I get up to follow him. “So tell me.”
He glances back, but the sneer this time makes my blood boil with a less enticing heat. “Danny P. That’s what I represent. All those kids I confronted tonight? That was me ten years ago.”
“But it’s not now.”
“No. Because I got lucky.”
“Was it luck?”
He turns away. Shuffles into the kitchen.
“You just happened to become a rockstar?” I call after him.
“Failed rockstar.”
“Future rockstar.”
He doesn’t look at me when I reach the kitchen, but I feel the heat radiating from him. Good. It means I’m getting through.
“So was it luck? You woke up one morning in an entirely different future?”
“Fine. No. It was my sister. And music.”
“Music gave you hope.”
“Music saved my life.”
“So why can’t it save hers?”
He stills, his hand petrified on the handle of the freezer.
“She loves music, Julian,” I say softly. “It might be the only thing she loves right now.”
“It’s the only thing I know how to do,” he whispers. Was I even supposed to hear it?
I step toward him, reaching up to slide my hand over his arm. Just the briefest touch, the slightest acknowledgement that I’m still here. I didn’t run. He doesn’t always have to be alone if he doesn’t want to be.
“So save her life with the only thing you know how to do.”
CHAPTER 7
JULIAN
A truck. Ran over me. Then backed up. Then ran over me again. Then a cloud of ravens swooped in and pecked at my flesh while the truck returned for a few more passes.
I groan and glare at my phone screen that’s telling me it’s much earlier than I want it to be. But that’s the paradox of getting your ass kicked, isn’t it? You want to sleep, to do anything you can to drown out the pain, all while the pain works overtime to make sure you can’t.
I reach for the pills Hadley left for me on my nightstand and pop a couple more in my mouth—then glare at the water bottle that’s too far to reach without a major shift.
“You awake? We’re out of waf…. fles.” Naomi stares at me, hovering in the door with the empty box. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing. Just fell down the steps when I came home last night.” I know. Not exactly a Pulitzer-winning story, but I couldn’t come up with anything better during the night. I’m a musician, not a screenwriter.
She scans my face, and I can only imagine how bad it looks. Probably not as bad as the rest of me, though, so I pull the sheet tighter around my neck.
“Okaaaay…” she draws out. Maybe she believes me. Probably not. “Where’d you go anyway?”
“The store.”
“And you didn’t get waffles?”
“I didn’t know we needed waffles.”
“We always need waffles, Uncle J.”
I roll my eyes and wince. Shit. No sharp eye movements for the next couple of days. “I’ll go back this afternoon. Anything else we need?”
“Why didn’t you get the other stuff we needed if you were at the store?”
“I meant, anything we need that I didn’t know about.”
“What did you get?”
Oh. Um. “It wasn’t that kind of store.”
Her head tilts, but at least she’s not yelling at me for once. This might be the longest conversation we’ve ever had that didn’t involve yelling. “What kind of store doesn’t have waffles?”
“Music stores.”
Her expression changes, lighting up in a way I don’t expect. Maybe Hadley was onto something. Crap, how could I have missed this?
“What did you get at the music store?”
“Some strings. A new tuner. A couple quarter inch cables.”
She nods, her attention darting to the corner of my room where one of my acoustics is propped on a stand.
I swallow the pain and force myself up. “Grab that.”
Her gaze snaps back to me, and she cringes. “Your…” She points at my chest, and I let out a frustrated breath.
“It’s nothing.”
“You got that from falling down the steps?”
“I fell down all three flights. Grab my guitar, okay?”
“Why?”
“Just…” I rub my hand over my head and pull in a soothing breath.
To my surprise she actually smiles and starts toward the guitar. When she reaches it, her gentle touch is almost reverent.
“You won’t hurt it. Just pick it up.”
She glances back at me, and I return an encouraging nod. Her teeth sink into her lip as she turns back to the guitar and unhooks it from the stand. She lifts it, cradling it in her arms.
“Damn,” I say, studying her. She stiffens, then relaxes at my smile. “You’re a natural.”
Her smile spreads into a grin I’ve never seen before. I force away a twinge and wave her over.
“It’s lighter than I thought. The wood is so smooth,” she says.
I nod. “They’re all different. Guitars are like fingerprints. Each one is unique to its musician. Here, sit down.” I shift to make room for her on the edge of the bed.
She lowers herself, balancing the instrument in her arms. Her left hand curves perfectly around its neck. Her right casually strums a clear, steady rhythm. Not gonna lie, a spike of pride shoots through me at how naturally she handles it.
“Hey, that’s pretty good. Here, put this finger there, and this one here.” I reach over and arrange the tips of her index and middle fingers on the A and D strings. “Okay, now push as hard as you can and strum.”
She obeys, both of us cringing at the discordant clank. I chuckle and lean forward. “It’s okay. It’s really hard to do when you first start. Try again.” This time I cover her hand with mine and help her push. The hum ringing out is a much healthier E-minor chord.
Her face is beaming when I check. My heart surges in my chest.
“That’s an E-minor. With some practice you’ll have it down in no time.”
She tries again on her own, but it’s not much better than the first attempt.
“You’re doing fine. Like I said, it’s hard and will take lots of practice until you get the finger strength and callouses. Plus, I like higher action on the frets, which makes it harder to play. For little hands like yours, we’ll have to get you something with lower action.” Her head whips to me in surprise, and I lift a smirk. “You’re gonna need your own guitar to practice. I can’t keep giving you mine all the time. Let’s go look today.”
She blinks at me, speechless. Man, it feels good to knock the snark out of her. “You… you’re buying me a guitar?”
“Do you want a guitar?”
Her eyes are giant, green orbs as she nods. “But they’re expensive,” she whispers.
I shrug. “The good ones are, yeah. But if you’re going to play, you’ll need the right instrument. You willing to give up buying more of these weird hoodies?” I ask, tugging on her sleeve.