Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (30 page)

The guitar. This all about the guitar. I stifle a sigh, and tune in.

“…And as pertains to Colton Calloway, my very good friend, I bequeath to him my beloved husband Frank’s guitar. I’m sorry, Frankie, I know you wanted it, but Colt needs it more. Furthermore, from the liquid assets of my estate I bequeath to him a sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Less than he deserves, surely, but more than my family will appreciate. Not that I care. They have what they need, and my money is mine to bestow as I wish. I love you all.
 

“Written in my own hand, in good mental health, and with witnesses present, signed…Mathilda Irene Stafford.”
 

Jesus.

What?

There’s an uproar. Shouting. I remember other dollar amounts being named. All less that what Tilda left me. The crazy old woman left me a hundred and fifty grand? Why?
 

Frankie is sitting next to me and she leans in close. “I told her what happened. What you did. How you rescued me.” She giggles. “I didn’t know she’d do this, though. Mom and Uncle Larry are
pissed
. You got more than them.”

There are glares. Tears.
 

I don’t know what to do. The lawyer is in front of me, handing me a stapled packet of papers, asking me to sign. I stare up at him, shocked. “Can I—I don’t know, refuse it?”

He shrugs. “You could. It would delay the execution of her will a good bit, because we’d have to renegotiate with everyone else.”
 

Frankie speaks up. “He’ll sign. Just a second.” She leans close to me, whispers in my ear. “It’s what she wanted. She’d be mad if you didn’t take it. She’s giving it to you so you can buy your garage.” Her voice is small, but earnest. “Take it, Colt. Don’t worry about them.”

“It’s not fair.”
 

“No. But what is fair in this life?” Wise words from someone so young.

I hear Tilda’s voice:
Don’t you second-guess me, young man. I know my own mind.

I grin at the thought of what she’d say if she were here. I take the pen, sign where the little pink sticky tabs indicate. I tune out the instructions from the lawyer. I’ll call him later, figure it out then.
 

I make my way back to Carl’s garage in a daze. I sit on a stool at the workbench, silently thanking Tilda.
 

* * *

A few weeks later, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Calloway? This is Rachel McKenna. I’m a real estate agent, we spoke a few weeks ago regarding the auto garage in Queens?”

“Hi, Rachel. How can I help you?”

“I won’t waste any time, Mr Calloway: are you still interested in purchasing the garage?”

“Absolutely, yeah. But I thought the deal was done?”

“It turns out the buyer wasn’t able to secure the financing.” There’s a pause. “Pardon me for saying so, but…you sound rather young. Are you able to finance the purchase, Mr. Calloway?”
 

“What’s the number?”
 

She hesitates. Names a number, way,
way
lower than I’d thought it would be.
 

I hide my excitement, try to sound like I’m waffling. “I don’t know, Miss McKenna, that place needs a lot of work.”
 

Another hesitation. “What were you thinking?”

I counter with a number a full two hundred grand less, not expecting her to bite. But she does. Must be desperate to unload the place.
 

“I can do that,” she says. “Not a penny lower, though.”
 

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Miss McKenna.” I’m giddy, wary, hopeful.

Rachel McKenna names an office building, an address in lower Manhattan, and we arrange a meeting for the next week, since it’s currently late afternoon on a Friday.
 

With Tilda’s money, I’m able to front a sizeable enough down payment that my bank grants me a loan for the remainder. I spend an entire day signing documents, but then, at three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, Rachel McKenna hands me the keys to my very own auto garage.

It’s run-down.

It needs a fuckload of work to make it presentable.
 

There are probably going to be unforeseen problems.
 

I now owe a sizeable mortgage payment every month.

But it’s
mine
.

I stand in the empty bay, breathing in the thick odor of grease, old oil, and dust.
 

I worked my ass off, and I made my dream come true.

I did it, India.

I did it.

Chapter 16: We Weren’t Done Talking

One year later

I’m sitting on a park bench on the edge of Central Park, busking. I’ve got my case on the ground next to my feet, a few bucks inside as seed money bright green against the maroon velvet.
 

I haven’t busked in months; the shop has been too busy, too many orders, too many rebuilds and custom jobs.

But this, the open air and the lack of expectations, this is where I live. Where my soul flies. Like my weekly gig at Kelly’s bar, it’s not about the money, although I usually make a decent chunk of change.
 

It’s about letting the music flow out of my blood and into the guitar, letting it seep through my vocal chords.
 

I’m adjusting a string, tweaking the tuning for my next song. My head is down, tilted to the side, listening for the perfect pitch. I get it, bobbing my head in approval.

I start in on “I and Love and You” by the Avett Brothers. This is a song that always draws a crowd. It’s the song more than me, really. It’s such brilliant piece of music. So much meaning stuffed into the lyrics. I look up after the first verse and scan the sidewalk in front of me. An older man in a business suit, a phone against his ear, another clipped to his expensive leather belt; a young woman with bottle-blond hair in a messy bun, a sticky-faced boy-child gripping her hand, both stopped and listening; a gay couple, young men holding hands, flamboyant, bouffant hair and colorful scarves; three teen girls, giggling, whispering to each other behind cupped hands, thinking I’m cute.

And her.

Nell.
 

I could write a song, and her name would be the music. I could sing, strum a guitar, and her body would be the melody. She’s standing behind the rest of the crowd, partially obscured, leaning against a parking meter, a patchwork-fabric purse slung over one shoulder, pale green dress brushing her knees and hugging her curves, strawberry blond hair twisted into a casual braid and hanging over one shoulder. Pale skin like ivory, flawless and begging to be caressed. Kissed.

I’m no saint. I’ve hooked up with other girls since I last saw her, but they’ve never been enough. Never been right. They’ve never stuck around for long.

Now, here she is. Why? I tried so hard to forget her, but still her face, her lips, her body, glimpsed beneath a wet black dress…she haunts me.
 

She’s biting her lip, worrying it between her teeth, gray-green eyes pinning me to the bench. Shit. For some reason I can’t fathom, that habit, the biting her lip…I can’t take it. I want to throw down the guitar and go over to her and take that perfect plump lower lip into my mouth and not let go.
 

I almost falter at that first meeting of our eyes, but I don’t. I meet her gaze, and continue the song.
 

I’m singing it to her, as I reach the final chorus. “I…and love…and you.”
 

She knows. She sees it in my eyes. It’s utter madness to sing this song to her, but I can’t stop now. I watch her lips move, mouthing the words. Her eyes are pained, haunted.

The person standing in front of her moves, and I see a guitar case resting against her thigh, the round bottom planted on the sidewalk, her palm stabilizing the narrow top. I didn’t know she played.
 

The song ends and the crowd moves away, a few people tossing in ones and fives. The businessman—still on the phone—tosses in a fifty and a business card announcing himself as a record label producer. I nod at him, and he makes the universal “call me” gesture with his free hand. I might call him. I might not. Music is expression, not business.

She approaches, bending at the knees and lifting her guitar case, slides onto the bench next to me. Her eyes never leave mine as she sits, zips open her case, withdraws a beautiful Taylor classical acoustic. She bites her lip again, then plucks a few strings, strums, begins “Barton Hollow.”
 

I laugh softly, and see that the pain has never left her. She’s carried it all this time. I weave my part in around hers, and then I’m singing. The words fall from my lips easily, but I’m barely hearing myself. She plays easily and well, but it’s clear she hasn’t been playing for too long. She still glances at her fingers on the fretboard as she switches chords, and she gets a few notes wrong. But her voice…it’s pure magic, dulcet and silver and crystalline and so sweet.
 

We draw a crazy crowd together. Dozens of people. The street beyond is blocked from view by the bodies, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the attention. She crosses her leg over her knee, bounces with the rhythm, and ducks her head as if wishing her hair was loose so she could hide behind it. She slips up on a chord, loses the rhythm. I twist on the bench to meet her eyes, we lock eyes and I nod at her, slow down and accentuate the strumming rhythm. She breathes deep, her breasts swelling behind her Taylor, and finds the rhythm with me.

The song ends all too soon. I half expect her to rise and put away the guitar and float away again, without a word exchanged, just gone again as mysteriously as she appeared. She doesn’t, though. Thank god for that. She glances around at the crowd, chews her lip, glances at me. I wait, palm flat on the strings.

She takes a deep breath, plucks a few strings, idly, as if deciding, then nods to herself, a quick bob of the head as if to say, “Yeah, I’m gonna do it.” Then she begins to strum a tune I know I know, but can’t place. Then she sings. And again, her admittedly mediocre guitar playing fades away, replaced by the shocking beauty of her voice. She’s singing “Make You Feel My Love” by Adele. The original is simple and powerful, just the piano and Adele’s unique voice. When Nell sings it, she takes it and twists it, makes it haunting and sad and almost country-sounding. She sings it low in her register, almost whispering the words.
 

And she sings it to me.
 

Which makes no sense whatsoever. But still, she watches me as she sings, and I can see the years of pain and guilt in her gaze.
 

She still blames herself. I always knew she did, and hoped time would cure her of that, but I can see, without having even spoken to her, that she still carries the weight. There’s darkness in this girl now. I almost don’t want to get involved. She’ll hurt me. I know this. I can see it, I can feel it coming. She’s got so much pain, so many cracks and shards and jags in her soul, and I’m going to get cut by her if I’m not careful.
 

I can’t fix her. I know this, too. I’m not going to try. I’ve had too many goody-goody girls hook up with me, thinking they can fix me.
 

I also know I’m not going to stay away. I’m going to grab onto her and let myself get cut. I’m good at pain. I’m good at bleeding, emotionally and physically.
 

I let her sing. I don’t join in; I just give her the moment, let her own it. The crowd whistles and claps and tosses dollars into her open guitar case.
 

Now she waits, watches. My turn. I know I have to choose my song carefully. We’re establishing a dialogue here. We’re having a conversation in music, a discussion in guitar chords and sung notes and song titles. I strum nonsense and hum, thinking. Then it comes to me:

“Can’t Break Her Fall” by Matt Kearney. It speaks to me, and it’s unique, a song people will remember. And I know she’ll hear me, hear what I’m not saying when I sing it. Half-sung, half-rapped. The verses tell such a strong, vivid story, and suddenly I can see her and me in the lyrics.

She listens carefully. Her gray-green gaze hardens, and her teeth snag her lip and bite down hard. Oh yeah. She heard me. I catch the tremble in her hand when she sets her guitar in the case, zips it closed, and tries not to stumble as she runs from me. Her braid trails behind her, bouncing between her shoulder blades, and her calves flash pale white in the New York sunlight. I let her go, finish the song, and then I click the guitar case closed and jog after her.
 

I walk across the street, Yellow Cabs honking impatiently, through the city noise, and then down to a subway. I see her swipe a card and struggle with the turnstile, guitar case held awkwardly by the handle. She swipes the card again, but the turnstile won’t budge and she’s cursing under her breath. People are lining up behind us, but she’s oblivious to them, or to me standing mere inches away. She tosses her head, stops struggling and takes a deep breath. At that moment, I reach past her, swipe my own card and gently push her through the gate. She complies as if in a daze, lets me take her guitar from her and I slip the straps over my shoulder, holding my own hard case by the handle. The palm of my free hand cups her lower back, prompting her onto the waiting subway car. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t question that it’s even me. She just knows. She’s breathing deeply still, gathering herself. I let her breathe, let the silence stretch. She won’t turn in place to look at me, but she leans back, just slightly, her back brushing my front. She doesn’t put her weight against me, merely allows a hint of contact.
 

She gets off after a few stops, and I follow her. She catches another line, and we continue in silence. She hasn’t met my eyes since she ran from the Central Park bench. I’ve stayed behind her, just following. I follow her to an apartment building in Tribeca, follow her up the echoing stairwell, trying not to stare at her ass swaying as she ascends the stairs. It’s hard not to, though. It’s such a fine ass, round and taut and swinging teasingly under the thin cotton of her sundress.