Danny is out.
You fired him? Came the immediate reply.
No. He quit.
You were the only one who thought that would work.
He could hear his brother’s voice. He could hear the laughter buried in those words, like it was just all one more chance for Alex to score a point or two off Micah. Like jerking around poor Danny didn’t mean anything.
You still with that girl?
His thumbs paused over the screen, unsure of what to say. Unsure, really, of what had happened.
Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Alex.
“Texting is bullshit,” Alex said. “You all right?”
“I’m good. Fine. Why?”
“Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Danny. I know you like the kid.”
This was Alex’s thing, so magnanimous when everything was said and done.
“He’s a better musician than all of us,” Micah said, because he had to say something.
“That doesn’t make him right for Band of Outlaws.”
Yeah, he thought. That was the truth, right there.
“This is gonna be good, you’ll see,” Alex said. “The original lineup, out on the road. New music. Good times. Our fans are going to be so fucking happy.”
Yeah, he thought, pulling himself from thoughts of Helen. This was what he was supposed to be thinking about, the band. The tour. The fans.
The music.
People needing something to be happy about. A reason to dance and sing all the words to their favorite songs. He loved being that guy. Lived for it. It was a privilege, really. And that he needed his brother to remind him of that was just par for the course with them.
Alex was a simple guy.
Micah didn’t have to complicate things, wanting something that was never his to want.
“You’re right,” he said.
“Of course, I’m right. Micah, man, you take this shit too seriously. It’s only rock and roll.”
Micah laughed, because he was supposed to. Because it made his brother happy.
“Good night, brother,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. You better. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
He hung up, pushed his phone back into his pocket and looked up at the stars. There were thousands of them out here. Splashed across the sky.
He thought of that guitar lick he’d come up with while he was between Helen’s legs.
Alex was right. Music was simple. Sex was simple. He didn’t need to go complicating everything with feelings. He’d write a song about her. Another one. And move on. She’d been a weird diversion in his head anyway. Part of the pandemic. Part of missing his mom. Thinking about the past.
Yeah. It was the music. The band. The fans.
Simple.
Chapter Nineteen
Helen
Sleep happened in fits and starts. Mostly she lay on her side, watching the moon’s reflection move across the pond, and tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours.
The guilt she expected did not arrive. She was 29 years old and Evan would want her to have a full and happy life. With all the good sex she could get. He’d been a solid guy that way. But lying in that sleeping bag she did feel a powerful grief. A surprising, biting grief.
The last person who’d touched her was no longer Evan. Was no longer the father of her baby and the man she’d planned to marry.
It was Micah Sullivan.
And she’d hurt him.
I need to figure out how to make this right.
She must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing she knew it was daylight and the sky was pink and yellow and full of birds.
The view from the bunkie was, without a doubt, one of the best she’d ever seen.
Her phone in the pocket of her coat buzzed against the hard wood floor. Carefully, so she didn’t let in any cool air, she reached out and grabbed it. Ultimately letting in tons of cool air.
The text was from Jonah.
Emmy Bassiter, short for Emmeline, was one of the first Moms we had at Haven House. She stayed for a week.
She pulled in a big breath and let it out. And the kids? She texted back.
Only one. A boy. Michael. Age twelve.
Michael.
Micah.
Damn it.
He’d been a Haven House kid.
Chapter Twenty
Micah
He woke up damp with dew. The sun a pale yellow in a pink and gold sky. So many fucking birds.
“Shit,” he muttered and tried to straighten his neck. The fire he’d been planning on putting out was still smoking. The blanket he’d had over his shoulders had been supplemented by a sleeping bag across his legs.
It was all damp, too.
“Good morning.”
He turned to see Helen sitting in the other chair. Bathed in the pale yellow and pink and blue of dawn. She smiled at him and he cleared his throat and looked away.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Six-thirty,’ she said. “How’s your neck?”
“Fine.”
“Liar. Here.” A cup of coffee in a travel mug was put in front of him. “Milk no sugar. The way you had it in the diner.”
“Thanks,” he said trying not to be touched that she’d noticed.