Rage, page 10
When he reached the front yard, he propped one foot up on the porch step and stared at her, a mocking grin curling his lips. “Hello again. Have you come to rewrite more of my songs?”
“No.” Her voice was a squeak. Now that she was here, she didn’t know where to start. She was so aware of him, his sexual magnetism and husky-voiced sensuality. She couldn’t think straight.
“Well?” he sneered.
“Mind your manners, son,” Pops barked. “I don’t know what the problem is here, but this nice young lady doesn’t deserve to be spoken to that way. We were just having a glass of lemonade and I suggest you tuck that scowl into your back pocket and join us.”
Spyder straightened, looking from one to the other. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he climbed onto the porch, poured himself a glass of lemonade and sat across from Blaize.
“Ms. Donovan here tells me she’s a schoolteacher,” Pops said, acting as a buffer between the two of them. He turned to Blaize. “You’ll have to excuse my son’s manners. He was the youngest of five and his mother spoiled him.”
Blaize tried to reconcile the image of a spoiled child with the dangerous man sitting across from her. He glared, as if daring her to come up with a good reason to be sitting there sipping lemonade on his father’s porch. If only she could come up with one.
“I saw your concert the other night,” she began hesitantly. “It was…wonderful.”
He snorted. “It might have helped if you’d said that first, instead of telling me that my lyrics sucked.”
“I didn’t say that! I just…when you were singing…” Her voice trailed off. How in the world could she explain the way she’d felt, the insistent feeling that the words had to be changed.
He waved away her arguments. “I know, I know. You thought the words were wrong.”
She nodded, cheeks burning. “I heard those words so clearly. And I can’t explain why I knew they had to be changed. So many strange things have been happening lately.”
He seemed to perk up at that. “Strange? How?”
“Just…strange.” She was aware of Pops rocking between them and couldn’t say more. She had a feeling that, without his father’s protective presence, Spyder would send her away, just as he had the other night. She scrambled for something to say to keep that from happening until she had a chance to speak with him privately. “But I thought the song was beautiful. The best thing you’ve ever done.”
He seemed to relax again. “I just wrote that song. It has a special meaning for me. I guess that’s why I got so defensive when you attacked it.”
She didn’t correct him this time. Maybe it had seemed like an attack. She should have eased into it better. She would next time, if he’d give her half a chance.
“Never attack the thing a man loves,” Pops said. “Makes him defensive and mean.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning toward Spyder and holding his gaze. And she meant it. She was sorry they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Sorry that her words had seemed like an attack.
“So all this,” Pops said, waving his hands as if he could fan away the tension in the air between them, “is over a few words in a song?”
Blaize nodded and Spyder grumbled under his breath.
“Well, I think I’d like to hear this song,” Pops said, standing up and opening the screen door. He disappeared inside, then came back a few minutes later with a battered guitar. “Nice night for some music,” he said, handing the guitar to Spyder.”
“Pops—”
“Now, don’t be shy, son. You’ve always had a way with a tune. Not that I think playing the guitar is an honest way for a grown man to earn a living—”
“Okay, okay,” Spyder interrupted, as if this was an old and familiar argument. But a note of affection had crept into his voice. He ran his hands over the curved wood. “My first guitar,” he said with a smile.
“Your mother bartered a month’s worth of chicken eggs for that guitar,” Pops said softly. “Spoiled you rotten, she did.” But there was a smile on his face, and Blaize recognized it as a long-standing endearment rather than criticism.
Spyder bent over the guitar, tuning the strings. “This one’s for you, Pops,” he said, then settled the guitar onto his thigh and began strumming.
The air grew still as he sang a slow, haunting ballad of lost love and whispering pines. His voice was softer than she remembered, more tender. Blaize didn’t recognize the song, but knew it was something mellowed with time and memories. It tugged at her emotions, filling her with a sense of longing. When the song came to an end, they sat quietly for a moment, still feeling it throb in the air around them.
“Johnny Horton,” his father said, breaking the silence. “Now there was a singer. None of this rockabilly stuff you kids listen to today.”
Rockabilly? Blaize stole a glance at Spyder, who shrugged and rolled his eyes. One corner of his lips curled up in an indulgent smile as his fingers continued strumming softly over the guitar strings. Blaize felt more relaxed than she had in ages.
“Now,” Pops said. “Let’s hear that song you wrote that has Ms. Donovan here so upset.”
“I’m no Johnny Horton,” Spyder chuckled.
“Who is?” Pops agreed. “But let’s hear it anyway.”
Spyder cocked an eyebrow at her. “Ms. Donovan?”
She knew he was teasing, but it seemed very courtly instead. Playing along, she nodded. “Please?”
Spyder played the opening chords and Blaize felt her breath catch in her throat. She felt that pull again, as if her soul was being drawn through a tunnel. A shimmering wave flowed up her arms, through her shoulders and down her spine. Every cell in her body seemed to lean inward, shrinking to a single point in her center.
And then he reached the chorus and she jerked upright.
…a presence sweet invades my soul
and makes what once was severed whole
blaze marks the trail of fate begun
with pages turning one by one…
“There,” she whispered, not even realizing she’d said it aloud.
Spyder stopped and looked at her. The music faded around them.
“Right there…pages turning one by one. Every time you sing that part something clenches inside me and I hear burning, not turning. Pages burning one by one.”
Spyder sighed and shrugged his shoulders. He turned to his father. “See what I mean?”
“Well, hold on here,” Pops said. “It’s only one word. Let’s hear it her way.”
“I don’t care how many words it is,” he insisted. “This is the way I wrote it. It’s my song. Who the hell is she to tell me the words are wrong?”
A sharp glance from his father was all that was needed stop the flow of angry words. “Fine,” he said with a resigned sigh. “We’ll try it her way.”
He began again, and this time when he made the change to the chorus, Blaize felt something physically click into place. It was right. He had to see that. He had to feel it. The lyrics that followed gained strength, becoming deeper and building gradually to a delicious tension that resonated through each chorus.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes.”
She leaned forward, gently touching his knee, unaware of anyone or anything between them. “See?”
He didn’t want to see anything. And he didn’t want to admit what her touch did to him. As if sensing it, she pulled away, a delicate blush coloring her cheeks. She lowered her gaze, her eyelashes fluttering, and he was struck with a vivid sensory memory of her naked in his arms.
He tried to shake it off. Here on the porch, with the sun setting in the distance, the sweet tang of lemons in the air and his father nodding off in the rocker between them, Spyder was protected from the dark urges that shadowed his dreams. He could be close to Blaize without fear that he’d do something unforgivable. Something unthinkable.
He studied her thoughtfully. The clothes she wore seemed designed to hide, rather than accentuate her curves. Her hair was full and thick, with a natural wave, is if she just shook it out and combed her fingers through it in the morning without benefit of gels or sprays or whatever women did to torture their hair into submission. Her skin glowed with a natural beauty no makeup could duplicate. And those eyes, those gypsy eyes. No matter how hard she tried to hide it, she was beautiful. Just as he’d imagined.
He knew her, even if it was only through his dreams. He knew her intimately, every curve of her body, he knew how she’d respond to his touch, the soft little whimpers she’d make. If he were alone with her right now…he didn’t want to think about that. He couldn’t trust himself to be alone with her.
As if he’d heard Spyder’s thoughts and decided to be obstinate, Pops got up and stretched. “Getting late. I think I’ll leave you kids alone and hit the hay.” He gestured to the side table. “You’ll pick up here when you and the lady are finished talking, right?”
“The lady and I are finished now, Pops.”
Ignoring him, Pops held his hand out to Blaize. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Donovan.” With his back to Spyder, he gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Blaize stood and took his hand, resisting the urge to hug him goodnight. Her smile was genuine. “Thank you.”
He nodded, seeming to realize it was meant for more than the lemonade and hospitality, turned, and went inside. When the door closed, Blaize waited for Spyder to invite her to stay, but apparently he hadn’t inherited his father’s good manners.
Well, despite what he’d said, she wasn’t about to let him chase her away again. She knew civility would be more difficult without Pop’s calming presence. Difficult, but not impossible.
Not letting his continued silence intimidate her. Blaize took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air. It was the last place she’d have ever expected to find Spyder Raines. And yet, he seemed perfectly at home on the wide front porch, chugging lemonade instead of beer, as comfortable in denim as body-hugging leather.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice was no more than a whisper.
He leaned back, one boot heel hooked over the lower rung of the chair, staring up at the darkening sky as if the answer would suddenly appear there.
She almost missed his reply, so soft was his voice. “Trying to save my life,” he said. She had the feeling he was talking more to himself than to her.
And then the quiet was broken. He jerked forward. The front legs of his chair cracked against the wooden planks with the sharp finality of a butcher’s knife cutting through bone. He uncoiled and shot out of the chair, inches from her.
She drew back from the heat of his stare, a look so intense it could set her on fire and melt her at the same time. Either way she’d lose herself.
“The question is,” he snapped. “What are you doing here?”
She stammered, not finding an answer. Hadn’t she asked herself that very same question a thousand times? Finally she said the only thing that made sense. “I couldn’t not come.”
She felt small under the intense scrutiny of his stare. What was he thinking? His gaze flicked back and forth over the points of her face, from her lips to her nose to her eyes and back again. He seemed to be searching, as if he needed something from her. But what?
“Spyder?”
He jerked back. For some reason the name jarred him coming from her lips. It felt wrong. Had she called him Spyder in his dreams? Or had she called him something more intimate? He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling her to call him Tommy. No, that was too personal. Tommy was the boy who’d grown up on this farm. Tom was a man she didn’t know, a man no one knew anymore. Not even he.
Spyder turned away before he could lose himself in the still depths of her eyes. He had to send Blaize away now, before it was too late. And he couldn’t do that and look at her at the same time. Already he was losing his resolve as the part of him that wanted her took control. He was aware of the way he responded to her. He was as hard as a rock.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak there was the softest touch, her hand on his shoulder. He turned and there she was, inches away. He could smell her hair, see the moonlight reflected in her eyes, the faintest glimmer of moisture across her bottom lip, as if she’d just wet it with the tip of her tongue. His entire body throbbed and pulsed.
She reached up and laid her palm against the side of his jaw, as if she’d touched him like that a thousand times before. There was nothing sensual about it. It was just the barest of touches, not even a caress, more comforting than sexual. But it was enough to make him realize he was losing the struggle.
With his last ounce of resolve, he pushed her away before his mind could justify what his body ached to do. He circled her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face and hardening his voice.
“You have to go now.”
“I don’t have to,” she said.
He ignored the promise in her eyes, a promise neither one of them was ready to acknowledge. “Yes, you do.” He gave her a purposely suggestive smile that she couldn’t possibly misinterpret. “I have other plans for tonight, darlin’, and you’re not part of them. Not unless you’re into group sex, that is.”
That did the trick. She drew back with a curt little shake of her head, looking more hurt than shocked. He pretended not to be affected by the disappointment in her eyes.
With an efficient movement, she slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and steered past him, putting as much distance between them as the porch would allow.
Her voice was clipped. “Sorry to bother you,” she said. From someone else it might have sounded bitter or sarcastic. From her, it sounded like honest regret.
“No bother,” he said. She didn’t acknowledge his response, probably didn’t even hear him. She was already walking with a purposeful stride to her car. “No bother at all,” he whispered, knowing it was a lie. She bothered him in ways even he didn’t understand. Had he been dead inside for so long that he didn’t recognize genuine emotions when he felt them?
He watched the road long after the taillights of her car had disappeared. He thought for sure his dreams tonight would be more vivid, more powerful. Now that he knew she was real, could his dream image of her be any less so?
But surprisingly, for the first time in weeks, he didn’t dream of her at all. And that scared him even more.
An excerpt from The Play by Algernon Pierce, Page 208.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing enters the secret labyrinth, leaving one life behind in search of another. Too blinded by ambition to see that her presence is not only expected but required, she struts through the gate in her transparent disguise. Soon others will follow, but for now one sheep to slaughter is enough.
And so it begins. The actors take their places, lining up on the stage, like one season following another, to take part in the final curtain call of the play.
Blaize had a restless night. Her mind spun off in a thousand directions, trying to find answers where there were none. She finally gave up trying to sleep and got dressed. There was still no answer at Joyce’s house and she was getting worried.
This is stupid, she chided herself. Joyce was a big girl and didn’t have to report her comings and goings to anyone. Maybe she simply wasn’t answering the phone. Even as she thought it, Blaize realized that wasn’t like Joyce. And why wasn’t her machine picking up? It just didn’t feel right.
Her concern escalating by the moment, Blaize grabbed her purse and car keys.
“If she’s not there, I’ll camp out on her doorstep until she gets back,” she muttered.
She felt better once she made the decision to check on Joyce herself. Joyce would probably be home when she got there. They’d have a good laugh and sit up late with a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and life would return to normal. Blaize desperately needed to believe that.
But when she reached Joyce’s house, it was dark. She sat in the car staring at the house, a squat, one-story bungalow with a wide front porch. The street was deserted, pools of light from the street lamps making the darkness in between seem even more sinister by comparison. Blaize shivered. The crescent moon slicing across the starless sky reminded her of the cover of Pierce’s book.
She reached for the door handle, then stopped. Footsteps warned of someone’s approach before she could make out the figure in the darkness. She waited, barely breathing, as a dark silhouette walked toward her, hunched into the shadows. Blaize was sure she was hidden in the dark interior of the parked car, but still she held her breath.
The figure stopped in front of Joyce’s house and looked toward the doorway. For a moment Blaize felt there was something familiar about the stranger. But that was silly. He was no more than a silhouette, a dark shadow against an even darker night sky. How could she recognize a shadow? Still, there was something about him…
The stranger stopped to light a cigarette. A glint of silver triggered her memory, but just as quickly it was gone. Then, in the sudden flare of light Blaize saw his face and again was struck with a sense of recognition. The stranger seemed to stare straight at her. The light faded to a glowing tip as he dragged on the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Before she could grasp the elusive memory, he walked away, continuing along the dark sidewalk until he was gone.
Blaize released the breath she’d been holding in an explosive gasp. She waited ten more minutes then stepped out of the car, rushing across the sidewalk and up the porch steps. She knocked, her mind racing with fear. When there was no answer, she tried the door, surprised to find it open. She stepped inside, calling softly. “Joyce. You here?”
No answer. She closed the door behind her, locked it then reached for the light switch beside the door. “Joyce?” Still nothing. The house was ominously quiet. Half-empty Chinese take-out containers littered the coffee table. With growing concern, Blaize checked every room, calling out before entering. But there was no sign of her friend.
