How To Save A Life (5 page)

She doesn't try to kiss or lick my boyfriend.

And that is nice.

Duke
and I walk to his front door in silence. He doesn't even ask if I want to come in. It's understood.

We sneak up the stairs to his room. His house is quiet and warm, welcoming after the chill of the air outside. The scent of roast meat hits my nostrils, as if perhaps his mother had created a feast earlier and the ghost of it lingering for us to enjoy.

Everything about this place feels like home
.

Duke ushers me down the hall, far away from his parents' and Olive's rooms, and into his. He shuts the door behind us, and flicks on the light switch.

"So ..." I start. He flops down on the bed, and pats the space beside him.

It's hard not to obey, especially when I hate to admit it, but Kat was right. His chest does look incredibly good tonight. Hell, even I want to lick his nipple ring, even though I know the wound is only a week old, and I'd possibly do more harm than good.

"She doesn't mean anything by it, Lia." Duke hooks his feet behind my knees and I shuffle to the bed, standing over him. "You know it was just drunk talk."

"Yeah ..." I nod. "Do you ... have you ever felt anything for her?"

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they shouldn't. It's such a typical insecure girl question, but I can't help it. I need to know.

"I haven't thought to have feelings for her." He sighs. "I kinda already have this hot girlfriend right here." He sits up and wraps his hands around my waist, runs them up my sides, over my breasts and then behind my back, pulling me so I lie over him.

Our bodies press together, and the heat is addictive. "I ..." Duke leans in and kisses me once. "Love."
Kiss
. "You."
Kiss.

Then the time for talking is over, and his mouth claims mine with a desperation perhaps born of needing to prove a point, or perhaps purely instigated by his own drunken desire. Either way, in seconds he's reaching for the hem of my shirt, and I'm fighting to pull it down against him.

"C'mon, Lee," he whispers, still pulling the thin lacy material up.

My lips still, and I think quick. I pull back and stand again, then run my tongue over my lips, hoping like hell I look sexy, and not like someone who needs a damn Chapstick. My hands move to my fly, and I flick open the button on my jeans then slowly pull down the zipper.

Duke swallows. His eyes are fixed.

Safe
.

Because no one sees me without a shirt on.

Ever.

I kick off my jeans and lie over him again, our bodies tangling as we kiss. He slides his hands up under my strapless top and brushes his hands over my breasts, and I let my fingers do exploring of their own.

Then he tries to take my shirt off.

Again.

"Baby, can't we leave it on?" I ask, hoping there's the right amount of coy in my tone. "Or turn off the lights?"

"Lia, it's been more than a year. Surely I can see you without a shirt on."

"I'm shy." I giggle, kissing his neck in an effort to distract him. It tastes of salt and beer, and smells like it, too.

"Why? I tell you all the time how hot you are."

"You can feel me?" I say suggestively.

"I'm damn sick of feeling."

I pull back. There's fire in his eyes, and it's not just passion burning there.

It hits me, and I know what this is. He's suspicious. My ruse has gone on too long for him to simply put my actions down to coincidence. He's putting two and two together, and he's getting four far more quickly than I want him to. Far more quickly than I can let him.

Little does he know I'd show him my boobs a thousand times before showing him what's hidden around my mid-section.

"You're ... you're drunk," I say, my voice shaking.

"A little." He shrugs, propped up on his elbows. "But how much do you really expect me to put up with?"

I furrow my brow, and I open and close my mouth, trying to form an answer to his question—

But he's right.

He's absolutely, one hundred freaking per cent right.

I slink over and switch off the light, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor to my hand as it does so. Then, I take off my top, as I've done a million times before, straddle his waist and resume making out with the guy I love.

***

We kiss, clothes are shed, and then we have sex. It's short, and not so much sweet as needy. I need him to make it all go away.

When we're done, I pick up my top as I head to the light. With my back to him, I flick the switch, then I pull my top over my head but yank it down so far that my naked boobs are on display.

I turn to him. "Seeing enough?"

Sleepy satisfaction flashes through Duke's eyes. It’s not the first time I’ve done this half-hearted gesture, but it appears to satisfy him for the time being. He extends his arms. "C'mere, baby."

I melt into his embrace, my head nestled against his neck, but I'm not stupid. I know we’re not okay.

“You wanna talk about your mum?”

I stiffen.

“I know it has to be something to do with her. You’re so weird about her, and come over at all hours, never letting us vis—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grit out. Because Duke, Kat and the other kids at Emerald Cove High? They’re some of the only people who don’t look at me with pity and who don’t know my secrets.

"Love you," Duke says, although it’s more like a sigh. He closes his eyes, and moments later, his breathing steadies and he falls asleep.

It's the first time I've ever doubted him.

All I can think is
I've pushed him too far
. Because I'm not stupid enough to think that if I ever lost Duke, it would be his fault. Oh, hell no. He's perfect.

I'm the one who's broken.

If our relationship ever stopped, the fault would be all mine.

Hours later, I drive away and head back home, sated after having closed my eyes and shut the world out. It's the only place nightmares don't haunt me—when I'm safe in Duke's arms.

When I pull up, I glance at my watch. I need to shower, get changed, and then get out of here and practise. Because every day, my audition is one step closer.

And that’s one prize I have to win.

Sometimes
, the harder you work, the harder it gets. I've been practising for two hours now, trying to get my fingers to work faster, to master the transitions with greater speed and precision, but for some reason, they keep hitting bum notes, keep falling short of perfection.

And if I want to leave this hole, I need perfection.

"I need a break," I mutter to no one in particular. I stand and grab the bottle of water that rests to my left on the floor, gulping it down in three heated breaths. Hair sticks to my forehead, and my cheeks are on fire from my overzealous practise. Well, that and the lack of air conditioning in here. Even though it's still early in spring, the sun has been burning high in the sky all day, and the tin roof has ensured this hall is hotter than the devil himself.

I rifle through my canvas bag, flicking through notes and papers till I find my phone. No new messages. I hope that's because Duke is happy, satisfied, and not plotting ways to get me shirtless again.

Then I think of Kat, and I groan. I don’t want her to like my boyfriend. Please, no.

Both thoughts send shivers down my spine, despite the heat in the air. Melancholy fills my head, my heart, and my soul.
Only 151 days until I leave.
Hopefully with Duke by my side.

Just 3,624 hours.

217,440 minutes.

When you put it like that ...

My body slumps into the seat, and I gently pick out singular notes. They're lonely, isolated, and resonate in this wood and tin shack until the sound is all I hear, all I am.

More sad, solitary notes are plucked out, and I play for the way I felt when Duke tried to get me to take my top off, when Kat confessed that she loved him, for every time either of them has asked me about my life before Emerald Cove High. I play for my mother, and how much I'm going to worry about her when I'm gone. How much I have to do before I leave to make sure she survives that. And I play for myself, and what will happen to me if I don't.

I play heartbreak. I play devastation.

I play me.

Then I add deep chords, big, gassy vibrant things that build in anger, growing to a crescendo that has me hunched over the keys, my shoulders jerking with every new line, sweat building on my brow again. They're how I feel sometimes, late at night. By myself. Wanting answers from the universe on why life is so damn unfair.

And then it's small, tiny, inconsequential notes again.

Because deep down, that's what I am.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

I freeze.
What the hell?

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Slowly, I raise my head. There, in the doorway to the hall, is the silhouette of a boy, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. He's dressed in a shirt that's splattered with paint, and not in an arty way—in a 'maybe I'm not cut out for home maintenance' kind of style. His hair is pulled back, gathered in a top-knot, and judging by the dark shadows under his eyes, I'm guessing I'm not the only recipient of less than the standard eight hours of shut-eye last night.

"Beautiful, though." He takes two steps inside, and I hold up my hand in a stop gesture.

"Hold it right there, buddy. This is a private studio."
Studio. Scout hall. Same thing.

"Sorry, sorry." His arms go up in apology. "I didn't mean to intrude." He rocks back on his heels, and silence coats us, the river rushing past outside the only sound.

I narrow my eyes. "So ... what are you doing here?"

"I'm working next door."

I raise my eyebrows. "Cleaning the swamp with paint?"

"Ha!" He snorts. "Actually, I'm opening a bar. But it's good to know there's another option, if that doesn't work out."

"Judging by how much paint's on you, that might seriously be something to consider."

He laughs, and it's oddly pleasant. "Look, I never said I was great at interior decoration. Making killer drinks is my thing."

"Killer drinks?" My tone is doubting. Who even says that? "You serious?"

He winks, and his stupid eyes flash. "Deadly."

A crow calls.

A car spins around the turning circle out front.

Silence.

"So it's kind of fate that I've run into you here today," he continues, shoving his hands in the pockets of his khaki cargo pants, and I wonder how the hell he makes those things somehow look cool.

"Oh yeah?" I fold my arms.

"Yeah." He gives me a million-dollar smile. "Because I left a note on your car the other night."

"That's ..." I think of the note. The way it had intrigued me, made me feel as if someone understood. As if someone had seen the secrets I struggled so hard to keep hidden. "... nice."

"A little stalky though, right?" He scrunches up his nose, and this time I have to laugh.

"A little," I concede, even if I don’t necessarily think it’s true.

"So anyway, I'm opening this bar next week, called Class, and what I really want is a shit-hot muso. Y'know, just someone to bang out some contemporary but non-invasive stuff in the background. A new take on pop, or metal, or rock. Or anything you feel like, really. Once a week. Paid, of course ... if you were interested ..." His words trail off, and I wonder if he was expecting a happy dance. And rightly so. Playing a weekly live gig is the sort of stuff musicians dream of.

Musicians who are qualified.

And over eighteen.

Therefore, allowed into a bar.

"Thanks, but it's not really for me." I lift my notes up and shut the lid on the piano with a clunk. It's ugly and abrasive. Loud.

"What do you mean?" He leans against the frame, his face highlighted by the sun. His eyes are hypnotising in the light, changing colours to suit the time of day.

"I mean ..." I pause. What do I mean? Sorry, I have a job working for an idiot who pushes me too far almost every week? Sorry, but I'm not actually old enough to work in your establishment? Sorry, but my emotional investment to places and jobs has a timeframe, one that ends in 151 days? "I mean ... the bar scene isn't really for me."

Finally. A truth. One I'm not ashamed to say.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." I study my feet, but the way he's still looking at me, the clear respect he has for my music—it's as if he sees a part of who I could be.

A part of who I
used
to be.

And I don't want to lie about that.

"Alcohol ... it kinda ruined my life." I shrug. It's my father and my mother. It's me and it's the world. It's everything and nothing all at once.

"Oh." A shadow casts over his face. "I'm so sorry ..."

"It's nothing." I wave it off like the Lia I've been acting for eighteen months would if someone said to her that she'd broken a nail. "Just a ... anyway, I don't think it's a good fit."

"I completely understand." He nods, and for a second, a dark smile flirts with his lips. "Are you offended if I sometimes come in and listen to you practise, though?"

"Pardon?"

"You're very good, and I'm attempting to audition for
The Block
right,"—he pauses, pointing to the abandoned bar—"right there. Your window's open ... my window's open ... I'm practically in the same room as you right now anyway."

I can't stop the smile that twists my lips. He's interested in me, in my music. He seems to understand me, what I feel when I play. He's offered me a potential job, and maybe—

Then I remember the rules. The simple steps I created the day I started at Emerald Cove High.

Step one: Stay away from anything dangerous. And anything new is fraught with peril.

I quickly amend it in my brain.

Stay away from the new guy.

"Honestly, it's a little weird." I shuffle my feet
.
"It's probably for the best if you don't."

"Oh ..." Light flickers out in his eyes,

I did that.

"I'm sorry if I've ... invaded your privacy."

I can see the deep hurt in his gaze, not just for the pain he's caused me, but for the insult done to his sense of self-respect, and as he turns away to go, I can't help but want to call out, want to stop his departure.

But my throat swallows the words.

He is a stranger.

An admittedly good-looking one.

And in 151 days, he'll be nothing to me. I give my wrist a slight pinch, a reminder that this is my reality. I’m leaving this town. I’ll fix Mum first though, and Duke will come with me.

Most likely.

I think of him and Kat together the night before.

Life is not a love song.

I blink back to the here and now to see the man walking away, and it's not until he's out the door that I realise I never asked his name, and he didn't even say goodbye. And for some weird reason, that hurts more than it should.

Until I get to my car, later that afternoon. The sun is behind the trees, and the kids are swimming in the lake, taking advantage of the first of the warmer weather. They splash and cry and play, their melody a strong accompaniment to the early soundtrack of crickets, hesitant at first, as if unsure it's their time.

There's a note.

Another one.

This time, I snatch it up with eager hands before I even throw my bag in the car.

THAT WAS THE SADDEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD.

AND YET, I DIDN’T WANT IT TO END.

For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he's talking about the song or our conversation.