Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

Were they arguing? They’re definitely brooding.

“Is your dad the one you haven’t dealt with?”

My question cuts off the song, and Jarret lowers the instrument.

“Does he want me dead?” I glance from one to the other, searching their similar features.

They exchange a look, and something passes between them.

Then Jake shifts his scowling eyes to mine. “He did, yes.”

“Why?” My voice cracks, and a stabbing pain slices through my insides. “What would he have gained from it?”

“That’s enough for tonight.”

“No, it’s not enough. You know shit about my life, and you won’t tell me. That makes you untrustworthy and manipulative, and it…it…” I put my hands on my hips, bending over him, seething. “It really pisses me off.”

“Your therapy is more important than your anger with me.”

The rumbling calmness in his timbre further enrages me. He sits there all cavalier and unruffled, and I’m shaking to my core with desperation. I need to know what he’s not telling me.

“Look, I’ll do whatever.” My arms flop to my sides. “I’ll go through your therapy sessions without a single complaint. I promise. Just answer my questions.”

“I’m not negotiating with you, Conor.” He reaches behind his chair and lifts a guitar.

Lorne’s acoustic.

An effusion of nostalgia crashes through me. Memories and emotions, so many deep, warm, powerful feelings that have been out of reach for so long. I didn’t even know they still existed.

My hand moves before my brain can process, my fingers curling around the frets and pressing against the strings.

My God, I miss my guitar. I miss playing it with Lorne.

I miss my brother.

Jake releases the instrument, and I pull it close.

“I know you visit him.” I lower into the chair beside Jarret, eyes on the instrument. “I did, too. Once. He didn’t want to see me. Told me to leave Oklahoma.”

I dare a glance at Jake. His mouth forms a relaxed line, saying nothing, but his eyes blaze with answers.

If my life was truly in danger… “Lorne wanted me to leave for my own protection?”

Jake remains silent and watchful. Beside me, Jarret reaches over and rests a hand on my knee.

I stare at his touch in a daze and try to piece together what I know. “When I was in Chicago, all three of you gave me the cold shoulder.”

“We didn’t know about your dad,” Jarret whispers quietly, his voice tinged with pain.

“But you knew something was going on here. Instead of telling me, you alienated me. Sheltered me. Made decisions about my life.”

Jarret glares at Jake, his hand clenching on my knee. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we did.”

“I spent six years wondering. Beating myself up. Because the three people who matter most to me in the world abandoned me, and I didn’t know why.”

“What would you have done?” Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What if I called you when you were in Chicago? If I told you shady shit was going on back home and someone wanted you and Lorne dead? What would you have done?”

“I would’ve come home. I would’ve found a way to get here, to help you.” To be with you.

“And you would’ve been murdered.” He motions between him and Jarret. “We were stupid seventeen-year-old kids. No chance in hell we would’ve kept you safe here. Christ, it took us years to figure out the who’s and why’s of the situation.” He breathes in and out. “We kept you alive by keeping you away.”

“You could’ve called me and not told me anything. I just needed to know I wasn’t alone.”

“Fuck, I hate this. I hated it then, and I hate it now.” He gnashes his teeth. “If we were in communication, we would’ve made plans. Plans to see each other. Not only that, do you really believe I could’ve talked to you every day and kept secrets from you?”

“No.”

He’s right. We knew each other too well back then. I would’ve heard the restraint in his voice.

With a squeeze, Jarret removes his hand, sits back in the chair, and blows a shaking, soulful melody on his harmonica.

I guess the conversation’s over.

Stunned and overwhelmed, I close my eyes and concentrate on the southern rock vibrato. He’s playing the warm-up song we wrote together as kids.

After a few beats, my hands move, trying out the strings on Lorne’s guitar. Plucking here. Tuning there. Eventually, I drift into the rhythm, my fingers inching over the frets like they never stopped.

The song ends, and I slide into another, and another. I stick to mostly outlaw country—Cash, Jennings, Wilson—searching my roots and strolling down memory lane.

Beside me, Jarret follows my lead just like old times. Lips gliding along the mouthpiece, hands cupped, and head lowered, he wails through the harmonies.

The music does what it’s supposed to do. It transports me to another time, another life, lifting my spirits and freeing my heart to simply sit back and enjoy the moment.