43. Torren
43
TORREN
“Yeah, this is Torren King. I’m returning a call.”
I take a drag from my cigarette and blow the smoke through my nose while the receptionist puts me on hold. For the tenth time since dialing this number, I look through the glass doors that lead to my bedroom. Callie is still sleeping, and if tonight is anything like every other night since she was discharged, she’ll be out for at least a few more hours.
When the hold music clicks off, I don’t bother turning back around. I don’t care about the view from my terrace. The view of Callie, sleeping soundly in my bed, is much more appealing. More than that, even. It’s necessary .
Lately, I have to remind myself not to stare at her. It makes her uncomfortable—she’s sensitive about the lacerations—but I need frequent reassurance. I need to know, for certain, that she’s here and safe. She’s alive. I need to know that I’m not going to wake up from this dream only to realize I’m actually living a nightmare.
I blink away the images that try to invade my mind and take another long drag from my cigarette as a familiar voice on the other end of the phone greets me. The same voice I heard in my voicemail inbox yesterday.
“Mr. King, hello. This is Detective Gallagher. We met at the hotel a few weeks ago. ”
“I remember.” I flick the charred end of my cigarette into the ashtray, once again forcing away memories of that night. “I’m assuming this is about my brother.”
“It is. I wanted to let you know that we’ve apprehended your brother. He returned to your mother’s house in Florida two nights ago. We had the house under surveillance, so we were able to arrest him before he even made it through the front door.”
I wait for the surge of sympathy. Of guilt. The emotions used to be inevitable any time my brother or mother were the topic of conversation. That internal conflict has always been familiar and insistent, so I tense for it. I expect it. I stay silent for several breaths, preparing for even a flicker of pain.
It doesn’t come.
“Okay,” I say on an exhale. “Thank you for telling me. What happens next?”
“Well, he violated probation by crossing state lines and being in possession of a firearm, so he’s going back in for that alone. If you’re planning to press charges?—”
“I am.”
The answer comes without hesitation as I watch the comforter on my bed rise and fall with Callie’s steady breathing. Sean is the reason Callie left the hotel that night. He’s the reason I almost lost her. She’d never have?—
I squeeze my eyes shut again and give my head a shake to clear the images before setting my attention back on Callie’s sleeping body.
She’s alive. She’s here. She’s safe.
“Anything else we can use against him, I want to do it,” I add calmly. “The threatening letters he sent to Savannah. The flowers he sent to Callie. The pictures he took of her sister. I want them to use it all. I don’t want him to ever get released. He deserves a life behind bars.”
“I agree with you. I think the prosecutor will, too.”
“Good.” Before I hang up, a question comes to mind, and I allow myself to ask. After this, I’ll be done for good. “How did he get the guns into the arena?”
Detective Gallagher hums, and I hear the clacking of a keyboard before she answers. When she speaks, it sounds like she’s reading the information from a file .
“He was working for the food distribution company as a truck driver in Florida. The night of your concert, he posed as an employee. No one even asked questions.”
Something Sean had said the day I stopped by my mom’s house flashes in my memory. How many crates of nacho cheese you reckon I gotta deliver ‘til I’m makin’ what you’re makin’?
“Huh.” I shake my head and mumble under my breath. “Nacho cheese.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I huff out a tired laugh. “I just never thought I’d wish my brother had stuck with boosting cars.”
For the briefest of moments, I almost ask the detective if Sean has said why. Why did he bring the guns? Why did he start targeting Callie? Why did he stalk Sav at all? Before the words can even form in my throat, though, they disappear. I don’t actually care. I don’t want to know why he did any of it. I just want to be done with him. The realization is freeing.
“Well, thank you for calling and letting me know, Detective Gallagher. I appreciate it.”
“Of course, Mr. King. And I was wanting to ask...”
She trails off for a breath, hesitating. People are so afraid to ask about Callie, and to an extent, I get it. No one wants to pry. No one wants to seem nosy. No one wants to be told to mind their fucking business by Torren King. I cut the detective some slack and give an answer before she can ask.
“Callie is doing well, Detective. She’s been discharged and is home.” I smile to myself as a I speak, my eyes never leaving my bed. She’s here. She’s safe. I take a deep breath. “She’s healing,” I say finally. “Thank you for asking.”
After I hang up with the detective, I pull up my mom’s contact. I block her number, then delete it from my phone. I do the same with Sean’s, though I doubt he’ll be using his cell while in prison. When that’s done, I call Hammond. He answers on the third ring despite the late hour.
“Torren. Is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine, Ham. I just got off the phone with Detective Gallagher, actually. ”
“She told you about Sean?”
“She did.” I take one last drag from my cigarette, then stub it out in the ashtray. “I want the checks to stop.”
Hammond doesn’t respond right away, but I know he knows what I’m talking about. He’s been against sending my mom money from the very beginning, but he’s done what I asked without fail. Every payout from the label, Ham’s sent a portion of my check to Florida. For almost a decade.
“It will be done by morning.”
“Thanks.”
“Torren.”
“Yeah, I know. You told me so.”
“No.”
“Then, what?”
“I’m proud of you.”
My lips turn up at the corners. I think hell might have just frozen over. I almost say as much, but I don’t want to ruin the moment.
“Thank you, Hammond,” I say sincerely. “That means a lot.”
Hours later, I jolt up from the bed with a gasp.
I rub at my eyes, chasing away the picture of Callie, upside down and bleeding. Of Sav’s Porsche, a heap of twisted metal. Of a gravestone.
I turn to Callie and stare at her until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I focus on her chest until I’m certain it’s moving, then I hover my trembling fingers centimeters from her lips. Each steady exhale from her mouth works to calm my heart rate as I chant over and over in my head.
She’s here. She’s safe. She’s alive. She’s here. She’s safe. She’s alive.
When my hands have stopped shaking and my heart is beating at a normal pace, I ease myself back under the comforter. I’m careful not to bump Callie’s arm as I snake my hand around her waist and rest my palm on her stomach so I can feel it rise and fall with her breathing. The incision site from her emergency surgery is right below my hand. If I slipped just a fraction of an inch lower, I’d be touching it, but I don’t. I don’t want to hurt her. I just need to know she’s real. Then, I can get some sleep.
It’s barely dawn when I realize I’m alone.
I sweep my hand over the bed finding the sheets cold, and fear seizes my lungs. I kick the blankets from my body and rush to the bathroom, but it’s empty. Trying not to panic, I make my way to the living room, but it’s empty, too. She’s not on the terrace. She’s not in the kitchen. I nearly jog down the hallway, then skid to a stop when I find her sitting at the piano.
Slowly, I release the breath I’d been holding, and I walk to her side. She doesn’t look at me. She just keeps her eyes on the piano keys with her casted left arm cradled in her lap and her right arm hanging lifeless at her side.
She looks so small right now. So lost.
My T-shirt hangs loosely off her body, and the laceration on her face stands out sharply against her pale skin. Her hair has grown a bit since it was first shaved, but it’s still buzzed short, and the pink wound is still clearly visible on her scalp. She blinks, and a single tear slips from her eyelashes. It rolls down her cheek and catches the long, healing wound there, following it to her chin.
“Firebird,” I whisper, and she flicks her eyes to me.
“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.” She lets out a sad laugh. “Usually when I can’t sleep, I...” She blinks again and shakes her head. “Anyway. Sorry. I forgot.”
I take a seat beside her on the piano bench. “You don’t have to apologize. You can come here anytime. It’s yours.”
She sniffles and nods. “Right. Mine.”
Callie lifts her right hand and hovers it over the keys. For a moment, I think she’ll try to play something, but then she drops her arm back to her side, and my heart aches. I can’t imagine how painful it would be if playing music was taken from me. It’s the one thing I’m good at. It’s the one thing that fills me with purpose. I wouldn’t know how to even begin moving forward without it.
This must be agonizing for her, and the longer she sits in silence, staring blankly at the piano keys, the more I can feel her grief. It’s a living being in this room. In this apartment. No matter how close I get, or how tightly I hold her, her grief is there, taking up space between us. She’s wrapped herself up in it. All I want to do is help, but I can’t figure out how to penetrate the grief.
I open my mouth to ask her what she needs—to once again ask her how I can make it better—but then I snap it shut. She won’t answer. She doesn’t know. And the last thing I should be doing is putting that burden on her, anyway.
Slowly, I wrap my arm around her waist, and my muscles relax when she leans her body into mine. I blow out a slow, relieved breath when she rests her head on my chest.
“I know I’m being ungrateful. I should just be happy to be alive. I know I should stop dwelling on this...”
“No, Callie. It’s okay to be sad about this. It’s okay to grieve. You’re not ungrateful. You’ve gone through something traumatic, and you need to be gentle with yourself.”
She falls silent again, and I wish I knew what was going through her head. I’m sure it’s a lot of conflict. I would give anything to help her sort through it.
“Let’s go back to bed. I’m fine.”
I don’t let my shoulders droop with defeat. I’d give anything to just have her talk to me about this.
“Are you sure?” I press a kiss to the top of her head, her short, soft hair tickling my lips.
“I’m sure. I’m just tired.”
“Okay,” I say, giving her once last kiss. “Let’s go back to bed.”
I lead us back to the bedroom in silence, and when we climb back into bed, she curls up beside me and lets me hold her. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of her bodywash, then listen to her breathing until it’s deep and even.
She’s here and safe and alive. We’ll get through this.
Callie’s got an e-reader lying in her lap when I step out onto the terrace.
She gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s out of bed today, though. She’s reading. That’s a good sign.
In the five weeks since the accident, I feel like we’ve each lived ten lives, but hers have been the most turbulent. I still have frequent nightmares, but they vanish the moment I open my eyes. The minute I find Callie, I can breathe again. But for her? Her fears don’t disappear in the daytime hours. If anything, daylight is worse. At night, while asleep, she can dream. Awake, she has to contend with reality.
These days, when I’m lucky enough to see her smile, I find myself sneaking longer glances, taking mental pictures so I can frame it in my memory. So I can use the stored joy to uplift us both next time she’s awash in sun-drenched darkness. Grief has permeated the walls and seeped into the cracks. I’ve found myself searching for anyway to soothe it.
“Hey.” Her voice is raspy and quiet, like she hasn’t used it yet today. Like she’d rather not be using it now. “How was the meeting?”
“Fine.” I bend down and kiss her. “We’ve adjusted the calendar so we can get some studio time once everyone is back from Canada, and we’ll play the LA make-up shows before we leave for the UK.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you got that figured out.” She purses her lips. “You really should reconsider skipping out on the Canadian shows, though.”
I shake my head. “I’m staying with you. Beck’s already agreed to continue filling in.”
Callie arches a brow. “So, he’s Beck now?”
“He’s a good bassist,” I say with a shrug. “He’s earned my respect.” I give her a smirk. “And I have no reason to be jealous since I’m the one you’re in love with.”
“I might have liked you better when you were jealous and possessive.”
Her lips twitch with the urge to smile. That twitch makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. She’s being playful, and I crave more of it. Moments like this, when I see a spark of life behind her sad eyes, I grow even more desperate. I would do anything, be anything, if I can just make this moment last. If I can just get her full smile to break free.
I let my smirk grow, quirk a brow, and lower my voice. “I’m still possessive, Firebird. But I can act jealous if you want me to.”
She shivers and her eyes flicker with heat. It’s a look I haven’t seen in weeks, and lust stirs low in my stomach. I hold her every night, but I miss touching her. Feeling her. I miss knowing she wants me. When she worries her lower lip, my restraint almost snaps, but then her spine straightens, and a curtain closes on her expression.
“If I ask you to act jealous, will you fire Becket and go on tour?”
“Nice try,” I say with a forced huff of laughter. I try to act unbothered, but I’m worried I fail. “Anyway. Becket has it handled. I’m here with you, and that’s final.”
Her lips bow into a frown. It’s the same look she gave me last time we talked about Becket filling in for me in Canada. I expect I’ll get the same look again the next time this conversation pops up. Apparently, that’s final means nothing to the love of my life.
“You don’t need to stay here for me. I’m not even doing anything. I’m just...existing between follow-ups right now. It’s boring. You should go tour Canada instead of potatoing with me.”
She keeps asking why I would want to put my whole life on hold for her. What she doesn’t understand is that she’s become the most important aspect of my life.
“Firebird,” I say clearly. “There is literally nowhere I would rather be than potatoing with you.” She rolls her eyes, and I laugh. “I’m serious. Just existing here with you is better than anything I could be doing somewhere else.”
“Well.” She squints at me. “You’re full of charm today, aren’t you?”
I wink, then gently take the e-reader from her and set it on the small table beside her chair.
“I have something I want to show you,” I say, offering her my hand. “It’s a surprise.”
“Oh. Should I be scared?” She pushes to her feet and follows me as I lead her through the apartment.
“Patience,” I tease. “You’re lucky I’m not blindfolding you.”
She lets out a laugh that almost resembles a giggle, and the sound seizes my chest. I miss her laugh. I’m hoping that laugh means this will work in my favor, but as I turn down the hallway that leads to the second living room, her steps slow. When I look at her, her brow is creased with worry, so I rub my thumb over the back of her hand.
“Just trust me,” I say, seeking her gaze. “Just trust me, okay?”
Callie hasn’t gone anywhere near her piano since that early morning I found her sitting dazedly on the bench. She even uses the ensuite bathroom so she can steer clear of the hallway that leads to the room housing the piano. She has a few more weeks before she can start physical therapy, but something tells me the sooner she gets her hands on the keys, the better she’ll start to feel. If she continues to avoid it, her grief and fear will only fester.
I give her an encouraging smile and squeeze her hand, then she nods. Once in the living room, I take her to the piano bench and gesture for her to sit. Reluctantly, she does, and I take a seat to the left of her.
I glance at her. Her posture is stiff, her face contorted in a frown, and her eyes are focused somewhere just above the piano keys. Her breathing is steady and even, she protectively cradles her casted arm in a way that makes my chest tight with sympathy.
I close my eyes and hope like hell I’m doing the right thing. Then, I find the C-sharp octave, place my left hand on the keys, and begin to play only the left-hand part of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
As the descending bass note fills the room, I hear Callie’s breath hitch. The moment I play the B octave for the second measure, she turns her body to face me. “Torren?”
I take my hand off the keys, look into those pale green eyes that I love, and give her a soft smile. “Let me play your bass notes, Firebird.”
She bounces her eyes between mine, fear giving way to uncertainty, and all I want to do is hold her. I want to give her back what she’s lost. I wish I could take away that fear and replace it with confidence.
“Play with me.” I kiss her once, then whisper against her lips, “Let me play your bass notes.”
Her breath tickles my lips as she inhales and exhales slowly. She doesn’t speak, but she jerks out a nod, and that’s all I need.
I turn back to the keys and find the C-sharp octave once more. When Callie moves over to place her feet on the pedals, I can’t fight the hopeful, upward curve of my lips. When I begin to play, so does she, and though our pace is slower than I’ve heard her play in the past, we’re still beautifully in sync.
When I hear her start to cry, it takes everything in me to keep my eyes on the keys in front of me. Before last week, I hadn’t played the piano in twelve years. If I look away for even a second, I could ruin this moment by fumbling the keys. I will let nothing ruin this moment.
But god, do I wish I could see her face .
She rocks lightly as we play. It’s the same motion I’ve seen from her when she’s losing herself in a piece, and I know the tears streaming down her face are not from sadness. They’re from relief.
I bet her eyes are closed. I bet there’s a serene smile on her full lips. I bet she looks like she’s completely, totally free. Free of heartbreak. Free of pain. Free of dissonance.
Nothing but perfect harmony.
I hope every note chips away at the fear she’s collected over the last five weeks. I hope it starts to mend the cracks in her heart and confidence. I think it will.
We stop playing when we finish the first movement, and for several breaths, we sit in silence. I can hear her sniffling as she works to calm her shaky breathing. I watch her wipe tears from her face in my periphery. I keep my eyes on my hands to give her time. To let her settle into her emotions. I know this was probably overwhelming for her. I want to give her space to adjust.
Slowly, I feel her turn her body toward mine, and I allow myself to mirror the movement. When I settle my eyes on her face, I’m overwhelmed by what I see.
She’s flushed deep pink. Her eyes are red, and her lashes are matted together. Her cheeks are shiny and wet from the tears still falling down her face.
And she’s smiling.
She’s pure joy, and my own smile is unbidden in response. She’s so fucking beautiful in this moment. In every moment, but especially now. This vision of her is one that I will think of often.
“Torren...I...” Her voice cracks, and her words trail off as she closes her mouth around a whimper. “I...”
“I know.” I wrap her in my arms and hold her to my chest. “I know, baby.”
Callie’s body shakes against me as she cries. Her tears seep through my shirt, warming my skin. Out of nowhere, a vision of her from ArtFusion is pulled from my memory. Dressed in feathers and flames, clever and carefree. It’s that memory, that vision of her dressed as a phoenix, that confirms it for me: this moment is a catharsis. A rebirth.
She’s here. She’s safe. She’s alive .
“My firebird,” I murmur against her. “Rising from the ashes.”
She laughs lightly and shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. “I love you.”
I smile. “I love you, too.”