“Because he’s my brother and we’re a team. I told him not to. It’s done.”
Our eyes meet.
And then words tumble through me like snowflakes at dusk, delicate and pure.
It’s instant. Effortless.
Honeycomb eyes
Music in the air
Broken strings hum
A song of despair
“Hold that thought.” I leap from the chair and race to the counter where a pile of napkins rests beside flavored syrups and plastic straws. An associate hands me the pen I request, and I head back to the table to scribble down the disjointed poem.
“What are you doing?” Chase stares at my moving hand.
I scoop up the napkin and stuff it in my skirt pocket, hiding it away. “Inspiration strikes unexpectedly sometimes. I have a treasure trove of these things at home. It drives—”
Alex nuts.
But my words clip off prematurely.
“Anyway, ignore me,” I continue, eager to change the subject. “Do you sing?”
He hesitates. “Not really. I mean, I can, I guess…but I don’t.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
The look he sends me tells me he agrees.
Tag continues to play, his raspy voice filling the room as people watch, talking among themselves and sipping overpriced lattes. I glance over at Kenna, who gawks at us from twenty feet away, looking impatient as she pulses her eyebrows at me.
I pivot back to Chase. “Did you want to come sit with us?”
“Uh…”
Jumping off the seat again, I signal him to follow. “Come on. I’ll grab another chair.”
He moves in behind me, and I get a whiff of something smoky and earthy, like leather and burnt sandalwood, fused with a touch of citrus.
When he rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, I sneak a peek at his guitar tattoo, a warm, kismet feeling coiling in my chest.
“We’re moving closer to the person who wants me dead,” he notes, his posture stiff as he shoves his hands into his pockets and follows me toward the table near the platform.
“Kenna would never. She’s a lover, not a fighter.” I shoot him a teasing grin. “Actually, she’s both. But something tells me you’re safe.”
I nearly get a smirk out of him.
Maybe I’ll get a real smile one of these days.
Dragging a third chair to the table, I peer over at Tag, who furrows his brow and shakes his head through the chorus, silently asking me who the hell the guy is.
I spin away and reach for my lukewarm coffee as Chase settles into his seat, his head bowed.
“So, Chase, tell me about yourself. Are you a musician too?” Kenna’s vape pen materializes out of nowhere, and she points it in his direction like a mini microphone.
