Finding Olivia (Trace + Olivia), page 10
“How did you stop being angry?” I questioned, wondering if I could ever get rid of the anger bottled up inside me that was caused by my dad.
He pondered my question for a moment. “The hate I felt was eating me alive. I didn’t like the person I was becoming. I didn’t like being someone my mom and grandparents were disgusted by. I decided that I wasn’t going to be that guy anymore. My dad didn’t raise me to act like that. He raised me to be a good man and I was spitting on his memory. In order to cope with my dad’s death, I lashed out at those closest to me. I did some horrible things, Olivia. Things I’m ashamed of,” he shook his head, his eyes far away in another time and place. “I realized that I needed to be the man I was before, the man my father knew and respected, in order to truly heal. I decided that I couldn’t let my pain consume me anymore. My dad wouldn’t have wanted that for me. So, here I am,” he pointed to his chest, “being me.”
I smiled. “Well, I like who you are.”
“Good,” he grinned, grabbing one of his many tools. “And, in case you were wondering, I like who you are too,” he winked.
My heart soared as Trace turned back to the car.
I hated that I was so pathetic that only a few kind words from him sent my heart racing.
“Done,” Trace announced, a few minutes later, lowering the car.
I hopped off the tires, and made my way outside, leaning against the building as I waited for him.
He parked the car he’d been working on, outside, and closed the garage door.
I followed him upstairs to his apartment.
Since I felt more comfortable this time, I studied the place as Trace showered.
It was surprisingly clean and tidy for a guy. There wasn’t anything sitting out that could be considered clutter…unless you counted the bowl of Skittles.
The apartment had an industrial feel with high ceilings and exposed beams and pipes. The back wall and the wall across from the couch were painted an ocean blue-gray color, while the other two walls and kitchen area, were painted beige.
I made my way over to the window, the wood floors creaking under my steps.
I expected to look out, and see a junkyard of old cars out back, but was pleasantly surprised to see woods, and even a small creek. I was sure, that during the summer when the leaves were green, it was breathtaking.
Turning around, I took in a round metal column that separated the kitchen from the living room.
The apartment was nice…homey even. It was the last thing you’d expect from a twenty-two year old guy.
I started over to the couch, my feet sinking into a plush rug, as I waited for Trace to get ready for…whatever it was we’d be doing.
The door to the bathroom opened and steam billowed out, followed by Trace, with only a small gray towel wrapped around his waist.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus.
I watched as a droplet of water trickled down his chest, into the dips and curves of his abs, and finally disappeared into the towel.
My eyes roamed over his tattoos and my tongue flicked out to moisten my dry lips.
Trace chuckled and I blushed, turning away, embarrassed that he caught me staring. I wished I could be bold all the time, like when I showed him my belly button piercing, but those moments were few and far between.
His bedroom door clicked closed and I breathed out a sigh of relief.
The door opened again and my heart stuttered in my chest. He came out in a clean pair of jeans, a white V-neck tee that showed off his tanned collarbone with the edge of the tattoo over his heart peeking out, and shrugged into a red and blue plaid shirt.
He ran his long fingers through his damp hair, trying to dry it.
He fixed the collar of his shirt and nodded at the door.
I stood, following him outside, and around back where his newer car was parked.
We were both quiet as he drove, getting on the Interstate, and heading north.
Trace got off at the exit that led to Target and a strip mall. But instead of turning right, to head towards that area, he went left.
We passed a Denny’s on our right and a Sheetz on the left. Neither of which gave me a clue as to where we were going.
I glanced over at Trace, who was staring straight ahead at the road, a smirk lifting his lips.
I kept quiet, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, as we turned, and headed into a part of town I’d never been to before.
He pulled into the packed parking lot of a restaurant called, Backseat Bar and Grill.
“We’re here,” he announced, as if I hadn’t figured that out already. The question was, why were we here? The mischievous grin Trace wore told me that we weren’t here to eat.
I trailed along behind him, trying not to reach up and slap that smirk right off his face.
He held the door open for me and I stepped inside, my eyes greeted by red and white old-fashioned tiles and booths.
“This way,” Trace nodded to the other side of the restaurant where the bar was.
My eyes lit upon a sign. I read the words carefully. Once. Twice. Three times.
Karaoke night! 7pm to Closing!
“Hell no!” I backed away, but somehow Trace had moved so he was no longer in front of me. Instead, he was behind me, and I bumped into his chest, his hands gripping my upper arms.
“Don’t even think about running away, Olivia,” he whispered in my ear. “I will chase your ass down and drag you back in here.”
“But-but-”
“You’re getting up there, and you’re singing,” he responded.
I took a deep breath. I really had to stop freaking out every time we did something on my list.
The problem was, I was scared to do those things, which was why I had wanted to do them in the first place. Maybe that was strange, but I was sick of being sheltered.
My dad wasn’t holding me back anymore.
I was.
I straightened my shirt, steeling myself for what I was about to do.
“I’ve got this,” I muttered, striding forward, passed the leering guys sitting at the bar.
I felt, rather than saw, Trace’s grin at my words.
I found an empty table, sliding into the booth.
Trace slid in across from me, still grinning widely. Did he ever stop smiling?
I glanced over my shoulder at the area where the karaoke was set up. I gulped down the lump in my throat.
“It’ll be fine,” Trace crooned.
“You’re not the one that’s going to have to sing in front a bunch of strangers!” I hissed.
“That’s true,” he chuckled, leaning back in the booth as a waitress appeared.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun and her pen was poised against a notepad.
“Can I get you anything to eat or drink? Do you need some more time to look at the menu?” She asked.
I looked down at the red and white menu, that had been on the table when we sat down, with a picture of a girl from the ‘60’s and a classic red convertible. I hated to inform her, but I hadn’t even cracked open the menu.
“Sweet tea,” I answered, “and I’m not very hungry.” I picked up the menu and handed it to her.
Actually, I was hungry. But if I was going to sing, it had to be on an empty stomach, or I’d end up throwing up on the floor in front of everybody.
“A chocolate milkshake, that’s all,” Trace replied.
“I’ll be back with that, and if either of you change your mind, and want something to eat, let me know,” she smiled before heading for the kitchen.
“Ready?” Trace asked, nodding to the karaoke setup.
“No!” I shrieked, practically jumping out of my skin. “Give me a few minutes to talk myself into this!” Nervous beads of sweat were forming on my forehead, and I reached up, wiping it off with the back of my hand.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you talking yourself into it, or out of it?” He leaned forward as he asked the question, the booth squeaking.
“In! I’m talking myself into doing it!” I squawked.
“Sure you are,” his eyes narrowed further and dammit if that didn’t make some part of me want to show him that I wasn’t scared.
I slapped my hand on the table and stood up.
Trace grinned and leaned back. “Challenge accepted?”
“You betcha’,” I pointed a finger at him.
I strode over to the karaoke station, my nerves beginning to catch up with me, but I pushed them down.
I could do this.
I sang at home all the time, even my dad had praised my voice, and tried to talk me into joining the choir at his church. That was one thing I refused to do to please him, I was too shy, and he wouldn’t have taken kindly to me throwing up on his patrons. The only non-family member who had heard me sing was Avery. Which happened by accident when she walked into our dorm early and I was singing. But even Avery had complimented my voice.
I took the microphone from the man working the machine and told him the song I wanted to sing.
“You sure, darlin’?” He questioned me in a thick southern accent, something even more southern than Virginia.
“Positive,” I gripped the microphone tightly in my hand, my knuckles turning white.
I swallowed down the bile in my throat as the first notes of the song filled the air while everyone in the restaurant turned to see who was singing.
I closed my eyes but promptly opened them, locking my gaze on Trace’s. If I looked into his eyes, and at no one else, I could do this.
He smiled encouragingly as the song reached the part where I was to start singing.
I sang the opening lines of LeAnn Rimes song, I Need You, and everyone grew silent. My voice was shaky at first but quickly grew stronger as I blocked everyone out and focused solely on Trace.
“’I need you like water, like breath, like rain. I need you like mercy from Heaven’s gate. There’s a freedom in your arms that carries me through. I need you.’”
Trace’s jaw dropped open and his eyes widened at the sound of my voice.
My mom always told me that I had a soft but powerful voice. Whatever that meant. I just liked to sing…as long as no one else was listening.
But right now, everyone was listening. The patrons, the bartender, the waitresses, even one of the cooks.
But most importantly, Trace was listening to me sing, and I didn’t feel sick.
I felt…happy.
My eyes never wavered from his as I sang, like as if he was holding me up and giving me the power to do this, and maybe he was.
I still wasn’t able to explain what drew me to Trace and what made me trust him.
There was just…something about him.
“’I neeeed you,’” the song ended and the place erupted into applause, causing my heart to soar.
I smiled, bowing to the crowd gathered.
I had done it.
I sang in front of people. Real. Live. Breathing. People. That weren’t family or Avery.
“Sing again!” Someone hollered out.
I blushed.
I wasn’t sure I could do that again.
But then, Trace was stepping in front of me, “Sing with me,” he pleaded, and I found myself nodding in agreement.
Trace named off a song to the guy, but I was back to freaking out, so I didn’t hear what it was.
I was about to sing a duet with Trace Wentworth. If I thought my stomach was in knots before, this was ten—no a hundred—times worse.
The lyrics came up on the screen.
Oh, God.
We were going to sing Just a Kiss by Lady Antebellum.
I began singing first, and instead of looking at the crowd gathered in the restaurant, I found myself facing Trace.
“’Lying here with you so close to me, it’s hard to fight these feelings, when it feels so hard to breathe. Caught up in this moment, caught up in your smile,’” I sang.
It got to the first part he was supposed to sing, and holy cow! The man could sing!
Was there anything that he couldn’t do?
“’I’ve never opened up to anyone. So hard to hold back when I’m holding you in my arms,’” he sang to me.
He stared into my eyes as he sang every word, and surprisingly, I didn’t blush. But I did swoon.
We joined in, singing the chorus together, and our voices blended together like the song was meant for us to sing. “’We don’t need to rush this, let’s just take it slow. Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight. Just a touch of the fire burning too bright. No, I don’t want to mess this thing up. I don’t want to push too far. Just a shot in the dark that you just might be the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life. So baby I’m alright, with just a kiss goodnight.’”
Every time Trace sang the word, kiss, my heart soared.
We leaned towards each other, smiling as we sang each word. His green eyes sparkled with pleasure.
I had never felt happier than I did in this moment.
I sang each word with every ounce of passion I had in my body, portraying through lyrics what I couldn’t say, and I knew Trace was doing the same. He picked this song for a reason.
The last note came to a close.
Trace and I were oblivious to everyone else; we only had eyes for each other.
A grin lit his face and he cupped my cheek with one hand. My chest rose and fell with labored breaths.
“I knew you could do it, Olivia,” he whispered, his thumb grazing over my bottom lip.
“You did?” I asked breathlessly.
“Okay, maybe not,” he chuckled, leaning his forehead against mine.
I laughed too. “You mean you thought I might suck?”
“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, his hand still cupping my cheek, and his impossibly green eyes seared me to the spot. “I don’t expect you to be perfect at everything, Olivia. I mean,” he grinned, “you definitely were horrible at painting.”
I poked his side.
“Ow!” He feigned pain, because I definitely hadn’t poked him that hard. Still grinning, since he never seemed to stop, he said, “You were amazing, honestly.”
“So were you,” I replied. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
Trace opened his mouth to say something when a throat clearing over his shoulder interrupted our bubble.
“Uh—if you two are done, there are other people that would like to sing,” the man running the karaoke machine told us.
I blushed, and was sure Trace felt the heat infusing my cheeks, where his palm rested against one.
“Sorry, sir,” Trace chuckled, taking my hand, and leading me back to our table.
My sweet tea sat in its glass and I slurped at it greedily. Singing always made me impossibly thirsty.
Trace picked up his chocolate shake, stirring in the whipped cream. I saw that he’d already drank about half of the massive thing.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” I repeated.
“Oh,” he waved a hand, “I don’t.”
“I beg to differ,” I eyed him, “your voice is amazing.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s average, there’s a big difference.”
I snorted. “If you think your voice is average I’d love to know what you think is extraordinary.”
He snapped his fingers together. “Steven Tyler has an extraordinary voice,” he reasoned. “Aerosmith is one of the greatest bands ever.”
“Says the man who was dancing to a song talking about blowing the roof off the place,” I shook my head.
“Hey, variety is the spice of life,” his eyes sparkled. “I can’t help it that I enjoy different styles of music. Old rock and techno happen to be my favorites.” He grinned and took a sip of his shake.
“You’re nuts,” I muttered.
“Sanity is overrated,” he winked, flashing me his cocky grin. “So,” he licked his lips, “think I can convince you to sing another song?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I’m done…for now,” I added.
“As long as I get to hear your voice again. It’s beautiful,” his lips wrapped around the straw. I had no idea how Trace made the simplest of things seem sexy.
“Uhmm,” I muttered in agreement, finishing off my sweet tea.
Trace placed his empty shake glass at the end of the table.
He pulled his wallet out and left enough money to cover everything.
“Ready to get out of here?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I smiled, sliding out of the booth.
As we made our way to the door, more than one person stopped to tell me that I had a beautiful voice.
One older man, stopped Trace and said, “She’s a keeper lad. A forever girl, that one,” he pointed at me. “Don’t let her get away like I did,” he nodded before slapping Trace across the back and waddling away. We didn’t have a chance to explain that we weren’t a couple.
I burst into laughter when we finally made it outside. “A forever girl?” I giggled.
Trace stuffed his hands in his pockets, brows knitted together, suddenly serious. I wasn’t used to serious Trace.
“But you are a forever girl,” he murmured, halting his steps.
I stopped too, waiting for him. “What does that even mean?”
He looked up, tilting his head to study me. “You’re not the kind of girl that guys fool around with, Olivia. You’re the kind of girl, that when a guy finds her, he’ll do everything he can to keep her.”
My breath hitched.
Trace strode by me, straight for his car, leaving me standing there, reeling.
His jaw was tense and his eyes were serious when I finally managed to get in the car.
He drove me straight to the University.
“My car-”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s here in the morning,” he replied before I could even finish my sentence.
Okay, then.
I went to get out of the car but Trace’s hand closed around my arm.
“Wait,” he pleaded, so I did.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just studied my face, almost as if he was searching for something.
“Take a walk with me,” he murmured.
“It’s cold,” I whined.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, and reached into the backseat, handing me a sweatshirt. “Wear this,” he commanded.
