The Singing River (11 page)

Chapter 16

River

I took the image of Haven’s face with me into the living room; the way the lamp’s glow had highlighted her sun bleached hair and light freckles, the way her eyes had watched me, wide and confident. There was something tragic but welcoming about her gaze. It felt safe and chaotic all at the same time.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I approached Roman carefully. He was stooped, his hand on the kitchen counter, the muscles in his arms bunched where he gripped the marble.

“You okay?” I asked.

The sudden question in the silence made Roman jump, and he glared at me from under his arm, the sweat on his brow obvious. He’d changed into a red sleeveless tee, the tattoos on his upper arm barely noticeable in the low light given off by a utility bulb just above the stove. Those tattoos had been a source of many arguments between Dad and Roman a few years back. Most of them were self-inflicted.

“I’m fine,” Roman answered.

Moving around him, I pointed at the couch.

“It might help to lie down,” I suggested, remembering Haven’s words from earlier.

Roman shrugged. “I’m afraid to.” His gaze met mine. “I’m afraid if I lay down, I won’t be able to get back up.”

Taking his arm, I fought him when he tried to pull away, bracing my shoulder beneath his armpit before leading him to the couch.

“I’ll stay with you,” I said.

Roman winced. “I’m not a two-year-old, River.” He sat, his eyes searching the room before narrowing. “You weren’t in here before when I came out.”

I avoided his gaze.

Roman’s eyes widened. “Were you screwing the waitress? Already!”

Anger welled up inside my chest, but I bit it back. “I wasn’t screwing anyone.”

Roman laughed, the sound harsh. “You
were
with her!”

A hint of accusation marred his tone, but I shook it off.
 
Haven’s tragic eyes still haunted me. I’d never kissed someone and walked away from it feeling empty, as if I needed more of her to feel full.

“Three days, Roman. We have just three days. There’s got to be a way we can make it through without bashing each other.”

The shock on Roman’s face was evident. “You had sex with her! My blue blooded brother stooping to that level? A one night stand with a waitress. The same brother who’s lectured me on countless occasions for sleeping with someone beneath me?”

It was my turn to wince. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

Roman watched my face. “
Oh
, but you came close.”

I was truly angry now, and I could tell by the way Roman pressed himself into the couch cushions he knew it.

“I brought you here to help you,” I said, my voice cold.

Roman fisted his hand against his stomach. There was no doubt he didn’t feel well. Even his eyes were weak, but there was fight in Roman. A lot of fight.

“You brought me here to help me only to hurt yourself in the process?” Roman asked.

“She’s just a girl,” I answered irritably.

Roman lifted a brow. “Somehow I doubt that.” A distressed look passed over his face, and he leaned forward, gagging hard even though nothing came up.

I sat at the end of the couch, lifting a hand toward Roman as he rocked back and forth, but dropping it when he threw me a glare.

“You still have nightmares?” Roman asked.

I sighed. “Nightly. I don’t sleep much.”

He curled into the fetal position on the couch, and I sat at the end, watching him. The fact that he laid down in front of me was proof of his pain. Braydens were never weak, even around each other.

“The pills kept the dreams away,” Roman admitted.

My brother’s eyes drooped, his hand pressed hard against his stomach.
 

“Nothing keeps them away permanently,” I said.

Roman sighed, his voice low as he slipped into sleep, but I heard the words anyway.

“Death,” he said. “Death would keep them away.”

His breathing was even, but his sleep was fitful, his hand clutching his abdomen as he moaned. I sat there watching him, as I’d often done just after our mother passed away. We weren’t children anymore, but I still saw that five-year-old grieving boy when I looked at him. I felt the crushing weight of responsibility, the sense that even beyond the grave my father ruled me. His death ruled my nightmares, his rules ruled my life, and his expectations ruled my future.

Roman snored, whimpering as he exhaled.

A door creaked, a thin sliver of light falling across the floor, and I looked up to find Haven standing in the bedroom door, her long legs white in the darkness. Roman’s words rang through my head.
You brought me here to help me only to hurt yourself in the process.

“Is he okay?” Haven asked.

I stared at her. Roman’s words were Dad’s words. I didn’t know this girl and she was already socially beneath me because my family dictated it was so, because my life dictated it was so. Because I had been controlled by expectations since I was born. I was sick and tired of expectations.

It was a desperate man that rose, a desperate man that approached the wide-eyed young woman, a desperate man that pressed her back into the bedroom, and a desperate man that slammed the door shut with his foot as he kissed her. It was so much easier to tell myself it was desperation rather than need.

Chapter 17

Haven

Light woke me; faint light streaming in from around navy curtains and forging a glowing trail full of floating dust from a small window to the bed. I swept my hand through it, watching the way the beam played over my palm as I lay on my side, my eyes on the bedroom door.
 
Outside, a bird chirped, and I could smell the distinct scent of frying bacon.

A groan next to me made my heart beat faster, my throat constricting with the memory of the night before, of River’s kisses, of his hands tangled desperately in my hair. There had been something very possessive and even necessary about the way he’d taken my mouth with his, pulling my lower lip gently between his teeth before pressing me to the bed. It had been reckless and wanton, but just when I thought he’d go too far, he’d stopped, facing me.

“I won’t do this,” he’d said.

I’d stared at him, at his desire-laden eyes, and I was flooded with embarrassment. “Why?”

He’d lifted himself off of me, his elbow near my head and his bare chest against my T-shirt. “Because you don’t want to,” he’d answered.

“And you know that?” I’d asked.

He’d stared at me then, his dark eyes searching my face. I knew what he saw there. Need and confusion. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but for some reason I didn’t want to tell him no. I didn’t want him to leave. It was the strangest feeling. I didn’t need people.

“It’s not you,” he’d said. “Getting mixed up with me is …” He glanced at the bedroom door, rolling off of me so that he lay next to me on the bed, his eyes moving to the ceiling. “I’d bring you down.”

My eyes had moved with his. “I’ve been down,” I told him. “There isn’t anywhere left for me to go but up.”

He’d laughed next to me, his arm going under his head, his breathing heavy. My heart had pounded, my blood hot.

“You’d be surprised at the hell that goes on inside my head,” he’d said.

I’d scooted backward and rolled to the side, my gaze on his face, on the faint beard shadowing his jaw. “Because of your father?”
 

He hadn’t asked me how I knew. Everyone knew.

“Partly,” he’d answered. “The way his body …”

He said nothing else, and I hadn’t forced the issue. We’d just lain there instead, each of our chests rising and falling, the need and desperation obvious in our breathing, heightened by the forbidden need to feel. There is something very heady about being close to someone you want to touch, someone you want to reach for and yet are afraid to approach.

In the end, I’d let my palm slide down the quilt, bolstering my courage as my fingers found his.

I’d thought of his brother beyond the bedroom door, of his life, and his position in society. Then I’d thought of my mother, our broken down trailer, bills, and my job.

The kinship I felt with the man next to me had been sudden and unexpected.

My fingers tangled with his. “Responsibility is a bitch.”

I’d whispered it, and although he’d said nothing, his fingers had tightened around mine. Sometime during the night, we’d fallen asleep.

Now, as early morning light filtered into the room and River groaned from behind me, I froze, my eyes staring hard at the closed bedroom door, the beam of light hovering over my hand.

“That would be Uncle Marley. Roman can’t even boil water,” River groaned.

His voice was low, hoarse from sleep, but light and easy, as if he knew I was uncomfortable.

I relaxed, the smell of bacon making me both nauseated and hungry. It was a strange sensation that had more to do with River than the thought of food.

“I like to cook,” I said abruptly. “My mom has always worked a lot, and so I often make dinner. There is something therapeutic about cooking, something artistic.”

“Artistic?” River asked, the amusement in his tone obvious.

I blushed and was suddenly grateful he couldn’t see my face. “There are so many ways to mess it up, so many ways for it to go wrong. Too much salt here, not enough sugar there. There’s something satisfying about getting it just right.”

River shifted, and the bed dipped as he turned on his side. His presence was heavy behind me, his chest just barely touching my back.

“So you want to be a chef then?” he asked.

I laughed. “I want to be a lot of things. A chef, an archeologist, an astronomer …” My hand fell to the quilt, and I gripped it. “I want too many things.”

“Rather too many than nothing,” River murmured.

The heat coming off of him was disconcerting and comforting.

I sighed. “I’m selfish.”

River shifted again, his mouth near my ear as his chest fell against my back. “Because you want so much?” he asked.

Inhaling, I shifted away from him, but his arm came down, pinning me against him, against his muscled physique. His strength was both surprising and safe.

“Because there isn’t enough room in my life for want,” I told him.

“Hmmm …” he mumbled against my ear. “There is always plenty of room in life for want.”

I pushed him away. “Not in mine.”

River’s palm went to my face, gently forcing it toward him, his eyes narrowed. “Here, now, there’s nothing but want.”

My gaze searched his. “You’d bring me down, remember?”

He let go of me, and I swung my legs over the side of the bed, sitting up, my head hanging.

“You should go first,” I mumbled. My eyes studied the floor, studied the way the thick carpet pushed up between my toes.

River stood and walked to the door, his sweat pants slung low on his hips. My back was suddenly cold.

“Haven Ambrose,” he muttered. “You’re a curious thing.”

I looked up. “Because I’m so different from you?”

A look of surprise crossed his face as his eyes searched mine. “No,” he said. “Because we’re so much alike.”

His answer shocked me, and I stared at him. “And you’d know that based on what?” After all, we didn’t know each other.

The doorknob turned in his hand. “Responsibility is a bitch.”

The way he repeated my words made goose bumps spring up on my arms, and I rubbed them, my eyes on his strong back as he exited the room. He was right. It didn’t matter the kind of life each of us lived. Both of us had way too many responsibilities. I wasn’t sure what kind of expectations he thought he had to live up to, but I had something to prove. I needed to prove that I could make something of myself. I needed to prove that sometimes making it to the top means starting from the bottom.