Chapter 11
“S
o do you want me to get hold of the Divine Justice manager for you tomorrow?” I ask Tom as we find a spot by the wall of the crowded third venue to wait for our final band of the night—my second pick. It’s standing room only in here.
Divine Justice had been okay, not spectacular, but I could see their appeal. And their songs were catchy, so it was obvious why Tom might be interested in them from a commercial point of view.
As we’d watched them, I’d almost reached for the scorecard for him to fill out. But, embarrassed by the fact it’s still blank from the first horrendous episode, I left it where it was.
I just hope to God the band we’re waiting for doesn’t make me look as much of a fool as that first one did—it’s like the group that got on stage in that hideous bar was completely different from the one I’d listened to online.
At least no one in this place looks like they might stab me if I accidentally step on their toe, so that’s a good start.
Although the last thing I wanted was for Tom to think of me as a helpless waif he needed to rescue on his white charger, I was definitely relieved when he appeared by my side as I was trying to negotiate my way around that Megadeth guy.
And the way he put his hands on my waist and held on tight as he found us a route out of that place… Well, good God.
Not only was it the first time I’d ever felt someone take charge purely because they had my interests at heart, but there was a moment where I was pushed right back against him and I swear to God I felt a hardening against my butt.
I’m not sure if it was infuriating, thrilling, or terrifying that he might have the same lustful thoughts about me as I do about him. But it would be best if I stopped trying to figure it out and just forgot about it. And anyway, any straight man’s dick would probably stiffen at the brush of any woman’s ass. Isn’t that just how they’re wired?
So, it means nothing. And even if it did mean something, that would be worse. Terrible. I certainly don’t need that.
There’s only one thing worse than any man being interested in me right now and that’s Tom being interested in me right now. Or ever, actually.
My whole life’s focus is Dylan. I’m not about to get involved with anyone. Much less someone who will vanish back to London and leave me behind for a second time.
There’s no way this man is shattering my heart more than once.
We just need to get along while I work for him and we live under the same roof. And that’s all it shall be. Purely practical getting along.
A couple beers and Divine Justice later, I’m a bit more relaxed about the whole thing. Particularly since my backside dried out after the humiliating stuck-heel incident.
Few things are more likely to wreck a good ole defiant stomp-off than crashing ass first into a cold puddle.
And why did Tom have to be so nice and give me his coat to sit on in the car? That was way too freaking adorable.
Thank God I’m moving to California soon and he’ll be going back to London. That prevents any danger I might tumble right back down the Tom rabbit hole.
Yes, thank God.
“Not sure about Divine Justice,” Tom says. “They didn’t grab me the way I’d hoped. Let’s see what this last lot are like.”
“Well, if my first selection was anything to go by, we might as well leave now.” I take the final folder from my bag and hand it to him.
He leans back against the wall and flips through my notes. Why are those chunky rings on his fingers so goddamn sexy? Is it because I can imagine the cool metal against my skin as he skims his hand over it?
The crowd erupts in applause, jolting me back from thoughts I know I shouldn’t be having. Just a few days ago I would have cheerfully given him a profanity-laden explanation of exactly where he could go. But now I’m thinking about his crotch against my butt and imagining him stroking me all over.
I need to get a fucking grip and focus on Jane Doe and the Stags who’ve just run onto the stage.
Tom closes the folder and tucks it under his arm so he can join in the clapping.
In seconds it’s obvious this band has it. The lead singer, presumably Jane Doe, has an amazing voice with a quality somewhere between blues and rock. She’s sexy, charismatic, engaged with the audience, and means what she’s singing. The four guys behind her are a tight band who clearly rehearse to within an inch of their lives.
And the crowd loves them. All eyes are on the stage and the room is already buzzing.
I look at Tom. He looks at me. A knowing and ridiculously alluring smile forms on his lips as he nods slowly.
Yes!
A thrill rushes through me. I’m certain it’s not only from Tom’s smile. No, it’s from knowing I got it right. That I do have skills other than being Dylan’s mom and cleaning and organizing. I know music. I always have. And I haven’t lost it.
I’d listened to Jane Doe and the Stags online a few times, so as their set goes on, I have no problem singing along with most of their songs.
Even the ones I haven’t heard before are easy to pick up. For me, anyway. Grasping lyrics and melodies has always been effortless.
Tom leans down, putting his mouth way closer to my ear than he needs to. There’s a hint of beer on his breath, and a strand of his woodsy-scented hair flops down and brushes my forehead. He scoops it back off his face. “Don’t you miss it?”
My singing is halted by the tremor in my chest. A tremor sparked not just from the breath and the hair or the look in his eye that says he knows me, he gets me. But also from the way his question hits at the deepest part of me, at everything I gave up for my son.
I shrug. “That was a different life.”
“You still sound amazing.”
My cheeks heat like a bashful schoolgirl’s after a compliment from the hot jock. “Thank you.”
“It should be you up there.” He nods toward the stage.
I shake my head. “Too late. That was then. This is now.”
Five more perfectly performed songs and plenty of singing and dancing later, the band wraps up to applause, cheers, and whistles. They bounce off stage, leaving an electrified crowd behind.
“Give me that scorecard,” Tom says as the noise dies down.
He’s humoring me. I could tell he was only being kind earlier when he said it was a great idea. “You thought it was silly.”
“I absolutely did not.” He holds out his hand. And does seem to mean it. “Please.”
Rolling my eyes, I reach into my bag, take out the laminated sheet along with a marker, and slap them on his palm.
“Thank you.”
The buzzy crowd around us starts to dissipate as Tom pulls the cap off the pen with his shiny white teeth and holds it there while he writes something on the card.
He jabs the pen back into the cap but misses and plants a black dot above the right corner of his mouth.
A giggle bubbles up that I can’t contain, even by pressing my hand over my mouth.
He jabs the pen again and this time hits the target.
“Does this shit come off?” he asks as he rubs the vague area where the marker landed.
“Rubbing alcohol. Lesson learned when one of Dylan’s friends drew a Groucho Marx mustache on him. In red.”
“Think of it as a beauty mark for now.” Tom wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Anyway, my verdict on the evening.”
He flips the scorecard around. There’s just one entry. Filling the Rank of Awesomeness row, he’s written, “Hannah 10/10.”
I yawn and stretch in the back seat of the car as we hurtle south along I-95, headlights flashing past on the other side of the road, red taillights dotting the darkness in front of us.
“I wonder if Dylan’s in bed yet. Or if he convinced Maggie and Jim that I totally allow him to stay up playing video games till midnight.”
“He can sleep it off tomorrow if he has,” Tom says. “Is he into music?”
“Ha,” I scoff. “What kid is into the same thing as their parents? I’ve always been into music, so it’s not cool. I hate video games, so they’re the coolest thing ever.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tom snaps his fingers. “Now I remember being a thirteen-year-old boy.”
“I remember you being a thirteen-year-old boy too.”
“I was cute, right?” He peers at me from the sides of narrowed eyes.
“You were annoying.”
“Only took me a couple years to change your mind.” He nudges me playfully with his elbow. Or is it flirtation?
Either way, it sends a tingle of electricity up my arm and across my chest. Which is also annoying.
“Well, I’d never have imagined that at thirty-three I’d be sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven car with you after a night scouting bands for your London-based international music label.”
“Me neither. And if I hadn’t been trying to impress you by learning guitar from Uncle Bob’s neighbor, I might never have been in the band I was in, then realized my talent wasn’t in playing music but in spotting those who’re good at it, and Garage Records might never have been born.”
What was that?
“Hold on.” I swivel to look directly at him. “You were learning to play guitar in London to impress me?”
“Yeah. Bob and Linda’s neighbors had a son a bit older than me who played guitar. And one day when we were around there for a barbecue, we were both bored, so he started to teach me. And I figured if I could learn enough to play a song for you when I got home, you’d be super impressed.”
My heart surges. He had intended to come back. And to impress me when he did.
He turns his head away to look out the side window, his hair shielding his face from me. “I had this wild fantasy that maybe you’d sing and I’d play guitar, and we’d get a deal and tour and see the world together, and…”
He heaves a sigh so big his wide shoulders rise and fall.
“I’d thought you’d forgotten about me.” My words come out as a whisper.
“Never.” He turns back and tucks his hair behind his ear so he can see me. “Because I stopped being such a shit while I was in London, Maggie and Jim, and Bob and Linda, thought being there was doing me good and it would be better for me to stay there a while. And I didn’t fight it because I’d started to have fun, mainly with the music stuff, and somehow some of the darkness had lifted a little.”
The harsh shadows from the streetlights and passing vehicles highlight the deep furrows in his brow, the worry and fatigue lines around his eyes. “Then the managing bands thing took off quickly. I started the label, and it was so all-consuming I had to stay to ride the wave. And now…well, now it’s seventeen years later.”
Hot spikes form in my throat.
“And now I know you hate me for it,” he adds.
And with those words, he washes away every remaining drop of the animosity that racked me for so long after we lost contact. All the anger and hurt that compounded and compressed until it was this tightly packed ball of grudge and resentment that lived and breathed inside me and became who I was, crumbles into dust.
“I just loved you,” I tell him.
His sorrow at the pain he caused me is clear in the firm set of his lips.
“I know,” he whispers. And out of the darkness, his fingers land on my face.
His touch is thrilling and comforting and something I should back away from, but I don’t.
It’s important he knows I understand, that I get it now. “You’re right. You were just a kid. And the grown-ups wanted to do what was best for you. I get that. I get why you stayed.”
I can’t help but lean my head into his hand. “But I was a kid too. And I missed you. And I was waiting for you to come back. Or to go visit you. Or something.”
His thumb tick-tocks across my cheek. “I know that now. And I’m sorry.”
He takes a deep breath. “You know I loved you too, right?”
I nod against his hand.
“And you know what?” He pulls my face closer to his and leans toward me. “I don’t think I ever stopped.”
My belly flips and my heart races, every inch of my skin prickling with possibility. The spark between us is still here, something I can almost reach out and grab. Is a do-over possible? Can people who loved each other as kids love each other again as adults? Can an impossible situation be made possible?
Flashes of passing lights illuminate Tom’s parted lips, that silly black dot from the marker pen just above them.
Our car lurches.
The driver shouts, “Holy shit.”
The brakes lock.
Not wearing seat belts, Tom and I are flung forward against the back of the front seats.
“Sorry, folks,” the driver says as he accelerates to normal speed again and we drop back against the back seat. “That semi cut in front of the car in the next lane, and I thought he was heading right for us. Didn’t mean to shake you up.”
But thank God he did. Shaking up was exactly what I needed.
“It’s okay,” Tom tells the driver and puts his hand on my thigh. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I shift away from him till his hand falls from my leg. “Looking forward to getting back and seeing Dylan.”
The last thing I need to do is fall for Tom all over again. And get hurt all over again.
I’m moving to California for a better life for us. A better life for Dylan.