What happened?
“Do you want to go home?” I ask.
He bobs his head twice then smirks at Mom. “I’m taking your troublemaker away, Mrs. B.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom.” I hug her and then squeeze Nathan’s arm. “Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone.”
“Says the black sheep of this family,” he jokes.
Beacon drags me by the hand.
“Where is your dad?”
“It’s the day of family emergencies,” I answer. “My grandparents’ sink broke. He’s at their house helping them.”
Rumor has it that my grandparents were having sex on top of it. Ew. I’m not sure who started it or if it’s to give them a hard time, but I choose not to think about them doing more than holding hands.
“Never a dull moment around you.” He chuckles.
His truck is right outside the house. As we drive away, he grabs my hand. He doesn’t let it go during the drive, and neither one of us speaks. Twenty minutes later, we’re at my place, which happens to be right next door to his. Once we make it inside, he hugs me tight. His chin rests on my shoulder.
“What happened?”
He doesn’t answer. His hands tap my back lightly. It’s a slow rhythm at first that switches to a fast tempo a few seconds later. It’s hard to understand what’s the motive. All I know is that he’s working his emotions through music. We’re so similar in that way. I’d rather be playing my cello than talking about what’s happening to me.
I stay quiet for a while. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out what’s bothering him. He was in London scouting the place. We have a tour coming up next September. There’s a lot involved in that European leg. He and the guys were using this time to meet with the members of our team who are already working undercover. If something had happened, he would’ve contacted Dad.
It’s not until I feel like there’s a pattern—a melody eager to be played—that I know he’s ready to let it out. If not in words, through music.
“Do you want to go to the music room?”
He takes a deep breath and finally lets me go. His eyes still harbor some frustration. He’s not ready to talk. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes for the drums and expects me to follow him with the cello or the violin. He’s too upset and has a lot of pent-up energy inside of him.
At first, I’m shocked when he chooses the piano and tilts his head toward the cello. As he strokes the keys slowly, I understand. He’s not angry.
He’s sad and hurting.
Beacon goes to the recording console, turns it on, and grabs the remote. Then he starts playing, and I follow. We take a few breaks. He insists I go to sleep, but I disregard his suggestion. He needs this.
He needs to bleed through the music.
I won’t let him do it alone.
It’s almost six in the morning when we finally stop. His features are more relaxed, and his eyes have that calm I love. I set Camilla, my cello, in her stand and begin doing my hand stretches.
“Want to grab some breakfast?” he asks.
“Still not ready to talk, huh?” I yawn, stretch, and lift Mozart, our cat, from the floor.
He has been walking around since we arrived, patiently waiting to be the center of attention. This guy is pretty intuitive and knows when it’s his turn to be demanding.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Beacon counters and takes Mozzy from my arms. “What have you been up to, Mozzarella? We should feed you while we’re in the kitchen.”
“Beacon.”
His eyes find mine, and he sighs. “My father’s lawyer called. William Aldridge is dying. He’d like to see me.” He shows me his hand as if to stop me from ranting. “No, I won’t be visiting him. It’s just fucking frustrating that he can reach out just when he’s about to die. At least he isn’t like my mother, calling to see if I’ll sing a duet with her to revive her career.”
“Did she call again?”
He nods once.
I don’t usually hate people, but I loathe his mother. What kind of coldhearted bitch abandons her son with her parents when he’s not even two? Oh, but now that he’s famous, she’s been trying to figure out how to use him and make a comeback.
Bitch.
I hate his father too. I met him when we were living in New York. He was charming with most people, but cold with his son. His parents have ignored him since he was a kid, and even though he has five older brothers, only one is part of Beacon’s life.
“Have you heard from Mills?” Mills Aldridge, his brother, is the star defenseman for the Vancouver hockey team.
Beacon shakes his head. “He’s traveling with the team all week. He’ll call me when he’s back.” He grunts. “I told him to quit. This is the second time he’s injured that knee. The third time is going to end more than his career.”
“He should go to a specialist. We’ll find him the best. If he moves in with us temporarily, we can give him a hand with his son,” I suggest.
“If my fucking brothers weren’t selfish assholes, he could go to Hayes.”
I arch an eyebrow as I try to remember which one is which. He has five brothers, and it’s hard to keep them all straight since we don’t speak about them often.
“Is Hayes the doctor?” I guess, trusting my logic.
Beacon nods. “Best fucking orthopedic doctor in the world. Has he reached out and said, ‘Hey, asshole, I heard you hurt your knee. I might be able to fix it’ or visited him to check on him? No. We…maybe we should visit Mills soon and convince him to take a hiatus.”
“We’ll do that,” I assure him. “Arden needs a break from that hockey life too. He’s just a baby.”
He looks at me and smiles. It’s such a sad smile. I want to cry for him.
Even though Mills is older than him, Beacon is the one who is always trying to take care of his brother. Mills and Arden are what he has left of hope. I wish he would accept my family as his and forget about the assholes. There are so many things I can wish for, but I don’t say a word because I understand him better than anyone else.
He lives with a guilt that doesn’t belong to him. He wants to fix everything he believes he broke. He wants to protect everyone he loves. The only thing that gives him peace is his music. That’s the only constant that we share.
Chapter Three
Beacon
“I hate you!” Grace says as I cut the homemade sourdough bread into cubes.
“Good. I still love you,” I say teasingly.
“You could just bring the frittata, but no, you have to make your famous cinnamon French toast casserole.”
“It is famous,” I agree. “It’s become an institution during the Deckers’ brunch. I can’t just skip it because you can’t eat it.”
She glares at me while wiping the bread maker.
“If I promise to make you some special muffins tomorrow?”
She smiles at me. “Fine, I might like you again.”
“Wow, I can’t please the crowd. What does a guy have to do to get an I love you?”