Chapter Eleven
Van
Waking up, I roll over and look at the clock. I blow out a frustrated breath when I see that half the morning is already gone. I haven’t gotten any sleep all fucking week. My nights are filled with dreams of Ronni, each one waking me up with an aching cock. I’ve jacked off more in the last week than I have in the last ten years.
Knowing I can’t go back to sleep, I let out a yawn and sit up. Cline goes back to her mom’s today, and I want to spend as much time with her as I can. I swear, my time with her flies by, each week together seeming shorter and shorter, while the week we spend apart seems to drag by at a snail’s pace.
Climbing out of bed, I put on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt and head toward Cline’s room. Before I even open the door, I hear Ronni moving around in the kitchen. Deciding to let my daughter sleep a few minutes more, I walk down the stairs and go straight to the kitchen.
Ronni is standing at the counter with a mixing bowl in her hand. Her hips are swinging back and forth as she sings the words of Follow Me by Uncle Kracker while Denver lays by her feet howling along with her. I can’t say I blame him. The chick is as beautiful as fuck, can cook like a five-star chef, makes me laugh my fucking heading off, but she cannot sing. I listen to her for a minute, trying not to cringe, enjoying watching her ass move. When she hits a particularly high note, I can’t stop a chuckle from slipping past my lips.
Ronni jumps at the sound of my laughter and quickly turns to look at me. “You can’t sneak up on people like that. You damn near scared me to death.”
“Wasn’t sneaking. I was just listening to you sing,” I say, walking over to the fridge and taking out a carton of orange juice.
I pour myself a glass, not bothering to ask Ronni if she wants some. She is a coffee freak, nearly dying the first morning she woke up here to find I didn’t have any. I’ve never liked the shit, too damn bitter for me, but she lives off of it. Hell, she’ll drink it in the middle of the night and still seems to sleep sweetly every damn night.
“What ya making?” I ask, taking a swallow.
“Cheese crepes with a triple berry drizzle,” she says, a smile on her face. “Since this is Cline’s last day here, until next week, I wanted to make a special breakfast for her.”
Ronni has bent over backward to make sure Cline had a great time this week. Ronni’s made all her favorite meals, giving each one her unique twist. She’s played games with her, even spent hours sitting at the kitchen table coloring with my little girl. If she hasn’t been at school, Cline has been at Ronni side.
I look into her beautiful brown eyes, hoping she can see how thankful I am for everything she has done. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“I hope so,” she mumbles, pouring the batter into a pan.
“She’s liked everything you’ve cooked so far, but she’s liked cooking them with you even more. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile so much,” I tell her honestly. “She’s had a great time, and she’ll be chomping at the bit to do it all again next week.”
For just a minute, I think about what it would be like to have Ronni around all the time. I wonder how it would affect Cline. I’m betting my girl’s life would be better for it. My life sure in the hell would be fuller, not to mention my bed.
“It was fun for me, too. I’m glad she enjoyed it. Some of my favorite childhood memories are of spending time with Mom’s cook. It’s the only time I felt like I could be me,” she says with a shrug. “Since I liked it so much, I figure she’d like it, too.”
Hearing her mention her mom’s cook reminds me of the different lives we have lived. There is no way this shit could work between us, not even if Tito wouldn’t fucking kill me for touching his daughter. We are just too different.
“I’ve gotta go get Cline up,” I say, realizing I need to get some distance from her.
Without waiting for a response, I walk out of the kitchen and head up the stairs. Denver follows me, somehow knowing I am going to wake up his best friend. Pushing open Cline’s door, I stand there for a moment, taking in the sight in front of me. She looks so much like me that I can’t help but smile. She’s got my red hair and blue eyes. Luckily, she inherited her mom’s finer features. Other than that, she’s all me.
“It’s time to wake up, baby girl,” I say, pulling down the covers and running my hand over her cheek. “Ronni is already fixing us breakfast.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
Cline has always been easy to wake up, not at all like me. Only after she was born, and I knew she depended on me, could I wake up without an alarm clock. She is similar in some ways. She could probably sleep through a tornado, but as soon as I lay a hand on her, she’s up and raring to go.
“We’ve got a few minutes before breakfast is ready. What do you wanna do?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I want to practice my guitar,” she squeals, jumping off the bed and pulling her guitar case from under the bed.
I figured she would choose a little jam session. It’s always been her favorite thing to do. I bought her first guitar when she was only three. I had to have it special made just to fit her hands. By the time she was five, she needed a new one. Looking at her now, I know she’ll need a bigger one before long.
I pick up her guitar and head to the door. “Get your teeth brushed and come on down to the living room. We’ll practice until breakfast is ready.”
She doesn’t waste time, petting Denver on the head and running past me to the bathroom. I smile at her excitement, happy that I’m the one able to give that to her. It’s something special, just between the two of us, and I love it.
After a quick stop in my room to pick up my guitar, I head back downstairs and walk into the living room. Taking a seat on the couch, I start to strum a few notes. The random notes turn into Here Without You by 3 Doors Down. I don’t get very far before Cline is running into the living room with Denver right behind her. She pulls her little chair in front of me and sits down. She starts strumming along, not quite able to follow along just yet.
She’s a fucking genius when it comes to the guitar. She was playing songs before most children even learn to pick a chord. Like me, she plays by ear. I’ve never learned how to read music, so I had no idea how to teach her. I’m gonna fix that shit, though. She’ll be starting lessons as soon as school is out for the summer.
“What do you want to play next?” I ask as I play the last few notes.
“Bama,” she answers, already plucking away.
I smile at her, knowing she knows the correct name but refuses to say it. I follow along, playing Sweet Home Alabama. It’s her favorite song, even though the thing is older than I am. It is a bit complex for Cline’s six-year-old fingers, but she hits enough notes to make it recognizable. Before long, she’ll be able to play it without missing a beat.
“Sing, Daddy,” she orders as she concentrates on her hands.
“Just for you,” I reply and start singing along with the guitar.
She follows along, not missing a single word. By the end of the song, she is playing nearly as well as she is singing. I swear, she just keeps getting better and better. By the time she is ten, she’ll be able to outplay me. Fuck, she’ll be able to outplay the best out there.
“Y’all sounded great,” Ronni says from the doorway. I didn’t even know she had been listening. She smiles at me then moves her focus to my little girl. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl. I knew you could sing, but I had no idea you could play the guitar.”
“Daddy taught me,” Cline says, laying her guitar on the couch and jumping up. “I’m gonna be the next Patsy Cline.”
“After listening to you, I don’t doubt that. Is that where you got your name, from Patsy Cline?” she asks, her deep brown eyes still focused on Cline.
Cline nods, but I answer. “It’s a family tradition.”
“Huh?” She lifts one brow, waiting for me to explain.
I’m surprised she doesn’t know; everyone else does. Then again, we haven’t really been around each other much. Even though I’m sure Tito has talked about me to her, I doubt he ever told her about my name. He’d have no reason to.
“Dad is a huge Lynyrd Skynyrd fan, so he named me after Ronnie Van Zant. I figured it would be cool to keep the tradition,” I answer, remembering how much I had to fight with Regina to give her that name.
Ronni smiles, letting out a laugh as she pets her dog’s head. I can’t understand what’s so damn funny. Nothing, as far as I can see. She must see the look of confusion in my eyes because she quickly stops.
“I’m not laughing at you, I promise. I love both your names; I really do,” she explains, pulling Cline in for a hug. “When Dad bought me Denver, he told me that he got him so I would never feel alone. He said all I had to do was look at the big lug and I’d know that my daddy was always thinking of me.”
I still don’t get it, so I shake my head. “And that’s funny?”
“Growing up like I did, I never really felt like I had a home, not a real one. But, when I was with my dad, I always felt at home, no matter where we were,” she says, a genuine smile on her face. “The first thing that popped into my head when I looked at Denver was the song Take Me Home, Country Roads. I named my dog after the singer, John Denver, so I would never forget that I always have a home with Dad.”
Cline laughs, even though she probably can’t understand what the hell Ronni is really saying. I do, though. She is telling me, without actually saying it, that her life has been just as fucked up as mine. She may have lived in a house that cost more money than I will ever have, may have even had a housekeeper and cook, but she was never happy.
“I’m hungry,” Cline says, breaking the silence that has filled the room.
I shake away my thoughts and stand up. “Let’s eat.”