Page 23 of Whirlwind

He remembered. And he hadn’t lobbed it to the side as some dumb childish eye-roll worthy thing that had “happened.”

My adrenaline couldn’t keep up with the bike’s speed, with the drumming of the wind on my flesh, and I gave into its demands, grinning as Beck’s thick hair fluttered by my face. I’d only ever ridden with Wes before, we’d grown up together, riding in the warm months to swimming holes, to parties, the movies.

After the sign to Spearfish, I tapped on Beck’s right shoulder like I’d told him I would. Slowing down, he took the turn onto the small dirt road, and I pointed to where he should pull up. I got off the bike and tore off the helmet, steadying myself on terra firma.

He took the helmet from me, hanging it on a handlebar. “Is this a Meager hotspot?”

“It’smyhotspot. I like coming here on my own. There’s another area farther down where couples go to check out the stars.”

He let out a dark chuckle, shaking the hair out of his face. “There are no stars here?” He grinned, a cocky grin, a you-know-what-I-mean-babe grin, which, coupled with that deep, velvety voice of his filled my insides with a spiraling heat.

“Oh, there are stars here, all right.” I lifted my gaze to the sky, and he came up next to me, doing the same. A vast black sky filled with a zillion speckles of silver light soared above us. An owl hooted in the distance. A flap of wings swept past us.

The urge to swallow this galaxy whole like a huge bowl of cereal came over me. Toss the spoon, tip the bowl right into my mouth.

He sucked in the cedar and pine scented air as the sides of our bodies brushed up against each other and didn’t move away. “The air here is so different…it smells amazing. I used to love that when I was a kid in Rapid. I forgot about it,” he murmured.

We both took in deep breaths. A hum filled my veins, and I relished it. I wasn’t going to think about tomorrow or consequences or mornings after. Screw all that. This night was way better than anything I could have imagined when I was getting dressed earlier, when I was sipping on those martinis at the Tingle, expecting, hoping.

Tonight was perfect, and it was all mine. Mine.

“This way.” I tagged his elbow, leading him down a path that wound its way through a dense grove of trees, the thick fragrance of pine and metallic earth perfuming the air, enveloping us. I stretched out my hand, my palm hitting his hard middle, and I gripped his waist. “Careful of the edge.”

He found my hand, clasping it in his larger one. The tips of his fingers callused, his hand warm. He let me lead him in the dark through the trees. Twigs and dried brush crackled on the otherwise soft earth under our feet.

That cherished blast of sound filled my ears, and my heart pounded. I loved it here. It was solace, it was exuberance. Pure energy. I hadn’t come for a long time. A long time. I’d once thought it would be cool to show it to Beck one day. But I’d known that was a childish wish.

My pulse jolted. My wish had come true. That “one day” was happening right now.

He stopped abruptly, his hand squeezing mine. I squeezed back, my heart thudding in my chest. “I know you can’t see it now to get the full, grand effect,” I said. “But I think the sound in the dark is magnificent.”

“Oh, Violet.” Beck’s voice came out husky, low. His breathing got choppy, his hand squeezing mine even tighter.

The waters rushed and pounded incessantly just beyond us in the dark, the sound reverberating off the granite rocks, surrounding us in its grand fierceness. I knew exactly what it looked like, but right now, somehow, the visuals didn’t matter, we didn’t need them. Beck’s body was at attention. He listened with his body, listened with his soul, taking in every detail of its glory. We listened and felt it together.

I’d discovered this place long before I’d heard Beck’s song. This was the place I came to when I felt down, frustrated, too angry, even before the fire. I’d come here and let go of the junk and the noise. Stand or sit, breathe and listen. Let it go. Let it in.

Of course after that night at Pete’s, whenever I’d come here I’d think of his song, of his genuine honesty, his incredible talent and passion for his work, his sincerity, and what it had inspired in me. I would often wonder how he was doing. I knew he was a success, but how was he handling it all? Was he happy? Had he achieved everything he’d wanted?

Would I?

And now, tonight, scraping a new rockbottom, here I was with Beck himself at my hidden and real waterfall in the wilderness, under the stars. Sharing its wonder with him.

The water hammered around us, pressing us together like a magical supernatural force. It was magic and supernatural to me. He took my other hand in his. “I’ve never played that song again after that night.” His voice sliced through the fierce pounding of water.

“Why?”

“It belonged to that night. To that moment and to everybody listening. To me and Mom. Even though it was a public performance, it was the most intimate experience I’d ever had.”

My heart hunted for a way out of my chest.No exit.

“Does that make sense?”

“It does. You don’t sing solos ever, do you? You just sing back up or along with Myles, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s a shame, Beck. Your voice is amazing. To hear your voice on the songs you’ve written would be—”

---