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Finally, the path plateaus into the flat peak of the island. And there before me, looming over the edge of a cliff, is the house itself.
I swallow as I step up onto the huge porch of the rambling old eighteen-hundreds mansion. Margie, the post office worker, mentioned that was this was formerly the Fleetwood Mansion—a pinnacle of excess built by a one-time shipping baron who has now faded into the annals of history.
Now, seemingly, it’s the home of Jackson Havoc, a.k.a. Robert Johnson.
I stop in front of the enormous carved wooden door. There’s no doorbell to be found, which makes me suddenly wonder if this island without cell service even has electricity. But thereisa huge iron doorknocker, ornately molded into the shape of a lion roaring.
I raise a hand, grab it, and let it slam against the door twice. The thunderous sound booms through the door, vibrating in my body. I pause, stepping back and shifting anxiously as I wait for him to answer it.
Which of course, doesn’t happen.
I bring my hand up again, gripping the huge iron knocker and hammering it twice more. When that doesn’t work, I do it again. And again. And again, and again and again…until finally, I hear a roaring swear yell from inside the house.
Apparently, I didn’t make that up. Hedoesspeak.
Footsteps thunder closer and closer, shaking me as if I’m back on the boat being tossed by the waves. I shuffle a step back, teeth chattering as the wind on top of the island summit slices through my wet clothes. I blush as I look down and quickly yank the leather jacket tight over my chest to hide the wet white t-shirt beneath.
The thundering footsteps get closer, making me shiver even more than the cold itself. But finally, they stop in front of the door. The doorknob wrenches and twists, and suddenly, the huge door swings open.
I shiver, shaking as I look up and instantly lose myself.
In steel blue eyes.
In a strong, clenched, grooved jaw covered with scruff.
In shaggy hair framing a face that one brought the world to its knees. A face that once sold millions and millions of albums.
A face that at one point was one of the most famous faces on theplanet. And looking at him—the first time anyone knowingly has looked on him in ten years—it sort of feels like I just discovered El Dorado, the city of gold. Or Bigfoot. Or the Loch Ness Monster, or something.
We stand there staring at each other—me shivering, him with his arms outstretched and his hands on either side of the door frame.
Blocking me. Caging me out.
Making a point.
This ishiscastle. And I’m the intruder.
The second stick by in silence. I swallow, waiting for him to say something. But he doesn’t.
Guess we’re staying with the silence bullshit once again.
I take a slow, shaky breath, calming my nerves as best I can before I open my mouth.
“Hi.”
He says nothing. And the longer I look at him, the more I’m sure he’s exactly who I think he is.
Of course, he is.
The same steel blue eyes. The same strong jaw. The same cool, barely contained animalistic viciousness behind his gaze.
“So…hi, my name is…”
I pause. I don’t know why I pause. I don’t know why the idea of telling him my name scares me. It’s as if I’m on safari, and actually opening up to him and revealing myself would be like stepping over the boundary into the lion’s den.
“I’m Melody,” I blurt. “Hendrix.”
It’s not the first time I’ve used June’s last name instead of my own. Becausemylast name comes with baggage. And history. Or worse, recognition.
