As Dust Dances

In that moment, I hadn’t thought I could feel much worse about myself. But as I sat at the island on a stool eating a sandwich, my mother’s husband appeared. I automatically tensed, assuming I was about to receive a lecture.

He slid onto the stool right next to mine. He wore too much cologne. I dropped the sandwich, suddenly not so hungry.

“Your mom is upset.”

“I’m just tired.” I was getting bored of my own lie.

“I know.” He said and pointed to my sandwich. “You going to finish that?”

I shoved the plate toward him. He took a bite, eyeing me. I frowned at his perusal.

He swallowed and said, “I’ve been trying to tell your mom that you’re tired. She doesn’t get what the touring must be like for you.”

I was no longer shocked by Bryan’s turnaround. He liked the nice house and the nice cars. Bryan liked telling people his stepdaughter was Skylar Finch.

I didn’t get it. I didn’t get why this was the guy my mom finally chose. My mom was amazing. She was beautiful and smart and funny. Now that I was a little older, I had eyes enough to see that Bryan was a good-looking guy but that wasn’t enough. He knew he was good-looking and not in the charming, cocky way Micah knew he was gorgeous.

I couldn’t put my finger on it. There was something so false about him and I didn’t know why my mom couldn’t see it.

“Thanks, I guess,” I muttered.

“I won’t tell her that it’s because you hate the life,” he slipped in, giving me a knowing smirk.

My heart pounded. “What?”

“She has wondered about it out loud. If the reason you’re avoiding her is because you got what you wanted only to discover that you don’t want it after all. But don’t worry. I said that was ridiculous. You wouldn’t obsess about making the band a success, take all your mom’s money and time, nearly destroy her relationship with me in the process, and finally give her all the nice things she deserves only to turn around and say you don’t want it anymore. You wouldn’t fail her like that.” He brushed the crumbs off his fingers and smiled at me.

Hateful. Fucking. Bastard.

“There’s one thing I know about you, Skylar. You love your mom more than anything. You’ll stay in the band, make it work, as long as she’s happy.”

I eyed the butter knife. How much money would it take to get me off felony charges? No, Skylar, stabbing your stepfather would be bad.

“Sacrifice is never easy. I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’re lonely.”

His concerned tone brought my gaze back to his.

“I care about you, Sky. I don’t want you to be lonely in this. You can talk to me.” He leaned forward and his eyes dipped to my mouth.

What the fuck?

No?

No . . .

His hand rested on my thigh.

Blood pounded in my ears as I looked down at the sight of my stepfather’s hand on my leg. His fingers splayed on the inside of my thigh and he began to caress me.

Nausea made me sway, like I had motion sickness.

“You have no idea how beautiful you’ve gotten. You’re so special, Sky.” He slid his hand further up my thigh. “Hold on to that. And hold on to knowing I’m here if you need me. Let me be here for you.”

The son of . . . that mother-fucking . . .

I ripped his hand off me, pushing off the stool so fast, I almost fell. I backed up away from him and saw the flash of contained anger in his eyes.

“What . . . You . . .”

“No, Sky, whatever you’re making up in your head, stop.” His face hardened. “I was just comforting you. Like a dad. Don’t upset your mother more than you already have.”

I glared at O’Dea, having regurgitated the memory as if I didn’t have a choice but to get it out of me. “I never told her.”

Anger and sympathy mixed in his gaze. “Did he try anything again?”

I shook my head. “I never went back. I was so messed up, I kept second-guessing what had happened . . . But in the end, I knew. We both knew what he’d been trying to start that day. He was a sleazebag and I let her stay with him. I didn’t tell her what he was really like.”

O’Dea slipped off the couch onto the floor, sitting with his back to the sofa, one knee bent, the other stretched out so that our legs brushed. “Do you think you were afraid she wouldn’t believe you?”

“No.” My lips trembled; tears burned in my eyes. “That’s the horrible thing. I know she would have. I . . . I was so messed up, Killian. I was drowning and I shut out everyone who could save me. And it just all sounds so fucking stupid now, you know. What did any of that matter compared to masked gunmen breaking into her home and murdering her and her husband? And for what? A painting I’d invested three quarters of a million dollars in because Adam, my finance guy, said I should invest my money where I could. That’s what they were there for. A painting. Along with some jewelry, some cash. But the police said that the painting was the target.” I shook my head at the insanity of it. “I pushed her away because I didn’t want to admit that I was failing. And then my fame, my money, got her killed.”

Killian let go a shuddering breath, his voice hoarse as he said my name in sympathy.

“What would you have done? Could you stay and face that? I couldn’t.”

“Skylar, I still wake up some days and I can’t breathe for how angry I am at myself for not getting into that helicopter. Mum would still be alive. Autumn would have had a loving mother instead of the cold, exacting bastard of an uncle who raised us. But as hard as it is to believe it sometimes, I’m not to blame for what happened to my parents. And neither are you.”

“I’m a coward,” I admitted. “I ran away from the truth, I ran away from her death, and now I’m running away from facing the people I’ve hurt.”

“You thought you were protecting your mum. And now you need some time. You’re too hard on yourself.”

We shared a long look as my breathing grew steadily calmer. Finally, I asked, “Did you tell me about your parents so I would tell you about my mom?”

“Your songs.” He reached out for my notebook. “There’s a lot of pain in them. These things can turn to poison if you leave them inside to fester.”

I felt myself drowning again, this time in Killian O’Dea’s eyes. “That would be a yes, then.”

His response was a noncommittal shrug.

“So, do you always play part-time therapist with your artists?”

His smile was wry. I wanted to trace my fingers along his lips to feel it. “You’re the first.”

“Well, you should know I’m feeling vulnerable and defensive right now. I might need you to be a prick so I have an excuse for being mean and sarcastic to you.”

He grinned. A full-out grin that made my breath catch. “I don’t feel like being a prick today.”

“Of course, you don’t. Contrary bastard.”

He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that tugged an answering smile from me.

Warmth passed between us, a sweet warmth that was so unexpected, I could do nothing but stare at him. How had this man become my confidant?

Killian cleared his throat. “We should . . . we should get back to writing. If you’re good to?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

We buried the moment in songwriting. We worked through the evening, only stopping for food breaks, and we didn’t discuss the past anymore. As it neared midnight, I felt a desperation. I knew when he left, I’d be alone with the past I’d unburied today.

I’d grieved for six months when I lost my mom, losing my mind at the idea of her dying the way she did.

But I had never allowed myself to grieve for the way our relationship was before she died. I didn’t allow myself to think about letting her die in a house with a man who had sought to betray her and possibly already had with other women.

Now it was out there.

Waiting for me to deal with as soon as Killian left.

“You know,” he placed his Taylor back in the guitar case, not looking at me, “I’m shattered. It’s probably not that safe for me to drive home exhausted. Would you mind if I slept on the couch?”