Pretty Instinct (31 page)

Once we’re set up and strapped at our first stations, I lead in a song that’s been brewing in my head (and heart, if I’m honest) since Cannon and I got on “our” page.

Cannon’s whole face beams in recognition. I sing
for
him,
to
him, “Wild Horses,” my favorite version by The Sundays, entwining all my emotions into the lyrics, tone, and look in my eyes as I gaze at him. It’s the perfect song because the wildest of horses have no chance of dragging me from Cannon.

When the song’s over, I unstrap the electric and only just have it set down before I’m swallowed up by my man. “I loved it, and ditto, Siren, ditto. I love you so much, you sexy thing,” he says, all while placing kisses on every inch of my face. “Need a nibble,” he murmurs, already buried in my neck, collecting his fix.

“We’ll do one more run to test lead and drums!” he yells out to Sark when he comes up for air.

Sark answers with a thumbs up high in the air, enthusiasm bright on his face.

“My turn?” Cannon asks, his playful brow raised.

“By all means,” I bow and fan out my arm.

“Sing harmony, though, gotta test the mic,” he calls, climbing behind the kit.

He beats out lightly on the heads the part that’s normally a piano in the song—somehow making it seem even more suitable. And then he sings—a tender bass, infiltrating the soul, my soul anyway. I pluck the mic from its stand and turn to him as I sing accompaniment. He chose “Have a Little Faith in Me,” which he’s played for me on his iPod, but today
he
tamps it out, his sultry voice making love to it
for me
, unambiguously pleading with me to do exactly what the lyrics ask.

Too late—I already do.

***

We grab lunch at a sidewalk café, and he holds my hand on top of the table as we wait for our food. When it arrives, he dishes half of his on my plate and vice versa, without me having to ask—which I was totally planning to.

“So I was thinking,” I throw out absently, looking down at my food.

“Uh huh?”

“Well, maybe I should finally get a house or apartment, somewhere to land when a break seems necessary. I could decorate it, cook in a real kitchen, be crazy and sleep in a real bed…”

“And where were you thinking for location?” he asks, then pops a bite in his mouth, chewing slowly, awaiting my answer with focused, curious eyes.

“I don’t know.” I pop my shoulders in nonchalance, hoping he buys it. “Where are you getting your apartment? N-not that I like w-wanna move next door and stalk you or anything,” I stammer like a crazy person. “Just making conversation.”

“Hey.” He sets down his fork and speaks, his voice mellow. “Give me your hand.” He offers his once again atop the table, upturned to clasp onto mine, which I lay in it willingly. “I know it’s fast—well, not as fast as the hooker movie, we’ve tripled their one week, and living 24/7 in a cramped space together adds at least a month. We already know each other’s annoying habits and that we can live together and be around each other constantly, right?”

I’m still dwelling on the “annoying habits” part, quite sure I have none. In fact, neither does he, really.

“Lizzie, I wanna be where you are. Speaking of stalker tendencies, I took the liberty of mapping the halfway point between your father’s house, for Conner’s visits, and my family. That’s Richmond. Population 36,000, great schools, lots of outdoor parks and activities; all in all a nice town to raise a family.”

Can’t breathe.

Cold sweat.

Throat constricting.

Stomach revolting.

Whose family does he plan on raising?

“Lizzie, no, ma’am, look at me right now. Big one in for me,” he mimics the motion, “and out for you, slow and easy.”

“Not better!” I choke out in panic.

“One more then, in for me,” he simulates again, “and out for you.” His eyes search mine, waiting several minutes to proceed, until apparently he sees what he needed to. “I’m just saying, if you buy a house, it might as well be one you can see fitting your long term needs, right? Moving sucks.” He grasps my hand more snugly, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the rapid pulse in my wrist. “Do you ever want children, Lizzie? Not tomorrow, but ever?”

“Yes, definitely,” I affirm with no hesitation.

“Well then. Why not plan for that?” He raises the right, analytical brow in question.

“It’s sudden, scary,” I mutter, almost inaudibly, knee jackhammering under the table.

“Have you
ever
felt what you feel for me?” I shake my head no. “Me either. Not for anyone, not even down on one knee for the wrong reasons. My whole life, my heart beat half this fast, no fire in my belly. With you—it’s like an inferno, every part of me burning, alive and excited. I can’t wait to wake up every morning to spend the day with you. Three weeks, three hours—I’ll still feel this way in thirty-three years. I know it like I know stars will always fall and it will always rain, somewhere, every day.”

“But,” I almost don’t say it, feeling like a broken record, “you were engaged not a month ago.”

“I didn’t ask you to marry me. I asked that we try living together, or at least side by side. House, apartment, treehouse, box in an alley, Alaska, New Guinea. I don’t care. Hey,” he snaps, “we could live in a tent and do the ghost stories/shadow thing you went all dreamy about. Anything, baby, for a chance.”

I offer my best placating smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.” His head droops the tiniest bit as the light burns out of his usually unfailing vibrant eyes.

We finish eating in stiff, uncomfortable silence, him releasing my hand and not taking it again when we walk out.

The Sark Tank is packed; definitely gonna be a profitable night for my buddy. With the mass of bodies, it’s odd that I’m able to look up during “When You’re Gone,” by The Cranberries, which Lizzie
kills
at singing, like instant too-snug crotch kills, and spot…
Ruthie
, sitting and playing family
with my family
. I wrack my brain, wondering if Lizzie knows what any of them look like, a wave of nausea rolling through my gut.

I glance at my Siren, but it does me no good, her expression’s been a mix between tense and dread since our little talk. I’m without a clue on if she knows who they are and that they’re here or it’s just residual.

“Thank you,” she says faintly, half-heartedly, at the end of the song. “This next one is a classic that I don’t have near the voice to pull it off,” she funs, ducking her head but a second before finishing. “Not even sure my boys know it, but Imma sing it anyway. Gotta get it out.”

Her voice begins alone, a cappella and hauntingly vulnerable. “Lying beside you…”

I recognize and lend her a rhythm to “Open Arms” by Journey. I chance a subtle, corner of my eye glance at her and she’s already zoned in on me, her eyes brightening with each word, telling me here what she either just decided or couldn’t manage to confess face to face before.

“Nothing to hide…” Rhett brings in the beat.

“Come to you, with open arms,” Jarrett strums a deep groove, “hoping you’ll see…”

I’m glued to her face, watching every nuance and inflection, praying, elated at what I think she’s telling me.

“Thank you so much, you’ve been a great crowd!” She waits for the raucous noise to settle. “This will be our last of the night, chosen by our own Cannon!”

Oh, she’s putting me on the spot, seeing what I’ll now sing to her in answer. Hmmm, nothing like a little pressure. “This is a newer one; hope we all know it,” I chuckle, “and you all like it. Hold somebody tight. This is ‘All of Me’ by John Legend.”

I sing it as deliberately and sensuously as I can, never breaking my own loving gaze away from hers. It says everything as though I wrote it, for her—”your smart mouth,” “your mystery ride”—perfect, from me to her.

I’ve hardly finished before I’m strolling to her, my Lizzie, distantly hearing my name shrieked above the noise. I’d know it anywhere, a flashing reminder of how much time I’d wasted, beckoning me. Lizzie’s eyes search the crowd for the sound and when they land on the provocatively dressed, boobs-pushed-to-her-chin redhead quickly approaching, I feel her body go rigidly tense from here.

“Ruthie?” she asks under her breath.

“Yeah.” I sigh, running a frustrated hand back through my hair.

“Who are those people she was sitting with?”

“My parents and sister. As soon as I blow her off, I’ll introduce you.”

“No, no, they’re here with her. The girl you were supposed to be with, to marry. Take your time. I gotta help load the bus.” She turns and walks away as fast as she can without all-out running, leaving me stranded to handle Broom Hilda alone.

“Hey, baby.” She sidles up, fakeness dripping from her blood red lips. Lizzie never wears that ugly crap, masking her real taste, getting all over me and my collar. Ugh. I shiver at the thought.

“Hello, Ruthie.” I bend my head to her level. “What are you doing here?” She waves dismissively at me, still wearing her engagement ring. I don’t like it at all. Sure, her father picked it out, brought it to me and told me exactly when and where to propose, but still, she needs to take it off and move on.

“Gorgeous brother of mine!” Sommerlyn bounces up, leaning across the stage to wrap me in a hug. “I missed you, and boy, were you fantastic up there! The girl kinda made you all look good though,” she jests, but she’s completely correct.

Now my parents approach, tentatively, rounding out the party. For Moms, I jump down, giving her a big hug and smooch on the cheek before shaking hands with my father and giving him a one-armed hug.

“Thank you, guys, for coming out. You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense! My handsome son’s living adventurously, a rock star. I wouldn’t miss it,” my mother gushes, patronizingly squeezes both my cheeks.

“So,” Ruthie intrudes, “why don’t we all go out to dinner now? I doubt Cannon will want to drive tonight, so we could eat, find a hotel, and all leave in the morning together!” She bounces and falsely glows, like a yippy, nervous show poodle. I can’t decide which part is making me sick and which is causing the pounding in my temple; probably a combination of her totally debilitating, pathetic state.

“Yes,” Sommerlyn shoots her sinister eyes, “I think a private place to discuss things is a great idea.”

My parents look trapped in a grueling tennis match, their eyes flicking back and forth between the cattiness.

“Well, I should probably go help the band,” I explain, already backing away.

“Let’s go help
and
tell them where we’re going.” Sommerlyn loops her arm through mine. “Wait here, we’ll be right back,” she chirps to our parents, and…

“What are you doing?” I growl under my breath as we walk away, leaving two confused parents with one deranged ex.

“Giving that bitch what for, as soon as possible. Playing all nice with Mom and Dad like she didn’t get a tubal on the DL then dump you on the side of the road. Oh, hell no. You just leave it to your sister, Bubba, I got this. So, are you in love with the precious little lead singer or just wanting in her panties?”

I stop short. “Look at me, Som.” She turns like a whipped pup at my harsh tone. “I’m madly, forever in love with her. Don’t ever speak of her like that again. Okay?”

“Yay!!” She claps and bounces up and down. “I knew it! White hot chemistry. I could see it from out there. She’s beautiful but doesn’t know it, though, huh?”

“Sommer, zip it. We’re here.” I frantically search the tombs, then out back, for them. Nowhere, nothing. The bus is no longer out back. They’re gone, leaving me here, marooned. Why the hell are people always doing that shit to me? I whip out my phone and call Lizzie—straight to voicemail, so I bang out a text, angry fingers on fire.

Hot Hacker: Where r u & why’d you just leave me? Not very fucking cool.

Usually I get an immediate response, but after staring at my phone like a hopeless loser for endless minutes, I decide to curb it for now. Gonna teach her a lesson first chance I get.

With a guilty, exhausted sigh, I guide Sommer back to our parents…and yes, she’s still there too.

“Ready to go?” Ruthie smiles (if snakes smile), sidling up to me and looping her arm through mine, definitely feeling my flinch. When I try to pull away, she just keeps that fake ass face unaltered and subtly digs her cat claws into the inside of my arm in warning.

“Ready,” I mumble.

“Fabulous. How about the sushi bar I saw about three doors down?” she suggests.

All the Blackwells just agree for the sake of peace and shuffle in behind our fear
ful
leader.

***

Well, tonight’s show went
swimmingly
, but not the good version, nothing like a relaxing lounge in crisp, blue water on a hot summer day. No, I think it was more like paddling for your life in shark-infested tidal waves! Yeah,
that
kind of swimmingly.

Of course, I should have figured on Ruthie showing up; she lives close, knows Sark, and, you know, stalks my Facebook I never touch, so why I was surprised, I know not.

Why not shut down my Facebook, you ask? That’d be because I didn’t make it and don’t know the password.

Sommerlyn and my mom gave her what for tonight, the likes of their rancorous venom I’ve never seen. My father remained silent, as did I. When three women bear their claws, you step the fuck back and cover your balls.

I’m not a
ruthless
man…but Ruthie had it coming. Surely she didn’t think my family would appreciate her leaving me abandoned in the middle of nowhere without a phone to call for help? And yes, my sister spread the gospel to my mother…the
other
part of Ruthie’s treason. And trying to deprive that woman of grandchildren? Not wise, rabbit, not wise.

But no, ever the exalted, faultless princess her father’s convinced her she is, Miss Ruthie showed up thinking I’d kept her dirty little secrets and would play nice in front of my family.