Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (18 page)

Romeo looks indecisive
until Gabe pushes from the table. “Dude, just sit down. I’ll walk her out so
you can meet the big, badass guitar player of your dreams.”

Great. Exactly what I
need. Being alone with Gabe. But I’m not about to argue in front of everyone.
“Have a good night. You guys did an awesome job. It was amazing,” I ramble
while Sam and Justin grin. Then I take off ahead of Gabe.

He catches up with me
outside, matching my brisk gait.

An uncomfortable
silence sits between us, cooling the warm night air. The wall between us
bothers me, eats at my conscience as if I did something wrong.

It becomes so
uncomfortable that I attempt to make small talk as we walk. “So the album is
going good?”

“Yeah,” he responds,
hands in pockets and face forward.

“I’m imagining you guys
put in twelve hour days.”

“Sometimes more.”

“Whoa, like how much?”

“Fourteen. Fifteen.”

I turn the corner. His
one word answers are beginning to grate on my nerves. “Is the label giving you
guys
creative freedom?”

“Pretty much.”

My teeth clench at his
short response. “That’s good. Some labels try to take over and change a band.”

Unsurprisingly, he
doesn’t comment, but I
continue on
. “Think you’ll be
able to get the album done during the next recording session?”

“Probably,” he says,
his voice sounding robotic.

That’s it. I whip toward
him. Calmness gone. “What is your problem?”

 
“Problem?” Though his hands are in his
pockets, he taps his thumbs on the outside of his jeans.

“You’re being a jerk,”
I blurt.

His brows lower, and
I’m aware it isn’t from the couple scowling at us as they have to split up and
go around us. After a shake of his head, he runs a hand through his hair. “You
know, I don’t think we can be friends. You’re driving me
fucking
crazy.”

My head jolts back. “
I’m
driving you
crazy
?”

He sighs, but I spin
back around and
march
to my dad’s Range Rover.

As I dig in my pocket
for my keys, he comes behind me. “Running away again, April?” he mocks,
grabbing me by the arm and turning me toward him.

“Stop it,” I say,
trying to tug out of his grip.

He grabs my other arm.
“This is part of why you’re making me fucking nuts. Every other thing sets you
off.”

“
That’s...”
I pause, realizing that it is true, though it’s not in the way that he thinks.
I’m not going to argue with him. Arguing won’t diminish the gap between us. I
sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can’t be friends.”

He leans closer. Too
close. I can smell the whiskey on his breath. And sense the warmth coming off
his body. See, under the glow of the streetlight, the dark brown speckles in
his eyes. All these things bring memories that I’m constantly trying to
suppress.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. April.

He drags me closer, his
gaze pained so much that my chest tightens. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to be
friends. That’s the other part. I want more. Even though I’m not good enough
for you, even though you don’t, I want more.”

Shocked, I blink at
him. He wants more? Like a relationship?

The notion of more is
sending a stark, cold fear through me as he lowers his head and kisses me hard.
His mouth pulsates over mine, driving the fear out of me, driving
everything but the sensation of him away. On his tongue, whiskey tastes
wonderful. My hands find the firm curve of his chest. His palms slide up and his
fingers press into my back. I stand on my tiptoes and let him drink me in
like
he did the whiskey, only this isn’t a quick shot, it’s
a slow, slow sip, that leaves a burn for more.

Laughter from someone
on the sidewalk and a, “Hey, get a room!” has Gabe drawing away.

Staring at each other,
we’re both breathing hard.

Gabe is the first to
break the silence. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not, even if I should be.”

My forehead wrinkles as
I try to process the last five minutes but my brain is sluggishly slow.

“Get in your car. Go
home.”

“Gabe.” His name comes
out of me in a pleading tone.

“Just get in your car
and go home. Now.”

“Gab—”

“Before I get in your
car with you and fuck you a block from Hollywood’s Sunset Strip, April.”

My stomach flips in
eagerness at his words, but his harsh tone has me digging in my pocket for my
keys. “You said—”

“Get in your car,” he
says sternly.

I move around the front
of the car. “I think we need to talk.”

He stiffly nods.

Eyes glued on him, I go
around the car. The moment my butt hits the seat, he stalks back toward the
Strip.

Mind whirling, breath
still harsh, I watch him until he disappears in between the people on the
sidewalk, as that cold fear begins to bubble back up at the idea of more. My
imagination had never even gone there.
I
had never truly considered us as a possibility.

But I’m very aware that
more with Gabe isn’t a simple more.

It would be everything.

Like no more lies.

Like no more hiding.

Like finally sharing
the truth.

Chapter 26

~April~

Fear pounding in my chest, I sit in my car outside Allie’s tattoo shop
and watch the upstairs windows. A shadow has passed by a lit window twice, so I
know Gabe is inside. Yet I grip the steering wheel and try to dredge up enough
courage to get out of the car. It’s been over a week since California. Over a
week since he said he wanted more from me. Over a week since he kissed me. But
he hasn’t answered any of my calls or my texts.

The car is getting
cold, the night darker, and my fear heavier with each passing minute, but still
I sit. I think of all the things I need to say. I’ve been thinking all week.
Over thinking until my brain and heart ache. Both are going to explode if I
don’t get out of this car.

Before I can change my
mind, I quietly get out of the car. I keep my tread light on the stairs. I want
to surprise him. Or maybe not allow him time to send me away. Or maybe not run
away before he knows I’m here. My knock is heavy but quick. Then I hold my
breath and wait.

Steps sound. The blind
in front of the window shifts. His face appears and his brows rise. We stare at
each other through the glass. Fear pounds but I offer the slightest smile. His
eyes narrow. Yet the knob turns.

“What are you doing
here?” he asks across the crack in the door.
 

Strong. Tough.
Persistent. Like Gabe. That’s me. Right now. For as long as possible.
“Obviously by the amount of times I called and texted you, I’d like to talk.”

“You should know by now
that talking isn’t going to work.”

I want to agree, then
take off, instead I pull out the big guns. “How many times have you barged into
my apartment?”

He gives me a long
look, then sighs and opens the door. “Fine, but I have to work at seven
tomorrow morning.”

I force myself to
breeze past him before he changes his mind, even though it’s still early in the
evening.
 

After shutting the
door, he leans on the back of it and crosses his arms. “Okay talk.”

Nothing like just
getting to the point. I drop my purse on the table and take a deep breath,
preparing to confront the elephant in the room that we’ve both been dancing
around
. Although I’ve rehearsed this in my head multiple
times, it comes out as a jumbled mess. “I’m not good at this.” I point a finger
at him then me. “I rarely date, and I always assumed…well, at first I thought
you pretty much hated me. I couldn’t seem to see past your original dislike of
me to realize that you might want—”

“April, this isn’t
nec
—”

“Just let me finish,
please,” I beg because if I stop I won’t be able to continue.

His jaw tightens, but
he stays silent.

“And, well, as you
know, I’m a bit of a mess.” I bite my bottom lip. “Maybe a huge mess, so much
so that I consider myself too screwed up for you.”

He opens his mouth.

I put my palm out.

He shuts his mouth, though
his body entire is tense, as if he is holding back words.

“I mean, you’re screwed
up too, but not like I am.” I draw in a deep breath. “More than screwed up,
I’m…well, I’ve—I’m just really an awful person.” He is staring at me like I’ve
lost my mind. “Can we sit down?” I say, sliding into a chair. “I—this is hard
to explain. I’ve never told anyone, and”—I take another gulp of air—“I need to
sit.”

My announcement
and
erratic behavior gain his full
attention. The taut lines of his face change to a soft wonder. Perhaps he is
guessing what is coming, though he has no idea how horrible it actually is. He
silently moves across the room and sits next me, which feels too close. His
gaze and expression are patient, so patient I want to cry because that gaze is
probably going to change.
 

My hands clench
together
in my lap. “You’ve never
asked about my past, about her. Why haven’t you ever asked?”

He shrugs. “People
always want to know about me, my dad and shit. I always spit it out. Get it
over. So I don’t pry, no matter how much I want to. And I did ask, well I kind
of asked that day we walked through the drive thru. You shut down.”

Biting my bottom lip, I
want to shut down again. Instead, I release my lip and start anew. “You said
you wanted more. I think—no I want more too, but I’m afraid once you know the
real me you won’t want more.” I let out rush of air and he tries to grab my
clasped hands. I yank them back. “Don’t. Just wait. Just listen.”

He nods slowly,
twisting sideways and looping an arm on the back of the chair. He waits, his
face devoid of expression.

I rub
my
temple. “I’m not sure where to start.”

He waits.

I sigh and drop my hand back in my lap. “Back in
high school I was different. Different
than
now
and
different than the other kids at my private
school. I didn’t care what they thought. My whole world was centered
around
music. I played both the piano and the guitar, but
mostly the guitar. I had a band, a retro”—a sad laugh escapes at the
word—“nineties grunge band. Most of the time I looked the part, wearing ripped
up jeans, flannels, combat boots, and a knit beanie, but they all believed I
was the coolest girl around.
Probably because I couldn’t have
cared less what they thought.
Although I didn’t hang with any clicks,
everyone knew me. People paid attention to me and respected me. And I knew
that, even then I understood how my fellow teens paid homage to my
confident-could-not-care-less-attitude.”

Although he appears confused, his countenance is the
picture of patience.

“I was completely wrapped up in the band my senior
year, using almost all my free time to practice, to write, or to teach them
what they didn’t know. So when my step sister—”

He cocks his head at
that.

“Yeah, I’ve kind of
made a habit of lying. You should be aware of that. Internally, I claim it’s to
make things easier on myself, and in a way it is, but your comment about me
caring what people think made me realize I’m probably doing it for my image
too. If the issue was forced, it seemed less messy, less personal to refer to
her as my cousin.” I draw in a deep breath. “Yet we”—my voice cracks and I draw
in another breath since it is so hard to talk about Rachel, especially since
even remembering her brings on acute guilt and sadness—“were step sisters.
Really practically sisters. Our parents married when I was four and she was
two. We shared the last name, Tanner, since my mother changed mine to my
step-father’s.”

I wipe an escaped tear
from my cheek. Other than that, I refuse to give my tears attention. If I do, I
won’t make it through this. I will become a sobbing mess, and I don’t want
Gabe’s pity. I don’t deserve it. I draw in a deep breath. I started this and
I’m going to finish it, no matter how many wounds it opens up.

“At first when she
began having problems with some girls in my class bullying her, I offered my
support. It started over a boy. Some jock, some football star that the girls in
our school treated like some sort of god. He was dating a girl in my class but
messing around with my sister. As far as I know, they would text or talk on the
phone and even met at a couple of parties. I thought the whole thing was
stupid. I told Rachel to quit talking to the guy if he had a girlfriend and
ignore the girls,
then
I talked to the girlfriend,
told her it was over and to leave my sister alone. And she did at first.

“Though I loved my
sister, I considered her a drama queen and thought that she shouldn’t have
messed around with the guy in the first place. Obviously, I didn’t love her
enough
because a few months later it
got worse. The weekend before—before it happened was her weekend at our house.
All that weekend, she begged me to do something, just talk to the girls again,
try to get them to stop bullying her. She was positive they would listen to me
once more. I agreed to talk with them to get her off my back. I wanted to get
her out of my room and get back to my music. But I was busy
and
angry
at
her. Why did she keep letting this guy—who had a girlfriend—reel her in and use
her? At least that’s what I questioned then. Now I realize that she craved,
maybe even needed, attention.”

Still sitting sideways
in the chair, Gabe rubs the scruff on his jaw.

My lips press together,
as though I’m unconsciously trying to stop the next part from coming out. But
I’m determined to finish this, finally determined to bare all. “Thursday night
of that week, at her mother’s house, she took her own life.” Though there are
millions wanting to break free, only one more tear escapes me. I don’t wipe
this one away. “Pills. A whole bottle. Right before bed. She simply went to
sleep forever.” I look above his head and add, “I never did talk to those
girls. I was too damn busy, and too damn angry. Too busy while people were
demeaning my sister, calling her slut and cum dumpster and
thot
at school, on Facebook, even her phone was full of degrading texts. Though I
was totally unaware of it before it happened, the girlfriend got all her
buddies and then some to attack my sister in retaliation of the rumors going
around about my sister and the boy together at some party.”

Gabe turns then leans
forward, elbows on his thighs and a hand half covering the frown on his face. I
can see the wheels turning in his head, my past making him re-think everything.

“You know,” I say, my
tone flat and my anger at myself renewed. “I had to look up some of that awful
stuff. Like a
thot
is some ridiculous slang for
a ho
, as if ho do isn’t misogynistic enough.” I finally wipe
at a cheek with my knuckles. “Of course, I was furious with those girls, even
sucker punched the girlfriend the day I returned to school, but in time, I
realized I was to blame just as much as them. In fact, I was worse. She was my
sister, and stuck in my selfish bubble of music love and angry over her
actions, I let them torment her to death.” I draw in a shaky breath. “And you
know, looking back, Rachel was probably bi-polar or something since she
fluctuated between super happy and depressed from about the age of twelve. But
she was never diagnosed. Had she been, I may have listened better. As if someone
has to be diagnosed with a disorder to listen to them,” I say in a sardonic
tone, wishing as always that I could go back and time and do something,
anything different.

He leans forward more
and sets his palms on my knees. “April,” he says in soft, pacifying tone. “You
made a mistake, a terrible mistake. And though you believe it, your
intervention may not have changed anything, and you were young, shit, still in
high school.”

Instantly furious, I
jump up, knocking my chair over. “Don’t say that! My age does not vindicate my
selfishness! Don’t you think I’ve tried that excuse? It doesn’t work!” My arm
furiously slashes the air. “She’s gone and I didn’t do anything to stop it!” My
chest rises in deep breaths as if I’d been running. “I just sat in my room tinkering
over fucking notes while disgusting words drilled holes in her heart.”

He stares at me for
several long seconds, as I tremble with indignation aimed at myself, then he
slowly sits back against the chair, crossing his arms. “You’re right. You screwed
up. Big time. You should never play music again, should become a counselor, and
help those in need like you didn’t your sister.” His eyes shoot exasperation at
me. “Guilt
should
drive you to
sacrifice your life as compensation for such a mistake.” He drops his hand,
smacking his jean-clad thigh. “Besides,
that
is the only way to help others, especially considering your talent, it’s the
best way.” A hard sarcasm laces his tone.

A despondent laugh
bursts from me. “You think
I
gave up
music? You think it’s possible for me to be that good? That selfless?” A
harder, cackling laugh escapes me. “I want to play. Every. Single. Day.” I pick
the chair off the floor and plop onto it. “I can’t. At first, after she was
gone, I wallowed in depression for months. Eventually I picked up my guitar,
and the sound was flat, emotionless, technical, precise crap. I tried again and
again but it was no good. I’d lost my soul
and
my music.” I let out a harsh breath, deflating in my chair, feeling worn and
broken. “Now, I’m trying to get one half back. The music is gone.”

He rises slowly,
then
stands in front of me. Dread welling up within me, I
watch him with lifeless eyes, but suddenly he’s kneeling in front of me. “It’s
not gone.” His fingers lightly tap the center of my chest. “It’s just locked in
here by grief and pain and guilt. And your soul is there too, though weary and
full of shame, I’ve seen the beauty of it several times.”

I grasp the hand
pressed to my chest, probably squeezing it too hard. “Why are you arguing with
me? Aren’t you repulsed? Why aren’t you kicking me out right now?”

His slight smile is
sad. “I’ve made mistakes. A life of them. I’ve felt shame—”

“It’s not the same if
others make you feel that way,” I whisper.