Skye ran right into Ash. Her stomach tightened as hope mingled with fear, but she’d made the decision to see where this thing with him would lead.

“Sorry.” She took a breath. “I guess I’m ready.”

He put her bags in the back, next to the guitar, and then opened the passenger door of the Jeep. He stole a peck on her cheek. “Get in.”

He walked around to the driver’s side. “Where’s this cabin of yours?”

“It’s not mine. My boss is letting me stay in it, and it’s near Roanoke, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

He whistled. “How far is that?”

“About three or four hours, depending on which way you go. Reconsidering?”

“Hell no. I wouldn’t give this trip up for the world.” He leaned back and turned the key. The moment the engine cranked over, music played through the speakers. He turned the volume down and then backed out of the driveway.

“Guess I have a few hours to get to know your life story,” he said.

“You don’t want to know my life story.”

“I do. We’ll start with the easy stuff first. How about favorite food? Or music?”

“Hmm. Food is hard. Music…I like what you’re playing.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Awesome! A hard-rock gal. I took you for the soft, fluffy stuff.”

She made a face. “You can thank my brother for that. He buys all our music. We share playlists. Or rather, I listen to what he buys. I like Metallica, Slayer, Pantera, Seether—the list goes on.”

“Most of those formed decades ago. Any newer bands?”

She shrugged. “It’s hard to find a true metal band anymore. I mean, most play their asses off and crush it, but they don’t have moving songs. I like bands who really blow it out of the water. When I listen, I want to feel inspired and pushed to be better at what I do. My brother is a big fan of Angel Fire, so I listen to more of their stuff than I otherwise would. I guess they’d be considered relatively new.”

“You like them?”

There was something more to his question, but she couldn’t figure it out.

The topic of music kept the conversation away from her life story. She struggled to remember how Forest had described music. “Like I said, I’m not a fan. Too busy with work. It’s the same with television. I hardly have time to watch anything, and I rarely see movies.”

The lines on his face eased.

She continued, “I recognize their sound. It’s the same with Seether or Metallica. I know when I’m listening to a particular band, but that’s where it stops.”

“Why metal bands and not soft pop?”

She laughed. “I love the energy of metal. Soft pop is okay, but it’s not inspiring. Metal bands write with heart and soul. They create a sound—something that stomps balls, makes you want to scream your head off, but doesn’t make you look like an idiot while doing it. There’s a melody there as well, to wrap your head around. Well-crafted songs like that are hard to come by.”

His fingers tapped the steering wheel in time to the rhythm of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets.” His expression relaxed into a peaceful smile. “I like how you describe music.”

She was repeating her brother’s words almost verbatim. He was the true music fan.

Following on the tail end of the soulful notes of Metallica, the first few notes of an Angel Fire song played.

“This band is pretty good. Hard metal, but unlike other bands that yell and screech at you, you can actually sing along. I understand the words, and that voice! Oh my God, their lead singer’s voice wraps around you in so many layers of sinful goodness.”

He burst out laughing, which turned into a coughing fit. He glanced aside at her. “Sinful goodness?”

“Yeah. But it’s a shame.”

He grew quiet. “What do you mean?”

“The drugs and alcohol? In and out of rehab? They rose to the top of the charts fast and then kind of self-combusted. Drugs do that. Rips apart families, friends, and bands. I see it every day where I work—the druggies and addicts and their victims.”

She’d been trying to bring Forest out of the depths of his addiction for the past decade.

Ash’s voice took on a harsh edge. “Angel Fire’s at the top of their game. The band’s been sober for years. And they’re rocking the charts.”

“Oh, I guess. Like I said, I really don’t follow them. I only get what my brother tells me.”

His mouth twisted. “I suppose.”

“There is one band I really like. The Burn is pretty amazing. If I had a favorite, it would be them. Their singer’s voice is hypnotic, and his tattoo is a piece of art, steel beneath the burns.” She waved at the radio. “Other than metal, who do you like?”

He stared down the road, and his fingers tapped out the beat of the song. “Believe it or not, I like listening to straight melody, letting the music capture the complexity of emotions people relate to. But I also enjoy the classics and jazz, even contemporary.”

He flipped the channel to a New Age station and let the music play for a few minutes. Its penetrating sound laced the air with half-formed images.

“Music should paint a story all on its own,” he explained. He gestured, drawing shapes in the air. “Like a landscape, it should form pictures and create memories, transport you to another place. When I play guitar, I try to write a sound describing another world, and if I’m really lucky, I can write the words that tap into the story’s song. In the end, the words and the melody talk about the same thing.”

“Wow, that’s beautiful. Is that what you do? You write songs?”

He gave a quick jerk of his head. “Some days. Other days, like today”—he glanced at her and flashed his amazing smile—“I’m just a guy, hoping to impress a girl.”

She rested her head against the seat. “Well, so far, you’re doing just fine.”

“Tell me about your family,” he said. “Where did you grow up? You have a brother. What about sisters?”

“I don’t want to talk about my past.”

“Why not?”

She twisted in her seat. “Difficult childhood.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She flipped the music back to the metal channel. When he challenged her, she held up a hand. “Sorry, but that New Age music puts me to sleep. Tell me about yours.”

“My family couldn’t be more stereotypical. Dad’s a minister. Mom teaches elementary—fourth grade. I’m the youngest of five kids—twin older brothers and two older sisters born less than a year apart. They’re practically twins themselves. I was the baby, three years younger than my sister. When the family wasn’t babying me, my siblings would gang up on me.”

“You were the baby? Somehow, I had you pegged for an older brother.”

He certainly didn’t have problems taking charge.

“Nope. I was the baby who Mom loved a little too much. The twins made straight As, played ball, went to college. The girls did the same—not football but volleyball. They’re all married now and competing with one another on who can pop out the most grandbabies. Holidays are a circus, which Mom loves, but she worries about me.”

“What happened with you?” She shifted in her seat. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight, and before you ask, I’ve never been married. Never found the right one. I told you about the tattoo but not about being the son of a minister. You might understand how the tat kind of threw Mom into a tizzy.”

“Yeah, I can see that and on such a visible place, too. Was that on purpose?”

He nodded. “But what really set my parents off was when I dropped out senior year to pursue music.”

“You’re a high school dropout?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Think less of me now?”

He wasn’t rich, not with his decade-old car. She loved that about him. There was a humbleness to him that made him endearing.

“I eventually got my GED to make peace with Mom, but I never went to college. I think my parents still hope I’ll get a degree. College is an expectation in my house.”

She considered his beat-up guitar case in the backseat. “Are you a street performer then? Or club player? Ever produce a record?” She poked him in the ribs, teasing. “Do you have any fans?”

He squeezed her hand. “Yeah, one or two.” He gave a low chuckle. “My parents worried for years, but I think they’ve found peace because they know I’m doing what I love. And I’m not starving. That eases my mother’s mind. They worry about other things now and pray for me regularly.

“But I’m more interested in you and your job. When did you know you wanted to be a doctor?”

After her foster father had sodomized Forest and left him bleeding in the basement, locked in there with her for three days while he went on a drunken spree…

But she couldn’t tell Ash the truth. She didn’t want his pity, and she wouldn’t share her brother’s secrets.

“I was twelve.”

Forest was only a few weeks older, but he’d come into the home after she had. Small and innocent, something had broken inside him.

“Someone I cared about needed help. I was the only one around, and I didn’t know what to do. I’d never felt so helpless.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I swore, I’d learn how to help. I studied my ass off and made sure I got good grades.”

The memory of Forest lying bruised and bleeding on that floor never left her mind. In between her own beatings and rapes, she’d found her motivation in Forest, discovered strength, and carved out a future.

Still, the scars remained. She could take or leave sex, except sex was an expected piece of any relationship. And a relationship would lead to her dream of having a family, everything that had been stolen when her parents died.

She’d moved past most of the bad memories, but, shame and trust issues remained. As did the triggers that would resurface during sex. She could please a man, had been trained extensively, but the thought of letting a man do the same to her would make her body shut down.

“You were a nerd then?” he asked.

Calling her a nerd would have made her younger self angry, but she’d gotten used to the term and no longer considered it derogatory. Besides, he had a smirk lifting the corners of his lips again, and he had curled his long fingers around her hand. How could she be upset when he was freaking adorable?

“Yeah, while you were busy being too cool for school with your tattoo and your music, I was busy being too school for cool.”

Their foster father had had no choice but to send her to school or risk intervention by the agency. The walls of her high school had become a refuge. No one would touch her there. No one would beat her. Some of the boys had wanted to touch, but cold stares would warn them off.

But, every day, school would end, and she’d have to head home. She would have a few hours of freedom and time to study before her foster father returned home from work. Then, his evening entertainment would begin.

Pushing those memories back into the vault where they belonged, she turned away to stare out the window. Her eyes closed as she took in a breath. That man couldn’t hurt her anymore. She and Forest had taken care of that.

“I can’t believe you were a nerd.” Ash brushed the back of her hand. “A girl with your looks? You were probably swamped by drooling boys.”

Her cheeks pricked at his compliment. “I never dated. And the girls didn’t like me.”

“Probably afraid a pretty girl like you would steal their boyfriends.”

“Nah, I was a total nerd.” Long ago, she’d come to accept the label, which had once empowered her young self. Good grades had been her ticket to freedom. She’d embraced the label and worn it with pride.

“I tested out of senior year. Actually, we share something in common. I’m a GED-er, too. I found a university that fast-tracked me into their medical school under a six-year degree program. I completed my emergency residency last year, and the program director at Forest Skye hired me. Now, I’m doing what I love.”

“Wow. Did you take any time to have fun?”

“No.”

“How did you meet Asshat?”

“We’re not talking about him.”

“Okay.” He grew silent for the next two songs, tapping out their beats on the steering wheel.

Then, out of the blue, he reached out and squeezed her leg. “Who in your life is involved with drugs?”

“My brother.” The words escaped before she realized what she’d done. She cursed and turned away to look out the window again. That was Forest’s secret to tell, and she’d violated his trust by blurting it out.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”

“Bean’s not a bad memory.”

“Bean? That’s an odd name.”

“He doesn’t like his real name. I’m probably the only one who uses it anymore.” And only when Forest would piss her off. “Bean’s short for beanpole. He used to be really small, and then he turned tall and gangly. I called him my little Beanpole. Now, everyone calls him Bean.”

“Ah,” he said with a nod. “And he has a drug problem?”

“Has, had.” She waved a hand. “It’s a process. He’s been in and out of rehab so many times that I don’t keep count any more. He’s more of a self-medicator than an addict.”

“A what?”

“Bean’s…odd,” she said. “He’s socially awkward, practically inept, but he’s brilliant. As in, he operates in a different stratosphere than the rest of us. He’s a bona fide genius. He uses drugs to interact with normal people.”

“And you stick with him?” Ash seemed to hear exactly what she’d said. Unlike Spencer, this man listened when she spoke.

“Yeah, and he sticks by me.”

“What does he think of your maybe, maybe-not fiancé?”

She squinted. “Rule number two, we’re not talking about Spencer.”

“Rule number three, babe, no more rules. Let’s sit back, relax, and let the next few days take us where they will.” He flashed her a grin worthy of a rock star.

She grinned back. “Deal.”