A shot of fear flashes through my sleeping mind like a lightning bolt, causing me to sit straight up in the bed and gasp for breath. My nervous heart knocks against my ribcage, waking me with its urgency. It takes me a moment to remember what this feeling is for.

Adam is lying next to me, staring at me in startled confusion. I don’t say anything. I only try to catch my breath. And remind myself it was just a dream.

Adam lifts his arm and touches me on the shoulder. His hand is warm and dry. It makes me feel safe. It’s like a new version of home.

“Hey,” he says, his voice full of sleep. “Are you okay?”

I nod.

“Bad dream?”

I nod again, still unsure of myself.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” I say, not taking my eyes off of his.

“Must have been a pretty brutal dream. You wanna talk about it?” There’s nothing I’d like to do more. But I can’t. Because I’m pretty sure having your secretly clairvoyant girlfriend tell you she dreamed about your father’s death is a definite deal breaker.

“Not really.”

“Come on,” he says, tugging on my arm and coaxing me back down next to him, “let’s just try to go back to sleep for a little while. It’s early.”

“I don’t think I can.” Nor do I want to.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’m sure.”

He turns onto his side and lifts his hand to my face. His thumb skims the crest of my cheek as his palm rests on the side of my jaw. It’s such a little thing, but full of meaning. Masculine and caring. As the corners of his mouth lift with a small, understanding smile, the dream melts away and takes a sliver of fear along with it. There’s a morsel of comfort there now. Calm.

“When I was a kid, Gram used to tell me bad dreams were a sign of a charmed life. She said it was your brain’s way of balancing things out. If life was full of good things during the day, the bad stuff would have to come out at night.” Sadness seeps into his sleepy voice. He tries to stuff it back down as he talks, but it’s undeniable. “I’d call for her whenever I’d have a nightmare, and she’d always come running. She’d sit on the side of my bed and rub my back until I fell asleep again.” He stares off at the pillow behind me, lost in a memory. “I remember the moment I realized my life was no longer charmed. I had a nightmare one night in Seattle and no one came running when I called.”

I lift his hand off my cheek and put it to my lips, planting a small kiss on his fingertips.

“I bet she thought about you every single day.”

“Maybe.” He sighs deeply, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me in close. Together, our bodies form another seamless taijitu; two parts of a whole. Opposite, yet perfect. Each with a drop of themselves inside the other. I can tell he’s thinking hard about something. Maybe Bradley. Or perhaps his grandmother. “What about you? What happened when you had a nightmare?”

“My mother would read from the Bible. She’d read to us before bed, too, and I think that’s what probably caused my nightmares in the first place. Let’s just say the passages she picked weren’t very comforting. I’m sure there were greater lessons in them somewhere, but the deeper meaning was lost on me and Charlie. My mother never gave us context, just direct quotes. Needless to say, we stopped calling for her after a while. Instead, whenever one of us would have a nightmare, we’d just hop into each other’s bed. Up until Momma left, Charlie was a great big sister. Then she just kinda lost herself.” I shrug as if it doesn’t really matter. Even though we both know it does.

Adam nods in understanding. As if he, too, had once been lost. We lie in silence, and I think again about Charlie opening the envelope I mailed her yesterday. The hope I now have for her future fills me with nervous anticipation. I will her, once again, to make our daddy proud.

A few more moments of quiet pass between us before Adam’s voice settles in my ears. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

“If I ever have a bad dream, will you sit on the side of the bed and rub my back until I fall asleep again?”

My smile must be a mile wide.

“Absolutely.”

“I love you, K’acy McGee.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Watching the minutes slip by on the microwave clock is torture. After Adam heads to Pine Manor, I spend the day doing the only thing capable of taking my worry away. I practice my bass, my ears covered by headphones filled with amplified notes. I play song after song until my fingers buzz with electric satisfaction and my heart falls back into its own steady beat.

When early evening arrives, with deep, heart-steadying music still echoing in my ears, I lift the StingRay’s strap up over my head and put it back in its stand. I skim the pickguard’s painted cobweb with the tips of my fingers, feeling the delicate, glossy lines and thinking for a moment about its meaning. The security of my father’s promise somehow reassures me Adam and I will survive whatever the rest of this life has to offer. We will still be standing when everything is over, even if we stumble along the way. Adam will not break. And neither will I.

I have more than enough time to eat and grab a shower before I have to slip the StingRay into its gig bag and hop on the 43D. Tonight’s King’s Court soul-cleansing is going to be different. But not because I’ve practiced all day.

It’ll be different because at 10:46 p.m., I’ll know what’s happening six miles away, in front of the Star City National Bank. I’ll know, but Adam will not.

Just before I walk out the door my cell phone vibrates with an incoming text. The gig bag is already slung over my back and my shoes are half on. I reach into my pocket and pull the phone out.

Hey.

It’s Adam.

Hey. How was your gram today?

Pretty good.

I wonder if it’s the truth, or if he’s just trying to make me feel better about not being there. I wish I could see his face.

Glad to hear she had a decent day.

Ran into your supervisor Susan. Pretended I didn’t know why you were gone and asked when you’d be back. She said she thought by the end of the week.

Here’s hoping. I haven’t heard from anyone about it yet.

She sounded pretty positive. Maybe you should call her tomorrow.

Probably a good idea.

Gram’s ready to have you back. Mr. Rauch’s colostomy bag probably needs you, too.

LOL. I’ll bet.

Also got some good news from the giant dickhead. He called me earlier and said he’s going back to Seattle tonight. Taking the red-eye. Says he won’t be back.

What? I look at the text again, just to be sure I read it correctly.

Seriously?

That’s what he says.

Wow.

Yep.

My mind starts racing. Mr. Sinclair will be headed back to Seattle when it happens.

How do you feel about that?

Happy as hell, of course. He asked me to take him to the airport.

My heart drops to my core as the gig bag slides down my shoulders and crashes onto the carpet. I press my back against the wall and sink down until I meet the floor. My guts shuffle around inside me, causing a sudden streak of nausea to fill up my insides.

Shit.

Doesn’t he have a driver to take him?

The absence of death in Perry Devine’s eyes hits me hard. He isn’t going to be driving Mr. Sinclair tonight because Adam is. The possibility of Adam’s pain being physical, and not emotional, never entered my mind. Until now.

I asked him the same thing. He said he wanted me to take him instead. He said he wants to clear things up between us before he goes.

No no no no…

But I thought you were coming to The King’s Court?

Please. Please. Please say you are…

I am.

So you told him no?

I told him I already had plans.

Cautious relief breaks through the rush of nauseating adrenaline. My fingers shake as I text my reply.

So you’re definitely coming tonight?

Yes. I’ll be there. Gonna stay with Gram until visiting hours are over, then I’ll head out.

My racing mind skitters to a halt, and before I can text a reply, my phone vibrates with the arrival of more words from Adam.

The man is insane to think a ride to the airport will clear things up between us.

I can’t catch my breath, let alone think of what to say next. My fingers fumble against the phone.

I’m glad you’re coming tonight. Really glad.

Wouldn’t want you to have to play without your lone swooner there to cheer you on.

Me neither.

See you in a bit.

I love you.

Copy that and send it back. :)

Now that I know Adam will not be injured in a crumpled car in front of the Star City National Bank later tonight, I’m left with a strange, post-torture sense of peace. As I sit on the living-room floor, my back to the wall and knees folded up against my chest, questions start to jump through my mind. Why is Mr. Sinclair leaving so suddenly? Doesn’t he want to make sure I follow through with my end of our arrangement? Why did he tell Adam he wouldn’t be back? How will Adam handle what’s going to happen tonight now that he knows he could’ve been there, too?

I wipe my hands against my face, running my fingers up my forehead and through my hair. They stop when they reach the back of my neck. I’m frozen, filled with questions and wishing Adam were here with me right now so I could see his face and wrap myself around him. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath.

* * *

The bus drops me off a block from The King’s Court, and as I’m walking up to the side door, I see him standing across the street. He’s leaning on the front fender of the black car, arms crossed over his chest and dressed in a dark suit. I can tell from here that his white shirt has been ironed to crisp perfection. There’s no tie today; I guess this is his version of casual. I can’t see his eyes from here, but I’m sure nothing inside of them has changed.

I’m not nervous about him being here. In fact, I hope he comes inside and sees Adam and me together. I hope he hears me play and feels my music vibrating through his chest as it sends its message of love and compassion out into the world. Maybe it would change his mind, make him wonder whose side he should really be on. But I know even if he does come inside and see and hear and feel everything I want him to, it will be too late to change things. Too late to make a difference.

None of it will matter in a few hours anyway.

Perry Devine lifts his chin to me as I open the door to The King’s Court and slip inside. I give him a small nod in return, feeling a quick bite of sympathy for the man despite his boss’s intentions. After all, he’s about to lose someone who might have mattered to him. Seventeen years is a long time to drive someone around and not care about them at least a little bit. It’s now obvious why he won’t be in the Jag tonight. Instead of driving Mr. Sinclair to the airport, he’ll be spying on me. I guess he’s the one who’s sticking around to make sure I hold up my end of the bargain.

Perry Devine’s point is clear. He wanted me to see him tonight, so I’d know he’s still watching. But I’m sure the second the bar’s door closes behind me, he’ll be back inside that car, behind its tinted glass and out of sight. He won’t risk being seen by Adam because he knows exactly what will happen if the boss’s son catches sight of him spying on his girlfriend. He’s played Mr. Sinclair’s games for seventeen years; he knows which secrets to keep.

Once my eyes adjust to the bar’s dim lighting, I spy Jarrod perched on a stool at the end of the bar. There are only six other people here, and one of them is sitting right next to him. It’s a woman, wispy and dark-haired, with bright pink lips and kohl-rimmed eyes. Her slender legs are snug against his, and she’s smiling and looking at him as if he’s everything that matters in the world. As I walk a little closer, I see a name tattooed on her right shoulder blade, its large, curled cursive creeping out from under the strap of her shirt.

Grace.

I watch them for a few minutes from several paces away, hoping to catch a glimpse of the perfect life Jarrod deserves. She touches his arm and laughs. He puts his hand on her knee. They talk and drink and look more comfortable than they should for being so new. I smile at the thought of her being his supervisor. Together, their body language tells me I like her already.

If Grace is going to be my best friend’s girl, I’d better go introduce myself.

“Hey kids,” I chirp as I approach them and signal for the bartender to bring us another round of beers. Jarrod takes care of the introductions, and as the small talk commences, I watch Jarrod’s face closely for signs of embarrassment or disapproval. I wait for him to look away, but I only see affection and happiness there. For both of the women next to him.

It takes a mere ten minutes of conversation for me to determine Grace is downright lovely; her name suits her perfectly. She’s soft and funny and really, really into Jarrod. When I look in her eyes, I see nothing. No sadness, no suffering, no death. I’m relieved.

A short while later, I head to the stage to set up, and for the first time ever, Jarrod follows me. As I take the StingRay out of its bag and start to get myself organized, he pretends to be helping. But I know he’s really here to find out what I think of Grace. I don’t make him ask, I offer my thoughts without being prodded.

“Isn’t she a little young for you, Grandpa?” I plug my bass into the amp and lay out the cord.

“Very funny, Kace.”

“Did you take your teeth out for her yet?” I’m trying not to smile. I don’t want Grace to think this is anything but a normal conversation between two friends.

“Not yet, but I’m thinking maybe tonight’s the night. If your playing puts us in the mood.”

“So I should play some Barry Manilow then?” I ask as I prop the StingRay up on the house’s stand.

“Maybe Barry White would be better. We’re a few dates in, after all. I like to hit it heavy right out the gate.” He’s trying not to smile, too, but his eyes are giving him away.

“Anything for you, Jar.” I put my hand on his shoulder and give him a friendly pat. I’d rather hug him, of course, but I won’t. Because of Grace. “In all seriousness, she seems great. And you seem happy.” I drop my hand from his shoulder and twist the cap off a bottle of water. “I’ll let Adam ask her all the hard questions. Only seems fair.”

“So, he’s coming tonight?” He looks a little surprised.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t he?” I’m confused.

His brow goes up as he shrugs. “Well, I didn’t know how things worked out with his old man. Was he able to talk some sense into the guy?”

“Kind of, yes. Adam convinced him to withdraw the complaint. And now it looks like his dad’s going back to Seattle tonight.”

“He is?” More surprise.

“Yep.”

“I guess your sassy comment worked then?”

“I guess so.”

“Sounds like things are gonna go back to normal for you and The Mister. That’s good.”

I don’t say anything in return. I don’t tell him “normal” is not how it’s going to be. Instead, I smile and nod as I sling the StingRay’s leather strap up over my head and switch on the amp. Jarrod turns away and starts walking toward the bar. As he steps off the stage, he turns back and adds, “Oh, Jesus. I almost forgot. Calvin’s gonna pick you up at seven on Saturday. Make sure you wear something that shows a little skin for the Naysayer rep, will you?” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down, and just like that, a dull ache presses down on my heart.

I know I’m never going to set foot in The Upstage on Saturday night. Because I’ll be elsewhere, fixing someone.

“Soul to Squeeze” is not the first song to come out of me. Instead, I play “Ecce Homo” for Jarrod, to let him know he’s worth beholding, just like his song says. He deserves Grace’s affection and attention, and I want to remind him he deserves a perfect life, too, even if he’s going to live it without me. I play the song to let him know I think he really is an epic ass shaker. He is dynamite. And hopefully, after Saturday, the rest of the world will think so, too.

Soon after I start playing, the electric buzz returns to my fingers, raising me up and clearing out my insides. The satisfaction is instant and grounding. I keep playing, song after song rolling out of my brain and off of my fingertips. Each note washes a small piece of me until I am glowing and clean again. I am at peace.

As my string of songs continues, I watch Jarrod and Grace together, sitting side by side at the bar, each drinking their beer. I can’t help but smile when I notice Jarrod’s foot tapping against the leg of the barstool in perfect time with each song I play. He can’t help it. It’s inside him, too.

At first, I’m too wrapped up in soul-cleansing notes for Adam’s absence to be shocking. But then, when the clock over the bar suddenly shouts at me in between songs, everything changes. In fact, the red neon 10:43 does more than shout at me; it wraps its hands around my neck and squeezes, its tightness so strong and sudden that I can’t breathe. Fear gnaws at me, quick and fierce, like an oilman eating up the bayou.

I don’t start playing another song. Instead, I stand on the stage, unmoving and silent, frozen with sudden doubt and fear and dread.

Seven faces turn and stare at me, all of them wondering why the music has stopped.