Rock My Body (Black Falcon #4) (23 page)

The strings beneath my calloused fingers vibrate with the rhythm of the new song I’m working on. It’s a grungy, up-tempo beat that could definitely be considered single material. I hum the bar as I pause and jot down a few notes into my notebook.

I can’t wait to get into the studio and lay down some tracks to a few of the songs I’ve written over the past couple of days. Ever since Frannie and I opened up to one another, I feel like a weight has been lifted, allowing the creativity to radiate from me. It’s been a long time since I felt so focused.

“Hey, Tyke,” Josie’s voice cuts through my concentration and grates on my nerves.

This chick is fucking relentless.

“Hey.”

I answer without glancing in her direction, hoping she’ll take the hint that I’m busy and go away. Unfortunately, that doesn’t work, and instead, she plops down next to me on the bench in front of the fountain and sighs. “I’ve never been out here before. It’s nice. A little too quiet for my taste, but nice.”

“Well maybe you should go back inside, then,” I snap, giving her a more direct hint that she’s not wanted out here.

It doesn’t faze her because she shrugs. “I’d rather not if you’re out here.”

I shake my head. “Look, Josie, you and me . . . it’s not going to happen.” She opens her mouth to protest but I quickly cut her off. “
Ever
.”

Her lips twist and her head snaps back. “You can’t turn me down. Men don’t do that to me. Not when I offer then what I’m about to give you.”

I scrub my hand down my face and count to ten in my head so I don’t fucking lose it with this pushy bitch. “Read my fucking lips: I’m—not—interested. Go away.”

She flinches, but then grins before reaching over and grabbing my face and smashing her lips to mine. This takes me by surprise, and I quickly shove her off me. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as I stand. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

The grin on her face falls when she takes in the contempt in my expression.

I don’t give her a chance to say anything else before I grab my shit and get the fuck out of there. Flirting with these unstable women was a horrible fucking idea. I’m so glad Frannie finally came to her senses because I don’t know how much longer I could have put up with Josie’s psychotic, pushy ass.

When I get back to my room, I pull out my phone and text Frannie. She only left this morning, but I miss her already. This place isn’t the same without her.

I fire a text off to let her know that I’m thinking of her.

Tyke: I miss you.

I lay my phone down on the nightstand and then drift off to sleep as I wait on her response.

The next morning, I shove my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. I scrub the sleep out of my eyes and then reach for my cell.

No response from Frannie. A frown creeps over my lips. I’m severely disappointed. I think our relationship is at a point where I warrant a reply, especially considering it only takes a couple seconds to respond back to a text.

I finish getting ready, deciding not to let it get me down too much because it’s possible she was really busy, or her phone could have been dead after traveling. As soon as I make it to the dining room, I find myself face-to-face with Josie, who doesn’t look too pleased to see me this morning. Her glare tells me that if she could shoot me and get away with it, I’d already be a dead man.

I think the bitch finally got the hint. All it took was for me to be a major dick to make her understand that she and I weren’t going to fucking happen.

Throughout breakfast, I obsessively check my phone like a crushing schoolgirl, waiting for Frannie to message me back. I’ve sent her three more texts but won’t allow myself to send any more because it would just make me look even more desperate.

It’s not until it’s nearly dinnertime that I begin to worry, choosing to wander around outside because I’m too antsy to stay in the main house.

Mine and Frannie’s relationship is still pretty fresh, and we’ve got a lot to learn about each other as we continue to grow together, so I’m not sure if this lack of communication is an indication that she’s pissed at me for something that I’m unaware that I’ve done, or if she’s just busy. I need to let her know that if I’ve done something, I’m sorry.

I set out toward her cottage, completely unsure if I can even get in, but that’s the best place to leave a note without it being discovered.

One of the things I’ve learned during this treatment program is to tell people exactly how I feel, instead of bottling my emotions up. Doing that was one of the things that pushed me deeper into my downward spiral. I hope Frannie, of all people, will understand that I need communication.

When her cottage comes into view, I quicken my pace and rush to the front door. I turn the knob, but it’s locked tight.

“Damn,” I mutter to myself, before heading around to the side of the building.

The first window I try is locked, too, but the second opens with ease the moment I push up on the glass. I glance around, and when I’m sure that nobody’s watching, I shove the window completely open and hoist myself inside.

It looks exactly the same as the last time I was in here—the last day I was buried deep inside her.

I know it’s a touch creepy, but I pick up a pillow off her bed and bring it up to my face. Her flowery scent invades my senses as I inhale deeply.

It makes me miss her even more.

After I put the pillow down, I make my way to the small desk across the room and pull a pick from my pocket and write “Miss You” on the back of it. I place it on the desk, along with a piece of notebook paper with a single song title on it: ““What If I Was Nothing” —All That Remains.”

My hope is that, no matter what she’s pissed at me about, she’ll forgive me and understand that I’m not going anywhere.

I’m humming the song, thinking of how accurate the lyrics are in describing how I feel toward Frannie, when I glance down into the small wicker bin beside her desk. A small pink box with the word
pregnancy
catches my eye. I suck in a quick breath.

“What the fuck?” I question out loud, bending down and pulling the box out of the trash.

The words
pregnancy test
make my eyes widen and my heart does a double thump in my chest. I recall our little incident in the woods, knowing the fact that I came inside her, if Frannie
is
pregnant, that baby belongs to me.

I swallow hard and lick my suddenly dry lips. I told her I wasn’t ready to be a father. If she’s pregnant, no wonder she’s not speaking to me. I probably seem like a complete fucking asshole right now.

The urgent need to find out if she is pregnant rushes through me. I could try calling her, but seeing as how she’s not even returning my texts, she’s probably even less likely to take a call from me.

I flip the wicker basket upside down, dumping all of the contents on her floor. Nothing but paper and other pieces of trash litter the ground.

No test.

I jam my fingers into my hair, gripping handfuls of it in my hands as I rush into the bathroom and find another trashcan. I flip that one over as well, thinking it’s empty, too, until a ball of toilet paper makes a small
thud
as it drops onto the wood floor.

My hands shake and I reach down to unroll the paper, revealing a small plastic stick. I let out a slow breath through pursed lips as I flip the stick over in my hands, exposing the little results window. Two pink lines appear, clear as day.

I rush back into the main room, and rummage around in the mess I’ve made on the floor before I find the box. My eyes quickly scan the back panel until they find confirmation that two pink lines mean that Frannie’s pregnant.

Pregnant
.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

I brace myself against the desk, and I clamp my eyes shut.

Fuck.

Shit.

Dammit.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as my anxiety levels hit a new all-time high and every muscle in my body shakes. It was situations like these that drove me to prescription drugs in the first place—the feeling of being lost in a situation that I can’t change.

The need to use something to help me relax crawls through my skin, turning on its seductive promise to make me feel better. The thought of giving in hits me hard. I could turn away and leave this place: go find something that will settle my nerves and make me forget.

As soon as that last thought rolls through my brain, I realize what will happen if I walk out of here. Not only will I be walking away from sobriety, I’ll be walking away from Frannie, basically confirming that she was right not to trust me. That I’m a selfish bastard who runs from things, who hides in a world where things stay foggy just so I don’t have to deal with my problems. It would kill me if she thought of me that way.

I meant what I told her the other day: I
want
to be a stronger man for her.

Standing in that little cottage, the need to stay clearheaded hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. I don’t want to pretend. I want to deal with the situation. I want Frannie to let me in and allow me to help her get through this.

Together.

“Say It” — Blue October

All weekend long, I ignore every message Tyke sends me. One thing my blackmailer had correct is that I’m nothing special to him, because if I really mean something to him, he wouldn’t be lip-locking with Josie Sullivan the moment I’m out of sight. If I were special, kissing her wouldn’t have crossed his mind.

I turn my phone on and swipe my finger over the screen as the train approaches the Cincinnati terminal. A new message catches my eye, and I click on the little envelope. The anonymous emailer has gotten a little braver. They haven’t allowed so much time to elapse between contacts this time. The subject line of this email simply reads:
It’s Time.

By now you know that I’m capable of digging up dirt. You should know that I’ve done my research on you as well. Don’t think I don’t know exactly who your father is, and how much money he’s worth. Between Tyke Douglas and yourself, you should be able to come up with enough money to allow me to live a pretty comfortable lifestyle. So here is my demand. I want two million dollars, in cash, brought to me by the end of this week. That should be ample time to pool your funds. On Friday I will email you again with instructions on where to leave the money. If you’re thinking of blowing off my request, Dr. Mead, I’d think again. I’m sure a nice woman like you has plenty of skeletons in her closet if someone chose to dig around enough.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

I scroll down and find an old picture of me with my top off at a college frat party attached to the email. This was taken a couple years ago when I was in the height of my random sexual Olympics. I don’t even remember the name of the guy whose lap I’m straddling in the photo. One thing’s for sure: I won’t give whoever this is sending me these emails any additional incentive to go digging around in my past. No good will come of it.

After I collect my bag, I exit the train and make it out to passenger pick up, fully expecting Wayne to be waiting for me like the last time I arrived, but I’m surprised when I spot Kimmy leaning against her beat-up red Honda, a huge smile on her face.

“Surprise! I volunteered to pick you up,” she says as she greets me with a hug.

I stiffen in her arms, not expecting the warm greeting. “Thank you.”

She pulls back and then heads toward her trunk. “It was no problem. Besides, I figured it would be a good time for us to talk.”

While I highly doubt the blackmailer is Kimmy, I don’t like the way she said that. It’s like she knows some juicy secret that she can’t wait to spill, and it puts me on edge.

Traveling down the highway toward Serenity, I glance over at Kimmy, silently willing her to spill whatever beans she’s holding.

Finally, she takes a breath and asks, “What’s going on with you and Tyke?”

I shove my hair back from my face. I know she knows about us, but I’d like to keep exactly what she knows to a minimum. “Nothing more than what you already know.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t think so. There’s got to be more. You should’ve seen him this weekend.”