Pretty Instinct (14 page)

Kneeling into my bunk, I search frantically, letting out an aggravated groan when I come up empty-handed and realize I just got my sheets all wet. That’ll be comfy tonight. Ducking back out, I turn to go scour the table and shriek, stunned, barely stopping short of falling straight on my
naked
ass. “Holy shit!” I scream, fumbling to utilize the minimal square of cloth that I almost drop, for optimal coverage. “Cannon, I thought you guys were out? Where the hell is Conner?”

“At the restaurant.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, failing to cover his smirk. His eyes, shaded playfully as perfect coffee with just a dash of cream, simmer tauntingly, taking one rapid scan of my exposed state and then politely divert, glancing around the room. “You need me to dig you up an actual towel?” he asks, shoving his hands in the back pockets of his deliciously baggy jeans and tilting his head to inspect the ceiling.

“There aren’t any clean ones, thus the hand towel I’m trying to hide behind. You could have said something, like right when I pranced out here naked!”
Oh God
. I feel my whole body ignite in a mortified blush.
I was just bent over my bunk! Bent. Origin: English, slang for ASS STICKING UP IN THE AIR.
“Turn around,” I grumble, mentally willing my own, immediate, death.

“Gimme options, Siren.” It sounds like he’s challenging me, but maybe he’s joking.

“Cannon,” I warn.

“You’re no fun,” he huffs playfully but does turn. “And you’re not
completely
naked.” I hear his snicker, tempted to rage on him, but more tempted to flee the scene of the crime against my dignity.

“Why are you here?” I start creeping backwards toward the bathroom, a flushing scarlet mess of fumbling hands and towel stretching. Maybe I should flip around and run for it; he’s already seen my ass after all. “Why isn’t Conner back too?”

“I brought you food; figured you’d be getting hungry. You haven’t eaten all day. And there’s an arcade in the restaurant, so they could be there all night. He’s with your uncle and best friends in the world. If you can’t trust him with them, give it up and handcuff yourself to him once and for all.”

“Where are we?” I yell through the bathroom door, hurrying into clean clothes and refusing to acknowledge his advice.

“Bum fuck. I have no idea. Bruce says we have about nine hours left. Did you get some good sleep? Feeling better?”

“Yeah, a lot.” I emerge,
covered
.

“You look good.” He reaches up and runs a tender hand down the side of my face.

The touch itself may be soft and soothing, but my reaction is anything but…an embarrassed, uneasy heat enflaming me from head to toe. “Um, thank you,” I wisp out in a staccato breath, quickly moving aside and away, out of the heated cloud. “Thanks for this.” I open the Styrofoam container he’d brought me, picking out a few bites of nachos. “What’d you have?”

“Nachos,” he quips with a smug grin, taking a seat on the bench and pulling off his boots and socks. “Are we okay? I kinda got all in your business today.”

“Surprisingly,” I glance over my shoulder, “yeah, we’re fine. I may,” I pinch my thumb and finger and grin, “find talking to you less than torturous.” I rock on my heels aimlessly, finding myself in yet another completely unfamiliar situation—nothing to do. “What now? I’m wide awake just when they’ll all be getting tired. This whole “Conner freedom” thing is throwing me off. I don’t have a clue what to do with myself.”

“We could work on one of your songs,” he suggests daringly, his already taut body bracing rigidly for my reaction.

“My, uh what?” Suddenly famished, I stuff nachos in my mouth, my back to him, unsuccessfully warding off his intrusion into my every molecule.

“Your songs, the ones you write in the green spiral notebook, third drawer, under your bed. Any of this ringing a bell?”

That little snoop!
I whirl on him, now sorry I can’t get the gluttonous mouthful down quicker to start yelling.

“I didn’t go hunting, Lizzie, relax. I sleep across from you, remember? Conner mentioned it once and your bed light hits me right in the eyes.” He stands and walks over to me, voice gentling a hair’s breadth from my face. “And when you write, you hum and tap your left foot. Which is odd, since you’re right handed.”

Should I keep fake chewing now that the food is gone? ‘Cause words won’t form and I feel dumb just staring in stunned silence. Who notices me or what I’m doing? No one, well, except my foursome, but no one else, ever. I’m the plain, blends into the walls chick with a loud bark,
if
you even take the time to corner her.

“I’m sorry,” I finally reply, “I thought pulling the curtain would be enough not to bother you.”

“Fun fact.” He winks and leans in closer to my ear. “If you turn on a light behind a curtain, it actually illuminates a beautiful silhouette even more.” He pulls back, gauging the reaction on my face, one I couldn’t guess if I had to.

“Like ghost stories and tents,” I murmur breathlessly, partly because his warm breath just husked in my ear, but mostly because I’m now thinking about how he watches me from across the way, from the shadows, my body outlined seductively for him.
I was completely unaware of my closet romantic, which I suspect is being drawn out of hiding by another certain romantic on the bus; maybe mine’ll come all the way out and write some lyrics for me.

“Kinda. And it doesn’t bother me, at all.”

“Good to know.”

“You know what else is good?” His golden brown eyes dance sinfully and the right corner of his plump, enticingly close mouth curls up.

Never have I needed to hear a next sentence as badly as I do right now. “No,” I shake my head, “what?”

“Collaboration. Will you show me your songs?”

I want to melt into a puddle. I want to, for once, let go and steal a taste of his mouth. I want to kick him in the shin for teasing me so, befuddling my stoic resolve and making me question all I thought I knew and controlled. He makes me want silly, whimsical things reserved for frilly girls, which I’m not. Or so I thought.

“Yes?” he prods, since I choose not to answer, again, adrift in my own head.

I shrug my shoulders and scoot around him. “You know where my notebook is, help yourself. I’ll be back,” I say, the bathroom door shutting behind me.

“Bethy!” A knock pulls me back from wherever I’d gone. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I hurriedly clean up my mess, no idea how long I’ve been in here, but relieved there’s again a crowd on the bus. “Sorry, Bubs.” I open the door with a smile. “You’re back. Have fun?”

“Yes. Can we get an air hockey table? I’m the bomb. I need to pee bad.” He fidgets uncomfortably.

“Oh yeah, sorry.” I laugh, exiting for him.
Shit
, me and my figurative slang!
Please
don’t let him think I said yes to the air hockey table.

But we’re talking about my beautiful brother here, so I’m wasting energy thinking of anything other than…
where the hell am I gonna put an air hockey table?

“You’re very pretty, Sister!” he screams through the door.

My hand creeps up instinctively and finds my hair, his compliment reminding me. I’d been in there so long, I’d almost forgotten.

Jarrett whistles from behind me and I turn with a yelp, finding him smiling with one arm around Vanessa’s waist, who’s grinning as well, giving me an “okay” sign with her hand. “There’s our girl. Welcome back,” he says.

Rhett comes forward and wraps me in a hug, dropping a soft kiss at my temple. “I love it.”

“For real?” My fingers fiddle with a strand, insecurity evident in my voice.

“Definitely. Been a long time. I almost forgot what color it really was.” He chuckles. “God made you exactly right the first time, though. It’s perfect.”

“Thank you.” My head falls on his shoulder, needing the brace, the support, the familiarity. And he thinks
he’s
codependent? We’re quite a pair, each other’s matching mess.

“Hey, Lizzie, can you come ‘ere a minute?”

Yes, I’m acutely aware of him sitting at the table, guitar in his lap. And yes, I won’t even attempt to feign coy. I was waiting for his acknowledgement.

Oh shut up—you know damn good and well there can be a hundred people in the room, 99 of them rushing up to say they love your dress, but until
that one
, the one you wore it for, says something, you might as well be wearing a trash bag.

If nothing else, I’m real. The fact is, I
am
feeling it; I might as well admit it to myself.

“What’s up?” I ask in my best attempt at aloofness.

“I really like this one.” He gestures toward my notebook on the table—opened to “Lost & Found.”
I really like that one too.
“What’d you have in mind for it? ‘Cause I’m thinking either slow solo, kinda Jewel-esque, or it might make a cool duet.”

Jarrett appears, taking a seat, bass at the ready. “Hit me with it.”

“Hit me too,” sweet Conner joins, tambourine in hand.

Cannon’s nimble fingers start to play—
my song
—to perfection. I don’t write music, only lyrics, but if I did, I imagine it’d sound exactly like the melody filling the air now.

“That B minor?” Jarrett asks and with Cannon’s head bob, no break in playing, he starts to lay his foundation.

Barely audible over Conner’s tambourine accompaniment, I hear what I think is…yep, I turn my head and Rhett’s tapping out a beat on the metal rail of his bunk, the bob of his head keeping time.

Look at us—a jam session—minus the singer who’s currently too overcome to sing.

“Should I video this?” Vanessa asks from behind me.

“Uh, sure, but on my phone, please.” I run and grab it, handing it to her at the same moment they’ve stopped playing.

“So?” Cannon looks at me.

“The bridge needs a little oompf,” I comment, distracted, trying to hear it in my head.

“That voice of yours will make the bridge. Let’s do it again with vocals and see if I’m right.”

“Yes, Bethy, you gotta sing!” I was hesitant, Conner derailed that with his gleeful encouragement.

“Ok, lemme see the words.” I stick my hand out, drawing it back with a flush when Cannon calls me out—nail on the head.

“You know the words.”

I flip him off with a saucy grin. “Fine, go.”

This time everyone starts together, fusing flawlessly just that fast, as I square my shoulders, close my eyes, and let the words fall out.

“The smile you know is gone,

My face now a lie,

And the long hair you loved is cut,

Maybe that’s why.

You must have been searching,

Where else would you be,

Now you know what to look for,

Same ole’, never yours, me.”

Shit, that’s all I’d written, but the tune keeps going, so I do too, the story flowing out of me purely on its own—my heart singing before my mind even knows it’s happening.

“You don’t get to decide,

Only she can do that,

The lost girl inside,

That I want to get back.”

Here comes the bridge.
That voice of yours will make it,
I remind myself. I clench my eyes tighter and dig deep, to a spot way down inside that I seldom revisit.

Don’t ask where she went to, you already know,

don’t you dare come to visit,

you’re not welcome no more.

When she passes by, go ahead and keep your head turned,

her face a reminder of bridges you’ve burned.”

Fuck
. That felt good, time to bring it home. I drop my octave, almost speaking the rest.

“Not sure where I go now, but sure glad it’s me.

The face in the mirror, I’m happy to see.

She and I, her and me, lost and found, and finally free.”

No need to wait for a pin to drop, Rhett does a fine job with his drumstick, shattering through the awkward—for me, anyway—silence. Even Conner’s statuesque and silent for a full ten seconds.

“That was very good, Sister. Very,
very
good.”

“Thanks, Bubs. It’s late, you ready to watch a movie?” I extend my hand, praying he’ll take it fast and drag me from this spot; on the spot.

Like the best big brother in the world, still able to rescue his sister—he does. Charitably, no one says a word as we leave the room and shut Conner’s door behind us. I just did all the talking I can manage for a while.

“Hey, Conner, can I sleep in here with you tonight?”

“I guess,” he sighs, right before pouncing on me and smothering me in tickles. “Bethy?”

“What?”

“Are
you
happy?”

“Getting there, Bubs, getting there.”

***

I check my phone for the tenth time. It’s almost 2 am, surely they’re asleep and I can sneak to my own bed. Sleeping with Conner isn’t as fun as you might think, unless you think being caged with a wild animal sounds like a party.

As quietly as possible, I slink out of the bed and through his door, pulling it closed;
halfway there
. Sending up a silent prayer I don’t meet any open, awake eyes, I turn, relieved at the lack of spectators, and scurry to my bed. After sharing my song tonight, I need some time to pass before I look them in the eyes—those lyrics, the tremor in my voice as I sang—I’m not ready for questions or commentary.

“Pssst.”

Of course I didn’t pull off the covert bed switch undetected. This bus—40 x 8 feet—might as well be a shoebox. I draw back the curtain, squinting my eyes against the dimness.

“Hey,” Cannon greets me with a whisper and grin from his bed, curtain also pulled open.

Giving him back the smile I can’t contain, I finger wave. Has he been waiting up for me? Was I secretly hoping he’d still be awake? Do I want to know either answer or what it says about me?
What planet am I living on that this is now an issue?