Page 18 of The Sound of Forever
I close the door behind him, leaning against it as Rowan steps further into the room, his gaze sweeping over the sparsely furnished interior. His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have to; the silence says enough.
“There’s nothing to say,” I mutter, the words falling flat between us. “Why would I want to answer?”
“Because I need to know you’re fucking alive,” he snaps, his voice low but carrying enough force to make me flinch.
“Fair,” I concede, gesturing vaguely toward the living room. “But you have access to the cameras. I’m sure you can watch me whenever you want.”
“That’s not the point, Keane,” he growls, running a hand through his hair. His frustration crackles in the air between us as he strides to the refrigerator and yanks it open. He rifles through its contents with a sort of practiced ease, grabbing a root beer before turning back to face me. “I didn’t come here just to check on you. I’ve got a tattoo appointment in town, and Too Far From Grace is playing tonight. You should come.”
I shake my head, my jaw tightening. “I’m not going to a concert, gig, or whatever you want to call it. That’s not my scene anymore.”
“You can’t keep hiding, man.” His tone softens just enough to make something inside me stir, a tiny crack forming in the armor I’ve spent months building. “At some point, you’ve got to stop running.”
My eyes snap to his, the challenge in his gaze meeting the defiance in mine. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
He doesn’t argue. He just shrugs. “Maybe not,” he says evenly. “But I know you can’t do this forever.”
“Wanna bet?” I fire back, the bitterness in my voice unmistakable.
He doesn’t bite. Instead, he takes a long sip from the bottle, watching me with a calmness that feels infuriatingly deliberate. “The concert’s at Too Far From a Bar,” he says, setting the root beer on the counter with a quiet thud. “Come by. I’m sure everyone will be happy to see you.”
“Not interested,” I reply flatly, crossing my arms. It’d be like saying,Hey, assholes who really didn’t give two shits about me, I’m alive.
Why bother?
Rowan heads for the door, pausing midstep as his gaze shifts toward the window. His brow furrows, and he points toward the house next door. “There’s movement over there.”
“Noticed that, did you?” I say, the sarcasm dripping from my words.
He turns to look at me, his brows knitting together, concern flickering in his eyes. “You okay with it?”
Of course I’m not fucking okay. Though I shrug, brushing off his unease. “It’s not like I could kick her out of her own house—even if I wanted to.”
“She alone?”
“I think so,” I admit, avoiding his eyes.
Rowan narrows his gaze, his eyes flicking over me with an intensity that makes it clear he’s piecing something together. “You want me to run a background check on the owners? See who’s occupying it?”
I snort, shaking my head. “What is it you do again? Because ‘philanthropist-living-off-a-trust-fund’ doesn’t exactly explain your schedule—or your . . . demeanor.”
He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve got layers, man. More than you, at least.”
“Sure,” I deadpan.
Rowan chuckles, then takes a step toward the door, stopping just long enough to throw a parting shot over his shoulder. “The concert’s at eight. You should come. You need it more than you think.”
And with that, he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a muted click.
I exhale slowly, staring at the spot where he stood. The room feels emptier now, his absence leaving behind an unease I can’t quite shake. My gaze drifts to the window, to the flicker of movement next door, and something about it pulls at me—a thread I can’t ignore but don’t want to tug on.
Sure, a concert would be nice, playing music and . . . well, it’d be nice, but not what I want to do in front of others. More when I can barely play for myself. Maybe one day, but will it ever happen?
ChapterTwenty-Four
Keane
Day who the fuck knows. . .
