Pretty Instinct Page 3

  Throwing down his cards in the middle of our four man game of Uno, Conner’s up and ready as soon as we stop and he sees a park out the window.

  “You didn’t say Uno,” Rhett teases him as he picks up the scattered cards. “I win.”

  “Move,” Cami barks at Conner, trying to shove past him and knocking her case into his hip as she does so.

  “I’m not playing with her,” I warn Jarrett in a menacingly low snarl. “Get her the fuck off my bus before you have to alibi my whereabouts at the time of the murder.” I’m truly floored, no idea of the deep-rooted venom she’d hidden. And maybe she’s just having a categorically bad day…but I won’t risk her having another one on my bus.

  Jarrett hurries to the door, throwing an arm around Conner’s shoulders. “Let’s scoot back, buddy, give Cami room to get off the bus.”

  “Where’s Cami going?” He looks around, confused. “Cami, where are you going?”

  “The fuck away from you!”

  Instinctually, Jarrett has Conner moved back already, thank goodness, ‘cause I’m done, up with a fist full of her hair and my arm reared back as Rhett chuckles from behind me, his arm squeezing around my waist.

  “Almost over,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Hold it together long enough for her to get off the bus and you never have to worry about her again. Come on.” He untangles my fingers from her greasy strands and walks backwards, dragging me with him. “Come sit down with me until she’s gone.”

  I only do so under duress. He holds me down forcefully on his lap, my head falling against his chest. As relieved as I am that the debacle’s seconds from being over, it’s created a whole new problem. “We have a gig in a few days and no fucking bassist. What’re we gonna do?”

  “I can play!” Conner raises his hand, eavesdropping from way over there.

  Jarrett nudges him with a shoulder and heads to sit down by us, Cami completely unloaded now. Time for our little family to have a meeting, minus Bruce. He’ll stay put in his captain’s chair, steering clear of any drama.

  “You play great, Con.” And he did. He was talented, even wrote some songs way back when. “But we need you on tambourine, remember?” Jarrett lovingly reminds him.

  Every show, Uncle Bruce watches over Conner, right off stage, shaking his tambourine like a champ. I feel awful that all he can do now is shake the noisy thing from the wings, but it’s too unpredictable to let him on stage, some crowds nicer than others, venues ranging from large and rowdy to small and accommodating. We adjust accordingly.

  “That is right.” His brow wrinkles. Sweetness.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.” I stand, moving to the door, figuring Cami’s long gone. “You wanna stretch your legs in the fresh air a minute, Bubs?”

  A jaunt in the sun is as much to clear my mind as his. I have no idea what we’ll think of, and I’d dragged them all on this misadventure, only to have it now collapsing. Although originally my idea, it’s become all Rhett and Jarrett have. Even if we call it quits today, I have Conner and a fallback nest egg, but the boys were ostracized socially and financially from their shitty “family” the minute they’d stepped onboard. Well, officially, anyway; the groundwork of such was laid long before. They’d finally given their parents the excuse they needed to justify their douchery at tea parties and such: “It’s okay to shit on our kids because they…”

  So I can’t just cancel the gig. It may be no big deal to me—this was never about being discovered or getting signed as the next “big thing” in my eyes—but I suspect it’s become exactly that to Rhett and Jarrett.

  I need a miracle…preferably one that has some empathy, or at least fakes it with their mouth closed, and can pluck a mean bass.

  ***

  What started as stretching our legs for a minute turned into an afternoon picnic and a game of Frisbee golf. I’m heading to hole five, a par two (the trash can), cleaning up what’s left of our lunch when something, or someone rather, catches my eye.

  Hello, miracle.

  The glint of the sun reflecting off the guitar slung across his back is what first snags my attention, but the favors he’s doing that pair of Levis is what’s keeping it.

  Hell yes, I noticed. How could I not? I am, after all, a healthy twenty-three-year-old woman.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jarrett creeps up behind me, scheming in my ear.

  Positive he’s not thinking “I wish I had an hour all my own to let that guy fuck the legs off me,” I turn my head back to him and attempt undeterred sarcasm. “If my answer to that question is ever yes, feed me lots of fish. Brain food. Not any from Conner’s tank, though.”

  Which reminds me…eh, we’ll wait for Bubs to mention it.

  “Seriously smartass, we gonna stand here and pant ‘til he notices us or we gonna go ask him?”

  “Ask him what?” We both know I’m full of shit—I know exactly what he means. And yes, in a perfect world, this would appear to be divine intervention…guy with guitar conveniently located at same rest stop as band coincidentally in need of a guitar player, but I far from believe in a perfect world. I do, however, let my head fall back for just a moment to take in the clear, endless blue sky and wonder, filled with warmth at the thought. Good lookin’ out, Mom.

  “I can’t let a stranger on the bus with Bubs. What if he’s a mass murderer?” What if he’s not as pretty on the inside as he is on the outside?

  “Ah, Mama Bear, run him through all the tests. You’re careful. And he might say we’re crazy and tell us to fuck off. Let’s ask before we worry about it.”

  Biding my time, I chew on the inside of my cheek and look back, confirming Conner’s still tossing the Frisbee happily, Rhett watching him. “You asking or am I?” I sigh, hopefully masking the foreign tingle of anticipation working its way up my battered spine.

  “He’s hetero, I can tell from here. I say we send in,” he flicks a finger back and forth between my boobs, “the big guns.”

  “Don’t lick your lips!” I shove him, mouth agape. “You’re like my brother. That’s illegal in at least forty states, and gross.”

  “You didn’t think it was gross when—”

  “Enough.” I slap my hand over his mouth hastily. “I’ll go, but you stay right here and watch, closely. He makes a move for a weapon, dial 911 as you run to rescue me.”

  “On it.” He grins at me, full of victory, a hint of his earlier teasing still lingering in his expression.

  Girding my loins, I think, do women have loins and can they be girded or is that only a guy thing? Summoning my courage, I move with slow, hesitant steps in the miraculous unknown’s direction, reminding myself with each one that it’s for the boys, the band, the overall goal of staying the hell out of Sutton. And it is, but I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit I wouldn’t be this anxious if I was walking up to an ugly man. Or even a kinda good-looking man. Shallow much, Liz? Nah, I have no control over biological response.

  Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses to my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than my own, and he has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut as his eyes, not too short, but definitely not too long. “Just fucked” hair (isn’t that what they call it?) be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans worn, well, and the long sleeved black thermal he’s wearing? Oh, he wears it, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly.

  Bottom line—he’s easy to look at.

  “Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?”

  I like to open subtly.

  “No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subl
iminal messages. Something along the lines of “yup, you want it.” With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To fuzz this perfect picture with the stench of an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator.

  “No,” I answer too defensively, this instant, highly unusual attraction frying my staple “too cool to care” attitude that, up until right now, I’d like to think I pull off fabulously. “You any good?” I lean and point to the instrument on his back, brows bowed in questioning antagonism.

  “Define good,” he deadpans, head down as he pulls the guitar off his back and puts it back in its case.

  “Hendrix.”

  “Not left-handed.” He shrugs as he straightens back up and captures my gaze.

  “Page.”

  He laughs, treating me to one seriously enlightening sound, accompanied by the sexiest blindingly white smile. “Then no, not even close to good.”

  Damn, I should’ve gone with a mediocre guitarist! Now I’ve backed myself into a corner, Stranger Danger not giving me anything in the form of segue. Struggling, I shove my hands in my back pockets and rock nervously back and forth on my heels, forced to come up with another revealing yet seemingly aloof question.

  “Why do you ask?” he rescues me.

  “Our band.” I toss my head back toward the bus. “We need a bassist. And since you’re hitchhiking, I thought maybe—”

  He drops down from his perch on the top edge of the bench and stands, well over six feet of sinister sex appeal stretching out before my eager eyes. “Do you know what a hitchhiker is?”

  “What?” I shake my head to clear it and take a step back. “Yes, of course.”

  “You sure about that?” He eats up the steps I’d retreated, placing his body close enough to mine that I can literally feel the battle of push and pull between us. “‘Cause where I come from, hitchhikers stand at the road, where you can see them. It increases their chances of actually landing a ride.” His left eyebrow curves up at one end and that same eye, I swear it, twinkles at me. “Seeing as how I’m sitting at the back of a desolate rest stop, I’m either the worst hitchhiker in history,” another step closer, “or you’re labeling me with the wrong tag.”

  Some weird sensation creeps up my neck, then my face, ending with a tingle all over my scalp. Confused, I reach up to feel my cheek. What the hell? Am I blushing? I had no idea my body was capable of such an act.

  Am I a delicate, femininely light blusher or one of those hideous, red as a beet, blotchy kinds? Also, and most importantly, what is it with this guy? I don’t blush, I certainly don’t notice what brand of jeans a guy wears, and…I don’t usually enjoy challenging yet intriguing conversations with strangers. In the blip of time I’ve spent with him, I’ve morphed into a completely unrecognizable version of myself, one I really don’t like…and I wasn’t overly thrilled with the original. Nothing, no one, ever surprises me in a good way or brings to curious life parts of me I thought were long since dead or didn’t exist at all.

  Seriously, girls in high school? Complete anomalies. Gushing, blushing, obnoxious freaks of nature. I was never one of those girls and won’t allow myself to become one.

  “I don’t play bass anyway, just dabble on that thing some.” He casts a fleeting glance at his case. Close enough that his breath grazes my already heated cheeks, I can clearly see that his pupils have dilated, a sure sign he’s fibbing and being modest. He can play.

  I step back again, beginning to resent him, this may be vagabond, for daring to stir my damn Kool-Aid. Nine out of ten receptors in my brain, although I have no clue how many a human brain actually has, are screaming at me to tuck and run far, far away. My heartbeat is thumping against its own cage like I just freebased crack and I haven’t turned to look for Conner in at least a full five minutes, neglectful and careless.

  Yeah, not good. Time to regroup.

  I need to come up with a solution that doesn’t make my nipples wanna cut glass.

  And yet…I shift my eyes right, seeing that Conner is fine, and find myself speaking again as though I didn’t just have a back-out plan damn near planned. “Jarrett does. Play bass, I mean. He plays almost anything, and well.” My chin juts up and out, pride in my boy not to be tamed as I give him a curt nod. “So if you can hang on guitar, he can switch to bass no problem.”

  He rubs his chin between thumb and forefinger and considers me, but in a classy, eyes above the neck kinda way. This time the right brow lifts in contemplation as he slides his tongue back and forth across that enchanting bottom lip. Women worldwide would pay top dollar for the chance to watch this guy do anything, algebra even; trust me. I’m cataloguing his habits strictly in case he does end up on the bus—left eyebrow up is playful and joking, right brow means serious and analyzing.

  “Why don’t you let me try this, since you suck at it? Cannon Blackwell, not a hitchhiker.” He offers his right hand. “And you are?”

  “Liz.”

  A frown line mars his forehead as he awkwardly draws back the hand I didn’t shake—no way I’m actually going to risk touching him, as in, his skin, my skin. I’m becoming even more confused about the array of rabid, conflicting emotions stirring within me as the moments pass.

  “Do you have a last name, Liz?”

  Evading his question, I take a deep breath, and let ‘er rip. “Here’s the deal. I pegged you for a wandering musician, and we need one. You’ll have to pass a background check, body search, and piss in a cup for a drug test before you step one foot on my bus. We’re not a die-hard, international sensation, just a small band having fun. You split all the money from the gigs with Jarrett and Rhett, less a small cut for Bruce and Conner, and I pay for everything else. In return, you agree not to do drugs, on or off my bus, ever. You can do whores, not any of my business, but also, not on the bus. You can drink onboard, but never so much that you get sloppy in front of my brother.” After a long, loud exhale, I let my shoulders drop, done with the winded, practiced speech I’ve given before, and take another step back.

  “What’s the name of the band?” That’s what he got out of that spiel? Definitely not the usual initial response I get. Most people start asking exactly what shows up on a background check, or what drugs the test picks up, things like that.

  “See You Next Tuesday.”

  His head cocks to the side, a few brown locks falling near his eye, and he smirks. “Your band is called cu—the uh, c-word?”

  “Now did you hear me say the word cunt?” I challenge, twisting my lip in jest.

  “Do you play, Liz?”

  “Why?” I ask, a hint of defiance.

  “Well, you’re as feisty as you are cute. Not sure I can handle a triple threat. You play too and I may be in trouble.” He smiles; well, his mouth does some upturning, mind-fuckery type thing. I’m not exactly sure it’d be considered a smile.

  “Sister!” blares through the peaceful afternoon air, and then again, more desperately. “Bethy! Come find me!”

  I hold up one finger, silently requesting a minute, and turn, smiling at Conner running toward me, Jarrett right behind him. “Come ‘ere, Bubs! I want you to meet someone.”

  Tell me he’s not a genius with super powers—his timing is spot on. I’m on the fence with this guy. No kill us in our sleep vibes or so much as a flinch at my gamut of requirements, he should be an automatic yes. Yet I’m torn, all my hesitancies resting on the scary good vibrations he’s giving me. I need to continue focusing on what’s important, my ace “people reader,” who’s joining us now, and not the ass on the new guy. I find Cannon Blackwell disarming…and quite frankly, it’s pissing me off.

  “I thought you got lost,” Conner pants, habitually throwing his body on and around me, igniting a reminder twinge in my back. “Jarrett! I FOUND HER!”

  I wince, dislodging my arm from his deadlock to stick a finger in my ear, wiggling it around to stop the ringing.

  “Right behind ya, buddy,” Jarrett chuckles
in a normal volume. “Good job, though.”

  “Bethy needs a Bubcuff,” Conner states, holding up his wrist.

  Jarrett grins at me sideways. “I think you may be right there, Con Man. Liz, do you need a Bubcuff?”

  Ever since I was granted custody of Conner, almost a full two years of red tape after I turned eighteen, I’d made him wear what came to be known as the “Bubcuff” any time he’s not right beside me. It’s nothing more than a thick, brown leather wristband, but Conner thinks it’s magic and sends me a signal if he gets too far from whomever I’ve entrusted him with.

  I do what I have to do. You lose your brother, who faces certain challenges, in the middle of a carnival and then come talk to me. And in my defense, Bubs is actually the one who first suggested I was able to find him because of the bracelet. I just didn’t correct him.

  “I wasn’t lost, Bubs. Jarrett knew where I was the whole time, but thanks for finding me. I should have told you where I was going too. Can I have a soft hug?” I reach my arms out, hoping he caught my specific request.

  Thankfully, he did, wrapping him arms around me half as tight as normal, kissing my forehead as he pulls back. “Soft enough, Bethy?”

  Eaten up with happy and the goofy grin to match, I nod my head. “Perfect. Now, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  When I turn Conner by the arm, Cannon’s watching us with, hmmm, I don’t know him well enough yet to say with what exactly. But none of my intuitive hackles go up, so it’s not anything offensive, nothing I’m usually braced for when introducing someone to my brother for the first time.

  “Conner, this is Cannon Blackwell. He plays—”

  “He almost has my same name!” I’m interrupted with a shout.

  “You’re right, they do sound a lot alike, but I wasn’t done, bud.”

  He ducks his head. “Sorry, Sister.”

  I tilt his chin with my finger, not specifically acknowledging the pouting as the doctors advised me, and continue on. “He plays the guitar and I was talking to him about maybe giving the band a try. Cannon,” I shift my body, opening my stance to include them both, “this is my big brother, Conner. He plays the tambourine for us.”