Page 107 of Full Tilt
His hand played soft in my hair. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe he’s better,” I said, “now that I’m gone. I’m not trying to be a martyr. I just mean…maybehe’shappier. Which makesthembetter together. I wouldn’t want to mess that up. God, they looked so in love…” I exhaled and looked back at Jonah with a weak smile. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We have an early flight in the morning.”
Jonah started up the car, drove ten feet, then jerked it to a stop and threw it into park. He turned to face me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other along the back of my seat.
“When you’re ready, you’ll come back,” he said. “And your father might talk and reconcile, or he might hold on to his stupid anger and turn you away. If he does, then he’s a goddamn idiot. You wanting to be loved by him doesn’t make you broken, Kace. He’s the broken one for letting you go. It’shisloss. I want to hate him for what he’s done to you, but instead I just feel sorry for him.”
He kissed me then, fiercely, as if sealing a pact, his hand tight in my hair.
“Needed to get that off your chest, did you?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said.
“Feel better?”
“Much.” He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb again.
I turned to the window to watch my old house go past. “Me too.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
End of September
I sat on my bed, guitar in my lap and notebook open beside me. I tapped a pen on the lower body of the Taylor acoustic, sighing at the blank pages. No lyrical flow today. Wasn’t happening. Chett was a dead subject to me, and I didn’t want to write about my dad. Basically, I wasn’t too happy to go digging in the dark pits of my past.
Which, all things considered, was a good problem to have.
For six weeks now, Jonah and I had been together. A couple. Almost every night after work, he’d come to my place, or I to his. He didn’t need much sleep and I was a night owl with nowhere to be in the morning. We spent the deep hours lost in each other, making love—sometimes hard and rough, sometimes slow and gentle—then talking, eating and laughing before falling back into bed.
We had our little routines. Sunday nights at the Fletchers’ house, outdoor dinners beneath Jonah’s glowing lamps. Lots oflaughter, good food and better conversation. Tuesdays were our date nights. ATM cupcakes, a fountain show at the Bellagio or just staying in to watch a movie.
He left a stash of his medications in my kitchen, and I bought a blender at a yard sale so I could make smoothies for him. And nearly every day, I brought lunch to the hot shop where Jonah and Tania were hard at work finishing the installation pieces. The gallery show at the Wynn was only two weeks away, but Jonah said he felt confident he was going to make it.
He is going to make it, I thought.And beyond. He’s healthy. His body is strong.
I felt the strength in his body almost every night. My little flame of hope was a torch now, and not even a hurricane could douse it.
My cellphone rang from the nightstand, jarring me from my thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Kacey Dawson?” asked a woman’s voice.
“That’s me.”
“Ms. Dawson, I’m fromSound Addictionmagazine. I was wondering if you had any comments about the recent shake-ups in your former band, Rapid Confession?
I frowned. “What recent shake-ups?”
“Word is the tour is in danger of canceling shows due to squabbles between Jeannie Vale and the new guitarist, Elle Michaels. Is this true?”
“I have no idea.”
“There’s also talk of a messy lawsuit with a club owner. Fans are griping that the live shows aren’t as solid as they were whenyouwere on stage.”
“Well, shit, that’s nice to hear.”
