Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
I can practically hear her mind racing. When she answers, she’s back to the cool professionalism I know all too well. “Fine. What is it?”
My prickly girl. God, I want to wear down that spiky armor, find out if she’s as soft underneath as I suspect. “Whatever does or doesn’t happen between us, I’m never going to hold it against you. I swear to God. Okay?”
Another pause. This one stilted. I’ve surprised her. I can feel it in the air.
Her voice comes so soft it’s nearly a whisper. “Okay. I…I won’t either. Promise.”
“Good.” I swallow again, bracing myself for movement. With a silent grunt, I rise to my feet. The room spins for a minute, but I take a breath and let it ride. “Now, I really do feel shitty today. So, I’m gonna go.”
“You…What’s wrong?”
Could that be concern? Surely not.
“Woke up with a headache that won’t quit.” It’s partly true. I do have a headache, but it’s a mere buzzing fly in comparison to my hands.
“One of those?” Brenna knows exactly how bad it can get for me. Everyone in the band does. I’ll be laid low, hiding out in a dark room for hours. If it happens before a concert, they’ll send in a masseuse, acupuncturist, whoever they can find in the city we’re playing.
“Well, then,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. And for being paranoid.”
The concession clearly cost her. Sick man that I am, I feel lighter. If anything in my life is consistent, it’s Brenna.
“Ah, Berry. I’d take you sniping at me in that bossy-boots tone of yours over silence any day.”
“God,” she says with a half laugh. “You really are terrible, you know.”
The insult is laced with affection, though, and I grab on to it. “But you love me anyway.”
I hang up before she can answer, chuckling at the thought of her cursing me. My humor dies quickly as the silence resumes, and with it, the pain in my hands and arms returns to the forefront. I have to move. Get out of here.
Blame it on my weakened condition, but I decide to go to the one place I know I’ll find comfort.
“Rye Bread!” My mother spreads her arms in greeting, waiting for me to step into her hug.
I do, and she instantly wraps me up. I’m a good foot taller than she is, and my shoulders are twice as wide as hers, but when she holds me, I feel like a kid again, small and safe.
Closing my eyes, I let my forehead rest on the side of her head. “Hey, Mom.”
With a final squeeze, she lets go and then ushers me inside the townhouse that’s been the family home for the past forty years. Most people, when they think of townhouses on the Upper West Side, imagine sleek elegance, soaring ceilings, detailed molding, spiral staircases, and triple-height windows with light streaming in.
My mom’s house has all of that, sure. But the wide plank floors have been sanded down to the original wood, remaining unpolished and creaking underfoot. The air smells of old pine and plaster and books. Probably because the front room has two walls of built-in bookcases crammed to bursting with books of various sizes and topics.
I have fond memories of curling up on one of the mustard velvet armchairs in front of the ornate onyx fireplace and reading during rainy days. Yes, I was that child, bookish and shy. It wasn’t until I hit puberty and got too horny for my own good that I forced myself out of my shell.
Mom leads me down the hall, where framed family photos share space with oil paintings by masters, and into the back of the house. The kitchen looks like something out of Victorian England, with dark-green cabinets, butcher block counters, and a pink AGA stove that warms the entire space.
A long farmhouse table is set up in front of the double-height grid of back windows. The other side of the back room is reserved for Mom’s studio.
The scent of oil paint, turpentine, and baking is a comforting blend that I know well.
Mom shoves me into a chair. “Sit. Let me make you some tea.”
Early on, when we were becoming friends, Whip, Jax, Killian, Scottie, and I figured out our parents’ shared obsession with tea. We all grew up knowing that tea arrived with every visit, to fix every ill, to top off the day, or to close out the night. Jax is still fairly obsessed with making the perfect cuppa. I can take it or leave it, but I’m not about to contradict my mom.
“Your father was here earlier. You just missed him.”
My back tenses, and I spread my palms wide on the smooth wood table. “What a shame.”
My mother doesn’t miss the sarcasm in my voice—not that I was trying too hard to hide it—and she turns to give me a reproachful look. “I’ve forgiven him. Why can’t you?”