“Okay,” I say grudgingly. “Look, you can do dinner tomorrow. That’s it. No more promises. But we don’t talk about Ma, understood? We don’t talk about the past at all. You play nice, you keep it light, and you fucking behave yourself in front of your niece.”
He grins then, and the devil’s back as he claps his hands together. “Perfect. Have I ever not behaved?”
“Holt.”
He laughs—but it’s not that oily laugh he turns on when he wants to seduce women with his wild purr and those too-sly whiskey eyes.
It’s a real, hearty chuckle. This goofy kind of awkward small-town thing I recognize in my brother.
“Okay, okay,” he says, standing, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise. I’ll be good. You want me to bring wine, though?”
“This is a beer house,” I growl. “And we don’t do business formal.”
He smooths the lapels of his shirt. “I’ll make sure to adhere to the dress co—”
He’s cut off by a sound I’d know anywhere and dread.
The shrill of a ringing line from across the room.
It’s tinny, a weird, vibrating sound, because the phone’s old as hell. Bright red, a little scratched and dinged up.
I found it in a thrift shop and bought it for the novelty, but when that landline rings, there’s only one thing it ever means.
There’s a fire somewhere in Heart’s Edge.
5
Move to the Beat (Peace)
Heart’s Edge is totally not what I expected.
Especially when I’m sitting on a bench across from a pretty candy store, talking to a man big enough to pull off the I am the Brute Squad quote with a straight face.
He’s covered in burn scars, fused with tattoos in freaky artistic patterns that turn a sad disfigurement into a portrait of something strange and beautiful.
One look would tell anybody he should be a brute.
But he’s got this gentle smile and warm eyes that look nearly black at first, until he brushes his hair back from his face. Then they catch the light, turning this unique amethyst-violet hue.
“Not gonna lie,” he says a bit sheepishly. “I thought you were another reporter looking to crawl up my ass.”
“Nah.” I grin. “Just a goofy massage therapist who writes songs sometimes. I feel like there’s a good country-rock ballad in Heart’s Edge somewhere.”
“Country-rock? Oh, hell.” He lets out a bark of laughter. His voice has a slight burned, raspy edge.
“You know, like Garth Brooks style. Telling the story of a band of four desperadoes moving across the plains, rolling thunder, lightning strikes, that sort of thing.”
That gets another laugh from him, incredulous. “Where you gonna find a horse big enough for me, then?”
“Ahhh, that’s why we’re lucky it’s fiction.” I hold a finger up. “Just a little pinch of truth. Just enough to make it feel real.”
“So no names,” he says, a touch warily.
I get the feeling he’s heard his name said too many times, in all the wrong ways.
“Well, since I don’t even know yours…” I tease.
“You know.” He gives me a dry look. “Or you wouldn’t be talking to me about your song. I’m probably the easiest person to ID in town.”
I incline my head. “Fair. I hope you’re not mad.”
“Nah.” He chuckles. “I don’t mind. Just no more of that tabloid shit.”
“Nothing of the kind.” I cock my head, hugging my arms to myself.
It’s bright out, the sun reflecting warmly off a thin new layer of snow that settled in overnight, but even with the sky bright and blue and soaring overhead, I’m numb through my coat.
At least I remembered gloves this time.
“So should I call you Nine or Mr. Regis?” I ask.
“Leo’s fine.” His smile is wry, self-deprecating. “Don’t think I’ve ever been Mr. Regis except on national TV. And ‘Nine’ is full of some memories.”
“Yeah? What kind?”
“Prison,” he says. It’s honest, but grim and a touch regretful. “I did the wrong thing for the right reasons, wound up in jail. My prisoner number started with nine. And when I escaped, living like a wild man around these hills…it just stuck.”
I glance at the candy store across the street, visible past the hood of my little purple nugget of the compact rental car I’ve left on the sidewalk. The shop is called Sweeter Things, and a tall, beautiful woman with rich mahogany hair moves around inside busily, an adorable little chestnut-haired boy trailing in her wake.
“Anything to do with her?”
“My wife?” Leo chuckles. “Yeah. Everything to do with Rissa.”
“Sounds like one hell of a love story.”
“One for the ages.” He studies me discerningly. “You gonna write a song about that, too?”
“Maybe.” I bite my lip, and I know I’m not being subtle, but… “So where does Blake fit into this?”
He blinks, leaning back a little. “Blake Silverton?”
“Um, I guess.” I grin nervously. “He does the radio show, right? I haven’t heard him on the air lately…”
Something about the way Leo looks at me makes me feel like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar. “So you’ve been listening for him?”