It's run-down.
It needs a fuckload of work to make it presentable.
There are probably going to be unforeseen problems.
I now owe a sizeable mortgage payment every month.
But it's mine.
I stand in the empty bay, breathing in the thick odor of grease, old oil, and dust.
I worked my ass off, and I made my dream come true.
I did it, India.
I did it.
Chapter 16: We Weren't Done Talking
One year later
I'm sitting on a park bench on the edge of Central Park, busking. I've got my case on the ground next to my feet, a few bucks inside as seed money bright green against the maroon velvet.
I haven't busked in months; the shop has been too busy, too many orders, too many rebuilds and custom jobs.
But this, the open air and the lack of expectations, this is where I live. Where my soul flies. Like my weekly gig at Kelly's bar, it's not about the money, although I usually make a decent chunk of change.
It's about letting the music flow out of my blood and into the guitar, letting it seep through my vocal chords.
I'm adjusting a string, tweaking the tuning for my next song. My head is down, tilted to the side, listening for the perfect pitch. I get it, bobbing my head in approval.
I start in on "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers. This is a song that always draws a crowd. It's the song more than me, really. It's such brilliant piece of music. So much meaning stuffed into the lyrics. I look up after the first verse and scan the sidewalk in front of me. An older man in a business suit, a phone against his ear, another clipped to his expensive leather belt; a young woman with bottle-blond hair in a messy bun, a sticky-faced boy-child gripping her hand, both stopped and listening; a gay couple, young men holding hands, flamboyant, bouffant hair and colorful scarves; three teen girls, giggling, whispering to each other behind cupped hands, thinking I'm cute.
And her.
Nell.
I could write a song, and her name would be the music. I could sing, strum a guitar, and her body would be the melody. She's standing behind the rest of the crowd, partially obscured, leaning against a parking meter, a patchwork-fabric purse slung over one shoulder, pale green dress brushing her knees and hugging her curves, strawberry blond hair twisted into a casual braid and hanging over one shoulder. Pale skin like ivory, flawless and begging to be caressed. Kissed.
I'm no saint. I've hooked up with other girls since I last saw her, but they've never been enough. Never been right. They've never stuck around for long.
Now, here she is. Why? I tried so hard to forget her, but still her face, her lips, her body, glimpsed beneath a wet black dress...she haunts me.
She's biting her lip, worrying it between her teeth, gray-green eyes pinning me to the bench. Shit. For some reason I can't fathom, that habit, the biting her lip...I can't take it. I want to throw down the guitar and go over to her and take that perfect plump lower lip into my mouth and not let go.
I almost falter at that first meeting of our eyes, but I don't. I meet her gaze, and continue the song.
I'm singing it to her, as I reach the final chorus. "I...and love...and you."
She knows. She sees it in my eyes. It's utter madness to sing this song to her, but I can't stop now. I watch her lips move, mouthing the words. Her eyes are pained, haunted.
The person standing in front of her moves, and I see a guitar case resting against her thigh, the round bottom planted on the sidewalk, her palm stabilizing the narrow top. I didn't know she played.
The song ends and the crowd moves away, a few people tossing in ones and fives. The businessman--still on the phone--tosses in a fifty and a business card announcing himself as a record label producer. I nod at him, and he makes the universal "call me" gesture with his free hand. I might call him. I might not. Music is expression, not business.
She approaches, bending at the knees and lifting her guitar case, slides onto the bench next to me. Her eyes never leave mine as she sits, zips open her case, withdraws a beautiful Taylor classical acoustic. She bites her lip again, then plucks a few strings, strums, begins "Barton Hollow."
I laugh softly, and see that the pain has never left her. She's carried it all this time. I weave my part in around hers, and then I'm singing. The words fall from my lips easily, but I'm barely hearing myself. She plays easily and well, but it's clear she hasn't been playing for too long. She still glances at her fingers on the fretboard as she switches chords, and she gets a few notes wrong. But her voice...it's pure magic, dulcet and silver and crystalline and so sweet.
We draw a crazy crowd together. Dozens of people. The street beyond is blocked from view by the bodies, and I can tell she's uncomfortable with the attention. She crosses her leg over her knee, bounces with the rhythm, and ducks her head as if wishing her hair was loose so she could hide behind it. She slips up on a chord, loses the rhythm. I twist on the bench to meet her eyes, we lock eyes and I nod at her, slow down and accentuate the strumming rhythm. She breathes deep, her breasts swelling behind her Taylor, and finds the rhythm with me.
The song ends all too soon. I half expect her to rise and put away the guitar and float away again, without a word exchanged, just gone again as mysteriously as she appeared. She doesn't, though. Thank god for that. She glances around at the crowd, chews her lip, glances at me. I wait, palm flat on the strings.
She takes a deep breath, plucks a few strings, idly, as if deciding, then nods to herself, a quick bob of the head as if to say, "Yeah, I'm gonna do it." Then she begins to strum a tune I know I know, but can't place. Then she sings. And again, her admittedly mediocre guitar playing fades away, replaced by the shocking beauty of her voice. She's singing "Make You Feel My Love" by Adele. The original is simple and powerful, just the piano and Adele's unique voice. When Nell sings it, she takes it and twists it, makes it haunting and sad and almost country-sounding. She sings it low in her register, almost whispering the words.
And she sings it to me.
Which makes no sense whatsoever. But still, she watches me as she sings, and I can see the years of pain and guilt in her gaze.
She still blames herself. I always knew she did, and hoped time would cure her of that, but I can see, without having even spoken to her, that she still carries the weight. There's darkness in this girl now. I almost don't want to get involved. She'll hurt me. I know this. I can see it, I can feel it coming. She's got so much pain, so many cracks and shards and jags in her soul, and I'm going to get cut by her if I'm not careful.
I can't fix her. I know this, too. I'm not going to try. I've had too many goody-goody girls hook up with me, thinking they can fix me.
I also know I'm not going to stay away. I'm going to grab onto her and let myself get cut. I'm good at pain. I'm good at bleeding, emotionally and physically.
I let her sing. I don't join in; I just give her the moment, let her own it. The crowd whistles and claps and tosses dollars into her open guitar case.
Now she waits, watches. My turn. I know I have to choose my song carefully. We're establishing a dialogue here. We're having a conversation in music, a discussion in guitar chords and sung notes and song titles. I strum nonsense and hum, thinking. Then it comes to me:
"Can't Break Her Fall" by Matt Kearney. It speaks to me, and it's unique, a song people will remember. And I know she'll hear me, hear what I'm not saying when I sing it. Half-sung, half-rapped. The verses tell such a strong, vivid story, and suddenly I can see her and me in the lyrics.
She listens carefully. Her gray-green gaze hardens, and her teeth snag her lip and bite down hard. Oh yeah. She heard me. I catch the tremble in her hand when she sets her guitar in the case, zips it closed, and tries not to stumble as she runs from me. Her braid trails behind her, bouncing between her shoulder blades, and her calves flash pale white in the New York sunlight. I let her go, finish the song, and then I click the guitar case closed and jog after her.
I walk across the street, Yellow Cabs honking impatiently, through the city noise, and then down to a subway. I see her swipe a card and struggle with the turnstile, guitar case held awkwardly by the handle. She swipes the card again, but the turnstile won't budge and she's cursing under her breath. People are lining up behind us, but she's oblivious to them, or to me standing mere inches away. She tosses her head, stops struggling and takes a deep breath. At that moment, I reach past her, swipe my own card and gently push her through the gate. She complies as if in a daze, lets me take her guitar from her and I slip the straps over my shoulder, holding my own hard case by the handle. The palm of my free hand cups her lower back, prompting her onto the waiting subway car. She doesn't look at me, doesn't question that it's even me. She just knows. She's breathing deeply still, gathering herself. I let her breathe, let the silence stretch. She won't turn in place to look at me, but she leans back, just slightly, her back brushing my front. She doesn't put her weight against me, merely allows a hint of contact.
She gets off after a few stops, and I follow her. She catches another line, and we continue in silence. She hasn't met my eyes since she ran from the Central Park bench. I've stayed behind her, just following. I follow her to an apartment building in Tribeca, follow her up the echoing stairwell, trying not to stare at her ass swaying as she ascends the stairs. It's hard not to, though. It's such a fine ass, round and taut and swinging teasingly under the thin cotton of her sundress.
She unlocks the door to number three-fourteen, shoves it open with her toe and goes straight to the kitchen. She's not watching to see if I follow her in uninvited, which I do. I close the door behind me, set her guitar case on the floor beneath a light switch, just inside the doorway, next to a small square table stacked with sheet music and guitar books and packets of nylon strings. My case goes on the floor next to the entryway to the open kitchen. I watch her jerk open a cabinet next to the refrigerator, pull out a bottle of Jack, twist the cap off, and toss it on the counter. Her fist shakes, and she tilts the bottle up to her lips and sucks three times, long hard drags straight from the bottle. Damn. She sets the bottle down violently and stands with her head hanging between her arms braced on the counter, one foot stretched out behind her, the other bent close to the counter in a runner's stretch. She shudders in a breath, straightens, wipes her lips with the back of her hand. I cross the space between us, and I don't miss the way she tenses as I draw near. She stops breathing as my arm dives over her shoulder, and my hand grabs the bottle. I bring it to my lips, and I match her three long pulls. It burns, a familiar pain.
She turns in place, finally, leaning against the counter edge, staring up at me, eyes wide and searching. She looks like an anime character suddenly, so wide-eyed and full of emotion. I want to kiss her so badly, but I don't. I don't even touch her, even though I'm mere inches from her. I hold the bottle, my other hand propped against the counter beside her elbow.
"Why are you here?" she asks. Her voice is a harsh whisper, whiskey-burned.
I let a lopsided smile tilt my lips. "Here in your apartment? Or here in New York?"
"In my apartment. In New York. In my life. Here. Why are you here?"
"I live in New York. I have since I was seventeen. I'm here in your apartment because I followed you from Central Park."
"But why?"
"Because we weren't done talking."
She scrunches up her nose in confusion, a gesture so absurdly adorable my breath stutters in my chest. "Talking? Neither of us said a word."
"Still a conversation." I tilt the bottle to my lips and take another pull, feeling it hit my stomach.
"About what?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know." She takes the bottle from me, drinks from it, caps it, and puts it away. "About...that night on the dock?"
I shrug, tip my head side to side. "Sort of, but not really."
"Then what did you think we were talking about?"
"Us."
Author's Note
If you've read the other books in this series, you're probably expecting a playlist here. I'm not including one, though, because, honestly, you know the songs. It would be redundant, at this point.
The playlist is the same as in Falling Into You, Falling Into Us, Falling Under, and Falling Away. The songs are the ones he and Nell sang together, the ones Becca and Jason danced to, the ones Kylie and Oz performed together, the ones Ben and Echo listened to.
You know the songs, so I'm not going to list them here, not this time. Dig up your old copy of FIY, play that playlist, and think of Colt.
Because this book is, truly, the end of this series. I hope you loved Colt's story, riding with him as he became the man Nell would fall in love with, that you all fell in love with.
Jasinda Wilder
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My other titles:
The Preacher's Son:
Unbound
Unleashed
Unbroken
Biker Billionaire:
Wild Ride
Delilah's Diary:
A Sexy Journey
La Vita Sexy
A Sexy Surrender
Big Girls Do It:
Boxed Set
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Harder
Dirty
Forever
Omnibus
From the world of Big Girls and Rock Stars: Big Love Abroad
The Falling Series:
Falling Into You
Falling Into Us
Falling Under
Falling Away
The Ever Trilogy:
Forever & Always
After Forever
Saving Forever
From the world of Wounded:
Wounded
Captured
From the world of Stripped:
Stripped
Trashed
From the world of Alpha:
Alpha
Beta
The Houri Legends:
Jack and Djinn
Djinn and Tonic
The Madame X Series:
Madame X
Exposed
Exiled
Jack Wilder Titles:
The Missionary
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