Текст книги "Missing Dixie"
Автор книги: Caisey Quinn
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Dedication
For you, because you shattered me into a million pieces and forced me to put myself back together again. I would’ve given you anything—but I will give up my dreams for no one.
Epigraph
“In the end, we are all just humans . . . drunk on the idea that love, and only love, can heal our brokenness.”
–F. Scott Fitzgerald
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue | Gavin
1 | Dixie
2 | Gavin
3 | Dixie
4 | Gavin
5 | Dixie
6 | Gavin
7 | Dixie
8 | Gavin
9 | Dixie
10 | Gavin
11 | Dixie
12 | Gavin
13 | Dixie
14 | Gavin
15 | Dixie
16 | Gavin
17 | Dixie
18 | Gavin
19 | Dixie
20 | Gavin
21 | Dixie
22 | Gavin
23 | Dixie
24 | Gavin
25 | Dixie
26 | Gavin
27 | Dixie
28 | Gavin
29 | Dixie
30 | Gavin
31 | Dixie
32 | Gavin
33 | Dixie
34 | Gavin
Epilogue | Liam
Missing Dixie Playlist
Acknowledgments
Leaving Amarillo
Loving Dallas
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue | Gavin
“I NEED A Michelob Light, two Jack and Cokes, a bourbon on the rocks, and a Sex on the Beach,” a waitress named Kimberly calls to me over the crowded bar.
“Yes, ma’am!” I shout over the din while filling the order quickly, tossing an umbrella into the fruity drink and briefly wondering what the hell kind of group orders such random drinks. It’s an odd number, so probably not a double date.
Once Kim’s tray is full, she takes off into the crowd and I take a few more orders from patrons sitting at the bar. The house band announces that they’re taking a break and I’m grateful that the bar is full enough to keep it from being quiet.
Silence has always been my enemy. Hence why I play the drums, the loudest, most deafening musical instrument in existence. They’re the only things that drown out the sounds in my head. Once my customers and waitresses have been taken care of, I do a quick wipe-down of the bar and restock the highball glasses.
It’s in the brief moment when the raucous chatter dies down enough that pool balls can be heard knocking together that the music begins.
Someone is playing the piano, the old Wurlitzer that sits abandoned in the back corner of the Tavern. It’s not the music itself that stops me where I stand. It’s the way it’s being played. Effortless yet meticulous, a combination that I’ve only known one musician in my entire life to be capable of.
Glancing in the direction where the melody is drifting from I notice I’m not the only one mesmerized by the sound. Half the bar has made their way to the back corner to get a closer listen. My boss, a perpetually red-faced man named Cal, is going to kill me, but I have to see. I have to know if it’s her. My body propels itself around the bar just as a voice from my right calls my name, startling me out of my trance.
Turning, I look directly into a pair of gleaming green eyes beneath a perfectly even bob of blond hair.
Ashley Weisman stands across from me in her pencil skirt and oxford dress shirt with two too many buttons undone to be here for professional reasons.
“You’ve been avoiding my phone calls,” she says evenly.
“Been busy.” Huffing out a breath, I place my hand gently on her elbow and attempt to steer her toward the exit.
Stilettos planted firmly on the liquor-sticky floor, she purses her full red lips at me and glares into my eyes. “You can’t ignore me forever. I’m your attorney. Besides, what’s the rush, Gavin? Not even going to offer me a drink? What kind of bartender are you?”
“One who doesn’t have time for this right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I can’t explain it, but deep in my soul—if I have one that is—I know exactly who’s playing the piano behind me. I don’t know why she’s here, I don’t know if she knows I work here, and I sure as hell don’t know if she’ll want to see me. What I do know is that she and Ashley cannot cross paths right now. Not yet. Not before I’ve told her everything.
“I think I’ll take the drink now, thank you very much.” Twisting out of my reach, she hops up onto a bar stool and steadily ignores the scowl on my face.
The music continues swirling around us and all I know is right now, I need to know who is playing that damn piano.
Clenching my fists, I walk around behind the bar and wait for her to tell me what she wants.
“I’ll have a Screaming Orgasm, please.” Her eyes gleam and I meet her interested gaze with a dispassionate one. “Multiples, actually.”
I barely suppress a loud sigh and grab the Baileys, Kahlua, and a top-shelf bottle of vodka. Once her drink is mixed I set it down in front of her.
“On the house. Feel free to take it and go.”
A frown mars her attractive face. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in such a hurry to get rid of me. You have a hot date later?”
I can’t help it—I glance over toward the piano. The music speeds up and so does my heart rate. The notes call to me like a siren song and I know I won’t be able to keep myself from barreling over there for much longer.
“The piano player? I saw her when I came in. She’s pretty.”
“You done?” I nod to a newbie barback named Jake to come get her empty glass and he does.
“Oh, I see,” she says evenly, watching me carefully. “It’s her, isn’t it? The one you’re so eager to get your shit together for, huh?”
“I need to get my shit together regardless, Ashley. You know that. How about helping me do that instead of causing more trouble?”
She frowns as if I’ve insulted her. “I’m not trying to cause trouble. I’m curious. Pretty sure curiosity isn’t a crime.”
Closing my eyes, I inhale through my nose and exhale out my mouth like the meetings have taught me. “You know what they say about curiosity.”
Cal walks by and I call out that I’m taking my break. Without waiting for his response or approval, I move out from behind the bar and make my way through the sea of bodies separating me from the girl behind the piano. Once I’ve navigated the treacherous waters, I see her.
It’s smoky in here tonight and several women I’m not familiar with are surrounding her but I see her sitting there—playing her heart out—and all I can do is watch.
She doesn’t make music, or create it. She is music. It flows through her as she plays and it’s an incredible sight to behold.
There she is. My beautiful bluebird.
My stomach tenses and my throat constricts.
She shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t be here.
Seeing me here will hurt her and there is nothing I wouldn’t give to prevent that.
Before I can even begin to formulate the words in my mind that I should say to make this okay, to make it somehow hurt her less, the music stops and she turns as if she can feel me standing there. Applause breaks out around us but it fades into background noise.
There isn’t a name for the emotion that crosses her face, darkening her eyes and causing the fire in them to flare at me. It’s part shock, part betrayal, and complete pain.
My jaw clenches and I force my eyes to remain on hers even though mine would prefer to close and block out the sight of her wounds deepening.
“Taking requests?” Ashley’s voice calls out from beside me. Her expression says she’s genuinely impressed by Dixie’s talent but I can guess what my temperamental Bluebird will see.
Dixie Leigh Lark arches an eyebrow at her and then shoots me a scowl of pure disgust before answering with a short, “Not at the moment.”
“Too bad,” Ashley answers with a shrug.
I step closer to Dixie just as she shoves the piano bench backward, scraping it across the hardwood floor. Before I can blink, we’re face-to-face and if looks could kill, someone would be performing CPR on me in a matter of seconds.
“Hey . . . I thought you might’ve gone on back to Houston. Or I’d hoped—”
“Go to hell, Gavin,” is all that escapes her beautiful mouth. Her rage hits me with the force of a ten-foot plate-glass window shattering over me.
I turn to watch her storm out, as I run a hand over my head and feel the heat of several angry glares from other women around me.
Ashley smirks from behind her glass as she polishes off another drink I didn’t realize she was holding. “Well that escalated quickly.”
Yeah. It did.
I am so fucked.
3 Months Later
1 | Dixie
“SON OF A bitch,” I bite out as the twisted metal tears into my skin.
“Jesus, Dixie. What the hell?” Jaggerd McKinley glances up from under the hood of a 1968 Mustang Fastback and narrowly avoids slamming his forehead into it.
Before I can stop him, he’s around the car and grabbing a clean rag from a tray beside me.
“Be still,” he commands, using the cloth to blot at the blood on my hip. I tug the waistband of my jeans down a little lower so he can press it against my flesh wound. It’s not huge but feels deep and raw. Kind of like I just walked too close to a piece of gnarly metal sticking out from under a tarp, which is precisely what happened.
“What the hell was that?” I nod toward the tarp. “What’s under there?”
Jag’s eyes resemble the color of whiskey in the sun and tighten when they meet mine. “Nothing,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Sure as hell didn’t feel like nothing.” I lift his hand gently and peer at my wound. I can handle just about anything except the sight of my own blood.
I feel my eyes rolling back and Jag’s firm arms around me.
“Still squeamish about that, huh?” His breath tickles the side of my face and I am suddenly acutely aware of his proximity.
“Yeah, apparently,” I say, feeling the edges of my vision fade.
“Easy, girl,” he says with a laugh, wrapping his arms even tighter around me and leaning me gently on the passenger door of the Fastback. “Take a few deep breaths.”
“I’m fine. I promise.” I run a hand through my wayward curls before wiping the sheen of sweat from the back of my neck. “It’s just been a long week.”
“I heard Dallas was back. I’m glad the scare overseas turned out okay.”
I nod. I had every intention of staying angry with my brother for not telling me Gavin wasn’t on tour with him but then he went and disappeared for almost forty-eight hours, scaring me half to death and forcing me to forgive him. “Me, too. The wedding is this weekend.”
Jag busies himself wiping his grease-covered hands on his jeans. “Guess it really does work out for some folks.”
The cocktail of emotions behind his statement twists around my insides like twine. “Guess so.”
“Robyn seems like a great girl. Glad they were able to get their second chance.”
The constant heaviness I carry in my heart lightens a little. I am happy for Dallas and Robyn. I’m excited to be a part of their big day and literally ecstatic about becoming an aunt to my future nephew. But . . . something about the anticipation of it all, the impending burden of necessary smiles and laughter in the midst of my complete and utter devastation about having to face Gavin Garrison for the first time in months . . . It’s like getting the worst news of your life on the brightest, sunniest, clearest day of the year.
I’m a walking, talking, living, breathing storm cloud waiting to burst and rain on everyone else’s parade.
But I won’t. Because I can’t.
I had my chance. My one night. And even a little more than that.
“Wait for me, Bluebird,” he’d said.
Apparently I should’ve asked for the specific details of just how long he intended to make me wait. I thought he meant wait until he got back from being on tour with Dallas. Too bad he didn’t go on tour with Dallas. Lucky me, I got to find out the hard way.
I have seen Gavin Garrison a grand total of twice in the past three months. Once at a bar he apparently worked at, unbeknownst to me. And then again when my brother went missing and he stopped by to check on me—as if he actually cared. He didn’t even come inside, just stood on the porch and asked me to keep him posted about Dallas.
Adrenaline courses through me like an electric current at the memory of seeing him at the bar with another woman. Her perfectly manicured nails skating up the skin on his arm.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jaggerd’s voice yanks me from the past.
I swallow hard as he takes a step back. “Yeah.”
“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
I try to recall if I’ve ever had one. I have. Once. “Pretty sure I was a kid. Thirteen or so. I cut my hand on a rusty car rim when Dallas and Gavin let me go to the junkyard with them to find a side-view mirror for Dallas’s truck.”
Jaggerd mumbles something unintelligible under his breath.
“What’d you say?”
His eyes lift to mine and something unidentifiable flickers in them before he blinks it back and answers. “I asked if you had any memories that didn’t include him.”
There’s a challenge in his tone, as if he already knows the answer and is daring me to deny the truth.
It irritates me—the unnecessary shade he’s throwing, the male macho bullshit, game playing of any kind. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime. After years of letting my older brother and Gavin Garrison—and even Jag in the year that we dated—dictate my life, my feelings, and my mood, I’m finally in a place where I am my own damn person. A few months on the road alone and coming home to have my heart broken have helped me to grow up a bit. Turns out I’m perfectly capable of making decisions all on my own and one of them is not to tolerate being condescended to on any level.
“Why don’t you just go ahead and say what you mean, McKinley? Save us both the time and trouble of trying to decipher your doublespeak?”
Surprise widens his eyes, then he smirks at me with a look of slight approval in them. “Sorry. Old habits die hard.”
“Old habits?”
Jag shrugs. “I always felt like third runner-up. Hell, I was third runner-up.”
I frown because now I’m lost. “Meaning?”
“Meaning music will always be your first love. Gavin Garrison is your second and the one you’ve always wanted. I was more of a consolation prize—someone to kill the time with until he took notice of what was right in front of him.”
“Jag—”
“Don’t bother lying, Dix. I may just be some dumb mechanic but I know you and you have a terrible poker face.”
Sadly, I’ve heard that before.
“You were never a consolation prize.” This is true. Jaggerd McKinley was a little rough around the edges from a distance, but up close, he was genuinely a sweet guy. He took my virginity and he was kind and gentle about it. Granted he didn’t make my heart race or my entire body light up the way a certain someone else did, but he was a good guy and I cared about him.
“Uh-huh. What was I then?”
I rack my brain for an answer that’s honest but won’t hurt his feelings. “You were a very sweet guy who treated me with respect. And you’re still my friend and honestly, I could use a friend right now.”
He’s still standing close enough that I can feel the breath released by his sigh. “Oh, the friend zone. Guess I might as well get comfortable there, huh?”
The silence stretches out long and awkward between us. Jaggerd has thick, auburn hair that’s always about two weeks past needing a cut. It matches the scruffy beard that’s typically a few days past needing a trim. Beneath the rough exterior, though, he has bright hazel eyes, flawless skin, and a full masculine mouth women would stand in line to kiss if he’d pay more attention to them. He really is a beautiful guy. He’s just not my guy.
“What do you want me to say?”
His shoulders relax and he removes the cloth from my hip. “Nothing. It is what it is.” With a lingering glance at my bare hip, he shrugs. “I think you’re fine but go to the bathroom and rinse it out, then check the cabinet for some Neosporin. Last thing you need is an infection before your brother’s wedding.”
His words remind me why I came by. “About the wedding . . .” I sink my teeth into my lower lip and look up at him expectantly.
Jaggerd’s eyebrows lift noticeably. “You’re not serious.”
“It doesn’t have to be a date date. I just don’t want to go alone.”
“Because he’ll be there?”
I sigh harder than necessary. “Yes and no. He’s in it. And I imagine he’ll have . . . someone.”
Jag studies me for a full minute as if I am a complicated creature he can’t seem to figure out.
“Tell you what, I’ll come to the wedding,” he tells me on a sigh. “On one condition,” he clarifies when I grin at him. I nod and he continues. “We can ride together but if either of us decides to leave with someone else, no hard feelings.”
“So I’ll be your wingman?” I can’t help but laugh.
“More like a wingwoman,” he says, nudging me gently. “But I’m betting it will be you I lose to someone else—not the other way around.”
There is disappointment etched into a forced smile on his face. “Jag,” I whine softly. “Please don’t—”
“I’m not,” he says, holding both hands up. “Just be careful, please. Garrison is trouble and he’ll never be good enough for you as far as I’m concerned. But I’ll mind my own business.” He nods toward my hip. “Except about that. Go clean that up, please.”
“Going,” I say, tossing the bloody rag in the dirty pile before I head into the bathroom.
While I’m cleaning out my wound and trying not to pass out, I think about what he said. Why is it people are always telling you you’re too good for the one you can’t have? I’ve never thought of Gavin as someone I was better than—for that matter, I’ve never considered myself better than anyone. We’re all made of the same stuff—just some of us were dealt different cards. Gavin got a shitty set of cards and my deck wasn’t all that great, but somehow, when we’re together, none of that matters. Dallas, Gavin, and I have always been a family. Now that Dallas has Robyn and a baby on the way, he has his own family and I feel like I’m just . . . existing. Being with Gavin was the last time I felt truly alive—like I finally belonged where I was meant to be. In his arms. But like all happiness, it was fleeting.
He was here. Right down the street and he didn’t even bother to call me. Maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but maybe not. It hurts. A lot. And it makes me angry as hell. After everything we’ve been through over the years he still didn’t deem me worthy of a call? A text?
Hey, Bluebird. About that whole waiting-for-me thing? Never mind. I’m home but I have zero interest in seeing you. Take care!
Ugh. None of it makes sense. Only after I busted him in a bar with some blonde did he start calling and texting asking for a chance to explain.
Too little, too late, drummer boy.
I probably would’ve given in eventually, though. Maybe he knew that, because after a few days, his calls and texts stopped.
I’ve analyzed and overanalyzed every moment we spent together in Austin, everything he said before he left me in Amarillo, and each message sent since then. I’ve yet to reach a conclusion about the motivations and intentions of Gavin Garrison.
Papa used to say living your life was like driving a car. While it’s necessary to glance back every now and then, it’s much more important to watch where you are going than dwell on where you’ve been. I won’t be that girl anymore, the one that determines her self-worth or lack thereof based on one guy’s ability to notice her.
I glance up into the hazy mirror and look at my own faded reflection.
Gavin Garrison is so much more than just a guy I like—more than an infatuation or an addiction. In my heart, he’s my past, present, and future. I just don’t know if he wants to be. Or if I’m willing to put myself out there again and ask him to be.
I lost a lot of time focusing on the pain and the past. But when I stopped letting it consume me, I found myself in the same place where I always find myself. In music.
When I stopped moping and feeling sorry for myself, I made some changes in my life. I’ve found happiness and joy in giving piano and violin lessons to underprivileged local kids and it’s been such a successful program that I had to get a business license and name it. Over the Rainbow is my passion project and I’ve formed friendships with many of the parents of the kiddos I teach. Maybe it’s not performing onstage or coming to life beneath the lights, but I love it just the same.
If there is anything I’ve learned about gifts, like the gift of being able to play an instrument, it’s that they should be shared with the world one way or another. I also learned a valuable lesson from my grandparents that it took traveling around the country living their dream to fully comprehend. They didn’t get to live their dream but it didn’t mean they weren’t happy. Together they lived a full, satisfied life and they had plenty of love leftover to give to the two orphans they ended up raising. Life doesn’t always turn out how you expect and sometimes parts of you get broken along the way, but there is always hope and even broken pieces can be rebuilt into something beautiful. My heart is a piece of mosaic art at this point.
Standing there, staring at myself in the glass, I vow to focus on the music, on grabbing hold of what joy I have in my life and not letting go.
Most important? I vow never again to hand my heart over to Gavin Garrison.
At least not until he hands me his first.
