Sweet Forty-Two (13 page)

“Nice one. He must have learned that from you, Regan.” I laughed as CJ and Regan whipped their gazes toward me.

“Burn!” CJ hollered, drawing attention from both ends of the bar.

“Whatever, want us to play, or not?”

I’d waited half an hour to see him smile, and when he did, he did it right. His eyebrows lifted, revealing soft creases in his forehead as his slightly imperfect teeth briefly seized my sense of reason. I had to say something.

“Play.” In my head it sounded louder, but it came out as a whisper.

Watching Regan walk away from me, and to the parking lot to, presumably, get his violin, I couldn’t help but stare at the way his clothes regarded his body as a perfect rack. One for which they alone were designed. Nothing was too tight, or too loose. He didn’t belittle those around him with flashy brand names. Though he could have paid a little more attention to his hair, I found my fingers tingling to feel it.

“Don’t do it.” CJ had switched to bottled beer, and brought the opening to his mouth as he spoke, holding the neck with his thumb and first two fingers.

“Don’t do what, exactly?” I leaned my elbows onto the bar in front of him.

“Regan.”

I searched CJ’s eyes and face for signs of humor, an indication that he was teasing. All I found was an uncomfortable severity.

“W ... why?” I hadn’t planned on
doing
anything with Regan, but CJ’s caution had me curious. And, curiosity was a force all its own.

CJ set the bottle down and stared at it for a minute. When he’d gotten all he needed from it, he looked to me. “Just ... come on. Argh!” CJ ran a hand over his hair and it was clear.

Secrets.

Despite every shortcoming one could easily find with my promiscuous friend, gossiping wasn’t on the menu.

“I got it,” I said, placing my hand on his. “And, thank you. You’re an awesome friend.”

He looked up at me from under his unfairly long eyelashes. “Don’t go spreading that shit around. I’m only in town for a few more days.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Just then, Regan returned with his violin and headed for the stage. “Get up there, teddy bear. Rock it.”

CJ leaned over the bar and kissed me on the cheek. “You got it, gorgeous.”

After Regan tuned and CJ settled behind the set, I started for the stage to announce them. Applause from the crowd in front of the stage told me that wouldn’t be necessary, however. And, even if I’d wanted to announce them, they took off in song before I could even reach the stage. And I was nearly knocked on my ass.

CJ struck the drums with vicious force as Regan ripped the bow across his strings. It was a full Irish jig, each Kane boy relentless in their pursuit of excellence from their instruments. I’d heard a song like this before. Celtic Cross did a cover of David Garrett’s “Celtic Rondo” here a few weeks ago.

The duo I was staring at tonight blew that entire band out of the water.

Every once in a while, CJ would pull back, and Regan would play a complicated solo. The fingers on his left hand moved just as fast as the bow in his right. When I closed my eyes, it sounded like there were two fiddles battling it out—that’s the skill he beckoned from his fingers. It made me want to dance. And, I don’t dance.

As soon as CJ entered the song again, the crowd cheered, and Regan turned to face his talented cousin. With hands moving independently from the rest of their bodies, Regan and CJ’s smiles invited the audience into their shared history. Their family.

“Let’s go!” Lissa grabbed my hand and gave it a tug.

“Where?” I squealed as she dragged me to the front of the stage.

“Dance!”

I shook my head and shouted over the crowd, “I don’t know how! Not to this!”

Lissa lifted her arms overhead and began jumping to CJ’s off-beats. “Just ... move!”

“Ahh!” I threw my head back, rolling my eyes for effect.

Then, I closed my eyes. And, I danced.

I was free.

Whirling with Lissa through the notes springing from Regan’s bow, and jumping to the precise beats of CJ’s bass drum, I was free-falling up. Up, not down. Falling up is a much grander experience when one can find the let-go-ness to do so. I’d feared I’d misplaced my let-go, but there I was, sweat splashed across my chest and dancing.

“Woohoo!” Lissa lifted her hands in praise as the boys finished.

I pressed my thumb and forefinger into the sides of my mouth and whistled, catching Regan’s attention. When his sea-glass eyes found me, I caught the vision of his tongue darting quickly across his lips before he smiled. I gave him a single thumbs-up before CJ hollered the name of a song I didn’t recognize and counted off with his sticks.

And away they went...

Though it’d only been a couple of minutes, my crash-landing back to reality felt a bit harsh. While the guys continued playing, customers continued ordering beer and food, and they required someone to deliver it to them. I’d have much preferred to stand in front of that stage all night. They were each lost in the notes, but still able to communicate with the crowd. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.

It wasn’t just that CJ and Regan were both good-looking—okay, hot—in their own ways. But, I’d known CJ for a long time, and even when he was starting to really excel at the drums, I’d never seen him look like
that
on stage.

The way music can turn a person’s hidden emotions inside out was fascinating to me. And, exactly why I stayed away from musical instruments.

Over the course of the next half hour, through songs fast and slow, modern and historic, CJ and Regan transformed Monday Night Football into something tolerable.

“I’m sticking my tongue down CJ’s throat tonight, whether he likes it or not.” Lissa spoke over her applause as the guys wrapped up their impromptu set. Savage determination marched through her eyes.

I snorted at her interpretation of the unknown. “He’ll like it, Liss.”

Apparently, I’d spoken too soon. As they were leaving the stage, a tall young woman with long, loose curls suspended perfectly around her face and shoulders, walked up to CJ. She seemed timid, as if she were approaching him on a dare, but the
hither
in his arched brow and crooked smile advertised their acquaintance. CJ had much grander modes of expression when trying to garner attention. It was clear he already had hers.

Lissa groaned. “And, would you look at her? What, is she from some mystical island of carmel-skinned, green-eyed people? How is that fair ... in any interpretation of the word?”

She sulked into the kitchen to retrieve food as I watched. Lissa was right; she did have caramel skin, flawless under the tavern lighting. She was long and lean, and the longer I stared the more familiar she looked.

“Your eyes just got all bug-eyed...” Lissa’s voice trailed off as I walked over to Regan.

“Hey,” I whispered into his ear as CJ spun his sticks around, otherwise occupied. I grabbed his heated hand and pulled him into the narrow hallway in front of the back room.

Regan looked around, confused. “What?”

“That’s Willow Shaw.” I pointed to CJ.

“Wow, you’re really a Six fan, huh?” He leaned against the wall and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops.

“First of all, get your thumbs out of there. This isn’t a saloon in the Wild West. Second of all, yes, I’m a big fan, but everyone knows who she is.”

“She’s not in the band...” Regan looked back to Willow, as if to double check we were talking about the same person.

I slapped his arm, attempting to stop his open gawking. “No, but she’s kind of a socialite of the music scene here. She’s produced a few of her parents’ solo albums, and has worked in conjunction with
major
labels on some chart-toppers.”

“Okay, that’s good ... right?”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but we have to keep her away from CJ. She’s famous for her abilities in the studio, but notorious for her activities ... elsewhere, if you know what I mean.”

Regan’s lips pursed into an incredulous scoff. “Please, Georgia. We can’t tell CJ a single shred of that. That kind of girl is his holy grail.”

“I just don’t want her to use her status in the industry to get him into bed.”

“She doesn’t have to
get
him anywhere.”

Anxiety simmered in my throat. “I just don’t like her.”

I didn’t like any girl like Willow, throwing their breasts around as often as their talent. I didn’t understand why women had to do that.

“The way you’re looking at her,” Regan interrupted my thoughts, “that’s the same way Ember was looking at you the night you almost kicked her ass.”

I pulled my head back. “I didn’t almost kick anyone’s ass.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well...” Shit. He was right. “Is that what Ember thought of me ... wait ... is that what you think of me?”

Regan shook his head. “I don’t think anything, Georgia. I just met you. I do, though, want to apologize for this morning. I didn’t mean to ... you know ... make it weird. I didn’t mean to almost kiss you.” He looked down, clearing his throat in the way guys do when they’re uncomfortable.

“Great. You think I’m like her. Willow. Fan-
tastic
.” I attempted to go back to the bar, but he grabbed my wrist.

“I don’t think you’re
like
anyone—”

“Ow.” I couldn’t help but wince as his finger pressed onto the edge of my bruise.

He lifted his fingers, looking at my skin and realizing his misstep. “Sorry. I...” He grabbed my arm a little further up, lifting my hand so the bruise was between us. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Stop thinking about me, then,” I snapped, pulling my arm back.

“No,” he retorted defensively. There was a devoted determination circling his words.

“Wh—”

“I’m your neighbor now, anyway. Look, I didn’t mean to offend you, but just ... be safe, okay? I’m keeping an eye on you.” He smiled, and I was actually thankful he didn’t have a single dimple. It would have distracted from the red scruff popping up along his jawline.

My mouth swung open for a few seconds. “I ... don’t know what just happened here, but let me try to recap. You don’t want to kiss me, right?”

“Right.”

“Good.”

“You don’t think I’m like Willow, but Ember does.”

“I don’t pretend to know what Ember thinks, and we don’t gossip about girls.” His eyebrow twitched up impishly.

“And, for some reason, you think you need to look out for me?”

He shrugged unapologetically. “CJ asked me to.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m going to.”

“Why, for the love of God, is the Kane family so fucking stubborn?” I huffed, placing my hands on my hips.

“Most of us were born under the sign of the bull.”

“You’re a smartass.”

“I am.” He nodded once, his smile widening, lifting the tops of his ears.

“Why don’t you want to kiss me?” I challenged. I knew he was lying, but I wanted to know why. “Girlfriend?”

“No.” The tops of his ears dropped along with his face. “I don’t want to kiss anyone.”

“Are you gay?” It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him checking out, or trying to pick up, any girls either night he’d been at E’s.

“No.”

“Ah, broken heart, then?”

He half-huffed, half-chuckled. “That’s the G-rated version.”

“What does the R-rated cut look like?”

“I’ll tell you what my R-rated is, if you tell me yours.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing several times.

“What do you mean mine?” I knew CJ hadn’t told him anything, but I got goosebumps anyway.

“Everyone’s got an R-rated version of their pain, Georgia.”

He wasn’t going to budge. It was something big. So was mine.

“Another time, maybe.”

He squinted as he grinned. “Deal. I know where to find you.”

I looked away. He wasn’t going to get in there tonight. Or ever.

“Come on,” I ungracefully shifted subjects, “let’s go see what CJ’s gotten himself into.”

“Or who,” Regan mumbled.

It was funny, and I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t.

Laughter lets people in.

I didn’t see a lot of CJ during his last days in San Diego, but I got to hear all about them when I drove him back to the airport. Evidently Willow was amazing. And loud. And CJ would be returning to San Diego as soon as he’d saved up enough money for another flight.

A week and a half later, things were well underway at Blue Seed Studios, and I felt my life settling into rhythm. I was sitting on the couch in the recording room, as the band worked over a track they’d been wrestling with for half a day. I wasn’t slated to be in that piece, but according to Bo, that was about to change.

He scratched his head, taking a deep breath before speaking. Always the diplomat. “I’m just saying, Mike, we take out the vocal interlude, move it six measures down, and throw a fiddle in there. Five measures. It’ll make a world of difference.”

“I hear what you’re saying, kid, but...” Michael and Bo continued their back-and-forth as Ember flashed me a “get me out of here” look.

Aside from their talent, the Six relied heavily on Bo and Ember, and myself and Willow, to make sure their sound held enough freshness to attract new listeners, while honoring their decades-long fans. That worked well, unless one of us “younger folk” disagreed with one of them. Especially Michael, Willow’s dad. Hence, my silence.