Chapter 11 VINCE
VINCE
It’s been three days since Fletcher had his hands on me, and I’m still thinking about it.
Not in a dirty way—well, not only that—but how quickly he’d jumped into action, like he already knew what I needed.
He hadn’t waited for permission or instructions when he realized my legs were hurting. He’d just… acted. It wasn’t for the sex, either. I saw that in his eyes. He’d just wanted to help.
What surprised me the most was how my legs didn’t ache the next day. They still hurt, sure, but not as deeply as I’m used to. I didn’t suffer like I usually do.
That alone feels like a miracle.
It gives me hope—real hope—that there might be ways to manage the pain better.
I carry his kindness with me everywhere. At work. Lying in bed. He’s always there, in the corners of my mind—from his offer to let me move in, to the way he’s helped me settle, to the small, steady check-ins at work.
Fletcher is always there, giving support without even realizing it.
I want to give something back.
On Monday—my day off since the bar is closed—I drive to the grocery store. After loading my cart with all the necessities for a week, I stop in front of the spices and second-guess myself.
I have two recipes pulled up on my phone, but I can’t decide between them. Mexican sounds good. Indian sounds better. Indian also sounds riskier. Fletcher seems to have an aversion to spice, since almost everything he’s made has been mild or low-heat.
I smile to myself, imagining his face if I went full heat-level insane. It might make him look at me differently. I love some kick in my food, but I don’t want to scare him away.
Settling for the chicken lababdar, I grab enough spice to make it interesting, but restrain myself enough to be considerate.
Afterward, I circle back to the baking aisle to get something for dessert.
I can’t help myself. I’ve always had a soft spot for dessert.
Maybe because it was the one treat I didn’t have to earn growing up. It was always there.
Tonight’s dessert is nothing fancy, just a simple chocolate cake with coconut frosting.
I have no way of knowing if Fletcher even likes coconut, but it feels…
homey, like something you make when you want to feel good.
And the cool sweetness of the coconut might coax Fletcher into forgiving me if the lababdar is too much for him.
My phone chirps as I stand in line to check out.
Ace: I’m about to fly down there, Stone. Call me. Let me know you’re okay. Miss you, brother.
He gave up with the messages for a while, but he’s texting me again every other day, growing less and less patient.
The line moves forward before I can reply. Soon, though. I really need to let him know I’m okay. He doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark like this.
Back at the house, I pull up my Music account and listen to some of my favorite albums as I cook.
Bones supervises from the kitchen floor, no doubt waiting for me to drop something.
He slants his head hopefully any time I even glance in his direction.
I toss him a few pieces of chicken once it’s cooled.
For never having a dog before, I’m quickly falling in love with Bones’ company. Maybe I’ll get a dog when I find my own place again—something small, though, so it won’t threaten to knock me over like Bones does.
By the time I’m done, the entire house smells incredible. I set the oven to warm for the lababdar, then wash the dishes and wipe the counter. I lift the cake to cool above the fridge, remembering what Fletcher said about Bones eating the biscuits.
The last thing I want to do is make their dog sick from eating chocolate cake.
My heart is light when I’m finally done. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed this. I used to cook all the time, but now it takes too much out of me. I’m leaning heavily against the counter for support, my shoulders sagging—but I did it.
This is more than I’ve been capable of doing in… probably over a year. I might pay for it later, but hey. If it makes Fletcher smile, it’ll be worth it.
My guitar catches my attention. I’d brought it up to the house thinking I’d have time to play it while the cake baked, but that didn’t happen.
Grabbing it, I sit on the couch and pull my feet up, plucking the chords to some of my favorite melodies. The sound calms me instantly—always has.
The pain will come back, and the fatigue. They always do, coming in waves. But today, at least, I feel like myself, and that’s saying something.
I only planned to stay in the house for a little while—long enough to find the energy to walk across the yard. So when the front door swings open, I startle. I didn’t realize it’s time for Georgie to be home already.
Footsteps echo between bursts of laughter and joyful conversation in the hidden foyer around the corner.
“Wait. What’s that smell?” an unfamiliar female voice says. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“You’re right, it does.”
A moment later, Georgie comes around the corner, followed by another teenage girl with long blond hair. They both have their noses in the air, sniffing.
Georgie grins instantly when she sees me. “Oh, hey, Vince. Did you cook something?”
I swallow hard. I should’ve gone back to my room. “Yeah, I made dinner for tonight.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
I sit back, my guitar still in my hands. “Your dad’s done a lot for me, so I wanted to do something back.”
She squints. “Okay, but like—this smells amazing. Like spicy amazing.”
The other girl snickers. “Hopefully you didn’t make it too spicy, ’cause Georgie’s dad is a wuss with heat.”
I chuckle. “I’ve kind of figured that out. I went light.”
Georgie sets her backpack down in the middle of the floor and plops down near me, looking at the guitar. “I didn’t know you played.”
“I have since I was a kid.”
“What kind of music do you play? Like, do you know any songs?”
“I know several of them.”
“Can you show me?”
Her dark eyes are full of hope and curiosity, making it impossible to say no.
I strum one of my favorites, fingers dancing across the strings as best I can through the tingles.
“Wow. You’re really good,” the other teen says.
The compliment lands awkwardly in my chest. I haven’t played for anyone in a long time since my fingers don’t do what they used to—they can’t.
Sometimes they don’t feel the chords at all, so I miss notes or have slower transitions.
But none of that seems to matter to the teens, their awe evident in their wide smiles.
Georgie flings her hair over her shoulder. “Dad bought me a guitar a couple of years ago. I’ve tried to learn, but I can’t figure out how to hold it.”
I smile at her. “Go get it then. I’ll show you.”
“Really?”
I tilt my head toward her room, encouraging her to go.
The other girl chews her lip as she waits. “I’m Avalon, by the way. Georgie’s best friend.”
Fletcher has mentioned the girl a time or two, saying how she and Georgie are always together. When she’s not at her mother’s, she’s usually at Avalon’s, if she’s not at home. Fletcher hadn’t meant it in a kind way either. He misses his daughter’s company even if he hasn’t outright said it.
I’m surprised it’s taken this long to meet the girl.
“You’re Vince, I’m guessing?”
I nod.
“Georgie told me you’re staying with them until you get better or something?”
I turn my attention to the guitar. There might not be any getting better for me. “I’m staying with them for a while, yes.”
Before she can ask more questions, Georgie returns, sitting right beside me with her black guitar in her lap. She faces me, our knees touching. “I don’t even know if it’s tuned.”
I set mine aside and take hers, tuning it by ear. “Here you go.”
She grins wildly. “Just like that?”
I laugh. “Just like that. Like I said, I’ve been playing since I was a kid.”
She shifts around, trying to hold the instrument. “It’s so awkward.”
“Nah. You’ll get more comfortable with it the more you play. Turn your wrist forward a little. Like this. It’ll help you reach the strings.”
Georgie copies my movements.
“What notes do you know?”
“Only a few.” Georgie fumbles through a simple four-chord melody.
“That’s good. Can you do a C-flat?”
I hold my fingers in that position so she can copy them.
“Perfect. Now try going from an A to a C-flat.” I strum each chord as I say them, moving slowly so she can see how I adjust my hand. When she struggles to angle her fingers, I walk her through it. It takes a few tries, but Georgie eventually strums the chords correctly.
“Hey, good job. Keep doing that until it feels natural, then I’ll teach you a riff.”
Avalon loses interest quickly, playing on her phone while Georgie practices. After thirty minutes, I teach her the riff from Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” It’s a simple, easy tune with minimal movement and a repetitive pace.
Georgie perks up immediately. “Wait. This is Aerosmith, isn’t it?”
I smile at her. “It is.”
Georgie grins proudly, glasses sliding down her nose. “They’re one of my dad’s favorite bands.”
“Really?”
“Totally. He used to play them all the time, but not anymore. He’s always busy with work now. Doesn’t listen to music as much.”
I hide my reaction to that. Aerosmith is one of my top ten bands. They had been on repeat in my ears when I toured in Afghanistan. Sometimes, Steven Tyler’s voice was the only thing that got me through the long nights.
So to hear Fletcher likes them too…
My stomach flutters a little.
“Keep practicing then. I bet he’d love to hear you play it.”
Georgie and I play together, working through each transition until she finds her rhythm.
An hour later, Fletcher walks in. He freezes in the archway, eyes sweeping the room.
“Hey,” I say, looking over the couch at him.
Fletcher doesn’t answer, his gaze darting between Georgie and me, then our guitars. Suddenly, my heart sinks. Fletcher’s one rule about me staying with them was to never be alone with his daughter.
Fuck.