Worthy of the Harmony (Mountains & Men Book 2) (18 page)

Truth be told, it’s not the first or even the second time that’s happened to me.
This week.
As the front man of Mountains & Men, I get recognized every once and a while, as long as I’m someplace local. I’ve been known to attract a fan-girl or two. I’ve bagged a few of them, too. A month ago, I might have flirted with the table-o-blondes who are about as obvious as can be; not because I was looking for a lay in the middle of the day, but just because I could. Girls have often been an easy way to pass the time. But I’m not interested in girls these days.

I’ve got a woman—and she isn’t blonde.

Holy shit.
I let that thought circle its way around my brain once more.
I’ve got a woman.

Last night, I made Millie mine. She said it herself. Thinking back on the last four weeks, I know I worked my ass off to get her to a place where she can admit what she really wants. What we
both
want. But until this moment, I hadn’t really thought about how big of a deal this is for me. I was too busy trying to win my girl. It is, though—it is a huge fucking deal. I haven’t had a girlfriend in three years, not since the last girl I once loved tore my heart out and beat it to a bloody pulp.

God. What a bitch.

After her, I lost all interest in the concept of commitment. I trusted no one, outside of the guys and my sisters. They were the only ones who really understood me; the only ones who believed in me. Nora was the last outsider I trusted with my dream. When that all went to shit, I said—
fuck ‘em.
Literally. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. That’s what most of them wanted, anyway. No one cared about where I was going or why. Not really. Not if it didn’t have anything to do with them. But my dream is
mine
—it has nothing to do with anyone else. The guys are a part of it, yeah, but they each bring their own dream to the table. We’re all accountable to fight for what we want, and yet we’re in this together—loyal to the aspiration that binds us. That’s what makes us
Mountains & Men.

But Millicent…

She sees me. She gets me. She
believes
in me. Even more, she hopes in favor of my dream. I can hardly express what that means to me. She told me last night that she didn’t think she
fit
into my world, but I disagree. She fits with me, which means she’s now along for the ride.

I wonder what her dreams are. I wonder what drives her, my gorgeous girl. She’s never told me, but I sure as hell intend to find out. I want to know everything about her. I want to see her like she sees me.

“What are you daydreaming about up here?” asks Brandon as he appears from the back, a tray full of pastries in his hand.

I watch as he restocks the case, shaking my head clear. “Uh, nothing. Just thinking,” I reply with a shrug.

“I heard you met Alex yesterday. Also heard you got a new bass player.”

I smirk at him as he looks over at me and shake my head. “You’re an asshole for not telling me that
Alex
is a chick. You know that, right? The guys were practically shitting bricks when she walked in and introduced herself.” He laughs, setting aside the now empty tray and folding his arms across his chest. “But she’s a little spitfire. She held her ground and got us to listen. She’s a badass. For real. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I press my hands together in the center of my chest and give him a little bow.

“Hey, I’m just glad I could help. I don’t know too much about her, but we chat every once in a while. I remember her saying she was hoping to find some people to play with outside of church. Sounds like you both win.”

“Definitely. Next Saturday. You’ll have to come to The Brew and hear us play. I’ve got a good feeling. We’re going to rock the house.”

“I won’t miss it. Maybe I can get Sarah to drive up for a bit, too, before I head down her way.”

“Have Sarah drive up for what?” asks Eryn as she rejoins us after her break, tying on her apron.

“Mountains & Men. Next Saturday. The Brew. Bring all your friends.”

She grins at me, shrugging her shoulders. “Duh. Of course we’ll be there.”

I hold my hand up for a high five and she claps her palm against mine. The bigger the turn out, the better. We need this Stefany chick to be impressed. If she notices we’ve already got a pretty healthy local fan-base, that’s a good first step. The rest is up to us—and I feel it in my gut, we’re going to play one hell of a show.

PLAYING HOOKY ON
Friday ended up being a fabulous idea. After sleeping through the morning with Sage, taking the world’s longest shower with him, and enjoying our half-hour-long goodbye, I spent the rest of the afternoon lounging. I picked up
War and Peace
and read, completely oblivious to the time. Every part of my body appreciated my attempt at relaxation after the emotional and physical night I had had with
my dreamer
.

It was eight o’clock before I realized I hadn’t eaten more than a cup of yogurt since Sage left. Pulling myself away from my novel, I made myself a salad and a half sandwich. When I was finished eating, I got a text from Sage. We exchanged messages sporadically until after midnight, when my eyes were too heavy for me to keep open. I know I fell asleep before I had a chance to say goodnight because when I woke up, I had an unread text that simply said:
Sweet dreams, gorgeous.

Even upon waking, it made my stomach flutter.

I spent what was left of my morning cleaning and straightening up before I headed out to run some errands. When I got back from the grocery store, I put away my stock, made a quick lunch, and then tried to distract myself with work for the rest of the afternoon.

I missed Sage.

A week ago, it would have been extraordinarily difficult for me to admit such a truth, but it’s too all encompassing now to even try to deny it. I miss him. After twenty-four hours of no physical contact, my infatuation with him has made me miss him like some pathetic woman who has nothing better to do with herself. I can’t help it, though; and the small voice in the back of my head has been warning me over and over that this—what I feel for Sage—it’s a lot more than infatuation.

My enamored state of being with him is both foreign and familiar. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to feel anything for anyone that even
resembled
love. I don’t trust love. The feeling has been known to rip me apart, leaving me with a heart missing bits and pieces I can never get back. I don’t trust
myself
in love, knowing just how much it means to me—just how much I crave it. I’m afraid to fall deeper into Sage, and yet, I feel his tug and I am powerless to stop it.

There’s also something different about the way he makes me feel—something I’ve never felt before—something that seems both dangerously alluring and inexplicably comforting. I don’t know what to make of it. All I know is that I’m done running from it. I left the majority of my heart in his bed Thursday night, sure that I’d never get it back. Then he came after me, bringing it with him, begging for the rest. Now he has it. He has my heart. There is no turning back now. He has all that I swore I wouldn’t give him, which is why I spend all afternoon combating my desire to see him, touch him,
taste
him as I grade homework assignments and tweak syllabi.

It isn’t until he texts me, telling me he’ll be done with rehearsal around six and he can get me shortly after, that I remember that this is an
other
Saturday. My mother calls me every other Saturday at seven-thirty. It’s a dreaded phone call I
never
look forward to. I answer mostly because if I don’t, she’ll just keep calling. That, and I suppose it’s not a horrible idea to give her the satisfaction of knowing that I’m still alive—that’s her greatest accomplishment, my existence. Most children would be proud to hear their parents say such a thing. My mother makes me feel guilty about the sacrifices she had to make in order to keep me in this world.

She’s told me, repeatedly, that I’ve no concept of the word
sacrifice.
She’s a fucking basket-case for thinking that bullshit. And when I tell Sage that I won’t be free until eight o’clock, I can’t help the resentment that heats up my body in a wave that rushes from my head to my toes. The sacrifice of the hour I could be spending with Sage is a hell of a lot more than she deserves.

I hop in the shower at six thirty, anxious to ready myself for a night out with Sage. I intend to be fully dressed and ready to go by the time my mother calls. As soon as our obligatory exchange is complete, I’m leaving. I take my time under the water, washing my hair, lathering my body, shaving, all the while thinking of the last time I was in this shower. By the time I get out, my skin is flushed from the memory and my longing for Sage is even more intense than it was before.

With the first of October just around the corner, the evening temperature has been dipping more and more with every passing day. Knowing that it’ll be somewhat cool, but still wishing to show a daring amount of leg around the man who feels quite possessive over them, I opt for my cream colored sweater dress. The neck is wide, draping off of my left shoulder, the sleeves long, stretching to my wrists. The material clings to my minimal curves, stopping just above mid-thigh, and I pair it with my above-the-knee, grey suede, heeled boots.

Once dressed, I blow dry my long hair and then style it. I pull half of it back, and let the rest fall well past my shoulders. Just as soon as I’m done with my makeup, my phone rings. I sigh, content with the way I look and grateful that I just have one thirty-minute call to endure before Sage arrives.

I click the light out in the bathroom as I slide my finger across my screen to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Tatiana,” she replies, her tone cold. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, knowing I’m in for an earful. “The last time I called you, you hung up on me. You better not pull that shit again today, Tatiana. Do you understand? I ask you for nothing,
nothing
, and you can’t give me a few minutes of your time?”

“Mother—I’m not going to hang up on you.”

“Good. I’ve had a disaster of a day.”

I plop down onto the couch, half listening to her tell me about her
disaster of a day
. I swear, the woman bitches about her job as if that
is
her job. When my father was around, she had been a stay-at-home mom. They were married pretty young, and had me shortly after, so she never went to college. When he left, she didn’t have any education or experience to fall back on. Though, it wasn’t long before she was able to get a job working as a clerk at the local grocery store. Twenty years later, she still works at the same store. She’s bounced around over time, working in almost every department; but now, she’s the customer service manager. She hates it,
has
hated it for as long as I can remember, but I don’t feel sorry for her. I
can’t
feel sorry for her.

There was a time when I tried to convince her that she could do more—be more—
have
more. I encouraged her to go back to school, to get a degree in a field that actually interested her, to learn the skills that she needed in order to find a job that she loved. After months of her bitching at me for robbing her of her youth and any and all chances of her making more of herself, after months of listening to her tell me all the reasons why she
couldn’t
do more—be more—
have
more, I just gave up. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help herself.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. In a way, I suppose I wasn’t. She thrives off of her misery, like it is her life source or something. It sure as hell is the only thing tying us to one another. She gave birth to me, which had been horrible; and she “
mothered
” me by herself after my father walked out on us, which had sucked the life out of her; and she had “
allowed
” me to leave the state of New Jersey, which left her completely alone—because, obviously, everything is always my fault.

“Tati—
Tati,
are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, of course, mother,” I lie. I had definitely zoned out there for a while. Checking the time, I see that we’ve been on the phone for twenty minutes already.