Chapter 28 #2
Not for the machine.
Just… me.
A strange, warm ache blooms under my ribs. Hope. Or something like it.
I glance toward the stairs.
Ethan’s usually up at dawn doing something — chopping wood, fixing his deck, yelling at deer, I don’t know. Sunrise seems afraid to rise before he does.
But last night?
I wrecked him.
In the best way.
He was exhausted. He might sleep until noon. Rockstar hours by accident.
And me?
My fingers tap the counter.
Another melody flashes through my mind — soft, raw, nothing like Rebel June. Something about a woman trying to find herself again.
The ache in my chest sharpens.
Before the inspiration slips away, I grab my notebook again and reach for my guitar.
The words come easily.
And, silence doesn’t hurt.
For once… I feel like I might become someone new. Someone real.
Lucky Vale.
Not the product.
Not the persona.
Me.
I set my phone on the counter, hit speaker, and wedge it between my coffee mug and my notebook while I flip to a clean page. My guitar rests against my knee.
It barely rings twice.
“LUCKY VALE.”
Banks’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re alive.”
“I told you I was alive,” I say, flipping my pen between my fingers. “You just didn’t believe me.”
“You disappeared for eighteen hours. That’s practically a month in Lucky Time.”
“Yeah, well… I had a night.”
I don’t have to look at him to know he’s doing the dramatic blink-blink-blink of rage.
He sighs, the sound of a man flirting with a stroke.
“I’m driving up there today.”
“No, you’re not.”
I underline a lyric twice. “Go back to L.A. Talk to the lawyers. We need a clean way out of Connect Records.”
There’s a beat of horrified silence.
“…fire Jett?” It’s not even a question. It’s a funeral announcement.
“Yes.”
“Lucky, firing Jett Langford might end your career. I thought maybe negotiate a deal with the bastard.”
“Banks,” I say gently, “my career already ended. My sanity tried to tag along. I want to rebuild — slowly. On my terms. Not theirs.”
He groans like I’ve asked him to eat broken glass.
“You’re talking like a woman who found Jesus.”
“Close.” I strum a chord. “Found music.”
“Same thing in your universe.”
“Wanna hear something?” I ask before I can overthink it.
He goes quiet. “Always.”
I play the soft melody I came up with — raw, unfinished, honest in a way my old songs never were. A woman taking a break from the noise, trying to find herself again.
When I finish, Banks doesn’t speak for a full ten seconds.
Which is basically a medical emergency.
Finally:
“…Lucky… that’s a beautiful ballad. It has real potential.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, slow and stunned. “Yeah? I was scared it sounded… weird.”
“It sounds like you. Not Rebel June. You.”
I swallow.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because that’s who I want to be now. Lucky Vale. I think I want to stay up here indefinitely. Work on the new music. Let Lucky Pink rest in peace.”
Another long silence.
Then Banks exhales, defeated but proud.
“Wow. Lumberjack Man must have had one hell of an influence on you.”
I snort. “I like him. A lot. Maybe he inspired me. Maybe he sprinkled some fairy dust on me.”
Banks wheezes.
“Yeah, I’m sure Lumberjack Man would be thrilled to hear he’s a fairy.”
“He’s not a fairy,” I laugh. “More like a… stoic, emotionally constipated, sexy murder-wolf who fixes things whenever he feels feelings.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“Shut up.”
Banks’s voice softens. “I’m glad you’re happy, Lu.”
I blink at the window. Morning sun. A peaceful lake. A hopeful chest.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’ve got the man… and I’ve got my music. What the hell else would I wish for?”
“Well, don’t get too poetic on me. I’m fragile.” His tone shifts. “Check in every so often, alright? For my heart’s sake.”
“I will.”
“I’m turning around. Going back to L.A., talking to a legal team. And Lu?”
“Yeah?”
“Get a new number. Jett’s relentless about your whereabouts. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.”
I roll my eyes so hard they click. “Great. Add him to the list of men who don’t know how to emotionally regulate.”
Banks chuckles. “Talk soon, Lu.”
“Yeah. Soon.”
I end the call with Banks, and turn around—
—and nearly scream.
Ethan’s leaning against the doorframe in nothing but his boxers, arms folded, smirk firmly carved into his annoyingly perfect face.
“Jesus, Ethan,” I gasp, hand flying to my chest. “How long have you been standing there?”
He tilts his head, totally unbothered. “Long enough. So… Lumberjack man?”
I groan, my cheeks heating. “It’s no one special.”
He snorts. Actually snorts. “Right. And I’m a forest fairy.”
I grab a pencil and throw it at him. “Did you miss sexy murder wolf?”
He pushes off the doorframe with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “My favorite nickname.” Then, with a mock-wounded expression, “Right after ‘emotionally constipated.’”
I snicker. “Well. If the shoe fits.”
He closes the distance between us slowly, that unintentional prowl he does—broad shoulders, sleepy predatory ease, like he’s stalking something that already belongs to him.
“So,” he murmurs, “you want to stay here indefinitely? You do know the forest fairies might have something to say about that.”
I grin. “You’re the forest fairy?”
“Don’t insult me.” His mouth twitches. “They like you, though.”
He stops right in front of me, and suddenly the space feels… different. Still. Charged.
His tone shifts before I even see it coming.
“That song you played…” His voice drops, softer, real. “I don’t know much about music. But my skin prickled. Like it—Christ, I don’t know—hit something in me.” He searches my eyes, and the vulnerability there nearly knocks the breath out of me. “Your voice just… settled my damn soul.”
My throat tightens. “Ethan…”
He lifts a hand, brushing his knuckles along my jaw—gentle, reverent, like he thinks I might break if he presses too hard.
“You said you want me,” he says quietly. “Well… I want you too.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “And Lily—she wants you in our life. You should hear her talk about you when you’re not around. She’s already convinced you’re staying in Cedar Lake forever.”
A warm, aching happiness unfurls in my chest. “Maybe I am.”
He leans his forehead against mine, breath mingling with mine, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Saves me the trouble of kidnapping you.”
I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
At first, it’s soft—just the warm press of his mouth on mine, the sleepy scrape of his stubble against my skin, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret whispered between two heartbeats.
But then Ethan lets out a low sound in his chest, and everything changes.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, tilting my head as he deepens the kiss—slow, hungry, unhurried in the way that says he’s been awake for thirty seconds and still somehow starving for me. His other hand finds my waist, fingers flexing, drawing me against his heat.
I open for him without thinking, without breathing, without even remembering how to stand properly. His mouth claims mine with a kind of reverence and possession all tangled together, like he’s tasting the truth of everything we said last night.
The counter digs into my hips before I realize he’s walked me backward.
“Ethan,” I whisper against his lips, the word half-a-plea, half-a-confession.
He answers with another kiss—deeper, slower, devastating—like he means to memorize me. His hands roam up my sides, sliding beneath the thin fabric I’m wearing, and my breath shudders.
The morning light spills across the kitchen floor, warm on our skin, turning everything golden.
Ethan lifts me with effortless strength, setting me on the counter as if he’s done it a thousand times.
His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard, and for a moment we just look at each other—want, tenderness, awe, all in the same breath.
“You sure?” he murmurs.
I cup his jaw, trace the line of his cheek, and kiss him again—slow, certain, pulling him closer until I feel him shiver.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Here. Now.”
The last coherent thought I have is Ethan’s soft, broken curse against my mouth—then his hands slide over my thighs, pulling me in, and the world tilts.
His fingers dig into my bare skin, rough calluses scraping just enough to send sparks up my spine.
I'm perched on the cool edge of the counter, legs parting instinctively to let him step between them, his body heat radiating through the thin barrier of his boxer briefs.
The light from outside filters through the window, casting golden streaks across his broad shoulders, highlighting the flex of his muscles as he presses closer.
I arch into him, my t-shirt riding up my torso.
Ethan's mouth crashes back onto mine, tongue thrusting deep, tasting like coffee and sleep and raw want.
He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through me, and his hands roam higher, thumbs brushing the hem of my T-shirt before shoving it upward in one fluid motion.
The fabric bunches under my arms, and cool air hits my nipples, making them tighten instantly.
“Fuck, Lucky,” he rasps, breaking away to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck.
His stubble scrapes against my collarbone as he nips at the skin, then soothes with his tongue.
I gasp, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him lower.
He doesn't need more encouragement—his mouth latches onto one breast, sucking the nipple hard between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make me whimper.
My hips buck against him, seeking friction, and I feel the hard length of his cock straining against the cotton of his shorts, pressing right against my bare pussy.
I'm already slick, arousal coating my thighs from the way he's devouring me, claiming every inch like it's his right.
His free hand kneads my other breast, pinching the peak until I cry out, the pleasure-pain shooting straight to my core.