Erased (15 page)

This piques my interest, and a smile tugs at my lips. Slade appears to be uncomfortable with this child in his personal space.

“Is that so?” Slade growls.

But Slade is all bark and no bite, and the little boy, who seems unfazed by his menacing behavior must realize this, because he grins at him.

“You kill bad guys.”

His statement throws both of us for a loop. I suppress a giggle, but Slade actually tenses beside me in the pew, seemingly unnerved by this boy. Which makes it all the funnier.

“I own a bar,” Slade retorts.

“You like beer,” the boy returns.

At this point, Slade becomes exasperated and looks down the pew for his mother. She’s babbling happily with another woman and not at all bothered by the fact that her son is chatting it up with a stranger.

“So I like beer. It doesn’t make me a killer.”

I have to chew on my lip to keep from spoiling their moment with laughter.

“Let me see your weapons,” the boy whispers.

Slade exhales loudly. At this point, I wonder if he
is
hiding weapons because of his exaggerated reaction and the boy seems so convinced. The big, scary man beside me flinches when the boy grabs his massive fist with both of his tiny palms. Then he swipes a thumb across Slade’s knuckles.

“Let me see your claws, Wolverine,” the boy begs.

When Slade exhales in relief, I finally give in to the giggles until tears are rolling down my cheeks.

“You think I’m Wolverine?” Slade growls again.

I wonder why the boy would ever think that . . .

“I know you’re Wolverine,” the boy whispers as if not to let anyone else in on the secret. “Just because you shaved your face doesn’t mean you can hide from everyone. People like my mom wouldn’t be able to tell, but I can.”

Slade seems thankful when Bill’s voice comes on over the loudspeaker to welcome everyone because the little boy finally bounces back over to his mother’s side. When he sits down next to her, he holds his fist out toward Slade as if he’s baring his imaginary claws. I expect Slade to grumble or ignore him, but instead, he surprises me, raises his fist toward the boy, and then brings his finger to his lips in a “shh” movement.

Pleased at his discovery, the boy grins and nods. The entire exchange is adorable, and now, I feel a pang in my heart. One I’ve never felt before.

I want to have kids one day.

I’m a little confused by all of my blissful sudden desires for my life. At one time, my career was every bit of my focus, with Dad a close second and Kent in third. Now, I wonder where my focus lies, because right now, none of those things are even on my radar.

“Tonight, we’re going to talk about forgiveness,” Bill speaks, “and then we have a little treat for you after the sermon.”

The crowd murmurs in excitement over their treat while I feel a niggling in my gut when he launches into a sermon about how forgiving someone is the only way you’ll find peace.

My thoughts roam to my father. I felt so betrayed by him the night Bruce took me. And then when he erased me and dumped me right into the lap of Slade. None of it made any sense. But even though I didn’t understand it, I still trusted him. I still do. Dad once told me that he creates programs that are extremely valuable to our homeland’s security. I know without a shadow of a doubt that my dad was protecting something big if he was playing “chicken” with Bruce on who’d budge first. I think Dad was counting on Bruce to have a little heart in him considering he was practically an uncle to me.

Did it hurt that he seemed to have chosen to protect our country over his only daughter?

Of course.

Did I understand it?

Definitely.

Do I forgive him?

I did the moment I woke up on the floor in the room above the bar.

When Dad erased my entire existence, took away my boyfriend, and forced me to live with an asshole, I wanted to hate him. But as much as my Dad was always controlling my every whim, there was a reason. He loved me enough for two parents. He had to. And sometimes, he went a little overboard. Over the years, it was frustrating and annoying, but not once did I ever question his love for me.

As Bruce crunched down on my finger with those pliers, I didn’t question it then. I was upset and confused. I was terrified out of my mind.

But there was never a question of his unconditional love.

So, yes, I forgive my dad. I will always forgive my dad.

And Slade?

Slade is a totally different story. Since our first encounter, he’s been this magnetic pull I can’t seem to get away from. But even though we’re constantly gravitating toward one another, he has seemed dead set upon pushing me away, aside from the past few days. The man I barely know has whittled a tiny place in my heart, and now, I care. I care about whether he wants me or not. I want him to want me. I question his feelings for me. I need his constant reassurance.

When he took the piano away, it gutted me. He broke my fractured being with one simple act. That piano had been the constant reassurance he’d been unable to provide. That Dad hadn’t been able to deliver through his emails. It had given me something to hold on to.

So when he took it, I lost it. A little piece of Joss died and Jill’s heart hardened there instead. What he did
was
unforgiveable.

What he did is
still
unforgiveable.

We might have made love, which was heavenly by the way, but my heart still holds on to that bleeding wound. My body may have said, “I forgive you, Slade,” but my heart is more stubborn and a bit angrier. My heart doesn’t melt the way my body does from a few sweet words and caresses.

“And now,” Bill says, interrupting my thoughts, “it is time for your treat. I’m pleased to announce that we’ll have our guest, Jill, playing the piano for us tonight.”

I gasp in surprise.

Slade leans over and pecks me on the cheek before whispering, “Showtime, Cupcake.”

My face burns crimson, which is ridiculous. I’ve played before hundreds and hundreds of affluent New York residents while wearing expensive, sparkly evening gowns, and not once did I falter. I’ve never doubted my ability to wow a crowd. But now, in front of fifty or sixty people, I feel terrified.

When Wolverine’s sidekick starts squealing in excitement, I grab the one nerve that seems to be left deep inside me. On shaky knees, I stand and walk over to the stage. Then I make the mistake of sweeping my gaze across the congregation. They’re all so expectant and happy to have me here. Nobody paid for this performance, yet I feel like it’s my biggest one ever.

With a deep breath, I climb the three steps and approach what appears to be a Baldwin Howard upright. The instrument probably cost less than a grand brand new in its day. It seems ancient, pushing fifty years, but it is well taken care of and loved, which causes my fingers to twitch at my sides.

As I sit, I notice a small microphone, and I click it on to speak to the crowd.

“This first song is my favorite, and I’m going to dedicate it to the little boy from our pew.” I throw the beaming boy a wink before I position my fingers.

When I start tapping out the beginnings of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” the boy sings loudly along. My grin is undeniable as I play just for him. He’s too dang cute and apparently the crowd thinks so as well because giggles scatter throughout the room. It’s sweet that they’re enjoying my music—even a children’s song.

After a standing ovation from the little boy when the song ends, I begin playing “Amazing Grace.” A chill skitters down my spine when the congregation starts singing along to my music. This is a first. Ever. I’ve played thousands of songs in my lifetime, but no crowd has ever sung along.

Tears fill my eyes, but my fingers effortlessly dance along the keys. Having been taught piano by a Baptist woman, I know hundreds of church hymns in addition to the fancier classical stuff because she made sure to teach me, so this song is one I could play with my eyes closed. But it’s also very special to me.

As my song continues, my thoughts roam to my mother. Dad said that he had this song played—the only one—at her funeral. I listened quietly while swaddled in his arms, my newborn eyes wide and alert as the sweet song filled the hearts of everyone in attendance. It’s always been a favorite of mine, knowing it was the last song she heard before being buried and the first one I heard. In that moment, we shared something together.

She’d be so proud right now.

Sure, she would have been proud of every performance. But this one, with the way my heart feels as if it could explode with joy, would have made her the most proud. I’ve played on extremely expensive Bosendorfers and for important people, but never have I felt so pleased at a performance until now. Tonight, on a simple Wednesday, in a small, simple church, in front of a group of happy, casually dressed people, on a simple piano, things feel different. Tonight, I feel as if I’ve played my most stunning performance yet. And the feeling is incredible.

Right before the song ends, I scan the congregation until I find Slade. His eyes are burning a hole right through me, and his lips are moving as he sings along with everyone else. It shatters something in my heart.

I have this moment because of him.

He took away something from me—from deep in my soul. But he also gave something back to me. This night wouldn’t have happened had he not had a jealous, low moment. We all make mistakes, and I think he realizes his.

My tears dry and my smile grows impossibly larger as I immediately launch into something more upbeat. The congregation instantly begins clapping and singing along to “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” And in this moment, I feel at peace, realizing now that Pastor Bill was right.

It’s okay to forgive Slade.

Joss forgives him. And so does Jill.

SHE’S AMAZING.
I’VE never really seen her in her element. I mean, I’ve seen her play at the bar, sure, and she puts her all into it. But there is always something special that happens when someone is performing for a live audience. There is a spark of life, an incredible energy that lifts you up to an otherwise unreachable height. That’s why people talk about the rush of performing and the fact that there is literally a letdown, a crash from the high. It’s as addictive as a drug, and watching her now, I can see that she was born to fly.

I tear my eyes away from the vision before me for only a moment to glance around. Every face is as enraptured with her as I am. That’s when I notice my little sidekick sneaking over to me again. He scared the hell out of me earlier. I knew it was some sort of misunderstanding, but I couldn’t help the fear that engulfed me. The fear that he would say something that revealed what I truly am. Something that would tip off J and cause her to hate me again. I have to face the very real fact that this will happen eventually, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m finally finding some light to chase away the darkness of my past.

When he climbs up onto the seat beside me and offers his fist again, I can’t help but chuckle and bump it with mine.

“She’s really pretty.” He states it as fact, not looking for my agreement.

I give it to him anyway. “She is.”

He nods and faces forward, listening. I should have known that the reprieve wouldn’t last though, because about thirty seconds later, he turns to me.

“Is she your wife?”

My head jerks back in shock at the word.
Wife.
I’ve never expected to marry. Hell, if I’m honest with myself, I never expected to live past my twenties. I don’t remember my parents. Being raised by Uncle Mick taught me to live without emotion and stay completely unattached. Everything I know, I learned from him. He was grooming me to be just like him, to be his legacy and when he died, I was relieved because I was free to make my own path in life. But I didn’t know anything else. So I stuck with the skills I’d acquired. But, I’ve burned out, I want to find a different life.

I gaze up at my cupcake—she’s so beautiful and good. A longing pierces me, but I shove it back and refuse to acknowledge it.

My voice is gruff when I answer, “No.”