I’ve had a girlfriend for two whole weeks. How I’ve managed not to fuck this up is beyond me. Everyone who knows me, knows I don’t do relationships, so I’m driving in the dark here. And swinging the Charger into a parking space at the YMCA is the first stop on my relationship map. I’m in over my fucking head, but when it comes to Harper, I can’t say no, even if it involves playing my guitar to a bunch of kindergarteners.
I don’t know a damn thing about kids. Never been around ’em. How the fuck am I supposed to entertain them? I kill the engine and pull the keys from the ignition, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. How is it that I’m more nervous to play a concert for a handful of twerps, than I’ve ever been playing in front of a packed club? “Shit,” I groan, leaning over the seat and grabbing my guitar case. Harper King has got me wrapped around her slim little pinkie.
Walking across the parking lot, I push open the door and immediately, my eyes fall on Harper. I’m drawn to her like a heat-seeking missile. Separate us in Time Square on New Year’s Eve and I’d still find her in record time.
Kneeling beside a blond-haired little boy, she’s signing animatedly. The little guy nods his head, understanding whatever it was that she said, and throws his tiny arms around her neck, pulling her into a fierce hug. Harper returns the boys affection, a tight-lipped smile on her face. Whatever their conversation had been about, it impacted them both.
Another little kid, working over a cupcake at the table, stares at me for a beat, then stands and runs over the Harper, pulling on her shirttail. Harper and the blond boy pull apart and she turns her attention to the kid covered in frosting. The cupcake kid points and Harper twists around.
When her sea glass green–eyes land on me, her shoulders fall back, and her face lights up with a brilliant smile. My ego just got a hell of a lot larger. Fuck yeah, I put that smile on her face.
Harper ushers the frosting-coated kid toward the restroom and makes her way to me. Watching her walk, the sway of her hips, I have to keep my thoughts in check. I’m here to give a music demo, not a biology lesson. But damn, I can’t take my eyes off her. I don’t remember ever having a teacher that looked like Harper, if that had been the case, I might have paid more attention in school. Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” echoes in my head. Damn right I am.
Harper waves and stretches her arms out wide as she comes closer. Setting my guitar case on the floor, I’m ready when her arms go around me. I pull her into a tight hug, taking everything she’s giving. She fits me like no other person ever has, her body filling all my hollow spaces. And fuck, she smells good. With her head tucked right under my chin, wafts of coffee and something flowery and girlie floats up from her hair.
I take in another breath just as she pulls away. Dammit! I want more. I’m beginning to sound like a looped track, but I can’t help it. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of this girl. Still smiling, she takes her phone from her back pocket. While she types, I pull my phone out, waiting for her message.
Harper: Hey! Glad you’re here! How’d rehearsal go with the new drummer? She brushes a few errant curls behind her ears and shifts her weight between feet. She’s always so chill; what’s got her so fidgety?
Me: Yeah, no problem. Happy to do it. Everything all right? You okay?
As she reads my text, two kids come running up behind her, throwing their bodies around her legs like magnets to metal. Caught off guard, Harper sways, arms out wide, stumbling forward.
“Whoa, Red! I’ve got you.” Harper grabs my upper arm, her fingers pressing into my biceps, doing all she can to not face-plant in front of the kids. I dig my fingertips into the crooks of her elbows to hold her up. The kids stare in shock, mouths in perfect Os, not quite sure how they managed to nearly take out the teacher.
Finding her feet, Harper whirls around, giving the kids a stern look. She’s signing fast and hard, hands smacking together in loud pops. No fucking clue what she’s saying to the roughhousers, but by their downcast expressions, it can’t be good.
The boys make fists and rub them in a circle on their chests. I know this sign. It’s the one I’m actually good at. Dropping down to their level, Harper gives the kids a tight-lipped smile and pulls them in for a hug. She’s so good with kids, why is she in pharmacy school and not teaching? I scratch the back of my head, filing that thought away for later.
Standing back up, she’s already typing out a message before she turns around and faces me.
Harper: Sorry about that. Those two have been told to stop running all afternoon. Follow me, I’ll show you where you can get set up.
Flashing me her come-hither smile and tacking on a wink for good measure, she starts walking, motioning for me to follow her. Red, I’ll follow you anywhere. And kids or not, I can’t help it when my eyes zero in on her ass as I trail behind her. Those skinny jeans are hugging her in ways I only hope to one day.
Harper takes me to the far side of the room where an adult-sized, navy-blue plastic school chair is front and center on a multicolored alphabet carpet. Instantly, I’m sent back to second grade, images of Miss Carmike sitting in her blue plastic chair. My butt always claimed the letter “X” on the alphabet carpet. Damn, I loved second grade, Miss Carmike was the fucking best. I never wanted to go home.
Harper taps my shoulder, pulling me out of my second-grade time warp. Scooting the chair back an inch, she gestures from me to it. Catching her drift, I sit and place my guitar at my feet. I give her a reassuring wink just as she bends down, kissing my cheek. It’s a quick peck, but enough to take my mind off the task at hand. Children, Thor. There are fucking children in the room.
Shaking off my naughty thoughts of Harper and what she can do with those lovely lips, I lean over and unlatch my guitar case, taking Lizzy from the velvet-lined interior, cradling her in my arms. I settle myself on the chair and get to work tuning her up.
While I pluck away at the strings, in twos and threes, the kids start gathering on the carpet at my feet. One little girl in particular catches my eye. She situates herself, crossing her legs, and stares up at me with the saddest dark brown eyes.
I know this girl. Not really, but I know that look in her eyes, like a puppy that’s been kicked one too many times.
She watches my fingers moving over Lizzy’s strings, shifting her eyes from my fret hand to my strumming hand. Her head starts to bob with the beat of the song while her lips pull into the ghost of a smile, like she’s trying to remember how to do it.
This kid…
A hand touches my shoulder, and I stop playing. Looking up, Harper stands beside me. She gives me a smile, then turns her attention to the ten kids who are all waiting for me, the rock star, to wow them.
Harper signs fast. The kids smile and wiggle, excitement taking over. What is she telling them? It’s not like I’m SpongeBob, or whoever gets kids excited these days.
The group raises their hands, shaking them wildly just as my phone vibrates in my pocket. Fishing it out, I glance at the text message. Relax! They don’t bite…well, not as hard as Lizzy, anyway. ;-) Just tell them a little about the band, how the guitar works, and play a song or two. You’ll be great and the kids will love it! I’ll be here to interpret, just look in my direction when you speak.
I glance over my shoulder. A huge, crooked grin lights up her porcelain face and she pats me on the back as she sits to my right, angled enough to see me and the kids.
What’s the most fucking terrifying thing on the planet? Ten kindergarteners. No question. Twenty pairs of innocent eyes staring up at me like I’m some kind of role model.
Never in my life have I been thought of as a role model. If Griffin could see me now, he’d shit himself.
“Okay,” I mumble, pocketing my phone. “I can do this.”
Slipping Lizzy back into place on my lap, my left hand grazes over the strings, strumming, while my right hand holds down the chord. With any concert, no matter how big or small, when my fingers find their home on the strings, I know I can tackle any problem. Hell, if it hadn’t been for Lizzy, I might have never gotten through school myself.
My eyes roam to the back row of kids, to the little brown-eyed girl. I focus on her. Maybe Lizzy can help her too.
“Thanks for having me, kids.” I clear my throat. “I’m glad to be here.”
Harper beams at me, signing my words for the group. It’s her smile that reminds me why I’m here…seeing how happy I’ve made her. I don’t think I’ve ever been the reason for someone’s happiness. It’s awesome and head-trippy.
Confidence bolstered, I dive back in. “This here is Lizzy.” I hold up my guitar, facing it outward so each of the kids can see the front. “Who wants to hold her?”
Ten heads turn to Harper. They watch her hands, then snap their attention back to me, hands fly upward, waving in the air, all saying, Choose me. I keep my eyes on the brown-eyed girl in the back. She doesn’t raise her hand.
“Okay. How about you”—I point to one of the boys that almost knocked Harper over earlier—“and you…and you.” Two girls sitting front and center pop up from their spots on the carpet and join the little boy at my side.
Passing Lizzy to the little guy, I help him get his fingers settled on the strings, and motion for him to give the guitar a strum. He follows my lead, dragging his hand downward over the sound hole. Lizzy responds with a weak, tinny sound. The kid repeats the motion with more confidence this time, grinning toothlessly at the girls beside him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harper holding up her hands and shaking them, just like the kids did when she introduced me.
Bobbing his head, the little guy strums my guitar like he’s Paul McCartney playing Shea Stadium with Beatles. I hate to be the one to squash his rock-star dreams, I’ve been where he is; it’s a feeling like nothing else, but I have to give each kid a turn.
Tapping his shoulder, he freezes. Biting his lip, the little man opens his eyes and glances around the room. The kids raise their hands in silent applause and Little McCartney hands Lizzy back to me, taking a bow.
For fifteen minutes, I cycle through the group, giving each kid their turn at being a rock star. When it’s the brown-eyed girl’s turn, I point, waving for her to join me. “Come on up, little lady.”
Harper walks over to her, crouching low, signing. The girl shakes her head, letting her scraggly, dark blond hair fall in front of her face. Glancing back in my direction, Harper frowns and shakes her head too.
Oh, hell no. I know that look…I’ve worn that look. I refuse to let this pint-sized darling be scared of me. I’m not the person who’s broken her spirit, but I’ll be damned if I don’t want to be the one who fixes it…even for just a little bit.
Getting up from my seat, Lizzy in hand, I step through the mass of kids, careful not smash tiny fingers under my giant feet. Coming up beside Harper, I lay my right hand on her back, and sit down, crossing my legs. Crammed between Little McCartney and the next Eddie Van Halen, I smile at the little girl on Harper right. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Harper signs my words, adding something at the end. I recognize the letters “Z” and “Y.” She must be fingerspelling Lizzy. The little girl watches from beneath long, tangled strands of hair, inching her way closer to Harper’s side.
As a peace offering, I hold the guitar out to her. “It’s okay, cutie. Go ahead, give it a try.”
Harper takes Lizzy from my hands and passes it to the girl. The other kids watch as the girl brings her head up all the way, showing off her big, brown, gorgeous eyes. Brushing her tiny hand over the blond wood, across the strings, she almost smiles. Almost. It’s still there, I can see it in her eyes, it’s just buried under all the shit she has to endure at home. I want to fucking punch the asshole that makes this sweet little girl cower behind her unwashed hair. Thank fucking God she has Harper and a safe place to come after school…that’s more than I had when I was her age.
The girl hands the guitar back to Harper. Turning her head in my direction, Harper’s green eyes shine and she smiles gently—soft, like a flower petal. With just one look, she makes me believe I’m some sort of superhero. How did a screwup like me end up with her?
Touching her fingertips to her chin, Harper signs, “Thank you.” She places Lizzy in my hands, her fingers grazing over mine—another “thank you.”
I smile at Harper and the girl, holding up three fingers and circling them against my chest. I think that’s the sign for “You’re welcome”…at least I hope so.
Harper nods, her face lighting up. Nice! Yep, that’s it!
As I stand up, the little girl lifts her head, catching my eye. Bringing her fingertips to her chin, she lowers her open palm. “Thank you.”
Never in all my life has a kid almost made me cry. I don’t even like kids. But this little girl is one in a million. With a lump in my throat, I crouch back down so I can look her in the eyes. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask, hoping Harper will interpret for me.
Without missing a beat, Harper signs.
Hesitantly, the girl brings her right hand up and finger-spells her name. “P-E-N-N-Y.”
I’m glad Harper taught me the ASL alphabet. “Well, Penny. It was lovely to meet you.” I offer her my hand to shake.
She watches Harper sign, then looks back to me, slipping her tiny palm into my hand. We shake hands and this time, she really smiles. Two missing front teeth and eyes that reflect a moment of pure happiness; she melts my heart.
Standing back up, I notice the letter Penny’s sitting on…my letter…“X.” I wonder how Griffin would feel about sharing an apartment with me and a five-year-old, because right now, I want to fucking adopt Penny.
I make my way back to the seat in front, the kids shifting so I don’t step on them. Settling Lizzy in my lap, I swallow the lump and pull myself together. “How about a song?” I place my hands on the G-chord and strum downward, transitioning to C, then back to G—the opening chords of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.”
The kids like the song…I think. Their little heads bob in time with the beat of my strumming hand. I get a kick out of the air guitars that Little McCartney and Little Eddie play. Their parents need to get them lessons.
Belting out the chorus, I stand up, kicking the chair backward. The kids cheer and holler in excitement, popping up from their letters on the carpet, dancing and swaying to the beat.
Harper works her way through the crowd, grabbing kids’ hands and spinning them around. I’ve never heard giggling like this, unadulterated happiness. My childhood didn’t sound like this, that’s for sure.
Watching Penny, I make my move, singing and playing as I travel through the lively bunch. Penny’s standing, swaying timidly on her feet, scared to death to let loose and have fun. Harper meets me at Penny’s side, scooping up her hands. Together, they swing their joined hands back and forth.
The more I sing, the wider Penny’s smile grows. Harper spins her in a circle and Penny laughs. A full on belly laugh. For the rest of my life, that sound will echo in head…I will remember when she sang.
Okay. I take it back. Concerts for kindergarteners are the easiest. And by far my favorite.
While I’m busy giving Lizzy a workout, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Slowing down, I end the song, and pull my phone out, wondering what Harper sent me. Shit. Did I get carried away there at the end? Have I worn out my welcome?
Glancing at the screen, my eyes scan over the words. Mom: Your dad’s back. He’s at my place and he won’t leave. Can you come over? I afraid he’s going to bust his way inside.
Nine months of worry-free days and nights screech to a halt like a needle over vinyl. My head spins in two different directions, trying to keep my rage locked up, and a lighthearted smile on my face. If he hurts her, I will fucking kill him. I send Mom a quick response. On my way. Keep the doors locked.
Slamming my thumb down on Harper’s name, I type out a message: Sorry, Red. I have to go. Emergency at my mom’s. I’ll explain later.
Without a second thought, I walk back to the front, lay my guitar in the case, and snap it shut. Standing up, Harper’s beside me, a worried look in her eyes. I plant a hard, fast kiss on her lips, and book it to the door.
Shoving my way out of the Y, my blood boils. That man has crossed the line. No fucking way does he get to terrorize my mother at her new place.
* * *
Forcing the gas pedal down, the Charger growls and speeds up. I feel the exact same way. With each tick on the speedometer, my heartbeat picks up the pace, a kick drum against my ribcage. Why the hell hasn’t she gotten a restraining order? Weaving in out of lanes, I scream by the Sunday drivers who didn’t get the memo: Hurry the fuck up!
Pulling into Mom’s apartment complex, the Charger fishtails on the pebbled parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust in my rearview. Dead ahead, Dad’s beat-up Chevy is parked in front of Mom’s place and he’s on the porch, nursing a forty.
I turn hard, whipping into the spot next to the Chevy. Killing the engine, I pull the latch, and step out. “Yo, Pop,” I holler, slamming my car door.
He looks up. Drunk piece of shit.
I want nothing more than to plant my fist in his bearded face…break his nose like he did mine so many years ago. He has no fucking right to come here and terrorize my mom. Hitting him won’t help her, though. I won’t cause more of a scene in front of her neighbors.
“Whatcha doing here?” Gravel crunches under my boots.
“Need to talk to your ma. Don’t see how that’s any of your business, though.” He lifts his chin, acknowledging me.
It’s more of my fucking business than yours, old man. I glance up at the building, studying each of the windows. The blinds are drawn and everything looks quiet. Good. Stay hidden, Mom. “Don’t think she’s home.”
Dad looks over his shoulder, toward the front door. “Bullshit,” he groans, turning back around. “I know she’s here.”
“She’s not. Time for you to leave, Pop.”
Grunting, Dad shuffles to his feet. At his full height, the top of his head only comes to my chin. He sucks in a breath, takes a step in my direction, and nails me with his dark eyes. “You don’t tell me what to do, boy.” His breath reeks of stale beer and cigarettes.
There used to be a time I cowered and backed away, fearing his right hook. A lot, actually. Not anymore. Not since my eighteenth birthday—the night he broke Mom’s jaw and blackened both of her eyes. At 4:27 that afternoon, I learned that a drunk, sorry excuse of a man is nothing when pitted against his stronger, taller, sober son. I beat the shit out of him. I would have killed him if Mom hadn’t pleaded, sobbing for me to stop.
I promised Mom that Dad wouldn’t hurt her anymore. Raymond Kline would never lay a fucking hand on her again, because if he did, I would kill him.
Looking down at the man that gave me half my genes, I say, “Leave.”
He watches me, trying to pick up on any sign of weakness he can latch on to and manipulate.
Minutes pass, I’m sure. I don’t back down despite the awful stench each time he exhales. When was the last time he brushed his fucking teeth?
“You tell that bitch she can’t leave me. I own her. That pussy belongs to me!” He thrusts his hips and grabs his crotch, licking his lips. “Mmmm!” He shakes his head. “She always was a good fuck.”
I ball my hands into fists at my sides and bite my tongue, fighting the urge to close my eyes. I can’t stand to look at this worthless piece of shit. But I don’t back down. I show no weakness. My stomach rolls, acid churning with one-quarter disgust and three-fourths pure hatred. I loathe this motherfucker with every fiber of my being. My self-control is nearly maxed out. I’d give anything to beat him to a bloody pulp.
“Leave.” The word falls from my mouth in a menacing whisper. He knows I’m not joking, and he loves the fact that he can provoke me, get under my skin.
A smug grin on his face, he bends down and picks up his beer can, throwing back a swig. He stares me down and I do the same. “Some man you’ve turned out to be. Fucking mama’s boy.” He turns his head and spits.
Stepping off the porch he walks around me, clipping my shoulder with his as he makes his way back to his truck. I keep my feet planted where they are, holding my breath. Oxygen will only add fuel to the fire burning through my veins. If I move…breathe…his life is over.
“Nice chatting with you, son. Be a good boy and pass along my message.”
Like hell I will. And I’m not your son. The word burrows into my skin like a flesh-eating parasite.
A door slams.
When an engine roars to life, I exhale, letting my eyelids close. I can hear his truck crushing gravel beneath its tires, then a loud screech as he pulls out onto the road.
Mom peels back the front door, peeking her head around the side. “Is he gone?” she asks meekly.
I nod, still too angry to say anything.
“Come inside,” she says, opening the door wider.
Crossing the threshold, Mom steps aside, giving me room.
“Thanks for getting him to leave, Thor. He’d been pounding on the door for fifteen minutes before I sent you the text.”
Mom closes the door behind me; it whines and creaks in protest. I need to grease those hinges for her. “Two words, Mom”—I whirl around—“‘restraining order.’ Now that he’s back, you need one.”
Wrinkling her nose, she waves my comment away. “Nah. Leaving him and getting that legal separation was hard enough. I’m tired of making a fuss.”
Making a fuss? My brain hurts trying to keep up with her small-minded reasoning. “What the hell, Ma. That man just made a huge damn fuss on your front porch. What if he would have gotten in? What then? Leave me to pick up the pieces after he beats the shit out of you, or worse, kills you? Isn’t that a fuss?” I shout, but hold back most of my outrage for her sake. I hate yelling at her. Lord knows she’s had enough of that in her lifetime.
I can’t fucking see straight. The urge to drive my fist through her wall is overwhelming, but I rein it in. I won’t let my anger and frustration take over…I’m not him.
Mom comes closer, her eyes locked on mine. Reaching for me, she rests her palm on my cheek. “How was I lucky enough to get a son like you?” Her features soften, diffusing my anger like she clipped the wires on a ticking bomb.
“Mom—”
“Shhh,” she cuts me off, shaking her head. “It was a big step for me to leave him. I’ve been with your father over half my life. Being his wife is all I know, it’s all I’m good at. You’ve got to cut me some slack. Let me get used to being alone.” She chuckles, tears pooling in her eyes. “I’ve never been alone. I’m a forty-three-year-old woman who’s never been alone.”
I shake my head. “Mom.” Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her to my chest, and hold her. I hate it when she talks like this. She’s so smart and talented. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”
Guiding her to the kitchen table, I pull out a chair so she can sit. I do the same. The silence between us lingers, both of us trying to work our way out from under Dad’s heavy shadow. Even when he’s not here, he is.
“Why the hell did he come back?” she mutters, staring at the wall across the room.
“I’m worried.” I don’t pull any punches. She needs to know. “I fear the day that I don’t get here in time.”
Leaning over, she puts her hand on my leg and meets my eye, nodding.
“If a restraining order’s too much, then let’s get you a gun. Or enroll you in a self-defense class. Now that he is back, I’ve got to know you can protect yourself.”
She laughs. “Oh, baby. Not a gun! I could never.” Shaking her head she leans back, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’ll look into a self-defense class, though. I think I could do that.”
Why is this funny to her? Why doesn’t she understand how dangerous that man is? “I’m serious.” Right now, I’m convinced she’s all talk; that she’ll say anything to get me off her back.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Leaning to the side, I pull it out and glance at the screen. Harper: Everything okay? Worried about you. Please text back.
Her radiant smile flashes in my head. An hour ago I was rocking out with a handful of smiling kids and a smart, beautiful woman at my side. My life is so fucked up. Who am I kidding? Harper’s world doesn’t mesh with mine at all. I can barely keep my mom safe, how am I supposed to keep Harper away from all this shit?
“Who’s that?” Mom asks, startling me back to the present.
Turning my eyes on her, I shake my head. “No one. Not important.”
Harper deserves more than what I have to offer. Standing up, I slip the phone back in my pocket, ignoring the message…remembering why I’ve stuck to one-night stands all these years.