Blyssful Lies (The Blyss Trilogy 2)

God, I love a happy and carefree Jules. This entire time at the cabin has been nothing short of experiencing heaven, except for the gluten-free shit. If only it could be this good from this day forward, with no lies, no secrets, and no dark past to complicate our future. I would be so happy if it were just the two of us living harmoniously, without all the interference from the outside world and Nick’s men chasing us down.

Since the music is so loud, I don’t need to be quiet as I sneak down the hallway. I can hear her singing, and I want to catch a glimpse of her unhindered. She has an old eighties song blaring through the speakers, and when I reach the kitchen doorway, I raise my brow as it seems I’ll be getting a full show. I lean on the doorframe as I hang back to spy, taking in the sight before me. Jules has on blue rubber gloves, which are way too big for her little hands, and she’s got a huge mess in the kitchen from baking God-knows-what. She’s singing into a rubber spatula as if she’s the lead singer of Def Leppard.

She’s belting out the lyrics to “Animal” totally off-key as she grabs a second spatula, which serves as a set of drumsticks. She’s working hard at giving Rick Allen a run for his money by pounding away to the drumbeats on the kitchen countertop.

I don’t want to give myself away—this is too priceless—so I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from busting out laughing. When the drum solo stops and the chorus comes back in, she resumes her front stage singing position. With her legs spread wide apart and knees bent, she arches her body backwards while singing up toward the ceiling with her spatula microphone. Her legs move like Elvis Presley’s as she works the melody out of her lungs.

I clutch my stomach, almost dropping to my knees in a fit of silent hysteria as she belts out the chorus line: “An-an-an-an-animal…gonna take your love ’n run…” Then the guitar solo kicks in, which is my favorite part. She keeps pace with the rhythm on her makeshift set of strings, and I can’t contain myself any longer. A much-compressed guffaw blasts out of my diaphragm, and it must be loud enough to be heard over the deafening music, because she twirls around and squeals with wide, horrified eyes when she catches sight of me. Her blue hands fly up in the air as she lets go of the spatulas, slinging batter remnants toward the ceiling.

I think her little heart is beating a mile a minute, because she’s got her hand tightly pressed to her chest as she starts yelling at me over the loud music. “Oh, my God, Travis! You scared the livin’ shit outta me.”

I’m full-on laughing now, and I can’t help it. I’m trying desperately to catch my breath while clutching my stomach from the pains of merriment. Once she shuts off the music, she turns around to fuss at me some more. “It’s totally not funny, Trav! You really scared the crap outta me!”

She’s just so damn cute with her face flushed red from being totally busted, while one of her oversized blue gloves rests on her hip and the other pointing a floppy blue finger at me in chastisement. Now that the initial shock of my presence is over, she must realize just how silly she’s been, because an embarrassed grin starts playing over her lips. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, Travis Jackson! Totally uncool.”

She looks at me shyly through her long eyelashes, like a little kid who got caught red-handed stealing cookies before dinner. She’s still breathing heavily from the emotional high of being startled.

“Aw, Jules, c’mere, baby. You’re just embarrassed you got caught playing rock star.” I hold out my arms for her to come to me, and she slowly begins to walk toward me with trepidation, as she’s still unsettled. I can’t contain my sniggering yet as I tug on her hand and pull her into my arms. I embrace her warmly as she snuggles her face into my chest, hiding her shame.

I begin stroking the back of her hair with one hand while resting my chin on the top of her head. “Actually, you make a very sexy rock star, especially in my oversized sweatpants and t-shirt. I’d come see your show over Def Leppard any day, baby.” I chuckle lightly as I kiss the top of her head, keeping my lips there just so I can breathe her in.

A monumental epiphany suddenly hits me as it slams into my chest like a bird crashing into a window, leaving it knocked for a loop. The carefree interlude we just shared is gone for me, and I’m thankful she can’t see the now-tortured expression on my face. I try desperately to remain optimistic while keeping my voice and muscles devoid of tension as I ask myself questions. How in the hell does she know the lyrics to these songs, especially given the fact this music is totally past her generation? How much does she remember?