Following on the tail end of the soulful notes of Metallica, the first few notes of an Angel Fire song played.
“This band is pretty good. Hard metal, but unlike other bands that yell and screech at you, you can actually sing along. I understand the words, and that voice! Oh my God, their lead singer’s voice wraps around you in so many layers of sinful goodness.”
He burst out laughing, which turned into a coughing fit. He glanced aside at her. “Sinful goodness?”
“Yeah. But it’s a shame.”
He grew quiet. “What do you mean?”
“The drugs and alcohol? In and out of rehab? They rose to the top of the charts fast and then kind of self-combusted. Drugs do that. Rips apart families, friends, and bands. I see it every day where I work—the druggies and addicts and their victims.”
She’d been trying to bring Forest out of the depths of his addiction for the past decade.
Ash’s voice took on a harsh edge. “Angel Fire’s at the top of their game. The band’s been sober for years. And they’re rocking the charts.”
“Oh, I guess. Like I said, I really don’t follow them. I only get what my brother tells me.”
His mouth twisted. “I suppose.”
“There is one band I really like. The Burn is pretty amazing. If I had a favorite, it would be them. Their singer’s voice is hypnotic, and his tattoo is a piece of art, steel beneath the burns.” She waved at the radio. “Other than metal, who do you like?”
He stared down the road, and his fingers tapped out the beat of the song. “Believe it or not, I like listening to straight melody, letting the music capture the complexity of emotions people relate to. But I also enjoy the classics and jazz, even contemporary.”
He flipped the channel to a New Age station and let the music play for a few minutes. Its penetrating sound laced the air with half-formed images.
“Music should paint a story all on its own,” he explained. He gestured, drawing shapes in the air. “Like a landscape, it should form pictures and create memories, transport you to another place. When I play guitar, I try to write a sound describing another world, and if I’m really lucky, I can write the words that tap into the story’s song. In the end, the words and the melody talk about the same thing.”
“Wow, that’s beautiful. Is that what you do? You write songs?”
He gave a quick jerk of his head. “Some days. Other days, like today”—he glanced at her and flashed his amazing smile—“I’m just a guy, hoping to impress a girl.”
She rested her head against the seat. “Well, so far, you’re doing just fine.”
“Tell me about your family,” he said. “Where did you grow up? You have a brother. What about sisters?”
“I don’t want to talk about my past.”
“Why not?”
She twisted in her seat. “Difficult childhood.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She flipped the music back to the metal channel. When he challenged her, she held up a hand. “Sorry, but that New Age music puts me to sleep. Tell me about yours.”
“My family couldn’t be more stereotypical. Dad’s a minister. Mom teaches elementary—fourth grade. I’m the youngest of five kids—twin older brothers and two older sisters born less than a year apart. They’re practically twins themselves. I was the baby, three years younger than my sister. When the family wasn’t babying me, my siblings would gang up on me.”
“You were the baby? Somehow, I had you pegged for an older brother.”
He certainly didn’t have problems taking charge.
“Nope. I was the baby who Mom loved a little too much. The twins made straight As, played ball, went to college. The girls did the same—not football but volleyball. They’re all married now and competing with one another on who can pop out the most grandbabies. Holidays are a circus, which Mom loves, but she worries about me.”
“What happened with you?” She shifted in her seat. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight, and before you ask, I’ve never been married. Never found the right one. I told you about the tattoo but not about being the son of a minister. You might understand how the tat kind of threw Mom into a tizzy.”
“Yeah, I can see that and on such a visible place, too. Was that on purpose?”
