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I pushed too far.
Bottles rattled, the refrigerator door slammed shut, and then there was silence.
And he didn’t come back.
Well, that’s my answer.
He doesn’t want to talk anymore.
She got up and, just as she reached the door, his muscular body filled the doorway.
Leaning against it, a beer in one hand, he said, “There’s just something about you, Della. You dig deep, and dammit if I don’t want you to.” He looked at her like he had so much more to say—but with the language of his mouth and his hands. His gaze burned a trail from her lips to her cleavage, incinerating her clothes and making her heart thunder.
He’s so fucking hot. That mess of tousled hair, those warm amber eyes, the hard, unforgiving jawline covered in scruff. And that ink. She wanted to trace every line and curve with her tongue.
She wanted to drop to her knees, unbutton his jeans, and suck him into her mouth.
She wanted to watch his features transform from the pleasure she gave him.
His heavy exhale jarred her out of her dirty thoughts. “I’ve never told anyone the whole truth.”
“It’s okay.” Her pulse pounded. “We can stay away from secrets.” Tell me.
Tell me everything.
“That’s the thing. I don’t want to. I’m so fucking tired of lying and hiding and…Jesus.” He gave her a look filled with determination. “I’ve been a musician since I was strong enough to pull my mom’s metal mixing bowls out of the bottom cabinet and bang on them. She’s got this picture of me when I was…I don’t know, two? Three? I’m sitting on the floor in a white T-shirt with this big, drooly grin as I use her pots as bongos.” He played air drums. “It’s not like I remember the moment, but I remember what it felt like to create melodies out of bowls, sticks, pencils…anything I could get my hands on.”
“What was it like?”
“Like I’ve got a mess of emotions in my head. I’m pissed at my brother for knocking down my blocks, jealous that my dad’s taking my sister with him to the diner and not me, scared that the first day of school’s tomorrow…but when I could bang out a tune, all the noise went away.”
“That’s exactly what poetry is to me. I get it. I know.”
He nodded, and that snap of connection between them was so powerful it shook her on a cellular level. Like plucking a chord, it made her body vibrate.
“But it was my outlet. It was personal, the way poetry is to you. But then my dad died, and we needed money. My mom was working three jobs, so Van and I took over the household chores. We fed Hannah and Chance, got them to school, took care of laundry, but it wasn’t working. So, that day I started performing on the street? It wasn’t a lark. It wasn’t for fun.”
“What happened?”
“It was one of those days where you’re standing at the check-out, and the cost of your groceries is more than you have in your wallet. And the line is long, everyone’s watching, while you’re figuring out what food you can do without. My sister was only four, and she was whining. Van was embarrassed because his teacher was behind us, watching. And so, on the walk home, when my mom saw the street performers, she told Chance to take off his hat and had me sing a cappella on the sidewalk.”
“And?”
“And we made twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents.”
She noticed how he always said we. It was lovely, but…where did he figure into all of this? “So, how did the whole family get in on it?”
He sawed a finger over his lip, looking down at the floor. “I did it myself for a while, but they eventually joined.” He glanced toward the door of his bedroom. “My brother’s going to be back soon, so I should probably get to my room.”
“Oh, sure.” She headed out of the lounge. “Hey, I know I keep blurring the lines between work and friendship, but I’ll try to stay on the right side.” She offered an apologetic smile.
With an urgent energy, he shook his head. “Bullshit.”
Her heart thundered at his ferocious tone. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck right or left. I want you with me. On my side.”
