Live Out Loud Page 10

  Touching her fingertips to her chin, Harper signs, “Thank you.” She places Lizzy in my hands, her fingers grazing over mine—another “thank you.”

  I smile at Harper and the girl, holding up three fingers and circling them against my chest. I think that’s the sign for “You’re welcome”…at least I hope so.

  Harper nods, her face lighting up. Nice! Yep, that’s it!

  As I stand up, the little girl lifts her head, catching my eye. Bringing her fingertips to her chin, she lowers her open palm. “Thank you.”

  Never in all my life has a kid almost made me cry. I don’t even like kids. But this little girl is one in a million. With a lump in my throat, I crouch back down so I can look her in the eyes. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask, hoping Harper will interpret for me.

  Without missing a beat, Harper signs.

  Hesitantly, the girl brings her right hand up and fingerspells her name. “P-E-N-N-Y.”

  I’m glad Harper taught me the ASL alphabet. “Well, Penny. It was lovely to meet you.” I offer her my hand to shake.

  She watches Harper sign, then looks back to me, slipping her tiny palm into my hand. We shake hands and this time, she really smiles. Two missing front teeth and eyes that reflect a moment of pure happiness; she melts my heart.

  Standing back up, I notice the letter Penny’s sitting on…my letter…“X.” I wonder how Griffin would feel about sharing an apartment with me and a five-year-old, because right now, I want to fucking adopt Penny.

  I make my way back to the seat in front, the kids shifting so I don’t step on them. Settling Lizzy in my lap, I swallow the lump and pull myself together. “How about a song?” I place my hands on the G-chord and strum downward, transitioning to C, then back to G—the opening chords of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.”

  The kids like the song…I think. Their little heads bob in time with the beat of my strumming hand. I get a kick out of the air guitars that Little McCartney and Little Eddie play. Their parents need to get them lessons.

  Belting out the chorus, I stand up, kicking the chair backward. The kids cheer and holler in excitement, popping up from their letters on the carpet, dancing and swaying to the beat.

  Harper works her way through the crowd, grabbing kids’ hands and spinning them around. I’ve never heard giggling like this, unadulterated happiness. My childhood didn’t sound like this, that’s for sure.

  Watching Penny, I make my move, singing and playing as I travel through the lively bunch. Penny’s standing, swaying timidly on her feet, scared to death to let loose and have fun. Harper meets me at Penny’s side, scooping up her hands. Together, they swing their joined hands back and forth.

  The more I sing, the wider Penny’s smile grows. Harper spins her in a circle and Penny laughs. A full on belly laugh. For the rest of my life, that sound will echo in head…I will remember when she sang.

  Okay. I take it back. Concerts for kindergarteners are the easiest. And by far my favorite.

  While I’m busy giving Lizzy a workout, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Slowing down, I end the song, and pull my phone out, wondering what Harper sent me. Shit. Did I get carried away there at the end? Have I worn out my welcome?

  Glancing at the screen, my eyes scan over the words. Mom: Your dad’s back. He’s at my place and he won’t leave. Can you come over? I afraid he’s going to bust his way inside.

  Nine months of worry-free days and nights screech to a halt like a needle over vinyl. My head spins in two different directions, trying to keep my rage locked up, and a lighthearted smile on my face. If he hurts her, I will fucking kill him. I send Mom a quick response. On my way. Keep the doors locked.

  Slamming my thumb down on Harper’s name, I type out a message: Sorry, Red. I have to go. Emergency at my mom’s. I’ll explain later.

  Without a second thought, I walk back to the front, lay my guitar in the case, and snap it shut. Standing up, Harper’s beside me, a worried look in her eyes. I plant a hard, fast kiss on her lips, and book it to the door.

  Shoving my way out of the Y, my blood boils. That man has crossed the line. No fucking way does he get to terrorize my mother at her new place.

  *

  Forcing the gas pedal down, the Charger growls and speeds up. I feel the exact same way. With each tick on the speedometer, my heartbeat picks up the pace, a kick drum against my ribcage. Why the hell hasn’t she gotten a restraining order? Weaving in out of lanes, I scream by the Sunday drivers who didn’t get the memo: Hurry the fuck up!

  Pulling into Mom’s apartment complex, the Charger fishtails on the pebbled parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust in my rearview. Dead ahead, Dad’s beat-up Chevy is parked in front of Mom’s place and he’s on the porch, nursing a forty.

  I turn hard, whipping into the spot next to the Chevy. Killing the engine, I pull the latch, and step out. “Yo, Pop,” I holler, slamming my car door.

  He looks up. Drunk piece of shit.

  I want nothing more than to plant my fist in his bearded face…break his nose like he did mine so many years ago. He has no fucking right to come here and terrorize my mom. Hitting him won’t help her, though. I won’t cause more of a scene in front of her neighbors.

  “Whatcha doing here?” Gravel crunches under my boots.

  “Need to talk to your ma. Don’t see how that’s any of your business, though.” He lifts his chin, acknowledging me.

  It’s more of my fucking business than yours, old man. I glance up at the building, studying each of the windows. The blinds are drawn and everything looks quiet. Good. Stay hidden, Mom. “Don’t think she’s home.”

  Dad looks over his shoulder, toward the front door. “Bullshit,” he groans, turning back around. “I know she’s here.”

  “She’s not. Time for you to leave, Pop.”

  Grunting, Dad shuffles to his feet. At his full height, the top of his head only comes to my chin. He sucks in a breath, takes a step in my direction, and nails me with his dark eyes. “You don’t tell me what to do, boy.” His breath reeks of stale beer and cigarettes.

  There used to be a time I cowered and backed away, fearing his right hook. A lot, actually. Not anymore. Not since my eighteenth birthday—the night he broke Mom’s jaw and blackened both of her eyes. At 4:27 that afternoon, I learned that a drunk, sorry excuse of a man is nothing when pitted against his stronger, taller, sober son. I beat the shit out of him. I would have killed him if Mom hadn’t pleaded, sobbing for me to stop.

  I promised Mom that Dad wouldn’t hurt her anymore. Raymond Kline would never lay a fucking hand on her again, because if he did, I would kill him.

  Looking down at the man that gave me half my genes, I say, “Leave.”

  He watches me, trying to pick up on any sign of weakness he can latch on to and manipulate.

  Minutes pass, I’m sure. I don’t back down despite the awful stench each time he exhales. When was the last time he brushed his fucking teeth?

  “You tell that bitch she can’t leave me. I own her. That pussy belongs to me!” He thrusts his hips and grabs his crotch, licking his lips. “Mmmm!” He shakes his head. “She always was a good fuck.”

  I ball my hands into fists at my sides and bite my tongue, fighting the urge to close my eyes. I can’t stand to look at this worthless piece of shit. But I don’t back down. I show no weakness. My stomach rolls, acid churning with one-quarter disgust and three-fourths pure hatred. I loathe this motherfucker with every fiber of my being. My self-control is nearly maxed out. I’d give anything to beat him to a bloody pulp.

  “Leave.” The word falls from my mouth in a menacing whisper. He knows I’m not joking, and he loves the fact that he can provoke me, get under my skin.

  A smug grin on his face, he bends down and picks up his beer can, throwing back a swig. He stares me down and I do the same. “Some man you’ve turned out to be. Fucking mama’s boy.” He turns his head and spits.

  Stepping off the porch he walks around me, clipping my should
er with his as he makes his way back to his truck. I keep my feet planted where they are, holding my breath. Oxygen will only add fuel to the fire burning through my veins. If I move…breathe…his life is over.

  “Nice chatting with you, son. Be a good boy and pass along my message.”

  Like hell I will. And I’m not your son. The word burrows into my skin like a flesh-eating parasite.

  A door slams.

  When an engine roars to life, I exhale, letting my eyelids close. I can hear his truck crushing gravel beneath its tires, then a loud screech as he pulls out onto the road.

  Mom peels back the front door, peeking her head around the side. “Is he gone?” she asks meekly.

  I nod, still too angry to say anything.

  “Come inside,” she says, opening the door wider.

  Crossing the threshold, Mom steps aside, giving me room.

  “Thanks for getting him to leave, Thor. He’d been pounding on the door for fifteen minutes before I sent you the text.”

  Mom closes the door behind me; it whines and creaks in protest. I need to grease those hinges for her. “Two words, Mom”—I whirl around—“‘restraining order.’ Now that he’s back, you need one.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she waves my comment away. “Nah. Leaving him and getting that legal separation was hard enough. I’m tired of making a fuss.”

  Making a fuss? My brain hurts trying to keep up with her small-minded reasoning. “What the hell, Ma. That man just made a huge damn fuss on your front porch. What if he would have gotten in? What then? Leave me to pick up the pieces after he beats the shit out of you, or worse, kills you? Isn’t that a fuss?” I shout, but hold back most of my outrage for her sake. I hate yelling at her. Lord knows she’s had enough of that in her lifetime.

  I can’t fucking see straight. The urge to drive my fist through her wall is overwhelming, but I rein it in. I won’t let my anger and frustration take over…I’m not him.

  Mom comes closer, her eyes locked on mine. Reaching for me, she rests her palm on my cheek. “How was I lucky enough to get a son like you?” Her features soften, diffusing my anger like she clipped the wires on a ticking bomb.

  “Mom—”

  “Shhh,” she cuts me off, shaking her head. “It was a big step for me to leave him. I’ve been with your father over half my life. Being his wife is all I know, it’s all I’m good at. You’ve got to cut me some slack. Let me get used to being alone.” She chuckles, tears pooling in her eyes. “I’ve never been alone. I’m a forty-three-year-old woman who’s never been alone.”

  I shake my head. “Mom.” Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her to my chest, and hold her. I hate it when she talks like this. She’s so smart and talented. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

  Guiding her to the kitchen table, I pull out a chair so she can sit. I do the same. The silence between us lingers, both of us trying to work our way out from under Dad’s heavy shadow. Even when he’s not here, he is.

  “Why the hell did he come back?” she mutters, staring at the wall across the room.

  “I’m worried.” I don’t pull any punches. She needs to know. “I fear the day that I don’t get here in time.”

  Leaning over, she puts her hand on my leg and meets my eye, nodding.

  “If a restraining order’s too much, then let’s get you a gun. Or enroll you in a self-defense class. Now that he is back, I’ve got to know you can protect yourself.”

  She laughs. “Oh, baby. Not a gun! I could never.” Shaking her head she leans back, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’ll look into a self-defense class, though. I think I could do that.”

  Why is this funny to her? Why doesn’t she understand how dangerous that man is? “I’m serious.” Right now, I’m convinced she’s all talk; that she’ll say anything to get me off her back.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Leaning to the side, I pull it out and glance at the screen. Harper: Everything okay? Worried about you. Please text back.

  Her radiant smile flashes in my head. An hour ago I was rocking out with a handful of smiling kids and a smart, beautiful woman at my side. My life is so fucked up. Who am I kidding? Harper’s world doesn’t mesh with mine at all. I can barely keep my mom safe, how am I supposed to keep Harper away from all this shit?

  “Who’s that?” Mom asks, startling me back to the present.

  Turning my eyes on her, I shake my head. “No one. Not important.”

  Harper deserves more than what I have to offer. Standing up, I slip the phone back in my pocket, ignoring the message…remembering why I’ve stuck to one-night stands all these years.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thor

  Dropping my cigarette in the grass, I press my heel into it and tear back the ripped fence, calm already seeping into my veins. The air’s different here. Can’t explain it, but it’s clearer, or lighter, some fucking scientific reason, I’m sure. Whatever it is, no matter what kind of mood I’m in, this place can Zen me out.

  And Lord knows I need some serious fucking Zen right now.

  Making my way to the deep pool on the other side of complex, Dad’s skeevy-ass words echo in my head. I wish to God I could forget them. I could have gone my whole life never knowing that my mom is a good lay. Bile rises in my throat and I choke it down, grimacing.

  And don’t get me fucking started on Mom’s comment about “making a fuss.” Did I drop acid and forget, because I’m seriously tripping. I love my mother, but she makes me fucking crazy.

  Even after an hour at Mom’s place, I’m still seeing red. I’m damn lucky my car knows the way here, because I remember fuck all of the drive over.

  Tight grip on my guitar case, I climb down the rusty ladder, and into the empty pool, thankful for my dank piece-of-shit safe haven. It’s a fucking mess, but it’s quiet and dark. And it’s all mine. This whole night has been nothing but the loudest fucking mic feedback ringing in my ears. Too many voices in my head. It feels nice to escape life.

  Foregoing the last two rungs, I let go and drop, my boots hitting the ground with a loud clomp. I readjust my grip on Lizzy’s case and stalk toward my spot under the diving board. The itch in my fingers gets stronger by the second, craving a workout on the six-string.

  I plant my ass on the ground, directly beneath the diving board, and snap the latches on the case. Folding back the top, Lizzy gleams, nestled into the black, velvet lining. “Come to papa,” I croon, lifting her out of the confines at the same time my phone vibrates against my ass cheek.

  Settling Lizzy on my lap, I lean to one side and pull my phone out of my back pocket. I glance at the message. Harper: Freaking out here. Worried.

  “I’m freaking out too, Red.” I don’t know what to do. I want to be the guy that gives Harper everything she wants. The boyfriend she deserves. Hell, I even bought into the fairy-tale bullshit, thinking I could pull it off. But, I know enough that the princess doesn’t end up with the trailer park trash. Prince fucking Charming I am not.

  I stuff my phone back into my pocket and tune up Lizzy.

  Plucking out some chords, I wait for the sound waves to ricochet off the side of the pool. This place has great acoustics. Even at my shittiest, I can rival Clapton or Slash. When there’s no one around to hear, I can be whoever the hell I want.

  My slow, steady strum, grows into something rich and heavy. A monster waking up. Standing. Stretching. I feed it more of myself, giving it strength. Sweat runs down the side of my face. Motherfucking bastard.

  I thrash the strings. Slap my hand against the wooden body. Pummel Lizzy with all I’ve got.

  Black eyes. Bloody noses. Gashes. Snapping bones.

  Blow after blow.

  The monster strains at its leash, and I keep going, my fingers biting into the strings. Taking hit after hit. Adrenaline courses through my veins until I finally release the harness, and set the monster free. Hunched over, rocking out, I scream.

  For Mom. The little boy trapped inside, cowering in th
e corner. For Penny who sits on the letter “X.”

  And For Harper, because I know she isn’t safe with me.

  “Fuuuuuuuuuck!” I roar. Anger claws and scrapes at my throat until I’m spent.

  Beaten.

  Broken.

  I drop my hands to my sides, sucking in air, chest heaving. Lizzy collapses on my lap. The grandfather clock from my childhood flashes in my brain, and I zero in its face. It’s not 4:27. I didn’t win this fight.

  My phone vibrates again.

  I’m scared to look. Six damn years since fear rattled its chains in my chest, reminding me of how weak I am…who I am—“You’re my son, boy.”

  The message is from Harper, I feel it in my marrow. I can’t face her. I won’t put her in danger. What if I snap, lose my shit, and it’s not Lizzy in my hands next time, but her?

  What if it’s Mom? What if he came back? Round two. The voice inside my head weighs in—the voice of reason. Priorities, Thor. Suck it up. She needs you.

  Shifting to the side, I push my hand into my back pocket and take out my phone. I hold my breath, and bite down on my lower lip, drawing strength from the sting, preparing for what I’m going to see on the screen. No matter what it is, it’s going to hurt like hell when I read it.

  With the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, I push the home screen button.

  Mom: Thanks, baby. How’d I get lucky enough to have a son like you?

  She’s safe. I let go of the air in my lungs, my chest burning.

  I reach for the pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket, draw one out, and shove it between my lips. Striking the lighter, the yellow and blue flame dances in the light breeze, a pinprick of light surrounded by a whole lot of darkness.

  Bringing the lighter to the end of my cigarette, a cloud rises, filling my nostrils. The paper and tobacco crackle, dying in the fire. I pull in a long drag, feeling the smoke land heavy in my lungs. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back on the cold concrete, and pretend to enjoy my smoke and the illusion of serenity it provides. I know it’s just the nicotine fucking with me. But for now, it’s enough…at least until Harper texts again.