Who could’ve done this who’d remember Jenna?
The answer screaming into my mind like a blood-red police siren is one I can’t even stand, no matter how I feel about my brother.
Holt.
He’d been so damned in love with Jenna Ford back when we were kids.
All the way through high school.
Sometimes, I think it was the thrill of the challenge. She was the only girl who ever turned him down, even when we were teens.
Reject him, and he gets obsessed.
But…but…nah.
I can’t.
It’s too much.
Holt can’t be this twisted perp.
I shake my head. “Fuck, man. I gotta think. I’d thought I knew who set the fires, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Why the hell would they leave that on Jenna’s grave?” Warren spits. “Covered in ash, no less. Like some kind of weird sacrificial offering.”
“I don’t know, War,” I say gravely. “Let me start asking around. ’Cause we’ve got trouble, but I tell you one thing: I won’t let it get any further.”
11
A Little Louder (Peace)
Not one day in Blake’s house and I’m already breaking the rules.
By “rules” I mean waiting for the man who just kissed my soul out to ferry me around like my chaperone.
I know he means well.
I know he wants to protect me.
But nothing’s going to happen in broad daylight, especially locked away safe in my customers’ homes and hotel rooms.
Mr. Creepazoid Arsonist doesn’t have access to my planner and has no idea where I’m going to be today.
It’ll be fine.
And I’m right. It’s absolutely fine.
I have a busy day seeing to housewives with tennis elbow and older bed-bound patients who can’t get up to stretch their muscles, so they need someone else to help them limber up.
It’s another good day for money.
A day where all I need is a soft touch and soft words and a little understanding to make someone’s life better.
It’s not playing God, but it’s good.
And I’m feeling good by the time I get back to Blake’s house. It’s not a bad place to be.
I’m staying with the man who turns me inside out, makes me breathless, leaves me struggling to sort up from down.
And this morning, when he’d pulled me in for that knee-bending, breathtaking, oh my God hot kiss? I wish he hadn’t stopped.
But Andrea was there, and he’d caught me off guard, and…
So many ands.
So many missed chances.
If his kiss was like the rain finally breaking over a parched desert, it’s left me wanting more.
That kiss clings to my mind as I let myself into the empty house.
No sign of Andrea or Blake.
He must still be at work. I’m guessing Andrea’s out enjoying her Sunday with friends before school drags her back to dreary Monday.
I don’t mind having the place to myself.
It lets me settle in on the overstuffed sofa with my guitar, strumming soft chords, trying to get my mind to focus on something besides Mr. Silver Tongue. Oh, and now that I’ve had a taste, the name fits him too perfectly for other reasons.
Lyrics. Focus. Right.
Making this melody come together into something real, raw, true, and lovely.
That’s my focus now.
Even if it might be an ode to how I feel about Blake.
Wouldn’t that be funny?
Some pop starlet like Milah Holly picking up one of my songs and blasting it across the international air waves. Never knowing the wild man she’s singing about, the desperado with the dust of his past on his shoulders is a living, breathing small-town tornado of a man.
The thought makes me smile.
Mr. Hissyfit seems to like it, too. He’s happily twisting in his tank, moving like he’s winding himself in rhythm to the music.
I’m so caught up in my strumming, in the turns of phrase and rhyme that fit the chords, I don’t realize I’m not alone until a soft voice interrupts.
“Damn, you’re good, lady!” Andrea chirps.
My fingers slip on the strings, and I glance up, blinking.
There she is, punky as ever in ripped jeans and a battered oversized military jacket over a crop top that leaves her belly exposed even in winter, henna designs inked around her navel along with a belly button piercing that I think would give Blake a heart attack…except I can tell it’s fake. Costume jewelry.
And standing next to her, thumbs hooked into the loops of his torn black skinny jeans, is a sight that makes me tense.
“Hey,” he says.
Clark.
Eep.
He’s as sullen as ever, tall and lanky in this awkward teen boy way that makes him slouch naturally because it’s just hard to deal with that much height and gravity at the same time.
He’s dressed in all black, from his chain-spangled jean jacket to the black hoop in his lower lip. Total throwback to the eighties’ glam goth crowd.
He doesn’t look like an arsonist.
It’s just hard to see it.
Sure, he’s got some pent-up anger. What kid their age doesn’t?
He’s lashing out against the world.