Into the Nothing (Broken Outlaw Series Book 1) (12 page)

His eyes are locked on the guitar case now. His leg bobs nervously and his eyes flit around the room. Finally, he stands and walks to his bed. It takes everything I have not to squeal with excitement.

He squats, pauses for a moment, his hand against the guitar case handle, and then he pulls it out.

He slowly unlatches the clasps and lifts the lid, his movements noticeably shaken either from alcohol, or nerves, or both. He manages to pull the guitar out and removes a pick from its strings. He takes a seat with it, his eyes never leaving the ground. His breathing is heavy, his eyes fixated on one specific point in front of him. Nothing else. He clutches the pick tightly, knuckles white as the pick is pressed firmly against the strings but not moving.

“Your eyes,” he says, his still focused on the floor. I cover my eyes with my hands and hear him settle back on the couch, and after a moment—and a few awkward notes—he starts to play. His playing is beautiful, and heartbreaking, and moving all rolled into one. He transitions from chord to chord effortlessly, strumming with the ease and fluidity of a pro, and it’s only a matter of seconds before my hands fall to my sides.

Xander’s eyes are closed and he’s hunched over the guitar. Then he begins to sing.

Have I become an illusion?

So desperate and disillusioned.

And am I to blame for it all, after all

I chose to be born to you

Am I desperately distracted

From life, like it’s a cancer.

A self-inflicted question I’ve been asking

Cause you’ve never had the answers

To all the memories, and all the tragedy.

And all the hopeless insecurities.

To all the failure and all the heartbreak

And all the second rate remedies

I’m gone, I’m leaving, there’s no looking back now.

Believe me, I’m lying, there’s no use in trying.

He stops abruptly after the first chorus, and I realize that my eyes have closed on their own this time. I was as lost in the music as he was. The beauty in his voice, the depth to his words… it overwhelms me.
He
overwhelms me. I open my eyes and see I’ve scooted all the way to the end of the loveseat. My legs are nearly brushing against his. I lean forward, elbows on my knees and chin in my palms, when he finally opens his eyes.

“Why did you stop?”

“I…I don’t even know what the hell it is I write about,” he says. His voice quivers. “I just write the music as words come together in my mind. It’s ridiculous.”

He’s beginning to turn red, and all of a sudden I want to take him in my arms and tell him how amazing he is. How lucky parents would be to call him their child. How lucky a woman would be to call him her man.

But I don’t say anything, and for a few moments, neither does he.

“It’s stupid,” he finally mumbles.

“It’s not stupid. I think it’s amazing that you’re able to express yourself so clearly through music. It makes me feel so many things. It makes me feel, if only for a song, what you feel…or what you felt…” I pause, because what I want to ask won’t be well received, but maybe—just maybe—he’ll open up to me.

“Xander, what happened with your parents? Is that what the scar is from?” I point to the five-inch-long, one-and-a-half-inch thick scar on his right forearm, something I’ve been meaning to ask about, but I’ve been putting off. I think I’ve been scared of the response. I can tell by the way the color leaves his face that my fear is well founded.

“Scratch that, Xander,” I pull in closer. I want to take his mind away from wherever it’s just gone and I do so the only way my drunken brain knows how. “What I really want to know is how badly do you want to kiss me?”

He cocks his head, his eyes wide with bewilderment. He stammers but doesn’t form any actual words. I lean in closer to him…closer and closer and closer until I can feel his breath against my neck. My lips meet his ear, my voice low and seductive. “If you ever hope to kiss me, Mr. Evans, you’d better quit that dirty little habit of yours.”

With that, I pull away from him and stand, nodding my head toward the tin of chewing tobacco on his nightstand, and then I make my way to the door. As I open it, I turn back in time to see him realize what I was motioning to. He looks back at me in a near panic. His eyes are even wider now. I’ve noticed him trying to hide his nasty habit from me for the past week. I was waiting for just the right time to break it to him that his dirty little secret was no secret at all. And that face right there…that makes the wait completely worth it.

I’m one foot out the door when I hear him finally form a response.

“What makes you think I even wanna kiss you anyways?”

With a playful look over my shoulder, I leave the guesthouse without bothering to respond.

I enter the back door of the main house and close it behind me. For a moment, I lean against it and shut my eyes. The night plays over in my head.

Am I crazy to think this man could be different… that he’s not like all the rest of them? Everything about him seems so genuine.

Just as my giddiness reaches pathetic levels, I hear a loud crash tear through the dark house, my brother yelling, followed by another crash. I head upstairs and begin to make out a little of what he’s saying.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…
Fuck you
!” I hear the loud thud of what sounds like a remote control hitting the hardwood flooring, then the indistinguishable sound of hand meeting cheek.

Caleb’s bedroom door is cracked just slightly and I peer inside. My brother’s face is cranberry red, turning more so with each vicious slap. A PlayStation remote is shattered in pieces on the floor—as is the PlayStation itself. He kicks the main bulk of mangled PlayStation before punching himself in the face this time, not with all of his strength, but enough to do damage. Left, right, left, right, until blood trickles from his nose, over his lips and down his chin.

With one more punch to the face, I make the decision to stop him. I open the door slowly so it doesn’t surprise him, and his eyes rip from the floor to my own. His teeth grind against each other audibly, a combination of pure anger and surprise on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?!” Spittle tears from his mouth, nearly hitting me in the process. He looks like a rabid dog ready to bite and maim anything or anyone that gets in its way.

“Cody was there. We came back early.” His anger immediately turns to shame, and he looks around meekly, the hate in his voice now subtle. “Are Mom and Dad here too?”

“No. Just Xander and I. What are you doing up here, Caleb?” His anger returns. He looks at me as if he’d like to kill me.

“That’s none of your fucking business. Get the fuck out of my room!” He goes to close the door, but I block it with my foot. His eyes pierce straight through mine. I flinch, half expecting him to swing at me next.

“I’m your sister. Of course it’s my business. Now, what the fuck are you doing up here?”

He thrusts a shoulder into the door again, but he’s not the strongest teenager so the door hardly budges against my foot.

“If you tell Mom and Dad, I can’t promise you I won’t hurt you.” I can hardly believe my ears. And I can hardly believe the conviction in his words.

“Excuse me?!” I push the door into him, and it throws him back a bit on his heels. “I’m bigger than you are, Caleb. Don’t think for a second I won’t hit you back. And I’m gonna make it hurt. Don’t you
ever
threaten me again.” I thrust my finger just inches from his face. “Do you fucking understand me?”

“Get the fuck out of my room!” He says it louder now, his voice trembling.

“Just understand this, little brother. If you ever,
ever
threaten me again, I’ll not only tell Mom and Dad, but I’ll break every piece of fucking entertainment you have up here. You need some help. Seriously.”

I remove my foot and he slams the door in my face.

L
oud, frantic knocking on the guesthouse door tears me from my alcohol-induced sleep. My eyelids are heavy and each knock reverberates in my head as if my ear were up against a recently struck gong. Rowdy lets out a bark, and then another, and the sharpness of it makes my brain throb even more.

“Xander,” I hear Paige say, her words barely audible. “You need to come out here.”

I open my eyes and lift myself up, snapping at Rowdy angrily to cut his shit. I catch my reflection in the vanity across from me and see that red has taken over the whites of my eyes. My hair is disheveled, and I can’t help but chuckle as I realize I passed out still wearing my jeans and white button-up—a true sign last night was a bender.

Paige’s voice comes through the door again, “Xander, get up!”

“Just a second!” I call, my own voice fueling the headache’s intensity. I’m slow to get up. Shifting my hands to my hips, I arch my back and try to stretch out the stiffness. I finally make my way to the door and open it.

The mid-morning sun streams in like a spotlight, forcing my eyes shut and an arm up to block it. Once my eyes finally focus through the beaming sun, I see Paige with a look of concern on her face. Jack is pacing by the back door of the main house with his iPhone to his ear.

“Paige, what’s wrong?”

“You just gotta come see this.” She starts down the steps and I follow behind her. Rowdy races past us to the yard to relieve himself.

It doesn’t take me long to see what “this” is. Just as I reach the last step, I spot my truck, right where I left it but now sitting on four flats. I approach the truck and upon further inspection, I notice obvious stab marks in the wheel wells of all four tires.

“Dad’s on the phone with the sheriff now. It’s got to be Cody,” Paige says, coming up behind me.

I turn to her. “There’s no doubt in my mind. Can you call Ethan? See if he can get a tow truck over here?”

“Already done. He’ll be here soon. I’m going to call Cody now. This is bullshit,” Paige says, her voice full of anger. She lifts the phone to dial, but I put a hand over it.

“If your dad is calling the sheriff, we should just let them handle things first before calling anybody.” She pulls the phone away and starts dialing anyway. Stubborn one, this girl.

“Fuck that, he’s going to get a piece of my mind. This is just so childish and stupid. It’s been six damn months!” She lifts the phone to her ear, and I can hear a faint ring on the other side of the line, followed by someone answering.

“Don’t ‘who is this’ me. You know who the fuck this is! We found your little present this morning, and we’re calling the sheriff. Do you think you can get away with this?”

I hear a muffled response come through the receiver. Paige shakes her head ignoring my hand as I reach for the phone.

“Don’t play stupid. You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, a hand to her hip and foot bobbing wildly. I find it hard not to smile at just how cute it is the way she’s getting so worked up, as if her Chevelle had been the victim.