Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Callum
I’m tired of laying in bed, but I feign sleep when I hear Dom open my bedroom door to check on me. Then I hear him quietly close the door, and my ears track his heavy treads until another door opens and closes. One down, one to go.
When I hear Pen’s lighter steps approach, I close my eyes and again pretend to be asleep. Pen, satisfied I’m still resting, leaves my room and exits the house through the back slider.
Finally. I exhale and sit up, the movement easier than when we arrived three days ago. As much as I love them and their company, since we arrived at Tobias’s place, they haven’t been their usual selves.
They hardly speak to each other. It’s almost as if they’re intentionally avoiding any interaction unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s incredibly frustrating and feels petty. I’ve tried talking to each of them, but neither is willing to discuss it with me.
Pen is as gentle as ever toward me, but every time I catch him watching Dom, I can almost feel a quiet anger simmering within him. I’ve asked him what is wrong, but he brushes off the question and walks away.
And this nonsense about the bedrooms? They decided I should have the master bedroom with its king-size bed while they’re sharing the smaller room with a queen-size mattress.
How ridiculous is it to see two big, hulking men—especially big, hulking men who are not getting along, sharing a small space.
I keep thinking one of them is going to fall off the bed.
I offered several times to take the smaller room, but Dom refuses and Pen just shakes his head.
Despite whatever beef they have with each other, though, they are both constantly checking up on me. It’s comforting, and it’s making me crazy.
I carefully get out of bed, and grab a pair of pajama pants and an old Night Rider t-shirt I’ve had forever.
I pass a mirror that’s hanging on the wall.
After Connor made a comment in the hospital about what my face looked like, I made sure to avoid all mirrors—even the ones in the bathroom. Until now.
I glance into it and pause. This is the first time in a week I’ve seen my face, and it’s still a little frightening. The image reflected back is a spectrum of colors, ranging from purplish blue to orangey yellow. It’s an improvement on what Connor described, but it’s still obvious I was beaten up.
The headache from the concussion is gone, my pain has eased some, too, and I can open both eyes now.
What’s still a mess is my ego—that got bruised up like a bitch.
It’s been years since someone has put the hurt on me like that fucker did, but at least I’m here and alive, which is the most important thing.
Before leaving the room, I put my ear to the door and listen. From the lack of noise, I assume I’m alone in the house. Though the panic in my gut is a constant reminder to be on alert, for the first time since we left my place in Colorado the need to relax is stronger.
I make my way into the kitchen and eye the dirty dishes piled in the sink.
Dom and Pen’s relentless insistence that I rest and not lift a finger to do anything around the place has become nerve racking.
Sure, I’m still a little sore, but I’m as capable as anyone else.
Especially Pen—the guy was shot twice but no one expects him to slack off.
Hell, they won’t even allow me outside to enjoy the late spring weather. It’s righteously pissing me off.
At least neither of them has pushed for a discussion about a relationship—especially Dom.
Maybe I’m giving off standoffish vibes. Or maybe they’ve changed their minds about wanting me.
While both are possible, I’d bet Dom’s giving me time to wage war in my head before he approaches me on it.
Damn. Guess that means he does know me pretty well.
If I’m honest with myself, the real reason for most of my irritability is simpler than I let myself believe.
I'm starting to feel the ache of loneliness at night, an ache caused by being without them. I know they mean well, truly. But can’t they see?
I want them here, beside me. Yet I can’t ask them to join me because that will give them hope and open myself up to the relationship discussion.
I give up on the idea of doing dishes and walk through the living area, taking in the changes to the space.
It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but this place is really transformed.
Tobias and Danny have made the rustic house more like a home away from home.
The original warm browns and golds are now accented with pops of vibrant colors that I’m sure Danny contributed to the place.
I feel myself slowly easing into the calm.
As I stand in front of the slider, looking out toward the dark of night, I take a slow breath in, and think. I’ve done enough resting. Right now, I need to focus on what’s coming up for Warrior Black.
There’s an album that needs finishing. Dante informed us last month that Ron has set up a few spotlight performances and appearances in the next several months. God, I miss that man. I hope he kicks cancer’s ass and takes back his rightful place with us.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Dante. They are formidable and know their stuff.
But Ron is the one who made Warrior Black what it is today.
A successful rock band. I don’t want to let him down.
This sitting around, doing nothing but resting, isn’t in my nature.
Especially when there is so much work to do.
We are going back into the studio in two months to record the new album—and we are five songs—maybe six, short from completing the album.
And I can’t forget Rocktoberfest in October, at Black Rock. When Dante told us Warrior Black had been invited back—again, it felt like we’d arrived. And this year’s band line up is even more awesome than last year’s. It’s going to be fucking spectacular.
My excitement is crushed in the next breath, when I realize that if Tobias and Dean can’t find out who is behind the attack on me, who hired the female hitman at the hospital, and who shot up my house, the label won’t allow us to be exposed at Rocktoberfest or go on tour.
“Take a breath,” I tell myself and slowly walk over to the Barclay loveseat.
I smile when I see that Dom or Pen has taken my song book from my bag and set it on the bladder-shaped side table. And right next to it is my granddad’s guitar resting on the stand.
The moment I catch sight of the instrument, my energy revs up and my mind automatically shift into music. I pick it up and then sit and lay the guitar across my lap. After a quick tune, I run a finger across the strings, pulling a familiar melody from the precious instrument.
Starting off with something simple, I replay the song I sang in the hospital. I softly croon the words my granddad taught me before I switch it to one of our latest songs—the one that hit number three on the Billboard chart.
As I close my eyes, new phrases of melody filter through my brain and I can see a song building in my head, along with the accompanying tune.
I picture what Raef would play—jotting the notes down in the notebook. Then Bobby on the keyboard, and Wildman—Connor on the drums, until it comes together for me.
The interwoven sounds—practically a symphony of instruments playing like a concert in my head, but with no words. Yet.
Then I envision Danny on stage—mic in hand, and one by one, line by line, the words rush forth like water shooting through a break in a dam.
Note after note, word after word, this new song hits a certain part of my soul and I’m tearing up.
Though Danny was the person I pictured singing the song, the words are mine for Dom and Pen. No matter how much I try to ignore the fact that I’ve been falling in love with two men—for a while now, the idea of admitting the truth about my feelings makes me clam up. Every. Damn. Time.
But the song—this song can help me say what my heart wants to scream.
There’s fire in their eyes as we dance in the dark.
The storm, the crash, the rush of my heart.
Three kinds of love built on passion’s fire.
Three kinds of temptation—lust, craving, desire.
But love like that don't last too long.
I’m in for a heart break, or am I wrong?
One is a lesson, a fear to love.
One is of peace, a breath from above.
But I’ve no need of a spotlight, just need to be me.
The kind of love that sets my spirit free.
Three kinds of love built on passion’s fire.
Three kinds of temptation—lust, craving, desire.
Unsteady ground I walk upon, learning life is a hardball
Misery is my company, moving blindly through it all.
One is a storm, one’s a steady sea.
They shake my world, and set me free.
Three kinds of love built on passion’s fire.
Three kinds of temptation—hope, respect, inspire.
I slowly lean back against the loveseat, the guitar laying gently on my lap and my head filled with emotion as my eyes rove over the exposed ceiling beams. Brian’s nasty barbs about me playing bass and about my friends haven’t stopped me from making music.
Even through the pain, nothing stops the flow.
With that thought, a smile crests my face as I close the notebook.
I can’t wait until my mates see this one.
As the words I’ve just written pour over me like liquid truth, I realize that I can’t let fear dictate my life, especially where my heart is concerned.
It’s up to me to make the final decision on if I want these two men in my life.
Want to form a relationship with them. Forge a bond similar to what I’ve seen Danny and Connor form with their men.
Truth is, no matter how much I have distance myself from them, Dom and Pen have never stopped treating me with respect. With that revelation, for the first time, I can breathe. There’s a lightness in my chest and the heavy weight is gone.