Fearless Read online

  For the first time all morning, the barest hint of a smile traced across his face. "Here, I'll show you one," he said, and put his hands on mine again. This time, he moved them more intricately, and the warmth of his fingers as they subtly positioned mine over the frets sent a thrill coursing through me.

  "Good," he said, when he was satisfied with my hand's new position. "Now, strum it again."

  Preparing for the worst, I ran my hand over the strings again. This time, what came out of the guitar was definitely more harmonious, even if I wouldn't exactly have wanted to listen to it on CD. "Hey, cool," I said, strumming the notes again.

  "That's a C chord," Jax said. "Or it would be, but you have to not pluck the last string when you play. Here, take a pick, it'll make things easier."

  I tried again, this time skipping the sixth string with the guitar pick. "Wow," I said. "It's actually music." Fascinated, I plucked the strings over and over, pleased that I could make something that sounded okay—even if it was only one chord. Even with the broken guitars surrounding us, I was starting to feel a little bit better.

  "Funny how that works," he said with a wry smile. "You're not bad, for a beginner. Want to learn another?"

  I laughed in spite of myself. "How many of these are there? I don't even know if I'll remember how to play this one."

  "A lot," Jax admitted. Then, smirking, he said: "But you really only need three, maybe four to start a band."

  My lower lip curled with skepticism. "Three or four? That doesn't sound right."

  "Here," he said, grabbing another unbroken guitar from the wall and strapping it on. "I'll prove it to you.

  A music lesson wasn't what I'd planned on, but if it made Jax's eyes light up that way again, it was more than worth it. He positioned his fingers identically to mine. "This is C, like you just played," he said, then moved his hand to a new spot. "But now this . . . is D."

  I squinted at his callused fingers. How many times, I wondered, had he made these same chords, practiced them into perfection? Ten thousand? Millions? Awkwardly adjusting, I tried to put my hand into the same new pose. "Like this?"

  "Almost," he said with a quick nod. "Put your ring finger a little up . . . Yeah, like that. And now this time, only use the first four strings."

  This time, when I plucked the strings, Jax did it at the same time. Both our guitars rang out with a bold sound. I grinned. "This is kind of fun."

  "Now, here's the tricky one," he said, his eyes sparkling roguishly. "You ready?"

  I nodded with a smile. Whatever else might be wrong with Jax, it was clear that his passion for music was as strong as ever—and somehow, that gave me hope. Music had healed him in the past, maybe it could do the same now.

  "For this one, you'll want to make sure your fingers only touch the right frets. Here's the G chord," he said, reaching one finger all the way across the neck of the guitar. "See how my finger has to go all the way to the last string? Now you try."

  Stretching my finger to the last string made my hand ache, but after a few seconds, I had my hand in a passable imitation of Jax's. I looked down and suddenly became very aware of the way my middle finger looked. "This one looks like I'm flipping you off," I said with a giggle. "How many strings do I play this time?"

  "On a G? All of them."

  Making sure my hand was locked into position on the frets, I windmilled my other arm around in an exaggerated motion, bringing the pick down hard over the strings. "Yeah!" I shouted, pumping my fist. The sound was far from perfect, but I felt a swelling sense of pride anyhow. I'd started the day not even knowing what a chord was, and now I'd played three.

  "There you go," Jax said, smiling crookedly. "Needs a little work, but you've basically got it. So now, we take the C, the D, and the G . . ."

  His fingers moved roughly against the frets as he played the chords in turn. After a moment, I recognized a familiar tune and started to laugh. "I know that one! Bruno Mars."

  "Yup. The Lazy Song," he said. "And you already know how to play it—well, almost, anyway. It's all just those three chords, so you'll just have to practice switching them up."

  I looked down at the guitar, moving my fingers through the patterns he'd taught me, not plucking the strings, just feeling out the ways my hand position changed from chord to chord. As I tried to practice the fingerwork, Jax started strumming again—only this time, what came out of his guitar was unmistakably "Sweet Home Alabama."

  "I didn't really picture you as the southern rock type," I said.

  "How about the Johnny Cash type?" he asked, switching the tune to "Ring of Fire." "It's all the same chords, just different patterns."

  My eyes widened in surprise. "Holy crap," I said. "Those are all the same chords we were just doing? All three of those songs?"

  "Yeah," he said. "And there's lots more, too. La Bamba . . . Semi-Charmed Life . . . Wild Thing. . ."

  With each new title, he played a few bars. I couldn't help but be impressed, even if it was only three chords. "You sound amazing."

  A darkness seemed to pass over Jax's face. "I sound . . . " He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Thanks."

  Stepping over a shattered guitar neck, I leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I don't suppose you have any tricks that could make me sound less like a stepped-on cat when I sing," I said sardonically.

  He raised his scarred brow. "It can't be that bad."

  I arched my brow back at him, as if to say, Wanna bet? Without another word, I started in on one of the Hitchcocks' songs:

  How can you lose what you've never had?

  Is this where things get strange—

  And I'm lost all the same

  My voice wobbled and warbled all over the place—I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Jax tried to smile, but there was cringe written all over his face. Told you, I thought, then moved to the big crescendo:

  Like a train off the tracks

  I can never go back

  And who is really to blame

  As I hit the high note, my voice cracked hard, forcing a sound more like a death rattle than a song. The smile on Jax's face widened, his eyes crinkled, and suddenly his laughter rang out loud. Though he put his hand over his mouth to stifle it, he couldn't help it—the laugh continued, growing deeper, louder, echoing off the stucco walls until he clutched at his sore side. It had sounded terrible—even I had to giggle, and soon realized I couldn't stop.

  He wrapped me in his arms, still grinning. "You're just what I needed."

  I looked up at him, not sure whether he was being serious. "What, someone to sing an off-key song?"

  "No," he said quietly, bending to kiss the top of my head. "A second chance."

  Warmth radiated through me, and I stayed quiet in his arms, not wanting to break the silence or end the moment.

  When Jax spoke again, his voice was low and intimate. "I'm sorry, Riley. I know the way I've acted this week has been hard on you. On the band, too."

  "Jax, you don't have to—"

  He shook his head. "Yes, I do. This is too much. I know something has to change. And I think you were right."

  I had no idea what he was talking about. "Right about what?"

  He closed his eyes tightly, as if what he was about to say was causing him physical pain. "I . . . I saw Darrel today. Again."

  My heart started beating practically out of my chest. "What? Where?"

  "No. You . . . you don't understand. I thought I saw him. I thought I saw his bike, but I don't think anyone else saw him. I think this is just me." Grabbing a hip flask of liquor, he took a swig and stretched his neck. "This isn't something I can handle on my own. So I . . . I'm going to talk to Reed. He can find me a therapist. He's always telling me he knows everyone worth knowing."

  I almost gasped. Even if he was seeing things . . . Jax was okay with going to therapy? From the way he'd acted last night, I thought it was going to be nearly impossible to get him to agree to talk about his past to a total stranger, no matter how much he need
ed it. "You know I think it's a good place to start," I said cautiously, looking around Reed's debris-covered living room. "But don't you think Reed's going to be pissed about all . . ." I gestured to the smashed guitars and the torn painting.

  "What, this?" Jax said, shrugging. "It looks better than it ever has after a Grammys after-party. He's seen worse. He'll get over it."

  I felt a bit stunned. If I'd done anything to damage my boss Palmer's house, I'd have been collecting unemployment the next day, but Jax could destroy his manager's living room without even thinking twice. "I guess it's different for rock stars," I mused aloud.

  His eyes closed. "Some of it, yeah," he said, sounding serious. "But not everything. There's something else I need to talk to you about."

  Jax's tone worried me. "What's wrong?"

  "I never want to hurt you, Riley." He opened his eyes to look at me again. "It's my worst fear."

  I squeezed his hand, but didn't say anything.

  "I can't control my nightmares," he continued. "Not yet. And I don't want you to be afraid that I could hurt you because of them."

  I wanted to tell Jax that I wasn't even a little afraid after what happened earlier, but it wasn't true. I looked down at the ground.

  "I'm going to sleep on the deck chairs by the hot tub." His voice sounded like he'd already made up his mind.

  I thought of Jax next to me in the bed, how I'd gotten used to the lines of his body as we spooned together . . .

  "But I'll miss you," I blurted out, tears blurring my vision.

  "It's not forever," Jax said gently, wiping away a tear. "Just for a few days. Just until I can be sure I won't . . ." His fists balled as his eyes closed again, and he looked close to breaking down. After a deep breath, he started again. "I'm going to keep you safe. Even if it's me you need to be safe from."

  I wanted to object—to tell him, no, it was fine, I'd risk him being in the bed with me, even if his nightmares got worse—but looking into his eyes, it was clear that he was serious. And seriously terrified. I almost told him I loved him right then and there. Instead, I bit my lip and whispered:

  "Thank you, Jax."

  Closing my eyes, I pressed in tight against his body, feeling the warmth of his skin, the taut muscles beneath. The house around us was a disaster, a whirlwind—but here, in the center of the room, in our embrace, we had somehow found the eye of the storm together.

  Chapter Eleven

  IN THE DARK

  "Are you sure this is going to work?" Jax lowered himself onto the floor of the car, ducking low enough that his head was impossible to see as soon as the doors were closed.

  "Trust me," I said, getting in after him and squeezing myself in next to him on the floor mats. "Besides, anything's better than being trapped in Malibu for another night."

  I wasn't the only one who was feeling stir-crazy. Ever since the Weekly Star had hit the stands with an expose from an anonymous source, claiming Jax's fall had been the result of a spiraling heroin addiction, the bus had stayed parked in Reed's driveway, waiting for the hordes of paparazzi to find a new flavor of the week.

  Unfortunately, it looked like they weren't going away anytime soon—and Jax was in no mood to smile for the cameras. He'd already ventured out on two afternoons, heading to the therapist Reed had recommended, and each time he'd come back with a scowl on his face, swearing about "those damn vultures."

  I felt bad that he had to deal with that, but he seemed determined to make therapy work, no matter what got in his way. He came back from each session pensive and withdrawn, but it was early yet, and I knew it would take time before he made any real progress.

  But that didn't stop me from missing him every night we slept apart. My brain told me that Jax needed this, that he wanted to keep me safe—but my heart told me that the safest place was in the warmth of his embrace.

  In spite of my loneliness at night, I was more than grateful for his efforts to heal. It meant so much to me that he was trying, and I wanted to help in any way I could. I knew Jax was feeling stir crazy—so I'd spent the last few days devising a plan to get us some alone time away from the paparazzi's ever constant presence. It took some doing, but I finally hit upon a way that just might work.

  As my legs tangled against Jax's on the car floor, Bernie tossed a blanket back to us. "You kids ready?" he asked with a kindly smile.

  "Ready as we'll ever be," I said, spreading the blanket over Jax and me on the car floor. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  The car's engine roared to life, and Bernie drove slowly out of the driveway and toward the main gate. From beneath the blanket, Jax held my hands in his, the warmth of his breath heating the darkened space.

  Voices grew louder as the car slowed for the gate. "Is he in there?" one voice shouted, and another responded: "No, just the driver this time! False alarm!"

  They sound so disappointed, I thought with a smug glow of satisfaction. Outwitting the paparazzi wasn't a skill I'd ever thought I'd need, but if this tour had taught me anything, it's that there was a first time for everything.

  The car revved to life and suddenly we felt the rush of acceleration as Bernie picked up speed. "The coast is clear, you guys," Bernie called back.

  Jax and I took the blanket off our heads simultaneously and looked at each other, silly grins on our faces. "See? Told you," I said. "It was almost too easy."

  Jax shook his head, still smiling. "Yeah, but you still haven't told me how you'll keep them away when we actually get where we're going. This is Los Angeles. No matter where we go, there's someone with a telephoto lens trying for a shot."

  "Mmhmm," I said, my eyes dancing cryptically. "I guess you'll just have to wait and find out what I have planned."

  He raised a questioning eyebrow at me, but my lips were sealed as Bernie wound his way along the coast. I'd planned tonight out meticulously, painfully aware that this date was probably the last one we'd be able to make time for on this tour. We had six days until the festival gig, but with the paparazzi lurking around, and the band needing to practice, there was no telling when we'd be able to snag anymore alone time.

  I snuggled in tightly against Jax, my mind playing the last few weeks in my head over and over. We'd come so far, and the thousands of miles we'd traveled were just the start. Emotionally, I'd traveled an even longer road. I'd never felt so protected by anyone—or so protective of them. I'd never wanted so badly for a relationship to continue.

  But I knew, with every passing mile and minute, that the end of the tour was coming fast. The night felt bittersweet. I didn't know whether I should worry about the future or just enjoy the wind in my hair and the feel of Jax's callused hands brushing against mine.

  Before I knew it, Bernie was pulling to a stop in front of a non-descript, dark building with black walls and a thick oak door. "Here we are," he said, his grin as white as his hair. "You two kids text me when you need to be picked up. I'll park somewhere close."

  Jax's eyes narrowed. "I'm not even sure where we—"

  "Thanks, Bernie," I said quickly, getting out of the car and extending a hand to Jax. "C'mon, let's go. Didn't I tell you to trust me?"

  He arched his scarred eyebrow at me, as if to say, I'm not so sure about this, but he took my hand anyway. We walked together to the big oak door, and Jax pulled it open—

  To reveal total darkness.

  "I think there's been a mistake," Jax said quickly, closing the door again. "They must be closed. The door's open, but it's dark in there."

  I smirked. "Just go in anyway. Remember that night you blindfolded me?"

  A wry half-smile spread to the corners of Jax's lips. "They say payback's a bitch."

  "I thought they said turnabout was fair play. So get in there!"

  "Yes, ma'am," Jax said, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he stepped inside. I followed close behind.

  When the door closed behind us, it was darker than I'd have thought possible. No light came in through the door, and no windows let in any of the Sout
hern California sun. As I stumbled forward, a woman's voice emerged from the darkness: "Welcome to Opaque," she said, calmly. "Do you have a reservation?"

  "Yes. Hewitt, table for two," I said, squinting into the darkness but unable to see even the outlines of her face. I slowly put my hand up in front of my face and realized I couldn't see it either.

  "Have you ever dined with us before?" the voice asked.

  "Are you still serving even with the lights out?" Jax's voice called out.

  "Sounds like a newcomer!" Her reply had the sound of a practiced pitch. "Here at Opaque, we believe that seeing isn't everything. We're a pitch black restaurant: no light fixtures, no windows, no flashlights. When you don't rely on your eyes, your other senses sharpen. I'll get your server in just a moment, and then you'll head to your table."

  "Huh," Jax's voice floated toward me. "Total darkness. I guess they don't have to worry too much about presentation."

  "And more importantly," I said, "welcome to the one place we can eat in Los Angeles without your face ending up splashed on every tabloid in town."

  He snorted appreciatively. "Good point." I glowed inside—my idea had worked perfectly, and I'd thought of it completely on my own while going crazy from the downtime. I had another surprise in store for Jax, but I planned to save that one for later in the evening.

  Another voice emerged from the black emptiness in front of us. "Welcome," the deep, masculine baritone said. "I'll be your server tonight. Follow me this way—most guests prefer to put a hand on my shoulder so I can lead them to their table."

  Jax sounded a little annoyed. "Can't we just follow your voice?"

  "That's . . . not usually wise, sir. You could trip if you go off-course. We definitely advise holding on."

  "Fair enough." I heard the sound of a hand touching the fabric of the waiter's shoulder, and I reached out until I felt Jax's arm. Making our way across the dark space with small, hesitant steps, we both breathed an audible sigh of relief when the waiter came to a stop and gently guided our hands to chairs.