Five Second Rainbird, page 6
I slammed my fist into the closet door.
Jesus. Get your head straight.
I peered into the closet at the kid-sized jacket hanging up along with a few pairs of pants, and on the floor was a pair of winter boots. I picked one up and turned it over to look at the sole. A yellow size-five sticker was on it—new boots.
I put it back and pulled the accordion door closed.
I moved down the hallway to the bedroom at the back of the cabin. The door was open, and the morning sun beamed through the window, staining the hardwood floors a yellowy orange.
But that’s not what drew my attention. It was the view from the window that caught my eye.
Her window.
The umbrella of large maple leaves concealed my house except for one spot—the room upstairs. My bedroom.
And the window was as naked as that fuckin’ rodent.
Blinds had never even been on my radar, considering there were more important things to do, like put up drywall on the interior walls and plumbing in the downstairs bathroom.
Not only that, but I was rarely here, and when I was here, I rarely slept. And if I did, I was awake long before sunrise. Usually drenched in sweat and having to stand in a cold shower until the nightmares slid from skin and down the drain into the sewers where they belonged.
I looked away from the window and did a quick scan of her bedroom. Bed was made, but it wouldn’t pass any sort of military inspection. Shit, it wouldn’t pass Hettie’s inspection. And I knew that because I’d moved into Hettie’s when I was sixteen after my dad was arrested. Maureen, my mother, had left after my brother died, so it had been Hettie’s or a group home.
My gaze shifted to the mound of crumpled orange-and-red plaid cotton, likely pajamas, strewn at the foot of the bed, along with the light pink T-shirt with a unicorn on the front, and black yoga pants she’d been wearing on her jog through my woods. If we’d left our clothes out, Hettie would make us do laundry for a month. Jaeg had done a lot of laundry.
I turned to the closet. The doors were ajar, as if she’d half-assedly pushed them closed on her way out of the bedroom in a rush. I opened them the rest of the way. There were several jackets, jeans, an oversized sweater that looked like it could be a dress, and a few tops. My hand stilled as my gaze hit the little black dress. It was short, probably midthigh, with a deep V-neck. My brain immediately pictured the material hugging her hips and over her tight ass. My cock twitched.
Christ, I didn’t need that image plastered in my head for all eternity.
I glanced down and saw the guitar case sitting on the floor at the back of the closet.
I reached in to grab the case’s busted handle and pulled it out. It was worn and dusty and had several dents as if it had been through a beating.
I flipped the case on its side, then crouched and unlatched the top flap before tossing it open.
My gaze hit the familiar laser engraving on the bottom.
Fuck.
It was her mother’s guitar.
I remember on her twelfth birthday she’d sat with her mom on the front porch watching the rain. Her mom looked like shit and was wrapped in a quilt and wearing a wool hat. Macayla had run inside and grabbed the guitar and tried to pass it to her, but her mom shook her head.
Macayla sat on the swing beside her and put the guitar across her lap. Then she played.
I couldn’t hear over the pounding rain, but I’d imagined I did.
Not even the rain drops burning into my skin like acid could’ve torn me away.
And for however long she played, it was as if she was holding my hand again, and all the anger and pain disappeared. Comforting. Warm. And somehow protective. Like it was her keeping me from the being yanked into the darkness.
I slowly stroked the strings, and the chords vibrated beneath the pad of my thumb.
Not dusty. Not dull. Not worn. No. It was still a work of art.
I normally wouldn’t know shit about guitars, but I’d been around the famous rock band Tear Asunder. Deck was friends with the band, and we’d helped them out on a few occasions.
I picked it up out of the case and set it across my lap. I slid my fingers up the neck, then curled my hand around it to settle my fingertips on the strings. Had her fingers been here? Did she sit on the front porch in the rain and play?
I clamped my jaw shut and was about to place the guitar back in the case when I noticed the stack of napkins. The top one had writing scrawled on it, but the ink was smudged like it had gotten wet. Why would she write on napkins? I had the urge to flip through them to see if the others had been written on, but it felt too personal, as if I was reading her diary. I placed the guitar back in the case and flipped the lid closed. I fastened the latches and shoved it back into the closet.
I did a quick scan of the rest of her room, but there wasn’t much else. A few softcover books on the nightstand that looked as if they’d been read countless times, judging from the dog-eared pages and wrinkled covers. There were a couple pairs of shoes—black sandals and the muddy runners she’d been wearing on her jog.
I opened the top drawer of the dresser.
My eyes hit the blue lace panties first.
No. Not simply blue. They were the color of a robin’s egg. Colorful. And yet still soft—like her.
Silky red lace panties. Black ones. White ones.
My cock jerked, and I slammed the drawer shut so hard it went off its tracks. I fiddled around with it until it finally closed properly, then stalked from the bedroom.
I didn’t bother checking the bathroom. The last thing I wanted to see was her lace bra hanging from the shower rod.
What the hell was my problem? Women didn’t affect me like this. I didn’t think about the color of a woman’s panties, and I sure as hell didn’t imagine her in them.
Sex was hard. Fast. And detached.
No touching. No emotional connection.
Get the woman off, then look after myself. Nothing more.
But suddenly all I could think about was more.
I strode out of the cabin.
Seven days. Then I was having one hell of a bonfire.
Macayla
Three times. That’s how many times I rode the coaster down the mountain with Jackson. My stomach felt as if it was permanently lodged in my throat.
But I’d do it again in a second—because Jackson laughed. And it wasn’t a half-assed laugh. It was the kind that stemmed from deep in the guts. The kind that was real, and I don’t think he’d ever done that before, because he’d looked shocked when the sound emerged, and he abruptly cut it off the first time.
But he didn’t stop it the next time, and when the ride ended and I asked if he wanted to go again, he nodded with a huge, beaming grin that sent a lightning bolt of warmth through me. And I knew I’d ride the coaster all day if he wanted to.
Of course, I couldn’t because I had to work at the bar, so I’d dropped Jackson off at Hettie’s. It was an arrangement she’d insisted on and arguing with Hettie was futile. Besides, it saved me paying Mrs. Fisherton, who had a daycare and watched him when Hettie couldn’t.
Most importantly though, Jackson liked Hettie, but then there wasn’t anything not to like. I’d liked Hettie just from the stories Addie had told me at camp. Turning the house into a haunted mansion on Halloween for all the kids in the neighborhood. The theater extravaganzas where she’d take Jaeg and Addie to the cinema and they’d watch movies all day, eating unlimited buttery popcorn.
I drove into the parking lot and parked beside Brin’s Jeep and shut off the engine. Friday and Saturday nights were live music nights, which meant they were the busiest of the week. Good for tips. Not so good for my stomach that had been yo-yoed into a pretzel for the last three hours. Dealing with the smell of cologne, over-perfumed girls, and beer for the next six hours was going to suck.
Zero Crow was off the main road and a little out of town in an old building that had once been a winery. There’d been a fire a number of years ago and the vineyard had been destroyed. The owner decided to sell the property, and Callum James bought it and converted the winery into a bar.
The building had an old-world feel with its arched windows, chipped-paint corbels, and a rooftop lookout that had an iron fence around it.
Hanging off an iron rod above the medieval castle double doors was a gunmetal sign with “Zero Crow” embossed in a silvery blue and entwined around a horseshoe.
I climbed out of the car as my cell rang, and I glanced at the screen—Ethan’s name flashed.
Shit. I thought about ignoring it, but if I continued to put him off, I wouldn’t put it past him to jump on a plane. I slid my finger across the screen and placed it to my ear.
“Hey.”
Ethan’s deep, abrupt voice vibrated in the phone. “Macadamia. What the hell? I’ve been calling for three days. Jackson okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just really busy.”
“How’s Jacks?”
It was always his first question. “He’s fine. Loves his Aquaman.” Ethan had sent it to him when we first moved here.
“Need anything?”
“No. We’re good.”
“What did you do today?”
I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I reached inside the car for my purse. “We went on the coaster down the mountain.”
A rough snort emerged. “You went down the mountain on a sled?”
“Yeah.” I shut the car door and walked across the gravel drive toward the massive, wooden double doors that looked as though they’d been stolen from a Scottish castle.
“He like it?”
My chest warmed. “He laughed.”
“Guess he doesn’t take after you.”
I stiffened and my insides pretzeled. “Listen, I just got to work. Can we talk later this week?”
Silence, but I heard the rustle of clothing as if he was either changing out of his gear, or putting it on.
“Why won’t you tell me, Macayla?”
Because I’d never take the chance of losing Jackson again.
Because if he knew, he’d end up in jail.
Because I didn’t want anyone to know the truth, especially Jackson.
“I know you don’t want me to tell Dad where you are and about Jackson, but….” Rowdy voices erupted in the background along with what sounded like hockey sticks banging the floor, drowning him out. “Shit. One sec. Let me go—”
“Ethan, I’m walking into work. Gotta go.”
Before he had a chance to reply, I hung up and switched my cell to silent and shoved it into my back jean pocket. I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d show up here. I’d managed to delay him meeting Jackson for months, and now the season had kicked off, so he wouldn’t be able to get away. But eventually, I’d have to face him.
I put my hand on the brass doorknob and inhaled a ragged breath.
I pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside the dimly lit bar. My stomach lurched when the smell of cologne and cigarette smoke drifted over me.
Great. This was going to be a fun shift.
I wasn’t sure where the cologne was coming from, but I knew the cigarette smoke culprit because he was here every night, or at least every night I worked. It was illegal to smoke in here, but Zero Crow didn’t seem to be big on following anyone’s rules except their own. And Brin, the bartender who pretty much ran the place, told me Darius was Callum’s right-hand man and could do whatever he wanted.
I wasn’t exactly sure what right-hand man meant. I mean, I knew it meant he was important to Callum and was like an assistant or something, but the guy didn’t look like an assistant. He looked more like a hardened criminal who dressed nice.
Darius, no last name because he hadn’t shared it with me, sat in his usual booth wearing his usual attire, which was a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. His black suit jacket was slung over the back of the booth, and his cell phone sat on the table facedown next to the salt and pepper shakers. And like how he was wearing his usual attire, he was also doing his usual activity—playing cards. Not on a cell phone, but the old-fashioned way, with a deck of cards.
A cloud of smoke drifted into the air from his cigarette. He never touched the cigarettes he lit—at least, not that I’d seen. They remained perched on the edge of an overflowing ashtray. When one burned out, he lit another one and set it in the same spot.
It was ironic that there was a “No Smoking” sign on the wall beside him. I wondered if it was pinned there just for him. Or had he put it there as a reminder to himself not to actually smoke the cigarette?
He glanced up and our eyes met. He didn’t acknowledge me, but then, the only people he spoke to were Brin, Jaeg when he came in, and on the odd occasion Cali, short for Calico, who worked with me on the floor Friday and Saturday nights. I also worked Wednesdays and Thursdays, but the day shift.
I smiled at him anyway, like I always did, and he gathered his cards into a pile and shuffled. It wasn’t my kind of shuffling where I jammed the cards into one another. This was like you’d see in a high-stakes poker game in the back room of a restaurant.
I walked toward the bar and noticed Sam and his friends playing pool in the alcove to the left where there were a dozen wine barrels stacked on shelves along the back wall. Sam was my age and had just graduated from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Business degree. He was staying here at his parents’ cottage, taking a few months off before he got locked into a job.
Sam had asked me out a couple months ago. I’d said no, to which he said, “I’m persistent.” To which I said, “I have a six-year-old.” But that didn’t deter him, and he’d grinned, saying, “I’m great with kids.” That got him a smile, but it was still a no.
A few other occupied tables were near the stage where the live music played later in the evening, and a couple regulars sat at the bar. One of them being Hunchback Dave, who worked on the mountain in the winter grooming the ski hills.
Zero Crow had an air of sophistication with a splash of rustic. The booths were tufted black leather, and the tables and chairs were a dark mahogany. The wall behind the bar was barnwood with glass shelves displaying the array of liquors. The white granite bar top ran the entire length of the back wall, giving it a modern feel.
I lifted the flap to go behind the bar, and a palm slapped the swinging door that led from the back room.
“Bollocks!” the smoky voice with a subtle English accent shouted. Brin. “Don’t need your fuckin’ excuses, you wanker.” She had her cell plastered to her ear. Tattoos were scrawled down her left arm to her wrist, and more peeked out from her black V-neck T-shirt, but she didn’t have any on her right arm. “You don’t show tonight, don’t bother showing your face in here again.”
She was silent a second before she said, “Yeah, well, he’s not here, and you’re not good enough for him to give a shit.”
She didn’t wait for a response and chucked her cell onto the back counter. “Tosser,” she mumbled.
I was pretty sure that was our live music gig just cancelling. I reached under the bar and pulled out a black apron and tied it around my waist. “Tommy?” I asked.
“Yep,” Brin replied as she tilted a pint glass under the beer tap and pulled the lever. “Wanker is too high to get his ass out of bed. Well, now I don’t have to listen to his pitchy voice anymore.”
Tommy had pitch issues, but only when he was fucked up, which was more times than not.
A few strands had escaped Brin’s low ponytail and curtained her face. She had graceful features that were soft, almost feathery, and they contradicted everything else about her. Her waist-length blonde hair was coiled in pieces like twisted ropes, and when I’d first met her, I thought they were dreads.
I didn’t know how old Brin was, and it was hard to tell. Sometimes she looked eighteen, and other times she looked twenty-five. I was guessing she was somewhere in between. She didn’t share much about herself except that she’d been bartending at Zero Crow for years and had never lost a game of pool. She could also make a killer margarita.
“What about Charlie?” Charlie’s band, the PeaPuffers, was a local cover band. They played covers of songs by bands like Maroon 5 and Coldplay. I’d heard them play a few times, and they reminded me of the band RyderEdge that played at the bar where I’d waitressed for a few years while attending Western University to obtain my Bachelor of Finance. I hated finance, but it had been a deal I’d made with my father.
But music was in my blood, and I’d wanted to be around it. Waitressing at the bar gave me that. It also gave me freedom by making my own money.
The lead singer of RyderEdge was Ryder, and he was good. Like a four-chair turn on The Voice good. He’d caught me writing lyrics on a napkin in the back one night and ripped it away from me. I’d never let anyone see the songs I’d written. Ryder read aloud while holding it out of my reach above his head as I jumped up and down, trying to get it back. When he handed it back, he’d looked at me and said, “Finish it. We’ll work out the sound and I’ll sing it.”
But we’d never had that chance.
It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered except Jackson. I had Jackson, and he was safe.
“Later, Brin,” Sam called, raising his arm as he and his friends headed for the door.
I swallowed back the memories and shoved an invoice pad and a couple pens into the pocket of my apron.
Brin lifted her chin at him. “Sam.”
His gaze flicked to me and he grinned, dimples in full working order. “Mac.”
I smiled. Sam was definitely hot. Carved jaw, deep brown eyes that drooped in the outer corners, reminding me of a puppy dog. Tall, but not Vic tall. And muscled, but not Vic muscled. More agile and sleek.
Did I just compare Sam to Vic? God, I did.
Brin swung a rag over her left shoulder. “PeaPuffers are in Toronto this weekend playing at Avalanche, and Garret broke his leg biking down the mountain.” Garret was a country solo artist and was good. Too good to be playing in a bar. “Christ, the one night the boss is coming in. Probably why the wanker called in. Pussy was afraid he’d get shot if he went off pitch.”
