Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

When Clara’s mouth dropped open at the sight of my face a few days later, I knew that the concealer I’d used on my bruises that morning hadn’t pulled off a miracle like I’d hoped.

I mean, yesterday I’d figured they were going to be awful, but I hadn’t anticipated they would be so bad.

Then again, I’d had a bat house fall right on my face so . . .

At least I hadn’t gotten a concussion, right?

“Ora, who did that to you?”

I smiled and then instantly winced because it hurt. I’d slapped an ice pack on my cheek and another over my nose after I’d stopped seeing stars—and after I’d been able to finally catch my breath because, let me tell you, falling off a ladder hurt. But the ice hadn’t done much other than maybe keep the swelling down. Something was better than nothing.

“Me?” I asked, trying to play dumb, as I locked the shop door behind me. We still had fifteen minutes left before opening.

She blinked, set down the money she’d been counting into the register, and asked, almost cryptically, “It looks like you got punched.”

“I didn’t. I fell off a ladder and had a bat house fall on me.”

“You fell off a ladder?”

“And dropped a bat house on my face.”

She winced. “What were you doing putting up a bat house?” she gasped.

It had taken me days, at least five hours of research, and a whole lot of staring at the Rhodes’s house and property to set up a plan for battling the damn bats. Then my shipment had gotten delayed before finally arriving.

The problem was, I had never considered myself to be afraid of heights, but . . . the second I’d climbed up on a ladder leaning against a tree that I’d walked by countless times, I realized why I had felt that way.

I’d never been on anything taller than a kitchen island counter.

Because reality was, as soon as I’d been about three feet off the ground, my knees started shaking and I began to feel kind of ill.

And no amount of telling myself to buck up or reminding myself the worst that would happen would be that I’d break an arm did . . . anything.

I’d started sweating, and my knees shook even worse.

And for what I needed, I had to go as high up as possible—twelve to twenty feet, according to the instructions.

But all it took was the memory of the bat flying over my defenseless head while I slept . . . and the reality that I hadn’t actually slept more than thirty minutes on and off since Mr. Rhodes had saved me because I kept waking up paranoid, to get my ass up that A-frame ladder even though I was shaking so bad it jiggled with me, making it worse.

But it was either climbing up a tree close to the Rhodes’s property—and honestly tucked a little away because I hoped he wouldn’t see it because I had a feeling he might complain about it—or having to pull out the even bigger ladder from around the side of the main house and having to go even higher to find where the hell the bat was coming in from.

I was going to go with option A because I would more than likely pass out and break my neck if I fell off the bigger ladder.

But I’d still screwed it up.

And fallen off, screeching like a fucking hyena, nearly blacking out, and had something that weighed less than three pounds but felt like fifty fall on my damn face while I’d gasped to catch my breath.

My back still hurt.

And now I was at work, with more than a little bit of makeup on, and having Clara stare at me in horror.

“There’s been a bat flying around, and I read that a bat house would hopefully attract it so it wouldn’t keep flying into the house,” I explained, going around the counter and hiding my bag in one of the drawers.

When I stood up straight, she touched my chin and lifted it up, brown eyes focused on my cheek. “Want me to tell you the good news or the bad news first?”

“The bad.”

“We’ve had problems with them at Dad’s,” she started to explain, wincing at whatever she saw. “But you have to plug up where they’re coming in from first, then put the house up.”

Son of a bitch.

“Did you put attractant in there?”

“What’s that?”

“You need to put some in there to get them to start using it.”

I frowned, forgetting I couldn’t do that. “I didn’t read that online.”

“You need it. We might still have some. I’ll check.” She paused. “How did you fall off?”

“This hawk swooped me, and I freaked out and fell off right when I was trying to nail the house up.”

She glanced down before I could make a fist, and she saw the bruise on my hand too.

“I’ve never used a hammer before.”

I had one of the nicest friends in the world because she didn’t laugh. “You’re better off using a drill.”

“A drill?”

“Yeah, with wood screws. It’ll hold up longer.”

I sighed. “Shit.”

Even her nod was sympathetic. “I’m sure you tried your best.”

“More like tried my best to bust my ass.”

That got her to laugh. “Want me to come over and help?” she offered. “Why didn’t Rhodes do it for you?”

I snorted and regretted that shit too. “It’s okay. I can do it myself. I should do it myself. And I don’t want to ask him; he already got one bat out for me in the middle of the night. I can handle it.”

“Even though you fell off a ladder?”

I nodded and gestured to my face. “Yeah, I’m not going to let them win. This isn’t going to be in vain.”

Clara nodded solemnly. “I’ll look for that attractant. I bet if you look in the paper, you can find someone to go and find where the bats are coming in from if you change your mind.”

The problem was that it wasn’t my house, but . . . “I’ll look,” I said, even though I wouldn’t. Not unless I absolutely had to.

I wanted to think I was a big girl, but when I kept glancing up at the ceiling even though it was only about six o’clock, I wanted to cry.

I hated being paranoid. Scared. But no matter how much I told myself that a bat was just a sweet little sky puppy . . .

I wasn’t buying it. And it wasn’t like I had anywhere else to go to get out of there. I hadn’t made enough friends yet.

I got along with most people I met, and most folks were really pretty friendly back, especially my customers at the store. Even the grumpiest people, I could usually win over with time. Back when I’d been with Kaden, I’d met a lot of people, but after a while, everyone wanted something from him, and it had made it impossible to know who wanted to be my friend for me and who wanted it for him.

And that was with them not knowing we were together. We had guarded that secretly tightly. Using NDAs—nondisclosure agreements that pretty much guaranteed that if anyone spoke about our relationship, the Joneses would sue the shit out of them. Not being able to be open with people had just become second nature.

And that was why people like Yuki and even Nori didn’t have that many friends either.

Because you never knew what someone really thought about you unless they told you that you had spinach between your teeth and looked dumb.

I picked up my phone and thought about calling my aunt or uncle, and that was when I heard the garage door open, and a moment later, the buzz of an amp come on from downstairs.

Setting my phone back down, I headed toward the top of the staircase and listened as someone, who I could only assume was Amos, strummed a chord and then another. He adjusted the volume and did it all over again.

Planting my butt on the top step, I curled my fingers around my knees and listened as he tuned his guitar and, after a few minutes, started playing a few blues licks.

And that’s when I heard his quiet, soft voice start singing, so low in volume I leaned forward and had to strain.

His voice didn’t raise in volume, and I was pretty sure he was singing so low so that I wouldn’t hear him, but I could. I had good ears. I’d protected my hearing over the years by wearing top-of-the-line ear protection. I’d left my set of three-thousand-dollar in-ears when I’d left the home I’d shared with Kaden, but I still had a great set of headphones and Hearos that maybe I’d use again someday. To go see Yuki.

Creeping quietly down a few more steps, I stopped and strained some more.

Then I shifted down a couple more steps.

And a couple more.

Before I knew it, I was standing right outside the door that separated the apartment from the actual garage. As quietly as possible, I opened the door that led outside and closed it behind me the same way, moving like a snail.

I stopped.

Because sitting on the top step of his deck was Mr. Rhodes. In dark jeans and a light blue T-shirt, he had his elbows were propped on his knees. He was listening too.

I hadn’t seen him in more than passing since the day we’d gone to see the waterfalls.

He’d spotted me first, I guess.

I put my finger over my mouth to let him know I knew to be quiet and slowly started to sink on top of the mat right outside the door. I didn’t want to bother him or intrude.

But his blank face slowly got replaced by a frown.

He gestured to me to come over, even as his frown got deeper by the second.

Standing back up, I tiptoed across the gravel as quietly as possible, relieved when Amos started playing louder, his singing drifting away, wrapping around the notes coming from his guitar.

But the closer I got to Mr. Rhodes, the graver his expression became. The elbows he had resting on his knees slid up his thighs until he was sitting up straight, those pretty gray eyes of his wide, his expression stricken.

And my smile slowly melted off.

What was he—? Oh. Right.

How the hell could I forget when I’d spent the entire day having customers fawn all over my bruised face? One of the customers who I’d met a few times by then, a local man in his sixties named Walter, had left the store and come back with a loaf of homemade bread his wife had made. To make me feel better.

I’d just about cried when I’d given him a hug.

“Nothing happened,” I started to tell him before he cut me off.

His back couldn’t have been any straighter, and I was pretty sure his expression couldn’t have been any grimmer. “Who did that to you?” he asked in a slow, slow voice.

“No one,” I tried to explain again.

“Someone jump you?” Mr. Rhodes asked, drawing out each word.

“No. I dropped—”

My landlord got up to his feet at the same time one of those big, rough hands went to my shoulder and curled around it. “You can tell me. I’ll help you.”

I closed my mouth and blinked up at him, fighting the urge to smile. And the urge to tear up.

He might not like me much, but man, was he decent.

“That’s really nice of you, but no one hurt me. Well, I hurt me. I dropped a box on my face.”

“You dropped a box on your face?”

Could he sound any more disbelieving? “Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“No one. I dropped it on myself, I swear.”

His gaze narrowed.

“I promise, Mr. Rhodes. I wouldn’t lie about something like that, but I appreciate you asking. And offering.”

Those pretty eyeballs seemed to take in my features some more, and I was pretty sure the alarm in his eyes faded at least a little. “What kind of box did you drop?”

I’d walked right into that, hadn’t I? I plastered a smile on my face even though it hurt. “A bat house . . . ?”

Creases formed across his broad forehead. “Explain.”

Bossy. My face went hot. “I read that they help with bat problems. I figured if I got them a new home, they wouldn’t keep trying to sneak in to pick on me.” I swallowed. “I borrowed your ladder—I’m sorry for not asking—and found a tree with a good, sturdy branch on the edge of your property”—where he wouldn’t see it—“and I tried to nail it there.”

The branch wasn’t as sturdy as I’d hoped, and according to Clara, the nails hadn’t been the way to go, and it had fallen . . . on me. Hence, the black eyes and puffy nose.

The heavy hand on my shoulder fell away, and he blinked. Those short, thick eyelashes swept over his incredible eyes again even slower. There were lines branching out from the corners, but I swear it just made him more attractive. All weathered. How old was he really? Late thirties?

“Sorry I didn’t ask for permission,” I muttered, busted.

He watched me. “Tell me it wasn’t the eight-foot ladder.”

“It wasn’t the eight-foot ladder,” I lied.

A big hand went to his face, and he swept it down over his chin before aiming an eyeball at me as the song inside the garage changed and Amos started playing something different, something I didn’t recognize. Slow and moody. Almost dark. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to give you a one-star review or anything over it. It was my fault,” I tried to joke.

Two irises the color of a Weimaraner bore into me.

“I was joking, but really, it was my fault. I didn’t know I was scared of heights until I got up there and . . .”

He tipped his head to look at the sky.

“Mr. Rhodes, you made my whole day by being worried, but I’m sorry I was snooping around your property and didn’t ask for permission, but I haven’t slept a full night in two weeks, and I didn’t want my screams to wake you up anymore. But mostly, I don’t want to sleep in my car again.”

He gave me a side look, and I couldn’t help but laugh, pain forcing me to stop almost immediately. Jesus Christ. How did boxers handle this shit?

His look went nowhere.

And that look made me laugh more, even though it hurt.

“I know it’s stupid, but I just keep picturing it landing on my face and . . .” I bared my teeth.

“I get the picture.” He dropped his head and his hand. “Where’s this bat house at?”

“In the studio.”

Those gray eyes were back on me. “When he’s done, put it in the garage.” That full mouth twisted to the side. “Never mind, I’ll bring it down when you’re at work, if you’re fine with it.”

I nodded.

“It’ll be too dark today by the time Am is done, but I’ll put it up next chance I get,” he went on in that serious, level voice.

“Oh, you don’t need to—”

“I don’t need to, but I will. I’ll go in there and see what I can caulk too. They can squeeze through the smallest gaps, but I’ll try my best.”

Hope rose up inside of me again.

My landlord leveled me with an intense gaze. “You won’t get back up on that ladder though. You could’ve fallen, broken a leg. Your back . . .”

He was such an overprotective dad. I loved it. It only made him that much more good-looking to me. Even if he did have that scary serious face. And he didn’t really like me.

But I still squinted. “Are you asking me not to get back on it or telling me?”

He stared.

“All right, all right. I won’t. I was just scared and didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re paying me rent, aren’t you?”

I nodded because, yeah, I was.

“Then it’s my responsibility to take care of things like that,” he explained steadily. “Am said he thought he saw you sleeping in your car, but I thought he was imagining it and you were drunk.”

I scoffed. “I told you, I don’t really drink that much.”

I wasn’t sure he believed me. “I’ll get it taken care of. If there’s another problem with the studio, tell me. I don’t need or want you suing me.”

That got me to frown . . . even though it hurt. “I would never sue you, especially not if it was me being stupid. And no one-stars either.”

Nothing.

And here I used to think I was funny. “I’ll tell you if I have any more problems with something inside the house though. Pinky swear.”

He didn’t look all that amused by my offer of a pinky swear, but that was okay. What he did do was nod just as Amos’s voice came through the opened garage door and carried outside. The boy crooned, not all that quietly before he seemed to catch himself and lower his volume.

And I couldn’t help but whisper, “Does he always sing like that?”

He raised one of those stern, thick eyebrows. “Like he’s had his heart broken and is never going to love again?”

Did he just . . . joke? “Yeah.”

He nodded.

“He’s got a beautiful voice.”

That’s when he did it.

He smiled.

Proud and wide, like he knew just how beautiful of a voice his child had and it filled him with joy. I couldn’t blame him; I would feel the same way if Am was my kid. He really did have a great voice. There was a ring to it that sounded timeless. The rarest part about it was that it was a lot lower than a boy his age usually had. It was easy to tell he’d had some kind of vocal training because he could project . . . when he forgot to be quiet.

“He doesn’t know it either. He thinks I’m lying when I tell him,” my landlord admitted.

I shook my head. “You’re not. He gave me goose bumps, see?” I lifted my arm so he could see the little pebbles that had set up shop under my skin. My shirt gave him a clear view of my entire arm. I’d forgotten I was wearing a spaghetti strap tank top that showed off a whole lot of cleavage—all of it. Okay, it was all of it. I hadn’t planned on seeing anyone the rest of the day, but Amos’s voice had been the pied piper to get me out of the garage apartment.

And I wasn’t the only one either since his dad was out here being sneaky and quiet to listen too.

Mr. Rhodes glanced at my arm about a split second before looking away just as quickly. He crouched down and took a seat on the top step again, stretching his long legs out and planting his feet on the stair below. Done with our conversation, I guess. Okay.

I stayed where I was and strained to hear Amos’s sweet voice croon about a woman he loved who wouldn’t return his calls.

I remembered a man I’d loved once singing about something very similar. But I knew all of those words. Because I’d written them.

That record alone had sold over a million copies. It was what many considered his breakout hit. A song I’d originally penned when I was sixteen and wanted my mom to call me back.

Half of his success had been his own. He had a face women loved . . . that he’d had absolutely nothing to do with since he hadn’t gotten to choose it. He’d made sure to keep his body fit to keep up his “sex appeal” for fans—I’d almost gagged when his mom had used those words. He’d taught himself how to play guitar, sure, but his mom had been the one to egg him into continuing to take lessons. But he’d been a natural performer. His voice a hoarse, gritty thing that he’d also been genetically blessed with.

But as I’d learned over the last two years, you could have a great voice, but if your music wasn’t good or catchy, that didn’t mean you would sell records.

He had and he hadn’t used me. I’d given him everything freely.

Amos’s voice rose just a little, his vibrato ringing through the air, and I shook my head as more goose bumps came up on my skin.

Turning my head just a little, I found Mr. Rhodes staring straight ahead, his jaw an absolute perfect line as he listened intently, a faint smile of pure pleasure lingering over his pink mouth.

His eyes happened to move and catch mine. “Wow,” I mouthed.

And this gruff, strict man kept that tiny smile on his face and said, “Wow,” back.

“Do you sing?” I asked before I could stop myself and remember he didn’t really want to talk to me.

“Not like that,” he actually answered, surprising me. “He gets it from his mom’s side.”

Another hint about his mom. I wanted to know. I wanted to know so bad.

But I wasn’t going to ask.

Then he spoke again and surprised me even more. “It’s the only time he comes out of his shell, and only around some people. It makes him happy.”

That was the longest sentence he’d ever shared with me, I was pretty sure, but I figured there was nothing a man could be prouder of than having a talented son.

Neither one of us said a word as the strums of the guitar changed and Amos’s voice disappeared as he played and we both kept on listening. It was between him noodling around, messing up and trying again, that I said, “If either of you ever need anything, let me know, okay? I’ll let you listen in peace now. I don’t want him to catch me and get upset.”

Mr. Rhodes glanced at me and nodded, not agreeing but not telling me to go to hell either. I picked my way back across the driveway to a familiar tune that I knew for a fact Nori had produced.

But all I could think about was that I hoped Mr. Rhodes took me up on my offer someday.

And that was probably the reason why I got caught.

Why Amos called out, “Aurora?”

And why I froze.

Busted again? “Hi, Amos,” I called out, cursing myself for getting sloppy.

There was a pause, then, “What are you doing?”

Did he have to sound so suspicious? And did I have to be such a bad liar? I knew what my best bet was: buttering him up. “Listening to the voice of an angel?”

My whole body tensed up in the silence. I was pretty sure I heard him set his guitar down and start walking over. Sure enough, his head peeked out from around the corner of the building.

I lifted my hand and hoped his dad had disappeared. “Hi.”

The kid looked at me and froze too. “What happened to your face?”

I kept forgetting I was scaring people. “Nothing bad, no one hurt me. I’m fine, and thank you for worrying.”

The same color eyes as his dad’s bounced around my face, and I wasn’t sure he heard me.

“I’m okay,” I tried to assure him. “Promise.”

That was good enough for him because his expression finally turned a little anxious. “Did it . . . bother you?”

I scrunched up my face and then winced. “Are you kidding me? No way.”

His dad was right; he didn’t believe it. I could feel his soul rolling its spiritual eyes.

“I’m serious. You’ve got such a great voice.”

He still wasn’t buying it.

I had to go at this at a different angle. “I recognized a couple of the songs you were playing, but there was one in the middle . . . what was it?”

Thatgot his face to go red.

And my gut went off. “Was it yours? Did you come up with it?”

His face disappeared, and I moved over to look into the garage. Amos had only taken a couple steps back. His attention was focused on the floor.

“If you did, that’s amazing, Amos. I . . .” Shit. I hadn’t planned on saying it, but . . . I was here. “I . . . used to be a songwriter.”

He wouldn’t look at me.

Oh, man. I should have been sneakier. “Hey, I’m serious. I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, but if I didn’t think you were good—your voice and that song you sang—I wouldn’t bring it up. It is really good. You’re really talented.”

Amos lifted the toe of one of his sneakers.

And I felt terrible. “I’m serious.” I cleared my throat. “I, uh, a few of my songs have been . . . on albums.”

The toe of his other sneaker went up.

“If you wanted . . . I could help you. Write, I mean. Give you advice. I’m not the best, but I’m not the worst. But I’ve got a good ear, and I usually know what works and what doesn’t.”

That got me a peek of a gray eye.

“If you want. I’ve sat through some voice lessons before too,” I offered. Sat through more than “some” to be honest. I didn’t have a naturally great voice, but I wasn’t totally tone deaf, and if I sang, cats wouldn’t howl and children wouldn’t run screaming.

His throat bobbed, and I waited. “You’ve written songs that other people sang?” he asked in sheer disbelief.

It wouldn’t be the first time. “Yes.”

Both toes went up, and it took him another second to finally get out, “I had a voice teacher a long time ago”—I tried not to smile at what he might consider to be a long time ago—“but that was the last time I had lessons. I’m in choir at school.”

“I can tell.”

He slid me a look of total bullshit. “I’m not that good.”

“I think you are, but I’m sure Reiner Kulti used to think he had room to improve.”

“Who’s that?”

It was my turn to slide him a look. “A famous soccer player. My point is . . . I think you are talented, but someone once told my . . . friend . . . that even natural athletes need coaches and training. Your voice—and songwriting—are like instruments, and you have to practice them. If you want. I’m usually bored upstairs, so I really wouldn’t mind. But you should ask your dad and mom for permission first.”

“Mom would let me do whatever with you. She says she owes you her life.”

I smiled, but he didn’t see it because he was back to focusing on his shoes. Did that mean that he’d think about it? “Okay, just let me know. You know where I am.”

Another gray-eyed gaze met mine, and I swear there was a small, small smile on his face.

There was a smile on mine too.