Chapter 2
Riot
“Mother trucker turtle fucker!”
Jane’s face reddens with thinly veiled anger as she tries to position her too-small hands around the F major chord. She’s only nine, and I doubt her mother would approve of her colorful vocabulary, so I thank God it’s not my problem.
“You’ll get it eventually. Have you been doing your hand exercises?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Jane purses her lips, her brows meeting in a slight frown. “Maybe…”
I roll my eyes. “Well, there’s half your problem. You’re trying to advance faster than you’re willing to put in the work.”
Jane’s frown deepens to a scowl. “Nuh-uh.”
“Yes-huh.” I lean back with my arms crossed, giving her my no-nonsense stare. “I know. I was your age once, learning the same things. I know how much it sucks, but you have to do it.”
Her expression crumples, and I give her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “The good news is, it gets better. Just keep working at it, and you’ll be a pro in no time.”
She looks down at her hand, her chin wobbling with a sudden wave of emotion.
“Mom says if I don’t get better soon, she’ll pull me out and put me in ballet.
She doesn’t like the noise.” Jane turns to face me, tears brimming in her eyes.
“I don’t want to do ballet, Mr. Riot. I want to play guitar in a band like you do. ”
Ah, shit. I look at her crestfallen expression, my chest squeezing with sympathy. Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved…
“If it’s something you want, Jane, then don’t you ever give it up. It’s only your third lesson, and you’re doing very well. If you practice every day like you’re supposed to, if you’re dedicated to learning, you’ll get better. I’m sure your mother will see that and be reasonable.”
Jane shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.
She says I’m starting ballet next week, and nothing will make her change her mind.
” She sniffles sadly, her gaze flicking to me.
“Unless… unless you talked to her. She really, really likes you, and I know you could convince her to let me keep taking lessons with you if you tried! Maybe if you invited her to dinner…?” Jane widens her eyes expectantly.
“Well? What do you say? Please, please, please, pleaseeeee!”
I sigh deeply. “If you really think it will help, I can have a word with her when she picks you up. Tell her how well you’re doing and assure her you’ll be able to play an actual song soon.
” All at once, the tears dry, and Jane gets a mischievous look in her eyes.
I narrow mine on her. “But that last suggestion is out of the question, Jane.”
“But—”
“No buts.” I lean back with a groan, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to stave off an oncoming headache. “You know, you could have just asked me. The tears were unnecessary.”
She giggles. “They never hurt.”
Did I just get emotionally manipulated by a nine-year-old? I rub a hand over my face. “I need a coffee. Practice the chords I taught you, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
I place my guitar on its rack and head toward the stuffy closet the owner—Mac—has dubbed the break room. All it is is a counter and a shitty, mostly broken Keurig, but you won’t hear me complain. It offers me moments of reprieve when I need to be alone, and for that I’m thankful.
I pop a pod into the machine and press start, listening to it struggle and groan to life. This coffee machine and I have so much in common. Used up. Broken. Practically worthless. Just waiting to be put out of our misery.
I lean against the counter, lowering my chin to my chest with a heavy sigh. My eyes flutter closed as a wave of exhaustion pours over me, curving my shoulders inward and filling my chest with a hollow pit of misery.
I’ve been in Saltbloom for three weeks. Three weeks of work-filled days and sleepy small-town nights.
Three weeks of ignoring the angry scowls of people I pass in the street, of pretending I don’t hear their scornful whispers and sly gestures.
Three horrible, heart-shattering weeks of breathing in the salted air that reminds me so much of Rush.
I die a little more inside with each passing moment I’m here. Each time I look at the ocean or pass by one of the spots we used to frequent, my wounds reopen, and it’s like I lose him all over again.
Teaching guitar makes the pain infinitely worse.
With each chord I strum, I’m reminded of the last time Rush and I were on stage.
Whenever one of my students progresses and gets that same look on their face that Rush used to, I’m reminded of the endless hours I stayed up, teaching my little brother new chords in our childhood bedroom.
And when that happens, I remember that if I had never gotten involved, if I had never pushed Rush to be like me, he might still be here.
The sputtering of the coffee machine pulls me out of my dark thoughts, and I push off the counter with a small scoff.
There’s no sense in thinking about the past, especially not now.
All I have to do is make it through five more months of community service, and then I can leave this town and never look back.
Never think about it, or my grief, ever again.
I grab the coffee cup, carefully drawing it to my mouth. I’m about to take a sip when—
“Riot!” A hand claps against my shoulder, causing me to slosh drops of boiling coffee over the front of my shirt.
“Fuck!” I whip around, nearly gouging an eye out on one of the green spikes of my boss’s mohawk. “What the hell, Mac?” I demand, gesturing to my splattered shirt. “You can’t sneak up on me like that.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so jumpy.” Mac waves me off, his moss-colored eyes shining with mirth.
“I just wanted to say good morning to my favorite little rock star. Is that really so wrong?” An arrogant smile spreads across his lips, revealing a set of bulky veneers he clearly got at a discount.
“Mind making me one of those?” he asks, gesturing to my coffee.
“I’ll even sign off on an extra hour for you. ”
I shove my half-empty cup into his chest, fighting the urge to dump it over his head instead. “Here you go, dearest. Drink up.”
Mac’s attitude makes me long for the starry-eyed fan I met when I first started working here. But that was before I crushed his little dreams. Before I showed him the real me.
Mac frowns but still raises the cup to his lips for a sip. “You're a dick, Riot.”
A hollow laugh pushes past my lips as I shove another pod into the machine. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that.”
“Uh-huh.” I place a new cup under the nozzle, wishing with every fiber of my being that he’ll go away. Mac really is a dick, but it's not like anyone would say it to his face besides me. He’s a scary motherfucker when pissed off, but I just so happen to be slightly more so.
“If I lie and say you’re not a dick, will you leave me alone? I have a headache,” I grumble, tired of this conversation. I just wanted a minute alone.
“What’s got your panties in a twist? You’re a lot cagier than normal.”
I turn toward him with a scowl, deciding not to comment. “Is there something you need, Mac?”
Mac shrugs. “Just thought we’d have some friendly conversation.
I was bored.” He turns his attention to the clock above my head as he strokes his long gray beard.
The garish fluorescent lights of the guitar shop highlight the bleeding green tattoos on his knuckles.
“I can't fucking wait to go home. I got a six-pack and a titty flick calling my name.”
Gross. “Sounds delightful,” I murmur, willing the busted machine to heat the water faster. Go away, go away, go away, go away—
“Welp, I guess I'd better get down to business. It was good talking to you, Riot.” Mac claps me roughly on the shoulder. “Have fun with the ankle biter.”
I shoot a glare at his back as he saunters toward his office. Good riddance.
Checking the time, I sigh when I realize I’ve left Jane alone for longer than I meant to. Snagging my fresh coffee, I hustle out of the break room with every intention to get back to my student. But then the front door opens.
I’m stopped in my tracks as the woman steps into the store, her shocking pink hair framing comically large, sky-blue eyes that flit around the store with wonder and excitement.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m certain my heart has stopped beating, yet my blood is pumping, my mind racing.
It’s her.
The girl with the sad eyes. The angel in the golden dress.
She’s here. Here, in Saltbloom. Here, right in front of me, close enough to touch. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt instead of her elegant golden dress, her pale pink locks pulled up into a messy bun—but I have no doubt in my mind that it’s her.
A bolt of lightning strikes my heart the moment our eyes meet, the contact boiling my blood as crackling tendrils of electricity race across my skin.
Time slows as I watch her lips move around words I can’t hear past the buzzing in my ears.
I blink, unable to respond, to move, to be anything other than utterly entranced by the woman in front of me.
“You,” I whisper. “I… can’t believe you… you’re here.”
The woman blinks, clearly surprised by my choked, incoherent response. Make that two of us.
“Um… is that okay?” She stares up at me, eyes widening and pouty pink lips parting in worry. “Was I supposed to make an appointment or something?”
“No!” I wonder how fast a heart is able to beat before it bursts. I guess we’re about to find out. “No, you don’t need an appointment,” I reiterate.
“Oh. Good.”