28. Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Eight

Cass

The sun streams through the open windows of the beach house, the salty breeze carrying with it the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I’m laughing at something Pixie said, her pink-striped dark hair shimmering in the sunlight as she tosses it over her shoulder. She’s perched on the edge of the couch, an oversized pair of sunglasses sliding down her nose, even though we’re inside. Typical Pixie—dramatic, loud, and utterly unfiltered. But beneath all that flair, she’s good company when she’s not putting on her stage persona.

“Seriously, Cass,” Pixie says between laughs, “you should have seen Derrick’s face when I told him I wasn’t doing the L.A. gig. It was like someone canceled Christmas. Priceless.”

“You’re going to drive him to an early retirement,” I reply, smirking. “Not that I’d mind.”

The front door creaks open, and Kendrick’s voice carries through the room. “Cass? Cassidy?”

The moment Kendrick steps into the living room, her gaze lands on Pixie. Her smile falters, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. Pixie notices immediately, of course, and flashes one of her trademark grins—equal parts charm and challenge.

“Well, if it isn’t the mysterious Kendrick,” Pixie says, standing and extending a hand. “The woman who’s managed to tame Cass Wild. I’m impressed.”

Kendrick doesn’t take the hand, crossing her arms instead. “Pixie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Pixie says breezily, clearly unfazed by the tension.

“Depends who’s talking,” Kendrick replies, her tone cool.

I step between them, chuckling awkwardly. “Alright, let’s not scare off my guest, okay?” I glance at Kendrick, hoping to ease the tension. “Pixie’s… an acquired taste, but she grows on you. I promise.”

Kendrick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Instead, she gives me a pointed look and jerks her head toward the deck. “Cass? A word?”

I follow her outside, sliding the glass door shut behind us. The warm breeze does little to cool the storm brewing in Kendrick’s eyes.

“Why is she here?” Kendrick asks, crossing her arms tightly.

“Pixie stopped by to say hi,” I explain. “She’s harmless, Kendrick. Her whole persona—the hair, the attitude—it’s just an act. Underneath, she’s actually pretty nice.”

Kendrick’s frown deepens. “She doesn’t seem harmless. She seems like trouble.”

I sigh, stepping closer to her. “I know how she comes off, but trust me, Pixie isn’t what you think. She’s a performer, like me. The stage persona is loud, but she’s just a friend.”

Kendrick studies me for a long moment, then glances back at the house. Through the glass, we can see Cassidy sitting on the couch next to Pixie, whispering something that makes Pixie laugh. At least those two seem to be getting along.

“I don’t like it,” Kendrick mutters.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” I promise, brushing a hand down her arm. “But Pixie’s not the enemy, okay? Just give her a chance.”

Reluctantly, Kendrick nods, though I can tell she’s not convinced. We head back inside, and the tension between them lingers like a storm cloud. Cassidy glances up at us, her excitement dimming slightly at Kendrick’s expression. Then, she suddenly smiles, and it practically lights up the room.

A week later, Kendrick joins me for a small performance at a cozy, intimate venue out of town. It’s a private event, mostly industry people and a handful of fans who managed to snag tickets. The low lighting and soft chatter create a relaxed atmosphere as I take the stage, strumming my guitar and letting the music fill the room. Kendrick and Cassidy sit near the back. Their presence is something I’ve come to rely on.

As I finish my set, I catch sight of Pixie backstage, her neon hair unmistakable even in the dim light. She waves, a grin on her face, and I nod in acknowledgment. Derrick is nearby, nursing a drink and scanning the room like he’s mentally calculating profits.

After my set, Pixie takes the stage. She’s dressed more subdued than usual. Her pink-striped dark hair falls softly around her shoulders. She sits on a lone stool in the spotlight. She looks out at the crowd and then leans toward the microphone. “This is a new song for me. You’re the first to hear it. So, enjoy everybody.”

We hear the first few notes as her backup musician begins to strum his guitar, and the room quiets as she begins to sing.

The song is slow, haunting, and heartbreakingly raw. Her voice carries an ache that feels almost too personal to witness, and as the lyrics unfold, a chill runs down my spine. I’ve never heard this song before, but something about it feels… familiar. The words cut deep, speaking of love lost, regret, and pain too great to bear.

I glance toward Kendrick, expecting her to be impressed. Instead, her face is pale, her eyes wide with unmistakable grief. Before the song ends, she stands and bolts from the room, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.

Alarmed, I hand my guitar to a stagehand and follow her out, weaving through the crowd until I find her in a private backstage hallway, away from any public prying eyes, her back pressed against the wall and tears streaming down her face.

“Kendrick?” I ask softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

She looks up at me, her expression a mix of heartbreak and fury. “That song,” she chokes out. “It’s mine. I wrote it after I left you, Cass. How the hell did Pixie get my song?”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. “Yours?” I repeat, my mind racing. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” she snaps, her voice trembling. “Every word, every note—it’s mine. I wrote it when I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. The song… Kendrick, it was beautiful. Heartbreaking but beautiful. Haunting–like a piece of your soul laid bare. I should have known you wrote it. I never thought about the pain you felt when you left.”

I reach for her, but she pulls away, her hands trembling. “This doesn’t make sense,” I murmur, trying to piece it together. “Pixie… she wouldn’t…”

“Derrick is probably in on it,” Kendrick says, her voice breaking. “They’re the only two people I know who want to hurt me.”

“Kendrick, Pixie isn’t like that,” I protest, though doubt creeps into my voice. “She wouldn’t do something like this. Maybe Derrick, but we need to find out for sure.”

“I can’t believe you’re still sticking up for her.” She shakes her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I trusted you, Cass. I trusted you when you said she was a good person… now this.”

Her words cut deep, and I’m at a loss for how to console her. “Kendrick, I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

She lifts her tear-streaked face to mine, her expression hollow. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. They’ve taken something from me I can never get back.”

I feel a surge of helplessness as she turns away, wrapping her arms around herself. The weight of her pain and betrayal presses down on me, and I don’t know how to ease her pain.

“We’ll figure this out,” I say quietly, my voice filled with conviction. “I’ll talk to Derrick. And I’ll talk to Pixie. We’ll find out what happened.”

She doesn’t respond, her shoulders shaking as she cries silently. All I can do is stand beside her, my heart breaking for the woman I care about and a wound that’s been reopened.

As her sobs quiet, Cassidy’s small voice comes from behind us. “Mom… it was me.”

We both turn, and Cassidy’s face is pale, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She clutches the edges of her sweater, looking heartbreakingly small. “I gave Pixie your songs.”

Kendrick’s breath catches. “You… what?”

Cassidy nods, her voice trembling. “I thought it would be a surprise. I didn’t mean… I didn’t know she’d use that one. Pixie did say she thought it was the best… “ Tears stream down her face as she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Mom. I just wanted you to be happy.”

Kendrick stares at our daughter, her anguish softening slightly as the realization sets in. “Oh, Cassidy,” she murmurs, pulling her into a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cassidy sobs into her mother’s shoulder. “I thought you’d love it. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please don’t be mad. Please.”

At that moment, Pixie appears in the hallway, her expression uncharacteristically somber. “Kendrick,” she says softly. “I didn’t know. Cassidy gave me the songs, and Derrick said—he said you wouldn’t care. If I had known they meant this much to you, I would never have used them. Especially not that one.”

Kendrick looks at Pixie, her shoulders still tense but her anger fading. “You didn’t know,” she says quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “You didn’t mean to…”

Pixie steps closer, her pink hair brushing her face as she bows her head. “That song… it’s one of the best I’ve ever sung. But if it means taking it back to make this right, I’ll do it. Just say the word.”

Kendrick hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. It’s out there now. Taking it back won’t change what’s already done.”

Pixie surprises everyone by pulling Kendrick into a quick, fierce hug. “In my opinion, I think it’s a masterpiece,” she murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

They step back, an unspoken truce forming between them. Pixie glances at me, then back at Kendrick. “For what it’s worth, Derrick made it sound like you didn’t have Cass’s best interests at heart. I didn’t know you had a history or that Cassidy was his. If I had… I would have stayed out of it.”

Kendrick’s lips press into a thin line, but she nods. “Thank you for telling me.”

As we stand there, the weight of the night finally lifting, I realize that even in the chaos, there is healing and hope. It’s fragile, but it’s enough to start rebuilding.