Page 2 of Ask Me For Fire


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Barrett’s heart lurched at someone else saying that name aloud. “Yeah. I get it. If I see him around, I’ll say hello.”

“More than I was hoping for.”

“I’m not that grouchy,” Barrett mumbled, making Brad laugh as he climbed into his truck. Brad said his goodbyes and peeled out, leaving Barrett standing in his front yard as the sun shone down through the autumn-dappled trees.

There was someone out on the dock.

There wasneveranyone out on the dock except him and Perry. And now it was just him. Barrett rubbed his chest when his heart contracted painfully, thinking about his friend. Fucking heart attack at fifty-nine. The world was completely unfair.

The person on the dock had their back turned, but from the slight angle at which he approached, Barrett could see black jean-clad legs dangling over the edge, feet in battered boots kicking slightly. The wind blew, stiff and chilly, and Barrett pulled the zipper up on his jacket with his free hand, keeping his grip tight on his tackle gear. He watched as that wind played with the figure’s shaggy auburn curls. But they didn’t shiver or tug their flannel shirt tighter around them. That’s when Barrett noticed the guitar in their long-fingered hands; when he heard the first few chords strummed out. It was no cheesy pop song or acoustic classic. Whatever it was left him feeling melancholic, as if the person playing was pouring feeling into every note. The music practically danced out over the fading morning mist and gray skies and it made his fingers itch to go get his own guitars, as shoddy of a player as he was. He had no skill next to this mysterious maestro.

“Hello?”

Barrett jolted, the fishing pole in his hand slipping through his fingers. “Shit, sorry,” he muttered, bending to retrieve the pole. “You’re um...you’re good.”

The stranger blinked at him, then got to his feet, guitar held carefully in his hands. “Thanks. The mist and everything felt right this morning, had to get out here.” He approached and stuck out his hand. “I’m Ambrose. I just moved in.”

“Barrett. Guess we’re neighbors.”

Ambrose was tall and lanky; almost as tall as Barrett, which was impressive enough. There were some doors he had to duck to pass through. Ambrose probably had the same troubles. And the man before him was of some indeterminate age between twenty-five and forty, with the kind of face so open, it made you want to confess everything. Long auburn hair that curled at the ends, dark grey eyes that looked even darker in the thin morning sun. There was a slight scar across his chin and over the left side of his jaw, faded white with age, and Barrett spotted the edge of curling dark ink above the collar of his high necked sweater.

You’re beautiful, Barrett thought as Ambrose replied, “Then it’s nice to meet you. Honestly, I came up here for the quiet and you don’t look like the party type, so I guess we’re good there.”

It was such a casual statement, in a vaguely Bostonian accent, that Barrett almost laughed. Something about Ambrose made him think the other man wouldn’t appreciate that, though. His stance was stiff, even with the gentle way he was holding his guitar. And he kept looking toward his cabin. Like he wanted to be anywhere else.

And people called Barrett standoffish.

Deflated, Barrett nodded. “Just doing some fishing, if that’s all right.”

Ambrose waved a hand at the lake. “It’s not my dock nor my lake. I was just heading inside anyways. Nice to meet you.”

With a nod, the other man walked off, leaving Barrett to watch until Ambrose disappeared inside his house. After a few long moments where an inexplicable loneliness rose up in him, he sighed and began unpacking his fishing gear. Perry was gone, he had to remember that. And clearly Ambrose wasn’t the overly friendly type.

“Polite neighbors“ was just fine. It’s not like he was looking to supplant Perry any time soon, even with that hollow echo in his bones.

Chapter two

Aweekpassed,andwith it, autumn quickly, suddenly, fell into early winter. Work deadlines were met, chapters were written (then edited, disposed of, rewritten, and finally settled on), and copious amounts of tea was drunk. Settling into his new home felt far too easy and yet, Ambrose relished in that quiet, where the patter of rain lulled him to sleep and he woke in the mornings to mist rolling over Lake Honor. He unpacked boxes, moved furniture, and hung paintings.

But he didn’t go back out to the dock. Barrett seemed nice enough and Ambrose wasn’tavoidinghim, per se. Writing poetry and prose and music, those were solitary activities, and between his accounting job and video game raid weekends with some friends, there was no time to go borrow a cup of sugar or whatever neighbors did. And he strangely felt like going back to the dock would be an invitation.

His mother would have a field day with his pernicious reluctance to meet new people, especially when one lived so close. But Lake Honor was as far away from her as anything and the distance helped him ease into his new routine.

He spotted Barrett a few times from his kitchen window, as he leaned against the counter and sipped scalding hot green tea. The man was….well,massive. He looked like someone who had lived in the woods all his life. Raised by wolves or bears or something. His wild, snarled black hair and untamed beard hid a lot of his features, so Ambrose had no idea how old he was. But his confident stride bore no signs of age or injury, no limp or slowness. Barrett walked like a man who knew his boots would keep him steady on muddy ground; as if he knew where he was going and what he was doing at all times. It was a confidence Ambrose envied, even as it sent a jolt of somethingelsethrough him.

With a sigh, he pulled away from the window just as Barrett turned in his direction. He really needed to focus on his new song, pull his head out of the manuscript that seemed to go nowhere. The tiny recording studio - really just a repurposed closet - was all set. Waiting for him. But that spark, that bit of ignition he was waiting on, the thing that fueled his musical passion and desire, was missing.

“Damn,” he muttered as he reached for his guitar. It was going to be another long day of staring at blank pages and fighting with snippets of chords that only made him frustrated.

Don’t think so negatively, Ambrose. Negative thinking only clouds our creative energies and you’ll never get anywhere with your craft if you don’t focus on the positives.

He could hear her in his mind, clear as a bell. His mother, Angelica Avery, was a renowned musician; had played violin with many an orchestra, had sang opera on stages across the world, and was loved by all those in the arts scene in the big cities on the coast. But while talented and beautiful, she was a terrible mother. She treated Ambrose like a rowdy pupil instead of a son at best, and his childhood desire to try his hand at all kinds of art only disappointed her.

Not everyone has so many facets to their talent, Ambrose. Stick with what suits you best.

He gripped his pencil tightly as anger doused his system. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t here, he was alone, and he could create and fuck up and create again to his heart’s desire. That was all that mattered.

Ambrose wiled away the afternoon composing, strumming his guitar, and piecing together bits of a song that had lingered in his dreams for several nights. It was a sad little thing; the story of a boy who sat at the edge of a cliff and wondered if he could fly. What if he could dream and wish hard enough to grow wings and let him soar over the water like a bird, free and happy as the wind took him wherever it pleased.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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