beneath the strobe lights.
There are several rooms on this level. One that plays the typical heavy metal found in the average gothic nightclub, which attracts those most devoted to their costume. A private gambling parlor that is reminiscent of La Lune Noire’s invitation-only game lounge—add in the sultry anonymity from the sexy disguises, and you reap a vibe of back-room corruption at a ritzy masquerade ball. Out front is a lobby bar with slot machines and Keno to entice patrons inside. And finally, there’s the Rock Through the Ages club, where I’m currently drinking.
The best part about this place is that if you search for gothic bars in the Pacific time zone, this one isn’t included. The diversity of its offerings must skew the search engine criteria. That pleases me greatly because while I wanted to lead Ty to me, there’s no rush. The thought of him chasing me down is appealing, especially if I’m gauging things between us correctly.
I’m sure he believed I was inadvertently revealing everything he needed. He could’ve found me without any of the details I gave up. But that would have awarded him all the control. This way, it’s on my terms with the added benefit of sending him on a wild goose chase—an element I’m convinced will prove to be entertaining.
The crowd thickens as I enjoy another appletini and a cover band that is currently bringing home Foo Fighters. With the air hazy from a fog machine on the stage, the aroma of black orchid wafts through the air because they utilize ambient scenting to conceal any unappealing club smells—a detail I’m eager to share with my brothers.
There’s something to study in every direction. Lights swirling over the dance floor, illuminating the array of costumes. And a wall of sleek, caged dancers, aglow by red light, which serves as a source of entertainment and advertisement for the upstairs amenities.
As the thumping beat transitions into Sublime’s “What I Got,” screams and cheers rising to the rafters, my phone vibrates inside the hidden pouch on my hip. A thrill skitters up my spine, cascading through my limbs to tingle my extremities. Maybe Ty’s here.
Sliding it out, I swivel my stool so I can read the text without prying eyes.
Ty: You’re fucking with me, LM.
He doesn’t want to use names, but can’t resist abbreviating the nickname he bestowed upon me—or obvious categorization , as he labeled it. Love that. And the fact that he’s onto me. I can’t help giggling as our correspondence proceeds with rapid-fire, as it did this morning with the blueberry and rain discussion.
Me: Is that surprising? You obviously saw my delivery truck stratagem. Aren’t you supposed to be all shrewd and savvy?
Ty: You’re more calculated than I realized. I’ll give you that.
Me: And more fun. Your text reads grumpy, but I suspect you’re enjoying this as much as I am.
Ty: I’ve always known that about you. Girls just wanna have …
Me: Are you baiting me with song lyrics? That’s pretty much my love language.
Ty: See? Wouldn’t it be more fun if we were in the same place?
Me: I’m not sure you’re ready for that. Fun and calculated are just the tip of the iceberg. There’s probably a lot about me that’s different than you thought.
Ty: What I thought is that we’d reached an understanding. A mutual respect since I honored my promise.
Me: I have no way of knowing if you’ve kept your word yet. And respect is earned.
Ty: I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since I got the call that you were missing. I flew all night to get to you. Surely, that earns me your location.
My chest tightens, heart thrashing wildly against my sternum and the beat radiating out to all my pulse points, as though it were one of those imprisoned dancers, desperately seeking asylum in Ty .
Has he really been that worried? Of course he has. My brothers are best friends with him and his family. They’re probably all flipping out, which means Ty’s concern could simply be about them.
But this back-and-forth between us feels like more. Like he could see me apart from them, believe that we could be something.
What if it isn’t more? What if I’m clinging to a never-gonna-happen fantasy in the wake of losing my reality?
If it isn’t, I might really have nothing left. I’ve been gripping on to the idea of him like a lifeline. Partly because there’s nothing else to grab on to and partly because Ty Reynolds is the embodiment of my dreams. The mere thought of him cushions all the craggy edges of my disillusionment. My world would be treacherous in his absence.
Me: Maybe this isn’t fair to you, especially because I believe the truth in that plea. And I’m grateful if you’ve kept your promise and flew to me. But I can’t just tell you where I am. It might seem illogical. Or mean. I’m not even sure what it proves, but I need you to work for it.
A minute or two passes with no answer, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Fender making his way through the throng of people toward me.
“Hey,” he says, stopping in front of me. He may be in a managerial role, but he doesn’t embrace the costume requirement—just his business casual wardrobe. “Misty heard you were here again. She’s going on next and wants to know if you’d like to join them on guitar for a couple of songs as a thanks for filling in for her.”
Misty had an emergency with one of her kids last night and had to leave suddenly. That was how I found myself onstage. I’d been in here on Monday when it was empty. Her band was practicing, and I ended up playing some songs with them for fun. So, when I saw them scrambling yesterday because she had to go home, I volunteered.
It wasn’t a full set—thank God. I don’t mind playing for a little while. Being onstage is a rush, but sometimes, it’s overstimulating. It was a less unnerving experience without the watchful scrutiny of the Noire clan though.
I drag my teeth over my lip, considering. “She doesn’t have to do that. I’m happy to be an audience member tonight.”
He slants his head, a kind, crooked smile blooming on one side of his mouth. “Come on. You were a crowd favorite last night.”
“Not in a way I enjoyed,” I argue.
He sighs, guilt tinting his features. “I heard some guys got out of hand when you were leaving. I’m sorry about that. We seem to attract creeps. I also heard you’ve got a mean right hook.”
A laugh spills out of me. “That was courtesy of growing up with older brothers.”
I’m pretty sure I broke that dick’s face. It wasn’t a right hook; it was a palm strike to the nose. The guy had gotten more than a little handsy. When I squirmed away from him, he slammed me into the wall—that was what won me the purple cheek. He didn’t expect the strike, so it afforded me plenty of time to scream for security and disappear. Maddox had taught me that move.
“I can’t imagine your brothers would be happy to know that you were wandering around this club alone and attacked.” The edge to his tone is placating and rebuking at once. He’d mesh well with the Noires.
“No,” I breathe, knowing how irate and devastated my brothers would be at the thought of me being hurt. A pang of guilt racks through me. “They wouldn’t be. But they’re not here.”
He hums a tune of agitation, plainly distraught. He already lectured me once about being here alone, so I know what’s coming, which has my mind drifting back to Ty. “Whether you play or not tonight, one of us will walk you out—Vic, the bouncers, me. Do not exit this building without someone, even to grab an Uber.”
My phone buzzes in my palm, so I nod my agreement and ask Fender to wait while I check it, my mouth parched with a thirst to see Ty’s response.
Ty: I’m not sure why you’re running. But if you’re wondering whether I think you’re worth it, the answer is, without question. My whole family feels that way. Yours too. If you need me to track you down, I will. Nothing will keep me from finding you. That much I know.
Does he know how he’s invading my heart and veins and bones? That reads like an admission of feelings if I extract the family line. Maybe even with it. Or I’m seeing what I want to. Nothing he’s texted has been clear, but rather skirts the unspoken margins that have always defined us. Much like his, “You didn’t imagine anything, Little Moon.”
Vague and confusing.
A dagger full of promises that could slice through my armor or drain me of my lifeblood.
Or, if I stick to the theme of my setting, a wooden stake through the heart, crumbling me to ashes.
My brothers would attest to my flair for the dramatic, but this may be one time it’s warranted.
Ty will destroy me if he shows up here and hurls me back into the friend zone. I can’t even go there right now. I’ll have to cross that bridge later. It sounds like I’ve got time to bask in my blissful delusion.
Since he’s not going to make it tonight, there’s no sense in sitting here alone before I return to my empty hotel room and drink myself to sleep.
I tuck my phone away and cast my attention to Fender. “I’ll play a couple.”
And as I sling my backpack purse over my shoulder and squeeze my way through the crowd—the courage from the appletinis bolstering me with every step—I resolve to hide behind the safety of this nameless texting and forge ahead with one last brave response so that Ty has to face whatever’s brewing between us. If he chooses to show up for me, he should know where I stand. Otherwise, what’s the point?
Me: If I had known you would chase me, I’d have run a long time ago. That much I know.