Refrain (Soul Series Book 3) (21 page)

I’m pretty awesome.

At least in his mind. And I sense, now, a little more in theirs.

“Last question.” He smiles, but something hides behind the humor in his eyes. “You ready?”

“Bring it on.” I smile out at the crowd.

“What was the greatest moment of your life?”

My smile slowly fades as I seriously consider his question. I’m standing here, literally performing in front of more people than I ever thought I would. I always used to dream of performing for my father, and though I can’t pick him out of this crowd of faces, he’s here somewhere with the sister I’ll meet for the first time after the show. As bitter as my relationship with him has been, there’s still something sweet there for me to savor. I’m married to a man whose voice comforted me in my darkest days and who ushered me out of grief and darkness into light with his friendship and love. I’m carrying his child, and every day, I’m overwhelmed by his devotion. Tears sting my eyes and burn my throat. I’m humbled by it. Gratitude, unconditional love, and, yes, joy rise and rise, levitating me from the inside like helium.

“Kai, your greatest moment?” Rhyson prompts, his eyes so full of undeniable affection.

“This one,” I whisper with a teary smile.

He surprises everyone, me most of all, by slipping an arm around my waist, cupping my neck, and kissing me so sweetly on the lips. I can’t help it. Even with millions watching, love and hunger push me up on my toes to get closer to him. To get more of him. The pieces none of these people will ever have, will ever know. He groans into the kiss without deepening it. We both know if we open our mouths just the tiniest bit and get a taste, if there is even a glimpse of tongue, it’s going viral.

The whoops and cheering are still going after he releases me and I make my way backstage. Grip high fives me and Luke makes kissy faces. The Kilimanjaro guys, who I’m still getting to know, just give me “awwwws” and eye rolls. One of them even sings “Rhyson and Kai, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” I’m like a cheerleader trapped in a fraternity with these guys. I need to find at least one other girl for the Prodigy family.

Rhyson’s onstage, talking about his vision for the label and all the exciting things developing this year.

“He didn’t mention your album.” Grip looks down at me, arms folded over his broad chest and a question stamped on his face.

I bite my lip under Grip’s scrutiny. Rhyson hasn’t talked about the revised schedule, of course, with anyone since no one else knows about the baby. I don’t know if it was the wedding. Maybe it was yesterday’s scare with the fan, though unfounded, that has put everything into perspective, but as much as it stings, I’ve made peace with the delay. Rhyson is too much of a perfectionist to rush the process. The
entire
process. And momentum is broken if I’m having a baby in a few months. It hurts. I’m disappointed, but nothing can dent this joy.

“I guess he’s reassessing.” I shrug. “Probably a timing issue. It’s fine.”

“Well, dude knows what he’s doing.” Grip grins. “Best friend or not, I wouldn’t have signed with him if I didn’t believe that.”

Rhyson’s instincts are impeccable. Every artist signed to Prodigy believes that. Believes in him. After all the resistance I put up to signing with him initially, I’m now the biggest believer of all. I watch my husband charming a million people with a single smile and have to smile myself. A believer? Who am I kidding? When it comes to Rhyson, I’m a fanatic.

“Who’s that with Bristol?” The undercurrent darkening Grip’s voice forces my eyes past Rhyson, backstage left. We can see Bristol across from us in the wings on the opposite side of the stage. A man, tall and blonde, wearing a suit that looks like it’s lined with money, rests one hand on Bristol’s hip, and his head dips a few inches so he can whisper in her ear. Bristol looks more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks, her smile wide and her eyes flirting. It could be because the showcase, which has consumed her more than any of us, is almost over. Or it could be because one of the country’s most eligible bachelors has his hands all over her.

“Um, well.” I fold my lips in, being careful with my words. Who doesn’t know how Grip feels about Bristol? Maybe I’m the only one who suspects Bristol feels something, too, but you wouldn’t know that looking at her now.

“‘Um, well’ isn’t an answer, Kai.” Grip’s eyes don’t waver from the couple who look so perfect together, both tall, his fair coloring a dramatic contrast to Bristol’s dark hair. “Who the hell is that dude?”

“Charles Parker.” I loop my elbow through Grip’s, feeling the tension cording his arm. “His family owns the Parker Group and all the Park Hotels, including this one.”

“And half the world with it.” Worry creases Grips forehead. “Am I fooling myself? Maybe she doesn’t . . .”

I elbow him in the ribs.

“Hey, look at me,” I urge when he can’t seem to stop watching them. Jealousy lives in the dark eyes he finally turns to me. “She does.”

His expression eases by degrees, and one corner of his firm lips quirks, looking more like the Grip I’m used to seeing.

“I used to believe that, but now I’m not so sure.”

“When did you believe that?” He doesn’t answer, but drops a guard over his expression. “When, Grip?”

“It was a long time ago,” he answers softly, eyes drifting back to Parker and Bristol. “Maybe too long ago.”

“Well, most guys who like a girl find every possible way to be around them.” I notice Rhyson sitting down at the piano to close out the show. “He did.”

“You’re right about that. I’ve never seen Rhys that persistent about anything but music.” His grin goes as quickly as it came, giving way to the considering look he gives me. “You mean I should let her be my manager? I just don’t want to be her job.”

“Grip, I hate to break it to you, but you’re already her job. Anything associated with Prodigy is her job. It’s up to you to take advantage of that.” I place a finger over my lips. “Now hush. My husband’s about to play.”

He squeezes me into a side hug, and then we both go quiet while we wait for Rhyson to begin.

And we wait.

It’s too quiet for too long before I remember, before I notice him massaging his right hand. With everything that has happened over the last day, I’d forgotten about his hand. I know he hears the difference, and I know what he means, but this crowd won’t. He’s still the best musician I’ve ever heard. I will him to look up from the keys, to seek me out like he always does. Finally, he searches the shadows until he finds me. I don’t wait for him to signal me. This time I signal him.

I tug my ear and press my hand to my heart.

“I live you,” I mouth to him, hoping my eyes tell him all the things I would say if he were close enough. That he’s rare. That
he’s
the gift, not the talent of his hands. That even if he could never play another note, he’d still have me, and I’d adore him no less.

Just as the crowd starts to murmur, growing uncertain about the delay, Rhyson smiles, rubs the tiny gold thread tied around his ring finger and begins to play. Not with just his hands, but pouring his whole body into it. Like the first time I ever saw him in Grady’s music room, passion wreaths his face until he’s lost to the intimacy of him and his instrument. His fingers run nimbly from one end of the piano to the other, shoulders heaving with the effort of coaxing sounds from another realm into this one. It’s not a song from a previous album. Not a song anyone has ever played on the radio. Not a tune I’ve heard drifting up from the music room. It’s classical, but his original. The gentle swells surrender to monstrous crescendos. This music crests and crashes over everyone listening and holds us rapt. It towers over anything even I’ve ever heard him play. From measure to measure, the song evolves like a living thing, at once timid and next terrifying with black keys and dark notes, and finally with tender breath. So subtle, each note like a whisper that finally, when I’m not sure I can withstand another moment, dies.

When I was a little girl, my father always talked about a great cloud of witnesses in Heaven. Those who have gone before and wait for us beyond. He used to tell me they’re always there observing this life, but every once in a while, something so glorious happens on earth, they find a way to join in. And I imagine I hear their applause because the response is so thunderous in the amphitheater, surely we aren’t the only ones clapping, yelling, asking for more.

Instead of giving us more, Rhyson looks around almost like he’d forgotten we were there. He pushes away from the piano, shaking himself a little, and waves to the artists in the wings, encouraging us to join him onstage. I would never have had this with Malcolm—this energy and sense of family surging through our little group as we link arms. It feels so good to be tucked into Rhyson as he reminds everyone that the night is about us and the future of Prodigy.

We start to exit, leaving Rhyson to wrap up the last few things Bristol needed covered. I don’t know why I look out at the audience as we leave the stage. Maybe to check just in case I do, by some miracle, spot my father and half-sister. Whatever compels me to look out, I’ll always be grateful.

I don’t see my father, but I see those blue eyes boiling with resentment. Narrowed with an inexplicable indignation. Only this time they’re not fixed on me. Those eyes fix on my husband with a rage so cold, I shiver. The other artists keep walking, brushing past me as they return to the wings. I stop where I am and will her to turn those eyes on me. I silently, recklessly beg her to direct that wrath at me, but she doesn’t. Slowly like she’s got all the time in the world, she raises her arm and aims a gun at the love of my life.

Those immediately around her react, shrieking and climbing over other people to scurry away. It all unfolds in slow motion, and yet in an instant. In the space of a blink. In the span of a breath. The commotion draws Rhyson’s attention, but he doesn’t know. He has no idea, and by the time he processes what’s happening, it will be too late.

Would you die for me, Rhyson?

Twice if I could.

You will always believe in them, always expect the best in them, and will always stand your ground in defending them. Till death do us part.

Perfect love casts out fear.

Leap for me, Kai.

Leap!

And before my mind can talk my heart out of it, I do.

SHE’S IN MY ARMS.

Like so many mornings when we wake up, Kai is in my arms. And for a fraction of a second, I find comfort in that like I always do, but then reality rushes in, tidal in its ferocity. We’re on the stage floor, not in the bed where, with lazy whispers and ardent touches, we share our dreams and hopes and fears. Where we share our love. The world around me is made of mayhem and hysteria, and high-pitched screams pierce the dense fog in my head.

One minute I’m relieved with how well I played, watching everyone walk offstage, and the next Kai is flinging herself in front of me. We’re on the floor, arms and legs twisted around each other.

“Kai!” Her name torpedoes out of me.

I sit up, cradling her in my arms. Her face is blanched of all color, and her head flops back lifelessly. Dark red blooms from her back, spreading like a virus over the pristine pink of her dress, discoloring my jeans and seeping into my skin. The blood evacuates fast and heavy like it’s being chased from her body. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s everywhere. It spills into a sea around us, and every ounce drains her life, takes her a little farther away from me.

“Rhys.” My name passes like a puff of smoke past her lips. Her eyelids flutter and roll back in her head.

“Kai, dammit.” My voice wobbles and I push the hair back from her face. “What were you thinking? I told you . . . you shouldn’t have . . .”

My words die when she finds my hand, her grip weak.

“I wasn’t thinking.” Her breaths come more labored and choppy. “I just . . .”

Tears trail from her eyes and puddle in her ears.

“Our baby,” she whispers. “Oh, God, Rhyson. Our baby. I’m so sorry.”

“No.” I press my forehead to hers, our tears mingling on her cold cheeks. “You’re gonna be okay. You’ll be okay. Just . . .”